A Dream With A View

There are many things I am not sure I will ever see. Views I may only know in travel logs. My dream of seeing Everest seemed so far away before, that it brought with it the comfort of time to manifest this goal. But something happened I did not plan. I was convinced Everest wasn't going anywhere. But then it did. To someone else's view.

There are people who beat odds. Who prevent a health challenge from stealing their dream. The blind man who climbed K-2, and the cancer survivor who passed him on her way to the top. But who are we who can only watch because we were left with only a will to dream? What are we called when pain prevents our dream from coming true? Our desire is no less. But our bodies cannot endure. So what do we do?

We do what we can to make a different dream come true. A dream we never knew we had, because the first one got in the way. For myself, a mountain stood between me and a passion I never knew I had. To write. To bare my soul in front of the world I now may never see.

Facing a health challenge is much like childbirth. Few will tell you how difficult it will really be, because if they did, the human race would surrender.

So I had to find a way on my own to manage the unknown. I had to find a tool to chisel a vision to help me see through what was in front of me. I began to write a new dream. Writing has caused the crumbling of my soul into finite grains of sand blown by the grace of God's breath. But it has also gathered it back and shaped my soul into something stronger than it ever knew could be.

My latest MRI shows additional deterioration in C7-T2. My arms weaken by the day. I await my electro spine stimulator implant surgery to ease the lumbar pain and offer stability to my leg that no longer lifts. Tomorrow is a CT Myelogram of the lumbar spine, with cervical and thoracic Myelograms to follow. Friday we begin facet blocks to determine where to cauterize the nerves in the new-found areas of degenerated discs. But on Thursday I shall celebrate the treatment of something new and different. Something to add spice to my taco salad of where's-the-beef casserole. A root canal. Yes. A root canal. In tooth number fifteen. It's just nice to have a procedure for a part of my body that cannot possibly be the spine. There's no T-15, or C-15. So it's a welcome change. But it's a change that would have floored me a year ago when this all began. Before I felt God's breath on my skin. Before I was this kind of strong. Before the writing could begin.

I would like to say I will have this thing licked. I would like to say I will walk again, that my pain will be managed, that I will stand at the base of the mountain I have dreamed of since I was a child. But the truth is, I have never felt so raw, so shattered, and willing to surrender. But through writing, I have realized that is what will make my life worth living when this living ends.

I have faith, that if God can build a mountain that I want to climb, the least He can let me do is touch it. Someday. When the pain is gone. When my legs are strong. When a light surrounds my thoughts and angels lift my soul. I will stand with others like me, on the other side of our dream, and life will come true. But for now, I will embrace my challenge and know this is no lesser a dream than what I had before. He simply wanted me to have one filled with pages, a cover, and a much more meaningful view.

This Is Not Me - My Journey Through A Brain Scan

The tech rolled me up to the slab. A lamb for slaughter. At least that's what I thought it would be like. My last MRI's have not gone well. The pain from laying flat. The agony of being still.

I pulled my right leg off the wheelchair foot-holder and set it on the floor. The six-foot-five technician towered over me. The abominable snowman in a coat. He held his hand out for mine. I pulled my body up onto my right leg and shifted it closer to the MRI. My left leg hung as though it waited for a command - that never came. I gently pressed the palms of my hands on the slab and lifted my body to its cushion. My neck flared a fire inside its base, quelling my limbs into submission. That was the easy part. Now it was time to lay down on my back.

I laid flat. My lumbar spine contracted; A whip of my own tail reminding me to ask for the padded bolt under my knees. As soon as I was positioned properly, my body began to shake. It's a shiver reserved for cold medical rooms with naked walls. You have to stay completely still during an MRI. No cell phones, metallic bras or shivering allowed. I asked for blankets. Voila, blankets. He then attached the Hannibal Lector mask over my face. Odd isn't it, that a device that helps to determine the normalcy of one's brain, resembles that worn by a serial killer? I asked for an eye mask. A request that felt good when I said it out loud. Asking for an eye mask felt very spa-like to me. But knowing what to ask for made me feel empowered. And that is the key to surviving an MRI of the brain, or the neck, or anything that can stir the soul into a frenzy.

I was all set. Bolt under my knees. Blankets to keep me warm. No metal in my clothing (only in my spine). Earrings off. Eye mask on. Ear plugs in. Pads set between my skull and the Hannibal Lector mask. Panic button in hand. The coat left the room and the scans began.

