Seasonal Attitude Disorder (December 12, 2012)

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Seasonal Attitude Disorder

 

I am really trying to be enthusiastic about the holidays this year. On November 30, 2011 Eddie and I signed our final divorce papers and I was just emerging from a bout with cervical cancer. The complicated and conflicting emotions involved included being grateful for my life while wondering what on earth I was going to do with the rest of it. I was at a loss and that pretty much sapped my close-of-2011 energy. I was lonely, depressed, afraid and reclusive. I sat out December altogether and spent a low-key New Year’s Eve with close friends.

2012 has had its ups and downs but by and large, I am healthier and more whole than I can ever remember. The cancer is in remission, memories of an unhappy marriage began to recede and occupy their rightful, proportionate place. I grew professionally as I settled into a day job as the head writer for a housewares company, formulated new and interesting friendships, even took a couple shots at romance again. As the record currently stands, these forays into attachment did not end happily, but there was a time I believed I could never risk my heart. So there’s a simple pride in having put myself out there.

More than five weeks ago, as regular readers of this blog are aware, L’il Red (my beloved bike) and I were involved in a somewhat hellacious accident involving an unwise yellow-light decision and a moving SUV. I was thrown from the bicycle, landing squarely on my tailbone and sacrum (the base of the spine) in the process. Both of these bones are fractured but despite the weeks of discomfort behind me as well as the months of recovery ahead, I know it could have been much worse.

And dammit, I like to think of myself as a tough gal but continuous pain, drug side effects and the limiting of my range of motion are conspiring to upend this self-image. I hurt without medication. I struggle to eat and sleep when taking it. And no matter the state of physical discomfort, the holiday season is here to make me feel more pathetic and alone than I might otherwise. It’s frustrating because I was bloody determined not to be a humbug this year.

I have a pre-lit Christmas tree in my living room, a gift from the most recent boyfriend. When I find myself in the throes of pain, or sleepless from its relief, I turn on the four foot tall symbol of holiday cheer. Admittedly is is tougher to scowl when surrounded by glittering lights, but this kind of reminds me of those lamps doctors recommend to patients with Seasonal Affective Disorder. The light takes the edge off but it’s no real substitute for the sun you know? Likewise the flickering tannenbaum brings a fleeting comfort but it doesn’t replace the real sense of belonging, togetherness and celebration that the holiday season portends, and for which I yearn.

I’m writing about these feelings because I wish to master them. Know thine enemy and all that. I feel myself slipping into the usual Christmas despondency and the hope is that by recognizing it, I can hold it at bay. Growing up the eldest child of abusive and neglectful parents, the 12 Days of Christmas usually involved a rundown of why I didn’t deserve the blessings bestowed and what I had done to disappoint my progenitors throughout the calendar year. I am 34 years-old now. I don’t need or deserve to hear these voices this year – from my lips or anyone else’s.

Citizen Cane – and Doughnut (November 27, 2012)

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Many kind, regular readers are well aware of my affinity for riding my bicycle, affectionately nicknamed L’il Red, as I traverse across the great city of Chicago. These same readers also recognize a predilection toward illness, mishaps and other accidents. When these two characters traits, quite literally collide, the results yield equal parts humor and mayhem.

It was a chill and rainy Election Night, lo these three weeks ago, and yours truly was in a damned fine hurry to get back to her (then) boyfriend’s house to watch the voting returns. Through the twin effects of overestimating my own importance and a general pattern of running to every appointment as though my hair were on fire, I was convinced that President Obama could not possibly secure a second term without my physical support. Try and tell me a watched pot never boils, will you?

I approached the six-corner intersection of Belmont, Lincoln and Ashland in the city’s Lakeview neighborhood and as the once green light began to turn yellow, slick and dark road underneath, I made the poor decision (I can actually recall my final thought before the sickening thud: “This might not be a good idea.”) to gun it, as much as one can gun a single speed road bike.

