What I Have Learned through the Challenge of Pain

WHAT I HAVE LEARNED THROUGH THE CHALLENGE OF PAIN

Well, I at last have a new, functioning and looks-like-I'm-legit laptop making it simpler to update here! No, not really. It's been the wildest ride since I last posted a year ago, one I should have been posting about, stem cell recoveries are a funny thing. First, you have to tell everyone how AMAZING they are, because they are. Then you go through the 9-12 month recovery period and all of a sudden, life is SO much more doable! I used to say, if they could just take the pain away, I can deal with being in a wheelchair. Just get me out of this much pain. If you've followed at all, you've surely read the part about my spinal contractions equalling labor contractions, every ten to fifteen minutes around the clock for weeks or months, while every contraction brought with it butcher knives that seem to shovel the muscles off my femur bones followed by the shooting of boiling icycles down the legs to the toes, that stayed at a cool 42 degrees F. F-f-fUN stuff! That's jsut when I was in a "flare". Otherwise, it was just a brewing cesspool of fire and daggers circling the vertrebrae dancing up and down the spine until I did someting stupid, like sit for more than five minutes, and it would start all over again.

That said. No small violins, only electric guitars, people!

But, once I reached what they called my new baseline of pain levels, after a year of the rollercoaster after effects of feeling like Wonder Woman on the upswing and Frankenstein's daughter on the down, as well as physical therapy (a MUST), I sat back and looked at what was, compared to what was now.

It became a confusing thing to see.

I felt absolutely selfish.

I wanted more.

It was like offering a child a Vanilla cone, only for them to complain it wasn't Vanilla Bean.

I've already given you guys a taste of what was. What was "now" was EONS from where I was. I could now sit for almost two hours at a time, which meant going to a movie with my hubby AND a drink (medications doesn't allow for much more than one, so that was good, fit into my time frame). This was a miracle! But what was even more of a miracle, was that the spinal contractions which took six years of my life from me, my children, my husband and family, had completely stopped. Not one contraction since my first stem cell transplant on June 28, 2017. Not one. That alone should have had me kneeling at the feet of my physician. Which I actually did, on my second round of stem cells.

That's right. I did it again. Nonetheless, this time, on Halloween. Made sense to me, seeing's that I was Frankenstein's Daughter and all.

My second stransplant was exactly like the first, but this time, it involved a second phase, and this is why:

No matter what improvements I experienced, there was still one issue which was not addressed during my first transplant, a situation of increasing pain levels L4-5 to Sacrum discs, which had begun derailing all of the progress we had achieved so far. My lower lumbar levels were now screaming after 45 minutes of sitting. Yes, my contractions were gone, so I should have been thrilled! But pain is pain. Anyone who lives in chronic pain, no matter the levels, understands that pain is like a magnet to the brain and becomes all you can think about. How you wish it wasn’t there. So, I used my tools of distraction, learning new things, writing, not overdoing things, but still nothing could grant me the serenity of knowing the things I cannot change. The decision was made. I would go for number two.

The original protocol involves the actual stem cell transfusion (this particular protol uses hundreds of millions of cells at one time, rather than tens, multiple times) then, intramuscular injections of stem cells made into a "paste" injected along the spine. However, during my second transplant, the doctor used a live flouroscpoy (an in real time video x-ray) to watch exactly where the phase two of stem cell paste injections will this time, enter INTO, the vetrebral spaces.In particular, one with an artificial disc! The space which housed my artificial disc at L4-5 had caused what happens to many patients over time, it adds so much pressure to the levels below it, that not only is the artificial disc level compromised by blinding pain, the levels below it grow increasingly painful as well.

So here I am, it is the beginning of February, three months out, and my perspective has changed. Instead of expecting to be who I was. I am now learning that it is ok to be who I am now, or whatever the next year should bring. The second transplant dramatically improved these levels, L4-5 is but a distant memory, but the lower levels are proving to be more of a beast that we expected. I learned to walk again a year after my first transplant, yet limitations only allow for this within our home, short spurts with sofa at arms length. I've tried going out without my chair, but dont' get too far, and have realized I'm more of a snail that a mom who needs to "get sh*t done!". I have learned that even the most magical of sciences, has its limitation when there has been a level of mechanical damage that has been done. Finally, I can truly say, I am ok with this. This is not giving in, it is opening up to whatever will be and all the possibilities that could be, good or “bad”. This has taken a long time to get to.

