Enough is Enough

WARNING: Rant ahead!

The accusations of sexual abuse and misconduct rife in our politics today has brought many women to a place of courage that they have been searching for most of their lives. Announcing to the world that you are a victim of sexual abuse is not an easy or pleasant thing to undertake, even if that abuse happened 20, 30, 40 years ago. Such abuse never, ever leaves you. It scars you and feeds into who you become, how you interact with the world for the rest of your life.

People ask questions like: "Why didn't you report it at the time?" and "Why did it take so long for you to come forward with your accusations?" The simple answer is: "Take a look in the mirror and tell me how you feel about me making these accusations today." Their answer will be suspicion and disregard for anything the woman has to say. *She* becomes the target of investigation. *She* becomes the slut who drank at a party and was asking to be raped. *Her* life is torn open and flayed on the floor of public opinion while he gets the "boys will be boys" treatment. *This* is why women don't come forward.

After a sexual attack -- be it rape or attempted rape -- the only thing a woman wants is to forget, to erase the feel of the man touching her, to gloss over what happened to the point of even suppressing the memory. The last thing most victims want is to recount what happened to the police (who are usually male) or go to the ER for treatment where they'll be dehumanized further by being exposed to an exam and possibly a rape kit. Reporting a rape is the last thing a victim wants.

So, when something occurs later in her life that brings that event back vividly, it is *normal* to want to speak up. Perspective grants clarity and desperation can grant courage to face that attacker, to bring the event into the light so that someone with that kind of temperament doesn't end up in a place of power or influence. Say, like the US Supreme Court. Clarence Thomas has been sitting on the Court for 26 years as of 2018. Anita Hill stepped forward to tell the nomination board that Thomas sexually assaulted her and she was turned into a raving harpy by the men hearing her testimony. Had she been making her accusations today, I don't think the public would doubt her at all.

Since so many women have come forward in recent years (whether the subject is Bill Cosby or Donald Trump), I think the sheer number of victims coming forward is its own proof that there is a "boys club" attitude in this country that insists "boys will be boys" and "girls need to shut up and do what they were put on this earth to do".

There are supposed Christian leaders spewing this attitude, that boys are just young and full of hormones and if a girls doesn't want to be attacked she should stay home with her knees glued together and not venture out in the world where men deserve to be men. Apparently that includes rape as a "normal" thing. There are no repercussions for "boys" (I'm not sure a 17 year-old is still a boy) who perpetrate these crimes, no consequences. And that teaches them that it's okay. That behavior, having been given the stamp of approval by a bunch of old men, then becomes normalized and these males who attack women when they're young end up having no respect for women when they grow older.

Dozens and dozens of women I know have spoken up on Facebook and Twitter. They've said #MeToo. They've said #EnoughIsEnough. Why are they speaking up now? Because they're not alone anymore. We all know women who've been assaulted. If this was anything but a crime against women, the entire world would have put a stop to it by now. But because it *is* a crime against women, it doesn't seem to matter.

I have experienced this myself. I have personally seen how a male's needs/wants superseded my own only on the basis of gender. *He* was more important than me, a mere girl/woman. But it always rubbed me the wrong way. I knew, even when I was a naive and innocent child, that it was wrong that I was bullied and abused and disregarded. It didn't seem to matter much that I was terminally shy because I had learned not to trust men. I wasn't as important as the male involved. His needs, desires, wants absolutely came before mine.

That shyness turned into major trust issues with men, issues I have to this day and I'm 59 years old. I still haven't spoken to anyone about what happened to me when I was young. I probably never will. And so I seem odd, a bit antisocial and weird to others. They can't understand why I don't have a life mate, why I live alone and always have since I was 19. *This* is why. I have no trust of men in general and for very, very few in specific. To an extent, I'm afraid of men -- not physically as much as emotionally. My mind pulls up all those ridiculous lessons I learned as a child: I'm a female so I don't matter.

But When You Get There...

When I was in my 20s, I had two cervical spine surgeries. When I was in my 40s, I had a third (see other blog posts). At the time those first two surgeries happened, I was told that I'd have problems when I got older; possibly arthritis, muscle issues, nerve damage issues, etc. When I was in my 20s, that seemed so very far off that it had no meaning whatsoever.

But, now that I've reached that point -- that "when you're older" point -- everything seems to be falling in on my head at the same time. Physically speaking. Which, of course, has more mental and emotional consequences than my younger self ever could have imagined.

I also have Rheumatoid Arthritis. There are complications with treating that because of my other physical issues. RA has intensified all those "when you're older" issues. It's somewhat like adding water and glue to newspaper; you get something that's kinda mushy that doesn't have a clear form on its own. If that makes sense. In other words, it's confusing and extremely complicated to manage all these different physical problems.

I have handfuls of doctors. My friend, Taerie, says I have a "pit crew"! I do. I have so many different doctors that it's like wrangling cats some days.

So, life is filled with doctor appointments and tests and therapy and treatments and just trying to take care of myself while trying to live as "normal" a life as I can. And it's bloody hard. Every day is hard. Even on "good" days it's hard. It's demoralizing and dispiriting and aggravating and depressing and frustrating. To put it mildly.

I'm a strong person. I think I would have been no matter what came my way in life, but what actually did come my way made it imperative that I be strong or die, and I mean that literally. That I'm strong now often makes feeling weak, feeling needy or small or young or lost or in pain seem like something I can't feel, that I shouldn't feel. Because I'm "strong". I understand that the strongest thing you can do is admit when you're weak. I understand that. But doing that is another matter.

Today, I feel weak. I feel needy and small and young and lost. It's been a long day. It's been a day of decisions and acting on those decisions. It's been about entering a new phase in taking care of my teeth. I'll be starting Invisaline within the next month or so to try to save my 3 front upper teeth that have slowly been moving apart and loosening over the past few years. They wiggle ever so slightly -- which is wonderful when I have them cleaned. If I don't do something now, I will definitely lose those teeth. Then I'd have to look into implants and I may not have enough bone there for implants. Not to mention implants cost a fortune -- Invisaline cost their own fortune. So, I made that decision, which wasn't easy. This will most probably increase my pain to new levels which, you know, JOY. Not. And the orthodontist and my pain doctor agree that it will likely take me longer than the projected 18 months to go through the entire treatment; I may have to take more time with each stage than a "normal" person might. Again, I am so full of joy. Not.

While this may not seem like a huge step, for me it's a very, very large step. It's opening myself to more unpleasant physical and emotional stress; it's opening myself to more pain. I live at about a 7-out-of-10 pain level. This potentially can kick that number up significantly. I've been hesitant and anxious about this and am not less anxious than I was before I chose to do this. It may all turn out to be no big deal -- let us hope. But, on the other hand...

My patience is gone today. I'm aggravated by everything. I've chosen to shut myself up in my lovely air conditioned bungalow, ignore the phone, leave the TV off and just read. I can't really take any extra pain meds because it's already 6:00 pm and I have an early morning tomorrow (I'm usually hung over the morning after taking pain meds this late) for physical therapy and an ultrasound of my abdomen because my liver enzymes are high and we can't figure out why. No, I do not drink. At all. It's likely a side effect of one of my many, many medications.

So, this post is mainly for me to bitch and moan. Thanks anyone who read this in full.