The scan begins with a series of clicking sounds. Loud clicking sounds. Like gods snapping in unison with cars for fingertips. Rounds of eight snap-click-thuds measures surround your head. The machine is set. My body moves further into the cylinder.

The key, at this point, is to not look up. Not even into your eye mask. The peripheral vision will flip you out so fast it will make your head spin like the Exorcist on Good Friday - and Ralph's is out of pea soup.

The body is not meant to be canned in a metal body bag, with a cage around its face and an other-worldly symphonic discord of pots and pans in the ears. But, if you approach it properly, an MRI can become an almost Zen-like experience.

My brain was positioned in the middle of the tube, and the dirty-work began. The reading of my mind. The machine revved up, its engine scuffing its hooves into the dirt. A Trojan horse of answers to what has become a puzzle consisting only of outside edges. These scans will offer answers as to why I cannot hold up my head. Why my limbs are deteriorating. Why the numbness and tingling in my leg and arms is giving way to limp and weakened limbs. Why I can no longer brush my teeth without crying. Why my dog has licked so many tears that he now bloats. They are scanning my neck and my brain. My brain is being scanned to rule out any neurological disorder. The kind of disorder you discuss with your doctor that brings images of pity to your mind, and his. It is an interesting day when you pray that your neck is failing instead of your brain, because a neck is easier to fix. So these scans are a horse worth saddling. And I endure.

As the machine readies to scan, I breathe deeply and exhale. Each scan is fifteen to twenty minutes and you cannot itch your nose, swallow too hard, and God forbid you sneeze. There must be complete and total stillness - or you will have a crooked brain. Or neck. Or worse, a blurry brain. Or neck.

As the clicks and snaps repeat in beats of eight, I imagine a mantra to its notes. "I will be healed, I see the light. I will be healed, I see the light." Then, "This is not me, I will be free. This is not me, I will be free." Suddenly, the area between my face and the metal coffin expands and fills with open space. Puzzled pieces fall from the sky into an abyss of hope. I look into my eyelids and see orbs of white lights dancing and floating to the rhythm of this newfound song. I imagine the top of my head as an open vessel with light pouring in and throughout my brain. I feel the energy of the scan awakening a part of my self I never knew was there. It was an engagement with the power of thought I had taken for granted before someone locked us up in a room together - with no one to interrupt but ourselves.

I felt my mind open. I heard my thoughts forgive. I could see how strong my brain is, and how alive she was through the orbs inside my eyes. She became a messenger with a note only I could read.

The clicking grew, the primal beating of a heart within roared with a knowing it would all be okay in the end. "This is not me, I will be free." An odd thing to say to one's self when strapped inside a machine.

 It is up to me now to guide my self through this valley of eye masks and snapping cars. To take the reigns and order the orbs to dance in the darkness before my eyes. It is up to me, to help my mind see what it finds difficult to believe; This is not me, I will be free.

The session ends. The slab pulls out. The abominable man holds out his hand. The mask comes off, my legs drape down. The chair comes back and I am ready now, to hold forever in my mind the memory of what I saw. A self so strong it can't be seen. I'm rolled through the door where my husband stands. Now we wait as it's in God's hands. Like a light you can touch because it is all you can know in a darkness where I met a magical mantra of my self: This is not me, I will be free.

God's Curveball

Well well well. Just when you think you know what's going on in your spine, God throws you a curveball. Ok, it's not God. God didn't toss the car into the air in college, propel it 92 feet over a cow pasture, push it through a stone wall or flip it twice like a coin. He did not pull my legs out from under me on the stairs with a baby in my arms when she was one. And he did not bring my car's electric hatch down into my skull, the event that started my spine's collapse.

He did however give me a curious strength to endure the above and the ability to sense that whatever this all is, it is somehow predestined. He gave me doctors who want to figure me out, and a family that accepts they never will.

After multiple spine surgeries, procedures, injections, MRI's CT's, X-Rays, Flouroscopies, nerve blocks, Rhyzotomies, Electro Stim Trial and beyond, you'd think we had it covered.

Until today.

For a year this pain in my neck has worsened. I cannot hold my head for more than 20 minutes without it giving up. My arms, my ring and pinkies shake, my left leg no longer lifts. Hyper reflexivity racks my limbs. I cannot walk. Not that my right leg doesn't want to. It's actually quite ticked at its partner for its lethargy - As though they finally made it to Dancing With The Stars and one of them decided to quit. Leaving the other still willing, but stranded.

