Battle Saints

The Saints

My favorite bracelet is The Battle Saint™ bracelet. I came across it a few years ago while watching a news segment. I do not benefit in any way by sales of this beautiful item. I just love the product, and the philosophy of the family who started this company. I originally purchaed it for the love of our military and in prayer for the trials our wounded face. Over time, the bracelet has become a token of strength in our family, passed from person to person during a time of challenge. I passed it to my daughter when she left for college. She passed it back to me when my health challenge progressed. The bracelet was uniquely developed to incorporate specific saints relevant to our military, and the love continues.. $1 from every bracelet goes to The Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund. Below is information on the saints included on the bracelet.

St Barbara – included on all bracelets

St Barbara is known as the patron saint of artillerymen, military engineers and those who work with explosives.  She lived in the 4th century and was raised as a heathen.  Forced into solitude by her father, Dioscorus, she turned to Christianity.  An infuriated Dioscorus condemned her and she was severely punished.  She was ultimately beheaded by Dioscorus himself, after which he was struck and killed by lightening.

Padre Pio – included on large bracelets

St Pio of Pietrelcina was known as a symbol of hope to people in the aftermath of WW1.  He was born in Pietrelcina, Italy, on May 25, 1887 and died September 23, 1968 at the age of 81.  He is also known as Saint Padre Pio.  Even though he lived into his 80’s, he was afflicted by several illnesses which began in childhood.  Despite his health issues, he was drafted into the army but was eventually released due to his poor health.  He was known for stigmata – wounds and bleeding similar to those experienced by Jesus at the crucifixion.

St Michael, the Archangel – included on all bracelets

St Michael the Archangel is known as the patron saint of the Armed Forces especially fighter pilots and paratroopers.  He is known as the angel warrior leading the forces of Heaven against Satan.  He is often shown slaying a dragon.  He is also known as the protector of the Jewish people.

St Anthony of Padua – included on all bracelets

Saint Anthony is the patron saint for amputees, travelers and sailors. Although he lived and worked in Italy, he was born in Lisbon, Portugal, in 1195 to a wealthy family.  He was known as a gifted speaker and for his clear and simple teachings.  He joined the Franciscan order after the bodies of 5 tortured and headless Franciscans preaching in Morocco were brought to his monastery on their way home for burial.   He died in 1231 at the age of 36.

St. Martin of Tours – included on all bracelets

St. Martin is known as the patron saint of soldiers, chaplains, quartermasters and the cavalry.  He was born in 315 or 316 in Pannonia, a Roman province that is now part of Hungary. His father was an army officer and, following the requirement that sons of military veterans must serve, he joined the army at age 15.  He was released at 18 and devoted himself to Christianity.  He was known for his efforts to free prisoners and spare them torture.  Although the exact date of his death is unknown, he lived into his 80s and died somewhere between 395 and 402.

St John of Capistrano – included on all bracelets

Born on June 24, 1386, in Italy , St John of Capistrono was a Franciscan priest and is known as the patron saint of military chaplains. He took his name from his place of birth, the village of Capestrano.  When the Turks were threatening Vienna and Rome, St John of Capistrano, at the age of 70, inspired troops to fight and drive back the Turks.  He died on October 23, 1456.

The Battle Saint™ logo – included on all bracelets

This logo ensures you are wearing an original Battle Saint™ bracelet and represents our commitment to the armed forces by donating a portion of every bracelet sale to the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund.

St Christopher – included on all bracelets

St Christopher is known as the patron saint of traveling, especially long journeys. He was hailed as a martyr and killed during the reign of the Roman Emperor Decius (249-251).  It is said that while crossing a river, St Christopher offered to carry a child on his shoulders.  The child was extremely heavy and was said to be Jesus carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  St Christopher was among the saints removed, for lack of proof, from the Church’s universal calendar after the 1969 reform. Nonetheless, he remains popular.

