Sorry Honey

I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband. I will not blog about my husband.

Wife Of 'Nashville' Crew Member Speaks Out On Industry

Letter Reaches Nashville News Outlets

By Micaela Bensko

A letter to our entertainment industry:
I probably shouldn't be writing this. I have always prided my tight lips after a steamy episode of pillow talk. Too many things happen during my husband's day that could easily end up in The Enquirer. But this isn't about gossip. It's about heads that rarely get to fall on a pillow.

Ten months ago, my husband Don was tapped as Production Supervisor of the most touted new show on television, "Nashville" on ABC, by Callie Khouri, Oscar-winning writer of "Thelma and Louise." This show was hot. But not in Cleveland. It was in Nashville. The last time I hit Music City was as a young and struggling songwriter who couldn't catch a break.
Now we sat atop my favorite skyline, complete with the Batman Building. (It's not really Batman's, it just looks like Batman.)

With our family based in Los Angeles, the experience of being bi-coastal sounded romantic. And it was for a while. Until I witnessed how hard the crew worked. The 14-20 hour days with an unrelenting schedule due to issues beyond their control. (I have since been corrected by my husband that he rarely worked twenty-hour days. Nineteen, yes.) Don is no stranger to production hours or studio dynamics, his resume includes Co-Producer of Big Love Don was the Production Supervisor of "Nashville". Every square-inch of every set, location, stage, is because of a dedicated team led in part by him and Line Producer Loucas George.
Until last week that is.


You know you've made it in Hollywood, when a studio replaces your team, and doesn't even bother to call.

We have always been fortunate. In a business where many rarely find work, the work has always found my husband. Because Don is good. He is real. He will never tell you what you want to hear when fifty million dollars is at stake. He will tell you what you need to hear. And that's why he is unique. He does not schmooze anyone. Networking is not his thing.

His thing is family. He lives for stolen moments, when he kisses his children on the top of their heads and holds me in his arms. Because these moments are his fuel. For working days when lunch comes at midnight.

Season One of "Nashville" was a blessing in many ways. One of my dear friends, Judith Hoag, was cast as Connie Britton's sister Tandy, so it was a special event in my life on a personal level.

The show itself, however, faced challenges. Nashville was a town unrigged for the immediacy of needs by a television series. Lionsgate had never done a network series. It had a star who worried, and a creator who cared so much it broke his heart, a community that was filled with pride, a small cafe with bluebirds that became famous overnight, and in the midst of it all, a life on the crew was almost lost; It happened during a string of endless and exhausting shoot days. This is not new to production, but a string of delayed scripts and tripping storylines kept everyone on edge. Then one of our crew lost his footing while rigging for a huge arena shoot at The Bridgestone Arena. He fell twenty feet and could have died. So he could make a living.

I met Don when he was an accountant on a small, untested pilot called "Arrested Development." He had a vision for his future, to work his way up the ladder. Don doesn't say much that doesn't happen. Like the night we sat at Puckett's in Franklin and he shared his concern for this show we loved, that could lose its way if it wasn't careful, if certain people would only care more. Livelihoods were compromised by the shuffling of decisions back in Los Angeles. Decisions made by men and women in suits behind desks who didn't know the right questions to ask.

Don has already been offered other shows, some closer to home, so I can fold into his arms more often. I am writing because something needs to change in an industry we have loved as a family. Television is a fascinating medium when studios and production teams are on the same page. But what about when they aren't, which is now so often the norm? It becomes a cliche. Bringing good stories to life was and is a dream for so many young people who reach for the stars, only to realize the Heavens were moved to another location. And the humanity in the process has been lost.

Why aren't shooting hours regulated, so men don't fall from the sky? Why is it that so may suits who are home by dinnertime to see their children, seem incapable of caring about people as much as their numbers? We need to look at this, because in the end, we are all just trying to experience something real. Even if it's only make believe.