Tomorrow I undergo an MRI of my neck and my brain. Thank God someone's looking at my brain. There has to be some kind of explanation for this blog.

The concern is possible Cervical Spinal Stenosis. The alternative is a neurological issue, which is why they are looking into my brain. It's much easier to accept something tangible. Like something squeezing your spinal cord.

Spinal Stenosis can happen in your neck or lower back. The lower back is not as scary because the spinal cord stops before it gets that far. But in the neck, if not treated, can eventually lead to paralysis.

I don't know what will happen tomorrow. What they will see in my neck and my brain. I'm hoping they can't see memories. There are a few I'd rather keep to my blog. Like my first kiss and what I did when he broke my heart. How my children dug a hole into my soul. And how I feel when others look at me now, with confusion. That this can't be right.

I am no longer normal. But who is, really? Don't we all have something about us that makes people wonder?

At this moment we are driving home. Country music booms from Don's playlist a song about a man drinking beer (he likes Budweiser in a tall glass and a good piece of country ...), the scooter bobs on the back hatch, the wheelchair crouches in the back seat. She prefers Barry Manilow. And I curl into you. My safety zone of hearts who care enough each day to hear what I have to say. Tonight I will say a prayer to God and thank Him for everything He did, and didn't do. But I will also thank Him for you. A community of people who have no idea who each other are, but are touched by knowing you are not alone. Which makes curveballs from above a whole lot easier to accept.

How To Succeed in Photography and Anything Else In Life

Photography is often the step-child of artistic professions, the stripper on the pole of life. It can be the most beautiful thing in the world, but if the dancer isn't willing to learn, it's simply painful to watch.

For myself, it all started with good intention. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined actually making a living at it (not pole-dancing, that's for an entirely different blog). I just liked clicking that button, winding that film, smelling those chemicals (digital really ruined that for me), and watching something evolve from nothing. I didn't ask for much. Until one day someone said to me, you could make a living doing this.

Our friends and family love us, they want us to succeed, and they are the first to tell a little white lie to make us feel good about our passion. They might even tell us our work is brilliant! This may be hard to hear, it’s difficult to even type, because it’s a lesson I had to learn in the beginning and wish I’d had someone to tell me otherwise. The truth is, I did certain types of photography well in the beginning, but nothing I did was was brilliant. The first thing to do when becoming a photographer? Get away from your family and get new friends. Too hard, I know. So here is what I did:

When I first started shooting professionally, my friends had given me a little too much positive feedback. Although appreciated, it worked against me. The problem was, I was only showing my work to friends, and not to seasoned professionals from whom I could learn. I was not very good. Yes I had instinct, but technically I was worlds away from being as good as my friends said I was. I was blind to the reality of the work I had in front of me. It wasn’t until one of my dearest friends, who happened to work in the entertainment industry, sat me down after a headshot shoot of hundreds of images, picked out two and she said, “these are acceptable, one of them is good, but where is the brilliance?” This was extremely difficult to hear. I believe a glass of wine followed as I wallowed in the criticism. It was a wake-up call. If I wanted to not only be successful, but respected as well, I needed to step it up. Every single image I posted to my site had to be pretty darned close to perfection in all of its potential or I shouldn’t put it up at all. So, there began my quest for artistic vision. What was going to make me stand out from the rest?

Are you different?

In order to have a photography business that constantly moves forward, accumulates income, and enhances your quality of life, you need to absolutely accept that photography is not simply a hobby any longer. It must be the primary focus above anything else in your life except for family. All day, every day, every waking moment should find you curious about the world in which you live and how you can capture those moments in a unique way. You need to not only think, but live outside the box of normalcy. When others are going to lunch, you are developing your website, your blog, watching Photoshop tutorials, creating your own actions, learning Lightroom, playing in Bridge, mastering images, shooting friends for free, marketing complimentary services to elementary schools, shooting your children's teachers' families as holiday gifts for all they do. When you have done these things a hundred times, do them again, like a mantra. Your life is about creating imagery, figuring out the market you wish to target, discovering what you are truly gifted at whether it's studio photography, portrait, weddings, editorial. This, by the way can take years to sort out. The only way to truly know where your gift lies, is to do any and every job that comes along whether it seems interesting or not. Say yes to all and work your tail off to do it right. Keep your pricing reasonable, and as soon as you have that "Ahah" moment, of where you know you really are that good, that's when you focus on a field, put on your seatbelt, and get ready for a wild ride. They say it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become a star at anything. With that in mind, don't look at this as a sprint. You are in the marathon of your creative psyche and this is a journey which will hopefully last a lifetime (or until your back goes out) Pace yourself, but understand that no-matter how much you love photography, there is somebody around the corner who loves it more, who is fresher and more willing to pay their dues.

