Closure And The Key

Johanna's head went through the rear window. Glass clawed her shoulder blades down to the bone. Her seatbelt clung without letting go, fracturing her pelvis. Jaws of life set her free. My friend and I were separated by shattered steel and leather seats - erupting with bloody stumps of cloth. I was already in the ambulance. What year is this. Who is the president. What is your name. The year was 1988. The year we almost died.

Closure is a difficult thing when you cannot find the key. Twenty-five years passed since the night I released a guttural wail to the sky. A sky so black it ate the planets whole. The night our car turned inside out. To this day I am unable to be in any moving vehicle without pressing into my seat, convinced I am going to die. Train, planes and automobiles. If I am not in control of the movement, any odd noise is a precursor to catastrophe.

I could not face the driver again. But I wanted so much to see Johanna. My friend.

Then Facebook came along and our reunion began.

Then my current challenge took my life and shred it whole. Like the stuffing from the seats so many years ago. And we knew that it was time to make us whole.

I rolled into the lobby where we were set to meet. A tall and gliding figure reminiscent of my friend swooped around the corner to me. She knew me from my chair. My arms out-stretched to her. Her eyes still twinkled the same as when we were kids. When we stared at the moon and wished upon shooting stars. We are forever bound by misfortune - a friendship designed by fate. She held me so tightly I could not let her go. Years of wonder stirred in my mind. How could so many years blind us to tears. She had flown out to help me in my time of need. But also to hold me and set us both free - from a nightmare we shared every day.

We talked endlessly about what we recalled. I remembered it all. Every flip of the car is tattooed in my heart.

And yes we talked of tattoos.

She drove me to my doctor appointments and took care of my every need. And for the very first time, I hold the lock to releasing our past, and have finally found the key.

My Brother My Friend

The chamomile tea perks in my hands with a brew. Vanilla Creamer swirled by my brother's spoon. A ritual we now share at night during this week that has changed my life.

Maturity has affected my relationship with my brother like a magic wand does for a wish. It has wiped our slate so clean, unlike in our teens when we trudged a mud so deep we could no longer see our knees. It took losing the lift of my knees for me to rediscover my brother, Jim, and all that he is to me.

Jim and I have rarely spent time alone. The number of times we spent in a car- just the two of us - I could count on my hands. He is two years older than me. He was off to college and I married at twenty-one with children and a life that blurred. So, having him here this week has been a gift from God.

This experience has bonded us so deeply - it feels as though we have found a time capsule this week as he takes care of me each day. It is as though we are battle buddies.

This week has changed my life forever in many ways. My first week of four in the CRPS Pain Management Program. A program so intensive it takes the stripping of a soul to commit. A Multi-disciplinary approach, it incorporates various modalities of medicine - a full time job from morning til night, five days a week for four weeks. One of the modalities is psychotherapy. Out of all of my appointments, this has been the most grueling and difficult appointment for me. Having my brother take me to my appointments this week has been therapy in-action. I have essentially, discovered the friend I have within my brother.

Losing the ability to walk has taken my world, thrown it up against a wall, and forced me to look at every single piece as it lay on the ground. I am studying my childhood from the crusted sides of porcelain to the handle with no cup. I have had the pieces placed gently in my hands and asked how it makes me feel. And no matter how much pain I have felt from my physical condition, there is no way I could have ever begun my recovery without looking at my life. And those in my life. At past traumas. One part of this puzzle I am placing together is who I am as a daughter, a wife, a friend. But also, who I am as a sister, and how much more can I be?

A whole new world has unfolded for Jim and myself week. I am still the little sister, just much shorter than before. But now I feel I can be so much more. Jim came out to take care of me - and in doing so I have discovered a friend. He opens my door and takes my chair. He places my wheels carefully on the seat. He asks me if I want more air. Is the music too loud. Am I okay. Can I get that for you. He likes my chair. He thinks it's bad-ass. And now in a way I think it, too.

This week, I am doing more than learning how to live beyond the pain. I am learning to thrive in my relationships for all that they can be, while simply learning to be. There are still so many pieces to hold inside of my hands and too many wishes I have to make. But for now I will live this week with Jim in a life so sound - it knows something is new.

