The Burrow

Winter in The Garden - February, 2012

2012-02-17T06:00:00.011-07:00

Nine-fingered typing is only marginally better than trying to operate a new phs-camera without a right index finger. Yesterday's post was filled with mis-stricken letters, the responsibility for which rests solely on my four-digit-ed larboard side. Worse, my fingers guide my brain here in The Burrow; when one is stuttering the other follows in lock-step.

Hence, a garden post. We haven't had one in a while, I know. I am moving forward on an upward trajectory, even if I do have to hire someone to do the heavy lifting and bending and digging. I'll admire the results as I tend to that which I can, and I'll be grateful for it each and every day.

Smarmy? Perhaps. It's also very very real to me. The plants speak to me of hopefulness and renewal and some kind of master plan which comforts me in the inevitability of it all. Plus, I like to laugh at myself and the promises I've made to myself in seasons past. For example, I remember saying that I was going to give up on color entirely and go with succulents in pots.

You can see how long that resolution lasted.

The butterfly bush (must remember to ask Rillito for the botanica) is delighting me under my window as I type.

The Heavenly Bamboo (Nandina) retains its winter red.

This Old Man of the Andes is taking a permanent siesta on his neighbor.

This is a testament to the right plant in the right place.

It's sending baby sprouts east and west.

Look at how juicy the inside is.

Proving that a weed is merely a plant in the wrong place, these natives (not weeds) have formed a natural fence against the deciduous vinca.

The bunnies can't get to these native grasses which are happy to share the irrigation on the mesquite tree.

There's a teeny tiny 3" in diameter nest in the palo verde out in front.

And one with bean sculpture on the neighboring branch.

Think of me when you are shoveling or slipping or bundling up.
I love February in the desert.

Random Thoughts

2012-02-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

I saw sleet in Tucson yesterday at lunchtime. Middle-schoolers wearing shorts were as surprised as I was.
*****
Apparently, there was too little bone for even the smallest of small pins and my finger surgery really didn't solve my problem. My finger might be straighter, it probably will hurt less, but as to creating a permanently connected joint....... that remains to be seen.

On top of all that bad news, I waited 45 minutes to be seen. Sometimes the fact that I've been shot turns out to be a good thing; it certainly put this event in perspective.
*****
Today, my Ulysses teacher took a passionate piece of the text and turned it into burnt toast. Drier than dry, defining the terms but not touching the heat, I listened to him read aloud as my eyes fell on one of my margin notes, a quote from the Cornell professor with whom I studied the text in 2001. "Is this not a great book!?!?" appears beside that same paragraph.

A good teacher makes all the difference.
*****
I received 30 Lessons for Living as a gift from the Dean of the College of Human Ecology last month. GRIN fits right in with this gerontologist's distillation of the combined wisdom of approximately 1000 experts - the very, very old. It's fun and funny and totally delightful while dispensing the kind of advice I wish G'ma were still able to dole out.

I read it just a little bit at a time. It's like visiting with my mom..... a decade ago.
*****
The USDA has released a new plant hardiness zone map. I am now in Zone 9b.

It's not even a capital b. I'm not sure how I feel about living in a subset zone.
*****
My new physical therapist was full of wonderful ideas and, since she agreed with the physiatrist that I will continue to make progress, I loved her a lot..... right up until she told me that I should go dancing.... take tango lessons.... and get TBG to go with me.

He's been a stalwart supporter of my rehabilitation efforts, but this was too much, even for him.

She adopts a whole body approach to the work. For now, instead of dancing, I'm going to be doing some Phoebe runningon Christina's path this week.

Adphoto courtesy of eseyla

Want to see her in action? Click here for the YouTube video. No, I will not be uploading one of my own. I still have some dignity left.

Valentines Day at Amphi Middle School

2012-02-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

They do Valentines Day up right at Amphi Middle School.

GRIN was there to make valentines.

$30 worth of supplies covered tables in the corner of the cafeteria.

And the kids loved it.

The 6th grade girls were the first visitors.

They made cards for favorite teachers.

They made cards for their BFF's

The boys were a harder sell....

but once his friend finished, well...

The grown up girls made them.

The ultra-cool girls made them.

Who I was and why I was there came up a time or two.

It was Nim's first day at AMS.
He arrived from Nepal over the weekend.
His translator has been here a lot longer and was in a hurry to get to lunch.
But Nim held his ground.
Please note Nim and Kathleen fist-bumping over his very first ever in his whole life what in the world is this holiday valentine.

His friend printed the message in English.

Welcome to America, Nim <3

Liz gave us a valentine right back.

It was our pleasure.

We had a great time.
Can't you tell by our smiles?

Powerlessness

2012-02-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

It's not a label I normally attach to myself. I go for control whenever it's possible. I try to avoid situations which would put me in a position of weakness. I am the center of my universe; woe to those who try to change my trajectory.

Disaster struck and still I held onto my illusion of control. First responders and citizen heroes and hospital personnel kept my body whole, but the rehab was on me. Progress would depend on my effort. It was my body and I was in control.

The anniversary of the shooting came and went. I was drawn into the maelstrom in spite of myself. At the end, I felt lighter, with some notion that my rambling-random-poke-me-in-the-brain-when-I-least-expect-it thoughts would stay safely in the space I'd created for them in the back corner of my brain. Silly me.

The last week or so has been filled with rage. My finger hurt and vicodin made me loopy. Walking with my iPod turned up loud was easy, but turning it off left me with the clicking and clacking and frazzled nerves that go with it. We missed an evening out with friends and I was furious, even though it was unavoidable. Waiting at Wally-World to buy a new camera, watching the idiot customer and the flummoxed cashier bumble through a two second transaction which stretched to two...three...five minutes, I felt my head exploding.

Literally. My eyeballs were bugging out of my head from the pressure. I am certain that steam was pouring from my ears. My feet were tapping, my fingers were drumming on the cart handle, and I was looking for someone something anyone anything to hit. Hard. When the disgruntled sigh burst from my lips, startling the woman to my left, I knew I needed help.

It pays to have your therapist's number in your cell phone. You never know when the world will give you a wake up call that help is needed.

I sat with her this afternoon, in a safe space, and I listened to myself complain. Was this ever going away? I was doing all the right things and yet there it was, rearing its ugly head in the middle of the camera department of a big box store. I was filled with rage over ridiculously small events. Was the vicodin interfering with the zoloft? Was the adrenaline flowing up and down my insides going to be a permanent part of my existence? Was I ever going to regain control?

Therapy is wonderful. I sit and spew and the therapist magically pulls my words together into a coherent whole. She sings them back to me in a different key, the melody altered just so. The answers are in my mind; I just don't know it. By bringing the definition front and center, by clarifying my confusion and putting it in perspective, by linking me to research and experience and compassion, by re-framing the anger through the lens of normality - in all these ways she helps me heal.

Powerlessness - that is what I am feeling. It's neither congruent nor enjoyable. It's unwelcome and frightening. It's also very real. After all, I only went to the grocery store with a little girl...... evil found its way to our corner through no fault of my own. I need a strategy to contain it. It can't keep taking over my life.

Hearing that this was a usual reaction helped a lot. Listening to her questions I could agree that all my trigger situations were times when I was not in control. I used to avoid those places. When I couldn't escape them, I would take action to right the wrong, to set things on the correct path, to exercise my options. That was no longer my default.

Instead, after my disaster, my self has adopted a new set of parameters. The powerlessness touches the edges of January 8th and I'm off to the races - heart beating, sour taste of adrenaline in my mouth, an inability to take a deep breath, and an urge to do damage. It's not a pretty place to be.

But therapy has taught me that I always have choices. I can choose to go with the flow and spew venom. I'm pretty good at that. The consequences might not be to my liking, but that really doesn't enter my consciousness at those moments. I am filled with bile and out it must come.

Today, I have a new plan. I will exhale softly and deeply and fully. On that breath will ride the rancor and the rage, the sad and the painful feelings, the outrage and the anger. I may need to do it more than once, should some of the crappiness remain. And then, blissfully, I will inhale into the deepest recesses of my belly, filling it up with good, clean, fresh air. The calmer thoughts will ride that wave.

Exhale. Inhale. Then make a choice. Do I want to stand and wait or should I leave? I can't make them move more efficiently, but I am the master of my own actions and I can leave if I'm really that aggravated. I can turn up my inner-iPod when the clicking in my hip frightens me; I don't have to focus on the noise if I am humming a tune to myself.

I don't have the power to keep the grief, the PTSD, the rage from arriving unannounced. I do have the power to choose my response.

It's not much, but it may be enough. For now, I am taking my first deep breaths in a very long time. It feels great.

Happy Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

Sunday in the Car with G'ma

2012-02-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

I've been avoiding her of late. It's not just the constant "Why are you limping?" loop. It's not the dentures that travel through her mouth like Magellan circumnavigating the globe. It's that I want to talk to who she was for a few minutes. I'm not asking for a lot of time. Just a little will do. Without it, I am bereft. Being with Little Cuter and SIR helped a lot; they are just on the wrong side of the generational curve to give me what I'm missing right now.

I want advice from someone who's been there and done that and knows what my next step should be. Even if I don't follow her advice, at least I'll have heard it. I'll know what I'm ignoring. That 's been my modus operandi since I can remember - listen to Mom and then make up my mind.

More often than not, I ignored her completely. I dated boys who drove too fast on motorcycles with me on the back; we wore helmets on her behalf. Jews and Baptists and Episcopals and Presbyterians and the fallen away of every flock spotted my dating history; you know that was never my mother's plan.

Yet, she was always on my shoulder. That was close enough, then. I'm looking for a little more of her these days.

So, when Wally-World didn't have the camera I was seeking, I headed to the pod castle instead of Target. I needed G'ma for a sorbet before I continued my quest. It was lunch time; I'd have a chance to check out the new cuisine. Rumor had it that the meals were beginning to look like real food once again. It was time for me to see for myself.

She was seated in her usual spot, with the happily married demented couple to one side and an empty space for Fran to the other. Fran was napping; I could have a slice of pie in her place. G'ma wondered why the chicken was brown. Teriyaki sauce was discussed as rice and fresh cut veggies made their way into her mouth. Mrs. Married Lady asked, again, where I was born and I answered, again, looking at G'ma for confirmation of the location, to include her in the conversation.

She shrugged. I sighed. Then I looked around the room and saw other elders being fed and I smiled as Mrs. Married Lady asked what kind of fruit was in my pie. "Blueberries and peaches" from me led to a big smile from her as she turned to her husband and said "Peachy... like you!"

Sometimes you're in the right place at the right time. I held onto that smile for the rest of the afternoon. Love will do that to me.

Shockingly, G'ma was willing to forgo her post-prandial nap and accompany me to Target. I hustled her into the car before she could change her mind. We admired the clouds and she told me I was driving too fast and not stopping for the yellow lights and following too closely and she was my mother again, except for the clacking dentures. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

There was an electric cart in the unloading area next to the handicapped parking space and it was calling her name. She's still got left and right implanted in her memory bank, so directionality wasn't an issue. She took a turn or too too closely, but the t-shirts didn't seem to mind the little bit of sway she put into their hangars. Humans managed to get out of her way, and her enjoyment of the scene washed away frowns before they could be formed. We chose Valentines Day cards and bought mini-packs of tissues for her purse and we giggled over but didn't purchase any of the soft pink socks with hearts that were tempting me at the register. Sorry, Little Cuter........

Pie wasn't nearly enough lunch for me, so I suggested ice cream. "Drive faster!" was her reply, so I did. There's a new Dairy Queen in the neighbrohood and that's where we headed, $5.01 bringing us her sundae (all chocolate....did you really have to ask?) and my strawberry milkshake and more napkins than we needed.

Sitting there in the parking lot, sipping whipped cream and watching chocolate sauce melt into chocolate soft serve, feeling the warm breeze on my bare arms, I was 10 years old again, in the drive-thru with Mommy.

It felt really really good.

OUCH

2012-02-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

Remember my mis-shapen finger?

It continued to bend further and further to the side.

The hand surgeon said that the tip would fall off if I didn't let him repair it,

So, I went under the knife.

This is what I've got right now.

I was two posts ahead to cover my anticipated recovery time but this thing really hurts.

Typing is not easy.

My opposable thumb has nothing to oppose.

So, if you don't mind, I'm taking the weekend to heal.

I'll be back on Monday, I promise.

For now, I'm going to take a vicodin and not operate any heavy machinery.

And Then, The Orthopedist

2012-02-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

Surgeons like to cut. I know that. I used it as a mantra when I worked in hospital social work. I should have reminded myself of that before i went to the appointment.

TBG and I decided that he really didn't have to go with me this time. There were no outstanding issues. I was healed and making progress in ambulation and RIC pronounced me improving,with a perfectly repaired hip. Dr. Boaz would x-ray me for a final time and then discharge me until I decided that the pain from the arthritis which was sure to build up made me beg for a hip replacement.

If only that had been the case. Alas.....

The x-rays revealed no more arthritis in the joint than had been there before. He watched me stand and take a step or two and wondered when my calendar was clear for the 3 months that recovery from the hip replacement would take. He was ready to schedule it.

WHOA went my brain. The physiatrist was impressed with his carpentry and saw no need to replace it with ceramic and plastic. The physical therapist told me that I should continue to improve - and I have the note paper on which she wrote that phrase and underlined it for me. Was Dr. Boaz seeing the same body that I was?

His assessment was that my right leg is shorter than my left, and he had me lie on the exam table to prove it. When I asked him to remeasure while I consciously relaxed my tensed muscles he chastised me. "You are just realigning your hips." No, I really wasn't moving my hips at all - I had a finger on each pelvic bone to insure their symmetry, just as the PT had suggested. He wasn't hearing any of it.

To his eye, I have "a remarkable tolerance for pain." He has repaired most hips with much less arthritis and damage than I display. The surgery is much less difficult than what I went through last January. I will be walking freely and smoothly 3 months afterwards.

Besides, he went on, he never expected this repair to last more than a year or so,

Really? Though TBG says he remembers hearing something like that I certainly do not. I have invested a year of my life in learning to walk with my original parts. I am not willing to toss that away.

"Why didn't we replace it a year ago, then?" I wondered? "Good question," was the response. It was his call. I had lost a lot of blood and the hip/pelvic repair was an extensive procedure. The hip joint replacement would have meant another incision and several more hours on the operating table. He didn't think I was up to it. I cannot disagree; the surgery was difficult and the recovery was intense. Somehow I thought I'd get more than a year of therapy without fluidity before I had to start all over again.

He didn't agree that my walking was impeded by tight ligaments and tendons. He didn't think that stretching and building up muscle would make any difference. He thought I could probably make it past the wedding next September but he kept coming back to my calendar and 3 months I could take off for recovery.

I walked out in a daze. Stopped at the grocery store and the nail salon and went home to unload on my poor abused husband. I was steaming by this point - I have two completely contradictory opinions from two completely competent physicians. What am I supposed to do? Get a third opinion? From whom? A surgeon who will want to cut or a physical medicine specialist who will want me to work out? Why have a spent a year rehabbing a body part that cannot ever work properly....if they guy who fixed it is to be believed? Am I delusional to think that I can make this happen on my own? Am I consigning myself to fruitless pain and suffering? Should I take the easy,surgical route and assume that everything will then be A-OK?

After much back and forth, tears and outrage vying for supremacy, this is what I decided: I am going with the answer that feels most congruent to me. The discomfort I'm feeling right now is less than what I experienced 6 months ago. I find myself moving with more grace and speed than I did 4 months ago. I like the gym and exercise and feeling that I am in charge of my own health and recovery. I do not want to be an in-patient again. Plus, surgeons like to cut.

So, I will go back to the orthopedist in June, as he asked. I will let him x-ray my joint and assess the arthritic build-up. I will listen to him tell me that I shouldn't wait too long to schedule the replacement because the bone around the joint may deteriorate even more. I will smile and nod.

Then, I'll get back in the gym and keep working out. I am not giving up on this, I am going with what feels right. The surgery can wait.

Adventures in PT Land

2012-02-08T06:00:00.001-07:00

In case you missed yesterday's post, and don't want to read it right now, you're joining us half-way through an evaluation at The Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. I'm finished with the physiatrist and the orthotist who have pronounced me surgically healed but full of bad habits.

Bill the Orthotist escorted me into and out of the elevator. We left the relative calm of Orthotics and entered the bustle of Out Patient Physical Therapy. My limp was put into perspective; whining was out of the question.

The four year old on her mother's lap helped me sign in and retrieve my clipboard and pen before her mother's wheelchair carried them away from the registration desk, deftly managing coats and boots and bags and a child as only a mother can... whether her legs can support her or not. It's always reassuring to be reminded of those universal truths.

I dragged my winter coat and scarf and tote bag and registration questionnaire and my self to the very first chair and plopped us all down with a flourish.... or perhaps with a vague resemblance to an exhausted hippopotamus... but in any event it struck a chord with my neighbor and before long we two were engaged in adoring that same 4 year old who was now busily adjusting and readjusting the hem of her skirt to get it just so. We didn't have a chance to learn much more about one another because before I was halfway down the first page of the questionnaire, Kelly came out and found me.

She didn't announce my name; she approached me and shook my hand. I noticed that she watched as I gathered my possessions and took leave of my chair. My evaluation had begun.

Ushered into a private treatment area, with a floor to ceiling view of Lake Michigan and a 5'x6' raised mat competing for my attention, Kelly watched me park my parcels and then myself as she asked for the 3 things I'd like to learn, for the areas I wondered about, what I needed to feel fulfilled by the end of our appointment. I was a partner in this process and she aimed to please.

An athlete herself, Kelly understood the psychic blow as well as the physiological consequences of my injuries. Did you know that there is research which shows that psychological stress and fear can lead to low-grade inflammation? I did not. Instead of using N-SAID's and aspirin as my first line of defense, Kelly suggested that I assess the threat level of the pain . What was I worried about? Was it a valid concern?

How about the clicking in my hip? It's a more-often-than-not accompaniment to ambulation. I'd been told it was bone on bone but Dr. Roth, RIC's physiatrist in chief, said that was a more frightening explanation than I needed. Bone on bone sounds so awful and irreparable, he went on. What I was hearing was ligaments getting stuck on a protrusion. What did Kelly think about that?

She didn't miss a beat. Did it hurt? I stopped, paused, thought, and smiled; it didn't hurt at all. I was the ref calling what I anticipated I would see instead of what actually happened. It sounded awful and it carried an awful nomenclature so I decided it was bad and I worried. My worrying exacerbated the situation; I was the instrument of my own discomfort.

That was strangely comforting. As I began to release the anxiety I felt building up with each click and clack and plink my stride lengthened and my gait smoothed out. I was actually swinging my arms.... until I realized that I was swinging my arms and tensed up all over again. It was an epiphany.

There were exercises to be learned along with the new mind set I was adopting. I was no longer to refer to any part of my body as my bad side. Injured was more acceptable, but right and left were preferred. There's no judgment attached to directionality, and that's where I need to be. If I see a physical therapist three to five times a week, along with my other modalities, no one at RIC has any doubt that I will continue to improve over the next few years. I just have to stick with it, each and every day, twice a day for stretching and carving out a space for just plain walking. No wonder Gabby resigned; this getting better stuff is a full-time job. I've been paying lip service to it for a while; now it's time to step up and really do it.

I've found a potential therapist here in Tucson; there weren't any direct connections from Chicago to Tucson's PT community so I traveled the friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend route to end up with a woman I think I'll like. Her parting words as we set up our Valentine's Day first appointment set the proper tone: I'll be able to hear you coming, won't I? She picked right up on the piece that is making me crazy - that hip clicking - and she's putting it in perspective.

I like a woman with attitude, especially when that attitude is designed to start me healing right away. That clicking in my hip that she joked about hearing? That's all it is... a giant karmic joke.... at which I can choose to laugh or to cry..... which can make me cringe or remind me that I am still here to hear it.... that can get in my way or be a musical accompaniment to my recovery.

I'm going with the smiles. After all, the research says they work.
*****
Tune in tomorrow for the third piece of this adventure - I see the orthopedic surgeon for his opinon.

A New Approach

2012-02-07T06:00:00.002-07:00

I've learned bad lessons, it seems.

Over the past year, sitting in one place and not moving at all has taken on a more-than-zen role in my life. I find a comfortable position and that's it - I'm not moving until there's a really really good reason to do so. The doorbell trumps the telephone, unless the phone happens to be right next to me on Douglas. Comcast has this nifty feature where the caller's identification appears on my television screen before I even touch the phone. Someone should tell the Arizona Opera that that's why I never answer their solicitations; I'm screening my calls so that I don't have to budge.

Comfort is a relative term. I can feel the tendons and ligaments settling into their niches, lying on the protuberances and teeny malformations in what had been a totally smooth joint space. I know that deep relaxation like that will result in complete stiffness when I try to budge. I'll be standing on one leg, willing the other to join the party. After a while - seconds... minutes... at its own pace - things begin to loosen up and before long I am moving along with alacrity. It's often not a very pretty sight, but I'm getting from point A to point B and, for the longest time, that was enough for me.

TBG's pointed jibe - "You are limping really well. Now, how about learning to walk really well?" - hit home over the holidays. Watching me waddle from side to side, seeing me favor my bad side and do a fairly good imitation of my father's Walter Brennan-like limp was impairing his ability to move on. Every time I groaned, every time my left shoulder set itself several inches below my right, every time I hitched myself across the living room he was reminded of the bullets that created this mess. I needed to recover so that he could do the same.

The pressure was a bit over-whelming. We've always wanted one another more than we needed one another. It's a basic tenet of our relationship. I'm beginning to realize that aging may force us to reexamine this ... just a little bit, anyway. I couldn't have recovered without his support - financial, emotional and physical. Settling for a gimpy gait and regular sighing didn't seem like an appropriate way to repay him. On the other hand, adding one more brick to the wall I was building between myself and a full recovery wasn't very helpful either. Just what I needed - one more person to disappoint, one more set of expectations to meet, one more soul's burdens on my shoulders.

It took me a while to realize that it was love and not annoyance which was fueling the stream of "level your hips" and "use your whole foot" and "stand up evenly" which flew from his mouth as he watched me walk. There wasn't a mean bone in his body directing vitriol my way. I knew that. Yet, every time he corrected my stance that wall got higher and higher. I hurt. I didn't feel the discrepancies. I was doing the best I could. After all, I'd been shot. What did he want from me, anyway?

What he wanted, I discovered, was what I wanted for myself. I'd say that I am 90% of the way back to my old normal. It's that missing 10% which brings the joy to life, though, and that's why I am morose. I can walk around the yard and point out what needs to be done. Bending down to pull that weed or lugging the extra-large size of Round-Up across the gravel, spraying extraneous sproutings as I notice them, carting the 20 pound bag of potting soil from the garage to the courtyard - those things are still beyond my capabilities. I can walk from the car to the grocery store, but I'm very glad to have a cart on which to lean once I get there. Lifting two 5 pound bags of sugar from the bottom shelf (why is sugar always on the bottom shelf?) and into my cart was never an issue before I was perforated; now it requires thought and ingenuity and a deep consideration of the direction I've placed my hips before I grab and turn. What TBG wants for me is the fluidity I've lost. He wants me to feel like myself again.

So, on my way home from the Cornell Alumni Leadership Conference last weekend in Washington, DC, I stopped at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago for an evaluation. I wish I had done it 6 months ago. I have a feeling that TBG would be much happier right now.

Physiatrists, or rehabilitation physicians, are nerve, muscle, and bone experts who treat injuries or illnesses that affect how you move, according to the American Academy of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation's website. Reading that definition made me laugh at myself; every one of those issues is relevant to me. The website went on to inform me, in case I had forgotten where I worked for 5 years before my son was born, that physiatry's goals are to

Restore maximum function lost through injury, illness or disabling conditions
Treat the whole person, not just the problem area.