St Philip Neri – included on all bracelets

Born in Florence in 1515, St Philip Neri is known as the patron saint of the Special Forces.  He was renowned for his sharp wit, humor and spontaneous behavior.  The meetings he held to provide spiritual guidance to young men became so popular that a room called the “Oratory” was built for these gatherings.  Eventually, St Philip Neri decided that the group should have its own Church and formed the Congregation of the Oratory. He died in 1595 at the age of eighty.

Joan of Arc – included on all bracelets

Joan of Arc was born on January 6, 1412, to peasants Jacques d’Arc and Isabelle Romee in Greux-Domremy, Lorraine, France .  At the time, England controlled much of modern day France .  Joan of Arc received visions from God to recover her homeland from England and return the true King, Charles V11, to his throne.  She led the French army in many battles and Charles regained his throne.  However, she was eventually captured by the Burgundians. She was sold to England , tried by an ecclesiastical court and burned at the stake on May 30, 1431 in Rouen, France, at the age of nineteen. She is the patron saint of soldiers, prisoners and the Women’s Army Corps.

St Nicholas of Myra – included on medium and large bracelets

St Nicholas of Myra was born in 270 AD in the Greek colony of Patara, Lycia, in modern-day Turkey .  His wealthy parents died at an early age and he was raised by an uncle.  Fervently religious from an early age, he was known for secret gift-giving and his generous nature.  One legend tells of a butcher who slaughtered his three children during a famine with plans to sell them as ham, but St Nicholas resurrected the children.  He is the patron saint of numerous groups, including children (for everyone with children serving in the military), sailors and travelers.  And, who doesn’t love St Nicholas? He died of natural causes on December 6, 346 AD in Myra, Lycia.

St Joseph of Cupertino – included on all bracelets

Born in 1603 to a poor family in the village of Cupertino in Italy , St Joseph of Cupertino is the patron saint of aviators and paratroopers.  He was known to levitate and became known as the “Flying Saint.” He was also known for the gift of healing.  He died in 1663 in Ossimo, Italy .

Gabriel, the Archangel – included on medium and large bracelets

St Gabriel, the Archangel is the patron saint of communication workers.  Gabriel is known for his prophesies, appearing to Daniel in the Old Testament and to Zachariah to announce the birth of John the Baptist.  He also announced to Mary that she would bear a son conceived of the Holy Spirit.

St Luke – included on all bracelets

St Luke is the patron saint of physicians and surgeons.  It is believed he was born a Greek and a Gentile.  In one account, he is rumored to have been a slave, since families were known to train their slaves as physicians so they would have someone to care for them.  In Luke, we hear of the poor, social injustice and about the prodigal son being welcomed back home.  Closely associated with Paul, not a lot is known about Luke after Paul’s death.  Some accounts indicate he was martyred; others tell of him having a long life.

St Sebastian – included on all bracelets

St Sebastain is known as the patron saint of archers, athletes and soldiers and is known as the protector against plagues.  He was born in Narbonne, Gaul, and joined the Roman army around 283.  He was a Captain in the praetorian guards under Emperors Diocletian and Maximian, and was ordered executed during the persecution of Christians.  Shot by arrows and left for dead, he miraculously survived.  It is no surprise that he is known for his physical fortitude.  After his recovery, he denounced the Emperor for his cruelty to Christians and was ordered beaten to death.

St George – included on all large bracelets

It is believed that St George was born to a Christian family in Lydda, Palestine, sometime between 275 AD and 285 AD.  His father was a respected Roman army official and St George followed in his footsteps.  He would become part of the Imperial Guard and is often depicted slaying a dragon. (It was said he was rescuing a beautiful woman, with the dragon representing wickedness and the woman representing God’s holy truth.)  When Emperor Diocletian began persecuting Christians, St George announced his Christianity and condemned the Emperor’s edict.  The Emperor offered land and money to St George if he would denounce his Christianity, but St George refused.  He was ordered tortured and eventually beheaded in 303.  He became a legend after his death for his courage and unwavering faith.  Soldiers, in particular, are known to be devoted to St George.

Rebuilding America's Warriors - One Woman's Idea Changing Lives

There's something about Maggie. It's something you can't touch. A passion for our wounded that runs so deep the only way she could manage it was to create an organization providing free reconstructive surgery for troops injured at war.