The tea is sipped to its cooler glaze. A calm settles through my skin. My mind quiets to a peaceful pause of gratitude for Jim. The brother that was always there, but now he is my friend.

Big Brother

My big brother is here to take me to my appointments this week. With both of us in our forties it's odd to say "big brother". Perhaps now it should just be brother, or older brother, but when history won't let go, the description stays the same. He protects me. He towers above me. He is my big brother.

We have never had time alone with one another. This is the first week ever that I will spend each day waking to his smile and sipping coffee in the same haze of a newborn day.

Last night I sat at dinner with Don and the kids and my brother, Jim. I felt so proud of our large family and ached with gratitude that another seat at the table was filled. It took years for us to fill his seat. This week, Jim is staying with me at the hotel and taking me to all of my appointments. The one who pulled my braids. Who I bothered by sneaking into his room and moved his things around. The big brother I secretly admired for being all that he was. He was the one human being I wanted to be. Because he was so special to me. And now he is here because he wants to be. And that is life's gift. Even if it had to wait until I was forty three.

Jim made a stop on his way from Vermont to see our father. It's been ten years since he saw dad's house. Or pet dad's dog. Or listened to his cockatiel sing. This is also the first time in my life he is coming out to see me. To hug my shoulders and carry me from my chair to a seat. My big brother is here for me.

Life shifts when you hit forty-three.

My illness has woken something in my family. An awareness of time shifting in our boots as time marches into the horizon. The sun beginning to set in its arc of life. The second hand ticking to the tock of time I look into my brother's eyes so sweetly aged. And I than God for sending my brother my way.

This week I will learn more about who my brother has become since we went our separate ways. College, marriage and children plied our lives into worlds apart. There is so much to learn about why he pulled my braids and the lives that we have made. I live in California and he lives in Vermont. But now the challenge that has shattered my life, is now the same thing that is pulling it back together again.

I need help 24/7 right now in order to get through this pain program. Loved ones take shifts in staying at my hotel to take me to my doctors each day from 8:30am-4pm or so. They are my cheerleaders, my supporters, my blessings. And now my brother is too. And now I have a chance to get to know who we have become since we stood in front of our house on Aikahi Loop holding hands for our mother's camera on the first day of school. Since we fought like cat and dog. Since he stood up for me when that other boy broke my heart. I never thanked my brother for telling him off. Now I can.

I want to thank my big brother for so many things. But now I thank him for simply being here to hold my hand again and to tell me that he cares; to ward off this other beast that has broken my heart.

Challenges can bring blessings. I have discovered so many of them along the way. Having my brother here is one of my greatest blessings and one I will hold in my heart forever. Perhaps I might even forgive him for pulling my braids. And for telling that boy off who first broke my heart. Because now my heart is mending too.

Spun From Gold

Intense. I have never been described as intense. Quirky. Motivated. But never intense.

Therapy makes you see yourself in a whole new light. Especially after two solid weeks of ketamine infusions - when you are still basking in the afterglow of hallucinations.

Ketamine infusions strip you bare. It's as though God enters you and whittles away the plaque on your nervous system until it glistens in the brightest of gold. It shines so much your eyes are blinded by what they see - if only they would look. And this is where therapy comes in after infusions. It makes you look into the gold. To watch a movie of who you have been for so many years. A film sometimes difficult to watch. Because it is so real.

Pain therapy can be painful. It is, to me, the most difficult aspect of the pain program. It looks at past traumas throughout your life and how they can manifest the way your body reacts to physical pain. I have a life riddled with such delights, as most of us do. Divorced parents. A car accident in college. Held up at gunpoint. My own divorce. Just to name a few.

Pain therapy begins with baby steps of how does this make you feel. And just when you begin to describe it, a rise occurs in your throat. A tightening of the chest and watering of the eyes. And it all comes out. Forty years of how it feels. And when it is done it is gold spun out of control into a finely woven fabric only you and your therapist can see. And it is perfect in all that it is and all that you wish it could be.