The greatest gift you can give yourself, is to find a mentor. Locate a successful photographer through a friend in your area. Most people can offer a personal referral to someone they know who has made a go of their photography business. If they seem successful, there are various reasons why, but one of the most common threads is they have learned the art of the edit, the market, and customer service. They have learned the practice of sorting through images after a shoot and listening to their gut reaction as to whether an image is good or not, and what stirred them upon viewing it. They have learned through the reactions of other professionals what is truly a brilliant image, and what is a smart image to post as it will provide revenue (as these can be two completely different things).

The bottom line is, whether or not you will be successful in any field, is solely up to you and your actions. If you keep moving forward, if people continue to be attracted to your work, if you open yourself to the mentorships of those who have gone before, and have the willingness to embrace your flaws and give them the ultimate extreme makeover, you can become the person who actually makes a living by simply doing what they love.

My camera sits on my dresser. Dust settles on her lens. I remember my beaten, toughened, sore, achy knuckles and how my thumb was chronically blackened from its body. My skin was callused like a dancer's foot. My hands still show the years of labor it took to make something special happen. My career will always be one of the proudest accomplishments of my life. As I pursuit writing to fill my heart, I realize the momentum must be the same. The momentum must never cease in order to grow in this field. And who knows, maybe on some level I can look back in the future, and see something special that happened all over again.

The Lullaby That Sets Me Free

I made my way down the hall from my bedroom. It had been weeks since I made the trek downstairs. The Electro Spine Stimulator trial was a success. But it was one of the most difficult experiences of my life.

Life has become a waiting game. A thousand calms before the storms. The pain, surgeries, procedures, the trial. A settling occurs inside my body. Then a wrath comes in like an angry sky releasing the heavens. At times my soul waves a white flag with a hope the war within would subside for just one day.

But then something magical happens at night. There are eyes so wide and pure. Fingers so small and sure. They hold onto mine. They cradle my cheeks with kisses that wipe away the salt from my skin. A mother should be removing her children's fears. But mine take fear and play with it. They throw it to the air I cannot reach so it is something I cannot touch. And I am calm again.

There's an awakening that occurs when all you can do is love. The daily duties are done by others. But there is something I can do now that was so hard to do before. Because life got in the way. I watch my life pass me by. And it is exquisite.

My Emma comes to me to say good night- curling into me so I can put her to bed. In my arms. My eyes often wet from a stolen moment within my core. But she only sees a mother waiting to love. Waiting to sing to her heart from mine. From my heart so full of love for a child who can't see tears. Her hair tickles my nose. Her hand holds onto my arm. I breathe her in so deep. And she will never know. How she keeps me breathing.

My husband gently carries her away to her bed when we are done. And I am renewed. He sleeps. I write. I hear him breathing. The house is silent. I am renewed. Tomorrow I will make my way down the hall. And I will know that at the end of every day there will be hands to hold my cheeks. Eyes that hold my tears, a child that curls into me, and a lullaby that so magically sets me free.

A Memorial Day Tribute to Military Working Dog Bak by Guest Blogger and Soldier Kevin Hanrahan

 

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Posted on 27th May, by Chuck in Dog Advocate. 7 Comments

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Last week I brought you the heart wrenching story of Military Working Dog Bak’s Memorial Service at Fort Stewart Georgia. MWD Bak was killed this past March in Afghanistan.

As a tribute to MWD Bak on Memorial Day, here is his story.

There was nothing better than seeing those Afghan mountain peaks slowly turning from brown to white. It seemed that, as the snow melted away, US Army Sergeant Marel Molina and his Military Working Dog Bak’s time remaining in Afghanistan withered away day by day.

But Sergeant Molina couldn’t think about going home today, even though he was a short two months away. He had work to do.

No, that wasn’t right.  He and MWD Bak had work to do.