Life may never be what it was, or what at first I so desperately hoped it would be again. It is ok for some things to be what they are, and to find the beauty in what is. I have learned to live a life with more blessings than I could have ever experienced had I not been hurt. For the last seven years I have been able to be home to watch my children grow rather than constantly traveling to shoot destination weddings and portraits of those wealthier than God (not that that's a bad thing, it just wasn't being with my kids), and being too busy editing all week to help them with homework, or problems, or simply lay on the bed while all four of them circling as a band around me, singing and playing our favorite songs - mine being, whatever my children played and the songs they sang. My husband has unearthed within him a patience and an empathy not just for myself ,but for others facing challenges, as have our children. Our children understand that a' life challenge' can be an opportunity to reframe what it means to live one's life. They have garnered,over time, an unyeilding urge to create change in our world by witnessing how misunderstood their mother could be by others. They understand the challenges a life challenge can create and that we never truly know what is going on behind closed doors. Also, whatever upturns one’s live is a life challenge, and that the processing of it is pretty much universally the same. That everyone has a story no one else has lived, and yet it's everyone's story at once. I have learned how many fragile, diminutive moments of joy I bypassed for so many years becasue I was moving too quickly to notice them. I have realized the joy in taking out the trash and stopping because a ray of sunlight has turned a simple leaf into an xray version of itself, and having it be the highlight of one's day. I have gotten to know a squirrel in our backyard and named it Rocky. It has many names, as we have many neighbors, to me, he's mine. I have learned of the devotional love and bond which can grow between a service dog and her handler. How one animal can make a very scary world, once agian, make sense. I have learned that not everyone will understand what I have been through, but in the end, I don't need nor expect them to. I only offer hope that one day all will experience the empathy we have so humbly received. I have realized that not everyone needs to be your friend, and most have not truly been one at all. That when your world crashes, it is those who carry you through the flames that define friendship as though it were etched in stone by God. I have realised that if every parent could spend every moment of their time with their children, you would see them as people, not kids. That there is no place you would rather be than exactly where you are, even though others may wish they never saw where you are, at all. I have seen colors on raindrops and am convinced there are many more than we have been told. I learned to love football because of a story I saw about what it can take to face a challenge and rise above. Go Seahawks! But most of all, I have realized that the meaning of life can be so simple. For me, it has come down to loving and connecting with others, and meaning every word I say. If I cannot answer the phone, I will wait until I call you back with my world aside and at your feet. I have learned that the worst thing I can do another is to place expectations, it's like making them take a test they couldn't study for if they tried. That no one should ever be expected to truly know every thought or feeling you have, or be expected to respond to something they have never lived. I have learned that everything that I have become after my accident, good or bad, has happened because something shattered. A life exploded, everything I knew, every way I knew how to live went up in a puff of smoke. And yet, here I am. Rising from ashes does an incredible thing, turning into somehing akin to tempered steel, the only thing on earth that endures fire only to come out stonger than before; that just because life is now different,doesn’t mean it isn’t the life you are supposed to lead.

So, as I meter my sitting time, and wheel with Blue from A to B, as I do homework with my children or breathe in love of a man who has risen through his own shattered house, and as I continue to meet others who's pain is lifted for even a minute just because someone else has been there, too, I etch this life in stone, as my own.

The Handicapped Stall

I really wish I could have been more patient yesterday.

The rest room used to be a place of retreat. Even in the mall. A restaurant. A store. The buffering echo of the stalls somehow insulated me from the mania outside. But not so much anymore.

I've mentioned briefly before about frustration when the handicapped stall is occupied by someone who bounces about. The first thing I look for under the door is anything with wheels (I'm a sucker for moms with strollers. It's the roller derby girls that get to me.) I even went so far as to ask one lady who pranced out of the stall to please, please leave these stalls for people who need them? She paused. Looked up. Then down at me. I'm quite short nowadays. It was one arc short of an eye-roll. With one eyebrow raised, she replied in a confrontational tone, "I got a bad ankle."

'You must have one large ankle.", I thought to myself.