Maggie Lockridge thought her work was done. She had just sold her plastic surgery recovery facility in Beverly Hills after twenty years of tending to the needs of the rich and powerful. Maggie was the best known but least acknowledged woman in town. From Hollywood to European royalty, her anecdotes of clientele could fill a book. And it has. Her book Facelift Hotel (protecting the true identities of her guests) was self-published and is now under development for a possible scripted television series. But it was a different show that would change the course of her retirement and her life.

Bob Woodruff was journaling the affects of war in his televised documentary "To Iraq and Back". But as Maggie watched the wounded troops being interviewed, she noticed something nobody was talking about. The scars that still remained.

Within weeks Maggie developed the mission and 501c3 submission for Iraq Star. A play on the words 'rock star'. If the rich and powerful can be treated like gods, why shouldn't our wounded be treated the same? With a roster of Beverly Hills surgeons, and hotels willing to lower their fees, her tool chest was ripe for making a difference. Iraq Star would pick up where the VA left off. The goal of the VA was to get the troops functional. Maggie saw young men who still wanted to date, who wanted their wives to see them as they were, and fathers who wanted their children to not be afraid of the scars.

Iraq Star flourished. Dr. Phil contacted them asking for help with Randy Gollinger, a troop in need of a prosthetic eye and orbital reconstruction. Dr. Michael Groth offered his services Pro Bono and the segment aired to national acclaim. The world saw how one woman's idea could make a difference and how one young man's life was changed forever. Randy's story was followed up on The Doctors. Dr. Phil McGraw still sits as an Honorary Board Member of the organization.

It was a time when the war was still relatively new. The influx of wounded to Walter Reed had exploded. The hospital was overwhelmed and the backlog within the VA system numbered in the hundreds of thousands. The red tape caused troops in need to crumble under the pressure of paperwork and miles logged to get treatment in far away towns. Iraq Star flew them to Beverly Hills, picked them and a loved one up at the airport, set them up at a hotel near their doctor's office, took them to their appointments or organized their transportation, paid for meals, medication, OR fees and all fees not offered Pro Bono by the surgeons or covered by Tri-Care. All with the assistance of famed plastic surgeon to the stars, Dr. Norman Leaf as its Medical Director.

Then something happened. The war expanded into Afghanistan. Iraq Star the name no longer represented its mission. A Facebook post requesting submissions for its new name. Sue Muskin at BAMC-Brooke Army Medical Center- came up with Rebuilding America's Warriors or R.A.W. The name was perfect.

Maggie is more than a philanthropist. She is a former Air Force nurse who tears up at the sight of the American flag, she is a mother of two and grandmother of five. I am responsible for four of them. And I could not be more proud of this woman who has adopted over a hundred sons and daughters over the years who have changed our lives with their determination to be pro-active when they discovered that someone truly cares about who they are - not just as troops at war, but warriors in life.

Rebuilding America's Warriors has expanded its mission to become a national network of doctors across the country so troops can now be treated for free right near their home, avoiding travel. But they are still rock stars. We are struck by their presence and awed by their stories. And know in our hearts, Maggie was a nurse and administrator to royalty to prepare her for how our returning wounded should be treated every day of their lives.

For more information on Rebuilding America's Warriors go to www.RebuildingAmericasWarriors.org

Sweetness - A Squirrel's Perspective

My feet take hold of the top of the fence. I grab onto the Wisteria Vine to hold my balance. A waft of sweetness captures my attention and it is all that matters in this world. Until Missus shows up. She matters more.

Missus watches me through her window. But now something else watches me too. It has ears like me - only bigger. It is loud and has big teeth and a tongue that hangs from its mouth. But somehow they let it live inside. Missus calls it Blue Belle. Mister calls it Bad Dog.

Our hillside is special. Missus named everyone that lives here. Our mothers forgot to, I guess. I like Missus. She is really quiet around us. Which makes me wonder if her children are really hers.