Keeping his Green Beret team alive was hard work.

Sergeant Molina listened intently as Captain Pedersen, his Green Beret Alpha Team leader, discussed that day’s mission with the Afghan local policemen. But Molina barely understood a word of their exchange.

He was always impressed that many of these Green Berets could speak Pashtun, one of the predominant languages in Afghanistan.

Looking over his shoulder he spied the 100-pound working dog lying in the back of the Razor, his thick mahogany coat with black tipping made him a picture-perfect German shepherd, fit for the movies. The dog dozed in and out of wakefulness, but Sergeant Molina knew in a snap of his fingers MWD Bak would be focused on one thing—finding buried explosives.

The Green Beret team knew this as well. MWD Bak had already used his extraordinary explosive-sniffing skills to unearth six improvised explosives that surely would have wiped out the entire team by now.

His Majesty MWD Bak could lounge anywhere he wanted. It didn’t matter when, where, or with whom. The three-year-old shepherd was always ready for duty.

Sergeant Molina scanned the group of Afghan local policemen and thought he recognized a few of them. The Green Berets frequently patrolled with the local men, trained with them, and tried to assist them in policing their country. But it was hard to keep them all straight with their constant turnover.

The Afghan men were a ragtag bunch with look-alike uniforms in varying states, pockets and pouches stuffed with who knew what, in gear strapped to their chests that included an American AK-47.

Most of the Afghans had short beards, dirty olive skin, and were rail thin.

Today for patrol, their motley crew consisted of a squad on infantry from the 3rd Infantry Division, a handful of Green Berets, Sergeant Molina, and MWD Bak.  Captain Pedersen shook the hand of the Afghan local policemen’s leader and turned to brief the Americans.

Then all hell broke loose.

Gunfire, screaming, and pleas for help filled the air.

An Afghan local policeman turned his AK-47 on the group and shot wildly into the group of Americans. Sergeant Molina felt something slice through the left side of his neck. He dropped to the ground next to Captain Pedersen.

Pedersenwas lifeless, shot through the head. The man never stood a chance. The same bullet that had ripped through Pedersen’s head was the one that ripped through Sergeant Molina’s neck. It was ironic to think that being shot through the neck was lucky. But in Afghanistan everything is relative.

In seconds the shooting was over and the rogue Afghan local policeman was gunned down by a Green Beret. But not before the policeman had injured a handful of American soldiers, killed Pedersen, and members of the infantry squad participating in that day’s mission.

Blood flowed from Sergeant Molina’s neck, but he couldn’t feel the pain yet. He stood up and his knee felt like he had hit it on a rock or gotten a “charlie horse.” Then he saw blood dripping from his right knee and a hole in his pants.

Adrenaline rushed through his body as he wobbled over to a fallen comrade and began to conduct first aide on the fallen man. The soldier was a lot worse than Molina. He would be lucky to make it.

Once a medic relieved him, Molina pulled security on the other Afghan policeman and then assisted in disarming them. With the threat neutralized and the adrenaline subsiding, Sergeant Molina realized he hadn’t heard from MWD Bak.

Initially when Molina had dropped to the ground he had seen Bak lying calmly on the Razor vehicle. The dog had nerves of steel; he had been hit before with shrapnel from a rocket-propelled grenade and barely whimpered.

“Bak, come here boy.”

A spike of fear shot through his body when Bak didn’t move.

He rushed to his dog and panic ripped through him as he realized Bak’s once mahogany hind legs were wet and dark with his own blood.

“Medic,” screamed Molina as he ripped open a box of field bandages and tried to locate the entrance wound. As he touched Bak, the dog’s eyes fluttered and Molina knew he was losing consciousness. He would go into shock next.

The medic arrived and handed a catheter to Molina who inserted it into Bak’s leg. The dog needed  fluids immediately.

“It’s all right buddy, Daddy is right here, pal. You’re going to be fine,” said Molina as he watched his battle buddy gasp for air.  Molina knew the dog had internal bleeding. Molina wondered what that bullet had ripped through inside Bak.

The MEDVAC chopper landed and loaded them all. Molina lay by Bak’s side the entire time.

Sometime during the flight Molina began losing consciousness, but he kept an arm around Bak, reassuring him that everything would be all right, praying that everything would be all right.

But it wasn’t.

As Molina lay in a hospital bed at Bagram Airbase awaiting surgery, the veterinarian came in with a somber face.

