Holistic Healing Retreat? Any referrals?

This is an excerpt from an email to my life-sustaining friend... I decided to post it here in case anyone can make referrals...

The antibiotic I am taking seems to have caused a fungal infection. My body is so out of balance that any change sends one or another of my systems crashing. This happens every time. I guess I should be glad it's not C Diff again... But I have to be on my guard for those symptoms so I can run to my doctor for early intervention. Having had it, I'm extremely susceptible to it. They said that about giardia, too... I wonder if my early travels into the wilds and the intestinal price I paid has any connection.

I am under so much stress that I wonder if years of my life are being taken away. I hate that thought. I want to live comfortably to an old age. I'm aiming for 106. Why not?

I watched a documentary film called It Was a Wonderful Life, about middle-class women who ended up homeless, sometimes living in cars with their children. I cried and cried as Jodie Foster narrated the sad account of the lives of several women. Many of them fell into misfortune after divorce and abandonment by their husbands. For various reasons, they could not prevail in court or elsewhere in a system designed to make fathers pay child support. One man in a suit described how some men will spend $20,000.00 to avoid paying $10,000.00 in support (that may be an incorrect quote--but you get my drift). Boy, does that sound familiar to me right now.

I think I need to go on some kind of holistic medical retreat where I can be fed on a diet that will build up my immunity and create floral balance in my guts and the rest of my body, where I can really REST, where I can have intensive psychological counseling and twice-daily body work sessions and cleanse my body in clear healing waters. I want to get away and have that kind of healing experience to help me recover from the latest medical interventions and legal stressors and all the rest of the problems that have been piling up on my over the last few years.

Do you think there is such a place? I want an individualized program and extreme luxury. What a dream. Think Blue Cross Blue Shield would pay for that? Good food, physical therapy, counseling, body work, meditation, yoga, hot springs, linen sheets, lavender eye covers, aromatherapy, no phones, no bother from the outside world... just me and my healing experience. If I could, I'd create it at home, but I can't seem to escape the pressures of my existence.

I'm beginning to think that I should post this on my blog. Maybe someone out there knows of some such place.

Can't a girl get a break?

I got to see my kids tonight for a while... nice.

As he dropped them off for their two-hour visit, The Ex announced, "We're moving to Phoenix." Not so nice.

Today a process server rang my doorbell and handed me The Ex's petition to the court. The Ex is demanding full legal and physical custody of our kids, so that he can move to Phoenix. He chose to relocate rather than get laid off and take a severance package. Work in his new territory starts Monday. He will move in May when Big'Un finishes kindergarten. This is what he says, with the arrogance of someone who is convinced that THIS IS WHAT IS SO.

He couldn't have told me this a month ago, when he found out about the change in the work situation? We couldn't figure out a solution in mediation?

"It's not mediatable," he said. "I'm working out my life and this is how it's going to be."

"I'm glad your life is working out," I said. I chose not to say, when he said he was going to get the judge to let him move to a different city with my kids, "Good luck with that."

So--instead of talking to me about this, he just slapped down a retainer with a new attorney who will drag me into another legal battle, as if an 11-month-long and despicably expensive divorce process wasn't enough. I guess he didn't learn much when I swept the board at the settlement hearing the day before the scheduled trial.

So now I have to come up with a retainer for an attorney, and interview a few recommended to me by a friend in the Biz. Then the battle begins. Never mind my recovery process, which, I suspect, will be severely curtailed by this added stress and the hours of painstaking legal defense that lie ahead.

My lawyer friend cautioned me against representing myself "in proper person;" given my fragile constitution, I need a reputable lawyer with good character and good knowledge of the law to defend me. We have a no-nonsense judge, but I'll still need a lawyer. My divorce lawyer told me, at the end of our time together, that I would be fine representing myself WHEN the next legal skirmish occurred, but that was before I got so sick.

I asked for an update on how the boys have been doing at school, at daycare, with their birthday pediatrician appointments and immunizations, etc.

He never took them to the doctor in September and October, for their respective birthdays. He'll get to it, he says. And about daycare... Little'Un has been withdrawn from the daycare center that I pay for, and he will be with a nanny. Thanks for telling me, I carefully do not say aloud.

Perfect, I say, recalling how he REFUSED to let a nanny take care of the kids after he left, though we had help while we were married. How 'bout if she comes HERE so I can spend time with the kids with her help?

"I'll ask her," he shrugged, arms crossed across his chest. "But I won't encourage it."

"Why? It would provide some nice consistency for the kids," I said, and left out all the other benefits to this broken family.

