tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57690289197627857412024-02-06T23:08:46.558-05:00Healing through WritingKathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-22980469622981788352012-11-16T11:00:00.000-05:002012-11-16T12:55:17.473-05:00Do you think about legacy?When clearing out my parents' condo I was thrilled to find a copy of a short novel my Uncle Bob had written. It was typed on onion skin, and written as he started out a long career of teaching English—my guess is it's at least 50 years old. My aunt (his sister) told me that after submitting it to publishers he "papered the back of his bedroom door" with rejections before giving up.<br />
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Given that I could paper a house with the rejections I've received in the past decade of novel submissions, I was eager to read it. My uncle never knew me as a novelist—when he died, he knew me as a dance critic. I remember complaining to him once about how little money I made in this role. With a look of bewilderment he said, "Criticism isn't about money, it's the ability to influence. You have that."<br />
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Does a novelist have the ability to influence? I think my lit-loving uncle would say yes, but I'll never get a chance to talk to him about it. So this manuscript he'd never mentioned, read by the niece novelist he'd never known, felt like a secret conversation.<br />
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When sharing work at the writing retreats I host for women in northern New York State, at the lake where my uncle and other extended family members spent summers throughout our lives, we explore the ways writing always reveals things about its author. This novel was no different in the ways it revealed my uncle.<br />
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Teaching was more than employment for my uncle; it was a way of being. He befriended his students, and often hosted groups of teenaged male students on his island during the summer. The practice inspired lifelong friendships; one former student and frequent lake visitor delivered the eulogy at his funeral, recalling the wonder of coming to the lake for the first time and seeing so many stars. My uncle's novel evokes such a mentorship between a college creative writing teacher and a student whose reclusive demeanor, coupled with his writing assignments centered on boat repair, suggests a troubled soul. The teacher, like my uncle, goes above and beyond the dictates of his role as teacher to see if he can reach this student.<br />
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One of the troubling attributes the student shares is too keen an interest in making a quick buck, the teacher discovers when visiting him at his summer job on a large lake whose shoreline is riddled with commercial interests. While the teacher wants the student to stay in college so he might find rewarding work that will support him, he fears for his student's soul with regard to money. This is where our family's lake roots make a cameo appearance. My uncle wrote:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Bob's island</span></td></tr>
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With summer coming on, Cam thought of the lake in the mountains where he had spent every summer of his life. It was a small lake, filled with islands, and lost in a great forest far from the noises and confusions of civilization. Life there was simple and earthy, full of sunlight and the smell of pine needles by day, and the sound of whip-poor-wills and bullfrogs at night to sing and squawk one to sleep. There was absolutely nothing to do of itself—no amusement parks, no power boats, no Hilltops—but the summers were always full of fabricated joys, made from the love of being with other people and laughing and enjoying their company, and keeping busy together dreaming up things to do. Cam couldn't picture Jim in such a society, where he would be completely dependent upon friendship with others for sustenance. Yet he felt that if Jim were introduced to such a way of life, and was nurtured, he might find in it what he didn't have—he might find that a sense of humor was priceless, that a good laugh could wipe away the memory of many tears, that knowing many people and being accepted by them was the only real victory in life, and brought out all one's unknown, unguessed possibilities. Cam wished he could<i> show </i>Jim a new standard of values. It was so difficult to sell such things sight unseen.</blockquote>
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The way my uncle wrote of our family's legacy at the lake moved me. Since his death, my husband and I extended that legacy considerably by tearing down the rotting, hundred-year-old camp and rebuilding it in a way that should ensure it will outlive its predecessor. I have broadened the legacy by inviting women writers to join me there, and many of them have chosen to come back year after year. My uncle left his island, pictured above, to my cousin named Bob—as if to perpetuate the sense of timelessness he valued there, he ensured that it would still be "Bob's island" long after his death.<br />
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Maybe it's this background that impels me to think about legacy, spurred on perhaps by my first husband's suicide. But I wonder: how will the world be a different place due to my presence here, and due to my choice to be a writer? The answers will never be mine to know, but the question itself is enough to inspire me to strive to make a difference.<br />
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How about you?Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-4694547962580365292012-08-28T17:09:00.001-04:002012-08-28T17:26:02.168-04:00How do you get back up there? Part 2Today is the one-year anniversary of my triple ankle fracture. In an 18-month period that has included my father's death, moving my mother into assisted living against her will, taking on her power of attorney and health care duties, the sudden death of my 21-year-old nephew in a car crash, and the selling and clearing out of my parents' condo—all while trying to meet volunteer commitments and edit for paying clients, of course—this was the single most stressful event.<br />
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So I did what I always do—wrote my way out of it. Here, at this blog. It helped, but as physical therapy began it became increasingly difficult to fit in blogging. I had to reassess.<br />
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My number one concern was to get back to novel writing. I was so close to the next level of success with my novel; an editor at a major publishing had taken interest and an agent seemed truly interested. I couldn't turn my back on it now. But with what time, exactly, would I pursue this? Doctor appointments and family obligations were seriously biting into my days. A friend suggested I put the blogging on the back burner for now.<br />
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I did just that, which is why you see such a date gap between this and my last post. Yet especially on this one-year anniversary of Hurricane Irene, while sitting in the camp where just outside I had lain for a half-hour awaiting the ambulance, I felt nostalgic. I wanted to finish sharing my journey.<br />
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After I moved back to Doylestown I transferred to a new orthopedic surgeon, who opened my bandages to inspect the leg. This meant that I would see my foot for the first time in four weeks.<br />
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I did not recognize this leg. Look at that calf muscle atrophy! The skin on my calf was <i>wrinkled.</i> I couldn't even will it to contract. Nothing. It hung there like pudding in a skin sack.<br />
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The color was remarkable. Guess which one was broken?<br />
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Although repeat x-rays showed that all the hardware was still in place, my doctor was concerned when I told him the hospital's physical therapist had suggested that, while in my soft bandaging, I flex and point to the extent of my ability. This would help control swelling, the therapist said, and I did as I was told. As you can see, the swelling wasn't bad. This new doctor preferred complete rest and put me in a hard cast for the two remaining weeks of my six-week, non-weight-bearing immobilization.<br />
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I chose green, the color of renewal. I needed all the metaphor support I could get. I didn't realize how much I'd love the hard cast. It allowed me to do everything with less fear that I would twist my ankle inappropriately, from cruising around on crutches to turning over in bed. Here was my sweet editing set-up.<br />
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After two days of planning and dry runs, I even eased myself into a nice hot tub, the cast hanging out the side. My first moment of true comfort since the fracture.<br />
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But I was tired and more dependent on others than I ever care to be again. It took me half the day just to tend to basic needs. I felt shut out out of my former writing world.<br />
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So it was a real treat to have Dave drive me to Surf City to lead a three-hour workshop with the Long Beach Island Writers Group. After, Margaret Hawke hosted us overnight. I climbed their outside stairs on crutches and the inside stairs on my butt. The experience was restorative, reminding me of who I was—but the logistics and the effort to execute them were exhausting. Once I got home I slept on and off for two days.<br />
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Time came for the cast to be removed. They were going to use this. Dear god.<br />
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With complete rest my ankle was now healed—and as fat as a spaghetti squash. Even now I feel nauseous looking at this picture.</div>
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When I (gingerly) set my foot down, I found it was so swollen I couldn't get my toes to touch the floor.</div>
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I will not ask you to slog along through the painful weeks of physical therapy, where each new impossible task was eventually met. Let's skip to January, when I was able to resume my normal fitness center workouts with the elliptical and weightlifting. By late January I tolerated a three-mile walk. In general, though, my ankle hasn't enjoyed long walks—it gets sore and sloppy—so preventing weight gain has been a bit of a problem. Running, always a trick because of shin splints, will now forever be off the table.</div>
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But I have achieved other accomplishments that make me feel competent again:</div>
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• In December I signed with literary agent Katie Shea at the Donald Maass Literary Agency! She is now trying to sell my novel while I write the next.</div>
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• In June I did an easy hour-and-a-half hike through the woods with my writing retreaters. <i>Warning! Uneven surfaces!—</i>but I triumphed.</div>
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• Last week I swam the 1-3/4 mile length of Trout Lake in northern NY State.</div>
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• Yesterday, the day before my one-year anniversary, I did a shorter but more difficult hike to the bluffs at nearby Cedar Lake.</div>
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I balanced on an unsecured log bridge.</div>
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My less-flexible ankle made it up—and down—rocks. The scar that covers the metal plate is fading.</div>
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In this past year I have regained strength. Flexibility. Balance. But most importantly, I've climbed back up to the place where perspective resides. From this vantage point I can look back at my life—even this past year—in gratitude; I can look forward with relish; all the while believing that in this very moment, I'm just fine.</div>
Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-39953963701834056312012-01-07T10:36:00.009-05:002012-01-07T11:19:06.582-05:00How do you get back up there? Part IWhen I finally got back to my townhouse with my fractured ankle, this is what I encountered:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKSIH3ov6dL18PNyt15eb99WJq74btOB41xGDjeQ_DhDRsVMyg0Uc4GtiGEoOA9DvHXXZ15qDZYhqu7heaAOzkk4_npOM_1JN6vBHm3OeORJPFojzLflZA0cdSV0zdiKEvSrP4rwF-CrIp/s1600/Stairs.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKSIH3ov6dL18PNyt15eb99WJq74btOB41xGDjeQ_DhDRsVMyg0Uc4GtiGEoOA9DvHXXZ15qDZYhqu7heaAOzkk4_npOM_1JN6vBHm3OeORJPFojzLflZA0cdSV0zdiKEvSrP4rwF-CrIp/s320/Stairs.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694917102807210466" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Anyone who’s had to step away from a vibrant life—to birth a child, to heal from illness or injury, to bury their dead—understands the metaphor this photo represents. My life as I’d known it was hidden at the top, out of reach, and I stood on one leg at the bottom. My energies had been diverted to concerns of human survival: how to get food and water. How to move safely from here to there in my vulnerable state. How to find some small enjoyment while managing the pain.</div><br />How to get to my third floor office and check my e-mail.<br /><br />Reaching for any aspect of my former, happy life was a strain. My writing, teaching, retreat hosting, editing—that life was all about self-actualization. No wonder I wasn’t feeling like myself. <a href="http://healingthroughwriting.blogspot.com/2011/09/edges-of-storm.html">My fall during Hurricane Irene</a> shattered that life as well as my ankle. Circumstance now required that I hang out at the bottom of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow's_hierarchy_of_needs">Abraham Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs</a>.<div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-nQmyl7rsfAvwM_tyF2KybPRSOCNnXxBE4bxi5ZqpZ69HO-HEjeXwI5I9ENr1-XGMW6S1THlouus7rELT1RlulkBKVQHmBcPdK9Fox7qDvQAhQcHHrj_e7ymzVcLcV8OsY8yKDb4EjcHg/s1600/maslow_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-nQmyl7rsfAvwM_tyF2KybPRSOCNnXxBE4bxi5ZqpZ69HO-HEjeXwI5I9ENr1-XGMW6S1THlouus7rELT1RlulkBKVQHmBcPdK9Fox7qDvQAhQcHHrj_e7ymzVcLcV8OsY8yKDb4EjcHg/s400/maslow_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694925061809620866" /></a><br /></div><div>Over the next few months, I’d have to find a way to climb back to the top of the pyramid. For now, however, the stairs were enough to face.<br /><br />Fifteen risers, to be exact. Times two.<br /><br />That first night home I handed my crutches to Dave, turned around to sit on the bottom stair, and went up on my bum. I made it halfway up before having to stop and catch my breath. As Dave hovered below, spotting me (more likely, should I have slipped, I would have clipped him in the knee and taken us both down), I muttered a quick prayer of gratitude for my general state of health and fitness before continuing up.<br /><br />When I woke the next morning I did the math. If Dave brought me breakfast in bed, and if I only had to use the bathroom once during my morning computer work, and if I edited downstairs in the afternoons and stayed there until bedtime, I’d only have to do six sets of stairs per day. I’d leave the crutches at the bottom of the stairs to use on that floor, and the walker at the top for use on the second floor. When I got to the third, I’d crawl the fifteen feet to my computer.<br /><br />My new life.<br /><br />One morning while I was working in the loft my son Marty came for a visit, and Dave, downstairs fixing lunch, sent him up. We spoke for a few minutes and Dave called up that lunch was ready. An awkward moment passed—no one had yet witnessed my loft evacuation plan. I said, “Marty, I just want to warn you that I’m now going to sink out of my chair and crawl to the stairs.”<br /><br />I couldn’t imagine the feelings it would stir in me if I’d ever had to watch my mother crawl.