That was exactly the program I was seeking. Thanks to the kindness of old friends, an afternoon with a doctor, an orthotist and a physical therapist was scheduled with no hassles on my end. I have to imagine that a lot of shuffling and reorganizing of schedules went on in order to get three appointments in one afternoon scheduled 10 days in advance of my arrival. Rebecca managed to do it for me, even though she was in Kuwait the week before I showed up. She'd have come with me for dinner when I was done, but she hadn't been home for a long time and felt that tug more strongly. Empty nest or not, home is still home.

Instead, we bonded in her office where she introduced me to her colleagues and then escorted me to my first appointment, the one with the Interim Medical Director. No one touches me unless there's Chief on his id badge, it seems.

Elliot Roth, MD, wasted no time - he asked for my story after shaking my hand in welcome. His questions were different than most. Did I remember being hit by the bullets? Did I remember falling to the ground? What were the exercises prescribed by the home physical therapist? He wasn't surprised that I was taking turmeric for inflammation nor that melatonin and I have had a long and profitable relationship. Neither acupuncture nor massage nor pilates caused him to quake and quiver; the difference between his reaction and that of the orthopedic surgeon was stunning.

His examination was different, too. Strength testing (push up when he pushed down on a body part) and reflex testing (my knees really do have quite a kick, even after bullets severed some connections) preceded sensation testing - a delightful procedure akin to an eye test, where the examiner wonders which prick is sharper, #1 (ouch) or #2 (yoweee). I was just as nervous as I am when the optometrist asks which one is clearer... it's hard to remember. Unfortunately for me, the points which Dr. Roth was checking were quite easy to compare. Being stuck with a pin is unpleasant enough to create a memory in the best of circumstances. When that pin enters an area of nerve regeneration, lovingly referred to as hypersensitive by he who was wielding the pricker, fireworks explode in a radiating pattern from the point in all directions. Up, down, right, left, inside, outside, without boundaries or end... until it stops ... like turning off a light switch.

The human body is a remarkable machine.

Declaring the hip repair surgery a total success, he scoffed at the notion that a hip replacement would solve my problems. It wasn't the carpentry that was causing my problems. It was me. Myself. I.

Of course, he was more delicate than that. He applauded my feeble attempts at self-directing my rehabilitation and promised to work with me to find someone suitable to take charge from now on. He told me that I would continue to improve over the next few years. I am on an upward trajectory, where comfortable and functional walking is the ultimate goal. He made no promises about eventual outcomes, preferring to emphasize the effort which would be necessary to accomplish anything at all. Somehow, it was all quite uplifting... energizing... encouraging.

Then he watched me walk. The orthotist was watching, too. I was consciously holding my core and balancing my hips and flexing my ankle but it still wasn't pretty. Pronation wasn't helped by the flat arches and lack of support in my Converse, but that didn't change the professionals' opinion: my legs are the same length. They only act as if they are not.

Right then and there I could have gone home a happy girl. I am not shorter. I did not have something taken away forever. I am capable of becoming even.... level... smooth..... without the use of the orthotist's skills. No building up of heels or soles, unless it makes me feel better in certain shoes in which case Dr. Scholl's inserts will serve me just fine.

Yes, denizens, there I was in a medical institution and they were not hawking their wares. No, I didn't need a fancy specially designed addition to my footwear. I could listen to my body and adjust my behavior accordingly, but there was no reason for me to invest in hardware. I could make the difference.

The good news plastered a smile on my face for the rest of the afternoon.

*****

Tune in tomorrow for Adventures in Physical Therapy

Watching Stupid Bowl XLVI

2012-02-06T06:00:00.001-07:00

Do not think that I have forgotten my responsibility to those of you who rely upon The Burrow for sports-related-conversational-tidbits, handy to pull out when the talk turns to the Super Bowl tomorrow.

*****

Poor Tom Brady. He's sick of hearing about losing to the Giants in Super Bowl XLII. He's sick of hearing about Eli Manning. He wants to play football. He's won 2 Super Bowl MVP awards and he's married to a super model and he's pretty good looking in his own right and he's complaining? About anything? Off the top of my head I can come up with several dozen men who'd trade places with him in a heartbeat.

It's only a game, son. It's only a game.

*****

It's the first time in 15 years that the AFC has won the coin toss. I read a statistic about the relationship between winning the coin toss and winning the game but even I, math challenged human that I am, even I know that that does not imply causation. Still, TBG was impressed enough to be sure that I was aware of the fact.

*****

Hyundai employees ba-ba-baa'ing to the theme from Rocky was my first memorable commercial moment. My heart was warmed. Of course, Mickey D's doesn't get credit for tugging my heartstrings with their bald-to-brush-cut-little-leukemia-survivor smiling out at me in front of his family; that's low hanging fruit. The stupid vampire commercial is just that - a stupid commercial about a stupid vampire. That's all you need to know. Hyundai scored another hit with the cheetah and the car and the other guy.

It's exhausting to watch this way. There's no time to get a snack or see about dinner when I care about the game and the ads.

*****

With 3 minutes to go in the first quarter, the Giants have had 19 plays, the Patriots, 1. On that one play, Tom Brady was in the end zone when he threw the ball down field to nobody which counts as intentional grounding, or 2 points for the other guys if the quarterback happens to be standing in the end zone when he let the ball fly, The score is 9-0, New York.

Right now I think Tom Brady has something important to be aggravated about.

*****

Chevy brought us into the 2nd quarter with an apocalyptic view of truck ownership and a graduate who thinks the neighbor's spiffy yellow convertible is his parents' gift to him. We're smiling and feeling pretty good about Chevrolet right now. I'm not going out to buy one, but I like the brand. Did Chevy get its money's worth?

It's hard for me to have a coherent thought in the room right now. TBG's all time favorite literary character is John Carter. The Edgar Rice Burroughs (see a connection to the author of this post?) hero has finally gotten a movie contract and I know where we'll be on March 9th at midnight. His only regret is that they won't be using much of the Martian language.

Sigh. Like Tom Brady, some men are never satisfied.

*****

I moved the pre-rubbed-ribs from the oven to the pre-heated gas grill as Tom Brady tied the record for longest scoring drive in a Super Bowl. He was methodical and precise and his offensive line was outstanding and now, at the half, New England is ahead, 10-9.

Dan Patrick, Tony Dungy and Rodney Harrison (who is flashing his own Super Bowl ring) are the most un-listened-to men on the planet right now. The half time show has yet to begin and anyone who cares about the game has seen what they're recapping so it's bathroom break and buffet cruising and drink refilling time.

All over America, guests are vying for a better seat on the couch for the second half.

*****

I am not sure what to make of Madonna's faux Egyptian goddess routine, but the objectification of the men pulling her chariot, the ones she used as chairs and step stools, the ones with impossibly buff arms is almost as disturbing as the fact that she is completely wrinkle free. I worried about her for a moment when she had trouble getting up on the bleachers but then she went on to do cartwheels on a lower riser so I stopped fretting.

The weird guy who bounced off the wire on parts of his body which were definitely not meant for the experience was no stranger than the guys in the zebra suits with the afros. The cheerleaders telling me that I Wanna LUV Madonna aren't far from the truth. There's something frighteningly cheerful about her posturing and thrusting and squatting that is bizarrely over the top - girls with loincloths adorned with gigantic, bedazzled M's - and then, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, there was a snare drum marching band up there on the stage.

Madonna.... Mick Jagger.... isn't there anyone born after John Kennedy was assassinated who can be trusted to stay clothed and put on a half-time show? I'm just askin'....

*****

Bob Costas has definitely got a Dorian Gray thing going on.

*****

Clint Eastwood as a motivational speaker is chilling. Life as a Sergio Leone movie..... all that was missing from that spot was his serape.

*****

Somewhere here in the 3rd quarter, there's a 5 point difference in the game and Coke's polar bears are no less annoying than they were in the first half. I liked Toyota's reinvented couch and the rain that makes you skinnier but TBG is sitting here drooling over the new Acura NSX.... and remembering when he had the first one in Chicago... and oohing and aahing and totally understanding Seinfeld's need to have the very first one.

Boys and their toys.... seems that most of the ones I really really like have this thing (I just don't really get) about cars. They also like bacon, which makes the Jack-in-the-Box bacon-cheeseburger commercial about a guy marrying bacon just a little bit creepy.

*****

And now, at the start of the fourth quarter Tom Brady escapes a sack but throws an interception and maybe Gronkowski's ankle isn't 100%. Don't worry if you don't understand it; saying it will move you up the ranks of sports patter.

*****

The adorable rescue dog named We Go reminded me of my cousin Ricky's dog, GetAway. A miserable mutt, as my dad accurately referred to him, he did nothing as remarkable as retrieving beers from the 'fridge.... or backwards barrel rolling.

*****

The Giants scored with 57 seconds remaining in the game, putting them up by 4 and giving Tom Brady a chance to claim another Super Bowl miracle. Can the New York defensive line hold the Patriot's vaunted offense? This game just got very exciting. A dropped pass, a sacked quarterback, New England faced with 4th-and-forever as the clock winds down and there goes Tom Brady, evading tacklers and leading his receiver out of bounds. Another first down, spiking the ball to stop the clock, a defensive miscalculation putting too many men on the field, and it's down to 5 seconds remaining.

Tom Brady threw a beautiful long Hail Mary into the end zone and Gronkowski almost got a piece of it after the Giants tipped it away from Hernandez but, in the end, it was Eli Manning wearing the Super Bowl cap and hoisting the trophy over his head.

I guess I'll let Tom Brady whine just a little.

*****

I Love Me.... I Really Really Do... I Think....

2012-02-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

The main post is here. Click on over to BlogHer and comment on what the expert has to say.

As an extra incentive, there's a sweepstakes to enter, too.

So, BlogHer wants me to weigh in on these questions:

How do you practice self-acceptance and find unconditional love for yourself?

How does practicing love first help you attract more love and happiness in your life?

I'm so glad they asked. It's a topic on which I've been ruminating since I was shot 13 months ago. I was responsible for my girlfriend's daughter and something terrible happened before I could bring her home. I held her hand and I looked into her eyes and I told her that she was loved but I couldn't bring her home. Typing that used to make me sob. Today, I am smiling.

It's not that I'm not sad. I miss Christina-Taylor every day of the week. It's that I have arrived at a place of self-acceptance which, while it may not be unconditional love just yet, is coming pretty close.

I've never doubted the wisdom of taking a 9 year old to meet her Congresswoman. I'd do it again tomorrow. I never second guessed the venue; it's about as up-scale as the Northwest side of Tucson gets. I never wondered if I'd dragged an unwilling child along; her mom and I had that conversation which ended with "She loves going anywhere with you." It's the conversation I am happiest to have had.

But, still, Christina died while she was with me. Getting my brain around that fact took patience and therapy and believing that the love which was surrounding me was real. For a snarky New York heathen, that took some doing. Yes, indeed, it did. Ultimately, I had to accept the fact that the world is a scarier place than I'd imagined it possibly could be, and that, bizarrely, CTG and I had been at the center of it that Saturday morning.

Thinking out of the box never felt so relevant. I had absolutely no box in which to contain the notion that bullets had perforated my body. I was totally unprepared. That infuriated me. I took pride in the fact that life rarely surprised me. Thrown into the deep end, I'd swim to the side and figure out what to do next. Awake and immobile in a hospital bed, I vacillated between questioning and whimpering. Should I be strong? Should I give in and wail? Could I close my eyes and let Little Cuter and SIR manage what needed managing? What was the right thing to do? Who was I?

Was I the neighbor who was holding the little girl's hand? Was I the gym rat who would not let a few bullets get in her way? Was I the person sobbing uncontrollably in the shower, crying over feeling clean and feeling pain and feeling loss? Where had my sense of self gone?

The hospital brought me cards and notes which had been left at the vigil. Strangers thought I was special. People who didn't know me wished me well. I wanted to reject them but I couldn't - my heart felt warmer as I read I am sorry you got shot and We are praying for you and Stay Strong.

I'm not exaggerating about the warmth surrounding my heart. It was there, a giant hug that felt every bit as real as the pain radiating down my right side. I took my laptop and I began to write, and as I posted and readers responded I began to heal from the inside out. For the first time in my life, I was not second-guessing a compliment, not looking for the hidden agenda behind good wishes. I was raw and open and my friends and my readers and my family were there to cosset me and envelop me in their love. It would have been churlish to refuse them.

Accepting help with grace has been a challenge. Liking the person that others see when they look at me has made it much easier. I never thought that I was all that special. I was doing what I liked with the people that I liked and I never understood why some thought that what I was doing was odd... unusual... remarkable... notable. I was just me. I wasn't used to people telling me that they loved me. After all, I didn't hear it from my father until I was 41 years old.

Lying in my hospital bed, reclining on Douglas (the couch, for you newbies to The Burrow), watching the sun move across the horizon over 3 months of enforced inactivity, I had plenty of time to figure out who I was. I decided to believe the people who loved me. I decided to accept the hugs from strangers in the produce aisle. I decided that I must be worthy of affection, for surely the entire town of Tucson could not be possessed by the same form of mania. It must be real.

And, watching others take pride in my walking makes me stand up straighter and engage my quads more fully and proceed with alacrity instead of with a lurch. As I smile, others smile back. Rhonda-at-the-check-out tells me she's noticing improvements. I tell her it's because she's smiling at me.

I'm not sure that I've fully embraced the wonderfulness that others see. I've had 60 years of insecurity and that's not easy to overcome. But, as the love is returned in ever increasing degrees of amplitude, it's getting easier and easier. And, as I relax into it, as I stop apologizing and denigrating and shrugging, as I nod and agree and invite you into my world I'm realizing that, perhaps, I can allow myself to believe it, too.

2012-02-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

The world is conspiring against me.

TBG and I had 5 Guys for lunch and those jalapenos on the burger are announcing their presence with authority. I used to have a cast iron stomach. As 60 draws near, it feels more like corroded aluminum.
*****
Dr. Medine tried to make Ulysses accessible to a room filled with intelligent adults, all of whom had done the reading prior to class. He'd read a page or two aloud, his accent shifting character by character, his voice lowering as Stephen's mind wanders, his delivery precise, his elocution superb. At the end of passage he raised his head, said "Well..." and watched the room dissolve into laughter.

I know that James Joyce wrote Ulysses to be a puzzle, an encyclopedia, an ineluctable misery to the reader, but this is my fourth time through it and I'm still confused.
*****
Elizibeth is playing a basketball double header this afternoon. Her school is on the way home from class and Amster was going to have all the Littles (the blended-family-kids-younger-than-Elizibeth) and The Firefighter there to cheer her on. I was cordially invited to join them and, for a moment, I thrilled at the thought.

Then, I felt my hip reminding me that I'd been sitting for 3 hours in class and 1 hour to drive home through traffic and that stadium seating requires clambering up bleachers and that cowboy boots might not be the most appropriate footwear for a perforated person to wear while attempting that feat and then there are those jalapeno's working their way through the lining of my tummy......

I hope she understands.
*****
The temperature is rising here in the desert, and I was looking forward to feeling just a little bit cold on my trip back East. But, it was take-off-your-winter-coat weather in both Washington and Chicago and my sweater-lust was thwarted. My nose never felt cold-tingly and my fingers and toes were toasty without boots or mittens. The only up-side was that I'd forgotten my cute hat; I was sad that I'd have cold ears when I remembered on the out-bound plane that I'd left it at home. As it turned out, I needn't have worried. We had to drive out to the suburbs where Seret and Mr. Dreamy-Cakes' awaited us for dinner to see any accumulation of the white stuff.... and it was so old it was grey.
*****
I have been trying since I got home to upload my zoo pictures but my camera refuses to turn on. I've changed the batteries - twice - and shaken it and yelled at it and it still refuses to show me that little green light. I was going to end this post with a shot of a cheetah stalking the zebras in the adjoining habitat, with an appropriately adorable yet cynical caption. Alas.
*****
The world is conspiring against me. All my problems are day-to-day, humdrum problems. I don't really mind. This kind of conspiracy I can handle.

Seen at Midway Airport

2012-02-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

I am at my gate 2 hours early. Hileman-time we call it, and it's a source of amusement to our family and friends. We are never running through airports, a la O J Simpson. Instead, we stroll and snack and observe......

....the lady two chairs down who is checking the Lotto numbers with her phone on speaker. "The winning numbers for the game you have chosen are:.." Her tickets are strewn on the armrest of the chair. She played several games and I heard all the numbers. I tried to type to you but it was just too distracting.

....the gentleman in the row behind me whose customer support team is not meeting their quota and "it's my bad because I should have done it myself." He's sharing sales figures and company names and I wonder if his supervisor would be pleased to know that I am following his dealings so closely. He's got his hand in front of his mouth the way football coaches cover their play calls on the sidelines, but I'm hearing every word. I am sure his suppliers will be thrilled to know that they, at least, are on time and appropriate. I could list the employees who are disappointing him, but that would just be compounding the problem.

....the Asian girl across the way who's wearing huge headphones which she attaches serially to a tablet , a phone, and a lap top. Her Hello Kitty shopping bag is overflowing and her fingers are flying over the keys as quickly as her teeth are chomping her gum. I don't think I'll be choosing the seat next to her on this Southwest flight. No indeed.

....the young man next to me, reading a large print copy of Assholes Finish First, which, given the profanities sprinkled on the page he's turned over to face me is probably not a book I'll be picking up anytime soon.

Then, there was the kerfuffle at the security line. There were two streams of passengers once we passed the ID checkpoint, and I chose the shorter and (I thought) faster lane. I was third, behind the sandal-footed 50 year old and the pushed-in-a-wheel-chair octogenarian. It was she who gave the TSA people all the trouble. Her tiny little dog couldn't be touched by anyone who was going through the back-scatter screening booth, and the pooch was not amused. The wheel-chair-pusher had no interest - and I mean absolutely no interest - in holding the beast. The passenger was worried, the screeners were giving orders, and no one was moving, Finally, the chair and the dog went one way, the passenger went another, and the rest of us stood there shaking our heads as we were shuffled rather uncermoniously through a swinging-door and a regular scanner. Five minutes had turned into fifteen in the blink of an eye,

It's not that hard to make travel more pleasant. A smile, a "take your time," a quick answer to an obvious question, a recognition that you are not alone in the universe - these are the things that smooth the way. Today I've been treated to "Huh?" and blank stares and a moving walkway that I swear to you sped up as it was ending and nearly sent me sprawling onto the solid ground.

RIC convinced me that I'm making progress. Limping through Midway put that proposition to the test. I am exhausted but unbowed. Now, if everyone would stop sneezing........

Too Pooped to Pop

2012-01-31T06:00:00.000-07:00

Breakfast with old friends just may be my favorite thing in the world. An omelette at Yolk and two hours of conversation with people I've known since my 20's was the perfect start to a long and stressful day. We covered hip replacements and politics and John Corzine as we devoured Eggs Benedict and english muffins and green tea. It was wonderful.

I spent the afternoon at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, being evaluated and examined and pronounced perfectly healed and in need of continued exercise and massage and pilates. I must stop referring to my injured leg pejoratively. Apparently, there is research showing that thinking bad thoughts increases inflammation. Seriously.

Nance asked yesterday if I had any suggestions to make traveling while damaged more palatable. I have none. I am slower than anyone with whom I walk. I am achy and sweaty and every step is a major event. Everyone walks faster than I do. Uphill is worse than downhill, but the difference is marginal. Asking those with two working legs and hips that swivel freely to slow down or to wait while I recover is part and parcel of going anyplace with me.

I fork over cash to cabs without hesitation. I sit on every bench. If there is something to read along the way I read it.... slowly... carefully... as my muscles relax and my body temperature returns to normal. It isn't the way I normally traveled, but it's my new reality and I've come to embrace it.

I really have no choice. No matter how much I wish my quads weren't frozen and my glutes weren't screaming the reality is that they are. I have to take a moment and nothing can change that.

The key is to remember that those you love are willing to adjust their pace to your needs. They are glad that you are on the planet to share the joy of the adventure, even if the adventure is somewhat circumscribed by your limitations.

Kelly, PT extraordinaire, taught me to evaluate the threat level of the pain I feel. The clicking that's been driving me nutty is ligaments moving over a protuberance and is neither dangerous nor destructive. It's just noisy. I've been imagining it as bone scraping on bone, further destroying the joint. My imagination is creating anxiety which creates pain which creates anxiety which... well, you get the picture. I spent the walk from the hospital clicking and ignoring. It was a struggle, but one that I anticipate will become easier with time. At least, that's the plan.

My legs are the same length and my gait needs reorganizing and I'm on an onward-and-upward trajectory. Touring with my family isn't as peaceful or as speedy or the same as it used to be but I'm there to enjoy it.

So, Nance, that's my suggestion. Redefine your disability as an opportunity to stop and smell the roses. If you have to rest on the bench while your grandson frolics on ahead, so be it. You'll catch up eventually. Being too pooped to pop doesn't mean that you can't take some joy from the fact that you are there at all. After all, you have a grandson..... JEALOUS!

Traveling

2012-01-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

Typing that title,I remember standing at the blackboard (in the dark ages, before whiteboards were replaced by smart boards) and arguing with the teacherthat traveling had 2 L's, not one. I was fairly adamant aboutit, as was she. Richard Levine opened the dictionary and toldus that we were both correct as I watched the teacher shake her headand erase my extraneous (in her eyes, at least) L. She was theteacher, she was in charge, what did we know, anyway? Fifthgrade was a hard year.

Travel(l)ing witha leg and a half is hard, too. Brother and 2 of the 3 women inhis life took me to the National Zoo on Friday morning. It was60 and sunny in DC; the rain clouds were gone by the time we met upat my hotel and it was a glorious day for a walk. By the timewe got to the end of the hotel's approach road (it was much too longto be called a driveway) I was exhausted. We piled into a taxito save my hip for the hippos. $10 to cover 4 blocks;disability is expensive.

We saw thecheetahs stalking the zebras. Their habitats are next to oneanother, which seems vaguely hostile. The zebras were calmlymunching their hay as the cheetah paced and sniffed and watched andwas thwarted by the moat and the electrified barrier separating theirdomains. I know that they exist beside one another in the wild,but this just seemed mean.

The great apeswere in rare form, pulling lettuce out of balls-with-holes suspendedfrom the ceiling. Extra-long pointer fingers are very handywhen your palm is the size of a large paperback book and the hole is3" across. The baby grabbed lettuce and shared with thegrown-ups; good manners are apparently a cross-species trait.

Staring into theeyes of the silverback, thinking about the Harry's Law episode wherethe client wants to establish an ape's personhood soshe can adopt an escapee, Brother and I pondered the joy and thesorrow of watching our genetically related neighbors living behindplexiglass. Zoos do that to me - I am never sure just how Ifeel about the whole on exhibit thing.

The zoo, likeWashington itself, is not flat. The animals have lots of roomto roam, the paths are wide and nicely paved, and there are benchesalong the route. That was a good thing for my achy hip and me. Brother began to worry as the sweat began pouring down mycheeks; was I in pain and keeping quiet so as not to disturb ourlovely morning? Not at all; walking is sweaty exercise for me.I feel every muscle, every insertion, every contraction andexpansion. I compare and contrast as I attempt to duplicate onthe right what my left side is doing without effort; sometimes Iactually succeed. Being questioned about my rolling gait servesto remind me to balance my hips and use my foot and ankle.

Strolling didn'tused to be this hard.

There's an O-linebetween the Great Apes's domain and the Think Tank. I know. I know. That sentence doesn't make much sense. It would have been equallyopaque to me before Friday. The O-line is a series of towers andwire-ropes over which the apes travel to the research station 200yards away. In the Think Tank, keepers and scientists are analyzingthe thinking patterns of their charges. With computerizedpicture-matching exercises the animals behind bars perform for thoseuncaged. It wasn't very crowded and we were an interested audienceas the volunteer docent followed us from area to area, bringing us up to date on the latest in primate research while holding a plasticape-skull under her arm.

The only thingmissing was Daddoooo. He would have loved it.

The clouds hadrolled in while we were inside, and Kyle-the-orang utan (yes, it'stwo words in Borneo-ese and, respectfully, at the Zoo, too) had to becoaxed outdoors. Across the wires he went, resting on the towerswith their electrified bases to keep him atop and not on the pathbelow. The keepers warned us to stay out from under the wires; orangutans urinate at will and she didn't want us to take a smelly shower.