Tears streamed down Molina’s cheeks. He already knew what was the veterinarian was going to say.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but Bak bled out internally. He’s left us.”

They had been so close to going home. Now only one would go.

Sergeant Marel Molina received lifesaving surgery at Bagram Airbase Afghanistan, was evavced to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany and then to Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, DC. He has moved from crutches, to a cane, to walking on his own. He has high hopes for being completely off aids soon and is very close to a full recovery.

Physically he will heal, but mentally he will never be the same. He will never forget his battle buddy Military Working Dog Bak and the images of him lying on that chopper, bleeding out, and Molina powerless to help him.

Bak wasn’t a piece of equipment, and he wasn’t just a dog, Military Working Dog Bak was a fellow soldier, who died fighting for this country.

Sergeant Molina and many other soldiers are alive today because of their fellow soldier, Military Working Dog Bak.

As a country we celebrate Memorial Day to remember the men and women who fought and died for this country. But for those that fought beside them, we also think of our four-legged soldiers who made the ultimate sacrifice.

Please remember Military Working Dog Bak and the others like him who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom.

Also killed in this incident was:

CPT Andrew M. Pedersen-Keel, 28, of South Miami, Fla.  He was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 3rd Special Forces Group (Airborne), Fort Bragg, N.C.

SSG Rex L. Schad, 26, of Edmond, Okla.  He was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 69th Armor Regiment, 1st Armor Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division, Fort Stewart, Ga

Featured Blog: Lessons From A Purple Heart

In Honor of Memorial Day 2013, a reblog of a day with a dear friend who sacrificed three limbs, so we could be free.

"This is how you open a door. It took me months to get it right." My friend Bryan Anderson poised his wheelchair slightly to the left of the double doors of my daughter's school. I sat on my electric scooter newly arrived from his company at Quantum Rehab. He was showing me the ins and outs of life on wheels. What happened next is still a blur. I have opened doors my entire life. But never like this. He braced himself - one prosthetic arm pressed against one door while he pulled on the other while something happened in between that I still haven't figured out. Bryan makes everything he does look effortless, but never easy. You would think he'd been doing this his whole life - the wheelchair thing. But he's only been doing it for a few years.

Bryan was serving in Iraq, 2006, when it happened. The IED blew his legs off at the thighs from under his driver's seat and took one hand while mangling the other. The liquid metal from the explosion seared the arteries in his legs, ultimately saving his life.

I guess you could say Bryan and I are friends due to fate, or because I simply could not stay in my seat after he spoke at a dinner for The Gary Sinise Foundation. I had to go over to him and introduce myself, to shake the hand of this person who was facing a challenge head-on. It was then I blurted out, "Congratulations Bryan, you did it!" He looked at me quizzically, paused and with a smirk that snuck out like a teenager at midnight, he said, "No one's ever said that to me before. Not since the incident anyway." From that moment on, he has lead the charge in my personal recovery of a spinal challenge, guiding me through mobility divices and tips along the way that somehow make one truly believe life is cool nomatter how you get through it all.

As I write this, Pandora just began to play Danny Boy. The notes invade my skin. A rush of irony. A tap from Heaven. A knowing something is right in a world that is so often wrong.

Bryan came to visit in Nashville for a week when Don was filming "Nashville". We drank beer on the porch, recorded music in a studio, visited Don on the set, he met the actors, we saw Martina McBride at The Ryman, and he rolled through Reggie's fecal deposits in the yard. And into our house. My spine had already started going downhill, like he did into Reggie's deposits. So he knew things were rocky with my spine, and felt badly for me. My friend with three limbs lost, wanted me to be free of pain.

Working with wounded veterans has prepared me for my current health situation. But it is our friendships that have carried me through it.

It was October of 2012. I had already undergone multiple back surgeries but something was still terribly wrong with my lumbar spine. Bryan came over to sit in on a writing session I had with Gary Talley. Then I bent over. To pick up a leaf that had blown in the front door. My L4-5 immediately threw up into my spinal cord. I was cooked.
He made a call to the company he represents, Quantum Rehab, and within an hour a wheelchair was at our door. And my journey on wheels began.