<br /><br />I got better at doing stairs on my bum, over time; the human body and spirit have a capacity to adapt that never fails to amaze me. My triceps strengthened, my heart accommodated, and my palms hardened into a protective surface that eventually allowed 10-12 sets of stairs a day:</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDqvGNdps05Lco2aOHThpHTy4T7c3o4DSsX334goSZ5MJ57L-EyCWMqALYc7-REb51hgwWI5kVp6a1veUz3_N9v0sBLnLAp92m0_hiISmedP1rVLduKPset61TsQGeo7WqB2vk7ZIZOFQ/s1600/calluses.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDqvGNdps05Lco2aOHThpHTy4T7c3o4DSsX334goSZ5MJ57L-EyCWMqALYc7-REb51hgwWI5kVp6a1veUz3_N9v0sBLnLAp92m0_hiISmedP1rVLduKPset61TsQGeo7WqB2vk7ZIZOFQ/s400/calluses.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694918135831947090" /></a><br /></div><div>See those spots at the heel of my hand? Those are my rug calluses. </div><div><br /></div><div>Have you ever had to adapt to new circumstances in a way that changed your body? Share your oddest sports injury or overuse syndrome.</div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-90626191760733536552011-10-26T15:37:00.007-04:002011-10-26T17:24:19.035-04:00One-footed emotional balance<div>While I'd missed the tour of the assisted living facility—its floor plan was great for seniors, but too much walking for the recently wounded—two of my sisters determined it was a good fit for my mother. If we moved her in by the end of the month, she could lock in a lower monthly rent. "The siblings"—all five of us, including my brother in Denmark—decided this was the route to go. We had just two weeks to get her moved. From that point on everything seemed to happen in fast motion.</div><div><br /></div><div>This put considerable stress on my mother, who had only recently returned home to a condo that no doubt felt quite empty. We'd kept her busy in the weeks after my father's death in the spring; she saw a lot of family and friends at the lake this summer, especially during the week of my dad's memorial; and as the summer waned she'd had a nasty adrenaline surge to recover from as her daughter/caretaker lay screaming out in the rain, requiring an ambulance and then surgery. Now, recovering in the convenience of her one-floor living, that daughter was no replacement for my father's constant adoration.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day she broke down crying. I'd seen my mother cry maybe three times in my life prior to my father's death; since then her tears came readily. She said, "I'm trying to be good about all this, because you all think I should move. But I need time. To..." She couldn't go on.</div><div><br /></div><div>"To grieve Dad's loss," I offered. She nodded.</div><div><br /></div><div>I told her I wished that we could give her that time. I remembered the advice from when my own husband died: don't make any major life changes while you're actively grieving. I'd stayed on the farm another twelve years. But my mother's memory decline had been relentless since my father's passing. Some of that might be temporary, due to grief, but the result was clear. She needed more support. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were at a loss as to how to provide it. If she were in a wheelchair, we could bring someone in to bathe her and make a hot meal. If it were only that she couldn't drive, we could hire a driver. But how do you support someone whose daily life constantly confuses, whose medications overwhelm, whose diet is degrading, and who needs a sane sounding board for most every decision? We felt she needed the support services of assisted living, so I once again told her so.</div><div><br /></div><div>"But I need to be here," she said tearfully. "Around his things. I can't take all this with me."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This woman had looked me straight in the eye before my first wedding and demanded that there be no tears. I now wanted to put down my head and sob right along with her, but choked it back. I laid my hand over hers and said, "I know. But we'll make sure you take enough."</div><div><br /></div><div>Unable to put weight on my fractured ankle and still struggling with the walker and crutches, I could do so little for her. But on my last day there, before Dave came to pick me up and take me home, I sucked up the pain and accompanied her from room to room in her condo. We catalogued all the furniture, lamps, and artwork (there was a lot of that; my Dad was an artist) and, on a clipboard, divided items into three categories: things my mom hoped to bring with her, things she hoped would stay in the family, and things that could be sold at auction.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once she got going she wanted to plow through the whole six-room, two-bath condo (yes, there were even multiple artworks in the bath). I worried that these emotional decisions would overtire her. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you want to rest?" I'd ask. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, I'm fine. Do you need to rest?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Frankly, I was exhausted after the first two rooms. Physically and emotionally. My ankle was throbbing; this was the longest it had been dangling down since the surgery. But I popped another pain pill and pushed on. Undertaking this task seemed to energize her, and I would not stand between her and its completion. By the time we reached the living room I sank to the floor and stretched my broken ankle out in front of me. And when it came time to move to the bedroom, rather than strain that overused ligament on the outside of my "good" hip to stand, I crawled on my hands and knees, pushing the clipboard along in front of me like a trained dog.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the end of the day we had finished cataloguing the whole condo. The next day, when Dave picked me up, he dropped off the three colors of bright Post-Its I'd requested so my brother-in-law and nephew would have no trouble identifying the items that needed to be moved. The next day another sister arrived; using the list I provided she went through the condo and affixed labels to every single item.</div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIrK56eTPMc60AblaTMx8hrQkz7c5UHZdogdTF9aaOxOp0kU8SSZb13pnt3g2zju4RGgUuU9Rjbtui3mgzu4ZEFsZj8HSSzVCY2FmxRaZ72rFPQqAbl3BYN18Z__EV_dimzdpJPaLwXk2m/s1600/unclehoward.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIrK56eTPMc60AblaTMx8hrQkz7c5UHZdogdTF9aaOxOp0kU8SSZb13pnt3g2zju4RGgUuU9Rjbtui3mgzu4ZEFsZj8HSSzVCY2FmxRaZ72rFPQqAbl3BYN18Z__EV_dimzdpJPaLwXk2m/s400/unclehoward.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667888484797154258" /></a>I left knowing I had pushed myself to do what I could. The sibs were really pulling this together, with an extraordinary team effort that continued over the course of the final preparations that next week. E-mails flew between us. Everything was set. It would go like clockwork.<div><br /></div><div>The day before my brother-in-law and nephew were slated to move the furniture, I called my mother, sensing she might need another pep talk. But she was already in a great mood, and asked how I was doing. After my report, she said, "And oh, have you heard my good news?" It had been so long since I heard such enthusiasm in her voice!</div><div><br /></div><div>"No," I said. "What good news?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm not moving after all! I'm staying right here, in my condo. I just finished throwing away all the tags Nancy put on the furniture."</div><div><br /></div><div>I reeled as if I'd just been sucked inside a cyclone; she'd knocked me completely off-kilter. There had been no e-mail chatter about a change of plans among the sibs. And all our work, gone! "How? Why?" My recent surgery had sapped my powers of speech; I was now monosyllabic.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Someone called me and said I didn't have to go. And I never wanted to move anyway."</div><div><br /></div><div>All I could think to do was hang up quickly and tell her I'd be back in touch. Then I quite madly started calling my sisters to find out what was going on. I left messages everywhere then simply had to wait it out. My mind and gut churned in turmoil.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my sisters called back in an hour. She followed up with my mother and got back to me—apparently, to the abnormal short-term memory loss that instigated her doctor's initial diagnosis of dementia, we could now add the symptoms of creative memory and wishful thinking. It had never occurred to me to suspect anything of the sort; as evidenced in her comment before my wedding, my mother had always been frightfully direct. While I ran and hid, my sister was able to face my mother down and straighten her out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her husband and son did indeed move my mother's furniture the next day, completely winging it—and they did an amazing job. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I learned that "winging it" was not at all in my post-surgery emotional lexicon. Moving about on one leg was not just a matter of physical balance; I'd been thrown for my own loop. I needed rest, away from my mother, in my own home and with my husband, to restore a desperately needed emotional balance, as well.<br /></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-90293174471544739082011-10-21T08:38:00.013-04:002011-10-21T11:35:09.327-04:00Perspective at the great 55<div>Oprah, at 55:</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJGcQUbASyp5tvFZnZ2cgG_0VGMdNq7ppx0iR_9WAlYNfL3gQTNhD_ntsb-DMWrVghIAWZ76MnTfeYmGpe_y6gESB1bkQPrKthmCAE4x0jNxhYRLVYCMfrTRxhWX5TXXBydc5PkmIUBUd/s1600/oprah+at+55.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqJGcQUbASyp5tvFZnZ2cgG_0VGMdNq7ppx0iR_9WAlYNfL3gQTNhD_ntsb-DMWrVghIAWZ76MnTfeYmGpe_y6gESB1bkQPrKthmCAE4x0jNxhYRLVYCMfrTRxhWX5TXXBydc5PkmIUBUd/s320/oprah+at+55.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665933393001938418" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Bill Gates, at 55:</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwCYm6wJNIC-apOEWN8x9yuU5U1uX-pLd4PZXjFoPzKh-I0FArSPTFIN4ltgaOr61RO_WYOVXvO9J_fksek49ocKl4t2cSt4D7JDv0amKD4xJs0c2H-zutr0pwqdaeRG5GImPyfh0sdBA/s1600/billgates55.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQwCYm6wJNIC-apOEWN8x9yuU5U1uX-pLd4PZXjFoPzKh-I0FArSPTFIN4ltgaOr61RO_WYOVXvO9J_fksek49ocKl4t2cSt4D7JDv0amKD4xJs0c2H-zutr0pwqdaeRG5GImPyfh0sdBA/s320/billgates55.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665932007750403298" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span>Martina Navratilova, at 55:</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOlEOng3taghsXyq1tJ7IIpNdP_rjXBmKf_S412YxgJL4Qs0YeiLFfDdGMoWRPOAT7ctVvcNvtRk5K3J0Iu6NH1jH6lDYPIrwk8pEpDeAnxLbV1NSejQo0-qq_3aer-7i79GZvJPG80XW/s1600/MartinaNav.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxOlEOng3taghsXyq1tJ7IIpNdP_rjXBmKf_S412YxgJL4Qs0YeiLFfDdGMoWRPOAT7ctVvcNvtRk5K3J0Iu6NH1jH6lDYPIrwk8pEpDeAnxLbV1NSejQo0-qq_3aer-7i79GZvJPG80XW/s320/MartinaNav.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665932783981583314" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span>Golum (age unspecified):<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsmerxoAPT5vvkS0XOUl3wXP2OLUk4wh1R78T6x6h3r7ky4OU2gEbgZ1SJpUVgFZR_OFd5GdxYmfoLnJDo7ORqQobNLezeNHRFEMpGBi6cLY9149FkDp2vGG37ZRs66iNojXP60GTyqWP/s1600/happy-gollum.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSsmerxoAPT5vvkS0XOUl3wXP2OLUk4wh1R78T6x6h3r7ky4OU2gEbgZ1SJpUVgFZR_OFd5GdxYmfoLnJDo7ORqQobNLezeNHRFEMpGBi6cLY9149FkDp2vGG37ZRs66iNojXP60GTyqWP/s320/happy-gollum.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665931848947248690" /></a></div><div><u style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></u><br /><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div>Kathryn Craft, age 55:</div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4HytJgsf-AQmeihnVa3H1LPHsqkLZFUzrKDLhceN4vZ-isGFNVfETtrTxIEjLoZNy6SSesCDVgYK8LRu01p-3OLbSMTXgFMxm0reGJlSMQ6Yt7QCmBBt7YRX_qZznX7MmYqZRLaVhJj0/s1600/ankle.salad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4HytJgsf-AQmeihnVa3H1LPHsqkLZFUzrKDLhceN4vZ-isGFNVfETtrTxIEjLoZNy6SSesCDVgYK8LRu01p-3OLbSMTXgFMxm0reGJlSMQ6Yt7QCmBBt7YRX_qZznX7MmYqZRLaVhJj0/s320/ankle.salad.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665935777095101042" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>What do these stellar 55-year-olds have in common? </div><div><br /></div><div>Those of us who want to preserve our youth must stay in the game. Train our eyes on the prize. Keep moving, even when it hurts. Get out among other people. Follow our bliss. To that end, I'm pictured above, still gamely trying to convince myself I could pull off my fall writing retreat at the lake, despite my ankle fracture, just because I could perch on these stools long enough to chop up ingredients for chicken salad.</div><div><br /></div><div>I always schedule my fall writing retreat for women on the first weekend after Labor Day—my birthday weekend. Part of this is because the lake has grown quiet but the weather's still good. But it's also pre-emptive: my birthday is the one day of the year that I fear major disappointment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it's because, growing up, I'd usually get back-to-school clothes and school supplies for my birthday. (As did my other siblings. On my birthday.) Maybe in another way my mother raised my expectations too high—she'd make me anything I wanted for dinner and dessert, and my answer was always the same: standing rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, and a dark chocolate cake with seven-minute frosting.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then came the year in college when we had my birthday at the lake and she bought me a Sara Lee pound cake. In light of her compete lack of elbow grease, I thought,<i> She doesn't love me any more. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>I think I've been running from my birthday ever since. During my first husband's slow decline into the bottle, each of my birthday gifts was more extravagant than the last, even though I suspected—and eventually knew—he couldn't afford them. Dave, always paying attention as to how <i>not</i> to disappoint me, over-corrected: he usually takes me out to dinner and gives me a card. In order not to feel left out, I only sometimes give him a gift on his birthday. For two mid-lifers typically steeped in gratitude and<i> joie de vive</i>, we've turned into a couple of non-celebraters.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I've been happier, in recent years, entertaining a group of women writers at my summer home, doing what I love to do in the place I love the most. This year, though, as the following portrait by my son Jackson shows, my fracture took front and center. No retreat. No husband, either—the day before my birthday, Dave dropped me off at my mother's and drove the additional hour home. I didn't see him again until a few days later. When he brought me a card.</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOxtO_qX9LRsxti7AAQ3WknObp0f8w9_U2_G_N1AlhLBG-cZ32Vl1l6xAHHdzMPF78xUvy3gh-UNmszSnGV30oJZ7d03-ys1Y0goHDsn-3qRkYy5541rwfT8gAQx0pig3zrBW2ANFZi9s/s1600/foorfore.jpg" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); " onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiOxtO_qX9LRsxti7AAQ3WknObp0f8w9_U2_G_N1AlhLBG-cZ32Vl1l6xAHHdzMPF78xUvy3gh-UNmszSnGV30oJZ7d03-ys1Y0goHDsn-3qRkYy5541rwfT8gAQx0pig3zrBW2ANFZi9s/s400/foorfore.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665930837717385506" /></a><br /></div><div>My birthday wasn't a complete bust. One sister, newly arrived from Boston to take my mother to visit an assisted living place the next day, picked up a nice dinner and bought a yummy mocha cake. Another sister, who went along on the assisted living trip, stopped by a drug store to buy me a tee-shirt and some cushy grips for my walker.</div><div><br /></div><div>But my favorite part was when Dave arrived later that week with a package from my best friend. I'd always cracked up when she'd tell me how pathetic her husband was when he didn't feel well: he'd sulk on the couch in a sweatshirt, its hood up like some sort of signal that said, <i>I don't feel good. Comfort me. </i>We'd laughed about it many times over the years.