The Burrow

This is a tale of a splinter, a pool, and a hip.   I decided to swim as my aerobic activity.  Sunscreen applied and soaked in, I wrapped my robe around myself and stepped onto the coir doormat.... and a pricker made itself at home in the sole of my right foot, the one that lives below the bullet holes. I hobbled over to the pool, descending gently on one and a half legs.  I soaked and poked and prodded and pulled but success eluded me.  So I swam my laps, got my heart racing, cooled down, and hobbled back and found my tweezers. http://www.kidsyogastories.com/fairy-yoga/ I sat down, crossed my leg, and confronted my lack of flexibility.  On the steps in the pool, in the water, I could bend enough to examine the situation.  On land, trying to open out into cobbler pose, I was an utter failure. On a chair, with my ankle resting on my other knee, I tried to look at my wound.  I failed.  I sighed.   I took a deep breath,...

I was up at 5:45 a.m.  It was dark in my friends' house, too dark to walk safely down the hallway or the stairs.  Really, it was too dark to be awake.  . I had no choice in the matter.  My physiatrist at the Rehabilitation Institute had invited me to speak to the students and residents under his tutelage.  He's been wonderful to me; it was my pleasure to return the favor. I only wish that his rounds weren't at 7 in the morning. I stood under the canopy of a still green tree, sheltered from the drizzle, watching the early morning dog walkers in their raingear.  I, of course, was coat-less and hat-less, having believed the internet's weather forecast which promised 60's and sunshine. Uber got me from their neighborhood to the hospital with ease, and the trip qualified me as a full-fledged member of the 21st Century. Little Cuter is quite impressed with her trendy mother. I sat on a high backed stool in the front of a small auditorium, fifty or so f...

It was heavenly. Cell phones - off. Messages - not returned. On the schedule - nothing but what felt good to us. Amster and Beautiful Annie and I, no kids, no responsibilities, no worries. Did I say it was heavenly? We were at Canyon Ranch , a plan hatched when I tried to figure out how to thank Beautiful Annie for all the pro bono legal wrangling she and her staff did for GRIN . We are now officially a  501(c)(3) entity, although the story of how this came about will make for another post where I rant about the IRS. The process was, in theory, very simple. In actuality, it was frustrating and time consuming and didn't cost me a dime. Canyon Ranch was the least I could do. Amster and I arrived first, valet parking The Schnozz and changed into our weight lifting attire forty minutes after I picked her up. Why don't the rest of you live here?  Look what's right at my doorstep: cnn.com Amster and I began our friendship as weight lifting buddies.  I had the expertise...

Smart young people make me happy.... even when I am seeing them at 7am. Why was I awake, showered, dressed and there?  Because Dr. Roth asked and I couldn't say no. After all, he's kept my spirits up for the past eighteen months. I can refuse him nothing, even when it means that my dreams are filled with "Oh, no, I've overslept and missed the meeting."  I'm typing this at 3pm and my eyelids are fluttering.  It's hard to type through the yawns. I spent an afternoon and a morning at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, sharing and being shared. I was evaluated and observed and treated and admired.  I liked the admiration most of all, especially since I was able to send it right back to the professionals who were watching me walk and lift and swing and curl and press. They were impressed with my progress.  I was impressed with their skills.  It was a love fest, in all directions. It's been thirty-two months since I was perforated.  The numbness ...

....the student entered the examining room, trailing Dr. Roth, physiatrist and human being extraordinaire.  We were on the third floor of The Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago ready to assess my progress. I was here six months ago.  I thought I was doing better. Dr. Roth would know for sure. RIC is bright and cheery, with wide hallways and low countertops and elevators just a little bit bigger than those at Macy's.  I feel blessed and lucky every time I step through the sliding glass doors, one block from Lake Michigan.  There but for a milimeter's difference in the trajectory of a bullet... or two... or three... go I.  Dr. Roth confirmed it when we examined the x-rays of my pelvis - a milimeter or so lower and the head of my femur would have been shattered, too.  My hip would now be ceramic instead of bone pieced together with pins and glue. My hip .... it's a term that has bothered me since getting shot.  I can find my pelvis and my hip ...

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...

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 oth...