Iwas, once again, delighted and sad. Kyle was swinging and loping andstopping and looking and doing the bidding of the humans who keephim. The science being done at our National Zoo will change ourperceptions of what thinkingreally is. I just wish there were a way for our genetic neighbors tohelp without being held hostage.

On the other hand,there aren't many predators lurking in the shadows, waiting to snatchan ape-baby for brunch. Like most of life, it's a trade-off.

I had to be backat the hotel for a 1:30 meeting so we started uphill at noon. Sweatyand smiling, I set benchmarks for distances I would travel. If Icould get to the next intersection I'd allow myself to rest. If Icould get to the benches I'd let myself sit. Brother and the ladieswere accomodating and understanding and appropriately sympathetic. There was no coddling, but no one was pushing me, either. Goodrelatives are to be cherished.

Werested while watching the cheetah (or chiquitaas one employee called them) pace and the zebra chew and I had achance to marvel at the wonder of a free animal exhibit right in themiddle of town. Washington's full of magnificent freebies, but I dobelieve that the National Zoo is my favorite.

Oh,yes, we did take a cab back to the hotel. My hip was definitely donefor the day. I didn't feel sorry for myself, though. I'd walked fortwo hours and heard Brother wonder why I was setting such a speedypace. Impressed that I was confounding and not annoying, I merelysmiled and reminded him that I was, in fact, aspeedy little devil.

I guess Daddooooowas around after all. That's what he used to call me.

The Marriage Plot - a review

2012-01-27T06:21:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading The MarriagePlot. Jeffrey Eugenides's story follows three twenty-somethings asthey graduate from Brown and dip their toes into the world ofadulthood circa 1983. Their paths are unpaved and unwashed anduncertain. The two men are damaged and their female love interest isjust about perfect and life goes on around them as they struggle tofigure out which direction their futures will take.

Living with mental illness is the spineof this story, although an argument could be made (as I did to myselfbefore I put fingers to keys this afternoon) for marriage orthe-search-for-one's-true-self as the over-arching theme. But thecharacters' intersection with religion and marriage are impacted byLeonard's manic-depression. His illness is untouched by anything.

Drug therapy and academia and privateschool girls and Mother Teresa are all on the receiving end ofEugenides' reproving tongue. Class differences and financialsecurity, alcoholism and recreational drug use, scientificinvestigations and literary allusions, needing and avoiding parentalunits – when I organize my thoughts on the novel in this way Iwonder how I managed to make my way through it. It seems sodepressing.

Beingmarried to depression, asMadeleine describes her relationship with Leonard, is hard to readabout. I found myself screaming (silently, since I was in theairport lounge), urging this bright and talented young woman toextricate herself from the situation with alacrity. The world washer oyster; what made her tie herself to madness? And then I foundmyself hollering at Mitchell, agreeing with him that bathingsuppurating wounds in Mother Teresa's Home for the Destitute Dyingwas probably not the way he wanted to spend his summer. I hadcompassion for him, running up the stairs and out into the sunlight,leaving the needy behind, taking care of his own soul first.

He was disappointedin himself. I thought he was taking a healthy step forward. It wasthe same step that I wished Madeleine would take, too.

And then Mitchellfell under Leonard's spell, just for a conversation in a back room ata party neither of them was much interested in attending, and myperspective was altered. As Mitchell began to see what Maddy loved,I, too, began to let go of my anger.

It's no one'sfault. Mental illness happens. The consequences are brutal anddifficult and they have sharp, jagged edges on which everyone getscaught. When suicide seems like an acceptable response, when runningfrom the unsolvable presents itself as the healthiest solution, ittakes an author with the delicate touch of Jeffrey Eugenides to bringit all together in a simple, elegant,all-of-a-sudden-but-I-saw-it-coming conclusion.

It's a book aboutdoing the right thing. That's a subject about which I've beenthinking a lot, lately. The Marriage Plot gave me some pointers onhow to proceed with my examination of the subject. I'll keep youposted on my progress. For now, I'm going to work on loving myfellow man while maintaining my own personal space. I think that'sthe lesson I was supposed to take away.........

*****

This was going tobe a two book review; Walter Mosely was on Fresh Air as I drove tothe airport and I bought his latest book for my Kindle Fire. Amazonmade it all too simple to part with $9.99 so that I could have thebook right here right now. My plan was to read it on the first legand to srite about it on this, the second leg, of my trip to DC. Unfortunately, the Kindle ran out of juice and powered off somewherein the middle of Chapter 10. I am sitting here staring at a smallblack device which is hiding my book behind a lack of power. Icannot remember ever being so frustrated. So, denizens, I apologizefor a shorter than usual post today. I knew I should've stuck tobooks on paper. Grrrrr.......

My Hero

2012-01-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

She's the feel good story of the day. I'm honored to be attached to her coattails.

"I miss you" was the operant phrase, and for the first time I saw on Rep. Giffords' face just how big a toll this decision was taking. Saying goodbye is never easy. Leaving a good job isn't either. Watching her sit and stand, faux-clapping and looking brave, my heart was heavy.

Literally. I never knew that phrase in such a visceral sense before watching my Congresswoman mount the stairs to the Speaker's chair. My hip hurt for her as she lugged her unresponsive side up two or three of the biggest highest most torturous steps ever created. She teetered.... I gasped.... and TBG and I both exhaled "Oh, Mark!" as our brains went immediately to her husband, entrusting the safety of the person he cares most about in the whole wide world to John Boehner and Debbie Wasserman Schulz.

Sometimes you have to have been-there-done-that to know just how anxious even an astronaut might be in a moment like that. I could feel the vibes across town from the other 11 survivors and their families. She's one of us and we need to be sure that she's safe.

Sure, there's an odd election cycle created by her decision; I'm not averse to more conversation on the direction our country should take. Besides, Congresswoman Giffords resigned so that I could be represented, so that my voice could be heard. It's vaguely unseemly, it seems, (sorry, I couldn't resist).... it's awkward to second guess a woman for whom this decision has been all consuming, don't you think? If Gabby thought resigning today was the right thing to do, I won't question her judgment.

I wrote more about Gabby for BlogHer. Click here if you want more of my thoughts on her retirement.

Attiring the Bride

2012-01-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'm on my way out of town this weekend. My travels will take me to Washington, DC and Chicago. I have to stop in Chicago; Little Cuter and I have a date to shop for wedding dresses.

For most normal mothers and daughters, this would be a moment of great joy and delight. Much girlish giggling and motherly adoration would be dispensed. Ball gowns and 20' trains and veils with flowery halos holding them in place would be examined lovingly. The moment would be the culmination of years of wistful drooling over the Vows section of The Sunday New York Times.

Unfortunately for us, we are missing the bride gene. We are stumbling in the dark. MOTG saw the look of distress on Little Cuter's face last summer and with her gentle and loving assistance, other venues and locations were considered and rejected. Her mother-in-law-to-be helped my little girl shift perspectives and find suitable alternatives which ultimately led to a smaller yet every bit as wonderful event that we will host in the Fall. Without MOTG's guidance, we might never have moved on. With her in our lives, we smile and relax into her zen space, emailed to me in response to my post worrying about the weather in September

If it rains, we will get wet, but the kids will be happily married and we will have something to laugh about in years to come!

Happily married kids.... who could ask for anything more?

Now we just have to be clothed. Shoes have been discussed and decided upon. A hairstyle was crafted over Thanksgiving. I know she doesn't want a ball gown (think Cinderella) and I heard her mention something about wearing a shade of white and feeling sorry that J Crew didn't have a bridal outlet here in Tucson but I'm not going into the shopping spree with any more facts than that.

I think that's fine. It's not my dress, not my wedding, not my day. We're not even going shopping in my city. I wonder why I'm so stressed?

Perhaps I am channeling my own wedding dress shopping experience. I grew up knowing that Daddooooo would be making my gown; after all, he was the owner of Independent Bridal Gowns, Inc. Margie-the-designer would design it and the old Italian man behind the gigantic wooden cutting table would lay out the fabric and use the world's sharpest shears to scallop the material and I would sit on a high stool, with tiny scissors in my hand, cutting along the edges of the lace medallions which would adorn my dress. "The Girls" - 50 year old ladies in support hose - would stitch it on their black and gold sewing machines and then the beader would get to work.

In the end, when it was finished and Al-the presser had ironed it smooth, I'd twirl in the showroom, the three-way mirror reflecting me back to myself over and over and over again.

Unfortunately, the business went bankrupt before I tied the knot. I had to shop in a store. Daddooooo had maintained a relationship with a shopkeeper nearby, and it was to her that I went, picture from Bride's Magazine in hand, with G'ma and Daddooooo hovering in my wake. She had the dress, I loved it as much in reality as I had in photography, I was happy and twirling.

My parents looked stricken.

In retrospect, it's fairly obvious that they were reeling. This was not how they had imagined my wedding planning would unfold. I noted their discomfort and moved on. They were never really happy, never far from anger or disappointment, so this was nothing new. Had I wished for it to be a special occasion I might have been sadder. But I knew what I was getting into when I plopped myself down in the back seat of Daddooooo's Oldsmobile (with the orange duct tape still covering the rear light I'd smashed the year before) as we set out on our shopping adventure. I just wanted to get through the afternoon without anyone being brought to tears. In our family, that was a successful outing.

I know Little Cuter and I won't make one another cry. We've gotten pretty good at letting the other know when she is approaching the edge of acceptable behavior. I'll be so happy to be on the back end of my trip, surrounded by the love that only an engaged couple can shower on a maternal unit, that I won't even bat an eyelash if this is the dress she chooses.

Credits: Robert Schlesinger/EPA

If it rains, she'll be perfectly attired for the pool.

And, after all, it's not my wedding.

Random Thoughts

2012-01-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

The San Francisco 49'ers lost a heart-breaker Sunday night. Big Cuter can now attend his conference (in Paris... poor baby) without feeling that he's leaving his team in the lurch. Personally, I am reveling in the success of a quarterback who actually graduated from college (a semester early) with Deans' List grades. Smart rules!
*****
The Fox Theatre was going to be the venue for Sunday's movies-in-the-afternoon-with-the-girls because I thought that the original 3:10 to Yuma was on the schedule. Turns out that Russel Crowe was going to be on the big screen, not Glenn Ford and Van Heflin. I was looking forward to seeing an old movie in an old theatre and sharing the joy with Elizibeth, my favorite teenager. Instead, we shifted our sights to the local mall and Marky Mark. Am I the only one who remembers the hoopla over his underwear ad in Times Square?

http://markyadvertising.tripod.com/

*****
I am now the proud possessor of a Kindle Fire. Big Cuter taught me how to turn it on. He did the registration. Yesterday, I spent the better part of an hour trying to figure out how to download a library book. I started out with a specific title in mind but after a while I was willing to take anything that was more interesting than a tool manual. I don't have a touch screen phone or other portable device, and maybe that was part of my problem. I couldn't find the internet and once I did find it I couldn't type in the search box and then the links wouldn't open and when I began entertaining fantasies of throwing the thing across the room I went to the bookshelf, took down Three Theban Plays, and immersed myself in the ancients.

I may make an offering to the Oracle at Delphi before I begin to tackle it again.
*****
The finches have begun their migration back in our direction. I am no longer fretting that I never got to removing the berry pods from the crepe myrtle outside my window. There's a frenzy of finches gobbling sustenance and swaying on the thin branches of my un-pruned plant which they see as their own private delicatessen.
*****

photo: Congresswoman. Giffords' Office

Gabby Giffords held the rest of that Congress on Your Corner this morning. You remember, the one that was interrupted by bullets on January 8, 2011?

She was frail and tentative as she walked into the conference room in her soon-to-be-shuttered brand new office, but her smile lit the room as she was introduced to those of us who were standing in line that morning a year ago.

What a loss. What a waste. She is better than I had hoped and no where near ready to return to Congress. Accepting her change of status with grace cannot have been easy.

I shook hands with a real hero this morning, denizens.

The Right Stuff

2012-01-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

Go ahead. Watch it. Your boss won't mind, I'm sure. Just lean to one side and let her look over your shoulder at those luminous eyes, let him hear that strong and fragile voice. You'll share a sigh and move on, knowing that you just saw someone do the right thing.

In a political environment filled with vitriol and blather, Congresswoman Giffords gives us two minutes of warmth and promise. Barbed wire never looked this good.

If wishing could make it so, this video would be Gabrielle Giffords announcing her return to Congress. If determination and grit and will were enough... if there had been .....if only. Alas, as Gabby says, we can't change it.

In between football and Joe Paterno and Marky Mark at the movies, Amster received a text and an email and JannyLou left me two messages. The news was traveling like wildfire. I sat in the dark booth at lunch, eyes pressed to a smartphone, as my Congresswoman said goodbye.

She belongs to herself and to her husband now. The piece that she shared with her constituents is closed to us now. She has no obligations, no responsibilities, no duties to perform. She has one job and one job only - to heal. Her path is long and rocky and requires her focus. The journey cannot be rushed, only coaxed along, urged to move onward in a positive direction. Time will tell. Until then, and from then on, she must be vigilant in protecting her gains and resisting the losses.

Having heard this message quite often over the past 13 months, I know it's not easy to integrate. It took Gabby as long as it's taken me to figure it out, it seems. Coming to terms with what you cannot do right now no matter how much you want to do it and want to do it as well and as simply as you were able to before... well, it's a big one to swallow.

I'm all bent out of shape over hiking and gardening and heavy lifting. No one but my family and friends is affected by my inability to perform in those arenas. My heart aches for Gabby, whose decisions reverberate in households all over the county. It's tough enough to handle within the confines of your inner circle, but when governance is involved there's another layer entirely. When she's not at work, neither is my civic voice.

So, take your time, Congresswoman. Concentrate on the things your therapists suggest and don't worry about us. We'll be fine. Relax into your early 40's with an emphasis on re-establishing yourself on firm footing and come back to us when you're ready. We'll be there, just as we are now.

In the meantime, thanks for those smiles at the end of your video. I'm hitching my spirits to yours, if you don't mind.

The Magic of Massage

2012-01-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

Shannon came into our lives at UMC, in the ICU. Arriving at the hospital before 7am, she was the only massage therapist able to get past the security guards and up to the floor where the families were gathered, overwhelmed and under-prepared, struggling with surgeries and breathing tubes and fear. She set up her table in The Zen Room, a quiet place for families to escape the hubub of the machinery which was saving the lives of someone they loved. It was dimly lit and silent.

TBG found his way there sometime between my first and second surgeries. I imagine he'd had a meal or two in between doctors telling him what else they were going to do to me. He and Little Cuter and SIR never left me alone, and the strain was taking its toll. Walking down the hallway, spying Shannon and her table, he went into the room and began to heal.

For a brief moment, it was all about him. How was he doing? What parts hurt him right now... or, the shorter list, which parts were fine? A few probing questions, a gentle invitation to get comfortable, and my husband was connected to therapeutic touch and his own grief.

It was a magical moment. For both of them.

Shannon Leigh Haskie hasn't had an easy life. She knows what it took to get to where she is. She feels your struggles and your worries and knows just what your body does with them. Her strong hands tackled the sorrow in TBG's heart as she manipulated his tendons and ligaments.

Providing a safe place - to relax, to let go, to submit to another's touch - that is, for me, the essence of a great massage. Shannon's got it down. Just ask my husband.

Weeks after I was discharged, when my family allowed me unfettered access to Facebook once more, I groaned aloud at another unknown-to-me-person friended me. I had gotten used to rejecting these requests - which arrived in alarming numbers as my public persona grew and grew - but this time I said the name out loud: "Who the hell is Shannon Leigh Haskie?" as I groaned and went to reject the request.

TBG's voice interrupted my pattern. "Friend her right now!" said he. The delight on his face was mesmerizing; I couldn't tear my eyes away from the absolute joy he felt upon reconnecting with the woman who had given him his first moments of peace. It was magical.

I friended her and we chatted and then TBG talked as I typed his words of welcome-to-our-lives and we set up a time for her to bring her healing hands to our home.... for the friends and family rate because that was all I could get her to agree to accept .... she, wanting to heal us for free.... her compensation being the renewed strength and lightness we felt after her hands left our bodies.

And, denizens, let me tell you that after her massages I glide across the living room floor, carrying heavy plates and sloppy glasses, and I feel no pain. She puts her fingers in-between the layer of stickiness and stuckness and pressing-on-itself-ness and I breathe deeply and suddenly there's a release and I am moving like an unperforated person once again.

Though she's the mother of a (pretty remarkable) teenager, I still feel like she's a kid; I offer advice freely. And she listens. I have rarely encountered a person who is so willing to accept a challenge to what she thinks is right. She has a strong inner compass, and never shies away from the hard work that needs to be done to get to the place that she wants to go.

Can you tell that I think she's really special?

Today is the grand opening of her studio - Precision Touch Therapy - and she's offering $40/60 minute massages to introduce herself and her two (totally fabulous, Cortiva trained) colleagues. This is not your usual massage, Tucsonans. This is therapy. These hands are intelligent, thoughtful, precise and helpful. They work with you to figure out what is needed and how best to approach it - another Goldilocks moment, it's neither too hard nor too soft.... it's just right.

The studio - created by her landlord, IKEA and her lady electrician - has Meisha at the receptionist's desk and all the toys and bells and whistles you'll find at La Paloma and The Ritz.... for a much more reasonable price. Heated towels and neck rests, scented oils, heat packs and candle light and it's all included in the price of the massage. It's an intimate space. You're not given a number, you're escorted to your room or the totally comfy couch, offered water... and anything else you might need.

Nestled between a coffee shop and a Subway, you can fuel yourself on either end of your treatment. The coffee shop is having its grand opening tonight, Friday the 20th. Shannon will be in her studio if you stop in to say Hi. Tell her I sent you.... I guarantee you'll get a great big hug.

*friended - sent a message asking for access to my on-line Facebook life

Sledding

2012-01-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

For some reason or other, I came to the keyboard this afternoon thinking about sledding. Perhaps it was the season's worth of snow CNN showed me being dumped on Seattle today. Perhaps it was JenniJazz and her pooch striding out on the road in front of my picture window. Perhaps it's the fact that it is January, the middle of winter, and my body is longing for puffy flakes falling on my face. Whatever its genesis, I have the distinct feeling of missing the snow. Little Cuter's email last week said it best

I love how it quiets the city down and makes everything look like Narnia.

Don't get me wrong, there is no way that I want to live with ice underfoot and feet of crystals to be shoveled. But every once in a while I get to remembering.....

G'ma putting on her woolen hat with the earflaps and her red flannel jacket with the zillions of pockets and lacing her shoes up while sitting on the steps in the front hall. Daddooooo was tossing gloves and scarves and mittens down from the top shelf of the closet as Brother begged to be let back into the house. Unfortunately for him, the front door didn't open if the closet was in use; Daddooooo was fond of stating, in stentorious tones, that two things can't occupy the same space now can they? It made us all nutty.

Once we were dressed and in the car - no seatbelts or front seat restrictions to worry us - Daddoooo invariably disappeared, checking or rechecking or generally making a nuisance of himself.... as G'ma made abundantly if silently clear. By the time he returned, the grown ups were doing a pretty good job of putting a damper on our enthusiasm, but kids and sled and snow are a pretty unstoppable combination when it comes to glee. Our trips to Bethpage and the hills of the golf course were usually pretty gay affairs.

If it were a Sunday, the Metropolitan Opera would be on WQXR. Daddooooo would conduct; "Two hands on the wheel, Herbert" is my acoustic backdrop to opera on the radio to this day. G'ma continued to kvetch, we continued to squeal, and shortly we were in the parking lot, finding a space right at the entrance to the park because G'ma has the most amazing parking karma on the planet and no one can be in a bad mood when you are out of the car and on your sled while other families are still driving around and around.

Yes, there was a bit of schadenfreude attached to the whole scene, but such was my life on Long Island in the 1950's.

According to about.com, the highest elevation on Long Island is at Jayne's Hill (a.k.a. High Hill), which rises to an underwhelming 400 feet above sea level. We're not talking black diamond runs on our flexible flyers, denizens. Daddoooo would start us out pulling our own sleds, but my little sister was too slow and my brother refused to follow a straight path (some things never change, even over decades) and I thought they were all delaying us on purpose so before long he had us tied together, one sled behind the other, all three of us hollering MUSH as he pulled us across the frozen tundra.

G'ma stayed in the clubhouse, drinking hot chocolate and wondering when we'd be done.

Flexible Flyers were the Ferrari's of the hill, and we had 2 of them. Our third conveyance was Daddooooo's original sled from his childhood. Its black runners were just a little bit bigger than the Flyers' and the steering was just a little bit stiffer. There was a curved seat back and an extremely soft rope which, closing my eyes just now I could imagine in my hands.

Instead of lying on my stomach, face inches from the snow, steering with my palms on the rudder, on Daddooooo's sled I was upright, feet securely braced, steering down the hill with the rope in my hands and my eyes scanning for the bottom. Was it the SUV of sleds? Probably. I loved it.

We knew the back way to the best hills and those times in the trees were special for me. We'd arrive at the top of the hill, spared one trip lugging our sleds behind us. We'd take a moment to scope out the scene. Who were the crazy kids, going sideways in front of the rest? We'd avoid them for sure. Where were the little kids, likely to be going much too slowly to make lining up behind them worthwhile? Where was the fastest lane... the bumpiest lane.... the longest ride? Which one would take me past Daddooooo, who would try to pull my hat off as I flew by?

Up and down and up and down and I never remember being tired or cold. I was alone on the hill but safely under my Daddy's watchful eye. I was going fast and I was in control. Sometimes we'd pile on top of one another, the kid at the bottom doing the steering as those above tried to stay put. It was marvelous.

Someone was always hungry or thirsty or needed a bathroom and G'ma was waiting and we could stop at Nathan's on the way home so when it was time to go it was time to go. We were sleepy and red-cheeked and falling on one another in the backseat as Daddooooo took the turns just a little bit too quickly so that we could continue to feel the sleds going left and right and bUmP and hear the whooosh and feel the cold and why not roll down that window because we're all overdressed anyhow?

I was 8.

Joy Embedded in 2 Mini Book Reviews

2012-01-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

It has been such a long time since I've had a chance to read for pleasure. In the last year gunshots and recovery and a consequent lack of concentration found me, for the first time in my adult life, with no novels on my "to be read" shelf and no desire to find any to fill the spaces.

Once my brain started to function again, I found myself taking two Humanities Seminars at the UofA. Between the history of the fall of the Roman Republic and an exploration of humans' expression of consciousness I barely had time to keep up with Doonesbury. Once classes ended for the semester, I was busy with brownies and holidaze and family and taking a quiet moment for myself was out of the question.

Then, suddenly, everyone was gone and the house was back to normal and the Stroll and Roll was planned and executed and I had time. My first stop on my first regular day was the Nanini branch of the Pima County Library.

The literary gods rained ambrosia on me. James Patterson. John Lescroart. Geraldine Brooks. The first two newly published oeuvres - January 2012 means hot off the presses - and the third a novel I'd missed reviewing for BlogHer last year. I clutched them to my bosom and made a beeline for home.

I didn't check my phone messages, didn't look at email, never got the snail mail from the box out by the road. I took Mr. Patterson and Ms. Paetro, his co-author, out to the back yard and fell blissfully into the life of the world's most gorgeous and effective private investigator.

Private: #1 Suspect was a good place to start after so long a hiatus. James Patterson's plots involve me from the first page, and the characters are so well drawn that I never find myself wondering which one is married to whom and who's the lawyer and who drives the Cooper. He writes about individuals and conveys their quirks with a minimum of exposition; he defines the maxim I try to live up to: show, don't tell.

Every sigh has meaning. There is nothing extraneous. I am never tempted to skip ahead to see if anything is going to happen; something is always happening. Plus, it all happens within 2 or 3 hours of reading time. I'm blissfully unaware of my surroundings for just enough of the day. It's a Goldilocks Moment - just right.