</div><div><br /></div><div>She knew exactly what I needed for my birthday. After her gift arrived, I had a whole new "55" look to sport:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfy5M0g2owoVXyZo8kZXxZ5UgMEokHcec-BYd7Ag5cz5J8ilWqv-yUf454grq7VUAr7BShQadN-aUsf4qUVFXPdoBUmTxbwuUUi6xX4E7sLDHbhzmoY_nsMICCQS6xX2TW0La9RkMt7iH/s1600/hooded.jpg" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); " onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfy5M0g2owoVXyZo8kZXxZ5UgMEokHcec-BYd7Ag5cz5J8ilWqv-yUf454grq7VUAr7BShQadN-aUsf4qUVFXPdoBUmTxbwuUUi6xX4E7sLDHbhzmoY_nsMICCQS6xX2TW0La9RkMt7iH/s320/hooded.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665927603672616802" /></a><br /></div></div></div><div><i>Readers, help Dave and I out here! How do </i>you <i>like to celebrate your birthday?</i></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-10709130232139929952011-10-19T09:07:00.010-04:002011-10-19T13:42:34.244-04:00One floor—or three? Ask once, or thrice?In my last post I said that Dave was driving me "home." <div><br /></div><div>That wasn't quite true.<br /><div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to go home. I really did. Living with my mother (and her dementia, and her grief over the loss of my father) at the lake all summer, while juggling a heavy workload, had stretched my patience (and, apparently, my ankle) to the snapping point. She needed more support than any of us had realized, and fearing her inability to live alone upon her return home, my siblings and I decided it was time to move her into assisted living. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is not an easy conversation to have with a parent, nor one best initiated by phone, so the task fell to me. Explaining our need to move her was tough, considering that my mother would probably place such a confrontational heart-to-heart somewhere lower than toenail removal on her bucket list. Plus, she didn't want to go. I'd said, "The only other option is if one of us took you in, but frankly, I don't think you like any of your children enough to survive that." She said, "No, I don't." (Score one for Mom for lobbing back some equally confrontational truth.) These conversations wrung me out—over and over and over, since she could never remember the rationale—and sapped what pre-fracture energy I had. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I was just a week post-surgery and in significant physical pain, I had no energy to spare. More than anything I wanted to hang out with my husband. Relax. Soak up a positive vibe in an atmosphere that felt a tad more sane and a lot less tense.<div><br /></div><div>But to do that, I'd also have to choose vertical living that in no way supported my current, non-weight-bearing needs.</div><div><br /></div><div>We hadn't wanted another vertical home. For 27 years I'd lived in a farmhouse in which we utilized each of the four floors. But you only have to fall down the steep twisting stairs once, and hit the stone wall at the bottom, to own the truth that this isn't the safest choice for an aging body.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkcSY-Kr_5r9Cfpl3UggOcl1iNwN12rATh1Gq32CSXutEJ1U8O0PS74sxbBlly3ASsHfHff4PC_7WoFIn6zYXog96ODJsxCtz1ahrDW6I5yC3CzmH18vO2G4EZoCMAaopZcDybGpvXcCE/s1600/doyleext.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkcSY-Kr_5r9Cfpl3UggOcl1iNwN12rATh1Gq32CSXutEJ1U8O0PS74sxbBlly3ASsHfHff4PC_7WoFIn6zYXog96ODJsxCtz1ahrDW6I5yC3CzmH18vO2G4EZoCMAaopZcDybGpvXcCE/s320/doyleext.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665232251999610290" /></a>So when Dave and I identified the borough of Doylestown as the place where we could enjoy the walkable, small town life we now desired, we sought there the age-in-place comfort of single floor living. But in this town of old Victorians and newer town homes, the only one-floor options were 1) ranch homes that came with mowing (after mowing four acres at the farm all those years we were quite done with that), or 2) 55+ communities well outside the bounds of that small town walkability. We caved on the issue of one floor living in favor of the lifestyle that living in the borough would provide, and determined to make good use of the town home association's gym to keep arthritis at bay so our knees could handle all those stairs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course knees didn't end up being the first problem. Who knew that less than two years later, my fractured ankle would assert a critical need for a one-floor layout?</div><div><br /></div><div>And guess who could offer me that?</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpgo7xOkwySD0lY0hlzYtpahfHIS_WMwJoFRrCPbGDA2_OJjTp6XVX7NcgrjZL0xTZGnOL9YVTVdy2QG0efvAVV4L8NXh2hZ4iK9s8jjyT1xBWGLAwzg4btJWP6KTqlNAmu1vsGgBWdjZ/s1600/macungieext1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpgo7xOkwySD0lY0hlzYtpahfHIS_WMwJoFRrCPbGDA2_OJjTp6XVX7NcgrjZL0xTZGnOL9YVTVdy2QG0efvAVV4L8NXh2hZ4iK9s8jjyT1xBWGLAwzg4btJWP6KTqlNAmu1vsGgBWdjZ/s320/macungieext1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665232089950302050" /></a>My mother.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I was thankful for the opportunity to rest up at her condo before tackling our Doylestown stairs. But her memory impairment (or the grief, or both?) made it so that she could not anticipate any of my needs. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had to ask for everything. One. Item. At. A. Time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Despite the fact that I simplified my meals, and ate the same thing every day to ease her grocery shopping burden, this is how many requests I needed to make for breakfast alone:</div><blockquote><div>"I'll just have one of my yogurts, please."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"That's all?" she says.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"I'll eat up some of that granola, too, if you want."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"No, not the Triscuits, that granola you bought. The one you didn't like."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"You put it over the fridge."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"I know because I watched you."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"No, that's the one you like. Never mind, I just didn't want the other to go to waste."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(She does not "never mind.")</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"No, the one in the taller box with the red writing. The Kashi. Thanks."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>[sound of granola hitting bowl]</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Oh, I'm sorry, Mom, I can't eat a whole bowl. I just wanted to sprinkle a little on top of the yogurt. Like I did yesterday. Thanks."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Could I have some juice too, please, so I can take my pills?"</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Now I need my pills. I'm so sorry, they're in by the bed. And while you're there can you grab the extra pillows so I can prop up my leg?"</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Thanks for the pills. And whenever you can get to it, I could use those pillows. I'm sorry you need to make an extra trip."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Kathryn, for crying out loud. I'm sorry, too, but there's nothing to be done about it."</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>She plops down the pillows on the couch where I sit and goes to the kitchen table to eat her own breakfast and read the paper. I've clearly harassed her enough.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Meanwhile, I watch news. It depresses the hell out of me. She is not watching it, she's reading the paper, but this frugal woman who followed me from room to room all summer, flipping off lights at the camp that I'd have to flip back on moments later but with my hands full, blares TV news during all her waking hours. The sound keeps her company.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A half hour later she comes into the room. She takes in my yogurt, its sprinkle of granola, my juice, my pills. "You haven't eaten anything," she notes.</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"Um, could I please have a spoon?"</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>"You are so polite," she snaps.</div></blockquote><div></div><div>My mother needed support while awaiting her move. She needed help with medication and bills. I needed help washing my hair.</div><div><br /></div><div>Neither of us treasured our dependency.</div><div><br /></div><div>But for twelve more days, we were stuck with each other.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(Know anyone interested in single-floor living in Macungie, PA? My mother's condo is <a href="http://www.weichert.com/39775397/">for sale</a>.)</i></div><div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-82705488758618207492011-10-17T11:23:00.009-04:002011-10-17T15:32:37.501-04:00Newly handicapped on Rt. 81-S<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSwEtxY7rhfRPlFcWvmEe_0ufjDR-pbaKek8qbJBF6DSloRdL0cZbxoq-8RQK9riACH1LfFDXCENtmHyPWfgEou_M_z0G0HpBzxmqogLFROi8UXDeOdu_Hpn4aeJHQI9DwQgPP71oouZJ/s1600/whitneyview.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSwEtxY7rhfRPlFcWvmEe_0ufjDR-pbaKek8qbJBF6DSloRdL0cZbxoq-8RQK9riACH1LfFDXCENtmHyPWfgEou_M_z0G0HpBzxmqogLFROi8UXDeOdu_Hpn4aeJHQI9DwQgPP71oouZJ/s400/whitneyview.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664495375893111410" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;">Nine days post-surgery, Dave drove me home. For the seven-hour trip from our summer home in Northern New York State to Southeastern Pennsylvania, I sat with my left leg stretched across the backseat of my mother's Camry with my broken ankle propped up on a pillow. The night before I'd taken a muscle relaxant—one tiny pill—to help me sleep, and I still could barely stay awake. This was probably a good thing. I would need all the strength I could muster for our mid-trip bathroom break.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;">We stopped at the Whitney Point rest area, located between New York exits 9 and 8 on <a href="http://www.upstatenyroads.com/i81.shtml">Rt. 81 south</a>. We've always loved this location. As you can see from the photo above, it overlooks the gorgeous valley that runs west of Rt. 81 from just south of Syracuse almost all the way to Binghamton. My little cockapoo Max had always given it two paws up (or at least, one rear leg). Relief would not come as easily for me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;">At first everything looked great. The rest area had been redesigned in recent years, allowing cars to pull much closer to the front doors. According the the <a href="http://www.ddarch.com/portfolio/transportation/whitney-point-welcome-center">architects' website</a>:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); line-height: 16px; font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); line-height: 16px; font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">To rectify the inadequacies a new building was built to include the necessary components to provide for present and future needs.<span> </span>The new and upgraded facility includes increased parking for cars and trucks along with improved services for elderly and disabled persons.<span> </span>In addition, the facility contains multiple public restrooms, which are handicap accessible.<span> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); line-height: 16px; font-family:arial;font-size:100%;">Other amenities include seating areas and vending machines as well as public telephones and tourist information displays.</span></div><div></div></blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;color:#444444;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WyXGHSSAtlnMxvJV-wvFhJa6poJMhtIc6tIF3iQYmDohk-0KQgsERb4TeflBb6mqcFgffHKcBlFeWhjrjNRxpZTK-4OaE2Bqw7XdQjlHZQTyBtJ2dl_ChdTJ65MOozqWiLn-M5htmMZ3/s1600/Whitney_FrontView.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WyXGHSSAtlnMxvJV-wvFhJa6poJMhtIc6tIF3iQYmDohk-0KQgsERb4TeflBb6mqcFgffHKcBlFeWhjrjNRxpZTK-4OaE2Bqw7XdQjlHZQTyBtJ2dl_ChdTJ65MOozqWiLn-M5htmMZ3/s320/Whitney_FrontView.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664489782533867234" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">We were able to park right in front, beside a labeled handicap spot. At this point I was still painfully and effortfully hopping along with my walker—I didn't think a public place would be the best place for my first experimentation with crutches since an </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">eighth grade </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">ankle sprain. A ligament on the outside of my right hip was feeling the strain, as for more than a week now I'd relied on that one leg for everything. While my arms were generally strong from working out—thank goodness!—my wrists were not used to bearing my weight. I was heartened that it </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">looked to be just a car length or two to get to the door. I could do this.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0Fu1QLlb7tBP4IqvZSoIx8Mqfkp_ZCO_akrq1PRV3oiZgNrmYeWMPvjExuSss19H81oONm_Vw8MVqAYGEgstgq6blCG9WPkg4_oGGXW87lArHIV-2x6u0M4iBNHxeou7Vx8zEaS80gmc/s1600/whitney_int.css" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD0Fu1QLlb7tBP4IqvZSoIx8Mqfkp_ZCO_akrq1PRV3oiZgNrmYeWMPvjExuSss19H81oONm_Vw8MVqAYGEgstgq6blCG9WPkg4_oGGXW87lArHIV-2x6u0M4iBNHxeou7Vx8zEaS80gmc/s320/whitney_int.css" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664502467141096274" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; ">The interior of the building was spacious. A real beauty from tiled floor to wooden vaulted ceilings. One of my best friends is an architect, and I have a healthy respect for all aspects of design. But I also believe in the old maxim, "Beauty is as beauty does," and this was never truer for me than during my recent induction into the world of the temporarily handicapped.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The ladies room is just beyond the frame of this photo, at the near right side. By the time I made it halfway from the entrance doors to it, I was ready to collapse. I needed to stop and rest.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Despite a design so spacious it could have held enough pews for a small church service, I could find nowhere to do so.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">Let me point out the only seating: see that wooden corner in the foreground corner of the photo? That was the one and only bench—I'd have to hop twice as far to get to it. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">What was the point? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">Turning back held no special allure, because I needed to use the restroom. I felt stranded. Shaking and sweating from the effort, I had no choice but to carry on.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I turned the corner and through the doorway, relieved that my trek was almost over. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >It was not.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">I now faced a long open hallway—one longer, it seemed, than my trip from the car door to the entrance. Clack. Clack. My efforts with the walker became dangerously uneven as fatigue set it. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;">"Rest area"—what black humor. There was nothing restful about it. I presume this design had to be ADA compliant, but it did not take into account a full range of human needs. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;"> I finally reached the end of the hall and made another turn into an anteroom with a baby changing table. One more turn...and I face a long corridor of toilet stalls, the very last of which was the handicap stall large enough to accommodate both me and my walker.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I almost cried. My 80-year-old, 115-lb. mother, who was already done, said, "I waited for you." That was incredibly sweet, but there wasn't a blessed thing she could do to help me. I needed Lou Ferrigno to sling me over his shoulder and carry me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >An older woman with a cane stood at one of the sinks washing her hands. She turned to me and said, "I know. Welcome to my world."