"The only consistency these kids have in their lives is me," he said, and walked off to his car. I closed the door V E R Y quietly instead of slamming it off its hinges.

A few weeks ago I was served by mail with the Ex's suit to recover child support he is still paying. I filled out the requisite forms, had them notarized and sent them by certified mail. The next day I received a statement of his arrears from the months he paid NO child support. The state cheerfully assured me that I get any amount of his tax return that helps bring him up to date in one big chunk.

My life is all about filling out forms for legal challenges and application for disability. And doctor's appointments. And soon, outpatient physical therapy. And trying to survive this LUDICROUS series of events that slams me down each time I begin to stand up.

A friend who overheard our exchange from another room, then read the list of horrible claims The Ex makes about my incompetence as a mother in his sworn affidavit, told me that there is a place in hell for people like this.

So... I take on Entropy and Entropy ALWAYS wins.

Home Again: Take Two

Last home visit didn't last, either. So no more big pronouncements; I happen to be in my house right now after spending a night here by myself, but let's leave it at that. I am learning that this time of transition is full of flux. I don't want to say that I'm taking steps backwards, because that's demoralizing and I find that each time I retreat, the progress of my next advance is enormously improved.

Gotta link to this from Agathon, a link and a missive about The Arts.

I'm in bed, ill with yet another opportunistic infection, letting the antibiotics do their work. Maybe I'll write more later.

Home AGAIN

Turns out after one night at home alone, I couldn't do it. I went to stay with a friend who took great care of me; feeding, trips to docs and pharmacies and labs, help with bathing if only to stand by in case I fell. Lots of opportunity to sleep without looking around my messy house or the In-box in my office and either trying to tackle it or just stewing in my anxiety about it.

Once I could prepare a little meal by myself, and do a couple loads of laundry, I figured I was ready to get back to my abode. So here I am, in my own bed. It's nice.

I'm grateful to have refuge elsewhere, though. This house needs so much attention, and the piles keep growing in the office: bills to pay, disability questionaires, potential freelance projects, tax preparation documents, and the rest. The oranges need to be harvested. The yard needs attention but I can't allow myself to go out there or I'll try to do something about all the problems that will present themselves if I look around.

I'm thinking of going back to my pain specialist. There has to be a way through this; if I can't be compliant with my therapies because of pain, that can't be good.

So, I'm home. This is a big step, and I shouldn't obscure my celebration by listing all the things I CAN'T do while I'm here. It is what it is. Entropy is winning right now, but just wait until I get back to my old self. Or some new and improved version of my old self. Or a brand new self that has not much to do with the old self. Whatever.

Today I decided to lie in my bed, perfectly still, for hours. I didn’t really sleep, but my mind wandered in the same way it did when I was in the hospital. I think pain can do that. The sun slowly makes its way across the sky and changes the quality of light into my bedroom from bright and green from the citrus tree to golden, then pinkish, then it fades to dark. The quail come to roost and coo and rustle in the branches and I lie there, motionless, existing.

I couldn’t reach the phone; the one time I made an effort, I was greeted by a computer. “Attention!!! All Visa and MasterCard--” Click. And toss. Phone now on the floor in the library. It rings, I let it ring. I just lie there embracing my big body pillow, and sink into inertia.

But... I am HOME. Alone. That must be recognized as a Big Step. I tell myself that over and over. It's hard to conceptualize how much work my frail, skinny body is doing as I just lie in bed, in too much pain to move.

So, happy happy joy joy.

For Dr. W: Diagnoses and Procedures

For my childhood friend who is a doctor, and other interested and non-squeamish parties:

Here's a (possibly) cryptic post to answer your question about the diagnoses/procedures behind all this suffering.

Excerpts from initial report from the MRI Lumbar Spine and Sacrum without Contrast, 1.17.2006:

Large cystic expansile lesion in the mid and lower sacrum, most likely representing and occult intrasacral menigocele... the S2 and more inferior sacral and coccygeal nerve roots could be affected. CT myelography could be performed to evaluate for the presumed connection of the lesion to the thecal sac if clinically indicated.

The lesion is nearly isotense to CSF on all pulse sequences, with mild remodeling of the adjacent sacrum... the lesion measures approximately 5.9 x 3.6 x 7.0 cm.

3.1.2006, First operation preoperative diagnosis: sacral meningocele/intradural cyst
Procedure performed: Sacral laminectomy and excision of cyst wall, microdissection technique, intraoperative nerve stimulation/monitoring.

3.7.2006, Hospitalized a day or two after discharge for treatment of Clostridium Difficile.