The studios will argue they must shoot long hours because of their budget, the deadlines, the people that call them at midnight. The reality is, nothing is important when the humanity in the process is lost. When the writers' hands are tied. And when the very people who broke their backs to create something special were never even told they were being replaced. Like my husband and Loucas George. Not a phone call or a thank you for all they had done.I am so tired of seeing the emotional toll the industry takes on so many in production and on the crew who work so hard all for a paycheck and a wrap party they are too exhausted to attend.

I do not begrudge the studio for its decision to make changes, I am just saddened in how they did it and even more-so by the fact that this is the norm. Everyone moves on, but it's how we are let go that makes the experience that was, worthwhile.

This letter is for the men and women of "Nashville" who now may not know where their next job will be and for the ones we left behind. You are appreciated more than you will ever know. You made this show possible through excruciating days that turned into nights that turned into days. When lunch was at midnight. And you still smiled. You made it happen. And you made something good. So good, it is getting a second chance for the world to see what you made possible.

Most of all, thank you to Callie Khouri. Upon hearing of the news, and how things were handled, she called Don. She made Don smile because she told him he mattered. She shared in the loss and that he will be missed. And she reminded me, a production wife, that there are good people in this industry who truly do wish that they could make it different.

This is a love letter to "Nashville" and the city we have grown to love with all of our heart. Tootsies, The Loveless, The Bluebird Cafe. We will miss you for now, but will return to love you more than we ever could before - all the way to the top of the Batman Building.

Micaela Bensko

Update on Saturday, May 25, 2013 at 9:10AM by Fried Nerves and Jam

Why I Wrote The Letter:

Today someone asked me why I am not doing interviews. I guess it's because I didn't write it to do interviews, or to be the story. I just wanted people to be kind again. To remember what we learned from our grandparents when we sat at their dinner table when we were five. When your brother asked politely for the peas and then said thank you, even though he beat you with his Spider Man earlier in the day.

The letter came from many people's stories, across many industries. Not just ours. It is a truth owned by all. Who are too scared to speak. Like I was. Before life was complicated. And all I wanted to do was make it simple again.

After a year of spine surgeries, writing is my therapy. There are four wheelchairs in our garage. I am forty-three. Our oldest daughter's room has boxes. She is nineteen. My blog has stretch marks. Because I cared so much about what was right that some people tried to make it wrong. But our family is strong, and we will get through this.

I always knew I was loud, I just never knew I had a voice. The voice is priceless. And so is what I asked for. Humanity.

The love of my life was making a living so I could walk. The love of my life held his head to the sky so I could see that there was hope. The one year in our life when my body was shattered, and he looked at each piece as a gift. So when push came to shove I had nothing left but a truth that could not stand still.

We will get through this aftermath because everything blows over. But I hope with all of my heart, the seed planted is nurtured by those who know it has been said. I hope it has brought to the table a feast for thoughts to consume, and a reminder to those who seem to have forgotten, that we are all human beings.

I may not have the answers now, of what to do about what I said. Or a cape to make it disappear. But I can for the first time stand tall even though my body is weak. Just when I thought I was broken, my heart planted a seed.

I Should Be Ashamed - For My Self

For the times I looked you in the mirror and asked why you weren't 'her'
When I turned to see my backside just to asses its girth
When I should have gently thanked you for getting me through the day
When all I should have done was love you
I should be ashamed

For the days I drove the kids to school because my brain was tired
Perhaps the weather wasn't right or the streets could have been dryer
For all the times I parked too close and wished I had a plaque
The only thing I wish for now is that I could take it back

I see this now because today I looked at you
And didn't wish you were someone else I just felt gratitude
For carrying my spirit
And the burdens in my heart
For staying strong when all I saw was a life falling apart
I love you more than ever before because before I could not see
Everything you are that I was ashamed to be

A miracle of God that is mine for while I'm here
On this often winding journey
Protecting me from fear
You are my link to God and all I have to do
So why should I have been ashamed of you with all you have to do?