I have a long road ahead of me. But I have come so far - and this journey is so meaningful - I cannot imagine a life left unexamined. Even if it began in an emergency room. From a hit to the head so hard that it took my life and broke it into so many pieces it has taken hundreds of people to put it back together.

But now it is up to me. And this program that is saving my life. To try so hard to see the real and simply be. That is what the pain psychologist wants for me. To be in the moment and know it is enough. Intense is who I was. Because I ran in a gear so high that I was running from myself. And now I am so slow I am forced to be still in who I am and to know that whatever I become at the end of this journey, will in some way be spun from gold.

The Story

The valet stood with legs braced to the breeze unfolding the tinfoil gently from his boiled egg. It could have been hard or soft, I did not dare to ask.

But it made me wonder what the story of the egg must be. I imagined his wife boiling water for the eggs just-so. A lot of eggs. Enough for a week of parking other people's cars much nicer than his own. Maybe she soaked them in cold water after they peaked. Or did she scoop them out with a spoon and let then balance ever so gently onto a towel - or into a bowl for the fridge?

I began Day One of the CRPS Pain Program today. A new story of my new life. Much like the eggs that balance on a towel after being boiled - now set to be cooled and protected in foil.

I am now noticing, as I venture out into this world, the reflection of eyes upon my skin that burns just enough to let me know that eyes are there. I am learning as I venture out into the world as a woman in a wheelchair - that people must wonder what my story is. I am young-ish. Yet my chair interrupts a normal interaction. Being in a wheelchair, people often-times don't quite know how to react. Kind of like an albino guinea pig in the room. I would have said elephant but that was so cliche. Chinchilla came to mind. Then gerbil. But you know - that whole Richard Gere thing. Just can't shake it.

I am the albino guinea pig. Which is why I have Reggie. Dachshunds are bread to chase rodents. Now he chases me. Reggie sits on my lap throughout the day, secured around my waist with a safety harness so he won't go flying if I hit a bump in the road. Learned that one the hard way. He is the star of every waiting room. He lays next to me during therapy and offers a random kiss with a breath that could actually kill a possum. But most of all, he bonds me to a world more foreign than before. Before my story took its turn. I now must learn how to fit into a world not made for me. But is filled with millions of beautiful strangers every single day who make life on my own possible. Most everyone I run into is kind - they open doors, and they love my dog. Not a bad start to a process that is the greatest challenge of my life.

Day One of treatments was the most physically challenging effort I have had - except for giving birth to my son who decided to stop for a shot or two of tequila at the bar on the way out putting labor right up there with opening a hundred-pound 'handicapped' door.

For so long now, I have done only one excursion per day as that is all my pain levels would allow. Since my ketamine infusions and starting Dr. Joshua Prager's Pain Program through UCLA, I am now seeing four doctors a day. Every day. For four weeks. Some days I have three appointments. But if you'd asked me just three weeks ago if I would be out in the world from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon I would have thought you silly. But with Ketamine Infusions behind me, a team of the finest physicians guiding me, and Reggie chasing me, who could go wrong? This is what I tell myself every single day. Because I must envision that I am not a fragile egg anymore. I can't be. The world is to big. The sidewalks too crooked.

Healing is about more than just making appointments and showing up each day. It is about reframing life with a silver-foiled frame. The good news is I have a pain psychologist every day who I can cry to - and let my tears find their way to Reggie's nose. He will kiss my salted cheeks and I will call it love. Because together we are building our own story. Our own little egg, wrapped tenderly in foil with layers we will peel back gently until the rest of our own little story is revealed.

Montage Art to Regain Coordination

Reggie & The Marine

Reggie & The Marine
By Micaela Bensko

Reggie was such a tiny puppy he didn't weigh anything on a scale

His little nose peeked out of Tony's shirt pocket just right.

Reggie was the runt that no buddy else wanted.

Because he was small.

So Tony, a Marine, took him home to surprise his children with the tiny little dog.

A dog named Reggie with a tiny little nose.