The aftermath was fairly predictable. L’il Red and I crashed into the side of a westbound SUV in the far right lane of the street we almost made it across. I slammed my right leg into the driver side door before being thrown from the bike and bouncing off the street directly on my tailbone. The ensuing white hot, all-consuming pain was unlike anything I have ever experienced. I could not talk or speak for what seemed like an hour, but may have actually amounted to less than a minute. The confused driver asked me repeatedly if I was ok, but in the end I couldn’t manage more than the silent “thumbs up” signal an injured football players relays to stadium fans before they are carried off the field.

Kind, regular readers of this blog and those acquainted with me personally are also attuned to my strong aversion to medical treatment. Eventually I adjusted L’il Red’s twisted handlebars, hopped back on the bike and made the remainder of a four-mile trip back to JC’s apartment that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I cried the entire way. But lest you think that hellacious ride, the ensuing two days of work missed and the near-constant discomfort I felt led to a timely visit with my primary physician, not so. I waited a full two weeks before seeking x-ray services at a local urgent care clinic I was in the process of passing while, wait for it….riding my bike.

I never said I was smart. Turns out that I not only dislocated said tailbone inward, but I had also broken my sacrum, which is defined by Wikipedia as “a large, triangular bone at the base of the spine and at the upper and back part of the pelvic cavity, where it is inserted like a wedge between the two hip bones.” I didn’t even know it was possible to break that shit. I think you have to really want it. So I am looking at a minimum two to six month recovery, with the dangling of a possible surgery in front of me by a concerned doctor who (rightfully) suspects I may not hew closely enough to the treatment plan, which basically consists of rest and a lot of pain medication. I have no problem with the latter. It’s the former I don’t do very well and quite seriously, strenuous exercise has been my raison d’etre, an substitute antidepressant for the last decade. In order to learn something constructive from this highly destructive experience, I repeatedly query myself in a dry, sarcastic tone: “Was it worth it? What is the worst thing that could have happened if you’d waited through the red light?”

Certainly not the humiliation of trading standard bicycle and backpack accessories for a cane and an inflatable doughnut pillow upon which to rest my broken butt. Definitely not the indignity of senior citizens more than twice my age offering to help me board the commuter train, nor the shame experienced when young people graciously offer their CTA seat to the poor, unfortunate cripple. Ah! I do not warrant these kindnesses as the result of my own stupidity. But how to share this with the well-meaning without offending their altruistic sensibilities. The worst punishment of all is having to endure undeserved benevolence.

There is a lot more to say about all of this: the humorous outtakes of last weekend’s two-day Tramadol fog, the collapse of my relationship in the aftermath of the accident and the ongoing suspense regarding the prospect of non-surgical healing. Feel free to take the journey with me. I promise to proceed with caution. I have no other choice.

“Don’t Trust Anyone Over 30” (November 13, 2012)

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Jack Weinberg issued these words of caution during the heady, tumultuous and revolutionary 1960s, a period of American history that witnessed the explosion of the Civil Rights movement, popular rebellion against the Vietnam War and post-World War II economic growth that provided members of the middle class with enough material comfort to consider issues larger than their own immediate survival.

Weinberg, a student at UC Berkeley at the time of the famous quote, uttered the ubiquitous line to a columnist working for the San Francisco Chronicle. In an era when the phrase “going viral” had yet to be invented, Weinberg’s legendary soundbite quickly became the unofficial motto of 1960s youth culture, a warning against placing faith in those with a vested interest in the status quo and the reproduction of dominant ideology.

As a child growing up in the 1980s and 1990s, a would-be agent of change in my own right, I often found this phrase catchy but terribly ageist and limiting. The passage of time couldn’t fundamentally change my worldview. Wherever dishonesty and injustice lurked, there would I be. I had been arrested once by cracky! What’s more anarchistic than that? Then it dawned on me that as a 34 year-old woman, my formal education long complete and somewhat established in my career, there’s nothing I fight harder to achieve than a solid night’s sleep.