She named me Rocky. They say I used to have a friend named Bullwinkle but I don't remember him. Above my tree hole is a straw bed where Eyebrows lives. Eyebrows is a bird who has white feathers above his eyes. He's very brave. He goes right up to her children and food pops from their fingers. Like magic.

Then there's Frank. He's a raccoon. Missus thinks there is only one of him but there are really two. So they are both named Frank. They surprise Bad Dog at night and it startles me. I don't think Frank has ears because he doesn't move when it happens. He just sits on top of the fence and stares down at Bad Dog like she's crazy. Cause she is.

A bird family just moved in. Alfalfa and Mary. They each have a curl on their head that wobbles when they walk. I think they walk because their children can't fly yet, which I can understand. Evidently they were famous at one time in a show called The Rascals and the other one was in something about her name.

Lastly, is Thumper. He bops along the drainage pipe. Up and down. Up and down. His hind legs bounce and plop. He has bigger ears than any of us but seems to like the noise he hears, until he sees what is causing it. There are more like him, too.

Missus has had water falling from her eyes lately. There are sticks under her arms and sometimes wheels underneath her legs. She used to be gone a lot. Working. With a camera and big black bag. I stopped watching after a while when she would say goodbye to Mister and her children. Because it made me sad and I knew she'd be back. Now she's always back. Her camera sits on her desk in the window. She visits us about once a day and watches us. She talks about the weather when it's nice and I agree with her. Eyebrows flies down when she has food. She seems to like us. And that makes me happy.

Our hillside is different now that she's home all the time. As though her watching us gives us a reason to live. When I gather food in my cheeks it makes her happy. So I do it a lot. Maybe that's what it is about. This life thing. Making others happy. I know it will end though because I have seen others like me, still, in the street. But I don't think about that as much as I used to.

The sun tires. I make my way through the sweetness and up into my tree. I curl into the silence. Until Frank shows up. And the barking starts all over again. But I know that tomorrow will be more of the same. It is a same that is beautiful. So why would I want it to change? Missus opens her window so she can smell the sweetness too, while she sleeps. We are more alike than she will ever know. Now that she is home. And sees how beautiful living can actually be.

When Your Funny Bone Breaks

I think my funny bone is broken too. My mother suggested I should write more humorous blogs. Like I thought I used to. Because life was hysterical. Until it wasn't. But I still tried to find the funny in my health challenge. Today I'm supposed to blog about yesterday's testing. But yesterday was only morgue style funny. When it is so dark, the only laughter comes after you soiled your britches. And even that isn't funny. Even you tried so hard to find the humor in it.
Yesterday was an "unheard-of" moment in medical testing. I underwent an Electromyogram of all four limbs plus upper and lower spine. It is when the doctor inserts needles in various areas of your body. One at a time. Then sends an electric current through them while asking you to move that particular muscle. It is kind of like slamming you finger in a door, keeping there, and staying still while someone gives you a manicure. You know, so you don't mess it up. I have an idea for our government. Use Electromyograms instead of water boarding and you will get all the information you ever want to know.

My friend Debbie went with me. I held her hand. Screamed uncontrollably at the jolts that sent me to this week's Super Moon. It is going to be a lovely moon by the way.
My mother would have never made it through my agony so I made her stay home. My husband is on location, so learned of my adventure through my groggy reflection during our nightly chat. I believe I slurred a few words for effect.

My eyes flooded with tears at the very touch of the doctor's fingers against my skin - like a burn massaged with a Brillo pad.

The results will come back soon. Perhaps they will make me smile. Or tickle my funny bone.

I really don't want to bore my readers with continuing coverage of my water boarding. So I'm thinking about writing a blog from the perspective of the squirrel that lives outside my window. Or the raccoon. Or the two sexually active humming birds. Perhaps the dogs next door. Or even the bobcat that haunts our hillside. I'm sure they would have a lot to say about the sloth that lurks in my bedroom window at night. My mother would like that. All I want to do is make her happy. So we can fix my funny bone.