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I had to move on; my supporting hip was cramping. I made it down to the handicap stall and took a seat, as much to rest at this point as anything else. When I finally thought I could stand, I reveled in the joyous presence of sturdy handholds to help me get up—that right hip ligament had about had it, and I still had ahead of me a long return journey.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I went to the nearest sink to wash my hands. There were no towels or dryers in sight. My mother pointed them out—to get to them, in a separate section, I'd have to backtrack. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >To hell with that. In addition to the extra effort, other women had wet the floor with water from their hands while getting to the dryers. It didn't look at all safe for one who had to rely on hopping, or using a walking aid. An aid whose use, of course, required dry hands.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >So I wiped my wet hands all over my pants and began the long trek back to the car, looking to all the world as if I hadn't made my destination after all.</span></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-9826213948675808442011-10-14T10:20:00.013-04:002011-10-14T13:26:51.190-04:00Kathryn, meet your new ankleEmploying a complicated car exchange, my husband Dave and two sons had planned to converge at the lake on Labor Day for one reason: to arrive with one extra driver so we could get my mother and her car home before my fall <a href="http://www.writing-partner.com/">Writing Partner</a> retreat for women the following weekend. Now, my ankle broken and the retreat canceled, we would all be heading home.<div><br /></div><div>First, however, I had to get my staples removed. I'd seen the <a href="http://healingthroughwriting.blogspot.com/2011/10/general-or-spinal.html">x-rays of my foot</a>, and knew about the fibula plate and the fact that I was now quantifiably all screwed up, but it wasn't until eight days later that I'd see what kind of incisions had been made.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked forward to the big reveal. As a former modern dancer, my feet had been the subject of much scrutiny. So when the nurse pulled away the layers of surgical wrappings and exposed all that had been hidden, my first thought was:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:180%;"><b>What the hell is that?</b></span></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI-QLS-Mad6JGx8aYpSZhYsxQv_-IPCa59oj5fLDCjCUubJPqzY3vszI9B2bTqTCstKb_DQRAzzsgkrBhRN4pnnGevxmX9Lbb__GgcILhyNXZJtKIpPionH29HSBNbRddwDGhU1bE5QF0h/s1600/unveiling.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI-QLS-Mad6JGx8aYpSZhYsxQv_-IPCa59oj5fLDCjCUubJPqzY3vszI9B2bTqTCstKb_DQRAzzsgkrBhRN4pnnGevxmX9Lbb__GgcILhyNXZJtKIpPionH29HSBNbRddwDGhU1bE5QF0h/s400/unveiling.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663353693925137298" /></a>I'm sure some of my female readers will relate to the first thing I noticed: leg hair. I had never before put this particular aspect of my personal growth to the test, so it was interesting to see what it looked like. The skin beneath was yellow from the Betadine wash they'd used to sanitize my skin, pre-surgery. <div><br /></div><div>As for my foot? The color and shape were simply all wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had a small incision on the inside of my ankle and a much longer one on the left, where the plate went in.</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-l-A60N31ENy0EeHKu3XOHW3iAuhh-5M791OZdFCEQ-OYQIu7td0hi_MS5VFlmjSO3XHkD56KvymPBFMiCNBweZnk14ortHEAdjPwkKrhxDjW5odxdbeAD3KHX-rVxePX-W3k3oQVRhGQ/s1600/right.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-l-A60N31ENy0EeHKu3XOHW3iAuhh-5M791OZdFCEQ-OYQIu7td0hi_MS5VFlmjSO3XHkD56KvymPBFMiCNBweZnk14ortHEAdjPwkKrhxDjW5odxdbeAD3KHX-rVxePX-W3k3oQVRhGQ/s400/right.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663354297582296770" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcF7YRQZn12xIqAVx2zdtmqXecqW1-o0ja9BQRQDdZbdbOaI1h3YjBpNbFYoG60bJkoAr_yymWlOc3j7hFYWpy3yD5kFSRxPkKLwSLfP8psb9CEb5Vjpdz2OINXXegN4-U1oG80i01D3y/s1600/left.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcF7YRQZn12xIqAVx2zdtmqXecqW1-o0ja9BQRQDdZbdbOaI1h3YjBpNbFYoG60bJkoAr_yymWlOc3j7hFYWpy3yD5kFSRxPkKLwSLfP8psb9CEb5Vjpdz2OINXXegN4-U1oG80i01D3y/s400/left.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663353879878771954" /></a><br />Dave was a real trooper with my cell phone: "Can I snap a few more photos before you take the staples out? My wife is going to blog about this." I include this next shot because I think it speaks best to the Frankenstein-esque nature of my experience: it looked to me as if someone had removed my foot and tacked on someone else's. Someone...purple.</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFiUebgoqJ1X4j0QxIBPpOoy_77pDXVIpnhRFqXyZ_k_lBWZ799CbtXef8p9o6shP-5fzXQ7ML5QrGohYbTQy5bYCf4z76RaghK0ZtHgtkVD2H0GUYHHkjLGA2aIr_3QfLM9eGkOvVg9k/s1600/colorful.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFiUebgoqJ1X4j0QxIBPpOoy_77pDXVIpnhRFqXyZ_k_lBWZ799CbtXef8p9o6shP-5fzXQ7ML5QrGohYbTQy5bYCf4z76RaghK0ZtHgtkVD2H0GUYHHkjLGA2aIr_3QfLM9eGkOvVg9k/s400/colorful.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663354167636996674" /></a>The beauty of the fall colors I sported notwithstanding, the outside of my ankle was as tender as a rotting plum. To that the nurse applied her staple remover.</div><div><br /></div><div>The staples they used look something like this before they're crimped:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0UzW1FdVjcNTrLqMqPRWh9pZ_EAGKkRZKDq9IoXWGJjRmAELAlEEWMfPFDjvAbfHiw43yYbc9x5Np2X5E4wizn4pKYWIyM6ClQgSc7HDM_fEuX0DfDuSTvRYGjMyYpbYViEBHKi-zblF0/s1600/staple.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0UzW1FdVjcNTrLqMqPRWh9pZ_EAGKkRZKDq9IoXWGJjRmAELAlEEWMfPFDjvAbfHiw43yYbc9x5Np2X5E4wizn4pKYWIyM6ClQgSc7HDM_fEuX0DfDuSTvRYGjMyYpbYViEBHKi-zblF0/s400/staple.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663368499428914482" /></a>After they're crimped, the sides of the staple pull together beneath your skin. To remove them, the nurse used an instrument that looked like this:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkEG7Xa9_Vt2_rXhjgaMjoNupbP1qeYFxbtl1agy_nw-Gm2o_jRewCyR0A01Z_84LkbGcp_h2nvgs7-CPlWINebNGSv1iudvIjhHp0iO8436t5aChjIRjyMocW5KPtZZT56_4rVptQKGr/s1600/staple+remover.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkEG7Xa9_Vt2_rXhjgaMjoNupbP1qeYFxbtl1agy_nw-Gm2o_jRewCyR0A01Z_84LkbGcp_h2nvgs7-CPlWINebNGSv1iudvIjhHp0iO8436t5aChjIRjyMocW5KPtZZT56_4rVptQKGr/s400/staple+remover.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663368948662897682" /></a>One part of it slips under the loop at the top of the staple, and side pieces press down on the wire in a way that raises each side, effectively releasing the staple's hold on the skin. On the inside of my ankle this was relatively painless. Where the skin was so mushy on the outside, though, each removal delivered a sharp pinch that resulted in some oozing. I'd had so little sleep in the past week that my tolerance for additional pain was nonexistent. The nurse kindly gave me time to recover between staples. After, she applied ster-strips to the incision, first swabbing each ankle with more Betadine to help them stick. She covered all with a Jones bandage, a tube stocking wrapped with gauze and then Ace bandages, that would stay in place for the next four weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dr. Perrier agreed that I wouldn't heal well if I couldn't sleep. In addition to instructions to continue follow-up care with an orthopedic surgeon back home, I left with two prescriptions: a refill for my Percocet, and one for a nighttime muscle relaxant. </div><div><br /></div><div>That night, for the first time, I got a couple precious multiple-hour blocks of sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, we went home. </div><div><br /></div><div>One trial was over, and another just beginning.</div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-28528864897024499422011-10-12T10:07:00.007-04:002011-10-12T13:22:54.323-04:00Checking in: Who am I?I'm currently seeking representation for a novel in which a professional dancer with body image issues must re-imagine her life after a devastating blow to her career is followed by a mysterious accident that leaves her unable to move. At one point, in the hospital, my protagonist concludes, <div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote>The harsh truth: without movement, I didn’t know who I was.</blockquote><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Times; mso-hansi-font-family:Times;} </style> <![endif]--><!--StartFragment--><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="margin-right:-.5in"><span style="color:black;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--></div><div style="text-align: left;">I thought about this, holed up as I was with a fractured ankle in a camp that still echoed with vibrant memory. The running footsteps of my youth (my mother: "You better have washed the pine needles off your feet!") and slamming screen doors (my grandmother, now: "Quick girls, the bats!") had been replaced with an eerie stillness. Although this place had made me feel more "me" than any other setting I'd known in my life, my new immobility allowed the dissociation my character spoke of to set in. Floating free from my writing and editing in a sea of pain medication, as out on the lake other Labor Day kayakers and swimmers reveled in summer's last rays, I felt like driftwood of an unspecified nature.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have always been sensitive to the way change, especially when unanticipated, can challenge your very sense of who you are. A move to a new state in sixth grade, the loss of a beloved cousin while I was in college, my fertility struggle, my first husband's suicide—in the parlance of story structure these are <i>inciting incidents</i>: unexpected forces that tip a character out of her everyday world and that forge within her a desire to create a new reality.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVcj0C-BB9pRThtHcUy-Xupd01mXYlA10lkAogscW4XcHx3krkRvWrtLDtYXzPazKdzk3MM_G1WujtjpTsoyTyzNUtbIvlXONhc-mxLe8q6LrEJ3pMFb-l4pSKe6MaNYvackv6h-yWKnl6/s1600/Sisyphus.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVcj0C-BB9pRThtHcUy-Xupd01mXYlA10lkAogscW4XcHx3krkRvWrtLDtYXzPazKdzk3MM_G1WujtjpTsoyTyzNUtbIvlXONhc-mxLe8q6LrEJ3pMFb-l4pSKe6MaNYvackv6h-yWKnl6/s320/Sisyphus.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662618224079335010" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Why a <i>new </i>reality? If you had a good life, why not just wait things out until I could get it back again? After Ron's suicide, at a meeting of <a href="http://www.parentswithoutpartners.org/">Parents Without Partners</a>, a man asked me just that. "Why are you working so <i>hard</i> at this?" he said, after I'd mentioned the therapy I'd sought. "He did this to you. It's not your fault!" He literally shook with anger, as if my choice to heal implied he might be culpable in his own divorce. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My rationale then was the same as it was fourteen years later, after my ankle fracture: why voluntarily return to a world in which such frightening circumstance was possible? While change is capricious and inevitable, I'd rather hedge my bets and reach for a life with different challenges rather than take another spin through the hell I'd already been through. Otherwise I'd feel as doomed as Sisyphus, rolling that rock back up the hill, over and over.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As a result I'm a rather voracious healer. I do not sit well with a disrupted sense of self; I can't muster the hope that time will knit my soul back together as tidily as it will the bones in my ankle. I'm more proactive than that. But a seeker needs motion. How could I rebuild my sense of self as a lively mid-lifer while stumping through the camp with a walker, each step taking such a toll? I'd hoped that "Kathryn Craft + walker" was a good three or four decades down the road.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The universe offered a grace of timing: by Friday night my sons, ages 22 and 24, already scheduled to spend Labor Day weekend at the lake, were on their way.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Their bed-head appearance late Saturday morning made it seem like the stork himself had dropped them off during the wee hours. At once I knew how much I needed their beautiful familiarity; I was more off-balance than even I had realized.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This was the first summer I'd been at the lake without my dad, whose spirit was evident everywhere but whose physical presence was sorely missed. I'd spent all summer with my mother, with whom I'd always had a trying relationship, but who needed me now that her short-term memory was fluttering to a halt. I'd fractured myself: at the same time struggling to catch up with my own interrupted work, I'd wrapped my life once again around her needs. Her dementia's constant assault on my sense of what was real and true knocked me as far off-balance as Hurricane Irene had, and now I had only one leg with which to right myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But in watching Marty glide over the water beside Dave in a vessel my Uncle Bob had bequeathed him, or listening to Jackson and his girlfriend enact the tireless debate on which is the best way to build a fire, the camp sprang to a most familiar life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When my dad's sister left the lake this year—at 92 the only remaining Graham of that generation—she gave me a check for $50 with the instruction to purchase something for the camp in memory of my father. To that end my mother and I had purchased the Jack Graham Memorial Barbecue Grill to replace its dangerously rusted predecessor, at which my Dad had distractedly lorded over many an overcooked hamburger. On Labor Day I couldn't see, from my perch in the camp, my sons out at the grill. But knowing they were out there with chocolate bars, the old marshmallow forks ("Mom—here's a perfect marshmallow for you, golden brown!"), and my favorite—the graham crackers—I reclaimed a core aspect of self.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I am Kathryn, of the Grahams, and through me, tradition lives on.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpXdEm2sJwa277yOZ9QqDu0Lgakp4XZyNXgUwNR8psNwVpq-AcU1u2Gio28BW24TOs1jN1OKIPWQkaLNtnx6JHl_sJPIw0_HjCzdgmLjPqhznT7x-jaP_TqyquKE2yFRahSITJmgAAdmv/s1600/marshmallow.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpXdEm2sJwa277yOZ9QqDu0Lgakp4XZyNXgUwNR8psNwVpq-AcU1u2Gio28BW24TOs1jN1OKIPWQkaLNtnx6JHl_sJPIw0_HjCzdgmLjPqhznT7x-jaP_TqyquKE2yFRahSITJmgAAdmv/s400/marshmallow.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662651428075276434" /></a></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-80931099874508277582011-10-10T10:14:00.006-04:002011-10-10T12:34:59.258-04:00Letting go is hard to doDecades ago my sister was hit by a car while walking past the exit of a downtown parking garage. The impact threw her into the street, where a crowd immediately gathered. Had she survived? Her first words: "I need to get to the subway station or I'll be late for work."<div><br /></div><div>I know this syndrome, born of shock and denial. Even while waiting out the standoff that would result in my first husband's suicide, I kept thinking: as soon as I get home, I'll file the newspaper article that had been due that day. Our plans are important. They organize our lives and make us feel safe; we know what to expect.</div><div><br /></div><div>So when I broke my ankle two weeks before the fall <a href="http://www.writing-partner.com/">Writing Partner</a> retreat I was to host at our summer home, my immediate inclination was to forge on. For a variety of reasons I'd had to work hard to do it but I'd finally pulled together an awesome group of women. And after planning my father's memorial service, living all summer with my mother who suffers from dementia, and working 12-15 hour days to catch up with the most editing work I've ever had in a year—adding to that now, the ankle injury—I really needed to retreat, in every sense of the word.