12.22.2006, Second spinal operation: Cyst, subanachnoid (intrathecal) shunt with Delta low-pressure valve.

2.13.2007 (happy valentines day), Nose surgery to repair damage done when Littlest One threw himself backwards and broke my nose; I'd had to put off surgery to accomodate spinal surgery, though the assault occurred in early September.

7.11.2007, Third spinal operation: Laminectomy and closure of cerebrospinal fluid fistula, sacral spine.

7.21 - 7.26, hospitalized for excruciating pain; turns out I'd blown the dural patch right off, but despite my 61-day CSF headache, we didn't find that out until...

9.5.2007, Fourth spinal operation: Repair of cerebrospinal fluid fistula with patch, microdissection technique, placement of lumbar subarachnoid drain.

10.10.2007, Fifth spinal operation, postoperative diagnosis: dislodgement of distal end of subarachnoid shunt. Proceedure performed: Exploration of wound, removal of distal cyst catheter tip and conversion to an Ommaya reservoir. On my back for a week with drains in place to moderate CSF pressure to allow wound to heal.

10.17.2007, Sixth spinal operation: Same hospitalization, repeat of most recent surgery, I think... Here I've lost track of operative reports. On my back for a week with drains in place to moderate CSF pressure to allow wound to heal.

12.14.2007, Seventh spinal surgery: removal of cyst shunt/reservoir, repair of dural opening via laminectomy, placement of lumbar subarachnoid drain. Intensive care section of Neuro Unit, spinal drains in place, etc.

12.21.2007, Upon discharge from hospital, transfer to rehabilitation hospital for monitoring, pain management, and therapy to recover from major muscle atrophe after so many days/weeks in bed. Released for good behavior several days early, 12.29.2007.

Currently under home health care and home physical therapy. In a month, maybe I'll graduate to outpatient therapy.

Quiet victories

I've been thinking a lot about physical therapy, and how subtle and simple but oh so challenging it is.

In the movies, recuperation and triumph after physical injury seems so glamorous, tough, and aggressive. The soundtrack pumps up the audience as they watch the beads of sweat appear on our hero's forehead. Big, bold movements and long grimacing efforts are shot in interestingly edited montages. The hero grunts with pain and trembles with exertion. He has a mentor who eggs him on, pushing him to reach his highest potential. And in the end, the triumphant victory. Hard, hard work results in glorious success.

I'm thinking of Peaceful Warrior, and the gymnast with the shattered leg, and Nick Nolte there to urge his apprentice to overcome his physical challenges. "With some hard work, I'm sure you'll be able to walk again," his doctor says solemnly. "A warrior doesn't give up what he loves. He finds the love in what he does," Nick Nolte rasps.

Flash to any of the Rocky movies. I don't recall what injuries Rocky had to overcome or fight through (I confess to not having seen all of the films), but man, what a soundtrack for his training. Whew. The only similarity to my situation is Adrienne, my amazing physical therapist. But I don't think I'll be shouting, "YO! ADRIENNE!" at any point in my therapy.

Check out this list from Amazon.com of Movies about individuals dealing with physical or mental challenges. I'm sure these films have tear-jerking scores for the revelation of the seriousness of the challenge, and driving scores for the recovery efforts.

"The Eye of the Tiger" isn't resounding in triumphant crescendo to accompany my efforts, that's for sure. The realities of recovery would be way too BOR-ing for any film audience, and the detailed descriptions of the exercises I do would put my blog readers to sleep. Instead of dramatic, sweating exertion, my heroic journey is made up of little steps and stretches and many admonitions from my therapists: stop pushing so hard; take it easy; you won't get there any faster by rushing--indeed you could set yourself back by working too hard. REST!

I suppose the drama in my story lies in the emotional components of recovery. A writer like Philip Roth might be able to do it justice. There is great complexity in my mental and emotional journey from harried wellness and relentless pursuit of the Bottom of the To Do List, to shock at my diagnosis and recommendations for treatment, to the forced acceptance as I am wheeled into the operating room, to the odd timelessness of the hospital, to the mixed joy and anxiety of returning home to examine what I've left undone.

I've had to surrender to this process, and let them have their way with my body in the interest of wellness. Funny how awful these health-building interventions can be. But there's no choice in the matter, so courage doesn't really come into play. Some kind of fundamental strength may be at work here, but it doesn't feel as deliberate as courage must be.