I am sorry to my body for the time's I've been unkind
For all I've seen because of you how could I be so blind
For all that you have given me, my family and my name
I only have one thing to say
I should be ashamed

Doors Yet to Open / Lessons from a Purple Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fried Nerves - The Other White Meat

Hoping this finds you well today. No worries if you are busy. It 's my job to take you out of your busy. And read a blog from someone who's lost her busy. But I did have a jarring moment this week when a bird smashed head-on into my bedroom window. It even left an imprint of him. Sideways. Like the Road Runner when he stops too fast into a boulder. Lord knows when we'll get our window cleaned. But then again, window cleaners are sometimes interesting. Until then, Little birdie feathers flip back and forth in the breeze as they stick in the silhouette of his wassa beak. Looks like he was right in the middle of an F-bomb. And got stuck.

Back on the spine front...

This week Dr. Graf removed the Electro Spine Stimulator Trial. He also cauterized the nerves of the facet joints around my C5-6 Fusion and C6-7 Disc Replacement. I don't like typing the word Cervical. That can get confusing. Always wondered why they named something in your neck the same thing as something oddly resembling an inflated doughnut.

It will take about two weeks feel the full effects of the nerve cauterizations. Oh! little heads-up - the muscles around the facets get burned too. Think of it as collateral damage if you were a cow standing next to a fence in a lightning storm. A skinny cow. I was one away from getting served at KFC. The other white meat. Tastes like chicken. I figure the nerves are about well-done enough now. Could use a good sauce though. I'll get right on that.

Doc said 8-10 days until the surgical pain goes away and will begin to feel the benefits. Me. Not him. Although he we are getting paid, just in different ways. I'll be set to go on a good scooter ride soon. After the Electro Spine Stimulator Implant Surgery. That will happen in the next couple of weeks after my insurance approves of my being happier. I've never needed such validation in my life - although after this surgery, I will be fully validated. And can parkin a handicapped spot and pray that people think I'm mis-using my placard - because I look too healthy.

In the meantime, Real Housewives of Orange County makes my reality look like a cakewalk. By the way, did you see what Tamara called Vicki this week?

Best thing of ALL is Don is home! He says he got more rest doing "Nashville" than me. You know what I mean. Dirty minded scoundrels - all of you. And I love you for it.

I shall lay in my bed this week and stare at my window. I'd stare out of it but keep getting distracted by a little beak. With little feathers that flip. To remind me, my day was still better than his.

A Little Piece of God

I hadn't seen the photograph in years. The one of Joe as a baby in my arms, cradled by pine trees in Aspen. My hair was blonde, his cheeks were full, our eyes were wide. I didn't know much at that time- but one thing I knew- I was holding a little piece of God.

I was going through today's Facebook tag-approvals. One popped up from a friend. She had tagged me in a picture of young girl she knew who was holding her dog that was lost. I approved the tag. Then the next image popped up to be approved. It was from my son. He is now 16. It was that photograph. My breath sunk into my chest, my hands flung to my eyes and fingers pressed into my rising tears. - I write about tears a lot. But there are so many kinds of tears to write about. - This time, my tears came from a place so deep inside my heart, only God must know where it is.

I asked Joe where he recovered this precious photograph. I hadn't seen it in so long. I thought he had found it somewhere in an album and was inspired to write me a caption that brought my hands to my eyes. But it was never lost at all. His mirror had been cradling it in the nook of its frame for years.

It was Mother's Day.

He captioned the photo with gratitude for being his mom. He thanked me for being so strong - when he knew how broken I really was. When all I ever wanted was for him to see me as I was. In that photograph. But now I know that all this time he did. Because he saw it every single day. In a little photo, from that day in Aspen, when I held in my arms a little piece of God.

An Open Letter from a "Nashville" Widow

I probably shouldn't be writing this. I have always prided my tight lips after a steamy episode of pillow talk. Too many things happen during my husband's day that could easily end up in The Enquirer.

Ten months ago, he began working on a brand new show. It was hot. But not in Cleveland. It was in Nashville. The last time I hit Music City was as a young and struggling songwriter who couldn't catch a break. Now we sat atop my favorite skyline, complete with the Batman Building. (It's not really Batman's, it just looks like Batman.) My husband was tapped as Production Supervisor of the most touted new show on television, "Nashville" on ABC, written by Oscar-winning Callie Khouri of Thelma and Louise.