Just as my favorite television shows have more interesting back stories than weekly plots (ie. White Collar), the loves and lives of the folks attached to Jack Morgan reappear in this second installment of the series. Their images are here on my desk as I type to you - Colleen and Tommy and the woes and worries they carry. It's telling that I'm in the middle of another novel right now and yet Private's characters are with me still.

And what might that other novel be? The Hunter is John Lescroart's latest slice of San Francisco, and it's every bit as readable as the rest of his work. Once again, the back stories are as vivid as the main plot line - couples have split, families have grown - and the characters are sitting in the black leather chair, waiting for me to stop typing and re-join them as the fog rolls in. San Francisco is every bit as much of a character as is Wyatt Hunt, another absolutely gorgeous and wildly successful private investigator. The story is told with love and care. Harshness is tempered by love in a realistic if improbable situation.

Is that possible? Can something be improbably and realistic? I'm going to cogitate on that for a while and then go back to my story. It's nice to have someone else do the heavy lifting for a while. I'm going to relax and be taken wherever Mr. Lescroart's intertwined-between-books characters want to lead me. I know I won't be disappointed.

Feeling Safe - The Arizona Rangers and Me

2012-01-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

photo: Darlene Danehy

Last week's Stroll and Roll was an unmitigated success. Throngs of Tucsonans joined GRIN and the Christina-Taylor Green Memorial Foundation for three hours of exercise and side-walk chalk and hugs. It was a magical way to make lemonade out of lemons, and TBG and I were determined to do just that.

Photo : David Sanders

I admit to a certain level of trepidation, though. My last outing on a sunny Saturday morning in early January didn't have a happy ending. This year, though I would be more wary, I was carrying a heightened sense of alert... alarm... okay.... fear. I was scared to go out in public. I was going to do it, but I was going to be scared.

That was the case until I ventured west of the freeway to the offices of the Pima County Department of Transportation, home of some of the loveliest public servants with whom I have ever had the pleasure to work. After rolling up the maps and finalizing the list of things I had to do before the sun set, I couldn't resist any longer - I had to ask Marshall Beaty about the badge and the pictures on his wall.

The photographs he had were similar to this one

which I copied from the website of the Arizona Rangers just for you. Mr. Beaty had one with his granddad (or great grand.... I was so awestruck that the facts are just a little bit blurry)... a real original Arizona Ranger.

Yep, I was sitting across the desk from a real Ranger, a Ranger descended from Rangers, and he has the shiny badge on his wall to prove it. This is real history, denizens, and I'm here to share it with you today.

Plagiarizing once again from their website, the Rangers were created because

(w)hile some of the criminals (who escaped detection by law enforcement and civilization) continued to operate as lone wolves and others work in bands, certain isolated areas of the Southwest - by reason of their location - tended to become gathering points for outlaws. Frequently there was a sort of loose organization among those who gathered in a given area and sometimes the organizational setup became so well formed as to constitute a gang.

It was for the purpose of ridding Arizona of such individual criminals and criminal gangs that the Arizona Rangers were created. Their objectives were to hunt down and capture the lone wolves and members of the gangs, to clear the areas in which criminals congregated and make them safe for settlement by law abiding citizens and to discourage the riffraff of the rest of the country to seek refuge in Arizona.

The Rangers also acted as a state police force to help enforce law when local authority was overtaxed. And they supplemented the activities of the then inadequate United States Border patrol.

I especially like the part I highlighted - discouraging the riffraff is a damn fine idea if you ask me.

I imagine it's 1903 and Sgt Clarence Beaty is chasing desperadoes through the wash behind what is now my house. I looked at his son's son's son and saw the same determination, the same confidence, the same desire to make my town safe for settlement by law abiding citizens. Marshall suggested that I assuage my fears by calling Lt.Col. James (Spud) Hester, the State Adjutant. The Rangers, he was sure, would be glad to help.

And they were, denizens. Yes, they were. All volunteers, who supply their own uniforms and weapons and transportation, they are committed to providing support for those youth organizations and activities which contribute to the development of youth in matters of good morals and good citizenship (and) to support activities which, in the judgment of the voting membership, are deemed to be of benefit to all parties involved.

Look at my husband's face as he is thanking the Rangers for being my personal protection detail. Is there any doubt that there is benefit to all the parties involved? Those guys in the big black hats totally understood why we needed them there.

photo: Darlene Danehy

We're talking to Captain Leigh Lundberg, the Company Commander and my personal hero of the morning. He and his men never left my side.

photo: Darlene Danehy

The last tenet of the Rangers' creed is to engage in activities which tend to keep alive the traditions of the Old West. How's this for an old western photo?

photo: Little Cuter

Thank you, Arizona Rangers. You had my back and I appreciate it more than words can say.

photo: Darlene Danehy

We Just Sat There

2012-01-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

Spending the morning at the VA Ambulatory Surgery center shouldn't have been an emotional experience. Amster was having a pin removed from her foot and I was transportation and emotional support. She's got a spasm in her neck and 4 kids to supervise this evening, so I'm on duty til everyone is asleep. The morning piece was supposed to be the easy part.

There weren't enough chairs for the waiting family and friends. No one standing was older or more infirm than I am, so I remained comfortably ensconced in my oversized arm-chair, feeling no guilt at all. The WWII vet smiling at me across the room, the young couple sharing the tiny love seat, the older couple holding hands as he waited to be called - we were a lovely, calm, relaxed group of 25 adults and one sleeping infant sharing a space.

CNN, broadcasting from a tiny flat screen in the corner above the Family Consult room, seemed like a good choice to me. Politically middle of the road, it is easily ignorable in the way that a show-with-a-plot might not be. Perhaps it's that TBG has the news on as constant background noise at home, but I was oblivious to the content as I checked my email and read Nance's take on Highly Sensitive People and JES's review of my friend Booker T It was a calm and peaceful morning.

Gainfully occupied on Nellie the Notebook, I was only aware of him after he stood up, but there he was, a 30-something-vet-with-a-limp, asking the television what the fuss was all about. Why shouldn't those Marines have urinated on terrorists? What was the problem?

And then, turning to the rest of us, he nodded and included us in his rant by saying "Right?"

We sat there. Each and every one of us just sat there. I watched as this damaged young man sat back down and shook his head. I noticed that we were all shaking our heads.

The young couple on the love seat met my eyes as we mouthed "NO!" to one another. But it was a silent disagreement. The WWII vet's wife and I exchanged rueful sighs and shrugs, wondering what possible good could come from such a disrespectful event, but we were quiet. No one responded to the question on the table.

Had we been sitting closer, I might have engaged him in conversation. I might have asked the why's and the when's and gotten nearer to figuring out how he could imagine that lowering oneself to one's basest parts only serves to diminish, not enhance. I probably wouldn't have changed his mind, but I would have tried.

This morning, from across the room, I just sighed. I knew that even were I sitting right next to him I would have kept my head down and my eyes on the keyboard and I would not have said a word. Not a single one. I'm not looking for any arguments these days.

And as I sit here, typing and ranting, safely at my keyboard, out of harm's way, I wonder if this isn't the most profound change in my life over the past year. I am actually thinking before I speak. This is a good thing. I am considering whether or not my actions will result in my injury and that is also a good thing. I am examining the world around me and deciding if I should procede... also a good thing.... or so I thought.... but I'm fairly certain that before being perforated I might not have spoken directly to the shouter, but my disapproval would have been more noticeable.

I would not have let the moment go un-noted. Were Christina-Taylor with me, our conversation about the issue would have been respectful but not hushed. Or so I imagine. I'm not angry with myself, I'm not berating my lack of action, I'm not anything other than surprised at the turns my life has taken. There is no roadmap. I'm making it up on the fly.

Time passed and so did our moment and soon CNN moved on to other stories and the young couple and I discussed their generation's ability/desire/need/expectation to live life in public.... out loud... assuming that everything will find its way to everyone else one way or another.I quoted Daddooooo's maxim: If you don't want it published on the front page of the New York Times then don't do it. They nodded in agreement.

So, given that mantra, given that I have a forum (albeit not quite The Paper of Record), and given that I have my response already prepared, here, in the spirit of better late than never is what I would have said to him:

I would not be surprised to learn that these 4 Marines were once pretty nice guys. War changes people in profound ways. But some things ought to be hard-wired, it seems to me. Whether it's Jiminy Cricket on your shoulder giving you good advice, or your grandmother wagging her finger in your face, or the fear of embarrassment in The Grey Lady's headline, I think that if we trust you to hold a weapon in our name, we ought to be able to trust you to know right from wrong.

And if you're not sure, because, perhaps, the fog of war has skewed your perspective, then can't we at least trust you to err on the side of caution? No matter how full your bladder was at the time.

That uniform represents me and mine. Your actions most certainly do not.

Channelling Daddooooo

2012-01-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

My dad was really good with little kids. I mean, he was really really good with them. He knew just what to say, he knew just what would be interesting, and he was never afraid to allow them to push themselves to the limit. In the workshop, as the parent of one of those kids, it was hard to watch as my little one wielded a saw. Her look of triumph as the wood fell into two neat slices almost kinda sorta made up for the fact that my heart was lodged permanently in my throat.

I was on CBS last week, sharing the love with Ms. Levine's English-language-learners, and watching myself climb up the ladder to the loft bed we use as a cozy place to read I just had to laugh. There was no way that taking myself up there, in my cowboy boots, with a thigh that resists coming parallel to the floor, was a good idea. But the kids were up there and so was The Snowy Day and we know that book and my presence was requested so up I went.

Do you think it might be genetic?

My dad was the grown-up playing stickball after dinner in the street with the kids.... up until the kids grew to be about 8 or 9 and began to realize that he was changing the rules so that he could win. As the older ones drifted away from his nonsense, a new crowd of younger siblings took their place. I watched as the littlest little ones looked on in awe as he handed them a hammer and a nail and a block of wood and let them loose to wreak havoc on the garage floor. As he respected their abilities, they lived up to his expectations. I don't remember anyone ever being injured. I do remember quite a few birdhouses being crafted and painted on that work bench.

There's a piece of Daddooooo in GRIN, too. He was never one to sit around, watching the world go by. He was always busy. ADHD? Somewhere on the autism spectrum? His immutable character? Born in 1916 he was never diagnosed as anything other than obnoxious, though those report cards with straight A's in academics and straigh 0's in conduct might have given someone an idea that there was a screw loose somewhere. Instead, he was left to his own devices. Some were more successful than others, and the ones that were most successful were the ones which involved people decades younger than he.

For a few years, his best friend on our block was the 5 year old grand-daughter of the lawyer across the street. She'd ring the bell at 7am, wondering if Herbie could come out to play. Those were times when his face was a seamless mask of joy.

As I bought sidewalk chalk and reassured TBG that both the Sheriff's Department and the Parks and Rec people had signed off on its use on the pathway, I felt my dad at my shoulder, bolstering my position. So what if there was a bit of a mess. Were the kids having fun? Yeah? Then what were we worrying about?

Though the students in Ms. Levine's room are unaware of it, my dad is with me there, too. He's the guiding force not only behind my climbing an inappropriate ladder but in asking the kids to help me get down. We got me into this predicament, we'd better get me out of it. No, we didn't need help from the grown-ups. This was our problem and we'd solve it ourselves. I promised not to fall. Through the laughter and the tumult and the anxiety of the reporter and the crew who were watching me put myself at risk at (they surmised) their request, only I knew why I was up there.

Daddooooo was watching to see if I could do it. I was not going to disappoint him.

Maya, Dr. Fry, and Me

2012-01-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

I seem to be a sucker for poetry in the wintertime. Last year it was Billy Collins. Today it was Maya Angelou. I'm thinking of making this an annual mental excursion. My brain is a-twitter with the rhythm and the rhyme and the grace and the depth of Ms. Angelou's words as spoken by William Fry, Ph.D.
The Happy Ladies Club monthly luncheon speaker, Dr. Fry, according to The Learning Curve brochure, is an award-winning literature professor. From my personal experience this afternoon, I can add brilliant interpreter of the poet's words. It was a pleasure to be in the room with him.

He read us They Went Home:

They went home and told their wives,
that never once in all their lives,
had they known a girl like me,
But... They went home.

They said my house was licking clean,
no word I spoke was ever mean,
I had an air of mystery,
But... They went home.

My praises were on all men's lips,
they liked my smile, my wit, my hips,
they'd spend one night, or two or three.
But...

and his outstretched arm at the end encouraged us to ruefully supply the refrain. We were there with her, watching as They went home. Dr. Fry had made it so.

Phenomenal Woman was another joint venture. Picture a room full of women-of-a-certain-age, well dressed, well coiffed, and well fed, repeating Phenomenally ... Phenomenal woman, that's me. I tell you, denizens, it was really a moment. Read on and hear us, smiling and nodding and feeling phenomenally phenomenal ourselves:

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

There was more, but my words are feeling paltry after reading and rereading Maya Angelou.

If you are looking for more of her work, this is a good place to start.

I'll leave you with these two stanzas from Still I Rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

I'm going to be walking like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room from now on. Want to join me?

Random Thoughts

2012-01-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

It's quite lovely to be sitting on Douglas, dinner dishes cleaned up and Big Cuter on the phone talking Tebow with his dad, my fingers typing random nonsense to you. I am reveling in this new year.
*****
Ron Paul came in second in New Hampshire's primary and only Rachel Maddow wondered if the Republican Party was paying any attention to that fact. Wanting all perspectives on the situation, we left CNN for Fox, lasted about two minutes and found Rachel asking if the platform might represent Ron Paul's views. After all, nearly 20% of primary voters find him attractive.

I'm trying to remain calm as I contemplate President Paul dismantling our government.
*****
My dentist has a sonic tooth polisher. There was no pressing, no whirring, no tingling from my teeth to my toes when I went in for a cleaning today. Instead, there was a gentle stream of water and a strong pulsing sensation but none of my usually sensitive spots sent me jumping or flailing. Strange as it might sound, it was actually a pleasant experience.
*****
School buses and left-lane-toads combined to make a 40 minute trip an exercise in patience and deep breathing. As I try to consider what internal turmoil is fogging the brain of the 20-something tooling along in the fast lane, 10 miles under the speed limit, I am also trying to stifle the urge to honk my horn as forcefully as my palms can smack it.

Isn't it possible to be distracted in the right lane?
*****
The construction project on our corner has raised the elevation of the road by 10'. Sidewalks have been laid and curbs have been poured. There's no pavement, but we have high hopes. No one can understand why cement pipes 15' in diameter have been installed; obviously it's for flood control. But that intersection has never been flooded, not even in the 100 year storm of 2006.

This project was in the works for 12 years before construction began last summer. I ought to check out the weather patterns back then. Perhaps it was very very wet and they were very very worried.
*****
John Huntsman misfiled his primary application and Arizona's Secretary of State has left him off the ballot. Apparently, an un-notarized, photocopied form just doesn't make it here in the Grand Canyon State. It will be too bad if his views aren't represented; he's a thoughtful, smart, polished man who might make it an interesting race were he to secure the nomination.
*****
Fox is stirring up trouble by calling Romney's win disappointing because he didn't meet the commentators' expectations. James Carville, possibly the scariest face on television, is smirking and Juan Williams is pontificating and TBG has My Favorite Year on the tube.

It's a no-brainer. I'm going with Benjy Stone and Alan Swan.
*****
There are some movies that every person in my family will sit and watch at any time of the day or night, no matter the mood or the weather or the astrological sign. Late Saturday night found us providing our own audio accompaniment to Cool Runnings. The absolutely normal things make me so very very happy.

Happy New Year, once again, to you all. May it make you as happy as I plan for it to make me
(That is one of those sentences to which my children reply,"Mom, we love you. You make no sense, but we love you. )

I Feel Lighter

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

Happy New Year to one and all! May it be full of merriment and wonder.

I know, I know, I'm a week late to the party. It doesn't matter, really. I'll catch up. But right now I am reveling in a sense of starting fresh, of incorporating but not dwelling in the past, of beginning the next chapter of my life. It helps that I'll turn 60 seven weeks from today.

Sixty is a big number but it's a meaningless statistic in terms of what is relevant to my life right now. As almost everyone of my friends from January 8th said this weekend, every day is a miracle, a gift, an unexpected but gratefully appreciated bonus. My line has been that "the sun came up and I was here to see it. By definition, that makes it a good day."

Those good days have been measured against a backdrop of gunfire and death and pain and recovery. "It's only been six months....." "In a year....." "Look how far you've come since...." Understandable, but overwhelming.

Getting shot was a "master status," much as pregnancy is. No longer are you wife or lawyer or artist.... you are pregnant and that's that. Getting Shot is, unsurprisingly, a master status on steroids. There are expectations - real and imagined - and those expectations can come to dominate what is an uncharted landscape.

Another well-worn but useful maxim is "there is no game plan for this." Maggie Morton, the Tucson therapist PBS used to segue between segments of Together We Heal, gave me permission to ignore the expectations. She did not give me permission to wallow ... at least not for very long.

I am surrounded by caring healers who agree with her. They encourage me to honor my emotions and then to find a proper place to store them. The problem is, I have not been able to create a place in my brain/heart/soul to put them. They've been rattling around in my head, popping up at random moments and generally getting in the way of everything.

What to do with them has been the central issue of the last 12 months. Where should they land? What possible use can they have as I look ahead? According to Maggie Morton, taking action is a good place to start.

It has worked for me. Those who admire the fact that I have been out and about this past year are treated to my bemused face as my mouth wonders "What else could I do? My alternative was to crawl into bed and pull the blankets over my head." Apparently, this was a very healthy approach to take. I love being validated on national tv.

The public nature of my perforation has complicated matters further. I believe that this happened to all of us who live here. I represent a certain perspective on the event, and as such I've accepted the fact that I am healing out loud. I'm not anonymous and even wishing won't make it so. Though I long for the time when a trip to the Women's Room does not include a "You're Suzi, aren't you?" from the person at the adjoining sink (as it did last night.... twice..), I recognize the fact that I've brought this on myself. I've used Tucson as Tucson has used me. Our hugs, our smiles, our prayers all go both ways. I receive as I give without artifice or prevarication. We are traveling down this path together, albeit without a roadmap or an agenda.

Actually, I have had an agenda. I just didn't recognize it as such. I told everyone that I would be walking without a limp by the one year anniversary of my hip surgery. That's today, and I am here to tell you that it didn't happen. But, since I am President of My Self, and since Roberts' Rules of Order specifies that the President owns the agenda, I have altered the program.

This is how it happened.

TBG and I went to the Candlelight Vigil last night. We brought JannyLou and Fast Eddie and Amster, the Tucsonans who got us through those first awful days. The Tucson Symphony and Choir and Calexico and Gabby leading us in the Pledge of Allegiance could have been maudlin; Amster grabbed a stack of paper napkins since none of us had tissues.

They went unused.

Sitting under the nearly full moon, snuggled between my husband and my friends, behind the Bowmans, who saved my life, and in front of the family of Judge Roll, a lawyer about whom no one could be found to say a bad word, I was filled with gratitude and love and comfort. There was joy in the somberness of the music, somehow. I shook hands with the student composer of the third piece played by the orchestra and I was struck by how wonderful it must have been for him to hear his work performed professionally, in front of 2000 real people and countless millions more in the ether.

Out of pure sorrow rose pure joy.

The whole night was like that. I got to shake Gabby's hand, albeit 365 days late. I was rewarded with a beaming smile and a brief, eye-stopping moment of contact between two who have been shot. We know. We don't want to, but we do. We also know that failure is not an option. We go on, because there are no better options. And if we're going on, we might as well smile along the way.

Amanda Myers, my friend-from-the-AP as she introduces herself on the phone, wrote this about my participation in the program last night:

Suzi Hileman, who was shot three times, took the stage, hugged Giffords and walked to the candle area. She lit one, put her hands over her heart and mouthed "thank you" to the crowd.

And that's how I did it, denizens. I looked out at 2000 faces filled with I-don't-know-what and whatever we were experiencing together, those of you in the audience and I, it worked like a charm. I left the stage, sobbed into TBG's arms behind a screen, took a deep breath, and returned to my seat in the second row 100 pounds lighter.

A weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I don't know where it is, but it is not burdening me any more. I am standing up just a little bit straighter, walking just a little bit smoother. I slept deliciously deeply last night, as did JannyLou. The knot in my stomach is an occasional visitor today, rather than the constant companion of 2011. When it appears, I put it in the place resered for such things. That place showed up last night, too.

I am living my life, informed but not dominated any longer by the events of last January. I'm not looking backward to see how far I've come. I'm looking forward to see where I can go.

It feels great.
*****

Notes that I didn't want to include in the narrative but that I wanted to tell you :

Clip Art courtesy of http://tinyurl.com/6pj7quj

Together We Heal is well worth watching, telling the story of January 8th and the aftermath from an unusually personal perspective. I know the people who speak; they are represented honestly and compassionately. I love them all.

Stroll and Roll ... I Can't Leave it Behind

2012-01-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

I am out of words, denizens. The media, my friends, my family... they've taken them all and left me with a semi-exploding head and a heart wrapped in warmth. I'm going to take the next few days to unwind from the Stroll and Roll and the memories and the celebrations and the candlelight vigil and the news reports and the emails and cards and phone calls filled with love and thinking of you and encouragement. I know I'd promised to leave this episode behind me, but......

I nearly ran off the highway after dropping SIR and Little Cuter at the airport this morning when I heard the NPR announcer segue from one story to another like this: "Susan Hileman took her ...." It was so sad to be alone in the car; there was no one to hoot and holler with. I keep thinking that I am used to the celebrity, but I guess I'm really not.

A lovely young producer from The State of the Reunion sent me to KUAT's studios on the UofA campus where I read, and re-read and read once more for good measure a love letter I'd written to Tucson at their request. Ron Barber, Pat Maisch, Pam Simon and Ross Zimmerman also read letters and the producers, Tina Antollini and Laura Starcheski, wove our words into a love note to our town. You can listen to the words here

as you look at the first round of photos from the Stroll and Roll. (Thanks Little Cuter for sharing your talented camera work.) The entire letter is reprinted at the end of this post.

It was a beautiful sunny day, especially for bikes with streamers.

Christina-Taylor's friends were media stars.

She WALKS!!

The lonely face painter (front left) watches as Jadiann Thompson of KPHO (in the pink... my new favorite television person) films the love.

An entire post on the Arizona Rangers is forthcoming. For now, here is a quick peek at a piece of my personal security detail

"Don't miss any opportunities" said this 94 year old as her 40-something friend used the sidewalk chalk to inscribe her advice on the pathway. Inter-generational experiences don't only have to be grown-ups and kids, it seems. These two have breakfast together every weekend; the younger is the daughter of a woman who taught the elder. I love the connections.

I do love the shirt and skirt combo.

Volunteers in commemorative t-shirts at the end of the event.

The t-shirts are gorgeous and many of them are still sitting in a box in my garage. If you are interested in purchasing one ($15 covers the shirt and shipping) send an email to suzi@grandparentsinresidence.com .Tell me what size you need; instructions will follow.

The logo on the front of the shirt.

***************************

HERE IS THE FULL TEXT OF THE LETTER I WROTE FOR

STATE OF THE REUNION ON NPR

Dear Tucson,

I was shot on January 8th while holding my 9-year old friend's hand. She is dead and I am here.

Christina-Taylor and I were waiting to shake our Congresswoman's hand. We went from thrilled to damaged in an instant. What I didn't realize at the time was that the same thing had happened to the rest of you, too.

A week later, still an in-patient, I was wheeled through the vigil garden outside UMC. There were candles and flowers and butterflies and daisy chains and streamers and sculptures. There were hand made drawings from little girls and grown men. There were potted plants and bouquets wrapped in papers from California and Oklahoma and Yuma.

Luz de Luna's mariachis asked permission to serenade us...asked permission!..as if anyone could refuse a love song. The young man's voice rose high and sweet as the sun set and the guitarist strummed and their teacher blew 12 long low lovely notes that went straight from his muted instrument to my soul. It was a physical connection, and the maestro's wink at the end was an acknowledgment that we were attached on a visceral level. The song was about antigua, which was explained to me as being the old kind of love. Old or new, it was palpable. It's what I've felt every day since I got shot.