Miracles Actually Do Happen

I am not a believer in miracles, religious or otherwise. I don't believe that a higher power is paying particular attention to my life. I think we each have the responsibility to live a good, honest, kind, thoughtful life and, if we mange to do that, then we're following the design of life, however it first came into being.

Anyone reading this likely knows the history of my neck injury; I've blogged about it here. It has now been 12 years since my 3rd cervical spine surgery, 43 years since the initial injury. Neither figure is a number I ever expected to live to see. I was bluntly told over the years, especially at the beginning, that I wouldn't survive more than a handful of years, that even surgery was not going to solve the ultimate problem, that I'd require even more surgeries.

Last year I was turned away by 3 neurosurgeons who would not tell me why I was being turned away. So I went back to the doctor I'd followed from USC to Cedars-Sinai to Glendale Presbyterian to private practice in Pasadena. He finally told me that surgery was far to dangerous now and that my neck was fairly stable. He told me to come back in 6 months.

That 6 months ended yesterday.

I had a new MRI to take with me yesterday. As I sat waiting, though not very long, I couldn't help but see the words in the MRI report (yes, I understand MRI reports after all this time!) that cited a "severe stenosis at C-6/T-1". That was the only place that the word "severe" appeared in the entire report. So it was on my mind. Also, I have a bit of a... hump, I guess, at the base of my skull and it has become larger and much more a source of discomfort. So, such was my worrying since I'd read the report on Monday.

When the doctor came into the room yesterday, he sat down opposite me and said that my MRI actually shows an improvement. It shows no progress of the mess that is my C-spine. None. I have never, ever had a doctor look at a new test result and tell me nothing has progressed. What he said made no sense to either of us. We sort of just stared at each other for a moment, then he smiled and told me that when he saw my name on his patient list, a familiar sense of dread overtook him. I am his "nightmare patient", that's how awful my neck is.

I asked him about that word "severe" in the MRI report and he told me he's not concerned about that. It will cause numbness in my right little finger (too late, it's already done that!) but is no concern at the moment. The hump on the top of my T/C spine is my neck deforming but it's not any worry as far as paralysis is concerned.

He got up and left the room to look at the MRI again because I asked if he was sure he was looking at the correct film. He laughed and said there was no mistake; this was my MRI.

Then he said the word that no one, anywhere, ever has said to me about anything. He looked at me and, with joyful shock, told me it was a miracle. He was serious.

I'm not sure how to express exactly what this means. I have been concerned about become paralyzed most of my life. I don't go round with a cloud over my head labeled "paralysis" but it's very much at the front of my brain. For 43 years. Last year, my doctor told me, he was sure that I'd call him for a surgical referral (he no longer does complex surgeries, damnit) and that he'd never see me again. Which explains his reaction when he saw my name on his patient list for yesterday; he was sure he'd be walking into a disaster.

Instead, this... miracle happened. Then he said more words I'd never, ever heard before: "Come see me in a year with another MRI from the same place." ''Come see me in a year." I've always gone in for progress checks every 4-6 months. But he released me for an entire year. THAT'S how well I'm doing... which was an impossible circumstance according to all my history with my neck, according to every doctor I've seen for my injury (and there have been a lot of them). I've been turned away by doctors because the situation is simply too complicated and dangerous for them to even consider treating me.

The conclusion yesterday was that I should keep doing whatever I'm doing because it's working miracles.

I can only credit my water therapy/exercise that I do 2-3 times a week for about 1 1/2 hours (though I've been out of the pool for 2 months because I had the Plague!). I'm eating better, too. And my attitude has improved markedly in the past 5 years. I honestly think that a huge part of the improvement is positive thoughts, positive actions, positive emotional work (which I'm doing and it's really, really hard...), positive living.

Even though 2016 seemed to be nothing but stress and loss, I've somehow gone from a somewhat isolated, withdrawn person to someone who is no longer afraid of life and what it might have planned for my future. I try to take every morning I can get out of bed and stand up as a good day; anything else that happens can't negate that fact.

So... yeah. As I made the 2 1/2 hour drive home (as opposed to the 1 hour it took to get to Pasadena -- 46 miles) I kept laughing. Then I'd cry. Then I'd laugh and cry. I'm sure I was an odd sight to anyone looking. The first thing I wanted to do when I got home was call my dad. My health has been as difficult on my parents as it has been on me. I can't even imagine what they've gone through because of my accident. My mom was always overly cautious about me but had a very "get it done, get it over with, move on" attitude. Dad I think has felt my struggles more personally; it's been hell for him to see me go through my very rocky journey. Usually, I ask him to go to the neurosurgeon with me but I didn't yesterday. So it was natural to want to talk to him first.

But he wasn't home, so my sister got the good news first. Then a friend who'd been on the phone with me the previous night talking me off the ledge that was that word "severe" in my MRI report. Then, finally, I told Dad. His reaction was utter lack of even understanding what I was telling him. I had to repeat myself. Then he kept asking "really?", "are you kidding?", "I can't believe this", etc. We were both incredulous but there's a sense of freedom and utter joy about this... and hearing those same emotions in Dad's voice made the day complete.

Now, as I go about my new job (I am now a production assistant at Fullscreen Studios -- I data process at home!) and prepare for my old job (another data-processing job 1 day a week), I feel strong and light, calm and utterly agitated. It's going to take some time to really understand that something this good, this positive has happened to a life that has been followed around by a very big sword on a very thin string.

The doctor warned me that I'm very precarious, that everything is a constant tightrope of "have I gone too far" and "have I gone far enough". The pain control and body work is on me; this is my responsibility, not something anyone can do for me... or ever could. So, even though there's a time bomb still in my neck, the clock has frozen for now and, at least for a while, I feel like I can do anything.

The Girl In The Pool

As part of my pain fighting routine, I swim 3 times a week at the Physical Therapy facility I was treated at recently. I now have a gym membership which allows me access to all the equipment they have, including their lovely, warm pool. I have been doing this for about 2 years.

A few months ago, I noticed someone new in the pool. I'd see her once in a while and my only -- admittedly short-sighted and somewhat prejudiced -- thought was that she was obviously an athlete because she was in excellent shape, the kind of shape anyone would be envious of but those of us who've spent our lives as non-athletes can really envy.

Most people in the pool stay to themselves unless in a class or you've simply seen each other far too often not to say hello. By nature, I tend to stay to myself and go about my routine, which takes about 1 1/2 hours. It seemed to me that this girl -- who is probably in her early 30s but that's young to me -- was of a similar mind: keep to yourself, do your thing and leave.

Last week, I arrived just as the arthritis class of about 4 women were leaving. This girl was also in the pool but was in the jets at one end which usually signals the end of your workout. So I expected her to leave soon and to turn off the jets. But she stayed. I started, as I do every workout, by walking up and down the pool -- forwards then backwards 30 times. After about my 5th lap, I glanced up to find this girl half kneeling on the seat by the jets nearly in tears. I couldn't remain silent.

I said, "I can feel the waves of pain coming off you. You're having a bad day, right?"

And she started to cry. Just tears coming down her obviously agonized face.

I added, "I honestly do know how you're feeling."

And she started to tell me her story.

Nothing I had assumed was true. Her body's excellent condition is genetics; she hasn't worked out since 2000 because of a back injury which lead to neck problems which lead to low back problems and on and on and on... with no real relief. She wears a pain patch (I don't know what kind of medicine it is) that she rolled her eyes at and said how much it didn't help. She talked about her doctor and the rest of her pain team, all of whom she likes except the pain doctor himself (on a team with a neurosurgeon, pain psychologist and others). She said he was an ass and didn't hear anything she was saying and she was beyond frustrated.