I make this observation with tongue-somewhat-in-cheek, but dammit the realization that I have become “the man” to a certain extent is horrifying. I am not wealthy, yield no political power and have borne no children that will be raised as Mini-Me ideologues, but nonetheless it’s hard to remember an act of protest more strenuous than saying “no” to the overpriced, tasteless sushi at Whole Foods.

Perhaps even more agitating: I am beginning to identify with the paradox of the now-sedentary Baby Boomers, the ones who stood up for change only to mature into the mutual fund managing, SUV driving helicopter parents that a portion of American society now blames for decades of entitlement and irresponsible spending, the upending of the fiscally conservative, cautious habits of the Great Depression. That’s not to say I’m ready to cash in my rebellious chips for good, but I can see where age and years of routine blunt the edges of urgency.

By speaking my fears aloud, is is possible to forestall the inevitable? The only thing that scares me more than risk is obsoletion. Must I go the way of Ray Bradbury, Milton Friedman, Dennis Miller and Laura Schlessinger, all former stars of the liberal movement, or is self-awareness the ultimate weapon in the battle to stay forever, idealistically young?

T’was the Night Before the Election (November 5, 2012)

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T’was the night before the election, and all through Ohio
Margaritas were flowing like Cinco De Mayo.
Because Buckeye State residents were confident no matter who won,
Their days in the swing state spotlight were temporarily done.

Camp Romney retired its campaign of fluff,
Hopeful that the Etch-a-Sketch shaking had been enough.
To overcome the ire of chicks,
Who believed in their reproductive freedom, even without dicks.

Team Obama was bolstered by last minute polling,
That saw the incumbent ahead, and his opponent’s effort stalling.
Healthier job creation, increases in home sales, residential,
Images of a post-Hurricane Barry looking Presidential

Gave Obama a boost in the waning days
That claims about Jeep production in China just couldn’t sway.
Jon Stewart and Colbert toasted a winning season of lampoon,
Almost (but not quite) wishing Romney a boon.

Because jokes and puns write with ease
When your campaign platform has more holes than Swiss cheese.
From “extreme conservative” to moderate and back
While crying foul over ads that attack

One’s revolving positions, so hard to cement
Except for that business about the 47 percent.
“Borrow money from your parents” just doesn’t seem to be
A responsible education policy.

The Tea Party zealots, clutching copies of Ayn Rand,
Hoped that they’d filibustered enough to render Obama an also-ran,
When out of the blue from the sound bite penalty box
Came Joe Biden with Paul Ryan’s socks.

That was the only thing left of the GOP candidate, you see,
After Biden leveled him in debate, cheerful as could be.
“Medicare won’t change” promised Ryan, as long as you’re a Boomer,
But the rest of you will be screwed much sooner.

Romney/Ryan failed to learn the lessons of Bush
That entitlements turned vouchers have the appeal of stale tush.
Romney ran away fast from his running mate’s “serious” clunker
And all but banished him to the Cheney bunker.

But hide and seek is no game to play
With middle class voters still clawing their way
Back from the failed policies of Bush Number 2
That left the economy of ’08 a rancid stew.

“He’s had four years and his policies haven’t worked,”
Claimed Cantor and Gingrich and Boehner the Jerk.
Hoping upon hope if they said it was so
The voting public would forget the party of “no”

So off to the polls went John and Jane Public
In between looking for jobs and food for the stomach.
Because things are not fine but they’re definitely improving,
With much more to do to get the economy moving.

Believing in change, if slower than desired
Is a certainly preferable to being stuck in the mire
Of endless wars and tax cuts for the rich,
Watching the American Dream stuck in a ditch.

So “yes we can” re-elect Obama and forge ahead
With hope for the country that’s far from dead.
So to all you suffragists on the left and right,
“Happy Election Eve to all, and to all a goodnight!”