I moved through the path of offerings, feeling overwhelmed. I had thought that I would be anonymous. I was not. I was noticed. Looked at. Marveled at. Watched. Approached. I was hugged and prayed over and smiled at and my hand was shaken, my shoulder touched, my knee patted. And it still going on today.

This happened to all of us. I know that I am not alone. You were out there with me, Tucsonans. You with your teary eyes and your outstretched arms and your healing grace are helping me to heal. We are in this together. A madman tried to turn our desert town into a slaughterhouse and we just won't let it happen.

No way.

In the gym, at the bookstore or the deli counter, at the Sonoran hot dog stand or waiting at the post office, you look twice and then smile as I say Yes, please do. It's okay to hug me.” Cashiers at big box stores and fellow patients at physical therapy throw their arms around me and we share the love. I'm not sure who is helping whom, but I do know that it works for me.

This is who we are. We are Tucsonans. Old or young, Native American or transplanted New Yorker, we share a palpable sense of place. This is our home. When one of us suffers we all feel the pain. There are times when there are no degrees of separation between us.

This is our melting pot, our cultural stew, our place to be ourselves under the warmest sun, atop the driest earth.

We have the Catalinas and the Santa Ritas and the Pusch Ridge and we have each other. We have chosen hope over fear, civility over anger.

When people ask me if I am sorry that we moved to Tucson I shake my head and quickly disabuse them of the notion that there might be anyplace else I'd want to live. You brought us dinners and knitted us prayer shawls and you called to see if we needed anything from the market. You respected my privacy but pointed me out to your children as the hostess seated you. You told me that you were praying for me and I told you that it helped.

You are anxious to get involved as I move forward – and that is what I love most of all.

We're not going backwards. We're not stuck in time. We're not obsessed. We are bruised but not broken. We are healing, publicly and privately, and if I can help by walking tall then I'll stand a little straighter and walk a little longer. I'll do it for you.

I love you, Tucson, just as much as you love me.

Fondly,

Suzi Hileman

The Media and Me

2012-01-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

I had 15 messages this afternoon. I'd taken an hour out of planning and supervising and coordinating and feeling to get a manicure. When I returned I was just a little overwhelmed. NBC, ABC, the local paper, the Phoenix paper..... everyone wants a piece of me.

I refused all the requests to talk to me on Saturday afternoon and Sunday. I will be publicly available at the Stroll and Roll all morning on the 7th and that will just have to be enough for them. I am allowing a reporter who happened to be here anyway to come over this evening before dinner is on the table, but that's about as far as I am willing to go.

It's an interesting balancing act I'm living right now. I need the media to promote my good works, to get the message out, to keep my projects front and center. I can only grow GRIN if people are aware of its wonderfulness. On the other hand, it's hard to stay polite when a producer who sounds as if his voice has yet to change wonders what time on Sunday night I'd like to meet with him.

Seriously? Sunday night? Even on a regular week that's an odd request. Sunday nights are for hunkering down and getting ready for the week ahead. This particular Sunday night, January 8th, one full year after I was perforated and Christina-Taylor died, this particular Sunday night is probably not one that I will be willing to share with reporters. The producer had a hard time understanding that. I don't know why.

It was the first time I'd said "NO" to a request for an interview. I've never shut out a news organization. I've been friendly and welcoming and willing to meet at their convenience. As the frenzy over the anniversary increases, the requests grow in number and frantic-ness... franticity... frantosity.... my brain is melting down as I try to remain calm in the face of their urgency.

This is not my issue. I have nothing new to say. I have been saying the same things for 12 months now and if you and your listeners or viewers or readers haven't been paying attention over the long haul then I don't know why you would start to be interested now. There is nothing startling or surprising that is going to come out of my mouth. In fact, the biggest challenge I am facing right now is trying to keep my responses fresh.

But how do I do that? How do I find different ways to say that I am overwhelmed by the wonderfulness that is my town, that I have been smothered in kindness and grace, that people I don't know care about me and are not shy about sharing that caring and that it all helps me to heal? How can I make my descriptions of my little friend rise from maudlin to exaltation? What can I say that will be new?

It brings me back to where I started a year ago - I am still surprised that others are interested in my drama. Sure, my hip hurts. Sure, I miss Christina. Sure, my life has changed and I'm moving on. I am happy to talk about GRIN, but the reporters want more. They are looking for a sweetener, a hook, a teary response to an unexpected question. Over time, I've learned to guard my reactions and keep the sadness inside. After all, watching me sob on Dateline last January should be enough sorrow for anyone.

I know it is for me. In the beginning, it was helpful to be asked to evaluate and consider and recount. It helped make it real. It helped me to process the events. It gave me an outlook and perspective other than my own to consider. Plus, I was star-struck. Brian Williams wanted to talk to me. That felt pretty cool.

But now, a year into it, I am so over being flattered. Seeing my face on television is not the thrill it once was. Instead, I am boring myself.

This is the story which will not die. Producers and reporters and videographers alike are amazed that there is still interest in our lives. Republicans are dropping like flies in Iowa and NBC national news is sending a crew to my house at dinnertime.

Am I really that impressive? Is my story that important? Am I feeding the beast and thus adding to the madness? Does it really matter?

I know that if I don't speak for myself I run the risk of others speaking for me. That is not a good thing. I need to own my story and my words and my public persona and that can't happen if I am not out front and center.

But tomorrow, both the Arizona Star and a crew from CBS national news will be meeting me at Prince Elementary School to watch kindergarteners hugging me. I am usually totally focused on the individual children sitting at the mini-tables on the mini-chairs doing major work as they learn English and practice being Americans... because that's what a school filled with children of new immigrants is all about.

My experience tomorrow will be different. It will be examined and photographed and questioned and reviewed and evaluated and judged and commented upon. I will be an iconic volunteer. I will be that woman who made lemonade out of lemons.

It's hard to remember who I am when there are so many people who want to define me.

Stroll and Roll

2012-01-04T06:00:00.000-07:00

Certificates of Insurance…. Facilities Use Permits.... Request for In-Kind DonationForms.... my life is populated with people who need me to fill thingsout and not make any mistakes.

The people who need theforms don't always have the on-line links available. The people whoproffer the forms are often unknown to the people who answer thephones. The forms all ask the same basic questions, but no two ofthem look alike. There's no such thing as cut and paste with theseagencies.

I am intersecting with theSheriff and the Transportation Department and the Town and theNatural Resources and Parks Department and several school districtsand Waste Management. Each entity has its own strategy and approachto my event. It's hard to keep track of who wants to schmooze andwho wants to cut to the chase.

What I do know is thateveryone wants to be sure to be indemnified. What I didn't know washow complicated a process that would turn out to be. Even though Iwasn't the point person for coordinating the COI (notice how cozy theaffidavit and I have become over the last few months) I wasresponsible for insuring that it got to where it was going once itwas obtained. I am also responsible for reassuring all the agenciesinvolved that the Risk Manager has signed off on the document andthat there are no worries.

No worries. That's not aphrase that makes anyone I've spoken to this week happy. Norcomfortable. Nor thrilled. I'm reduced to sharing comforting emailsfrom those higher up the civil service food chain than I, and hopingthat they work some kind of magic.

All I wanted was to besurrounded by family and friends on the anniversary of the worstSaturday of my life. It seems that I will get my wish... timesten... or ten hundred. BEYOND has spread the word far and wide. Tworadio stations are running promotional spots touting my Stroll andRoll. I'm walking around with business cards detailing thelogistics; I'm leaving them everywhere I go.

I am riding a golf cartwith the Parks Department liaison tomorrow morning. Last timeMartina and I rode the path of the Stroll and Roll we were hunkereddown in our jackets and mittens. She was smart enough to havebrought a hat along. I froze. That was 3 weeks ago. Tomorrow I'llbe wearing shorts and a t-shirt. (Why are you living in anenvironment that is c-c-c-cold today? We'd be glad to share oursunshine and warmth with all of you.) I'll be deciding where to puttables and chairs and canopies and water stations and recyclingcontainers as we bump along the newly constructed walkway named inhonor of my little lost pal. We'll be enjoying the outdoors and theview and we'll be analyzing the turns for signage needs and I'll bethinking about the child whose loss precipitated this event.

It's hard to keep the lumpin my throat from turning into dripping tears. She would love to bein that cart next to me, making decisions and planning her entrance. Her ceramic butterflies will be there in her stead, and I will feelher absence with every breath I take.

There is nothing I can doto bring her back, but there is much that I can do to bring herforward with me. I can invite schoolchildren to join me in her name. I can remind myself that smiles not sorrow are just what Christinaordered and that wallowing gets me no place. I can picture mygirlfriend, her mother, riding in The Rose Parade and marvel at thecelebrity which has found us. I can encourage people to “bringsomeone unlikely” to the event, because my friendship with C-T wasviewed as surprising by so many. I can share the joy ofinter-generational intersections with a moving back story to bolstermy case.

I can't bring her back,but I can keep her near.

If you are in Tucson onSaturday, come and visit with us for a while.

Taking Charge

2012-01-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

I cannot let the situation win. It is trying. Read that sentence in both senses -- the year is trying to win and the year has been a trying one. But I am done with it. I know that, for the rest of you, the new year started a few days ago. For me, it will start on January 9th. Til then, I have some straightening up to do.
*****

I'm organizing a massive walk on Saturday morning; 2 radio stations will be there before dawn to set up. Six Pima County Sheriffs will work under the supervision of my own personal Deputy, who promises to come the moment I call him. The Arizona Rangers are going to try to help, too. Security is my primary concern - for the attendees and for myself and Little Cuter and SIR and TBG. The last time I was out on a sunny Saturday in January the results were less than salubrious. I'm paying attention to details these days, and I'm enlisting the right people to make me feel safe.

I'm learning to ask for help and I'm finding that people almost always say yes. The yes might be followed by "But next year you have to ...." but no one has refused me outright. Budgets have been dipped into, concessions have been made, and I have put myself out there, in front, using my vaguely awkward celebrity to do good deeds. It's a funny balance, being a charity slut. I'm selling my story for a 15% discount on sidewalk chalk at Michaels and instead of feeling pushy I'm feeling loved... really loved.... hugged for a long time loved.... and I remember the lesson that had slipped behind the sofa cushion of my brain: Accept help with grace.

I have to put that at the top of my list of things to remember.

*****

I'm learning to delegate. I've asked a volunteer if she would be The Boss of the other volunteers and she knew just what I meant. There won't be much bossing to do because the staff aren't random helpers. The people who are coming to work are seasoned veterans of the Volunteer Campaigns of the late 1900's... the ones centering on teams and scouts and family vacations. Part of the beauty of GRIN has always been the ease with which the volunteers can slip (back) into the roles they played in other situations while doing the same tasks. We've all done it before.The work isn't onerous and the company will be good. I thought I would take charge of it myself, because I always take charge of it myself, but this is the beginning of a new phase for me. I am learning to step back.

And it turns out that when I take a deep breath and let other people step into the breach, everything gets done and I don't have to worry. There are other competent people in my life and it is foolish to refuse their help. What needs to happen will happen and while it might not look exactly the way that I would have arranged it I know that it will be perfect in the eyes of the person who set it up. And because I trust her, it will therefore be perfect for me. I have no need to worry.

I cannot remember delegating anything to anyone with as much equanimity as I seem to be doing right now. It's self-preservation, of course. There will be reporters and family and children I've invited and in no particular order I will be spending most of my time with them, I hope. I'd like the t-shirts and the water bottles and the raffle tickets and the sidewalk chalk to sell themselves; delegating seems to have made it so. I've been told not to worry. I'm going to do just that.

*****

I carried on despite my hip's insistence that enough was enough and was rewarded by TBG's big smile and declaration that The Garage Is Back!!! when he drove up after the gym. Every box is either on a shelf or broken down and in the recycling bin. Every bag containing items to be given away is now comfortably ensconced on a shelf at Goodwill. Parcels have been sent to Auntie Em and Brother and there is not a pile to be found in the house or the garage. Not one.

I am taking charge of my life. I am not letting random thoughts invade my space. I am organized and dedicated to remaining so. If it can be done in less than 2 minutes, I do it. MaryLynne, my professional organizer, gave me that handy dandy trick and it's a keeper, denizens. I am relentless because the alternative is untenable. If I don't take charge, there is evil lurking, waiting to jump up and take over.

Not happening. Nope. I was in charge of my life before I was perforated... or so I thought. I've had a lot of time to think about the concept of control since last January, and I've come to a conclusion. It doesn't matter what the reality is. What matters is how I approach it. If I decide that I am in charge of my life, then I can banish the scared, scary, sorrowful, awful pieces to a back corner where, accessible if needed, they can languish and gather dust. If I decide that I am in charge of my life, then I can say no and say yes and know that it's what I want to do and that life is too short to do otherwise.

If tomorrow is not promised, then I will begin by taking charge of today.

She's Hired

2012-01-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

JannyLou and I put away my Christmas decorations today. It was a multi-layered event in oh-so-many-many ways.

I was a packrat when it came to packaging. I held onto the boxes that were meaningful. There was the golden oval from Nieman Marcus with the sculptured floral arrangement permanently affixed to the lid. There was the carefully wrapped in 1980's paper box and the self-sticking bubble wrap that fit neatly into the plain brown box the MackenzieChilds ornament has lived in since I was there one very hot summer 2 decades ago. I saved significant shopping bags for strands of lights. The White House Commemorative Ornaments sent to us by the Hoon's for as long as I can remember each lived in its own special flat box, complete with the explanatory notes... like a record album used to have liner notes..... but I digress.

When The Big Guy realized (a year and a week ago) that he could not expect the house to miraculously clean itself nor put away the holiday cheer on its own, he handed JannyLou and Fast Eddie his house key and said "Go for it." He hadn't done that since we were first married and the Golden Gopher had his own room in our Chicago apartment for his weekly weekend escapes from Gary, Indiana. He came to the conclusion that he couldn't do it on his own.

The realization was huge for him.

Pulling out the boxes that our lovely neighbors had purchased at Lowe's and filled with my treasures was a very interesting experience. Instead of my little boxes nestled in bigger boxes I opened large, clean packages of styrofoam peanuts and ornaments sleeping amongst their softness. It was a pleasure to unpack them and place them right onto the tree. I wasn't dealing with bubble wrap or wrapping paper I'd salvaged from gift boxes to help my memory recall the wonder in the recipient's eyes. I was creating a new tree, a beautiful tree, with my own stuff in a different format.

It felt great.

The trash collectors come tomorrow and I wanted the tree to be gone. This week is going to be an emotional roller-coaster and I want to be calm and sane by the time Little Cuter and SIR arrive in town on Friday. I want everything that must be done to be done, and everything that must be considered to be considered, and everything that must be packed away to be packed away.

I started in the garage, because that's where the biggest mess existed. I opened all the doors and began a desultory examination of the task ahead of me. I was half-heartedly picking up bubble wrap and moving it all to one area of the garage when I saw JannyLou coming across the driveway.

Within minutes, she was engaged in the task. This makes two years in a row for her, since she picked up the slack for me due to my unforseen hiatus from the process last year. She showed me how to lightly layer the popcorn. She unfolded boxes and shoved them into the side of the recycling can. She corralled the bubblewrap and the popcorn. She lifted and toted and kept me company as I made executive decisions and, gradually, as the afternoon wore on, I began to see the floor.

There was more than putting away, though. We've each had a rough year in 2011 and neither of us is feeling much of a change on this first day of 2012. We both wanted something marvelous, something huge, something clarifying and cleansing and tremendously wonderful. We are both disappointed.

We laughed about that as we pondered ways to put this behind us and move forward with reckless abandon. There are decisions to be made and plans to be fulfilled for each of us.... and that thickens the plot considerably.

But I think we were mistaken to be disappointed. As I reconsider the afternoon, I think we found what we were looking for. We were picking up the pieces of the year and we were doing it together. We were listening to one another and understanding the depth of the throw-away comments we tossed around as my deocrative pillows and candle sticks made their way into cardboard homes for the next 11 months.

We have one another. My tree is at the curb. The floor is swept and there is nary a red ribbon to be found. We are moving forward.... damaged, certainly, but moving nonetheless.... because it's what we do.

Last Post of the Year

2011-12-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

It seems as though I should have something profound to say.

It seems as though my thoughts should have coalesced into something meaningful.

It seems as though, having had 357 days to contemplate my fate, my brain should have come up with something.

It seems that way. Unfortunately, the truth is somewhat different.

I am no closer to understanding why or how or what if.

I have no answers.

I cannot predict my mood from day to day, or, often, minute to minute.

I have no certainty.

Instead of relaxing in retirement I am busier than I've ever been.

Instead of anonymity I am a public figure.

Instead of a baby blog I have a robust readership and, perhaps, the germ of a book.

Instead of wallowing in self pity I have picked up my big girl pants and made lemonade out of lemons.

Instead of being a part of someone else's project, I have created my own.

I have met the President and the Sheriff and the Attorney General and the Director of the FBI.

I have met Tucsonans of all ages and descriptions, and have been welcomed into their warm embrace.

I have learned to accept help with grace and to be alert to those who might need a helping hand.

I have found strength and room for growth as I watch those around me cope with my injuries.

I have rediscovered pieces of my psyche, hidden away for years, now blossoming as I open my heart to the waiting world.

I don't know what my life will look like next year or the year after that, and that is vaguely unsettling.

I do know that I am surrounded by love and compassion and kindness and generosity.

I know that I will move on, dragging baggage I never asked for, carrying dreams and plans in my gunnysack.

I know that today, and every day, is a good day because the sun came up and I was here to see it.... and you were with me, keeping me company as I figure things out.

HAPPY 2012, DENIZENS!

MAY IT BE FULL OF JOY AND WONDER FOR YOU ALL

Free Hea

My Tripartite Life

2011-12-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

Big Cuter left this morning. I was up early for some snuggling and knee rubbing through the grey cashmere throw Carol's Girls sent last winter; I needed as much of my boy as I could get. Went back to bed as the boys drove off to the airport and rolled over at almost 10. Facing a kid-less house was not enticing..... nope, not at all.

I mailed the 15 pounds of holiday goodies which didn't fit in his suitcase, marveling at the heft of those new t-shirts and gym clothes. I laughed as I noticed that, for the first time in a long time, I was not wearing an article of clothing I'd inherited from him..... in the 5th grade.... when we were the same size. He didn't feel so far away any more.

Not remembering that she was taking an extended holiday weekend from work, I wondered why Little Cuter wasn't answering my messages. When her reminder email arrived this afternoon, I could hear her laughing at my forgetfulness."Oh, Mama.... you are so silly... I love you." Being a source of amusement to my daughter has been a near constant certainty since she was 11 years old; it keeps me grounded. It was also exactly what I needed to get over her brother's absence.

Part one of my life - I'm a mom.

I spent the afternoon at a press conference announcing the outdoor activities planned for January 7th. I'm ambivalent about the media in general, and this afternoon in particular. "Yes, I have spoken to a therapist. No, I will not share what I learned. " I had to be polite; I wanted the publicity for my event.

People recognized me and hugged me and were glad to see me again. In my cowboy boots I was less uncomfortable than the women who had worn heels for the occasion. Sneakers would have been better, or the very comfy looking black rubber soled boots the National Parks Ranger was wearing as she eloquently described the beauty that surrounds Tucson.

Standing on the pebbles for an hour was an exercise in not fidgeting; I am proud to say I acquitted myself admirably. I used the time to stretch out of my hip joint and fell all my foot centers and as I channeled my pilates instructors I amused myself with the notion that, in fact, not much has changed. I'm still multi-tasking, as I always did.

Part two of my life - I'm a public figure.

tmcaznews.com

It was a beautiful drive to Tucson Medical Center's Labyrinth. Situated outside their in-patient hospice unit, it exuded a sense of peacefulness and exploration. I found myself gazing over at it as the afternoon wore on.

The press conference was held in the park adjacent to the labyrinth; the parking lot was on the other side. The walk from The Schnozz to the folding chairs, on a paved path, a few hundred yards at most, should have been a non-event.

Instead, I found myself shaking - literally quaking in my boots. No matter where I looked, there was not a security guard nor a police officer to be found.

I began by smiling at everyone I saw, asking "Are you a person who is in charge?" No one was in charge. No one could find my friend, the Executive Officer who has spent the last few months herding cats. No one could make me stop shaking. I found myself huddled in a corner, with a trailer behind me, my eyes darting left and right and up and down, looking for someone who didn't fit, who might hurt me. I tried to be unobtrusive, but I was shaking and it was kind of hard for people to ignore.

The ExO arrived and put me inside the trailer with a cordon of lovely women between me and the world. We were all focused outward, until the TMC angel brought their head of security to my side. He assured me that I had not created a problem, that they were glad to help, that the K-9 unit and several officers were now on site and as I began to breathe again I saw them, weaponry holstered but available, scanning the site and keeping me safe.

I thanked everyone and they said they understood. But I don't know how that can be possible. I barely understand it myself.

Part three of my life - the last time I went to an event like this I ended up with bullet holes.

The Hap-Happiest Time of the Year

2011-12-28T06:00:00.000-07:00

Television programmers channel my wishes during the period of time between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. I can turn to any of the many movie stations fiber optically sent to my cable box and find something that I really want to watch. For example:

http://tinyurl.com/755f6r7

Witness for the Prosecution was on this afternoon as Big Cuter and I returned from a fruitless attempt to secure running shoes (for him). Una O'Connor never liked him anyway, but JES enjoyed the show as I found out when I checked Facebook and found this as his status: "Witness for the Prosecution: great, great film."

I love it when those I love are doing the same thing that I am doing albeit thousands of miles away.

iolakeatoncelebration.org

My Man Godfrey taught William Powell how to be humble and gave Carol Lombard a chance to give full flight to ditzy behaviors. The notion of The Forgotten Man, living in the city dump in the 1930's, now foreclosed out of his too-big-for-my-budget home, is a timeless one, as is Eugene Pallett's long suffering father.

My favorite part, though, is how effortlessly Irene corrals Godfrey into marriage. Breezing into his office/apartment with a butler and a bag of groceries, her words are absurd, her actions ridiculous, her logic convoluted, and the marriage accomplished. I'm left shaking my head and marveling at how nuttiness wins the day.

imdb.com

TBG was watching Sanka and Derice slide down the bobsled run as my favorite-except-for-all-the-cartoons Disney movie of all time, Cool Runnings, came on the screen as he was channel surfing. There are so many many quotable lines - Sanka, you dead?....I'm freezing my royal Rastafarian nay-nays off!....Feel the rhythm! Feel the rhyme! Get on up, its bobsled time! - but it's the faces in the bar back in Jamaica that really get me going.

This is one of the movies that anyone in our family will sit down to watch at any time, and that has been true since it was released when the children were 8 and 10.

goodfellamovies.blogspot.com

The Maltese Falcon greeted me when I came out of the shower mid-morning today. I can watch Humphrey Bogart comfort Effie for 10 seconds before she toughens up and gets back to work and feel stronger for the rest of the day. We've all had our falcons, our desires that are just out of reach, things we've wanted but could never attain. It's true that these are the stuff that dreams are made of.

aveleyman.com

vintageculture.net

Two of the three Howard Hawks/John Wayne western series - Rio Bravo and El Dorado - kept me company over the weekend. It's the same movie; the actors are interchangeable drill bits. I love arguing about whether Ricky Nelson or James Caan is the better side-kick. There is no doubt, however, that Walter Brennan's Stumpy and Angie Dickinson's Feathers steal the show.

There were more, so very many more. But the kid is leaving in the morning and there is laundry to be done and packing to be considered and I haven't even checked out the tv guide to see what other gems are awaiting me.

So much to do, so little time.

Hanukah, Oh Hanukah

2011-12-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

Amster let me use her house and her guest list. All I had to bring were the supplies. It's a shame that Little Cuter and Elizibeth aren't in town, but we somehow managed to soldier on without them. It's Hanukkah in the Old Pueblo, and I am the mistress of ceremonies.