Until then I will channel the crying clown. A reddened nose and ashen face who's mission is to expose life's absurdities so others don't feel so alone in it all. Because in the end, we are more alike than not. So bare with my random blogs of the human condition. As I branch to the trees outside of my room. And become one with the beasts to discover if they might have a funny bone too. So my mother can see there is still more to me than a sloth with a lisp. And a funny bone that still has potential, even if it may have a limp for a little longer than we had imagined.

A Mother A Son And A Deployment

As seen on KHTS http://hometownstation.com/santa-clarita-news/editorial-mother-son-and-deployment-35841

A mother, a son, and a deployment. Few civilians will ever understand the impact these three things have on a family. Especially when the parents never thought their son would be serving his country.

Rayan was a typical young man. Until 9/11. When the world turned grey. When eighth graders had more to talk about than the girl in the short skirt. When high school students had their first shot of patriotism. And College students left their desks for something they could touch.

9/11 touched us all. But it touched Rayan at an age when the towers were scalded in his memory and the only way to heal his wounds was to enlist. But he was only thirteen.

A Valencia High School ROTC instructor, Captain Ed Colley, spoke at Rayan’s school. His interest was piqued. He made the decision to enroll at Valencia High School just for the ROTC program, even though he lived in Canyon Country on the other side of the Santa Clarita Valley. He would have to take the bus. His mother, Jeri, tried to dissuade him from this daily trek. An hour and a half by bus in the mornings. Two hours home in the evening. But nothing could stop him from following his dream. Some kids get addicted to drugs. Rayan was addicted to his country.

Jeri understood patriotism. Her father in law fought in World War II. He was stationed in Italy, was shot, and watched many friends die. Jeri secretly hoped the long bus rides would break Rayan from continuing at Valencia's ROTC. But to no avail. Rayan did so well, he became the youngest student leader ever of the ROTC program. After 9/11,the number of students jumped from fifty students, to one hundred and fifty, with a waiting list.

Eleventh grade came around as did college applications. Rayan’s dream was to attend West Point Academy. Army was in his blood, and Jeri didn’t even know it. Rayan applied for the West Point Summer Camp, the precursor to acceptance to the Academy. Rayan was denied. He was crushed. Instead he attended the Coast Guard Summer Camp and it seemed his destiny had shifted. Until a large leather bound thick-papered package came in the mail address to Rayan. He had been accepted to his dream school. West Point Academy.

Jeri’s wall came down. It was time to make the decision to support and rejoice in his accomplishments, or get out of the way. Her son would be going to war.

But not yet.

West Point was everything he wanted it to be, and everything Jeri hoped it could be for her son. He made friends for life, and their families became extensions of Jeri.

Rayan met his wife just after graduation. They married June 2012. A common occurrence among West Point graduates with a future so uncertain the only right thing to do, is live.

Rayan deployed in May 2013.

He was in the top 10% of his class and had the choice to branch into any specialty he wanted to. But he chose the difficult, and more challenging choice of infantry. During his years at West Point, Rayan spent a summer at the State Department in Washington D.C. with an internship working with General David Petraeus. To this day Jeri does not know what this entailed. Her first taste of the secrecy that would come with Rayan’s enlistment.

After graduation, he went to Rangers School - Ranger Training Brigade - for sixteen weeks in Fort Benning, Georgia. It is the equivalent of the Navy Seals, but for the Army. Only 20% make it thru Rangers School.

He never stopped. He never quit. His eye was on the goal. The goal was Afghanistan.

Rayan never gave up on his dream. But how does a mother support a son who has chosen to place himself in harm’s way, every day of his life? Faith. It sounds like a cliché. But it’s not a cliché to Jeri. It is as real as the towers. As pure as her son's first breath. Faith was her oxygen. Her anchor. It is what keeps her alive when she hurts so much she can't breath.

Faith has allowed Jeri to do the impossible. To imagine he is safe. And to accept without hesitation that his situation is out of her control. This is the advice she would give any mother of a child that is deployed. Acceptance, and perhaps denial. But it works for Jeri. Because she has faith.