</div><div><br /></div><div>I assured everyone, even from my hospital bed, that the retreat would move ahead as planned. I had two whole weeks to get better. I could do this, I thought.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was before I realized just how far I would have to retreat.</div><div><br /></div><div>My first inkling was how exhausting it was for the fiercely independent woman I'd become to ask for every little thing I needed: That a pillow relocated to another room be delivered. My pills, please. More water. Food? My whole life my mom had been dutiful in the nursing department, and she still was, but she couldn't remember where to find anything; I constantly had to fight through my medicated brain-numbness to find the words I needed to help her locate what she needed. Often more than once. Then again.</div><div><br /></div><div>And let's just say that to depend upon a walker, using only one leg, was akin to walking on your legs your whole life and then being told to instead walk on your hands. Muscles rebelled.</div><div><br /></div><div>Although I ferried between only two locations—the bed at night, and the couch on the porch by day—at every meal my mother would set me a place at the table, sometimes even starting her meal before saying, "Oh, you're going to eat over there tonight?" As if I was inconveniencing her by my sudden decision. And here I was supposed to be taking care of her. Dave was a big help, but caring for me in such a way was new to him, too. Rather than patronize me, he erred on the side of waiting to be told what to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even as guilt and impotence drained me, lack of sleep screwed with my head. Part of me felt I had to stand guard all night lest Dave—who has no trouble sleeping despite his jumpy leg syndrome—strike out at my ankle. Yet I wouldn't ask him to sleep elsewhere. What if I needed him? I sandbagged a barrier between us with an extra pillow but couldn't fall asleep. And when I finally would I'd jerk awake with continued flashbacks—the slip, the sudden fall. The snap of the first bone, the crunching of the others. The rain, the shivering. In the middle of the night, with nothing to distract me from my hot ankle pain and stranded between pain pill dosages, I'd lie there softly crying for as much as an hour and a half.</div><div><br /></div><div>My days, once a multi-tasker's mishmash (blogging, social networking, writing on my own book-length projects, editing for others, booking future speaking gigs) were now simply mash: clomping to the bathroom, sponge bathing, getting to the couch, eating, resting, and trying to find new ways to get up from the couch. Every single thing required creative problem solving that sleep deprivation left me poorly equipped to tackle, from washing my face (I put a stool beside the sink to kneel on, effectively creating for myself another leg) to tentative forays into food prep (I could chop veggies if someone washed and dried them, brought me a knife and a cutting board, then came to retrieve them).</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuPWrr1xhtG0GsmC35yTrTQ5jrV7THQDrCvdF_8HZZzofynoCGcjEGggqbuEvBNkofw8JOYaCixvcLNTCLbaHVJnFlfK4xXVuMrVecHF_Y3HMXfG19IjqPXDUAro0rmrzTE4QEu1xm4Mx/s1600/ankleprop.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuPWrr1xhtG0GsmC35yTrTQ5jrV7THQDrCvdF_8HZZzofynoCGcjEGggqbuEvBNkofw8JOYaCixvcLNTCLbaHVJnFlfK4xXVuMrVecHF_Y3HMXfG19IjqPXDUAro0rmrzTE4QEu1xm4Mx/s320/ankleprop.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5661886855084513266" /></a>It was clear I couldn't provide the type of bed and breakfast retreat experience my ladies signed on for. So I could contact them Dave rigged up this system so I could sit at my computer: a bench-like coffee table shoved beneath my desktop table, with a pillow on it that I could slide my foot along as he pushed in my chair. I went online to negotiate with my retreaters. I'd go ahead with the retreat and return some of their money, I said, if they'd agree to an alternative, commune-like experience where all pitched in.</div><div><br /></div><div>Turning on the computer meant hitting the wall of hundreds of e-mails missed during the three days I was in the hospital. I opened a few, wondered how the hell I'd ever handled dealing with so much mail, then shut it off. Ten minutes sitting up had my ankle throbbing; I needed to lie down and elevate it. Above my heart; above my passions.</div><div><br /></div><div>My awesome retreaters quickly agreed to the new terms. But as the days wore on, I was still only capable of staying up until 8 pm, the time when our evening readings would usually begin. My sleep was so fractured I couldn't make it through the day without a nap, either. I felt incapable of leading anything. And for the first time in many years, I needed rest more than I needed to write.</div><div><br /></div><div>Uncle. I had let go in stages, but I finally faced my limitations: this retreat would not be anything like the experience I wanted for my guests, and further, it would fail to feed my own writing soul, now held captive and inaccessible in some parallel universe. I canceled the retreat, and while I was at it, all but one of my fall speaking engagements.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to face my new reality: not only was I no longer the multi-tasking modern writer, I couldn't figure out how I'd ever even lived that life.</div><div><br /></div><div>For now, I was a simply a woman trying to figure out how to survive, and how to ask for help doing so.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I love that saying, "Life is what happens while we're busy making plans." Have you ever tried to hold onto a plan despite an extreme change in circumstance? I'd love to hear your story.</i></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-21005605560143507792011-10-06T10:44:00.007-04:002011-10-06T11:56:49.906-04:00Going home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uVjajqEuQrV5rssB3KZT_BhUj9LNRw6RKGlWNPReVx5iI_iXNODSKJFnlRGbHXpzNw6m13qR9LUCtfodRIDMPsJTe214389ZkhqdjFhbFH0v9L-Shq2wYxTCyvXJSe8kgaOKRgZGp4pC/s1600/walker.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uVjajqEuQrV5rssB3KZT_BhUj9LNRw6RKGlWNPReVx5iI_iXNODSKJFnlRGbHXpzNw6m13qR9LUCtfodRIDMPsJTe214389ZkhqdjFhbFH0v9L-Shq2wYxTCyvXJSe8kgaOKRgZGp4pC/s320/walker.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660401623681637650" /></a><div>The day after my surgery a physical therapist stopped by my hospital room to display my choice of walking aids: crutches, or a walker. I said I was a little worried about the crutches because of the flooring we'd used when we'd renovated the camp: the wood-look floor could be slippery. Since I wouldn't be weight-bearing on the ankle for three months he suggested I take both, and benefit from the added stability of the walker while at the camp. Dave should remove all the area rugs that were now trip hazards.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So, let's see you use the walker," the therapist said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Now?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing phases these guys. He got me right up out of bed, hooked all my bags to a movable pole he'd push along behind me, and told me to walk to the door and back.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Relax your shoulders, move the walker forward, and hop toward it," he said. The choreography was elementary—the trick was performing it while my foot felt radioactive with pain. I held it out in front of me where I could ensure it would come to no additional harm.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am nothing if not determined. When my college dance students would say "I can't do it," I'd tell them their choice of words would not be honored in my classroom. They were, however, allowed to say, "I'm currently finding this movement a challenge," a response that would both improve their humor and result in some added tips and tricks from me. So I had no doubt that I'd make this walk, no matter what. But it wouldn't be pretty. Even before the edge of my roommate's bed I was wracked with the kind of sobs that make relaxing one's shoulders a challenge.</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's good. That's enough," the therapist said, but he'd told me the door was the objective and I was only two-thirds of the way there. So I pushed through those final few hops before my return trip. This is how surgery and sleep deprivation sap you: just days before I was lifting weights and doing sprint/walk cross-training and swimming quarter-miles, sometimes all on the same day. By the time I got back into bed after this herky-jerky attempt at walking on one leg, I was completely spent.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because of his practice in the Canadian border town of Ogdensburg, some thirty miles to the west, my surgeon conducted his rounds in the evening. I braced myself when he came in. I knew our country's health insurance philosophy as concerns hospitalizations: cut 'em and turn 'em loose. The summer before, post-Cobra, Dave and I had spent months shopping for affordable health insurance; we now spent half of his monthly pension check on a major medical policy whose attributes my memory couldn't distinguish from the sea of coverages we'd applied for.</div><div><br /></div><div>All afternoon I lived in dread of being sent home. I even hated to hear how well my nurses and doctors thought I was doing: my vitals were great, my overall health commendable. And I'm thinking, how could I possibly survive the hour's ride back to the camp, let alone the hobble from front door to bed, which was so much longer than the one I'd pushed through that day? </div><div><br /></div><div>My fate would turn on the words of Dr. Luc Perrier. I was sure my vitals were fluxing all over the place as he made his determination. With that French accent I was unwilling to yet label charming or hateful, he said, "So try to get some sleep tonight and I'll see you tomorrow." Charming it was: because he did late rounds, I'd have another full day to gear up for my next challenge. I let out the breath I was holding and thanked him. As he signed my chart with a flourish he repeated what he said in the ER: "But don't forget to cast me as the handsome doctor who saved your life in your next novel."<br /><div><br /></div><div>That extra day would end up making all the difference.</div></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-68472886666208004702011-10-06T09:41:00.013-04:002011-10-07T08:04:42.566-04:00Making "handicap accessible" campWe weren't the kind of family to spend a summer vacation pitching tents and cooking over a fire, yet I grew up with a healthy respect for "making camp." Five kids, two parents and an Old English Sheepdog would pour out of two cars and stake our claim to what space we could, divvying up dresser drawers and unrolling bags onto sleeping porch cots. My older sister always claimed the cot nearest the screened-in wall that overlooked the lake; if we knew what was good for us, the rest of us didn't even try. Since youth I was drawn to physical obstacle—I'd wanted the top bunk in the room I'd once shared with my sister—so I chose the cot wedged deep beneath the angled beams. A night during which I escaped whacking my head was a night well-executed.<div><br /></div><div>I'd use these skills when returning to the lake after my ankle fracture and subsequent hospitalization. The day after surgery my departure seemed imminent. Even as I was still hooked up to a variety of bags and machines a social worker stopped by my room to ask if my summer home would allow single floor living for awhile. Thanks to my <a href="http://www.lifespandesignstudio.com/">Lifespan Design Studio</a> friends <a href="http://www.lifespandesignstudio.com/people/">Doug and Ellen</a>, the answer was yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>After Dave and I purchased the camp from my parents and determined the best way to save it was to pull most of it down and rebuild, we went back and forth on whether to include a first floor bedroom. It would increase the footprint and the cost, pointed out my eighty-year-old father. "Don't do it for your mother and me," he said. "When we can't do stairs we'll stop coming to the lake." I thought of my grandmother, and the many years my uncle parked her wheelchair on the porch so she could continue to take in the view she so loved. My dad may not want that bedroom, but I did.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLn0dsAuvIoIq_C66c6twhIjPekTu0fjXBRW3p21_5QYoEBEqvsb86O0fldSQUcUMZ7WMoLr4inTQtbnx4-6L9TfdSw-d21pP2h4Zm6aGouMYfo4JoUKdVabmOxgaifnwjAoLaNoe3MIR/s1600/TL+downstairs+bath.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLn0dsAuvIoIq_C66c6twhIjPekTu0fjXBRW3p21_5QYoEBEqvsb86O0fldSQUcUMZ7WMoLr4inTQtbnx4-6L9TfdSw-d21pP2h4Zm6aGouMYfo4JoUKdVabmOxgaifnwjAoLaNoe3MIR/s320/TL+downstairs+bath.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660420144412552994" /></a>Once architect Doug was in on the project, he was all for the downstairs bedroom—so much so that he added a wheelchair-width doorway into the room and another into the downstairs bathroom. Because they embrace the philosophies of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Universal_design">universal design</a>, Doug and Ellen encourage the kind of forward thinking that allows people to stay in their homes despite future health challenges. The wall sink I wanted to re-use for reasons of nostalgia, Doug pointed out, would perfectly suit someone approaching the sink in a wheelchair. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had thanked my dad for his input but told him Dave and I planned to add the downstairs room. "Anyway, you know me—I'll probably use it first, after breaking my leg or something." From then on, no matter where Dave and I slept in the camp, when referring to that room my mother called it "Kathy and Dave's room." It could accommodate my folly, but would never touch her aging.</div><div><br /></div><div>Six years later, my father now deceased after negotiating the camp stairs until the end of his life, I was facing that exact circumstance. Our foresight made the summer home an even more welcoming environment than my permanent residence in Pennsylvania, a three-floor town home that kept me fit while in full orthopedic health but which now provided an imposing challenge. An added bonus at the camp: my cousin had purchased a classy commode for her aging mother to use while visiting one year and had left it behind "for our use." How we'd grumbled to see it fill up so much of the newfound closet space in our rebuilt camp. It was the first thing I told Dave to set up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dave drove home with me strapped into the back seat of our Ford Contour, facing sideways with my leg propped up on a pillow. When we got to the lake Dave pulled onto the lawn so he could deposit me right beside the front porch. He pulled my walker from the trunk, snapped it into the open position, and helped me pull myself from the car.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now what?</div><div><br /></div><div>I faced the first of many challenges to come: the step up onto the front porch. I stood there with my walker, the clock ticking—gravity was creating an inferno in my foot—with no clue how to negotiate it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I've had a bit more experience I think I'd turn the walker around and push down on it while hopping up backwards, but I wasn't feeling like such a monkey that day. The youngster who once loved the obstacle course and scrambling into her cot beneath the lowest beam was now completely stumped by a four-inch step. Through some sort of ugly push-me-pull-you Dave and I got 'er done, but I was already realizing how hard the next few months were going to be. I was so thankful for the design of the camp: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, porch: everything I'd need, close together on one floor. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I made my way to the couch on the porch to prop my leg up so I could eat the take-out we'd picked up on the way home, Dave honored my new reality by helping "make camp": one by one, he pulled all the area rugs from my path. Perhaps the opposite of the "red carpet" treatment, but in my new reality, just what the doctor ordered.