It started innocently enough, with Amster asking if I was making latkes this year. Like most of my projects since January 8th, this party grew from family only to half the western hemisphere. I'm not complaining. I'm just sayin'.... as Big Cuter has opined from time to time this week.

Costco made dinner and provided the potatoes and the vegetable oil and I brought the cuisinart and the plastic bowl and every Hanukah decoration in my possession. It filled the back of the Schnozz.

Chanukah-themed Go-Fish, thanks to a timely gift from FAMBB, was a big hit. G'ma and the Littlest Little One kept one another amused while I peeled and sliced and shredded and Amster pretended to take the day off from work. Neither player was quite sure of the rules. There was much discussion over whose turn it was at any particular moment. G'ma was quite willing to share the colors in her hand and her opponent had no compunctions about indulging her generosity. It was lovely.

By the time the guests arrived the oil was heating and the dinner was nearly warmed through. I was happily making a mess that someone else would clean up and Amster was merrily hostessing. Wines were poured - I had three different glasses on the counter before me - and Kinect took over the living room.

Big Cuter showed up and found Mr. 8's chess game much improved. Learning to recover from his mistakes is an issue in life as well as on the chessboard these days for Mr. 8; he's very much a work in progress. The seriousness with which they approached the game warmed the cockles of my heart. This will be a tradition for the two of them from now til forever; I can hardly wait until Mr. 8 can really compete.

After an hour or so of dreidle spinning there were cookies and there were latkes. Oh, my, were there latkes. Applesauce and raspberry applesauce and sour cream and a smoked salmon spread were arrayed on the table atop Hanukah placemats . Only the jelly donuts were missing.... I just couldn't drive all the way to Krispy Kreme.

There were kids of all ages and few of them were familiar with the dreidle or the menorah or the whole small-band-of-cave-dwelling-Jews-fighting-Greeks-on-elephants backstory to the miracle of the tiny bit of pure oil which burned for 8 days and nights until more could be prepared to permanently rekindle the Eternal Light. I sent the two littlest girls out to look for the first star and when they returned, beaming and spinning and delighted that they had seen not one but two stars in the sky , it was time to begin.

The lights were dim and everyone was hugging or sitting on someone's lap or leaning onto a shoulder and my heart was overflowing. I told them about my father's many cousins and the big holiday parties I'd attended when I was a little girl as I walked around the table making sure that everyone had a shamash (the beadle - to light the other candles and then take pride of place on the top) and then we did the math to figure out how many years ago this all occurred. The story was told and the miracle recounted. I promised to say the prayers in English and then in Hebrew. We could sing the dreidle song..

It was time to light the menorahs. There were seven of them. It was the 7th night of the holiday so each candelabra held 8 candles. It's a good thing that Amster's love is a firefighter.

The big kids retired to the living room. Beautiful Annie, mother of two wonderful boys, happily skipped down the hall with the Littlest Little One, returning after a while with their faces made up in the girliest of girly ways. The grown-up conversation covered warfare with elephants from India to Hannibal through Alexander. It was a fascinating night.

The children all came to say a proper good-bye, replete with thank you's and hugs or handshakes. Several offered kisses, and no one forgot G'ma. Then a special little girl sidled up to my chair with a request - would I tell her if the miracle happened and the candles kept burning even when they were done after she left?

It was a serious request and required a serious answer. Certainly I would inform her in the unlikely event that the miracle happened again. But it seemed to me that there was a miracle more likely to occur. She might come upon a situation where it felt like she was fighting elephants. If she remembered that small band of warriors, retreating to caves and then bursting forth with strength, then, in that moment, if she felt powerful, she was her own miracle.

I'd never had that thought before, but it felt right and she was listening so intently and then her mom picked it up and we were enveloped in the sense that even the smallest of girls might someday be a hero, might someday be braver than she imagined she could be.

There are all kinds of miracles. Last night I created my own. I wish you all could have joined us, denizens.

HAPPY CHANUKAH !

To Sum Up

2011-12-26T06:00:00.000-07:00

We were happy to share Little Cuter and SIR with his family, though we missed her reading The Night Before Christmas last night.

Using pre-printed holiday boxes leaves a much neater living room on Christmas morning, although they present fewer opportunities for ridiculous wrapping by the boys of the family and thus fewer opportunities for giggles by the girl(s).

Holiday breakfasts of multi-grain french toast and crispy bacon are things of the past. My guys heated up a frozen pizza and were quite pleased with themselves.

G'ma enjoys gifting more than anyone I have ever known. The 25 decorated candy canes for the caregivers at the pod castle were dispensed with such glee, such joy, such love and connection that I had a hard time not tearing up.

Asking for something you'd like to see me wear results in a full day of "Doesn't she look great?!" This is a prompt I will remember for next year and anon.

Hoarding empty boxes for the might-someday-be-purchased-gift-of-an-unusual-size results in a full cedar chest and much aggravation. Recycling them (thanks JannyLou and Fast Eddie for the use of your container) takes up a lot of space for Waste Management, but makes the storage chest a much more pleasant place.

Socks are wonderful gifts, but polka dot socks do not go well with polka dot sneakers. Yes, I made myself pink polka dot sneakers. I'm just that kind of a girl.

Finally, because the season and a bottle of wine (thank you, Rillito Nursery) has addled my brain, I stop typing and leave you with this picture of my girl and her nephew-to-be. To me, this is what the holiday is all about - birth, love, family, children and love.

Happy Happy Joy Joy!

My Wishes for You

2011-12-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

Shining lights reflecting the love in someone's eyes.

Twinkling lights illuminating ornaments hung with care.

Fragrant smells that evoke G'ma's kitchen.

Sweet treats made with you in mind.

Smiles and laughter and love.

Peace on earth and in your heart.

Kind words and warm thoughts directed your way.

Whatever you are celebrating, I wish you love and joy and gladness.

Fondly,

Ashleigh

Good Folks

2011-12-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

It must be the holiday spirit. I cannot seem to find an unpleasant employee or an unresponsive business today.

The lower rack of our dishwasher has the most inefficient set of wheels in existence today. Held on by puny plastic clips, they tilt and swivel and collapse and fall off with alarming regularity. They are found in the cavity of the machine as often as they are found sitting upright on their posts on the rack. TBG is not amused. Since he has taken over the chore of filling the machine and emptying the machine he has daily interactions with this damn rack. It has begun to annoy.

Finding myself with a spare moment and needing to be at home to meet the window washer and the HVAC guy, I called GE. Voicemail hell sent me to Monica. Monica did not ask me to repeat anything I had already punched into the keypad. Monica did not read from a prepared script. Monica was there to help me. She really was.

Unfortunately, her good intentions and amazing investigative skills were not backed up by the authority to solve my problem. She had to send me along to Customer Service, armed with the fact that I had an extended warranty. Of course, that warranty, like all good warranties, seemed to have expired last month. Wishing me luck, she transferred the call.

Sharon answered and was even better than Monica. She agreed with me. She understood me. She was surprised and intrigued and annoyed with exactly the same things with which I was surprised and intrigued and annoyed. She laughed with me about the broken-just-as-the-warranty-expires nature of my call, and wondered aloud why the wheels weren't attached to the new rack she was going to send to me. We knew that my rack was functional; we are hoping that an entirely new assembly will somehow solve the problem. The rack cost about $150 retail, $90 wholesale, $68 through their discounted promotion, but Sharon is sending it to me for free. She's also sending clips and wheels. She's not even asking me to pay for the shipping.

She is authorized to be good to customers who deserve it. It felt good to be included in that cohort, a fact which I mentioned on her supervisor's voice mail as I left a complimentary message. Notice should be taken.

I need t-shirts for the Stroll and Roll and Jenn at CrossFit Now sent me to Starbuck Design . They helped her last year when she created a fun run in 11 days. They are doing the same for me, even reassuring me that I have plenty of time between now and January 7th. In fact, Andrew thanked me for placing an order during their slowest time of the year. After thanking me, he then agreed to comp some of the design costs. He doesn't need all the information until next Friday, giving me the gift of time and the opportunity to solicit more major supporters. He told me yellow is the most transparent of colors and the hardest to work with in printing but that if we added black around the edges.... well, you get the picture. I just had to tell him my ideas and he's going to do all the rest.

He helped me with quantities and sizes and gave me a go-cup on my way out.... in my favorite color. There was no attitude, no sense of being too busy to help, no intimation that my requests were more than he could handle. He just kept smiling and saying "Okay."

I was in and out of his shop in thirty minutes, with a gift and a plan and no worries. It was simply amazing.

I dropped brownies off at G'ma's gerontology office and the women behind the desk were as warm and effusive as ever. We shared January 8th stories and G'ma stories and sure, we'll ask the docs if they will suppor the Stroll and Roll and then it was off to the grocery store where the stock clerk reached the box on the top shelf for me and the deli lady took me to the cold case to show me exactly which products she thought were better than the ones she had spied in my cart while creating my order.

I got home to a phone call from Little Cuter, wondering why MOTG had received 2 bouquets of Christmas flowers, each bearing the identical note, each sent with love from me. I opened my email to follow the trail and found a note offering 20% off on my next order because they had made a mistake. A phone call brought me to Tom, who was certain that he could help me, even if I couldn't bring up the order amidst the chaos that was my inbox. It seems that someone entered the wrong sku number and FedEx had noticed the discrepancy and alerted ProFlowers where another employee sent the correct bouquet on its way.

It's no wonder that MOTG and family were confused. But Tom and I had the same advice - re-gift the tulips or put one bouquet in another room and feel the love that came with solving a problem before we even knew that one existed.

I was 5-for-5 and, if I add in the charming HVAC mechanic and Ernie and his fellow window washers I'm 7-for-7 in the perfect business department. It's a lovely way to spend a day.

Ellfing

2011-12-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

Elfing

I have no classes this week. Rome hasfallen and Consciousness has been explored and the next month isfilled with free time and the reading of novels.

Ah, would that that were true.

I arose this morning with the sun,checked emails and spoke to Little Cuter to ask about her comment onTuesday's post. By 9 I was going full steam ahead, damning thetorpedoes of aches and stiffness to power through the last of myelfing tasks. The tree is decorated and the detritus of that job isstowed in the third bay of the garage, awaiting the refilling andshelf stacking which will come all too soon. The Hanukah box islocated and has been evaluated and the menorahs will be atop thecounters come sunset. I have just enough candles to get the three ofus through tonight's blessings, each with our own Hanukiah (the realname for the candelabra Jews light for the eponymous holiday).

There were dozens of brownies in snackbags awaiting their packaging and addressing. There were boxesawaiting shipping labels. There was cash to be gotten for thecleaning lady and laundry to be done to cover the boys' nakedness,but those tasks didn't fall under “Holiday Chores” and so wereeasily pushed aside. I was in full elf mode, and I was loving it.

I packed. I wrapped, I wrote. Ipadded and moved styrofoam peanuts from one box to another. BigCuter was sleeping so I kept the holiday music to a dull roar, butSanta and Rudolph and the Little Drummer Boy kept me company as Iworked.... albeit more softly than I would have liked. Little Cuterand SIR had another box of goodies to be shipped; I was less thancreative with the gift tags this year. I hope they understand.

I usually amuse myself by carryingtowers of flat rate USPS boxes from the kitchen to the desk where Icreate the mailing labels on the computer. I try to carry a tallerstack with each trip, giggling as I teeter and the boxes totter as wecross the living room and turn the corner to the library. This year,sadly, my treks were constrained by my disability. Balancing boxescame after balancing myself.... and balancing myself was no meanfeat.

Tree trimming and gift wrapping andhouse decorating have taken their toll. My hip is alive with thesound of crackling and creaking. Bending is more challenging andtoting weight is becoming impossible. By 10 o'clock even reaching tothe other side of the table for the packing tape elicited anexpressive display of displeasure.

Still, I carried on.

The notes were already written and allthe supplies were there. It was the assembly that was taking itstoll. Twelve boxes and envelopes later, twelve printed shippinglabels afterward, twelve stacked packages were ready to be delivered. I put the ones to be mailed into the big red bag and off I went.

I drove across Skyline and left goodieswith Nancy's sister, then continued further east to Colonel Bill andSallie. We hugged and chatted and I saw his trophies and medals andread the kind words which those who honored his heroism had writtenon plaques and in articles. There was laughing and story telling andmany many hugs and then off I went, back to my Schnozz-sleigh. Therewas more to drop off.

Heading north on Oracle to RanchoVistoso, I followed the they-all-look-the-same streets to Judy'shouse. There, we commiserated. Neither one of us is as healthy orfit as we were last year at this time, and that is really too bad. She's being treated and I am engaged in therapies and we both hopefor the best but are aware of the worst, lurking in the distance. Neither of us can understand why others think we are remarkable; whatelse can we do but go on? I listened to her stories ofadministrative incompetence and oversights and she heard me out onfamily and friends. We would usually have these conversations on thehiking trail; it was a little sad to be doing it seated in her livingroom instead.

After inviting her to the Pity PartyJannyLou and I host for those who need to whine about the unfairnessof life but don't want to burden their loved ones, I hit the roadagain. Further west on Tangerine to a Meritage development and Donnaand Ron's house. He's been ill and she went from caring for me tocaring for him. I was looking forward to complimenting him on hisrecovery and to sharing brownies with her but, alas and alack, therewas no one at home when the UPS guy and I arrived at their driveway. I left the bag of goodies inside their security gate and sighed.

I wonder if Santa feels the same waywhen he leaves the gifts but doesn't get to see the joy on the facesof the recipients. Poor Santa.

Then it was south on Thornydale to thepost office at Magee. Unlike last Friday, when the line was out thedoor for both the counter and the Automated Postal Center, the scenewas relatively serene. Parking wasn't an issue and other patronsheld the door for me and my gigantic sack and even bigger box as westruggled through the door and into the lobby. An employee wasassisting with the APC, but Randy, a fellow January 8^thshootee, was there and flummoxed so I was his personal elf,explaining the screen and the prompts and ushering him through theexperience in a flash.

We adjourned to the parking lot wherewe shared interview stories for a while and wondered when theinterest in our intersection with bullets would subside. I invitedhim to the Stroll and Roll and agreed that January 9^thcannot come soon enough and then we hugged and went our separateways.

I should have gone to the usedbookstore and the grocery store and I ought to get up and walk to themailbox and see who sent us some more love. I should and I ought butI'm not. My gifts are mailed. My brownies are delivered. Familypresents still must be wrapped, but that's a joy and not a chore. I'm going to sit here on the couch and listen to seasonal musicthoughtfully provided by Comcast on my television set. I'm going towatch the sun cross the sky and remember that 11 months ago this daywould have been impossible. I'm going to bask in the love I sharedand received today. I'm going to smile at my son and let him rub myarm and tell me he loves me. I'm going to share dinner with my boysand not worry about a thing.

It's the holidays and I am ready toenjoy them.

Praise or Dollars

2011-12-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

Back in 1981, TBG and I received our evaluations and raises on the same day. He, working at Goldman Sachs (when it was an admirable place of employment), earned 10 times what I did at the hospital as a social worker. We explained it thusly - HE was greed; I was social conscience. It made for a perfectly lovely lifestyle. We had enough to live on and extra to give away. Good causes and dear friends and family were the beneficiaries of our munificence, and we smiled and expected nothing except the same in return. It worked for us.

I always expected to live modestly. Growing up, I knew no one who had more than anyone else. My town was solidly middle-class, and while some had less no one had lots. My dad owned his own business, so I never heard discussions of evaluations or compensation reviews or bonuses denied or delivered. As long as people were buying his wedding dresses we had food on the table. When they stopped, the business folded, but I was in college at that time so I missed the conversations about being an employee as he found other ways to support 3 kids and a wife. I went into review season in 1981 without preparation.

I'd been disappointed before in the matter of raises; my first job out of graduate school was with an agency headed by a man who ended up in prison for embezzlement. His assurance that my 1% raise was what my colleagues had received was shown to be a lie by lunchtime - his secretary revealed that her raise was 3% and that the assistant director's salary bump was 7%. Of course, he was sleeping with the AD, so that may have entered into it. I was planning to leave the job a few months later, so I didn't complain. The annoyance remained.

In 1981, though, I was working for a well-respected institution which had resources adequate to compensate its employees fairly. Or so I thought. Clearly, Goldman, Sachs & Co. had no restrictions on the number of dollars they were free to dispense to their favored employees, of whom my dear husband was one. We were looking forward to a wonderful holiday season, financed by our employers.

We arrived home from work at the same time. Zanner, our old friend, was waiting for us in our living room. We were frowning when we walked through the doors.

Why? He'd gotten a 30% raise on an already enormous salary, but no one had said a word about his performance. The money spoke for the firm. I had gotten a 3% raise on a miniscule salary, but I had heard glowing words and high praise from my supervisor. I was poor but knew I'd been doing good work. He was rich but knew not what his superiors thought. We were both uncomfortable.
I felt under-valued. He did too. The words I heard, while thoughtful and kind, did not make up for the fact that I could not live the life-style I loved without my husband's contribution. Sure, we had a joint bank account and all our money was considered our money, but most of me wanted to be an equal contributor. A smaller piece of me was happy to spend what he earned, don't get me wrong. But most of me knew that the inherent inequality of our incomes was bothersome.

He was delighted to have enough to pay down some of our mortgage and take a great vacation and help out his sister while feeling unloved and disrespected at the same time. He wondered if anyone noticed the changes he'd implemented and the good hires he'd made. He didn't know if his work was valued or if he, himself, was, either.

And so, sitting at the dinner table, he looked at me and said, "I'd have taken less money and more commentary. You are so lucky! You know you are doing well."

I could only smile. I think that I would've been very happy to have received a 30% increase. I would have managed to convince myself that they loved me because they were paying me what they thought I deserved. My supervisor had assured me that if more money had been available I would have received it..... but I knew he wasn't talking about 30% more money.
When I hear about the discrepancies between the pay of CEO's and those on the line, when I listen to NPR recounting the bonus amounts dispensed on Wall Street, when I think about the salaries our teachers and our fire fighters draw, I go back to my dining room table on that wintry day 30 some years ago.

Some things never change.

What to do? The only thing we can do. Take some time this holiday season to write and tell a teacher or a social worker or a nurse or a police officer just how important she is to you. Hug a crossing guard as you thank him for keeping your kids safe as they cross the street. Remind the school secretary that her cheery greeting makes your morning more complete.

It's not much, but it's something.

Snippets from Sunday

2011-12-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

Brownies cannot be created without unsweetened chocolate squares so it was off to Wally-World for me today. The drizzle hadn't started, I was finished in the gym, and it was too early for lunch. The parking lot was empty; I parked right in front of the door.

I found milk for $1.57 a gallon and I smiled in the baking aisle as a mom showed her son how to comparison shop. Someone recognized me and complimented me on my gait. We commiserated about cold and rainy weather's effect on old and achy bodies as I handed out cards for the Stroll and Roll and promised them pictures if they came over and said "Hi!" The tree fit nicely in my trunk and Big Cuter attached the stand, carried it in, and straightened it up before snuggling back down into the corner of the couch, sharing football and brownies with his father.

It's a lovely lovely day.

When I'm asked for a status update I'm going to put this memory out there like this

I am back to having a normal life.

Of course, my normal life now includes chatty phone calls with NBC national news producers.
*****
JannyLou and Fast Eddie packed up my decorations last year, as I was otherwise indisposed. It's been a delightful adventure to open the boxes, carefully labeled and brimming with pink popcorn, to find what they thought should sleep with what over the intervening months.
*****
I'm toying with the idea of a themed tree. My ornament collection is trending towards Santas, which is appropriately heathen for my tastes. Little Cuter assures me that she still believes, and, because we've always defined Santa as love and joy and wonder and surprise, I do not doubt her word.

Big Cuter, on the other hand, figured out the scientific impossibility of delivering toys to all the little girls and all the little boys when he was in the first grade. After carefully and quietly confiding the facts to me, he leaned in and whispered this admonition: "But don't tell The Little Cuter... she still believes and we shouldn't spoil it for her."

The look of love on his face was coupled with the emptiness reality had left in the wake of his belief.
*****
I tried to open a jar of nail polish this morning. I used my hands. I used a wrench. I used the jar opening tool. I failed. My son's strong hands made short work of the task.

I knew there was a reason.I had children.
*****
I wouldn't say that I was scampering up and down the step-stool as I adorned the tree with strings of colored lights but the fact that I was going up and down unaided was cause for celebration. After all, it wasn't that many months ago that lifting my knee off the couch pillows was a stunning occurrence. The next time I'm recuperating I'm going to take more detailed notes on my physical progress over time.
*****

Snowbirds... Snowbirds.. Fly Away Home

2011-12-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I know. I'm supposed to think of the good they do for the economy. I'm supposed to focus on the fabulous restaurants which have developed to entertain them. I'm supposed to smile at the tax revenues and civic good will and I'm trying, denizens, I'm really trying, but it's getting harder with each and every year.

We moved to Tucson in July. No one is in Tucson in July. There's a family member requiring a visit or a business trip which must be taken or a road trip that conveniently falls in the middle of the summer. The roads are empty. I wrote a post card that summer to a friend commenting on the fact that the infrastructure is there though the people are not.

I was often the only car on a four-lanes-in-one-direction through street. There was no need to speed; the road was my own personal property and I could tool along, enjoying the scenery, trying to figure out where I was. No one cut me off. No one drove 35 in the left lane in a 45 zone. No one sat at a stop light admiring the green arrow but not turning as it requested. No one was there to annoy me.

Come Thanksgiving, though, it's another story entirely. My cousin Amanda warned me about "the tarantulas, the scorpions, the javelina and the elderly" when she heard we were moving to Tucson. She was so right. Just because you have existed on the planet for 9 decades, just because you can barely see through the steering wheel (forget about seeing over the steering wheel), just because you decide that it's your turn to go...... just because doesn't mean you'll be safe, or that I won't be screaming as I travel behind you.

I ask you, denizens - is it necessary to come to a full and complete stop before making a right turn on a green arrow at an intersection where the only other cars are behind you? Apparently, those who sport Minnesota license plates think that it is a requirement. It happened to me twice this afternoon.

I drove 56 miles picking up CTG butterflies for the caregivers at G'ma's pod-castle, dropping off checks and order forms for onion sets to plant in my raised bed next spring, being interviewed by the Associated Press and spending quality time with other January 8th'ers, spending an hour at pilates, pushing the world's heaviest cart through Costco, picking up prescriptions and garlic bread and taking the scenic route home. I had the opportunity to see a lot of Tucson- the Foothills, midtown, the far east side. I noted that our streets are in need of repaving and that our traffic cameras are quite annoying (I wonder if I was the one who was "flashed" at Grant and Kolb today) and that no one understands that slower traffic should move to the right.

I know I am a dstractable driver. I try to use the phone when I am not behind the wheel. I spent today traveling behind others who would benefit from adopting a similar perspective. If you are holding the phone with one hand and gesticulating with the other how are you steering your vehicle?

And then there was the woman with the phone in one hand and some kind of take-out food in the other. No one is that busy.

The construction in my neighborhood continues unabated. Ashton Construction has left and a new company has taken their place. Pavement seems to be optional as they rip up and re-direct generally make it impossible for me to do what I want to do when I want to do it without driving 5 blocks out of the way. The fact that the snowbirds have landed and are stupefied by the barricades and the flashing lights and the Keep Right Keep Left signs just make it more impossible to leave home.

Big Cuter arrives tomorrow. My last Humanities Seminar is tomorrow. I have one more round of packages that have to go to the post office but that is it. I think that after that, I am staying in my house until after the new year arrives. It's just too scary out there.