Sounded like deja vu and I told her some of my own story. We talked as I continued my routine and she lingered in the pool, doing more stretches and floating, as we all do when we're done working out. She told me she's not a talker or a cryer but she'd reached her saturation point that day. As we were alone in the pool for about an hour, we talked and compared notes and commiserated. It is rare that you, as a pain patient, have this kind of opportunity to actually talk to another pain patient. Unless you're in a support group -- and so many of us aren't joiners by nature and our pain makes us even less likely to join -- there is no give and take between people going through the exact same thing, dealing with chronic pain, as we are.

She left the pool before me but I followed a few minutes later. When I got to the locker room, she was showering and I could hear her efforts to just move in the shower. By the time I was dressed, she was drying off and nearly in tears again.

I said, "It hurt to even get dressed, I know."

That's when she turned to me and said, "Thank you for talking to me. I'm usually not a talker but you really helped me today."

I got a little choked up, I admit, because helping people going through the same horror I've been going through for 40 years feels good. I actually find something -- finally -- good in what I've experienced with pain. If I can give one person a little understanding, then that helps me in return, to feel I'm accomplishing something for someone else. It's a great feeling.

I told her, she was welcome and to just remember there really are people out here to understand.

She told me her schedule and I told her mine. I wasn't able to get back to the pool this past week but I'll be there this coming week. If I run into her again, great. If not, I know I gave her a moment of understanding and, sometimes, that's all it takes to lift our burden, at least for a few moments.

The girl in the pool said I helped her but she helped me just as much. I got a kick in the ass for making assumptions about other people but I also got validation in return for my empathy and that is as a better pain pill than most.

DNA Pain Study

I am a patient at the USC Pain Management Clinic (Los Angeles, CA), have been for approximately 30 years. About three months ago, I became part of a DNA study about how the body of a chronic pain patient processes pain medication. It involved a DNA swab of the inside of each cheek and filling out some rather long, in depth questions about different aspect of my pain, of my daily ability to maintain my health, myself and my life. I got the results this past Monday.

The outcome told me that I am NOT susceptible to opioids . I already knew that from my lengthy dance with pain meds; trying this, trying that, etc etc etc. But having it written in medical-study ink gave some power to me as a patient. This study indicated strongly that I can be given opioids with no risk of physical addiction.

This is a new study and I don't know if it's taking place anywhere other that USC. But it seems to me that this is a HUGE step forward in pain treatment. If doctors can run a DNA test to see which medications a patient is and isn't reacting well to or has the potential to react poorly to a drug or family of drugs, addiction from doctor prescribed opioids would drop significantly. Which would mean more effective treatment of acute and chronic pain, especially chronic pain. People who can chemically process opioids would be able to rely on them without doctors and hospitals and family and friends and the public thinking them drug addicts.

This is just a first step. But it's an excellent step. One I will continuing taking part in. My recent visit to my pain doctor also included filling out questions again. They are lengthy and address different aspects of chronic pain and how it effects your life but that's a good thing. Details given by patients along with the DNA information is how treatment of pain is going to grow past the sense that you're a criminal if you ask for pain medication, even with good cause.

I have been fortunate to be treated at USC Pain Management Clinic by Dr. Linda Rever for 30 years. She knows me. She knows my reactions to different treatments; we've tried everything there is to try over time. And we might go on trying new things to see if my treatment can be taken in a different direction for better pain relief.

The study also showed my body's reaction to the other medications I'm on; a cocktail of multiple pain blockers. It showed I have a tendency toward toxicity with two of the medications in that cocktail so now the doctor knows to track those two drugs more carefully, to test for side effects. This is also information for *me* to use. I now know what to watch for in myself and to track what is and isn't normal reactions to the medications I take each day.

This is a powerful step forward in the shadow of the CDC's recommendations about opioid prescription, it's advice to try everything BUT opioids before prescribing them. Which sounds fine unless you're the person in pain right now. Not in a week, not in three months, NOW. Trying hypnosis and meditation and using psychological tools to overcome pain sounds great. But from someone who is often stricken with pain so bad that I am immobile, the only thing that will allow me to live to the next day when I am stricken with this level of pain is serious pain medication.

Not to knock these other treatments. I've been meditating regularly for about 30 years. Every night and, if it's a bad day, more often. I regularly see a psychologist who helps me deal with living every day with chronic pain. I've tried hypnosis and acupuncture and acupressure and things that seem like Voo Doo. I'm not telling anyone not to try alternative methods of pain relief. But access to opioid medication is necessary. Until something else comes along to indicate more precisely how each person should be treated -- possibly a DNA study of chronic pain -- they are the best option we have.

Some Sad Words

I am stunned and in shock and don't know what to say yet. But this is my Facebook post from this morning. For now, it will have to suffice.

My sweet friend, Tyr Jósue Rousseau passed from liver failure last night. He was 36. I met him as a teenager and over the years grew to love and appreciate the beautiful human being he was. Loving and generous and just so, so kind. He became my confidant and companion in silliness. He was a delight. His demons were strong but he fought as hard as he could. His body failed him but his spirit was so strong. Love and deepest sympathy to his husband, Finor André Rousseau and his sister, Margarita Valencia. Love you both so much. Tyr will always be in my heart.

Now, a week later on April 23, I'm not quite in so much shock, although this past week has seemed like a very horrible dream. I thought I'd just write and see what happens. 

I met Tyr, as I said, when he was about 18 years old. He and his friends (George and Scorpion) would hang out behind the booth my business partners and I had at the Palm Springs Street Fair every Thursday night. The boys caught my eye because they were Goths but also because they were sweet when they bought incense from us. As time passed, I got to talking with them, especially Tyr, and he eventually joined me in the booth to help sell intense on Thursday nights. Between customers, we'd talk about anything and everything and came to know each other pretty well.

He and I started meeting up for lunch and/or a movie or just to browse Borders in Palm Desert. I was invited to his house and he pet/house sat for me in Yucca Valley when I had 7 cats. After the first time, he swore he'd never sleep in my house alone again; it spooked him. He also saved me from several computer tantrums, always patient with my low-tech knowledge.

Then came my obsession with the TV show, The Sentinel, and in particular with one of the stars, Garett Maggart. Tyr joined me for a charity event in Big Bear, California at the Moonridge Zoo (an animal refuge for injured wild animals that cannot survive in the wild and which has a different name now that they're moving to a new site: Big Bear Alpine Zoo). The zoo is Garett's chosen charity and every year fans of The Sentinel would get together for an online auction to raise money for the zoo. There was also an on site auction the day of the event. We raised well over $10,000.00 each year.

The first time Tyr and I went, in 2002, we had a great time looking at the animals and talking with fellow fans and just hanging out at a really cool place. The zoo was on a hillside with dirt and gravel terrain which could be a bit slippery. Without any fuss, Tyr would offer me his arm, worried that I might place a step wrong. He was like that, gave what was needed without any attention being paid to what he was doing or why he was doing it. He gave me dignity when I might have felt uncomfortable asking for help.

We waited in line for Garett's autograph and, as we drew closer to the front of the line, Garett had already mentioned the presence of another "dude" (the people who attended the even were mostly women) but when he finally saw Tyr clearly, the first thing he did was stand up and say, "Ozzy fucking Osborn!" See the picture below for clarification.