So now, every time I roll up to a stall with the little man in a chair, it's like a crap-roll in Vegas. No pun intended. I never know what's going to pop out of there. Yesterday, I rolled up to one. It was locked. I could see no wheels, hear no baby. I waited. And waited. A slight flapping of the toilet paper role echoed beyond the door. My time was near. But by this time, I was brewed inside, like a day-old pot of coffee that lost its perk.

The toilet flushed to a tussling of pants and a zip. Then a shuffle. A long shuffle. As though she wore a rack of petticoats donned one by one. Then she began to emerge. Black orthopaedic shoes peeked through the bottom of the door as it creaked open, like blind dogs sniffing for a plate of food. Her face coiled around to mine. Betty White's body double.

Then it hit me. The handles. She needed the handles. The silver bars around the toilet to keep her steady. Wheels had nothing to do with it. The other three-hundred stalls did not have safety handles.

Man did I feel like, well, you know.

I left wondering how I began to think this way? Expecting the worst, rather than the best? No matter how difficult these past three years have been, the one thing I never want to lose is my faith in the goodness of others. But it's so hard when sprung back out into a world where my reality is not the norm. It's not realistic to expect others to understand how deeply it cuts when able-bodied people pop out of our stalls. There will always be women with bad ankles. But I have to remember that not every woman ahead of me, is one of them.

I went home, did some Googling and found an interesting post online: "

"Sorry to inform you that in California it is a finable offense to use a handicapped-designated restroom stall if you're able-bodied. The fine for the first offense is $271. I was riding my bicycle on the state beach at Huntington Beach and was arrested and given a ticket, which the court has upheld."

I Googled some more.

"...there is no law, just rude people."

This was getting serious.

My heart asks this of ye olde public. If you walk into a bathroom and there are any available able-bodied stalls, please do not use the disabled stall. Even if you don't see anyone disabled at the moment, we could rear our heads at any moment. If all of the able-bodied stalls are used, and the handicapped is open, just think about it for a moment, how you would feel if you opened the door and I was waiting for you. With drool running down my chin and head spinning with green vomit spewing from my ears. OK, I digress.

So, I don't believe it is illegal to use 'the stall', but is it worth it? If you really have "to go", I'd understand, but please, please, I beg of you, for the love and God and all that is holy and on sale at Marshall's, please leave the handicapped stall to those who need it. This also means for people who need the extra space because they need to change a colostomy bag. I'm learning so much as I journey through this challenge. It just goes to show that even those of us that need 'the stall', are learning, too. And I promise, the next time I start to brew, I'll remind myself we are all so often handicapped, simply by being human.

The Hummingbirds Part 1-3

Children Pet A Hummingbird from Micaela Bensko on Vimeo.

Lola's Babies II from Micaela Bensko on Vimeo.

The Hummingbirds Part 3 from Micaela Bensko on Vimeo.

The Guncles

Today the Federal Defense of Marriage Act was struck down. Prop 8 was dismissed. The shifting sands of bigotry are filtering through a system of opening eyes. Gay rights is not just a movement I support. It is a story that lives within my heart because my best male friend is gay. This is our story.

---

I had left the party and forgot to pay for my auction item. So I walked back into the courtyard and ran into a couple. Two men standing close to one another. Something happened we can't explain. We started talking and that was the beginning of a friendship sent from John Edwards. Not the politician. That would be bad. John Edwards the psychic. That's why I was going back into the party. To purchase the basket of DVD's and tickets to his seminar. If I hadn't forgotten to pay and returned to the party, I never would have run into the couple who would become my children's Guncles. Their gay uncles. 

Terry and Phil were fresh from Seattle. With raindrops still on their shoes they'd arrived in sunny Southern California. The party was at Eric Close's house, he was starring on Without A Trace at the time. It was a fundraiser for Africa Foundation (USA) that Phil's best friend Wendy Wood was heading. The evening was in support of building a school in Africa. We began talking about my mother's foundation event that weekend in support of wounded warriors with Rebuilding America's Warriors and immediately Terry was in. He showed up the next day and has been supporting our efforts ever since.

So here's the Kevin Bacon of it all. The first wedding I ever photographed was at Eric's house. It was his brother's wedding. Eric was the Best Man. I shot the wedding on a Saturday. On Sunday Eric called and said he loved the images I had sent his brother and wanted to show them on Martha Stewart during his appearance on Tuesday. He did. So my first wedding was on a Saturday and three days later they were on Martha Stewart because of Eric. Then my whole world changed. It's funny how one moment can change your life. Like when I met The Guncles. In the same place that changed my life. 