The children loved him and played with him even though he was so small.

Reggie bobbled about. He bobbled into things but believed he could do anything that any other dog could do.

So he did.

But the one thing he did best, was love his Marine.

Reggie's ears grew so long he tripped on his ears when he ran.

Everyone thought Reggie was special. Because he was different.

Different made him special.

Reggie like being special.

Then one day something happened to his Marine, Tony.

Suddenly, Tony looked different than before.

Tony lost a leg in the war. And now he was in a chair. Which made him short. Just like Reggie.

They were more alike now than ever before.

Reggie kissed Tony's leg that was no longer there - because it still left a footprint in his heart.

Reggie dreamed of fitting in Tony's shirt. If only for a day.

Reggie became Tony's best friend.

He made Tony's days easier. Lighter. Brighter than before.

All Reggie wanted to do was make Tony feel magical inside. So Tony showed Reggie how much he mattered by registering him as a therapy dog.

Reggie now has a badge - and a harness.

Now Reggie can go anywhere with Tony.

To movies.

To dinner.

And even to the grocery store.

But most of all, Reggie goes with Tony and his family to church. Because that is where Tony thanks God that he is still alive. And that Reggie is in his life.

Reggie doesn't fetch keys. Or open doors. Or turn on lights. But he loves. He loves Tony so much it hurts inside.

And Tony feels the same.

Reggie is a therapy dog that was not meant to be a therapy dog.

Reggie's only job is to love Tony so much that by the end of the day there is no more love to give.

So they sleep. Side by side.

Until the morning.

When they can start loving - all over again.

Invisible Wings

I am home. It is such a simple thought yet I cannot get it out of my head how close I was to falling apart just two days ago when the world felt too heavy to carry on. I thought I was well over that part. The falling apart. But then again I have realized now that healing is a roller coaster of falling apart and coming back together. This is the process that makes scars to prove that what you went through was meaningful. That my challenge is worth falling apart for. And that I am worth falling back together.

So now I have some newer scars. I am sure I will gather a few more before this is all over. But for now they are mostly around for me to learn from. To realize how deep a heart can sink only to rise to the surface again with guided hands.

My friends are my guided hands. You are the ones who have cheered me on from the sidelines when I have been unable to reciprocate to your own needs except in thought or prayer. So I am now with the hope that each one of my friends knows how much your support has meant to me. Because it has been you who have healed my scars every single time. And by now there are too many to mention. It is my hope that by the time I am better, I can give forward every prayer and blessing you have offered me.
Because of you, I have moved forward every day with the intention of expressing every emotion I have, in writing, with the hope it might help others facing a challenge of their own.
I have received hundreds of emails from friends and strangers expressing a gratitude for honesty. I don't think of it as honesty. I just feel that writing is my own personal therapy. If I don't write for God to hear my plight, then why wrote at all? I write for God to hear me. For Him to know I care that He is there. And for His will to be done and that I will carry whatever burden there is for me to load. So perhaps writing is my prayer. It is my gratitude for blessings I still have. And writing is my way to rise from boiling wasters to fill my lungs with air each day.
So I just want to thank you for reading my daily prayers and never judging how I speak to God. Or how I care what it is you think of me. I write because I care about why I am here. That it must somehow have meaning. And life is about two things. To love others because they are a part of this journey, and to care that your challenge is also a part of my own. I don't believe anything we go through is for us to bare alone. Or to learn from alone. My burdens and how I manage them are just as important to those I love and visa verse. I learn from loved ones, and others I may not know, about how life should be lived. All I ask is that God grants me the grace to care enough about how my challenge might create meaning in life every single day. If I have done that, then this is all worth every moment of every single day.

So far - my infusions have worked little miracles in my life. I no longer have tremors that shake me to my core. My hands no longer shake, and I no longer feel the threat of ALS lurking beneath my skin. The daily progression of immobility seems to have stalled to a simmer. I feel I can manage my immobility as it pauses now for me to now attempt physical therapy and the Multi-disciplinary pain program through Dr. Joshua Prager and UCLA.