At the time, Tyr carried this lunchbox with him everywhere. He was seriously Goth. His hair was down to his waist but it was pulled back in this picture. Garett was fascinated with him and, ever after, I always teased Tyr that Garett liked him better, which never failed to make Tyr laugh. Even when I went to events alone, Garett would ask after Tyr. He made an impression everywhere he went.

By the following year, the Goth look had mostly faded away, leaving this beautiful face and knowing eyes revealed. This is a picture of Garett, Tyr and myself in 2003 at the Moonridge Zoo charity event. Garett insisted on all three of us being in the picture and was making jokes and all three of us were laughing so hard that this is the only picture of many that really came out clear, when one of us wasn't moving due to laughter. I think this was my favorite year in Big Bear.

As you can see in the picture above, Garett's about my height, which is far short of how tall Tyr was. So, in 2005, I guess he thought they had to be the same height. This is Tyr trying to be short and Garett trying to be tall. Tyr had cut all that beautiful hair off, too, and started wearing glasses. I took him to get his hair cut off and I think I cried the whole time; he just laughed, mostly at me.

And, finally, in 2006, the picture that embodies Tyr to a "T". He didn't want me to take his picture and actually refused to have a picture taken with Garett that year. He was feeling unattractive and had been depressed. It took some convincing to even get him to go with me that year. So, while he was sitting on a bench at the zoo, I just pulled out my camera and waited him out. He eventually looked at me and ducked away so I didn't get a picture of him at first. Then I got this one... with editorial comment.

I love this boy, this gentle man he grew into in front of my eyes. He was a website designer and did my website for me in exchange for tattoos (when I was a tattoo artist). I always enjoyed tattooing him because he complained the whole time but never wanted to rest when I offered. While tattooing winged lips on his thigh right above his knee, I heard some of the most creative cursing I've ever encountered. He called me names, laughing and crying and just generally trying to get through it any way he could. But he came back for more so it couldn't have been too horrible an experience! Such a good guy. So caring and generous and fun to be around.

I will always love him. Though he was 20 years younger than me, there was rarely an age issue. Once in a while he wouldn't get a reference I made -- and I often was clueless about things in his life, which he then taught me about -- but, other than that, we were equals. He went to a few plays with me. He came to my parents' house in Huntington Beach to help with computer problems. He called a few days after I had my 3rd neck surgery and was healing at Mom and Dad's. I was so out of it on pain meds that I didn't remember talking to him but I apparently talked to him for quite a while. *That* was something he always liked to bring up to tease me about.

Tyr meant the world to me. When he met Finor, I saw how happy he was. I saw how important this new man was to his life. And I kinda fell in love with Fin a bit, too, because he made my friend so happy. I attended their formal wedding at their house in Palm Desert. It was such a beautiful day. The yard was gorgeous, as were the grooms. I cried a bit, I'll admit. Fin came to be my friend, too.

When they moved to Portland, Oregon, our lives separated, as lives will when distance becomes involved. But I talked to Tyr on the phone and we e-mailed a lot. I saw him and Finor only a few months after I moved to Corona. They came to my house and we had a good time before they had to leave to drive home to Portland.

That was the last time I saw Tyr and I didn't talk to him much after that, either. Do I wish I'd been more insistent on communication? A little. But Tyr's life had gone in a direction I couldn't be part of and so did my life, veering off from his. I thought of him often, though, and continued to consider him a dear friend. I always will.

His passing has been extremely difficult to deal with and I don't know what will become of Finor. I worry about him now. I know Tyr would want him to be cared for and I will always care for Finl. He knows I'm here for him forever and always.

I will miss my sweet friend. I will always have regrets that he didn't get to experience more of life. But Tyr was someone who grabbed life and strangled every bit out of it he could. His life was as large as he was.

I've run out of words. I love you Tyr. RIP.

Really just a new poem. I've been in Oregon since November 12 and will be here until November 22. I'm here hunting for a place to live as living in Southern California is an impossibility for me now; far too expensive. I'm not sure this is where I'll be going. I'm sort of on a fact-finding mission. But, on the drive up here, especially through central California's farmlands, the breadth of the drought the state is suffering was palpable. And disheartening. This is the poem that is the result of driving north on I-5.

Driving North on I-5

(Oregon)

A modern dustbowl –

signs asking:

“Does growing food mean

wasting water?”

as we fly past a

cutoff for Yosemite;

grapevines going rusty

in the autumn sun as

we pass Dos Amigos View Point.

The land is bone-dry,

dry as papyrus,

brittle as a forgotten soul.

By the time we pass

Crow's Landing

the sun is setting,

glancing off the paper-thin

limbs of desiccated trees.

As we miss our last chance

to turn toward Yosemite,

even I begin to flake

into peeled-back bark;

behind us,

all we see is dust.

What Does a California Girl Do When It Rains?

First thing, I get pretty excited. I love the rain and have missed it over the past few years. So, yesterday, while I was outside in my painting studio (a semi-enclosed patio) and it started to rain, I looked up sharply and smiled and told the dog: "That's rain. Remember rain?" He didn't have much to say about that but he did go frolic in the wet grass for a while.

The rain passed quickly, lasted only a few minutes, but it left me thinking and this is what resulted:

California Rain

You stab my sun-dried senses with Petrichor;

the perfume of swollen sand

and desert chaparral –

the free nature of your Hollywood landscape.

The breeze opens her arms

to your cooling touch,

alien fingers of moist love –

saturated need – and I,

I feel the brittle corners

of my petrified thoughts

wriggle in the mud at my feet.

That's really all I had to say about it! But, having poetry return to me, as it does in jerks and twists, made me think again about the idea I had to start a poetry blog. As I'm still pretty new to the blogging world, I was just wondering if any of you would be interested in reading and taking part in a poetry blog. It could encompass my own poetry and, in response, I would hope you'd share yours here, also. It could also cover poets we all love, poets we're just discovering. I'm anxious to have new poets introduced who I may not have come across but you have.

The other thought was a poetry Facebook page that would serve the same function.

So, what do you think? Leave your thoughts in the comments, please.

The Beginning of the First Ten Years

Ski racing, especially downhill, is a dangerous activity and there are many accidents. It would be really too bad to lose everything because of a crash.

 -- Hermann Maier,

Austrian Alpine Skiing Olympic Gold Medalist, 1998

I wasn't a ski racer, let alone an Olympic downhill level racer. I skied the pace I skied, relatively fast for an amateur skier who only got the opportunity to ski three or four times a year. The people I skied with could keep up with me, but rarely did. My Uncle Jack and I skied at about the same level which is why I always treasured his company -- the fact that he was a fun guy to be around helped, too.

Snow skiing was the family sport. Not just my parents' and siblings' sport but that of my aunt and uncle and cousin along with my mother's multitudinous aunts, uncles and cousins. It was like a tribal meeting whenever we'd make the big ski trips to Mammoth Mountain, California. And I was arguably the best skier out of everyone. I was about 8 when we began skiing in Big Bear, California. We all took lessons, we all liked the experience, except for my sister who really never took to it like everyone else and who soon was pregnant with her first child -- I'm 8 years younger than my sister and she married at 19. Even my  little nephew and niece were skiing from the time they could walk, on little "ski skates" hanging between someone's poles that we held horizontally so the kid could be between our skis. Even some of the family friends joined in. Skiing was just something we did, something we enjoyed.