Phil's partner was Terry. Terry had just left a six figure job in Seattle to come with Phil to LA to follow a dream. Phil is a mortgage broker, but also an incredible singer and screenwriter. Terry had been in Corporate at Starbucks in Seattle and immediately became my most over-qualified assistant ever. He wouldn't accept payment, so I snuck Pottery Barn gift cards in his pocket at the end of the night after a long wedding or Mitzvah. Every job, no matter how large or small, became a play date with my friend in a sandbox. Like little kids, we giggled in the corner about something inane, then put on our work faces and continued through rigorous shoots knowing we were a team and nothing could bring us down. Until finally my spine did it for us. 

Job after job he would watch me through the evening. His hand on my shoulder and that look in his eyes. That he knew it was happening again. My back was giving out. But we still had the first dance and speeches to get through.  He would bring me water, sit me down. Give me a random hug. Because that's what friends do. Every job was an adventure. Every drive home was an animated recap of the day, complete with anthropological analysis  of guests. The brides and grooms were never the problem (barring one particular groomzilla). I was the luckiest photographer in the world to have the couples I did. It was the guests that could make me cry. And I did. Especially if I was having a difficult night physically, there would be one dismissive tone or remark that struck my heart, and made me wonder why I shot events. Then Terry would be the one to take my hand and gently remind me that I was meant to do what I did. That he believed in my work as an artist. I never thought of myself that way. But he did. And that was all that mattered. 

As my spine broke down more and more, I felt myself giving less. Feeling more vulnerable. My skin thinned with every job. And I realized my days were numbered as a wedding and event photographer. I'd built my business to a six figure salary of my own. A rare feat for my field. How do you walk away from a job that takes you from Cabo to Venice in five star hotels to shoot imagery? You walk away, when you can't walk anymore. When your best friend looks in your eyes and sees you're not there. 

December 26th, 2011 was my last event. I drove home with the numb exhaustion that comes after heaves of tears. I called my husband. I was done. The pain was too great. My right arm electrocuting me as I drove. My lower spine filled with razor blades. It was time to reassess. Stand back and know that life will go on, even if I stop. 

I stopped. Terry and Phil were always there, showering our children with visits and treats. Flowers after my surgeries and cards filling my days with gratitude. 

Everyone has a story. Terry's is a book in its own, but really not much different than mine. He'd built a career, a life, that to others was success. He had a wife, a son. Married for 20 years, he finally broke down. His world came to a halt. He could no longer carry the burden of pretending that everything was ok. He came out to his family and his co-workers that he was gay. His world shattered and expanded at the same time. He met Phil, moved to LA, has a loving relationship with his son and grandchildren, and works at Cast and Crew, one of the largest payroll companies in the entertainment industry. 

To wrap up the Kevin Bacon, Eric Close now stars on "Nashville". My husband was Production Supervisor of Season One. Perhaps they are even paid by Terry. Who knows. But the circle of our friendship is one we no longer question. That besides my husband, my best male friend is an example to my children and myself of how good a person can be. He's the person who passes out a ten dollar bill randomly just to make someone smile and wonder why they don't do that too. His hand still remains on my shoulder, even if I'm not shooting events any longer. We are both embracing our lives of discovery and thanking John Edwards for the serendipity of our friendship. 

Life is a twisted mass of random connections. I am grateful for mine in all its convoluted glory. And for our Guncles.My children gave them a rainbow prism this that hangs in their kitchen, in the hopes that whenever they see the colors dancing on the walls, it will remind them of the joy they've brought to my family's life. Every family should have Guncles. And every friend should have a Terry, who holds your shoulders so the weight of the world has no place to go. Who turns you away from the raindrops on your shoe and shows you the rainbow in the sky, reminding you that life is magical, even when it stops.

 The Guncles at Emma Jane's Family Dance

This Will Touch You To Your Core

Through any troubled days I may see, this song lifted me today in a way I cannot explain. I hope this changes your day too, and reminds us all there is still hope for our world.

The Burning of The Trees - My Journey Through A Myelogram

My husband held up the box of condoms. A questioning look in his eyes. I laid on the slab waiting for my CT Myelogram where dye is injected throughout my spinal cord. But there was that box of condoms.