On Wednesday I begin a full-time job as professional patient in the UCLA program. And I have hope. Hope because you each have donated to a cause that is turning me to the light. I am seeing changes in my body only possible because each of you have given to my challenge in one wY or another - if you knew me or not.
It is an honor to have been touched by angels with invisible wings. Thank you for launching my healing to whatever plateau I may land. I know with all of my heart I will land where God meant for me to be. And I will be - with all of my heart.

Thank you for making my ketamine infusions possible, and preparing me for this next step in healing in the full-time pain program. I promise to give it my all with you in my heart cheering me on because you believed in me enough to show that you care.

Thank you for being in my life. And may you too be wrapped in invisible wings.

Love,
Mic

My Sister In Law's Tribute to Her Best Friend

I just had to share this with the world. My sister-in-law had to say good-bye to her best four-legged friend. It is so beautiful and from a place in the heart so deep it can't help but touch one to the core. Please say a prayer today for her family and my dear family's loss through the love she had for her very best friend, Remi.
---
Remi my sweet girl is gone. Our time with her was way too short.

We think she fell down the stairs, suffering a traumatic back injury. I could tell she was in pain on Sunday, by Monday afternoon she could not move her hind legs. Wednesdays MRI revealed 3 locations on her spine that were damaged.
Remi was unfailingly loyal and sweet-natured. She loved to ride in the car, sleep on the couch, take long walks, chase rabbits and eat everything. She got along well with everyone; especially the ladies. When I walked by her I always had to give her a pat on the head or a kiss and tell her how much I loved her. She was very loyal, slept by me most night and would refuse to go for walks with strangers

, unless you were female . It was hard for me to kick her off the couch or get mad at her for eating snacks meant for others. This could be why all our furniture has white hair and she was full figured.
Her eyes were so compassionate and heart felt that when she looked at you, with a tilt to her head, it was as if you could hear her talk. If she could talk I am pretty sure she would have said, “Would you mind sharing some of your dinner with me”, “How about a walk” or “I love you”. I did not realize how stoic she was until the end. Remi was in a lot of pain and even though she was transported from one vet to another she never got mad about all the jostling about. I know she would have forged on with her pain but I could not watch her suffer.

I will miss my Sweet Girl Remi!

Nora Bensko
Arvada Police Crime Analysis

The Carry On

I finally met up with angry. My pain therapist was waiting for him to arrive. I swore I hadn't met him before. I could honestly say I had no anger toward my situation. All I could see was my blessings. Until I had to whittle my belongings down to one small suitcase.

The good news is, the ketamine infusions have taken away my tremors completely. I had developed a system at my hotel that works for me. And now, after a day of intensive infusions, my family stood around my room doing their best to unravel my system to pack it away. And it hit me. I needed my system. My oversized suitcase. All of these things everyone else thought trivial- were my lifeline.

Angry sneaks up on you. I don't know the phases of loss. But I know I have been in denial. I have suffered grief. But anger had not really entered the spectrum of emotions until now.

It all started at my hotel with a suitcase. We were getting everything out of my hotel room ketamine infusions ended, and we would be checking out of my hotel and heading straight home after my very last infusion.

Infusions have left me completely wasted. There is nothing left of me. I am barely able to speak or untie my tongue until eight in the evening. Ketamine is a powerful super-agent that turns your world inside-out and leaves nothing left of your nervous system but an other-worldly peace. It is as though God sets back the hands of time in your body to the days of the dinosaurs. There are no highways except for the arcs left by doves in the sky. Your new nervous system has no where to go but up. It re-boots your system; Up to your brain and back down to your limbs in a way originally designed by God.

Ketamine infusions are not for sissies. So I guess I should take it as a compliment. I have been through ten days of it. Which is why there was nothing left of me when it came to - the suitcase.

My suitcase was too large to fit in the trunk. I had so many things I had brought with me to try to make my stay feel like home. I had one last night in the hotel, and everything had to return home early except for bare essentials, as we had to drive home directly from my last appointment. My electric scooter had to go with the rest of the items. The one item them offers me independence in my hotel that has carpeted floors that make it impossible to use my manual chair. Everything had to leave tonight except for one small bag that held my basic essentials. And I just could not bare the thought. It was like leaping off a ledge unsure of how my parachute was packed.