In 1973, when I was 14, I was attending a small private school in Ojai, California. One spring, the entire school planned a trip to Mammoth for a week. I happened to be home visiting and the family and I were going to meet the school up there, take advantage of the timing and go on a trip. When I say "spring", I mean April-ish. The snow was usually okay to ski on until May or June back then -- you know, when we had predictable weather? I'm fuzzy about all of the particulars as both time and injury have clouded my memory. But this is what I recall.

As I've already written in my poem, "The Fall" (which is contained in the last few blog posts), it was a beautiful day the day my father, my brother-in-law (Wally) and I decided to take on the biggest challenge any of us had faced on that mountain: the very top of Mammoth, "The Cornice". This was a very steep run with a concave -- rather than a convex -- curve to it. In fact, you had to take a narrow trail down to get on to the run, almost having to jump a little from the narrow approach to the run itself.

Dad went down first and had just turned around to tell Wally and me not to follow him, that the run was too icy, when I -- standing on the narrow approach, ready to get to the run any second -- felt the snow just crumble beneath my down-hill, right, ski. And the world disappeared in a jumble of beautiful blue sky and hard, icy, slushy white. It was, I imagine, like tumbling in a clothes dryer. Round and round and round I went. My body hit the snow and bounced, hit the snow and slid, hit the snow and tumbled, hit the snow and cracked. The ski poles I had in each hand -- safety straps around my wrists -- poked me in the face, the eyes, my ribs. My skies, secured in those days by a safety strap around the ankle, hit me in the head, the back, the legs.

Through all this, my brain was rejecting what was happening. In fact, I have an odd memory of seeing my body falling from a higher vantage point, like I was standing on the top of the next run over looking down. Then, like a door closing, everything stopped. Even sounds seemed to have ceased. Then I heard voices telling me not to move, to lie still. People brought pieces of me down: my sunglasses that had fallen off, the shirt I'd had tied around my waist and other little paraphernalia  I'd had with me. So, there I lay, head downhill, on my stomach, arms and legs splayed, skies hanging off my boots and poles still hanging from my wrists.

Then Dad was there, frantic of course, and he told me, again, to lie still. But by then I'd done a quick check to see what hurt and nothing really did. I think I was pretty cold and numb and, most likely, in shock. So, after a while, I sat up. Dad unhooked my skies and poles and sat there with me for a while. Then, deciding I really was okay, I slowly got to my feet... and nearly collapsed. My stomach felt like a cannon ball had hit me in the gut. My head felt like it had been run over by elephants. My legs felt like they were everything but broken, as did my arms.

Dad had me sit down again and took my skies and stood them in the snow uphill from me, crossed in the universal sign of distress so that the ski patrol would know we needed help.

Unknown to us at the time, Wally -- who'd remained at the top of the run and had watched me fall -- had already sent the ski patrol but they'd gone by while I was standing up before Dad had put my skies up in the snow. So when a second ski patrol team came down the run, they stopped to help. I think they had to call for a sled and, while we waited, they asked me all kinds of questions, checked me over for broken bones, etc. And then packed me into the sled when it arrived. They wrapped me up and strapped me in, head downhill, and one of them took the front of the sled and another took the back of it and down we went.

Again, my memory is hazy but I remember snow in my face and my head hurting more and more, feeling like blood was rushing to it, which it probably was doing as the ski patrolmen had to negotiate some very steep runs to get me to the bottom. And it seemed to take a very long time, longer than it normally would take to get from the top of the mountain to the bottom. Twenty minutes? Thirty? I had no idea what kind of time passed.

My next memory is being in the ski patrol infirmary.

And that's about it for this time. It's important to know the beginning of the tale so that the rest of it will make more sense. It's a 40+ year story and I appreciate you sticking with me as it unveils itself here!

Guardian Angel

What is it called when a thing that was defined by necessity as "uncertain" changes its very nature to become redefined as "stable"? If I knew, I'd know how to title this post; as it is, I'm waiting until I finish to figure that out.

I ask that question because I've spent the majority of my life with a sword dangling over my head, almost literally. The accident I wrote of in "The Fall" left me with multiple complicated injuries that went undetected for many years, then went untreated for many more while a cadre of doctors from the four corners of the Continental United States poked, prodded, X-rayed and examined me and collectively threw their hands in the air about what, if anything, to do to help me.

Eventually, in 1984 when I was 25, I had cervical spine surgery to correct a herniation with complications I will never truly understand. This happened at Loma Linda University Hospital in Loma Linda, California (east of Los Angeles). Four years later, I had another cervical spine surgery at the same hospital. That surgery was botched but I wouldn't find that out for 18 years.

After Loma Linda, I went to USC University Hospital for Pain Management. When my symptoms seemed to indicate more of the extensive damage in my neck might need surgical attention (again), I was sent to the Neurosurgery Department at USC. There I found a wonderful doctor, Dr. Stillerman, who put off surgery, thinking it wasn't time to do more than keep me as stable as possible -- my collection of neck braces was impressive -- and see how I progressed. He was replaced by Dr. Samudrala who has turned out to be my guardian angel.

In 2004, I went in with my annual MRI for my annual visit with Dr. Samudrala and he looked at the new films and said I needed C-4/5 corrected as soon as possible, which turned out to be a week after that appointment, on my 45th birthday. Surgical techniques had changed over the years so this experience was vastly different (better/easier) than my 2nd surgery 18 years prior. Once I'd healed (this time, a plate was implanted so I had no neck braces), Dr. Samudrala told me he thought I'd need at least one more surgery in the near future. So I continued to be monitored by my Pain doctor and saw Dr. Samudrala as needed.

He soon moved on to Cedars-Sinai and I followed him there for annual check ins since he was the one doctor out of dozens I've seen who spoke to me honestly and simply as one person to another. He then moved to Glendale Adventist Hospital and I followed him there, too. So, two years ago -- in 2013 -- when the little finger and ring finger on my left hand went numb overnight, my first thought was "Oh, shit, it's my neck" and I immediately contacted Dr. Rever, my Pain doctor, who ordered a new MRI and, when she read that report, told me to go see Dr. Samudrala, which I did.

At that point, Dr. Samudrala was no longer doing complex surgery. He said he thought I needed both C-3/4 and C-6/7 worked on and that would be a long, hard, delicate surgery so he wanted me to go back to USC. Which I did. This was in August 2014. The doctor I saw at the USC Keck Spine Center sorta wasted a few months treating me as though my injury was new, ordered a CT scan and flat X-rays, then ordered an EMG (because my left arm from the elbow down was tingling/numb even though I had elbow surgery to supposedly correct that in early 2013). After all that, he said he wasn't comfortable operating because he didn't think he could do enough to significantly aid me in getting better. He sent me to UCLA.

After days and days of phone calls, I got an appointment but it turns out the UC system doesn't take my health insurance (I have individual Blue Shield and no one wants to take individual insurance) so I arranged to see someone at UC Irvine (they mislead me, telling me they did take my insurance but, as stated already, it turns out no UC hospital will take me). So, frustrated beyond belief, feeling helpless and aggravated and in pain and exhausted, I turned back to Dr. Samudrala for help.

He'd told me months before that, if necessary, he'd help me get in to Cedars-Sinai and it turns out they will take my insurance. But...