The best I can hope for are daily accomplishments, measured in such small units that it's ridiculous to verbalize them. Just a nod to the fact that I have made the transition from lying in a bed for 14 days to gradually sitting in a chair, then given mobility with a wheelchair, then a walker, then a cane, all in a matter of weeks. Only in taking the long view of my recent history can I measure my quiet victories.

Another Loss

Yesterday I received email notification about the death of a former coworker. I met Gene Wright in 1988 when I took a student worker position for our esteemed organization. He was kind and quietly humorous and we exchanged quips even after he retired whenever he came into the office. He was in charge of the punch at the annual Christmas party. He was a very nice man, and he had interesting things to say. Is it really possible that we shared twenty years of casual professional acquaintance? This points out how fortunate I have been to enjoy long-lasting associations with the people I've worked with all these years.

Here's a little synopsis of Gene Wright's life. http://www.legacy.com/tucson/Obituaries.asp?Page=Lifestory&PersonId=101339837

Condolences

Agathon and others who knew and loved this man have sustained a great loss.
(Please see http://agathon-sbh.blogspot.com/2008/01/unidentified-american-citizen.html)

My friends know that I've been avoiding The News for months--okay, years. I can't take it. Part of the reason I can't take it is because for every one of these reports of senseless violence and suffering, there is a story like Agathon's to tell about the victims and those left behind.

I'm too close to the continuum; I feel the pain too much to be able to absorb the information. For every "unidentified American," for every singular individual counted among dozens or hundreds or thousands of whatever nationality, there is a group of people who will be forever changed because of the events described so succinctly in AP reports.

The idea--or the gut-wrenching reality-- of that grief chokes me up in public places and I have to turn away to protect myself from horrified scrutiny, and people around me from having to open up to the agonies of grief they might have to feel if they get too close. We have a society to run, people... we can't all fall apart and sob at the relentless media coverage of the atrocities that are taking place down the street or across the ocean. (Though maybe we should. Ponder that for a moment.)

I've always defended my periodic media fasts (which have become a way of life) by saying that if I need to know about it, I'll hear. For example, I heard about the planes flying into the World Trade Center when my best friend called me at six in the morning. I fell right into that news story because my mother was planning to fly standby on her way to Arizona from New York/New Jersey to help me prepare for the birth of my first child. A childhood friend worked in government service in or near Washington, D.C.; the nature of her work begged the assumption that she could be in the Pentagon. The daughter of coworkers/friends/family of choice taught English in a high school RIGHT THERE in the shadow of the two towers (Agathon's wife, interestingly enough). Their other daughter was somewhere else in that city. There were many phone calls made that day and in subsequent days to check on the status of my family, friends, editors who I'd never met in person, and other people of particular significance to me.

The story of yet another terrorist attack would normally be enough to make me get up and exit the room if it were broadcast in my presence. And yet, this one must make me pause to listen because of its particular significance to someone who is significant to me. I can cry about this for his sake as well as for the inherent existential angst of the matter. I will break my media fast to follow this story in honor of friendship, even if I never made this particular friend. More's the pity, that, from what I've learned about this Unidentified American.

My condolences, A. I am sorry for your loss.

The erotic appeal of the Lands' End catalog

Here's some food for thought: Courtesy of Nerve.Com Magazine (http://www.nerve.com/):

Personal Inventory
The erotic appeal of the Lands' End catalog.
by James Stegall
November 20, 2007

The Lands' End Fall catalog is porn for the heartsick man. Who thought sixty pages of stylish-yet-practical clothing would employ models that are disturbing approximations of the lovely, thirty-something woman who doesn't want to put up with your shit anymore?

But there she is: kicking leaves on a crisp day, sipping coffee in an immaculate breakfast nook, nestling a golden baby and smiling like the most perfect family photo on a young executive's desk.

These are images more invasive than any Victoria's Secret spread, because they don't inspire lust. This is a pornography of regret, and the longer you stare, the more seductive it becomes. These sixty pages are a self-pity trap; any sane lonely man would do well to avoid them.

Read on at:
http://www.nerve.com/personalessays/stegall/personalinventory/

... and check out the mission statement for this Internet magazine, if this kind of content doesn't offend you. If it does, then move along, move along... there's nothing to see here.

(Doncha love it when I put this stuff up on my Blog without comment? It's sort of unfair, but I just can't spare the energy to react in words at this time. I figure throwing these things against the wall to see if they stick is a sign that I'm alive, and getting out there enough to find some wacky stimuli. Don't come to any conclusions about my state of mind by the content of my recent posts. Just laugh along with me, eh?)

Hanukkah gansta rap

Hanukkah Gangsta Rap from the mind of Steve Kerper