It took three weeks before I could get out of bed to travel back home to Los Angeles. November 9th I had an artificial disc replacement. Within days of the surgery I instinctively felt something was wrong. It's been six months now and my pain levels have been through the roof. Each surgical site a festering nest of irritated bees who want their honey back. This combined with several other diagnosis of my spine leads inevitably to writers' block upon filling out medical forms.
My left leg has decided it's taking time off. We just don't know for how long. Irreparably damaged sciatic nerve. It needs a clapper.

Our field trip to the school at an end, we started home, uphill. Bryan grabbed hold of the back of my seat, and the tides had turned. I was pulling him up the hill, leading the way. Up the sidewalk. Past children who looked, and talked about it later. Taking the world in stride, in unison, I laughed out loud that as slightly bent adults we should be having such fun. Then he said from the top of my headwind, "I've always said, why walk when you can roll!"

Electro Spine Stimulator surgery is next. After that it really doesn't matter to me how I walk. As long as my doctors can manage the pain, I can manage my life. Because I have learned from the best, that have been through the worst, that anything is possible. Even with one limb left and so many doors ahead yet to open.

People's Fantasy of Age

I just opened the May 6th issue of People magazine. Magazines nowadays are my retreat during surgical recoveries. This particular issue has Gwyneth Paltrow on the cover as The World's Most Beautiful Woman. An attempt I supposed at leveling the playing field of World's Sexiest Man Alive. Which leaves out dead ones. Which makes me sad.

I like Gwyneth Paltrow. She is beautiful and I like her candor. Even if her Goop site inspires shopping sprees that leave a husband's sundries sullied.

However, when I opened this issue of People, the contents bore an article entitled 'Real Beauty At Every Age'. But surely there must have been an error upon editing the issue. A page cut out that should have clearly been present. You see, the ages of beauty stopped at women's 50's. Just when lasting beauty begins. The kind that never fades. The beauty that comes with having lived. A wisdom that younger women are jealous of and a grace that stops men in their tracks. Then keeps them wanting more. OK, there was one image in the magazine of Jane Fonda in a sequined gown looking forever fabulous. But what about the sampling of women from every age group? I would love to have seen sultry sixties and seventies, elegant eighties, and nineties with faces who have seen so much that their eyes alone tell a story. Perhaps a sampling of women who are are 100, who would do it all over again?

People stopped at fifties. Just when women are starting to live. When children are gone and husbands can see them again. When friendships are deeper than ever and their smiles are more beautiful than ever before. .

The article is on natural beauty. That stops at fifty. When there are fifty years to go.

I understand beginning at twenty. It's the phenomenon older women watch without envy because we know it will be gone too soon. The beauty that makes a magazine write an article about we see.

But if life begins at forty. To stop at fifty is very sad to me.

My Aunt Virginia was eighty when I sat with her on her porch. Her skin a-dew with acceptance and everything I someday hoped to be. I was in my twenties when I stared at her and wondered how anyone couldn't see, that she was the most exquisite species of this world. A woman who is over fifty.

So the next time People writes about true beauty in women of every age - It's simply a request to remember that there truly are - fifty shades of grey. And There is nothing more exquisite than a beauty that never fades.

One-Leg Cardinal Song

His name was One-Leg. A Red-Headed Cardinal who made our porch his home. I was five.
Every morning our family would sit at the table next to a small rock garden with a hammock. One-Leg would eventually flit onto our table, across the gravel and to our feet. He had no fear. His head jerked a random beat for discarded bread crumbs or a child's ort. He built his nest in the rafters so he could observe the day's potential horde. His song reserved for commanding what was delightfully his. Because he owned our porch.

I sit in our yard a mother of four with a leg reminiscent of his. My leg curled beneath me. A protection of what is vulnerable and weak. I don't know if mine will work again as it did before.

I wonder what caused One-Leg's limp. If it was a cat who fumbled his prey. Or a wire that caught his attention and kept a souvenir. But he didn't act like anything was wrong. He hopped. He chirped. He ruled our porch.

I am learning to rule my own. I try to dismiss what others may see as weak. To embrace my daily find. To search for what will make this world a one-legged golden mine. I visit the rafters in my head and look down at what is right. The hammock swings with my good leg, and gifts from people fill my soul. Because they live here now too. In a world in which a bird has learned to sing. To focus on her wings. Instead of what may seem so wrong. To find a song in what is right between the flight. A One-Leg cardinal's song.

As I learn to soar I take today to play my new favorite song by FarCry, I'm Wingin' It.

Return From Iraq - A Father Meets His Son