I had an appointment yesterday (April 9) at Dr. Samudrala's new private practice in Pasadena and the news was both really good and really bad.

Let me back up a moment. When I spoke to Dr. Samudrala on the phone after the visit to UC Irvine, he calmed me down with a few words of support and reassurance and told me to go see him. Two weeks after that conversation, which eased a lot of severe stress for me, came my appointment yesterday.

He looked at my test films (CT, MRI, X-ray) then came into the room, sat down near me, looked me in the eye and said, "Let's see what your reports say". These were the reports from USC and the test reports. So he read them sitting there with me. Then he looked at me and asked what my main symptom was and I said what I've told every doctor, "Pain". I have no obvious neurological symptoms: no paralysis, no weakness in my limbs, no obviously treatable issues that can be traced directly back to specific injured nerves, herniated discs or bone fragments.

He asked me to refresh his memory of the surgery that he did 10 years ago so I did and he said, "Now I'm remembering. Actually, I'm remembering the nightmare." The look he gave me spoke volumes. He told me he remembered opening me up and seeing a mess inside, that he probably should have cleaned out more bone but he was mainly concerned with correcting a rapidly moving forward bend to my spine that was impinging on the spinal canal at that time. So he did that, put in the plate and closed me up. That was a long enough surgery.

A few weeks later, when I returned for my first post-op visit with him at USC, he said he thought I'd need at least one more operation "by the time you're 40". As I said, I turned 45 on the day of surgery. He can't tell age very well I don't think.

He was pleased with my healing and, three months later, after spending all that time healing at my parents' house, Dr. Samudrala released me back into Dr. Rever's hands.

Back to yesterday. After reading all the reports and looking at all the films, speaking to me and listening to me, he said, "The reason no one wants to do any surgery is because it's too dangerous and no one wants to make you a quadriplegic.” He said that if where we were sitting was “1” and the moon was “10” on a scale of how dangerous surgery would be for me, I'm at about 7 ½ to 8, far too dangerous right now. And I agreed. So did my dad, who usually goes with me to these kinds of appointments just to be a 2^nd pair of ears.

So, while Dr. Samudrala scared me with the prospect of the danger of surgery, he reassured me that my neck is pretty stable right now. “You grow bones where you shouldn't be growing bones,” he told me. “The entire right side of your cervical spine has boney growths.”

He said I could go see one of 2 doctors at Cedars-Sinai but they won't do surgery on me, either. I see no point in putting myself through unnecessary doctors' visits, not to mention the drive from east of L.A. to Beverly Hills.

All of this was scaring the hell out of me, you understand, and I walked in to the appointment beyond stressed. The past two years have been their own kind of hell that no amount of description will truly describe.

I, of course, asked where this left me and he said it left me with him. He wants to see me again in 6 months. Then he did the most remarkable thing anyone has ever done for me. He'd been holding my hand throughout this discussion but he squeezed my hand and said: “I'm not going to leave you. I'll always be here for you.” I must have looked as struck dumb and as amazingly grateful as I felt because he said, “Does that make you feel better?” and I nodded and said, “You have no idea. You're going to make me cry.” He said it was okay to cry but I held off until I'd made the appointment for 6 months from now and Dad and I left the office. Once in the hallway, though I sorta collapsed against the wall and started to cry. I was overcome by his compassion, his honesty, his reassurance, his humanity not to mention the cancellation of the on-going, threatening near-certainty that I'd need a 4^th cervical spine surgery.

A weight that was becoming almost too heavy to bear lifted off of me yesterday and I've been in a bit of a mental muddle since.

My next step will be back with my Pain doctor now that we have a clear, realistic view of my physical situation. Dr. Samudrala said that now I need to treat my pain. I need to medicate myself, something I've been loathe to do for many years. I have a cocktail of pain-blocking meds but they only work so much. I've had prescriptions for narcotic-strength pain meds for many years but have rarely used them. I need to use them now. And I need to ease the hell off myself. I've had to be strong for nearly 35 years. It's hard to relax from that kind of hyper-vigilance.

It's going to take some experimenting and a lot of work on my part to learn how to be this new evolution of myself, this person who is truly a chronic pain patient. I've known that's described me for many years but I never really accepted what that means and it's going to take a little while for me to internalize, understand, and accept this new designation. But I will work it into my world view. It may take some time but I'll get there.

This post is by way of me expressing just how important Dr. Samudrala has been -- and continues to be -- to me. This is why I tell people that if they're uncomfortable with a doctor or what a doctor says doesn't ring true, then that isn't your doctor. Keep looking for the right person who fits your needs. And I think I just found the title of this post.

Escapade 2015

Last weekend marked the 25th anniversary of Escapade, the little California slash convention that is the remarkable work of two very energetic, very enthusiastic women, Charlotte Hill and Megan Kent. Now, they would tell you that the con works only because of their vast number of volunteers and, to a point, they're right; the smooth-running event relies heavily on knowledgable volunteers. BUT... Charlotte and Megan were smart enough to blackmail those volunteers into working for the convention. And I will say right now that Escapade has always been a joy to attend from it's early days in Goleta, California to its current incarnation at a hotel near LAX.

Before last year, I hadn't attended Escapade for over a decade. During that time, the con had moved from north of Santa Barbara in Goleta to south of Santa Barbara in Ventura, but I never experienced the con there so I can't speak to the difference between that location and the current location. I can say that the LAX local allowed me to attend once again because I'm a "local" and didn't have to contend with travel and hotel costs, leaving me free to pay for a membership and purchase a dealer's table last year. This year, I only was able to attend for one day, Saturday of Escapade.

I arrived a bit before 10:00, took the Star Trek buttons I was donating to the con's charity to the art show then dropped off a few of the fanzines I edit and publish at the Orphan Zine table before I rushed off to my first panel. But by that time -- fifteen minutes into my con day -- I had already encountered a handful of people I hadn't seen in many, many years and some I had only seen again last year after a long dry spell.

The first panel I went to was "Mainstreaming Slash", a panel that was being filmed to be used as promotional material for the convention. It was very well attended and very lively. The discussion was about how we, as slash fans/writers/artists/etc, feel about the producers and other show runners of our favorite series acknowledging slash and, in some cases, talking about slash on screen and, in yet other cases, either playing up to the slash fans or purposefully "straightening out" their characters who are slashy. It was a very interesting discussion. Concerns about the powers that be wanting to cash in on slash were mentioned as well as our proprietary leanings about slash. Some thought mainstreaming slash is inevitable, some didn't, some didn't seem to mind the idea of slash "coming out of the fandom closet", some did. Excellent panel, run by Charlotte and Megan.

The second panel I attended was "Captain America" and I attended it because I simply adore the new Marvel Universe and have always loved Cap. What I hadn't really thought of was writing slash Captain America fiction or even looking for it to read. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it, I simply didn't. But listening to people discuss the large numbers of Cap writers and the various takes on the the character of Cap and that of Bucky Barnes/The Winter Soldier really took my mind in a direction it had never gone before. I really enjoyed listening to these women who are obsessed with these characters; their enthusiasm was quite contagious.

"Say What You Mean" was the next panel I attended. This was about how to convey your intentions when giving online feedback. It was interesting but not something that brought up too many points that I hadn't already thought about quite thoroughly as a zine editor of 30 years. It was fun to listen to everyone, though.