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-21215852681360091092011-10-05T11:03:00.008-04:002011-10-05T13:09:44.765-04:00Secret to Happiness?That a flower grows from a single seed is a useless metaphor when it comes to reaping happiness. Those of us hoping to buoy our spirits must sow and sow and sow, throughout life, so that when fate nudges us toward the edge of despair we can reach back toward a rich and varied garden from which we might graft renewed happiness.<div><br /></div><div>My husband Dave understands this. When his spirits sink he goes for a run or plays his guitar or reads stories from the Bible in which the stakes were more dire. I tend to write. Or seek water: either a bracing swim or a long, hot bath. I'll go outside for a long walk. Read a novel.</div><div><br /></div><div>None of my spirit-saving options were available as I lay on my hospital bed, a little loopy (not nearly loopy enough, in my opinion) with my newly stabilized fracture propped on a stack of pillows. I had to cast around for something new.</div><div><br /></div><div>Granted, some happiness flowed toward me from outside sources. Since I was eight hours from home and an hour from my summer home, I loved the fact that I had any visitor at all. Mine was Emma, the young woman who hired me to teach the Healing Through Writing workshop at the hospital's rehab program, who crossed the lot with a co-worker to say hello (see Emma? You never know when you'll suddenly emerge in a leading role in someone else's life). All the family and friends who played "whisper down the lane" and then called me while I was in the hospital—then reminded me later that they'd done so—all that was precious.</div><div><br /></div><div>But let's face it. Happiness can't be applied from the outside, no matter how thick someone tries to slather it on. For that reason, strategies that connected with some inner desire worked the best. What I needed the most was hope—and the offer of it pulled me through my days, time and again, no matter how false. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like the fact that I had an orthopedic surgeon whose sports medicine history suggested I might once again play ice hockey (okay, got me there, I'd never played hockey—but that my ankle would withstand its rigors, should I want to, connected with me). That the nurses promised my surgery would be soon, and that the post-op pain would be more manageable (to which reality said <i>Ha!</i> and <i>Ha, again!</i>, yet the promise of which helped me believe). That the spinal would be great because of fewer side effects (even though it shut down my urinary tract completely, which apparently is not uncommon—some dozen unsuccessful trips to the commode kept me up all night and in significant bladder discomfort and ankle pain; I finally had to be catheterized).</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, though, my first inklings of happiness grew not from a flower I'd planted but from a wind-blown weed: I coveted something of my neighbor's.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, the big reveal. I found a goldmine of hospital happiness in this product, which cost Dave all of 87 cents:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLEh3zksVIX9fnLlzME0gblHj1AidYalhdGKTG7UqEO92fP2G8DcV5u0ZSKgQAc1ARuPKDkWYi6QWIwepWLYcG5IiFrfpO0DyuJjYMwhZICkhHCkxrlxJEYcRN7hV98LcutuzaGCjJn6W/s1600/chapstick.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrLEh3zksVIX9fnLlzME0gblHj1AidYalhdGKTG7UqEO92fP2G8DcV5u0ZSKgQAc1ARuPKDkWYi6QWIwepWLYcG5IiFrfpO0DyuJjYMwhZICkhHCkxrlxJEYcRN7hV98LcutuzaGCjJn6W/s320/chapstick.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660036153888537954" /></a>Which meant more: that Dave wrapped up his business back home the morning after the accident and drove straight up to a hospital located just shy of the Canadian border, or that he stopped on the way at my request and arrived bearing the gift of Cherry ChapStick? <div><br /></div><div>I'd like to say it's a toss up. But I suspect it's the ChapStick.</div><div><br /></div><div>All day the curtain had been drawn between me and my new roommate, who was recovering from a hysterectomy. Local to the area, she had entertained a revolving door of well-wishers. Their attentions were not the focus of my jealousy. Through a crack in the curtain, I noticed that she kept applying ChapStick. I was in a situation in which there was so little I could do to achieve my own happiness—but I, too, could do that.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure I'll forever associate the flavor of cherry with this ankle break. Six weeks out I carry it still, in my pocket, ready to comfort me with its fragrant, waxy warmth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ironic, isn't it? Turns out happiness <i>can</i> result from outside application, especially when slathered on thick. The happiness wasn't the application itself, though, but my relationship to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>At a time when I felt acutely my own powerlessness, applying ChapStick was one pleasurable thing I could do for myself. It may have done nothing for my ankle, but as for its ability to improve my spirits, I was able to attach to it the one thing necessary to make it work: hope.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Readers: When you faced tough circumstances, what helped you raise your own spirits?</i></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-88424025003230217672011-10-04T10:16:00.009-04:002011-10-04T12:01:24.275-04:00General, or spinal?"So I wondering if you want general anesthesia or a spinal?"<div><br /></div><div>It's the morning after my big break and the Korean anesthesiologist has come to call. I'll call him Dr. Lee. He's mostly hidden by his paper surgery hat, gown, glasses. If something goes wrong, I think, I'll never be able to pick him out of a line-up.</div><div><br /></div><div>I consider his question. My mother had slept through childbirth five different times while blanketed by the bliss of general anesthesia. I'm thinking that sounds good, but hey, he's the expert.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Which do you suggest?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"General anesthesia good, very good, you fall asleep, wake up, all over. But sometimes side effects not so good. With spinal you feel nothing, you wake up. Either one good."</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd had general anesthesia before for other procedures, and had never suffered side effects. I'd had a spinal for my C-section—an injection of opiates right into the spinal fluid. I remembered lying on my side, "curled into a ball" to the extent that a nine-month pregnancy allows, trying to heed the warning to lie still lest the doctor nick something he shouldn't with that needle, even while my entire mid-section was wracked with contractions. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now my brain was addled with trauma, lack of sleep, no food or water, and pain meds. I simply wanted this show on the road, in the least dangerous way. "I'll have the general," I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hmm. You sure? Spinal really very good. Also it last beyond when you wake up, which help with pain."</div><div><br /></div><div>"So you're recommending the spinal?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, no, general very good also. You fall right asleep, no problem."</div><div><br /></div><div>Dr. Lee would be no help at all. But sleep? That sounded like the antidote I'd needed all night. I craved it. I settled on the general anesthesia.</div><div><br /></div><div>Take two. Later that afternoon, another guy in scrubs came in. He strode in, shook my hand, introduced himself. I'll call him Dan. He had a red beard and mustache and the kind of stocky build and fresh face that suggested he'd been bow-hunting in the woods earlier that day. Thanks to a scheduling change, he would be my anesthesiologist.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We're going to be taking you down for surgery soon but I wanted to meet with you first. I understand you want general?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes." With my work life blown to Hades, my loved ones scattered, and my ankle lying in pieces, it felt so good to feel confident about <i>something.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>"No you don't," Dan said. "Believe me, you want a spinal."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No doubt about it." Dan smiled. "We'll take you into the O.R. and give you a little juice to relax you. We'll have you sit on the edge of the bed, bent over, and you'll feel one little pinprick for the injection. Next thing you know, the surgery will be behind you. Added bonus: complete pain relief for another few hours. Sound good?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure if it was his targeted argument or the thought of Dan out there in those woods, bow in hand, but something gave me faith in his aim. I said, "Where do I sign?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I was alone when they came to get me for surgery. My mother hadn't come—while she was able to get me the help I shouted for when I fell out on that rainy hill, her grief over my father's recent death and her memory issues had made the struggles of daily life enough for her to worry about. A neighbor was looking in on her. Dave had left Pennsylvania that morning and was on his way. On the ride to the operating suite, as ceiling tiles flew past, I took deep breaths and tried to relax, hoping I wouldn't flinch when the needle went in and inadvertently cause my own paralysis.</div><div><br /></div><div>They parked my bed next to the operating table and I inched from one to the other. I remember seeing Dr. Luc Perrier, my straight-from-the-pages-of-a-romance-novel surgeon, tying on his mask. Dan said, "Here comes the feel good juice" and I recognized the heat going into my arm...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Mrs. Craft? Mrs. Craft?" It sounded like someone was speaking to me through a long tube. "The operation is over. How are you feeling?"</div><div><br /></div><div>All I could think was, <i>How many operating nurses does it take to balance a patient on the edge of a table if she's completely passed out?</i> Memories of half-carrying wasted friends home from college parties came to mind. Maybe I should have told them that when two aspirin are suggested I can sometimes get by with a half.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh well. It was over. And Dan was right about the added bonus: then, and for a few additional, blessed hours, I felt nothing but relief from all that had plagued me. I'd had a great nap. They brought me a tray of food that I was able to enjoy with no distraction from pain, and a full pitcher of water. Dave arrived from Pennsylvania and I was no longer alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>On my left ankle I sported a new wrap made of felt-like material bound with Ace bandages. Hidden within, my new permanent hardware:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPYKVtW0PbPCrMd5EMbI13O4eyAy86CjlnpQRs6wpCwuAljJtZiyx96lcn6lhn4oiPBHHmATARFayttfl9WKgNR5oZLA7v0a5wFzEYNs9ZE3dQ7i45gAcCKUIeCH-1HYHqRXYjmlyP1vP/s1600/ankleside+post-red.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPYKVtW0PbPCrMd5EMbI13O4eyAy86CjlnpQRs6wpCwuAljJtZiyx96lcn6lhn4oiPBHHmATARFayttfl9WKgNR5oZLA7v0a5wFzEYNs9ZE3dQ7i45gAcCKUIeCH-1HYHqRXYjmlyP1vP/s320/ankleside+post-red.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659658894217610882" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs-S9Yjl1eEK9oLjWQuRuXJtwivvdNaOuritt3cnTqZbVOKg4cWuYtrPuFvNKYG1f_ts286kM-Nyi0vLDsHzpV03IrSyTecHpVfjW0VyHWHDrDQfyl8DDYxJFNpGzmLbTuRbAZ-bSelbw/s1600/post-op+front.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs-S9Yjl1eEK9oLjWQuRuXJtwivvdNaOuritt3cnTqZbVOKg4cWuYtrPuFvNKYG1f_ts286kM-Nyi0vLDsHzpV03IrSyTecHpVfjW0VyHWHDrDQfyl8DDYxJFNpGzmLbTuRbAZ-bSelbw/s320/post-op+front.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659658591396896258" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That night, my post-trauma flashbacks would recur. But there was a difference in my reaction to them: with respite from the pain, some heavy-duty stainless steel on the inside, and my husband by my side, I now had resources to help hold me together. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Tomorrow: my hospital roommate's secret to happiness.</i></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-73029416985641498162011-10-03T11:55:00.004-04:002011-10-03T13:14:23.538-04:00Awaiting surgery<span class="Apple-style-span">I can fall asleep for only a few minutes at a time. Then I hit the mud, slide, hear my bones breaking...and wake up crying out. T</span>o try to outrun my repeat fate<span class="Apple-style-span"> I have pressed my broken ankle into its stack of pillows, and it is now on fire with pain.<div><br /></div><div>And heat.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8TTkIVlzWcpSuGEECqITOlyHisVwS033tA2V4nStSqkFWGM7JWrqNN6AGABZTCQuH6e9-GGl5nf0gsCnu99YwWRleOOB4K2R61FGGiVuyMWFmAON1bHf_txpEq0VTVdy6QE-avP1mdh9/s1600/postlegsplint.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8TTkIVlzWcpSuGEECqITOlyHisVwS033tA2V4nStSqkFWGM7JWrqNN6AGABZTCQuH6e9-GGl5nf0gsCnu99YwWRleOOB4K2R61FGGiVuyMWFmAON1bHf_txpEq0VTVdy6QE-avP1mdh9/s320/postlegsplint.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659311134564899394" /></a>The posterior leg splint (right) the orthopedic surgeon made for me in the ER—bent to suit my ankle and strapped onto my broken yet realigned bones with Ace bandages—is curing. It heats up to do so. Every single thing I know about first aid injury treatment says this heat is my enemy. Time's a-wasting; my foot is swelling out of control but no one seems terribly concerned about this. My foot structure (narrow heel, high arch, small bones) never handled well my active life; it turns easily and I have sprained each ankle at least eight times. Experience tells me that the immediate application of ice can be the difference between walking and not. </div><div><br /></div><div>I ask for ice. My nurse says she'll check my orders. Ice isn't listed, so I can't have it. It amazes me that ice can't be administered unless it's prescribed by a doctor.</div><div><br /></div><div>What the hell. Guess I'm not walking anywhere soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>They give me pain meds every four hours but as the interior pressure builds they only take the edge off for three. The last hour is a killer.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the middle of the night. I'm in a double but do not yet have a roommate. A hundred cable channels and nothing to watch but zumba routines I won't be able to dance and exercise machines I won't be able to use. I try, again, to sleep. Almost there... I hit the mud. Slip and roll. My bones snap and crunch. I wake mid-stride, ankle searing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've been panting. Mouth so dry. No water—can I have ice chips?</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'll have to check your doctor's orders." I know where that will go. </div><div><br /></div><div>Although my thirst cannot be slaked I'm hooked to plenty of IV fluids and I can feel them pumping, pumping into my swelling foot—then redistributing to my bladder. I have to get off the bed and onto the commode about every half hour. Lifting my leg from its pile of pillows is so painful as the tissue fluids redistribute, but that's nothing compared to the sensation of the broken bones shifting, and the hot knives that thrust into my ankle once my leg is dangling off the edge of the bed. Thanks to the efficiency of movement conveyed by a previous life as a dancer, I can get from bed to commode in one graceful pirouette (one must take one's small victories).</div><div><br /></div><div>As I perform this bravura feat my debonaire cavalier (okay, the nurse) holds the commode so it won't kick out from under me. "I'm sorry, you can't have the ice chips, you're scheduled for surgery."