With our family based in Los Angeles, the experience of being bi-coastal sounded romantic. And it was for a while. Until my spine blew its horn. Horns aren't allowed in Music City. Then I witnessed how hard the crew worked. The 14-20 hour days with an unrelenting schedule due to issues beyond their control. (I have since been corrected by my husband that he rarely worked twenty-hour days. Nineteen, yes.) My husband, Don, was the Production Supervisor. Every square-inch of every set, location, stage, is because of a dedicated team led in part by him. Until yesterday. You know you've made it in Hollywood when a studio replaces your team, and doesn't even bother to call.

We have always been fortunate. In a business where many rarely find work, the work has always found my husband. Because Don is good. He is real. He will never tell you what you want to hear when fifty million dollars is at stake. He will tell you what you need to hear. And that's why he is unique. He does not schmooze anyone. Networking is not his thing. His thing is family. He lives for stolen moments, when he kisses his children on the top of their heads and holds me in his arms. Because these moments are his fuel. For working days when lunch comes at midnight.

Season One of "Nashville" was a blessing. One of my dear friends, Judith Hoag, was coincidentally cast as Connie Briton's sister Tandy, so it was a special event in my life on a personal level.
The show itself faced challenges. Nashville was a town unrigged for the immediacy of needs by television series. Lionsgate had never done a 'network series'. It had a star who worried, a creator who cared so much it broke his heart, a community that was filled with pride, a small cafe with bluebirds became famous overnight, and in this mix a life on the crew was almost lost. It happened during a string of endless and exhausting shooting days. This is not new to production, but a string of delayed scripts and tripping storylines kept everyone on edge. Then one of our crew lost his footing while rigging for a huge arena shoot at The Bridgestone. He fell twenty feet. And almost died. So he could make a living.

I met Don when he was an accountant on a small untested pilot called "Arrested Development". He had a vision for his future, to work his way up the ladder. Don doesn't say much that doesn't happen. Like the night we sat at Puckett's in Franklin and he shared his concern for a show that could lose its way if it wasn't careful, if certain certain people would only care more. Livlihoods were compromised by the shuffling of decisions back in Los Angeles. Decisions made by men and women in suits behind desks who didn't know the right questions to ask.

Don has already looking at other shows, some closer to home, so I can fold into his arms more often. I am writing this because something needs to change in an industry. It is a cliche. But cliches exist because something is said so often that it begins to lose its affect. Bringing good stories to life was and is a dream for so many young people who reach for the stars, only to realize the Heavens were moved to another location. And humanity has been lost.

Why aren't shooting hours regulated, so men don't fall from the sky? Why is it that some seem incapable of caring about people as much as their numbers? Because in the end, we are all trying to experience something real. Even if it's only make believe.

The studios will argue they must shoot long hours because of their budget, the deadlines, the people that call them at midnight. The reality is, nothing is important when the humanity in the process is lost. When the writer's hands are tied. And when the very people who broke their backs to create something special were never even told they were being replaced. Not a phone call or a thank you for all they had done. I am so tired of seeing the emotional toll the industry takes on so many who work so hard. I do not begrudge Lionsgate for its decision to make changes, I am just saddened in how they did it and even moreso by the fact that this is the norm. Everyone moves on, but it's how we are let go that makes the experience that was, worth-while.

This is for the men and women who now may not know where their next job will be. You are appreciated more than you will ever know. You made this show possible through excruciating days that turned into nights that turned into days. When lunch was at midnight. And you still smiled. You made it happen. And you made something good. So good, it is getting a second chance for the world to see what you made possible.

Most of all, thank you to Callie Khouri. Upon hearing of the news, and how things were handled, she called. She made him smile because she told him he mattered. She shared in the loss because he will be missed. And she reminded me, a production wife, that there are good people in this industry who truly do wish that they could make it different.

This is a love letter to "Nashville" and the city we have grown to call our own. Tootsies, The Loveless, The Bluebird Cafe. We will miss you for now, but will return to love you more than we ever could before - because we will have time - all the way to the top of the Batman Building.