His Gal Friday

2011-12-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

My phone does not stop ringing. My inbox is filled with requests and thank you's and more requests. Everyone, it seems, is interested in me all over again.... that is, if the media is to be believed.
Jewish tradition delays the unveiling of a headstone for a year... or 11 months... or after 30 days of mourning.... the point is that there is some precedent for commemorating anniversaries within my heritage. Our family tradition was 11 months later, it seems to me. The ceremonies were more private than the funerals; most of the mourners had moved on.
I, however, am in the center of a maelstrom of media madness because these people have not moved on. That is to say, they are convinced that the rest of you are as fascinated with this story as they are, because at this point the beginning of January is shaping up to be a pretty boring news period and the Tragedy in Tucson headline draws viewers like moths to a flame.

I will say that the only ones who still call me are the ones who were polite. I think I scared the rest of them off.
But "your friend, Amanda, from the AP" and I spent an hour on the phone today; the first 30 minutes just weren't enough for us. Amanda embodies what I mean when I tell people that rather than being intrusive, good reporters are good therapists. They ask the right questions and force you to think.

Each caller has a different style, an unexpected perspective, an interesting take on an old question that stops me in my tracks. I enjoy watching them work, trying to keep the connection on a professional-nearly-personal-but-not-friendly basis. I like the experience of the interview itself. I think of you, denizens, when I'm there. I wonder how I can translate my astonishment that the managing editor of our NBC affiliate is delighted to make my acquaintance. I mean, I know I'm special, but this is ridiculous.

Except that it's not. It is real. I spent the better part of an hour with our local NBC anchor today. The mother of two, she totally gets the Christina-Taylor piece of the story and I love listening to her ask the usual questions with real interest, as if she's never asked them before. I want to give her a good answer and she wants me to succeed. But my favorite part of the interview happened while the cameraman was shooting the B-roll, the shots that run behind the voice-over. Before we turned the corner and entered the shot, she reached over and straightened my necklace. It was like hanging out with my girlfriends.

The good reporters make the connection without invading your space.

NPR fulfilled a dream by airing my voice on a segment of All Things Considered. Though we spent a great deal of time asking and answering questions, most of what you heard was what I thought of as throw-away comments. He used the patter of my life instead of the formal pieces. I think that's why I love the interview so much. I sound like myself. I recognize myself.

The Arizona Republic has been extraordinarily gracious in its coverage; did you know that I am an inspirational woman? Imelda and I are dangerously close to bridging the gap between professionalism and friendship; she even has a blogonym. But talking to her is like talking to Yoda - she really really listens.

I think that's what I get out of sharing my story with all and sundry. People are listening. I hear myself explaining the inexplicable, noticing that they are as interested in the silences as in the words. Some things cannot be answered... not now, maybe never. The good reporters know that.

A Genuine Hero

2011-12-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

Apparently, one of the side-effects of being shot is the ability to judge children's photographs. At least that's what Linda Solomon tried to sell me when we spoke last February.
It's as odd to me now as it was then. Yet, somehow, without my quite knowing exactly what was happening as it was happening, I found myself agreeing to meet her at an elementary school the following Tuesday afternoon. This is a woman to whom it is impossible to say "No."

Getting there was no mean feat. It required a driver on each end, prophyllactic pain control, dressing comfortably yet tv-apropriately, and finding footwear that would support but not burden me. It required rearranging my nap schedule (do not laugh - naps are very healing) and insuring that someone would be home to accept our daily dinner donation. I had to gather strength to hop with my walker all the way from the parking lot through through the front lobby and into the first conference room on the right. At the time, that was an excursion requiring a nap in and of itself.

(Note to self re: healing plan - congratulate yourself on the fact that you can now circumnavigate the perimiter of the school, in the dark, without an assistive device, as proven while trying to leave after the Winter Fiesta last week.)

That story has already been told. The photographs were made into greeting cards, the kids went on to other adventures, and Linda and I have kept in touch. She flies in for a week or a weekend and sometimes there's a chance for lunch or dinner and one day I know we'll get to meet her husband, too.

She loves Tucson as much as we do, and she's doing something about it. Last month she was back in town doing a similar project for New Beginnings for Women and Children and last night she was smiling out of the tv at me, surrounded by grinning children.

Diane Sawyer was a natural for the lead-in to the piece on Linda, her camera, her smile and her love. She got right to the heart of the matter - these kids, these homeles youngsters with fractured lives, want furniture and to go to college and to have a healthy mom. But they also hope to make a difference and hope to give someone hope. Diamond hopes to make my mm proud and Taeisha wants to get all good grades.

And then there was the girl who took a picture of the University of California at San Diego, captioning it with her hope to go to college. Linda got it in front of the campus's president and he was so touched, and she is so special, that the photographer has been guaranteed a 4-year scholarship to UCSD when she's old enough to attend.

That only happened because of Linda Solomon.

The next time someone tells you that one person cannot make a big difference, send them here to read this.
She gave an otherwise unattainable treasure to a young person. The ripple effects make me shiver to consider. The college president can feel good about himself and his school. The mother's delight as she hugged her daughter while murmuring "You can go to college. You are going to college," is an image I'll hold onto for a long long time. That student will carry with her the knowledge that someone thought she was worthy. And I can bask in the glow of knowing someone special.
That would be Linda Solomon. She is my hero.

Late Afternoon Blues

2011-12-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

When Big Cuter was 4 months old we signed up for a Mommy and Me class. It was self-preservation on my part; the class was held from 3:30-5pm. Appropriately, it was named The Witching Hour Class.

Unless I'm on a beach surrounded by those I love, late afternoons are my sorriest time of day. I can rev up again around dinner time, but you really don't want to be around me as the day is winding down.

It's winter-time here in the desert southwest, which means I have 6 weeks to wear all my woolens and all my jackets and all my sweaters before teh temperatures wend their way back up to the 70's by February. It was in the 50's this afternoon; I wore pants, fleece lined boots, a flannel long sleeved shirt and a polar fleece jacket. I seriously considered bringing my gloves and my hat.

The rain filled the garbage can as it stood, lid flapping helplessly, banging against the container, as the storm went on and on. The recycling can had been blown over by the wind; I really do need two good legs to right a heavy, unweildly item. I did it, but it wasn't easy.

In junior high and high school, the 4-6pm time slot would find me next door, on the floor, in front of the tv with my 2-years-older-cousin, watching Million Dollar Movie and observing her careful perusal of the latest shades of nailpolish displayed on the inside cover of Seventeen Magazine. Nobody argued in her house. Nobody had any expectations of me. It was as close to peaceful in the late afternoon as I ever remember feeling.

For a while I filled the time with exercise classes. I remember Jacquie telling me to smile, that my grin would make the time fly by. I still noticed every one of the 60 minutes of aerobic flailing, but I looked like I was having a good time. It was a charade.

Working full-time, often til 6pm, the late afternoon was generally a time to clean up my desk and prepare for the evening's entertainment. Lately, I have been trying to avoid my 5 o'clock blues by opting for a similar regimen. The lady who organized my desk reluctantly agreed to a square inbox to collect bills and other items which must be dealt with but which will take more than 2 minutes to file/pay/fill out/mail/read.

I am trying to spend this part of the day working through its contents.

Of course, the cocktail to the right is a big help.

The next time my kids give me grief for being so cheery early in the morning, I'll remind them of my grumpy late afternoon self. It's all a matter of perspective, I think.

My Plan- Too Bad

2011-12-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

I do better when I have a plan. I like to know where I'm going and how I'm going to get there. Change my plan and watch the steam come out of my ears..... unless I'm crying and my tears distract you. I love the anticipation, living the plan, almost more than I love the actual event - no matter what the event might be.

I've spent the past 11 months expecting to be limp-less on January 8. Really, it was more of a firm belief than an actual plan. I just knew that after a year I'd be recovered..... fine..... moving on...... unstuck.

Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men ......

I'm definitely the mouse in that equation.

After 11 months of physical therapy, weight training, stationary cycling, acupuncture, massage and pilates, the only thing I know for certain is that my right leg is shorter than my left leg. It took me 10 months to accept that fact, 10 months to decide to have the cobbler put lifts in my cowboy boots because velcro-and-the-movable- lift didn't work and my leg wasn't getting any longer.

As the cobbler reminded me, I can always have him take it out. Until then, leg length won't be the reason I'm listing and lurching. Reluctant as I was to admit that some of the damage might be permanent, acting on the facts was bizarrely relaxing. Of course, a piece of that might be the fact that wearing my boots always makes me happy.

But the undeniable, unequivocal, absolutely without a doubt fact of the matter is that when there's a wedge under my right heel my hips rest more evenly, approximating a parallel line to the ground beneath me. This was not the plan. Nope, definitely not the plan. It's been hard to absorb.

I was assured that my legs would be of equal length after the hip surgery. I don't remember much from those early days in the hospital, but I have a clear memory of discussing this issue with the surgeon. I told him that I did not want to lurch like my father did, that I did not want to have lifts put in all my shoes, that I wanted my legs to be the same length. He heard me and said I needn't worry. He held to that ideal until my 6 month check up when he measured them, sighed, and agreed that there is a half inch differential.

I know that medicine is more of an art than a science. I'm not angry with the doctor. I know that this was not his plan, either. He's an extraordinarily precise man. I know he did his best.

All that knowledge did not keep me from slipping down the slippery slope of my recovery, landing me harshly and painfully at the intersection of despair and disgust. I was shorter. I hurt. I had no stamina. I was still limping. This was not my plan.

I had told everyone I met that I would get better, that I would heal, that their sympathy was better directed to those who lost loved ones. That would never get better. I expected that by now, 3 weeks away from the one year anniversary of my encounter with weaponry, 300plus days of recuperation later, by now I would be fine. I'm not fine.

My plan has been blown up.

Too bad, kiddo.

That's what I've come to....resigned myself to....reluctantly accepted.... NO! It is too bad that this is still going on. It is too bad that I limp. It is too bad that my recovery requires constant vigilance and will never truly end. But too bad is the reality and it's not really that bad at all.

My children have their mother. My husband has his wife. Yesterday, Elizabeth sounded just like the Cuters as she shhh'ed me and hustled me out the door of a store where I was, apparently, behaving in an embarrassing manner. I smiled to myself, and was consciously grateful that I could walk and talk and humiliate a teenager with my personality and my words, all of which flowed freely.

I'm a lucky girl, even if it's too bad that I'm not perfectly healed by now.

So, denizens, I have formed a new plan. At TBG's suggestion, I am no longer announcing that I will be limp-free on January 8th. It may take me a few more weeks, or months, but I will get there. And if I don't get there, if arthritis interferes, if I need a bigger lift or a cane to keep me even, well then, I'll adjust to that, too.

My plan?

My lot in life is not bad; it is too bad.

I will accept the "too" and embrace it.

Too bad equates to a fixable state.

I am here to make a plan. That, in and of itself, is something that has begun to dawn on me as a truly remarkable thing. Ever since that drive down Ina Road when I said aloud "I've been shot" and felt the reality course through my body like a living thing, ever since then I have marveled at the fact of my existence.

And it occurs to me that the rest of the world might be feeling the same way, too. As I've noted before, this story has legs. It does not go away. People care, no matter if I think they should or not. They do and that's a fact.

In the beginning, I welcomed the warmth and the attention. Lately, it's been feeling intrusive. That's counter-productive. My plan also includes the following reminder to myself:

Allow myself to accept the love.... to be healed by the love.

That's my plan and I'm stickin' to it.

GRINNING at Prince's Winter Fiesta

2011-12-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

In the aftermath of January 8th, I created a non-profit. Of course, since it takes up to 9 months to process the paperwork to become a 501c-3, right now all I really have is a group of wonderful volunteers, a name, and a website

Kathleen, Wonderful Volunteer
We were helping out at a Winter Festival, and we were properly attired.... blinking necklaces included.

Martha & Sherry, Wonderful Volunteers
We were staffing the craft table, making peppermint candy bows with painted hand prints.

Roseanne & Larry & Sherry (again), more W.V.'s

A/B agreeing to be photographed.
Some of us were more enthusiastic than others.
Notice the little dance step.

We were having a really good time.

The third graders were exactly the right age for this
project
.

Younger ones needed more assistance.

Let us help

Do I really have to do this?

Sometimes they needed Larry and Mom and Dad and Dad.

Some didn't want any help at all.
It seemed to run in the family.

Some just wanted to watch mom coloring.

And so, she colored, back and forth, left to right, staying within the lines.
And while she colored she told how she colored like this when she was in the third grade.
There was a lot more than crafting going on.

There was pure joy.

There were doting big brothers who were willing to color right next to you.

There was time for chit chat.

Someone asked the face painters to immortalize her love for her music teacher.

And someone was bored by the whole thing.

Grandparents in Residence was designed to foster inter-generational mentoring.
I'm thinking this might be my poster.

What we do is serious work.... just look.

It's also filled with quietly wonderful moments like these.

Look at that smile.
I find it impossible to be sad when I am in the presence of such precision.

Healing 101: Hanging with the Boys

2011-12-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

With 5 different family caregivers unavailable, my presence was required after school today. There's nothing that could have pleased me more.

I've been grumpy and limping and not sleeping well at all. Friends and professionals and professionals who are friends have all been reminding me that anniversaries are hard. They reassure me that the feelings are natural and that I shouldn't be surprised by their intensity. I suppose that should help. It doesn't.

As the months passed, getting shot felt further and further away. Suddenly, it feels like yesterday. I don't know why.

Is it that the last time I put out the holiday decorations I was lifting heavy boxes from the top shelf of the cabinet in the garage? Is it that there's snow on the mountain and last year at this time my 6am alarm would have sent me to the Pima Canyon trailhead to see how close to the flakes I could get? Is it driving past the Reid Park Zoo this morning, thinking back to the Cornell Club outing last Fall with the Crayola kids, CTG hiding inside the dinosaur egg, feeling invisible and giggling at the foolishness of it all?

Or is it that this year I am struggling to move the poinsettia from one side of the living room? Is it that my alarm got me up for a planning meeting and an acupuncture appointment and that hiking is impossible right now? Is it that Christina won't be joining her brother and me when the Cornell Club takes us to see the new elephant exhibit this year?

Could it be that the calls from Channel 9 and the Arizona Star and the Arizona Republic and NBC must be returned? Could it be sitting on a director's chair, talking to a blank camera, unresponsive and cold looking back at me, as the producer's instruction to "just say what happened that morning" was stuck in my throat?

Why do the opportunities, the invitations, the requests feel ghoulish now? Eleven months ago the answers were news. News... something new. Today, there are no new facts to reveal. Today, there are still 6 dead and 13 wounded. Today, our recovery is of interest only to ourselves...... or so I'd hoped.

Those reporters and producers? They all start with the same general statement: they cannot believe that this story still has legs. One went so far as to ask me if I thought that she should use the story. All I could tell her was that she was not the only person who was asking.

As Mark Kelly describes Gabby's recovery moving to weekly rather than daily changes, I feel reassured. The pace has slowed down here, too. It's comforting to know that I'm not alone. On that level, injured human to injured human, I'm glad the question was asked and the answer televised. It helped me. What unnerves me is the lack of acknowledgement that the question is intrusive.

Healing in public is often supportive. Strangers take delight in my progress. Smiles greet me as I open the door for myself. I am my own harshest critic, and my limp betrays me. Rehab is hard and it hurts and the progress is slow and painful and success is not guaranteed. How am I? I really don't know. I am wondering where I've gone. Where are you? is probably the better question.

So this afternoon, when Mr. 8 rode his plastic pedi-car into my leg and laughed as he oops-ed and rode away without any thought to the fact that bullets had gone through the appendage he was using to play bumper cars, this afternoon when I was nothing more than myself, when I was the grown-up and thus all powerful, when being damaged wasn't in anyone's consciousness but my own, this afternoon I felt just fine.

No one wondered how I was feeling. No one wondered where I was. They knew the answer without being asked - I was their Suzi and I was helping them make dinner.

How am I? I think I'm getting back to normal. Just ask the boys.

Why I Stayed at Home

2011-12-07T06:00:00.000-07:00

Mark Kelly is in town tonight. He'll be talking about his book, and selling the book, and signing the book. He's being interviewed by Ted Robbins, my friend from NPR, the one who put me on All Things Considered. It's being held at Centennial Hall, on the UofA campus, and the tickets are free.

I'm staying home.

Several friends invited me to join them, and were gracious when I declined. Tickets were held for me and I turned them back. Home delivery was offered and still I said "No." I'm taking care of myself tonight.

As TBG reminded me, I'd asked him to record Diane Sawyer's interview with the Kelly's last month. They were inspiring at a time when I needed a bit of a push. Now, weeks later, I still haven't seen it. .

Yet I'm carrying the image of Gabby's smile in my heart each and every day. When I resist getting up from the couch, preferring to moan and ask for help, I think of Mark encouraging Gabby and I get up and get my own damn drink. I don't like it, but I do it. It's the right thing to do. Both of our husbands tell us so. We're lucky to have them, although it doesn't always feel like the blessing that it is.

Every once in a while it's nice to be able to whine. I have the words to do that. Gabby doesn't. I cannot imagine what that must be like. Typing to you, talking to my friends, reassuring my family,.. I am an active participant in all of it. Hearing myself say it aloud, whatever it may be, takes the edge off... just a little... enough to make it bearable when it feels like my head is going to explode.

Sometimes the tears just don't stop coming.

I was ~~worried that~~ knew that listening to Mark would be hard. Hearing him talk about flying to Gabby's side, describing his pride in her accomplishments, his rueful smile when he tells the audience that Gabby used to do most of the talking in their house and that now..... well, denizens, tears would be the least of it for me. When I heard him say it on tv last month I was gasping for air.

I'm just not ready to do that in public. I don't know if I ever will be ready to do that in public. There are certain pieces of this event which can be typed to you, who choose to be here, who've watched this unfold, who know me. I can't put it out for the world to see.

There is no way on God's green earth that I could be within 100' of Mark Kelly tonight and not begin to cry. He sat with me in my hospital room. He hugged my husband and I watched them draw strength from one another. He and My True Friend discussed space travel at more than a casual level. When I think of that I return to my damaged self, in bed and en-pillowed and drugged, surrounded by love in the first few days after my brush with violence, aching in my body and my soul, feeling such loss and such devotion .....

I'm typing through a veil of tears. It's misty, not drippy, kind of blurry and definitely the cusp of something much bigger and deeper. If I'm going to let it out, it's not going to happen in front of 3000 people and an astronaut.

I'm doing just fine, snuggled next to TBG on Douglas, typing to you.

That's why I stayed at home.

Decorating Has Begun

2011-12-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

I went with the big white poinsettias from Costco this year.

They were at the top of the rolling shelf and I got them down myself.

That alone makes them gorgeous in my eyes.

I took your advice and repurposed the ice bucket with the smashed lid into a plant holder.

This amaryllis is from last year.

It has been living on the edge of the bathtub since the bloom faded last February.

Just a little bit of water perked it right up.

The Santas are at the table, wondering where the food is.

This see-saw Santa's left most of his reindeer behind.... just ask any 4 year old.

I seem to be developing a small but significant collection of ugly reindeer

I'm noticing a Santa theme this year.

I'm feeling smug about buying a dozen red tapers at the grocery store when they were on sale for $1 each.

It was lovely to have brand-new-just-what-I-needed-when-I-needed-it.

As Santa's hangin' out above the big screen, I wish you

this year and always.

How I Feel About Sundays

2011-12-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

The girl in the commercial was outraged - a boyfriend had the audacity to tell her that Sundays are for football.

My kids reacted predictably. Big Cuter's "Damn right!" came just before his sister's dismissal of the woman's entire premise. Ignoring the fact pattern, she went to the heart of the matter. "She knew that about him and she's still with him? Whose issue is that??"

There, in a nutshell, is how I feel about Sundays.

I totally get it - the NFL garb and the special snack/seat on the couch/lucky towel clutched feverishly as the game does or does not go your way. The decibel level is the same, whether they're winning or losing. Only the intonations vary. Everything is analyzed, reviewed, considered and filed away in the brain-box which holds the other crucial pieces of a game played by others decorated with laundry that appeals to you. You care about it and I can respect passion.

Just don't ask me to share it. I learned enough to be a pleasant companion on the couch. I understand the basics and have some valid opinions every once in a while. But I really don't care. I loved the Bears in the early 1980's

but they were winning and delightfully naughty (remember when bad behavior meant wearing an unapproved head band?) and fun. I can usually cheer for the home team, but we've moved so much and I care so little that my enthusiasm is somewhat less than full-throated.

I like being able to straddle the divide. Sitting next to rabid fans is the perfect combination of being with the ones I love while not being disturbed by the ones I love. In my chair, typing to you, feeling their energy but only as background to the conversation you and I are having - it's pure heaven for me. Everyone is happy.

Hiking on Sundays in Marin, leaving after yoga from the World Gym parking lot, tooling up Mt. Tam with Ms. Nancy, I knew that the 49'ers were in good hands with my guys watching their every move. Right now, TBG is on the edge of his seat, clenching and unclenching his hands, willing the ball into the receiver's hands. I'm smiling at him, thinking loving thoughts, and he's totally oblivious of my delight.

And then the ball is tossed and caught and the runner escapes tackle after tackle, picks up his defenders, cuts left, nearly falls and then scampers the rest of the 52 yards to cross the goal line and fall flat on his face in the end zone. I sensed the extra energy and looked up in time to see almost the whole thing and by the end both of us were yelling and waving our arms in the air.

And now I'm back with you.

Compromise. A willingness to learn enough to be amused. Respect for the other's point of view. It works in our house.

(Should I be obvious and extend the analogy to Congress?)

Newt-mentum

2011-12-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

Newt Gingrich is the bachelor party; Mitt Romney is the wedding.

Thus saith CNN.

Perry lost on ability not personality,

the Republican strategist continued. There was also some mention of back surgery gone awry and implanted stem cells which didn't alleviate the discomfort but I wasn't paying that much attention to the words because I was stuck on the image of a potential President of the United States of America being likened to a bachelor party.

What have we come to?

I don't care if he buys his wife nice jewelry or if he takes lavish vacations; living well is the best revenge, after all. What worries me is his moral character. The Washington Post debunked the deathbed divorce papers story, saying the discussion was no surprise to either party and that

Gingrich’s marriage to Battley had been troubled for many years before it dissolved 31 years ago, both parties have said.

So, she was neither hurt nor dead. That was good news. The bad news is the rest of the paragraph:

Battley, who is seven years older than Gingrich, had been Gingrich’s high school math teacher in Columbus, Ga. They began dating after he graduated and were married in 1962, when Gingrich was 19 and a freshman at Emory University in Atlanta ...

I wonder what his parents thought about that.

Thrice married and financially profligate - these are only the pieces that are reported. Say what you will about President Obama's failure to fulfill the dreams of the left within an hour and a half of being elected, no one questions his character. He rolls his eyes at the Kardashians and his children don't have Facebook pages. He's married to an extraordinarily impressive woman and he knows how lucky he is to have her. He has dinner with his family every night that he's in town. He respects his mother-in-law.

I have no doubt that Speaker Gingrich is an intelligent man. He has a professorial air and great hair.

That's not enough for me.

********
I could go on and on about Newt, but I'm watching pictures of Hilary Clinton and Aung San Suu Kyi and I can't stop smiling. Mrs. Clinton can't seem to let go of her hand... I can feel the admiration.... it's a much nicer place to be than contemplating the Republican presidential field.

Dessert

2011-12-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

My life is feeling quite layered of late. Section upon section rest sometimes softly sometimes noisly always precariously one nestling into the other with varying degrees of success.

Today I got out of bed and moved effortlessly toward the shower.... and then I got stuck putting on my boots.

I had this pair at the cobbler last week for beautification and the addition of an-invisible-from-the-outside lift under my right heel.

Now, for the first time in these boots, my hips are even as I stand flat footed. I really truly didn't mind the permanent nature of the lift until my foot got stuck going into the right one ... the added-on-to one... the one that goes at the end of the leg which was refusing to bend enough so that my arms could reach my toes. Usually this is not a problem. This morning, as I was smiling at the workmanship and the newly-polished gleam in my hands, my hip decided to add its layer to my morning. Announcing its presence with authority. Gee, thanks.

Imagine candied walnuts on your soft-serve ice cream sundae. It's just a little bit too hard and crackly and crunchy. Not awful enough to scream, but noticeable.