When your life is shattered, you develop a system to keep you functioning and alive. My system was being dismantled right before my eyes. To make room for my new life by sending home early- my over-sized suitcase.
day.

My life was a blur. So much talk about next week's schedule and how I would make every appointment with loved ones giving of their time. I felt helpless the more they spoke. My world as I knew it packed up into my over-sized suitcase. It was up to me to select just the things I would need between them and tomorrow. This sounds so simple. Until routine - is your life.

This is where angry came in. Like a tempest in heat. My body separated from reality. It wasn't about the suitcase anymore. Or the packing of the suitcase. It was the fact I needed these things at all. It wasn't about the needing of help to my doctor appointments or the wheel chair. It was about the needing of these things.

Anger sneaks in when you least expect it because you swear you're fine. Until you're not. It begins in your gut and wells up into your chest and aches through into your throat until you can no longer hold it back. And you are not angry at the suitcase. Or the scooter. Or the charging cords for everything else you need to be pain free. It's the fact you need these things at all.To survive. And these things fill up - the suitcase.

I broke down on April 25. I broke down again On October tenth. I became angry. Angry that I was dependent on so many items. Dependent on a system to make life work. So I cried. I cried so hard because I was overwhelmed that handing over my suitcase to others so I had a simple overnight case - an overnight case was like moving mountains. And I cried. I cried not because of having to change suitcases to a travel-on, or having to pull together items to keep for overnight or disassemble my electric scooter that I could only use to maneuver on carpet. I cried because I needed these things at all.
I cried for the loss of independence and of who I used to be. I became angry. Every ounce of my being whaled with an anger of why I could not simply do life as I did before. On my own. Without a chair or others to drive me to my appointments. I was angry to have lost my independence.Anger had finally set in. And now all I could do was to accept it. But how? Angry doesn't get you very far.

So I have to make a decision. Do I live with the big or little suitcase? Do I carry around every little thing that makes my life easier, or do I just embrace the basics and adapt to my surroundings?

The latter is a hard pill to swallow. Because in a way it means to me that I have lost a battle. The world won. I must conform. And that brings with it the reality that my new normal is not something that fits neatly into this world.

My ketamine infusions have given me great hope. That my new normal just may fit in a carry-on. My tremors have all but diminished. I am regaining little bits of movement in my fingers than I had before. These are celebrations I guardedly applaud as there is still a long road ahead in discovering what my new normal will be.

Until then, I will learn to embrace my smaller suitcase. Learn to live with the things that I need. The next time I pack for my treatments, I will pack my spine stimulator charger, batteries for its remote, heating pad, topical cream, pain medications, one wheelchair, my walker, my motorized scooter for motorizing on carpeted areas, my basic wardrobe for basic living, and yes, my lipgloss. Otherwise, it's simply extra baggage that gets in the way. Things that I hold onto to make my life easier like the extra three outfits - in case I change my mind. The shoes that look cute, but are they comfortable? The knick knacks from home, the two extra books in case I have down-time. These are all things that can wait - until I'm through this next level of healing.

I am take a few days off between the end of infusions and my pain program. I could not move forward yet. My body - although showing signs of healing- broke down over a suitcase too large for my new normal to fit. I just need a few more days to whittle it down to necessities, and hopefully that will be enough for the new me.

It must sound silly, the thought of over-packing for a local hotel stay. It was my wish to keep everything with me- as though I was holding on to every little item that made up the old me in this change. When all I really needed was a small carry-on with essentials to get me through each day.

I am home now until Tuesday when I return for my pain program. I will bring my smaller bag. With smaller bags comes freedom from things that just might be holding me back. I might cry again. Like a child who simply wanted to reach for something to make the sundae a little bit sweeter, but the shelf was just too high. So maybe next time I'll just bring my own toppings. As long as they happen to fit neatly in a carry-on meant for only me.