</div><div><br /></div><div>I keep my eye on the prize—that more manageable post-surgery pain, which they promise like offering a horse a carrot, then yank away, time and again. They can't give me water because surgery will be later that morning. Then it won't be until early afternoon, I'm told, so sorry, you can't have breakfast. Looks like the surgery will be later this afternoon, so you can't have lunch. Good news! We've heard from your surgeon, he'll be over after his office hours, so your surgery will be this evening. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was glad I'd taken the sandwich offered the night before in the ER; I hadn't eaten since noon that day. (Then again, the offered sandwich was ham. I was thirsty.) The night before, when they'd come to the ER to take me up to my room, I'd instinctively wanted to wrap the uneaten half and take it along like some hoarder in a nursing home but they took it away, saying there'd be more of the same up on my floor. No such luck.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, dawn brought the distraction of my anesthesiologist comedy team—and a roommate who held a small key to happiness. <i>More on that tomorrow.</i></div></span>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-62109368732401259882011-09-26T09:42:00.012-04:002011-09-26T10:28:05.435-04:00My Big Break, in picturesToday I'm sharing a series of photos of my broken and dislocated ankle. I'm going to go out of order so you can appreciate the mal-alignment after the fracture. This first x-ray is of my ankle after the orthopedic surgeon pulled on my foot and crunched my bones back into approximate place:<div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgun0G3CUB3A6zkNDeWpdeDHD_yB4GhsEso_FQPvnTulwCWUiDLMeaG35VVhWNvBK6oJozPYpPDkXL12ENLdqGNlUwYK-yp99nKUuo2HyNAofugZ_51g9f01iw-zBAhN_ZO__OlD_e9WMmG/s1600/ankle+post-red.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgun0G3CUB3A6zkNDeWpdeDHD_yB4GhsEso_FQPvnTulwCWUiDLMeaG35VVhWNvBK6oJozPYpPDkXL12ENLdqGNlUwYK-yp99nKUuo2HyNAofugZ_51g9f01iw-zBAhN_ZO__OlD_e9WMmG/s320/ankle+post-red.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656664040468565698" /></a><br />Compare that to the next x-ray of my ankle when I arrived at the ER:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLGEW3iL90RnCq_gDa1yhBlRjMN5kpF_MGCStPwZQ-UZt_8Cq9P2KKi_TmzM1POuh0uWBUqMOoWbq3sw_RldlKEFRLpg8Q79rxbBgobhqcRClvyHksYFuYl5mCL3HL_0zry9hA9SS_HBp/s1600/ankle+pre-reduction.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLGEW3iL90RnCq_gDa1yhBlRjMN5kpF_MGCStPwZQ-UZt_8Cq9P2KKi_TmzM1POuh0uWBUqMOoWbq3sw_RldlKEFRLpg8Q79rxbBgobhqcRClvyHksYFuYl5mCL3HL_0zry9hA9SS_HBp/s320/ankle+pre-reduction.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656664993690993922" /></a><div><br /></div><div>I know, ick. If you have a good eye, even in this "scan of a printout of an x-ray" you can see the way the bottom of my fibula (here, on the right) is snapped off to the side. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's an x-ray of how the dislocation looked from the side. Without dislocation, the tibia bone should center over that hump beneath it:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNyv0J_EpeTfS3zknSb3Vu4yVNGtnchVcK_gugiDVVSowECQJ-QM39zqpUbmbtruxSmVni0NDStYEB01HTp_pf2t7E_guEdxT_xPQx75u_udvppVtfnlRF1PXXCOvZF2h1wdh6I8yY7U4/s1600/ankle.side+pre-reduction.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNyv0J_EpeTfS3zknSb3Vu4yVNGtnchVcK_gugiDVVSowECQJ-QM39zqpUbmbtruxSmVni0NDStYEB01HTp_pf2t7E_guEdxT_xPQx75u_udvppVtfnlRF1PXXCOvZF2h1wdh6I8yY7U4/s320/ankle.side+pre-reduction.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656665871935210258" /></a><div><br /></div><div>The next photos show you what this looked like in the flesh. Although the angle of the photos make it difficult to appreciate the way the foot is twisted down and to the outside, if you let your eye travel along the top line, you should be able to perceive an aberration. (Got to admit, I have to take a deep breath to look at these, even four weeks later):</div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjyUFQuQj0c7zsEkD7hTZmi3mokgQ4Y3Fix6QfOlA3Nwca57lB45MnN8o4V9fNiWXugBGK59TdT6-9DWp2GeZIxdAPQcXm1aBVrI2m6zhlyXMMd7RdE-V46ruBfUoSKzKpyjLgfzCPyC-/s1600/ankle1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjyUFQuQj0c7zsEkD7hTZmi3mokgQ4Y3Fix6QfOlA3Nwca57lB45MnN8o4V9fNiWXugBGK59TdT6-9DWp2GeZIxdAPQcXm1aBVrI2m6zhlyXMMd7RdE-V46ruBfUoSKzKpyjLgfzCPyC-/s320/ankle1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656666727368982226" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IsOfjFcFbWoi3fG5sAfDFLrDXqZ1ie6Sgo5OnSWKkOQttqXDBuWraimypY_Njm1H3SctS5mrAs22GdwfGp332fWD-QADOfqRxebC8t75_tZb8UgtwA5GdTFnrXufLtaJSBscVbOoI2R5/s1600/ankle2ER.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IsOfjFcFbWoi3fG5sAfDFLrDXqZ1ie6Sgo5OnSWKkOQttqXDBuWraimypY_Njm1H3SctS5mrAs22GdwfGp332fWD-QADOfqRxebC8t75_tZb8UgtwA5GdTFnrXufLtaJSBscVbOoI2R5/s320/ankle2ER.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656667727837974994" /></a><div><br /></div><div>To make me feel better—and because we know all such accidents happen in the most heroic and romantic fashion—let's review the effort on my part that resulted in this mishap. Hurricane Irene had knocked something from one of the tall trees by our camp, and it had fallen at such speed, it thrust right into the rain-sodden earth! I was talking to Dave on my cell, and couldn't see what it was through the raindrops stuck to the window screens. I had to go out into the wind-driven rain and investigate! </div><div><br /></div><div>Turned out there wasn't as much of an emergency to report as I first perceived. The object that had fallen from the sky on August 28 was still skewered into the lawn on Labor Day weekend, when Dave and my sons were scheduled to arrive. Indeed it was still there there when we closed up camp on September 8, when Dave snapped this photo, and it was still there on September 19 when Dave returned to the lake to retrieve my car. </div><div><br /></div><div>Who knows, it may be there still. What do <i>you</i> think it looks like? (If you missed Dave's answer, it's in the post that explains <a href="http://healingthroughwriting.blogspot.com/2011/09/edges-of-storm.html">how I broke my ankle</a>.) Here it is:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJtBRuogWb6CMDfHeRmK5-V5obtydkTsgWZ9ghkbnFWyJ2uHlZDELf01mYuNoLtQibe6r7MCWx6qA8HwcJxtKpfR3tSLTufMbDFbISxc_VzbLZXeDCgcXy3dQAf4XoKaPJJ0u6v9LncKr/s1600/pinecone.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKJtBRuogWb6CMDfHeRmK5-V5obtydkTsgWZ9ghkbnFWyJ2uHlZDELf01mYuNoLtQibe6r7MCWx6qA8HwcJxtKpfR3tSLTufMbDFbISxc_VzbLZXeDCgcXy3dQAf4XoKaPJJ0u6v9LncKr/s320/pinecone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656671948878724482" /></a>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-42207634122122196072011-09-25T10:58:00.007-04:002011-09-25T13:57:20.975-04:00ER<div>I hit the <a href="http://www.cphospital.org/">Canton-Potsdam Hospital</a> Emergency Room on a slow evening, I guess—or maybe that's just the kind of service you get when you arrive by ambulance. They wheeled me right into a room, transferred my backboard to a bed, and had me roll off it. Right away a nurse came in. She told me to get changed—I'd never so happy to don a hospital gown. I peeled off my cold, wet clothes, begged her to cut off my wet pants so I didn't have to jar my leg, and asked for a towel. I soon lay clothed in a dry gown and beneath heated blankets. For the first time in two hours, I stopped shivering. With these small improvements, my sense of the emergency felt behind me.</div><div><br /></div><div>The nurse started an IV and did an EKG (I was thinking, isn't that for older people? It took me a moment to realize that I was just days from my 55th birthday.) They told me the on-call orthopedic surgeon was on his way over from Ogdensburg, a border town on the St. Lawrence River, and he should be here within the hour. I was told how lucky I was: he was the orthopedic surgeon for the Clarkson University ice hockey team. I was also told that if I'd gone to the emergency rooms of Gouverneur or Star Lake, I would have had to transfer to CPH for orthopedic specialty care anyway, so I silently offered up a quick thanks to the EMT who diverted me here, and begged forgiveness for objecting, however silently, to the disgusting cigarette smoke smell on his fingers as he tied on my oxygen mask.<div><br /></div><div>My mother and neighbor Beth, who drove her, soon arrived with my purse. Beth is a real take-the-bull-by-the-horns type; she had already rifled through my wallet, given them my insurance info, and called Dave to tell him we were at the ER. She found my mom something to eat while they took me to x-ray. Thankfully, the tech was able to x-ray through the splint, positioning plates so that I didn't have to move. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>When I got back to the ER the nurse pulled the splint from my foot; the doctor would soon arrive. As she put some dilaudid in my IV she explained that some of the pain was from the dislocation tugging at muscles and ligaments now held in an unnatural position. I recognized an opportunity—as gross as it was to look at my foot, I was a bio major with a graduate degree in health and physical education; I knew I'd one day want to study my foot in its current condition. I asked Beth to look in my purse for my cell phone to snap a photo. I hoped it was in there—my mother suffers from short term memory loss and she was quite stressed when I asked her to dry the rain from it and put it in my purse. I also hoped the phone would still work.</div><div><br /></div><div>Beth pawed around in my purse and said, "Look at this." She pulled out my digital camera, which I never carry around in my purse. For once, dementia to the rescue—my mother had a hard time distinguishing my cell from my camera, so had brought both. Beth took several shots of my foot.</div><div><br /></div><div>The doctor arrived and told me he'd already reviewed the x-rays. My ankle was fractured in three places (a <a href="http://www.wheelessonline.com/ortho/posterior_malleolar_fractures">trimalleolar fracture</a>): the tibia, the fibula, and the talus, the ankle bone that these longer bones articulate with at the ankle. Later research put me right in the middle of the demographic for such fractures. According to the <a href="http://orthoinfo.aaos.org/topic.cfm?topic=a00391">American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons</a>:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 5px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 5px; "> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 5px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 5px; font-family:georgia;font-size:medium;"><blockquote>During the past 30 to 40 years, doctors have noted an increase in the number and severity of broken ankles, due in part to an active, older population of "baby boomers."</blockquote></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEl391rQDmxeFOgurl0wrcDCp0byPQ1p0EjpwKaCL1HFVZTE1zkfYu-9Syy-oUCcO35VvMLCiLoNyoXHN8zYZs9Qq5WSiNWswNzEusr3vJ2fSx2DVjwca5YOFYLyYyHKKbvj9w1yfJXPj/s1600/Dr.Perrier.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 167px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbEl391rQDmxeFOgurl0wrcDCp0byPQ1p0EjpwKaCL1HFVZTE1zkfYu-9Syy-oUCcO35VvMLCiLoNyoXHN8zYZs9Qq5WSiNWswNzEusr3vJ2fSx2DVjwca5YOFYLyYyHKKbvj9w1yfJXPj/s400/Dr.Perrier.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656335399843534194" /></a>As soon as the doctor found out I was a writer he said I must cast him in my next novel as the handsome doctor who swoops in to save my life. I smiled, but knew this wouldn't be possible: the details would strain believability. Because he was Canadian by birth he spoke with a French accent, his name was "<a href="http://www.healthgrades.com/physician/dr-luc-perrier-x6jx7/">Luc Perrier</a>," he was fit and handsome (as you can see), and, like most orthopedic surgeons I've met in my life, quite full of himself. I try not to adhere to such stereotypes in my creative writing. He marched over to my foot, picked it up by my big toe, and suspended it—I prepared to scream, but this didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. My guess is gravity itself was beginning the process he would soon complete.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We will add something to your IV now," he said, and I turned to watch the nurse insert a syringe into the port. "Can you feel it?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It feels all hot going in there," I said, looking at my arm, and with that he grasped hold of my dislocated foot and pulled. I heard and felt the crunching of the bones as they realigned, but whatever anesthetic he'd given me had done the trick—it didn't hurt, at least not any worse than it already did. I now understood the orthopedic surgeon stereotype: it certainly would take some mad hubris to do something like that and believe you were helping the situation.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before I was wheeled off for a set of post-reduction x-rays, he told me he'd admit me tonight and perform surgery tomorrow. The need for this didn't surprise me. Beth, however, followed him from the room and demanded to see my x-rays, she told me later. She doesn't think people should be operated upon without some proof of the necessity. </div><div><br /></div><div>But even to her untrained eye, she said, after seeing the x-rays, she knew he spoke the truth.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Tomorrow: a photo montage of my ankle, inside and out, and a special tribute to the cause of my accident.</i></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-70415793755088969202011-09-24T12:15:00.008-04:002011-09-24T18:35:28.267-04:00My first ambulance ride<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wB-XTy90YK-sNMLFYz9BJVY3D9MbqyUSgRY8HsrA-ONqB1bIzbSwmT8o5GPo94NV2D0GCiRZw2lR__zJwamebnhyGL9SxdahKq2NtS8L9TZUODooriYmfMLo7e5nNr1UFaP6o3IA6a5Z/s1600/ambulance+in+rain.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wB-XTy90YK-sNMLFYz9BJVY3D9MbqyUSgRY8HsrA-ONqB1bIzbSwmT8o5GPo94NV2D0GCiRZw2lR__zJwamebnhyGL9SxdahKq2NtS8L9TZUODooriYmfMLo7e5nNr1UFaP6o3IA6a5Z/s400/ambulance+in+rain.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655970673269516994" /></a>The sound and sight of the ambulance backing down our driveway finally drew the attention of some other neighbors. I recognized the voice of Ken, two doors over, as the EMT reached into my makeshift tent and <span class="Apple-style-span">strapped oxygen onto my face. He apologized that he now had to touch my foot, and strap it into a splint to immobilize it for the ride. I was so focused on the implied promise—that I would soon get out of this weather and get some help—that it only hurt a little more when he cinched the straps that kept my foot in its twisted position. </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I rolled to one side and they slipped a backboard under me. Later, Ken would tell me he became one of the "pall bearers" that carried me up the hill and into the ambulance. I said over and over, "Be so careful. It's incredibly slippery." It's odd how safe you feel in the world until something like this happens—now, I could perfectly picture them all falling on the hill, dropping me, and sending my newly sledded body down the hill and into the lake.<div><br /></div><div>But we made it to the gurney behind the ambulance without mishap and they set me, with the backboard, down on top of it. They asked what hospital I wanted to go to. I knew Gouverneur was the closest, but my aunt had had such a bad experience there a few years earlier she made me promise that if I had any emergency with my parents I would take them to Star Lake. So I said, "Star Lake." </div><div><br /></div><div>The guy actually laughed, which isn't surprising—Star Lake, like most destinations any farther east into the Adirondack National Park, was kind of in the middle of nowhere. He said, "It's Gouverneur or Canton-Potsdam."</div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "Take me anywhere where I can find a good orthopedic surgeon."</div><div><br /></div><div>As they pulled the raincoat off of me and pushed the gurney into the ambulance he yelled to the driver (without hesitation, I noticed): "She's going to Canton-Potsdam."