Friends are happy and then they are sad. Events over which they have no control have the ripple effect of sending their lives into a tailspin. Happy memories and joyous expectations are now sandwiching the current reality, and that reality resembles the lint in the pocket of a coat you haven't worn since college. Not toxic, but not pleasant. My frappe life imagines it something like sweet and sour sauce oozing across Szechuan Firey Beef. It's just not right.

Someone's infirmities and over-booked schedule puts me in the limelight for a project I admire. She's just as happy to have me do it as do it herself and I'm thrilled to be a part of something wonderful, but the edges are bumping up against one another. These layers have a softer connection, though. We're filling one another's gaps, supporting and releasing as needed, our lives turning in thousands of new directions, kind of the way the vanilla melts into the chocolate chip in my Baskin Robbins fantasy sundae. Easy, a little smooshy, a little broken, but basically just fine.

I do have whipped cream on the top of this concoction. I've been reminded by several others of something I had noticed myself - the brownie list continues unbroken. Despite the broken pieces of pie crust that appeared randomly through this metaphoric trip through my-life-as-a-dessert, 20 boxes were shipped out on Monday, and there are dozens more to come. The perfectly fluffed pillowy cloud of loveliness that is made up of Seret laughing as she's telling me she's hidden them in the freezer is just the first layer of wonderfulness which will rain down upon me as the recipients call, write long lovely emails, send cards with pictures and hand-written notes... in short, top off my year with sweets and a cherry.

That's me. Perched atop layers of life, feeling pretty damn good about it all.

My Limp

2011-11-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

I spent the morning considering JuliusCaesar. Was Cicero being snarky as he praised the dictator for lifefor his victories and his clemency and his poetry? Did Caesar err byallowing his enemies to live? Since one of those who survived wasBrutus (of Et tu? Shakespeareanfame) perhaps it wasn't the best decision he ever made. Would theproposed Caesarean reforms have preserved the Republic had Caesar notbeen assasinated before they could be implemented? Did he reallyhave a sexual relationship with King Nicodeme, as Suetonius'sepigrams suggest? My brain was afire as I hobbled from the classroomat noon.

Threehours of sitting and listening is more than my recovering hip canhandle happily. Sometimes I bring a footrest, sometimes I sitstraight upright with my feet planted firmly on the ground, sometimesI cross my legs, one over the other, switching the over to the underevery 15 minutes. I'm still looking for the appropriate solution. The result of stimulating my brain for hours is a stiffening of myhip joint and a hobbling gait that resembles Walter Brennan in ToHave and Have Not. I'm quickbut I'm wobbling.

Thedrive to the restaurant for lunch was too short to stretch myconstricted ligaments; my gait worsened with every step. The parkinglot was full; I left The Schnozz across the street in the lot for themeeting to follow and gimped into the nearly empty dining room. Where were the drivers of all those cars in the parking lot? As weate and chatted, my friend and I watched as the Arizona RepublicanClub dribbled out of the meeting room behind the big wooden door toour right. Not one of the attendees walked without assitance – acane, a walker, a friend's arm – and not one of them appeared to beyounger than 70. I compared my walking abilities to theirs and Isighed.

BetteDavis was right – old age is not for sissies.

We had some more ice tea and walked across to themeeting where I found myself, once again, occupying an armlesspadded chair. My hip protested, but my attendance was mandatory. Leaving early was not an option. It's hard to concentrate whensitting sends shooting pains up the side of my torso, .

Tonightwe're joining friends for dinner. There will be more sitting andreadjusting and stabbing pains.

I'mnot getting worse, though I'm not recovering as quickly as I'd like. I hurt and therehab is hard and I'm getting frustrated and I know that if I don't keep upwith the exercises and the strengthening I'll never glide gracefullyacross the dance floor.... not that I ever did before getting shot.

It is very confusing.

I parked in a handicapped spot at the grocery store last week. I placed the blue plastic placard over the rear view mirror, grabbed my reusable bags, and amazed myselfwith the graceful nature of my exit from the car. I wascomplimenting myself as I walked evenly and precisely toward thestore when my reverie was interrupted by an older gentleman who made eye contact and said “You look pretty good to be parking in a disabled parkingspace.”

I stopped, I smiled,I thanked him. It felt great to be described as “prettygood” when walking wasconcerned.

Then Ipaused and reconsidered.

Perhaps he wasn't being kind. Perhaps hewas aggravated. Perhaps he thought that I was unfairly using theplacard. Perhaps he had perceived me as being whole.

I'mholding onto that thought and smiling. With motivation like that, I'll lose this limp yet.

This Post is My Revenge

2011-11-29T06:00:00.000-07:00

When he was younger, his curls were golden brown. When asked to identify the parts of his head, he'd point to "my eyes, my nose, my ears, and my beautiful" as he got to his hair. Now, he's sitting on Douglas, twirling a few strands over and over just above his left ear.

My dad did the same thing. I'd sit in the back seat behind my father, watching as his hands gesticulated and pointed and twirled and did everything but guide the car. It drove me crazy.

Now my son, my nearly-a-lawyer, grins his fiendish grin as his father dodges the mister fan the kid has unearthed from beneath my bathroom sink.

It must be generational. We are bred to make one another nutty.

He will sit beside his sister, his finger a millimeter away from her arm, declaring with that fiendish grin that he's not touching her. Think about it - is it possible not to flinch when someone is telling you that he is not touching you? I don't think so.

Yet his joy is so pure, his delight so genuine, it is simply impossible to be angry with him for long. We know that he won't hurt us while we assume that he will continue to annoy us. It's frustratingly delightful.

He and I play Guillotine at the round glass-topped kitchen table. As we drove to lunch today, I listened as he regaled his father with tales of how giving me -2 or -3 point cards always results in my losing track of everything except getting rid of those cards because they upset me so much for no real reason. I stop playing well, I have no strategy beyond making them go away. I always lose those games, he reminded me, giggling madly.

My prose was just interrupted as he asked if I'd seen HP7b. "HP7b???" I queried. Through an inordinately large smile he nodded as he expanded it.... Harry Potter ... the 7th movie ... the second part.

I ask you, denizens, how was I supposed to know that?

I remember the hike I took with my girlfriends the first time our kids were home from college. We all had the same reaction

It's great to have them home. I love having them home.

When are they leaving?????

Afterglow

2011-11-28T06:00:00.001-07:00

There's a lovely aura in our home right now. Little Cuter and SIR have landed safely, picked up the dog, and decorated their apartment for the holiday season. Big Cuter and TBG are on the couch, snuggled under blankets, watching football and sharing esoterica. I've baked the first batch of holiday brownies and am listening to the printer creating the labels as I type to you. Life is good.

We were quiet and peaceful for the holiday this year. Usually, I am the home for the otherwise uninvited; my turkey is always big enough and we've yet to finish a side dish. But this year we kept it simple. I picked up G'ma at the pod-castle at 2-ish. When she asked if she had to wear fancy clothes I just laughed; sweats were the order of the day.

There's nothing I like more in the kitchen than to watch my daughter work her magic. Pepper Jack cheese is cut into many, equally sized squares. Potatoes are cut into cubes, also equally sized. Asparagus is seasoned, rolls are heated, cobbler is cobbled, and nothing is burnt.

For the first time in memory I did not burn the rolls.

The jello mold doesn't gel if I use low-fat Cool Whip. I'll have to remember that for next year. Aside from that, everything was perfect. My gravy had no lumps and, though I thought it was too salty, the boys all agreed that it was perfect. Who am I to argue?

I was smarter this year, at least that's how I'm casting it. In reality, I forgot to order the turkey and Sunflower Market had no more free-range birds to sell me when my pouting face and I showed ourselves at the meat counter on Tuesday. The largest pre-packaged bird in the meat case was 12 pounds; our usual turkey tips the scales somewhere in the 20's. I was anxious for a moment, then picked up a turkey breast, too.

I cooked the breast first thing in the morning and saved it for left-overs. The house had that "good food is coming" smell all day, even thought the "real bird" didn't go int the oven til noon. SIR and I enjoyed the drumsticks and the white meat made everyone else very happy. There was enough for sandwiches, plates with mayo and stuffing, and rarebit on Friday night.

Now, the rarebit is another story entirely. I've been making it from scratch since Stouffer's stopped shipping it to my supermarkets. The recipe is more complex than I usually undertake, bu t I prepare everything in advance and hope for the best. The best is usually soupy... tasty, but too thin. This year I took my time and stirred everything just a little bit longer. The result was the perfect consistency..... until it began to cool. A slow pour turned into a sluggish ooze which morphed into a gelatinous sludge as the meal progressed. Was it grout? Was it spackle? It was tasty although thick.... ok, nearly-brick-like.

Next year I'm putting it in the fondue pot with a sterno underneath.

Little Cuter's only culinary failures have been pies. We are masters at making pie soup. Our crusts are delicious, but the contents never transform themselves into a fork-able bite. This year she skipped the whole thing and went straight to a cobbler. Making her own dough was much simpler than she'd imagined it would be. The results were spectacular. I've had some every night as a bed-time snack. The last bowlful is in the 'fridge, waiting as a reward when I finish this post.

With only grown-ups at the table, and family to boot, cleaning up was a cinch. There were tall people to replace the fancy serving dishes on the high cabinet shelves. There were volunteers to empty the ever full garbage can whenever I called for help. I was plied with drinks, alcoholic and sparkling and tasty, as I watched Little Cuter load the dishwasher.

It wasn't that long ago that I told G'ma to sit and let me do the dishes. Now she and I were the watchers. We didn't mind at all.

And now it's Sunday night and Tim Tebow has won again and the boys are still on the couch and I've made dinner and done laundry and put the pointsettias in fancier pots. The mailing labels are affixed to the PriorityMail boxes and I've got a plan for the morning.

It's time to treat myself to that cobbler and watch the holiday season unfold.

After all, I'm done with my shopping.

Small Business Saturday, Burrow-Style

2011-11-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

I want to go to each and every one of these places with each and every one of you. Just look at all the fun we can have in

Bloomington, Indiana buying books at Howard's Bookstore (111 W. Kirkwood) and used ones at Caveat Emptor (112 N. Walnut). They have no web presence; we'll have to drive 45 miles south of Indianapolis and visit in person We could buy Little Cuter something wonderful at Goods for Cooks before we stopped for dessert at BluBoy Chocolates Cafe and Cakery. The name alone has me drooling, and then I saw the pictures of the cakes made with locally sourced ingredients. Thanks, Little Cheese, for these ideas.

Traveling further south, just outside of Dallas we'll come to Flower Mound, Texas and Sole Groove Dance Fitness. So many great names, so much fun and excercise. SEL suggests a class pass for someone who hates traditional exercise classes. This is so totally within the spirit of the adventures post in this series. How about buying them for your book group or your two best friends? It's always easier to keep to a routine if you have someone who's depending on you for company.

Somewhat closer to my own stomping grounds, we can meet at Quilters Ranch in Tempe. Not-Kathy had to insure that there was a great quilting community before she could really consider joining us here in Tucson; from the exclamation points in Sandy's recommendation I think she'd be happy in Tempe, too.

Katiekono could meet us for a Mediterranean lunch at Saba's on Tatum and E. Bell Road. After lunch, we could meet Laura further south at Catalina Ranch House in Catalina, your one stop shop for all things Arizona.... from the ridiculous

to the sublime

Once you're in Tucson, Leah and I would like to invite you to Mildred and Dildred and the Kids' Center (which has a fabulous website) for the kiddies, Summit Hut for all things outdoors, The Loop (immortalized in The Burrow here) for jeans, and PopCycle and Little Bird Nesting, on 4th Avenue for funky, recycled fun. Leah's inviting us to shop on-line at her (self-described) hobby business, Barefoot Books and at her etsy shop, too.

There are Farm Boxes from CSA, yoga packages (Barefoot Studio here in Tucson or your local purveyor), and, when all else fails, a gift card from your favorite small business. Discovery Toys (thanks KatieKono) is a smart place to shop for the young 'uns on your list, as are Tupperware and Pampered Chef and Avon and Cutco and Mary Kay... all of which are sold by your neighbors in the ultimate small business. Sure, Target and Wally-World and Macy's and Toys R Us are open early and late and have everything, but local shopping keeps the money closer to home... and that's a good thing.

By now you should be finishing up your last bits and pieces....... as should I.... and I'm not.... but I do know where to start looking once I put on my elf hat. Keep an eye out... maybe we'll run into one another.

2011-11-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

For my happy, healthy family

For my friends, near and far, old and new and old-and-found-again

For the abundance of goodness I see every day

For the richness of the world I inhabit

For the fact that I am here at all,

I am truly grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all !!

Thanksgiving - Tuesday

2011-11-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

My favorite parts of the holidays hearken back to the past. Sometimes I reach to my childhood and sometimes I go back to last year. This is the post I wrote in 2009 as I was waiting for the kids to arrive. Life was simple and my worries revolved around keeping G'ma safe and secure as she recovered from bi-lateral broken ankles. This year is a bit more complex, with emotional issues taking center stage at a once-again-family-only Thanksgiving dinner. I'll be busy prepping and shopping and wedding planning.... I'm going to be recycling posts and hugging my children.

Here's how I felt back then:

I've been thinking about family and friends, as The Cuters make their way to the desert southwest for a family-only Thanksgiving. They're at their respective airports hours early, as befits a TBG-spawned human, and if the weather holds out they'll arrive in Tucson within an hour of each other. The Little Cuter will be arriving first and promises to be hungry; I'm bringing pot roast and fresh baked bread so she can feast while we await her brother. TBG thinks I'm silly; I flash to Daddooooo meeting me at LaGuardia with a bag of bagels and oranges and Coca-Cola and some chocolate candies for himself. I'm smiling as I pack the snack sack.

C&B were planning to join us, as they have every year since we've been sharing a state. Alas and alack, medical issues have altered their plans; when did we get old enough to have our bodies get in the way of life? Of course, there was the Thanksgiving when TBG and my brother and I drove 350 miles over the river and through the woods from Chicago to Nannie and Grandpaw's house, stopping at every rest area so TBG could throw up. Stomach flu seems to haunt him in late November, which is a shame because Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday. But we still went on the trip; he was young enough and healthy enough to manage the inconvenience. C&B are dealing with more serious issues and we'll have to be thankful for having them in our lives from afar this year. Don't the sickness gods recognize that we have certain traditions that ought to be respected? Perhaps they didn't get the memo.

Last year our Minneapolis snow birds invited themselves to our celebration; it was nice to know that they felt comfortable enough to announce that they were invite-less and wanted to join us. He even volunteered to cook the turkey, since he'd done it at his own home forever and ever. We accepted her offer of brownies and let him make the gravy in exchange for putting two more chairs at the table.

Amster's kids are still too young to do a grown-up Thanksgiving. Though she laughingly asks them if they were raised by wolves, being the only children at a grown-up table would put stress on even the most well-behaved 4 and 6 year olds. She's taking them to a house with other kids and a heated pool and spa. That seems to be an exceptionally wise parenting maneuver.

The Bride's mom called this afternoon to wish us a happy holiday, and the answering machine bears R-Squared's hope that we enjoy our turkey. The mailbox delivered cards from Maryland and New Jersey and my email inbox is full of Thanksgiving cheer. We may be just the 5 of us, but we're certainly surrounded by a cloud of holiday love.

I'm basking in the glow of it all.

Perhaps

2011-11-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

I've been counting down since January, although I realized recently that I don't know what I'm counting down to.

When I left the hospital, someone said "In a year you won't even know this happened to you." He or she -I remember the words, not the speaker- was referring to my physical condition, not my emotional response, but it doesn't matter.

The reality is that, as the anniversary of January 8th inches closer, I am more and more focused on thinking about what happened to me.

The Happy Ladies Club has been hiking together for months now, without me. The paths will be there when I am ready, I know, but I'm feeling the loss as the weather turns cooler and my polar fleece vest stares at me from the closet. There's no need for it down here, but up on the mountain it comes in quite handy. Were it animate, it would have grabbed my hand and asked why it was still relegated to the closet.

The answer is simple - walking is hard work.

I'm more limber and I'm stronger, but endurance was never my long suit and it's certainly not any more palatable these days. I am more capable, both in pilates and in the kitchen. I can carry a heavy skillet from the oven to the cooktop with two hands, pivoting on my right leg. I couldn't do that in August, the last time I made that meal. I am making progress, but I still know this happened to me.

I was driving to Office Max on Saturday, NPR droning in the background, the sun shining and traffic moving well when it became clear to me that I had been shot. I don't know what set me off, what made me say it out loud, but I found myself announcing, to no one, "I was shot. Bullets went through me." I could feel them ripping through my body.

It was very odd, denizens. Very odd indeed. I have no memory of that actually happening to me, yet there I was, going 35 miles an hour and contemplating the confluence of weaponry and me. It wasn't scary, just very real and very odd.

As I move further away from the event, it seems to become closer and more immediate. Connections between those of us who were there that morning have deepened; our hugs are longer and more intense. The media frenzy over Gabby's book, the approaching anniversary and atttendant activities, the popping and clicking as I stand more upright and move my femur more freely, they combine to remind me. Over and over again, they remind me.

This is not a bad thing. It's important to keep certain memories close to my heart, sharp and clear and present.

Christina-Taylor will always be inextricably intertwined with my Thanksgiving memories. Donning my turkey apron, selecting serving pieces as G'ma supervises, filling the glasses with ice and water.... she will be in the kitchen on Thursday, albeit only in our hearts. She will never be forgotten; I'll just have to imagine her growing older.

My hip will creak and I'll scowl and groan and then I'll notice that I've carried all the heavy grocery bags out of the trunk and into the kitchen. I wasn't doing that last month. I didn't even try. The lumbering gait I've adopted is better than dragging my stiff limb along with me as I locomote.... it's not walking yet but it's a closer approximation to the real thing.

Perhaps I am putting things in perspective. I always giggle at that phrase, wondering where perpective might be, and if it has a door I can close to contain whatever is going behind it. I think perspective changes over time. What was cannot be what is. I cannot stay in that dark place. I cannot wallow in the loss and the pain and the waste. Yet, I don't want to lose those thoughts, those feelings, those important details that make up the whole.

Perhaps this is why things feel more immediate. As they gather themselves into a bundle, preparing to occupy a lower shelf in my memory bank, perhaps I am revisiting them once again, just to be sure that I am wrapping them up safely. Perhaps I ought to welcome the pinches of my heart and the incessant references to Gabby and Mark and the shooting. His book tour touches down in Tucson next week. Perhaps I'll attend.

Perhaps is a good place for me right now. My reality is uncertain, my past surreal, my future taking a turn off the path I'd imagined. But I am here to tell the tale.

Perhaps. That may be all I am capable of right now.

Sunday Afternoon with G'ma

2011-11-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

A jigsaw puzzle and Fiddler on the Roof made for a lovely afternoon. The fact that I was sitting next to my mother while all this was going on lit up my heart. It's been a long time since we played a game on a Sunday.... a very long time.

I've been avoiding her of late. As the numbness in my thigh wears off, my brain becomes aware of the sensations that are coming in from my adductors and my abductors and my knee and my psoas and my glutes. The muscles have atrophied after 10 months of disuse. There is clicking and crunching and tension as my femur moves around in the socket. I'm nervous and I'm walking stiffly.

G'ma notices and asks kindly and intensely "Why are you limping?" There's such love in her voice and concern in her eyes and I know I'm going to make her sad once again when I say "I was shot," and that's hard to do. I love her. It's hard to watch her face fall and then light up as she replies "In the ass!" We both giggle before she remembers that there was a child there with me. If we are lucky, someone will interrupt us before we get to "and she died." It's easier if we just mouth the words to one another as we turn to our new companion.

It's been harder lately to have the conversation. My heart is aching as we come closer to the anniversary of last January and Congress on Your Corner; being reminded of it every time she sees me walk leads me to avoid my mother. If only I could avoid the guilt.

But today, I slept late and skipped breakfast because Kinsey Milhone was racing around the edges of a few very interesting and interrelated plot lines in Sue Grafton's latest and I couldn't put the book down to feed myself. Big Cuter, home for the holiday, brought home burritos for lunch and, fueled by salsa and guacamole, I went to Costco on the Sunday before Thanksgiving..... and got out in less than an hour.

Having a young strong man to empty my car left me smiling and finished with my chores. The boys were on Douglas watching men throw each other to the ground, I'd finished my novel, and I had chocolate to deliver to G'ma. One very deep breath later I was headed to the pod castle.

I found my usual parking spot in the back and went in through the (usually empty) family room. This afternoon I was hard pressed to make my way through the crowd. Four residents and Olga, the recreation specialist, were huddled around the big round table, engrossed in a very odd game of checkers. G'ma was trouncing Norman; she had a double king and was jumping all over the board, thoroughly enjoying herself.

Resting my cardboard box of goodies on the back of a walker, I watched and I smiled. Good days are to be treasured. I began to collect the pieces of this one for my memory book.

Once they noticed my presence and shared in the chocolate bounty the game was forgotten and replaced by a jigsaw puzzle. As I left to put the goodies in G'ma's room we went through the limping/shot/ass/child conversation arc once again. It didn't hurt quite as much.

Straightening out her closet, refilling the paper cup holder, and noticing that I'd better buy her a new tube of toothpaste took ten minutes or so. My return to the jigsaw puzzle was heralded by my mother,who, in a loud, clear voice, said "Look who it is! Suzi! HI!" and my face nearly burst from the smile. She hasn't called me by name in months.

The television was muted, but Fiddler on the Roof was showing so I turned up the sound as Tevye hosted an engagement party and men danced with bottles on their heads. Olga was pretty excited as she found edges and roses and green shutters and Norman worked on his brick corner and G'ma just sat there, watching. Fran was pushing the pieces around and thumbing through a magazine and G'ma was watching her, too. I was unable to resist the pull of Olga's enthusiasm and soon I had my own little corner of the puzzle going on in front of G'ma, who, it turns out, was not watching at all.

No, she was looking for the mate to the piece in her hand, not wanting to disturb anyone else by touching a piece until she was sure, very very sure, that it would be the right one. Olga kept encouraging her, all the while working on her own section, eyes never leaving the residents or the pieces. Fran left, and Norman found the corner piece and G'ma noticed that my part fit into his part and we were laughing as another of Tevye's daughters decided to fall in love.

G'ma wasn't tucked under her blankets taking a nap. She wasn't stupefied in front of The Discovery Channel or CourtTV. She was participating and it was all Olga's fault. According to G'ma, she is impossible to refuse.

For two years I've tried every ruse in my rucksack to get her to go to Bingo. As I was putting the chocolate into the bowl in her room I noticed a picture on her coffee table - she and Fran smiling over Bingo cards. Who took the picture? Olga.

Sitting and reaching are activities in which I can engage for about an hour before my body announces its presence with authority. We'd been working on the puzzle for well longer than that, talking about Olga's plans to become a doctor, her interim step involving radiology, and the upcoming admissions interview. Her fluent and lilting English came after her native Russian; I imagine the American admissions process is new to her, too.

She's a bright young woman with a loving heart and a spine of steel. Anyone who can get my mother to attend an exercise class, who can shanghai her as she passes in the hallway, who can put her to work and have her do much more than she imagined possible, this is a woman who would be an asset to any program.

Her husband, he of the biblical nomenclature, is thrilled that she has found work which feeds her passion. Listening to her cosset and coerce and convince while respecting dignity and enjoying a laugh it was easy to see that he was right. She accomplished what I could not. And my mother is loving it.

And not only is she loving it, she's living it. The caregivers tell me that she's tired when she goes back to her room after dinner and she's not staying up til all hours of the night. Instead, she's tucking herself in by 11 and is up and having breakfast by 9. She's interested and stimulated and having a life.

She called me by name today.

So.....

To Whom It May Concern:

This is to recommend Ms. Olga, activities specialist extraordinaire. I cannot imagine a job or a course of study in which her demeanor, intelligence, character and capabilities would not be an asset.

I look forward to following her rising star. I encourage you to join me in that endeavor.

*****
I might also include a link to this post.