Not all mothers of our troops have faith. Some are too hurt to have faith. That their child enlisted and decided to go to war. But no matter their outlook on their child’s decision, there is a common thread among military families. A brotherhood. A sisterhood. A support system of people with one thing in common. They could lose their son or daughter at any moment. Every ring of the phone makes their heart skip a beat. But it’s the knock on the door that haunts them every day. A phone call means their child could be injured. A knock on the door could mean they lost them forever. For Jeri, there is is little room for negativity, or imagining the worst. Because the worst will never be what she imagined.

Rayan is now in Afghanistan. His duties morphed into heading the breakdown of old camps and the raising of new ones. He finds himself often without essentials such as towels or toilet paper as these camps are on the fringe of civility. He has risen to 1st Lieutenant. And carries on his shoulders the weight of a past generation. When young men deployed and were lifted by their country back home.

We have a new generation of men and women who enlisted because, to them, there was no other choice. It was a calling for something that mattered. Because so little seemed to really matter. We have a generation of troops who have optimism that their sacrifice will make a difference. For one soldier, he already has. He changed a life back home. Because of him, his mother believes, she surrenders her fears, and chooses light over darkness. He has changed the very way his mother breathes. He changed how she speaks his name. How she holds a frame with his young face so filled with hope. Because of him, she lives for today, when the phone doesn’t ring and there is no knock at the door. He has given her the ultimate gift. Faith.

As the bases in Afghanistan are shut down, and the contractors are pulling out, he faces challenges he did not expect.

But in the fashion of the eighth grader who had a dream, Rayan never stops. He calls his family and calms their fears. The Army might be a career. A life of uncertainty linked to hearts that skip a beat. But it is his love for country. His pride in possibilities. And his commitment to a goal that will make him a success. But if he is anything like his mother, a dose of faith will take him a long way too. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

My Father

Black and white photographs dangled on a string, handcuffed by clothespins over the toilet. This was our darkroom.
I was 10. Dad loved photography, and the most logical place to conduct the transformation of images to paper was, of course, on a collapsible photo lab above the toilet. It was pretty ingenious actually, developing possibilities above the Porcelain God. The perfect day was a collision with my father of photographic banter - huddled in the echoed walls of tangerine walls and formica countertops. I watched him worship imagery, dipping and drenching the 8 x 10 sheets of magic paper into solutions, witnessing images cross the middle realm to the harsh reality of our 1970's bathroom. My mother had painted the bathroom orange to match the box of Tide. Why it was orange still perplexes me. Plus the fact that the box of Tide never entered the bathroom.
My father and I had one very important thing in common: the pursuit of the perfect photograph, and my father was the master hunter. He was armed for the capture with Minolta in hand and a crackling brown leather bag - its buckle bursting with filters and lenses for any possible scenario. Rolls of film marinated in every ASA, color, black and white, slide film.

One of the scariest things I've ever heard him say was, "Real photographers shoot in slides. National Geographic only accepts slides." Dad was a genius at the technical aspect of photography. The science of the capture crouched in wait on my father's tongue - anticipating the moment I might ask a question about lens length or aperture so he could leap his knowledge into my brain. This game of proverbial darts never quite hit home. I spent my childhood fascinated by the act of taking pictures and developing images, but running from the attempt to actually understand the process. It somehow seemed that if I knew what I was doing, the magic would dissolve into the abyss of that Porcelain God.
Someday I would understand his technical speak, but not yet. I wasn't ready. I was having too much fun watching our negatives evolve into prints of Kodak couture. His capture of dewdrops on a flower, the angelic flares in a sunsets, nature wrangled by his lens.
There is no longer a darkroom in our home. My bathroom is beige. The brown crackled bag sits in my closet, baring fossils of our hunt. I await that perfect day, when he and I sit together again, when the miles contract and the world forgives our temporary retreat into our divided realities. The days of Tide are long behind us, but the memories will linger, dangling gently in my mind, by clothespins.