I spent time in the Dealer's Room talking with friends and talking with friends in the halls as we encountered each other. Quite a few people attended this year who didn't last year due to the 25th anniversary so I saw people I hadn't seen in well over 10 years. As always, it's lovely to reconnect, to update contact information, to reminisce, to laugh and to cry a bit.

My last panel of the day was "Tumblr 102: Into Darkness". I attended because I have no idea how to work Tumblr and have been frightened of it! I'm still in the dark about it but some of the mystery and fear of the unknown was washed away as I tried to follow the discussion. Tech is most definitely not my thing.

More time was spent catching up with friends before the day ended with the song vid show. As always, it was great fun, despite there being several videos about fandoms I couldn't identify. A great way to end my con-going day.

Also, this convention coming so close to the loss of Leonard Nimoy was a good thing; I really needed to reconnect with fandom.

I hope to be able to attend all of the next Escapade, not just Saturday. I really have missed that sense of community, of continuity as new fans attend and bring their fresh outlook to the mix.

I think Charlotte and Megan do a shockingly excellent job running Escapade. I highly recommend it to any slash fan out there.

[Fyi: “slash” refers to fiction/art/videos and other creative undertakings based on two – or more – characters of the same sex in a sexual and/or romantic relationship. You have been warned!]

Leonard Nimoy

I've heard people say that Star Trek saved their life and, having found Star Trek when I was in a very dark place myself, I believe them. I can make this statement about myself and know in my heart just how true it is.

But I didn't come to be a fan of Leonard Nimoy via Star Trek; I became a Star Trek fan via Leonard Nimoy. When I was 19, my friend Kathie took me to see Mr. Nimoy in the play "Vincent", knowing how important Van Gogh is to me as a painter and as a human being. It was this performance that made me fall in love with Leonard Nimoy; my love affair with Spock came later.

Today, Leonard Nimoy lost his long, agonizing fight with COPD, a terrible, debilitating, energy sucking disease. For him, I can only think it is a blessing that his suffering is over. For his wife, children and the rest of his family, I understand that the blessing was to have him in your lives and, in time, that will come to be the warmth in your heart that I'm sure feels ripped away right now.

I feel blessed myself, having had the opportunity to meet him in person several times and to see him at many conventions over the years. He was a kind, generous man. I had been to many conventions in and around Los Angeles before I went to SpaceTrek 3 in St. Louis where he was a guest. I took my very treasured trade paperback copy of "I Am Not Spock" for him to autograph. He took the book as he looked up at me and said: "Hey, you came out here all the way from L.A.?" He then asked about the book because, at the time, that format of the book was nearly impossible to find. That he recognized my face -- or my unruly hair -- stunned me and had me walking on air all the way home to California. A bit later, I was at a convention in Los Angeles and had an unusual picture of him from "Marco Polo" for him to autograph. He was pleased and surprised that I had such a picture and took the time to ask why I chose it above pictures of him as Spock for him to sign. I don't recall my exact response -- I'm surprised I did more than blather -- but it was something to the tune of: "You're more than just Mr. Spock to me".

And he was. If you've seen "Vincent", then you know that Mr. Nimoy played Vincent's brother Theo van Gogh in the one-man play. It mostly consists of Theo reading letters that served as a deep communication between the brothers. You will also know how passionate Mr. Nimoy was about Vincent himself, not just the play by that title. He even did an episode of "In Search Of..." on Vincent, which remains one of my favorites of his projects.

If you haven't seen "Vincent", there are clips from it on YouTube and I think you can find the full play -- it was filmed -- on eBay or elsewhere. It's worth the search. I like to say that when I walked into the theater and realized it was "that guy who plays Mr. Spock" in "Vincent", I wasn't much impressed but that five minutes into the play, I was sitting in Leonard Nimoy's palm and that I've ever been far from that spot since.

Leonard Nimoy was more than Mr. Spock to me, though I can assure you that Mr. Spock also played a tremendous role in my life. Mr. Nimoy was a conduit between my own, private, teenage Vincent Van Gogh obsessed self and the larger world *out there*, outside myself, outside my own brain and heart. He confirmed my opinion of Van Gogh, he shared my obsession in such a way that it seemed as though he'd drawn all the love, admiration and knowledge I had for Vincent directly from my head. It was a very comforting thing to experience at such a young age.

It was only a few months after I discovered "Vincent", that I fell into the gloriously rich, life-affirming, welcoming, positive, exiting, adventurous world of Star Trek and only a few months after that that I discovered the amazing world of fandom that has given my life so much sustenance for over 30 years.

There's so much more to say about this great man who left us today to join his exceptional Self to the galactic starstuff but all I can do today is remember; finding the right words to eulogize him will come in time. For now, I am proud to say that I will continue to love Leonard Nimoy for the rest of my life, a life that he made possible by being the man he was and sharing himself with the world.

Rest In Peace, my friend. We will meet again.

The End of The Fall

Okay, here are the last 3 poems in the 22 poem cycle of "The Fall". Next post will NOT be poetry! I hope to start discussing living with chronic pain by then. Thanks for sticking with me through "The Fall"!

TWENTY: Second Cut

Is it the Abyss I see
reflected on your faces;
my own disbelief echoed
off your hearts?
How strong you are not to weep --
how brave you make me feel.
I am older now --
these years have worn me well;
I do not harden to granite
nor do I compact to lava or ice.
Your faith now warms me,
fades ancient resentments
to transparencies.
You are opaque and strong;
this time you believe the myth.
I will be Herculean in
my motion,
I will not tremble or quake
as the wound is cunningly
reopened and, once more,
the tremendous length of
healing is set to begin.

TWENTY-ONE: Facing It

On the walls,
my past watches as I
remain upright for
weeks on end;
rich colors keep vigil
from canvases I
can no longer touch.
This is a new loss;
the sacrifice of the sun.
Against the colors I
remain helpless;
I rely on time and
gravity to move me.
As I sit
encased in filaments
of sand and gauze,
I dream of brushes
and paint;
only in dreams am i
what I was.
Supported,
I walk the halls,
venture into the light.
But even now I know
what change is.
On the walls,
my paintings weep.

TWENTY-TWO: The Present

And now I walk upright,
flowing with the days,
allowing gravity to haunt me,
nightly taking measure of each step.
The Abyss looms to my right,
never quite out of reach,
out of sight.
In the Hellish wind
nightmares walk beside me;
I am falling most of all.
I breathe,
respect the placement of
each foot in the new Paris Smoke rug,
admire the pain that lingers
as pungent as fresh
garlic on my window sills.
Nothing is forgotten.
Tonight I sleep with furious dreams.
In the morning
I will wake,
I will stand,
and I will applaud each
turn of toe,
each arabesque that dusts
my careful path
along the devious trench
at my feet.

And more of The Fall

Moving on with "The Fall":

SIXTEEN: Upon Return (for my mother and father)

Your eyes are
brown and red,
mixing to a stunning
shade of sepia;
relief is the color of your vision.
From my view point
you are beautiful;
I tell you my body moves.
I remember your smiles,
imagine tears.
Later, you bring me
coolness with your joined voice;
a choir of angels
singing in my head.
For now
I will live,
for now, you will
keep me --
safe, as always,
from the edge of
the Abyss.