Condoms are a good thing. They keep the unexpected from occurring. I snickered at the irony of their uselessness. A big red and white box of prophylactics. Next to my spine. Not that that's a bad thing. It was the context of their presence that was off.

When you go through something traumatic, the silliest things become a welcome reprieve. That moment of noticing a box of condoms in a room where they were about to inject my spine, became a kaleidoscope of visuals including little sperm taking a stroll up my epidural space, holding hands, then noticing they were lost. Searching endlessly for an egg. If they'd only had a condom, they wouldn't be in such a predicament.

Alas the Trojan horse was not for me to ride. The doctor had a much more invasive procedure in mind. An injection of dye from my skull through to my lumbar spine.

A CT Myelogram is usually done on one area at a time, but I was getting the Big Lebowski. The entire cord at once. Because my spine is a slacker just like The Dude. Only this time it wasn't drinking White Russians. It was tanking dye. And today I have one heck of a hangover, because all my head wants to do is hang.

The procedure begins with a puncture at the base of the skull just to the side of the spine. The area being injected is viewed under fluoroscopy, a real-time X-ray so the doctor can see exactly where the needle is, in correlation to the cord. Before the dye, they inject lidocaine to numb the area. I always wondered why they inject the skin to numb the area so they can inject the skin.

Imagine an air pump with a sloth expressing pressure into your spine. It begins with a burning at the base of the skull, then begins its journey into the cord. Your body alerted to the invasion.

The burning builds in the base of the neck and travels up the back of the head like a vice attempting to separate the sections of your skull. It realizes the skull won't give. Like a sulking teen it turns and begins its trek down the spine. A hiker tracking a bear no one else can see. The dye follows the cord into the nerves, lighting the forest like a fire exposing the blackness of deadened trees in the night.

I am asked to shift my head, to hold it up more as I lay on my stomach. My deltoids crack with lightening, my shoulders follow. A weep rises from within. A pup who cannot find its mum, searching for strength in the empty air around its nose. I am alone but for the doctor who gently places her hand on my forehead as tears drop in unison to shaking of my chin. The sheet below my face becomes wet. Protocol is lost. The line between doctor and patient dissolves and kindness steps in.

The dye has filled my spine. I am wheeled by gurney and transferred to the CT scan. I can barely open my eyes. What there is to see, no longer matters to me. I ache with disinterest and defeat. The CT goes by rather quickly. The numbers illuminate on its face, and I do not care about what they mean. The sounds are an airplane engine humming calm into my space. I have no mantra today.

The CT complete, it is time for the standing X-ray. Don is finally allowed to be with me. They hand him an apron. From next to the box of condoms. How I wish they had handed him the condoms. We are back in the room we started in. He puts on his radiation apron and pulls me gently from the wheelchair. I look into his eyes. Kindness. Again.

His arms under mine. My legs shake. Nausea overcomes. He holds a bowl underneath my chin that shakes. Again. I hear I love you. I stand for a side view. My hands wrap around the base of his neck so strong. We could be dancing if we weren't there. The technician shifts my hips for a better view. I am told not to breathe. I don't.

X-rays complete, it is time to leave. Don lowers me to my chair. Two hours passed like lightening. The box that made me smile catches my eye.

Today I recover before tomorrow's Facet Blocks. I cannot lift my head. But today's discomfort released me from this afternoon's root canal. And I smile. Again.

The pressure stays until my spine realizes it is ok to come out again. They will put me under for tomorrow's procedure. So I won't have to care. When it is over, Don will hold me still. His arms around my neck. Our eyes will meet and for that moment I will be reminded that life may not be fair, but it is more real than it has ever been. Even though we can't prevent the unexpected. When life is like a box of condoms, sitting on a shelf where it doesn't belong, just like me. There will always be Don's eyes from above my tears - offering hope that this will pass. The burning of the forest and the blackening of trees. Hope that one day soon I will care about what numbers mean. That I will hold onto the empty air around the burning of the trees. And believe that one day - all of this -will be what sets me free.

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.

Catfish

 A catfish has eyes on the side of its head, so it never sees what is right in front of it. Life can often be viewed the same. We look around and wonder where it went. Change is a good thing. As long as we can look back and still cherish what was right about the past. Even if we missed it the first time around.