X Marks The Spot

X marks the spot. On my wrist, my forearm, my ulnar nerve. The spots the neurologist marked during the nerve conduction study yesterday that began the evaluation of my condition to ascertain if the loss of leg function and weakness in my limbs is due to a neurological disorder or auto-immune disease. The symptomology is indicating a condition that may have less to do with my surgeries, and more to do with a deeper challenge I would never have thought was possible. I already have Hashimoto's Disease. An autoimmune disease of the thyroid gland. It's a condition women usually uncover when they are unable to conceive. Three miscarriages led me to blood work uncovering the reasons for our loss. If left untreated Hashimoto's can lead to a coma or death. So taking a small pill each day for twenty years has been a walk in the park. I gave birth to a disease. Now we need to discover if it has a sibling.

The nerve conduction study today was on my arms. We now know my upper peripheral nerves are not damaged due to a mechanical disruption in my spine such as spinal stenosis or a damaged nerve. I may have a pinched nerve at C8-T-1. The artificial disc in my lower spine seems seated properly. Yet my right hand is clinically a 'claw hand.' Perhaps this is why I love lobster. Oh I could die for a good lobster right now. The cracking of the claw. The medical reference of claw refers to when the pinky and ring finger fold in when at rest. I debated whether to even use this term on my blog. It's not exactly sexy. "Hey honey! Can I pinch your butt?" Perhaps dainty paws would be more pleasant to visualize.

Next week is an Electromyogram of my legs. A survey of my drop foot. Or dangling digits of delight. I could make it famous. Call it My Left Foot. Have Daniel Day Lewis sign it. That guy's in everything. Even my foot.

Nothing about this is very pretty. But it is pretty fascinating. The Electromyogram nerve studies include electric currents attached to the skin with needles conducting feedback to the computer and resulting in a lifeline like you see on a heart monitor in the movies. Part of me wishes the line would crash, so we could have something we can fix.

My father was with me, sitting in the chair while I shrieked. He's used to the shrieking. His silver head down with eyeglasses balanced on the tip of his nose. He buried his mind in Reader's Digest, reading aloud humorous quotes to help take my mind off the spots. Then I tweeted a mid-shock-tweet only Reader's Digest could invite "@MicaelaBensko: $592,527 of government funds goes to studying in part what feces throwing amongst chimps reveals about communication skills.#seriously"

So I learned a lot.

The learning curve is steepening. But my heartbeat has leveled. The fear that used to fester in me has retreated to a silent awe of what medicine can, and may not be able to do. There is a long road ahead so I can't stop now. Even if the road less traveled might be holding a parking place just for me.

So X marks the spot. Of where I am at this moment. No treasure yet. But plenty of jewels of wisdom I am so desperately trying to squirrel away in the hole inside my chest. Somehow knowing a diagnosis could be something larger than myself takes a weight off my shoulders. As though its enormity may actually carry me through this next phase. Until then I shall dream of lobster. And the sweet taste of dripping butter falling down my chin. Instead of tears. And know it will fall where fate intends. On an X that I planted before I was born on a life that God has designed.

The testing complete, the doctor lays his hand on my arm. His candor is kind. He leaves the room. My father looks up over his glasses and helps me to the chair that's not me. And I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

I Thought I Understood Our Warriors

I thought I understood the wounded warriors in our program at Rebuilding America's Warriors. I have worked with them for years. I have felt their wounds and held them to my chest. I have played with their children and hugged their wives. Awed at their prosthetics and ridden in their chairs. They have stayed in our home. One of their dog tags lays huddled in my jewelry box. A hat hangs in our daughter's room. A boot is propped on our shelf. Our families have bonded and we have spoken together to schools. I have stood back in awe of who they are and because of our time together felt I understood their struggle. Until now.

There is something that happens when your life is changed due to a health challenge. When surgeries and procedures never end. When you have lost the use of a limb. Our warriors are very positive in public. As though a prosthetic leg doesn't really matter. They are alive. That matters. But the truth is, their pain runs so deep, no one could see it if they tried. I have now lost the use of my left leg, and am undergoing endless procedures. My eyes have been opened.