Wires To Wings

My glass of optimism is a-dew with possibility. It has to be. I have a life to live and wide eyed little ones who search my face for hope.

My left flank and leg vibrate, reminiscent of a pedicure chair set by an angry girl named Tiffany, who should really be named Kim. But there are too many Kims already. They got there first.

But back to my spine.

Wires protrude from it, coiled into a carefully crafted cocoon of water-proof medical tape. I am smack in the middle of turning into a butterfly.

Turning into a butterfly is never easy, even for the most ambitious of caterpillars.

The wires are called leads that go up through the epidural space in the spine and send electrical impulses that prevent my brain from registering a portion of the pain. The receiver is temporarily attached to the outside of my back and controlled by a remote that could easily be mistaken for my ceiling fan's. It sounds crude, but borders on space-age fantastic. This is the Electro Spine Stimulator Trial - the first step in the approval process to receiving a permanent implant.

I look at the pain I have left as the fracturing of the chrysalis, when a beam of light illuminates a preview of the butterfly forming inside - the faint outline of folded wings and curled up legs that make you smile - because you know that once it opens, no matter what color the butterfly is, it will be beautiful.

From the moment I entered the OR area for the implantation of the leads, it was clear this was no ordinary procedure. The representative from Boston Scientific (the maker of the spine stimulator) , was by my side - a lovely woman named Katherine. My tissues soiled, I felt as though my soul laid naked in front of a stranger. But all she saw was hope.

It was time to transfer me from the gurney to the operating table. This process has become more difficult with the progression of my pain. For years I applied makeup prior to doctor visits, procedure, even post-op in hospitals- a subconscious posturing of optimism. But this time, I was completely defeated.

As much as I wanted to speak to Dr. Graf as I usually do prior to going under, it's a little difficult to speak when you can't put any words together besides, please-put-me-out. He woke me up in the middle of the procedure just enough to assess where the leads were covering my areas of pain. Then they knocked me out again. Next thing I knew I was in the recovery room. "It's time to program you." It was Katherine. I shook the inside of my head. Program me? I was now officially a Cyborg. Even with all the metal parts, you're not officially a Cyborg until wires and electrical currents are involved. Kind of like a Russian astronaut, who is not a Cosmo-naut until he stows his liter of Vodka.

She handed me the remote control, and the programming began. A customized panel of four intensity and coverage options customized to my own personal pain levels; The coolest experience of my life that involved my epidural space - aside from childbirth. Dr. Graf then carefully went over the post-op instructions. Antibiotics four times a day. No shower or bath. Only sponge baths. Which I prefer to call soldier-bathing. It makes me feel special. You cannot raise your arms, bend over too far, twist, or in any way compromise the leads as they are only half the length they will be for the permanent implant. The last thing you want is a lost lead. I learned to shave my legs with a heated facecloth, without any visible bloodshed. However , I did have my stimulator on high, so who knows what's happened down there. (Oh and the dreams! Sleep with it on. I'm just sayin'.)

There is an unusual period immediately following surgery where you feel you can conquer the world due to the local anesthetics infused during surgery. For two solid hours I was Wonder Woman in my own mind. For two solid hours I was reminded of what it felt like to be sixteen and have a body free from a cage of pain. And that is exactly what pain becomes, a cage. You can decorate it so others don't see what it is, but you know deep inside that even if the door of the cage was open, you couldn't fly.

By the time I got home I was fiercely reminded that wires were protruding from my spine. I was given a journal to document my pain relief which quickly became my reprieve from the surgical pain. The muscles in my back ached to the point I couldn't see through the squeezing of my face. The journey upstairs to my bedroom, I would rather forget. But what has happened since has changed my outlook on life.