My grandparents' house reminds me of a simpler time. But to them, it was never easy. The Depression, the loss of two children, and burdens I could not see as a child. Like a catfish. My eyes to the side of my head. Why is it then, that now at the age of forty-two, I thrive in the memories of summers at their home? Their phone stuck to the wall. The cord forever entangled in a spiral purgatory. Or their other phone. The one with the black handset perched lazily in the nook of the solid black base on the telephone table. I still have that table. It sits under my fake European clock. There is so little I buy nowadays that is real. Home Goods and Costco have cornered the market on items with faux character. We even have “character wood” in our house. It’s a hard wood floor that looks lived in, or on. How I ache for a floor that has character because it earned it. Like my grandmother’s linoleum floor. It was white and had been there for decades. The corners of the kitchen were dog-eared. In one corner was a wall we stood against flat-backed and eyes closed as our height was registered for that year. In the other corner was a spice rack next to an electric stove where I learned to cook scrambled eggs. My grandmother taught me the technique of lifting the pan-handle just-so, so the liquid would fall to the furthest corner of the pan and cook just enough to earn another swirl of the yolk by my hand. The spatula was special, because it was my grandmother’s. Everything she owned was special. Cooking eggs with her spatula was special.  Next to her stove was the sink. Where I washed dishes by hand. I still remember the smell of the liquid dishwashing soap on her sponge, and the iron sponge specifically for the cast-iron skillet. The skillet was so heavy; I had trouble handling it alone in the porcelain sink. It would clonk on the rim of the counter as I maneuvered it to its bath. I could never do dishes quietly. I tried. My grandmother warned aloud from the living room that I was banging the dishes, they would break, I needed to be careful, I was taking too long. But I liked doing the dishes, the warm water and suds forming in my fingers. The accomplishment of seeing the food and crust swirl away into the drain as I caught the larger pieces just in time to throw them in the trashcan under the sink.

To the left of the sink, was a long counter where clean dishes were stacked to be put away, and the breakfast table where secrets were kept. It was our Internet. Where aunts would use their linen handkerchief freely. Where the priest held my grandparents’ hands. It was where I saw my mother cry both kinds of tears. Where cards were dealt. And wills were arranged. It wasn’t all happy. But it was real. And we could touch it.  At the bottom of their backyard hill was a pond. Filled with trout. Not catfish. Which is why I’ve never had catfish. Trout reminds me of their house. So I order Trout. Nothing against Catfish.

I miss that time, because I was at an age when I could not see ahead. I was too young to look ahead. Swimming, like a catfish in shallow water with large saucered eyes. It was simple to me. And to me, it was beautiful.

Feed-ing Acapulco

I love acapella, but could never spell it. Until I wrote this. I was going to write about how much I love it, until spell-check brought up Acapulco. Then I wondered, why am I not in Acapulco? In a swimsuit, laying on white sand with my stomache sucked in 'just so'. Taking pictures of my manicured toes so I can Facebook my moment of euphoric bliss. I would post it, but not to make my friends feel bad. It would be because perfect moments so rarely happen, that with them comes the urge to scream to the world that something good is happening. That there is a moment somewhere in the world where life is ok. For a moment. Like when you hear good Acapella. If I were in Acapulco listening to acapella I might just split in two with happiness. As long as it's good acapella. Otherwise it would be like having food poisoning at the opera.

My heart swells when something good happens. It's a visceral reaction to tell the world that it occurred. That life's not all bad. It's not all flu and catfish. There's good out there. That never makes the news. That's why we have Facebook.

I Facebook when I want to feel good. Where I can look at other people's toes and feel a delicious jealousy reserved for hope. The kind of hope mankind could use. When most of the news is sad. It's amazing how the heart can ache, like two sides of a coin. How love and hate can come from the same place. I don't want to turn away from what's wrong with the world. Otherwise it will never change. But isn't it a glorious thing when we can stop to revel in something that's right? Like my friend's upcoming trip to Secrets. An image of new school in Haiti. My neighbor's children holding eachothers' shoulders in a photo from Disneyland, even if they didn't speak the day before. For that moment, a mother sees her children how her heart sees them. Perfect. Even if the world will never see what she does, posting it on Facebook says she cares about what others think of her life. I do. It's so hard to be alive and do it right. To live a life we were raised to live in magazines. My mother had Red Book. I have Pinterest. Which both inspires and depresses me. Like learning to spell acapella but not being able to do it.