SEVENTEEN: Three Years

How angry I become
at this prophesied reawakening;
I am incensed at the
spinning of the Earth.
Helpless against gravity,
I buckle,
easily fold to the drag
and pressure that
adheres me to this life.
I am weary.
For several twists
I stand still,
petrified,
afraid to move,
to breathe.
For a moment I remember
stone and long to run,
to hide, to fade into
the stuff of the soil
beneath my frozen feet.
Shrugging, I sigh.
This is a well-trod path
I once again walk.
Loathing does not begin
to explain
nor despair come near
to defining resignation.

EIGHTEEN: For Granted

Shift of light,
shadow chasing bend
of back,
turn of shoulder,
sweep of arm.
Motion unfocused,
action unthought;
the body in natural splendor
parting molecules of air
in graceful dance.
Sensuous slide of
muscle over bone,
glorious extension of leg,
comforting contraction
of spine --
fetal, rest settles
perfectly in
strong sinew.
Body in simple movement --
memory's play a delight;
tease of yesterday
in wishful
musing in the midst
of exhausted night.

NINETEEN: Faltering

In starts and stops,
jerks and halts,
clumsy lurches
on rebellious limbs
move me;
no longer in the running,
I keep pace with myself now.
Ungainly,
I fall to one side,
remain hidden to watch
your glorious ballets,
graceful waltzes,
smooth salty tangos.
I walk as you dance,
shuffling steadily behind;
sorrowful bird-child,
regretting my accidental
loss of wings.

Continuing The Fall

More from the 22 part poem: The Fall. Even as I sit here, having just spoken to my doctor's office, waiting to schedule a fourth surgery to address the on-going problems with my neck. And, eventually, possibly a fifth. The reason for my physical limitations is what I'm addressing so far in the blog, how it felt to live though the injury, the long period of having no idea what was wrong with me, and past the second surgery into the dawn of the third. So much angst! But, hey, the thoughts of a fourteen year-old, even filtered through the eyes of my adult Self, the trauma was still very, very real. Now it's more of a distant happenstance that I don't think about. I'm so busy dealing with the results of the accident, that the original cause has slipped away into antique thoughts. Maybe there's still some words inside me that need expressing on the subject. But, for now, I'll leave this Long Poem to continue to tel the story:

TWELVE: One Hundred Years of War

Winding yarn in my arms
keeps the hours at bay;
casting skeins like nets only
to draw the multi-hued strands
back to my heart.
Gentle inanity to bide my time,
to keep my flinching soul rooted
to a body that rejects it every
strike of the hour.
Day.
Night.
Shifting to the left only to
jerk suddenly backward,
throwing me off balance,
trying to catch me asleep.
Day --
walking through tar and sand
to keep pace with the sun,
I drag my feet forward
refusing to rest, refusing...
Acres of yard piled at my feet
keeps the pain at bay;
a trick good only as long
as it lasts.

THIRTEEN: The Pit

How black can darkness be:
Sun burns my shoulders,
my face
as I in ch my way carefully
along the rim of the Abyss;
one shuffled step after another,
one lonely stride.
Blackness is within me --
I cannot feel the sun.
Heart strikes me down,
dragging at my mind,
biting bits of ice
from my lips,
sucking the frozen emeralds
from my eyes.
How black and emeralds see
the pit,
how deep my ind years to fall.
Sun burns the salt from my skin,
jumps harmlessly from the rim
plummeting downward,
downward to search the
bottomless cavern
from my heart.

FOURTEEN: Pills

Carousels of color
dance in your hand --
blue red yellow white
bullets of comfort
and oblivion,
lockets of salvation,
cages of despair.
Liquid flows from
your empty mouth
more easily than words;
I am deaf as well as blind.
Can't you see my hollowness
resting on the bed?
Can't you hear the hate
in my heart?
Giver of rest and illusion,
you walk these scented halls
in deviant awareness
of nothing but your cause,
your gift of lies.

FIFTEEN: First Cut

The deepest slice
touches my throat
just above my heart;
the incision is a miracle
from which I will never wake.
I know the face of finality
when its icy kiss
brushes my hair;
I will dance with angels
this night --
gladly.
The stench of antique ether clings
to my cells as strongly
as my conviction:
I am determined to die;
evil thoughts washed down
with gulps of filtered air
Valium has claimed and
maimed me;
I float through corridors
the color of mint ice.
I am the walrus...
I am a rock...
I am dying as they
strap me down and
feed me dreams.
Time is nothing of importance here,
it has no power,
no gravity holds it,
no inertia keeps it still.
All is a thick emptiness
as hours increase,
as planets spin,
as surgeons cut the poison
from my throat,
my brain,
my life.
I am determined to die
When I wake
the world is changed;
the sleeper jerks
harshly, rejoining the day.
In my confusion
a new life is born.
I am stunned
when my body revives
long withheld motion.

Happy New Year

I wish everyone a happy, healthy, prosperous new year. 2015. How'd that happen? 2014 was a wildly busy year with both blessings and more unfortunate goings on but, looking back, I will remember the beautiful wedding of my niece and her husband, Michelle and Michael and the birth of my great-great-nephew, Greyson, my nephew's oldest daughter's baby! I also moved to my lovely little bungalow last June. 2015 promises help for my health and and loads and loads of forward moving events for the family. I hope, with improved health, to get back to writing and painting. I'm loving the little drawings I've been doing but I do miss painting... and I have a commission waiting to be done (I promise to get to it, Susan B!). I also hope to get more into depth on the subject of chronic pain and how to deal with it, well, my experiences of dealing with it. It's been a long -- 41 years -- road so I think I have a few stories to tell.

But for now, back to the falling poem, there are, after all, 22 parts; if I don't continue I'll never reach the end. So, here we are, half-way through "The Fall":

EIGHT: The Second Step of Pain

Like an evil double
pain astounds me,
surrounds and engulfs me
and casts me toward stone.
I am granite and lava;
at once cold and aflame,
my core boils with ice.
Blue is the skin at my shoulder,
blue are my lips...
hewn from lapis,
my heart struggles to beat.
Opal are my eyes,
Mother,
changing, unreadable;
in water I separate into
triplets --
a double to double
my pain.
Above me, the keystone,
the burden of proof;
beside me rest rubies
and diamonds,
emeralds to replace
my disillusioned eyes.

NINE: The Battle Begins

From the high ground
cannons sound,
fro the valley
the clash of steel;
battles lost on the
killing ground of
these antiseptic corridors.
The scent of iodine
and paper gowns
rattles the pale green walls;
chrome-wheeled tables
glint florescently,
blinding me as I wait.
From the high ground
a stalemate:
no prisoners, no surrender.
In the valley,
one refugee lies
defeated at the foot of this
institutionalized mountain.

TEN: Another rejection

Time holds its breath
while the dumb rumbles
our anticipation:
how many songs have
repeated this worn theme?
Music jolts my too-still
limbs as I limp from
mirror to mirror,
finding only my
twisted twin staring back
in horror;
stone is encroaching --
I am half-gone gray.

ELEVEN: Fighting Back

Do you think me demented --
some warped child of an
isolated mind trapped
within a net of my own design?
Truly --
do you find me shaken,
twisted from my frame by
mere desire for your doting?
Better I should find my name
but dust,
blown to some lost corner
of your Hell;
better I should remain frozen in
silent fury.
Your faulty judgements
land poison on my tongue,
lay my mind exposed
to parch in the sun
Your folly is my pain,
your error, my death.