What one experiences when life changes course, is not a woe-is-me. It is a where-is-me that erupts inside during this realization your life has changed. It is waking to a body you thought you knew, then someone changed its name. You become a stranger to yourself, with nothing in common but a memory of who you were. You recall the days you walked without pain, or when you could walk at all. You see a hand that is now limp and weak, the life seeping from its pours, and wonder where its life went. It is a process of mourning the death of you. The physical you. When you curl into a ball at night and hug your self so tightly. Your heart turns inside out with grief as tears from another world flow from your chin. You discover a cry you never had. When a sound comes out of your throat that all you want to do is hold.

But with mourning comes a peace. With time, you slowly begin to accept that you have changed. One day you will be in your scooter on a hot day and see others sweating as they walk. And you become grateful the chair does it for you. You arrive at a crowded mall and appreciate the placard and the parking for others who have changed too. You enter a store and people are kind. They offer to help. And you see a humanity that you once thought was lost. Children come over and think your stair lift is cool. Your friends become an extension of you, and they love you for how strong you can be. Not how weak you really are.

There are gifts in losing yourself. They are just difficult to see when blinded by the change. But the pain slowly fades when you think of only today. Today I will thank God that I can love my children because that can never be taken away. I will kiss my husband longer now because I know life is more fragile than before. I will appreciate my parents and know it's ok if they look at me like a child for now. Because for now I am. The fight for independence has become a longing to hold on to them. Because they hold the key to everything I used to be.

I love our warriors with all of my heart. I am ashamed I assumed I understood. I thank them for making me feel as though I did. But now I know a place that they have seen. It is now the warriors who touch my wounds, play with my children and have held me to their chest. Their actions have been the greatest gift of all. They are what helps make this all a little bit easier. Because of this, I can see purpose to what is my life's greatest challenge. I am not alone. And neither are they. A union of knowing. Of warriors with hands offered out to a girl who thought she understood. When there was still so very much to learn.

When Today Is Real

I can't erase where I am. That was this morning's epiphany as my husband prepared for today's arrival of friends - a frantic attempt to straighten the house, my pointing at my husband's sweating brow, it became clear there are things we cannot make disappear. The stair lift, the pile of magazines that lighten my days. The crutches near the sofa, the oddness of an anti-gravity chair in the living room that faces the television. There are no fresh flowers on the table as was my usual selfish delight. I now light candles in a attempt to make up for their absence.

Having friends visit today is the highlight of my week. I have not seen them in ages, and they will see how I have aged. Inside. Perhaps for the better. I was the one who always smiled, who said too much and listened too little. Years ago when I was young, when a friend who saw me cry one time said thank God I was real. If she could only see me now.

Real is a tough place to get to. We try so hard when we are young. We think that living large and expressing whatever we are is being real. When real is not something you are. It's something you become after years of trying too hard.

Real is when you are stripped of the ability to be anything other than you are at that moment. It is having friends over who don't care if there are fresh cut flowers on your table, even though you do. Real is wearing lipgloss but caring only if it smells like cupcakes. Real is putting on the white sundress because it makes you feel like the girl who doesn't need the special chair in her living room. It's when you follow Facebook to see how your friends are doing, rather than just posting what you wish you could do. I'm still working on that. Today, my friends Lisa and Joanna are bringing lunch. Then my darling Jan will come to cut my hair and make me smile. In the afternoon, Travis will teach me Final Draft, to help my dream come true. Today is real. And I thank God for all it will be. And for what it is not.

Today is not errands, or shopping for pants that will fade. It is not attending a party of people I don't know or going to a movie I paid too much to see. I will not run into someone and not recall their name, or go to the grocery store and forget the milk I went there for in the first place.

Today will be simple. Because real is simple. I will embrace my friends and know it means more than it did before. We will talk about life and what a difference a year can make. And when the day is over and I go to bed, my heart will be full. Because today was real.

As Don wipes his brow, the cleaning complete, and I sit in my awkward chair - I anticipate the day and say to myself that although things may not look as they did before, why would I ever want to erase anything so perfectly simple, like today.

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.