So I live for the moments that aren't set by experts, but just my friends finding moments of perfection in their own lives that are beautiful even if bordered by imperfect bookends we don't ever get to see. It's what's between the bookends that is exquisite to me. Because it gives me hope as it swims up my feed. That others are searching for hope just like me. In our lives that aren't simple. Or easy.

Someday I'll make it Acapulco. Until then, I'll be nourished by my feed. And applaud my friends for posting things that make their heart ache in a good way.

Mr. Pickles' Solo

Today's blog has little to do with photography. It is about a bird. It's about friendship and loss, but most of all, it’s about hope.

It was an unlikely friendship that began 9 years ago when my dad adopted my ornery Cockatiel who went by the name Mr. Pickles, because he was a sour one, the epitome of the angry bird. With two children and a baby on the way the last thing I needed was sniper spitting seeds at the back of my head. Dad, having recently retired as an airline captain, figured it might not be a bad idea to have someone else around the house wear the wings for a while.

Dad flew his Mooney down to Los Angeles and carried Mr. Pickles home in a box.  Upon their arrival, it was clear that Mr. Pickles was going to be a project in patience. He squawked incessantly when ignored, and he should have been named Pig Pen. He wasn't a Cockatiel, he was a Tazmanian Devil. My dad resorted to opening the cage door to see if he would calm down outside of the cage. He did. He flew, and flew, and flew. He dove in circles around the living room, through the bedrooms, down the hall, avoiding mirrors and expertly navigating to one particular bookshelf. It was there where he stopped, chirped, and found what was to be his favorite spot in the house.  

Dad always whistled when we were kids. As a gracefully silver gentleman, it is now reserved for grandchildren, and for Mr. Pickles.  The Woody Wood Pecker theme song became their duet, and when dad walked by, Mr. Pickles would offer a stretched-neck ovation complete with tune reserved for buxom blondes outside construction sites. But his favorite was Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits. That one got Mr. Pickles every time. Dad would begine the song, and Mr. Pickles ended it every time with perfect pitch.

On any random evening, you'd find Mr. Pickles slip-sliding his way to the rim of Dad's Gin, his wings grasping for balance, his nose flaring as he inhaled the vapors rising to his beak. Each morning, Dad would wake to the tip-toe wobbles of his feathered friend bobbing on his chest, warbling like a rooster in a headlock. 

Every time Dad was on the phone, you would hear the echoed chirp of Mr. Pickles, announcing his presence like a jealous mistress coughing in the background of a boyfriend's phone call.

Then one day Dad called me. The background was silent. Dad's voice was short to the point. He was once again the pilot on the PA knowing there was a major problem, but refusing to cause alarm. Mr. Pickles was gone. It was his fault. He was on his shoulder. He walked outside. He bent over. There was a big wind. He struggled to fly back to Dad. Mr. Pickles was gone.

My dad rarely cries.

Life's tables turned, and it was me trying to convince him all would be ok. Mr. Pickles will come back, I'm sure he's found a Robin Red Breast by now and shacked up with eggs on the way. Nothing could make it better.

Nightfall came. Dad answered his phone the following day, wind muffling the speaker as he walked the neighborhoods with hundreds of flyers flapping in the wind. It was March with freezing temperatures mixed with high winds and unpredictable weather. He knocked on every door, slipped flyers in mailboxes and posted them on telephone poles. No one had seen Mr. Pickles. Each inquiry was met with a curiosity of the devotion this man shared with his missing friend.  Every hour that passed, the possibility of recovering Mr. Pickles got smaller and smaller. Then Dad knocked on the final door of the day. A woman answered. She had not seen Mr. Pickles but would keep on eye out for him. She then offered Dad one shredded thread of hope. She suggested he visit the animal control center.

The pilot had one last place to search for his friend, and that place was in fact, behind the airport. He called the center. They had two cockatiels. The odds were a million to one. The center was 10 miles away.

Dad walked into the shelter, and there he was, Mr. Pickles, sitting in the corner of a steel cage. Dad whistled, Mr. Pickles whistled. Mr. Pickles began to manically pace the cage like a drunken sailor, his head bobbing and weaving. His friend had found him. His solo was over.

The phone rang. It was Dad. Mr. Pickles chirped in the background, morphing with my father’s voice. Mr. Pickles was home.