Massage Masochism (October 30, 2012)

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Several months ago I wrote this post about my ongoing battle with alopecia. The hair loss which follows the line along my left temple turned out to be an aesthetically horrifying side effect of chronic cluster migraines, the condition with which I was finally diagnosed in mid-August. Though the diagnosis brought about irritating lifestyle changes (less wine consumption, reduced outdoor activity in hot weather, more sleep and less demands on my limited free time), the verdict was certainly preferable to that of an autoimmune disease or brain tumor, which were the other two options.

The team of doctors who helped me looked for answers decided upon a fourfold treatment plan: one emergency medication for sudden headache onset and two daily pills, the aforementioned lifestyle changes, a topical steroid spray intended to regenerate hair growth and treatments as often as I could afford them with a craniofacial massage therapist. Through a series of a medical exams, it was ascertained that copious knots located at the base of my skull, scalp, neck and jaw might be limiting the healthy inflow of blood and oxygen while causing a retention of impurities and other waste. It was also hypothesized that these knots developed over time, likely due to the effects of 2011 stress – cancer, divorce, and a schism with close family members.

I went AMA and took myself off those daily pills within a month, The prescriptions were causing reductions in my heart rate, breathlessness and chest tightness. During light jogs, I felt dizzy and lightheaded and worst of all, the tablets did nothing to restrain the monstrous headaches that often appeared out of thin air. I held onto the emergency pill, and still do, as it has proven effective at limiting the discomfort if I act with alacrity.

But about those craniofacial massages. They have been a horrendously uncomfortable miracle. It turns out I had an expert right in my own backyard, a longtime friend with an established mobile therapy business. He specializes in the treatment of those with chronic conditions like arthritis, multiple sclerosis and yes, migraines. Because many of his clients are homebound or otherwise limited in their motility, Pat comes to them. As a sole proprietor with his own equipment, without the expense of office space, his rates are highly attractive.

But I digress. I booked my first 90-minute treatment in the middle of August. Pat started with my scalp before moving to the base of my skull. For a person who has built a career out of presumed self-awareness, I knew not until he touched me exactly how sore, rigid and entangled those muscles were. Hell, I didn’t even know they were used for anything. However it wasn’t until he slapped on a pair of latex gloves and began digging around my jaw inside and out that the actual tears began to flow. As Pat began to isolate grape-sized kinks in the muscle groups which permit talking, eating, brain and neck support, I couldn’t believe I had been walking around living day-to-day life like this. I am certain the tears were shed in equal parts sorrow over the ignorance which led to needless suffering, as well as temporal pain.

At the conclusion of that first session, I had watery eyes, sneezing and a two-day runny nose that ejected copious amounts of weird green shit. Was that mess literally stuck inside my head? Never had the dire warnings that a stressful lifestyle impacts overall health seemed more obvious. I had the mucus-filled tissues to prove it.

As I walked out Pat’s front door, I was resolved never to endure another bout of his sadist “massage therapy” again, but I certainly couldn’t deny that I had more movement in my jaw and neck than I ever remembered. I also couldn’t ignore that as he worked through my jaw, tiny shoots of pain were refracted at the front of my skull – exactly the point from which the migraines emanated.

Nearly three months and one regenerating bald spot later, my belief that prescription drugs often only mask the problem, and bring about their own pitfalls is stronger than ever. I’d stop short of labeling myself a New Age homeopathic hippie, but I am a logical being and if something works, I stick with it. I haven’t suffered a migraine in 12 weeks and the new hair growth, even if entirely white, offers encouragement that this past summer’s informal wig shopping may have been premature. I no longer obsessively pet the smooth spot that shouldn’t be, as if enough rubbing could awaken the dormant follicles.

If short-term pain once every three weeks means getting my life back and a reprieve from repetitive, expensive doctor visits, then it’s a true pleasure.