Two days after the trial I ventured to my daughter's second grade play, the play I had assumed I would have to miss. Without the trial inserted I would have lasted ten minutes. Max. But instead, even in a wheelchair, I smiled and waved to my child for her to see that I was there. I made it. Her worried face scanned the room from the stage, searching desperately for her mom in the ocean of eyes reaching for their own children. I held my hand higher and finally, just before the program began, caught her gaze. She melted as did my heart. Her face lifted, she sang her solo to me. She danced as though we were the only ones in the room. Because we were. The finale complete, my cheeks aching with joy, she ran to my side and crawled onto my lap. I came. She saw. We conquered. All because of wires molded into wings slightly bent in a cage with a door that is opened to a life filled with what my children always knew was there but couldn't yet see - hope.

The Silver Lining of Rice Crispies

There are Rice Crispies in my neck. At least that's what it sounds like when I wake up and turn my head.   It's an issue in my spine not made of metal, super-glued together, or leveled with a nail file. I lay on my pillow and turn my head to the right. Whoop! There it eeaz. Just at the base of the skull. Like pop rocks when you drop them into Ginger Ale.

The silver lining. It is a beautiful thing. We all need one when the sky looms with an unfamiliar cloud. I watched a movie last week called The Girl With A Pearl Earring.  The girl was a servant. She worked for the painter of "the Dutch Mona Lisa", Johannes Vermeer. He saw the world with colors she did not see. Until one day, he told her to look at the sky and tell him what colors the clouds were. She told him they were grey. He said to look again. She did. And she saw what he hoped she would. The clouds were filled with variant hues of yellows and blues and grey.  She couldn't believe her eyes. And from then on she saw the world differently. Like a painter finding color in the most every day things.

So that is what I am trying to do. Find my cloud with colors. Not just silver inside. I look for rainbow prisms dancing on the edge of one after a rainy day. I embrace the site of pink and orange cotton candy clouds floating above a setting sun, a sign the day will end, and I can rest.

I never thought I would be laying in bed so much, facing a sky though a wooden frame. But it has taught me to remember, that the troubles I may have, are not all that there is to see. That the wooden frame I look through is also surrounded by God in the trees, the grass, the wind, the sky, and yes the clouds.  I imagine I too am a cloud I used to think was white. But I simply hadn't slowed to see how many colors there really are inside.

I am not the darkness or greys of pain.  It is instead a canvas to stroke with colors I would not have seen unless an artist made me look - at colors you can only see by being slowed.  And they are beautiful.

Rice Crispies are one color. I don't have a pearl earring. So I will imagine the colors. And the pearl earring. And shade them in my mind.  In a way the world could never imagine, unless it is slowed.

Reggie Knows

I don't like to look at tissue boxes because they make me sad. I keep them hidden- inside my nightstand cabinet, under my bathroom sink. A friend of mine who had been through a million surgeries once told me, "Never let them see you sweat." So I let them hear me swear. But sweating is something I try to keep private. I hide the tissue boxes. The tissue box I actually like with cupcakes on it, however, leaves  flakes of anorexic paper embedded in my eyelashes. I wipe my eyes with my final heave, blow my nose and fold it into my hand to toss in the trash. Only I can't see the trash can. Because I suddenly see my room in a haze of white light, through the tissue flakes in my eyelashes. I then need to get up from my bed and make my way to the bathroom, for the other , better, box of tissues. The brand named one that doesn't flake, with the elegant lily on the box, but no cupcakes. So then I think about it and get tweaked that only the cheap tissues have cupcakes on the box. The cupcakes that are supposed to make me happy, but end up making my world hazy. The better tissues are now out on the counter for all to see. But I hate that box. It's boring. Boring makes me sad. But hey, I've got tissues!

But I also have my dog, Reggie. He never fails. He lays down next to my pillow, searching my whetted cheeks and swollen eyes, and knows, the tissues didn't work. He inches closer, his nose weaves to sense where to begin. I close my eyes and let him remove the salted stains and the haze of a life that is changed. I smell his breath but don't care that it smells. Because the lily on the box was boring and made me sad. I close my mouth and dare not to breathe in, but let him take care of the one thing he can fix. My heart.

I thank him, for making things better no matter how many tissue boxes are visible at the end of the day, cupcakes and all. Now if I could only find a box of tissues covered with Reggies, I just might leave them out on purpose, for all to see.