</div><div><br /></div><div>Potsdam was an hour away, over many back roads with plenty of painful bumps. To make me comfortable for the ride (please note intended sarcasm), they left me on the backboard. They claimed I was strapped on but every time we went around a turn I reached over my head to hold on for fear I'd roll off. </div><div><br /></div><div>Surprisingly, the man and woman in back with me kept me distracted for most of the ride. They checked me over for other injuries (none), kept asking me if I had chest pain or difficulty breathing (no). All I wanted at that point was to get warm, and they did crank up the heat and cover me with dry blankets, which made me feel a bit better. They were kind of surprised when from beneath my shirt I produced the damp rice sock that had been keeping me warm. </div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghfNFQfbbp0Ctg-BprlH07dn4B_FMryPYDlF1vVbLBPQi2FilqbJEdJZjy2qDkAciYYkyBgS6h0T-06xxqRJ1WJGmZHkaTGlsopT0MnTAdZUjPRh1yn6MYcYExzsQzXQSh-QO7cWoLVZc/s1600/MBT.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghfNFQfbbp0Ctg-BprlH07dn4B_FMryPYDlF1vVbLBPQi2FilqbJEdJZjy2qDkAciYYkyBgS6h0T-06xxqRJ1WJGmZHkaTGlsopT0MnTAdZUjPRh1yn6MYcYExzsQzXQSh-QO7cWoLVZc/s320/MBT.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655973350914637378" /></a></div><div>Then he told me he had to cut off my sneaker.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was wearing my MBTs, the mother of all the new knock-off toning shoes. I was rarely without them: they'd greatly improved my feet in the past year and eliminated my need for the custom orthotics I'd previously never been able to go without. Since they're so expensive, and since my feet had never complained that the shoes had "broken down" the way other sneakers usually do, I had delayed replacing them as long as possible. I have no doubt that their complete lack of tread was the main reason I went down so fast—with no channels for the water in the lawn to seep into, I'd hydroplaned.</div><div><br /></div><div>As he snipped through the laces, I told him that this pair of shoes had cost me $245. He said, "Look at it this way, then—cutting this one off only cost you $122.50."</div><div><br /></div><div>Every few minutes they asked what my pain level was, on a sale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain I'd ever experienced. The first time I answered I looked at the woman: "I'd say it's a five, but that's only because I've had a child. If I were a man, I'd say a nine."</div><div><br /></div><div>They finally started to orient me: we're past Canton, we're past the new Wal-Mart, this will hurt a bit because there's a bump here but the hospital's just ahead. They told me my mom and Beth, Ken's wife, were in the car behind the ambulance, and that they had my purse.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I thought, this is just so ironic. I'd never heard of this hospital until earlier this summer, when a social worker whose family summers at the lake hired me to teach my "Healing Through Writing" workshop in the building across the parking lot. That had been at the beginning of August. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, at month's end, I was being wheeled into the hospital in desperate need of my own healing.</div></span></div></span>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-23293622181727706932011-09-23T08:40:00.005-04:002011-09-23T10:38:50.455-04:00Awaiting help<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EN_s9QG6OObUh9UvZykp7vYW6aKf5kCWZL98AQyK4qcMZ6O3GWzHLoZtWUPgrD2qYI_AanjEQU2pVBf0COnXUIwCmqZmqjmyuD8GPeRShthmmgUobRStG0c71LJgQwrJmz3ChpytX-5G/s1600/pink-inflatable-swimming-pool-float.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EN_s9QG6OObUh9UvZykp7vYW6aKf5kCWZL98AQyK4qcMZ6O3GWzHLoZtWUPgrD2qYI_AanjEQU2pVBf0COnXUIwCmqZmqjmyuD8GPeRShthmmgUobRStG0c71LJgQwrJmz3ChpytX-5G/s400/pink-inflatable-swimming-pool-float.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655558184801944322" /></a>On any other Sunday the lake would have been busy with waterskiers and kayakers and the shore would have been lined with parents watching young children splash in the shallows or fish from docks, but Hurricane Irene had chased them all inside. I lay on the sloping lakeside outside our camp, where decades before two of my sisters had done their great Sun-In <i>vs.</i> hydrogen peroxide experiment, and where more than once I had fallen asleep on a grass mat while drugged with sun-comfort only to </span>later <span class="Apple-style-span">regret the hot pain of my reddened skin. But late in the afternoon on August 28, groundwater seeped through my shirt, hoodie and pants from below and rain pelted me from above and I held my calf so my disfigured ankle wouldn't touch the ground. My body temperature lowered, and I started to shiver.<div><br /></div><div>I was shaking uncontrollably when my mother arrived, holding loosely over her head a long camo coat in dual shades of green from our resident rainwear supply.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Charlie's coming," she said. My mother, 80, looked so little as she hovered above me. She had lost weight since my Dad's death this spring and weighed a mere 117 pounds—I knew because she'd recently recovered from a bad case of bronchitis and a double ear infection that required I take her to the health clinic in town. I had cared for her, helping her sort out the meds since she kept thinking she should take the antibiotic four times a day and the cough syrup only once, instead of vice versa. Now she said, "What can I do to help you?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I was shaking so profoundly I had trouble getting her to understand my words. "Take my c-c-c-cell phone inside and d-d-dry it off. I'll need it." She took the phone and covered me with the raincoat she'd been wearing. "And be careful—it's so slick out here." I pulled the raincoat over my head—it covered most of me—to wait until help arrived.</div><div><br /></div><div>After another minute or two I heard a man's voice. "Kathy, it's Charlie." I moved the raincoat aside so it shielded me from the rain, but allowed me to peek out. "I've called 9-1-1, but it will be a while till they can get here. What happened?" I gave him the shaky, Reader's Digest version. Pat, his wife, arrived too. Both stood over me in hooded raincoats. My mom arrived with an umbrella and several more jackets, which she used to cover my legs. Now, only the twisted foot remained uncovered.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I wish I had a tarp or something, " Charlie said. He might not have had one, but we did—we had several on the shelves in the garage. I told him where to locate them. What I didn't factor in: like any 76-year-old Charlie needed light to see, we have no electricity in the garage, and the hurricane sky offered little light. He came back with our hot pink, fully inflated float. "This is all I could find," he said. "Here." He laid the lightweight float over the broken ankle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Distracting me with chitchat was the best medicine available just then, and Pat and Charlie are masters of the form. Yet even they could find a limited number of things to talk about in such a situation. "I wish there was more I could do," my mother said during an awkward lull. My number one complaint at that point was the wet and the cold—my foot was screwed and I knew there was nothing to be done about that. It was then I remembered the rice socks. </div><div><br /></div><div>I host writing retreats for women at the camp at the beginning and end of the summer season, when nights can be chilly in our unheated camp. So I keep tube socks filled with rice on top of the fridge—3 minutes in the microwave to heat them, slip them beneath the covers, and your bed will be toasty when you climb in. I asked my mother to heat me one. When she passed it under the raincoat to me a puddle of collected water spilled onto my face, but I took the sock and held it to my chest. When the heat dissipated some, I stuck it right beneath my shirt. I couldn't stop shivering—I assumed at this point that might be from shock—but I did draw some comfort from the heat source.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pat went into our camp and found paper and pencil and opened the window so I could shout up to her with Dave's phone number. She said she'd call him as soon as the ambulance left.</div><div><br /></div><div>EMTs were in the firehouse in Hermon when Charlie's call came in, so they responded instead of the crew from nearby Edwards. I had shivered on the ground about a half hour when I heard the beeping of the ambulance backing up. Charlie went to greet them. He told me later that the EMT said, "Where is she? I told you not to move her." To which Charlie replied, "That's her—down there, under that heap of coats." </div><div><br /></div><div><i>I've heard they're canceling All My Children so feel free to stop in here daily for your daily fix instead! Sorry, no sex scenes, but plenty of drama. More tomorrow...</i></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></span>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-84507031107308229302011-09-22T11:57:00.003-04:002011-09-22T13:10:05.511-04:00The edges of the storm<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgvLWaM96_ahm4VwNekBNh5yE1RmrakL-VvLZcn5P8540sIzsdHaSB0bm39ZZcTWnEGu3Eq7c2pI_pLIyvw1knIYwccEbZe0RBXWa46NG3Eh9PHlyRsgUiGd901gFjMP6Om4ptzIBG6Tn/s1600/Hurricane-Irene-300x211.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgvLWaM96_ahm4VwNekBNh5yE1RmrakL-VvLZcn5P8540sIzsdHaSB0bm39ZZcTWnEGu3Eq7c2pI_pLIyvw1knIYwccEbZe0RBXWa46NG3Eh9PHlyRsgUiGd901gFjMP6Om4ptzIBG6Tn/s400/Hurricane-Irene-300x211.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655215005303949506" /></a>Up in Northern New York State, where my mother and I were staying at the family summer home, we didn't expect much damage from </span>Hurricane Irene<span class="Apple-style-span">. We were located at the storm's feathery edges, meteorologists said—although to my untrained eye it doesn't look like that in this satellite image. All day the wind pushed whitecaps towards us down the lake and blew</span> <span class="Apple-style-span">a onslaught of water at us, making it difficult to see out through the rain-spotted window screens.<div><br /></div><div>I called Dave back in PA and asked him how bad the flooding was near our home. As we spoke I went from window to window, trying to see if we had any tree damage to report. On the short hill between our camp and the lake, I noticed something skewered into the lawn. It was small, but sticking up straight. Curious. Like an on-the-spot reporter I carried my cell out into the storm so I could tell Dave what it was. I didn't bother with a coat—I'd only be out there a sec—but three strides later I was skidding on the water-sodden hill as fast as if it were wet ice.</div><div><br /></div><div>It all happened so fast. Between heartbeats. I rolled over the inside of my left foot as I fell and heard a loud snap then more crunching sounds. Even before I saw my foot stuck in a goddawful, unnatural position I knew what had happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>The cell call was still open, but the phone had slid several feet down the hill. </div><div><br /></div><div>Powerless to help from Pennsylvania, my husband stayed on the line and heard me screaming, "Oh god I've broken my ankle! Mom! Mom, you've got to hear me! Mo-o-om!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Inside, my mother did not hear this. She was enjoying the thrumming of the steady rainfall on our tin roof, a sound my whole family finds comforting, blissfully shielded from any intrusive noise by the double-paned windows we installed when we renovated the formerly screened-in porch.</div><div><br /></div><div>I screamed for a few more minutes, my throat raw, my shirt and hoodie soaking up the groundwater that was the cause of the accident, new rain pelting me from above. I held my left calf so my foot wouldn't touch the ground—dear god, the sight of it, twisted that way—and somehow eased myself downhill a foot or two so I could kick the cell up toward my hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I've broken my ankle and my mom can't hear me," I told Dave. "The phone's all wet. I've got to shut it. I'll call you back when I can." My mother finally peeked out to see what was taking me so long. "Get Charlie," I yelled, referring to my neighbor. I knew she couldn't help me. I was up there caring for her after my dad's memorial service this summer; losing him after almost 60 years of marriage had worsened her dementia. "I've broken my ankle."</div><div><br /></div><div>As I waited for Charlie, an uncontrollable shivering began.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I've done it. After three weeks I've finally committed the edges of my personal hurricane story to the page. I'll keep writing every day until I'm spent on the issue. I knew that writing about it would help me heal, But I've suffered post-traumatic stress symptoms that gave these images way too much power over me and until an hour ago, when I once again dissolved into tears about it with my sister on the phone, it turned my stomach to blog about it yet. But crying helps relieve pressure, as I hope writing about this will, so I thought I'd give it a go. More tomorrow.</div><div><br /></div><div>But to end today's post I'd like to skip ahead to my return to the camp after my hospitalization. The storm is now over, Dave is with me, and I am on the couch with my leg propped up on pillows, doped up on pain meds. He is looking out at the lake, and says, "I see it. The thing that's skewered into the lawn. It's a pine cone."</div><div><br /></div><div>The pine cone had blown from the top of a hemlock standing some sixty feet high above us, and the hurricane winds combined with gravity and the soaked earth created a situation in which the first 3/4 inches or so skewered into the ground and the rest of its length, some seven inches or so, stuck straight up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dave says, "You're right. That is weird. It looks like the lawn has an erection."</div><div><br /></div><div>Granted, I've had to pay dearly for my curiosity. But I ask you: wouldn't <i>you </i>have wanted to check that out?</div></span>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-52547346211282338902011-08-15T16:02:00.011-04:002011-08-16T08:59:36.786-04:00Healing: You've got to play to win<span class="Apple-style-span">Even </span>my first husband,<span class="Apple-style-span"> who suffered from alcoholism to the point of suicide, would have drawn a line between him and the seventeen men and women in my Canton-Potsdam Chemical Dependency Unit workshop (read the first post on this workshop <a href="http://healingthroughwriting.blogspot.com/2011/08/healing-with-enemy.html">here</a>). Ron would have said he had nothing in common with them. I heard that same line-drawing from one of the participants, who upon hearing that I was an editor, was eager to share some of his poems with me.<div>
<br />“This isn’t court ordered for me or anything,” the poet said. “I’m here to get clean for my wife and kids.” I hoped that would be enough incentive—I noted he left himself off that list. “And the piece I wrote says I used heroin but I didn’t, I used cocaine. I just thought the rhythm in that line benefitted from the sound of ‘a needle in my vein.’”
<br />
<br />This guy was tall with big blue eyes and sun-kissed hair and he followed everything I said with great interest, nodding his head and offering insightful comments about work read by others.
<br />
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWfPjhJhFGU6VGu8cSxAWWL3o9p_lSjb206zOifezD0HTO4DTgXz-B05x4d9aM_f56ZgjcyS9xByqnZ71NXI_gnXeIGCep3xKPVCSTGhBA28zehyphenhyphenESI0gqkeLE1fAkLHNTEKJVWxFyDkO/s1600/Emma.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWfPjhJhFGU6VGu8cSxAWWL3o9p_lSjb206zOifezD0HTO4DTgXz-B05x4d9aM_f56ZgjcyS9xByqnZ71NXI_gnXeIGCep3xKPVCSTGhBA28zehyphenhyphenESI0gqkeLE1fAkLHNTEKJVWxFyDkO/s320/Emma.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641416769482361394" /></a>I was thrilled to find two poets among the rehabbers in my "Healing Through Writing" workshop. Emma (left), the social worker who hired me, had told me that some of these people would not be willing participants. Although the workshop was a required component in their treatment, some of them may have no inherent interest in writing. Even she didn't really know what to expect, as the arts component in the program was new, and they'd never had a writing workshop before. She warned me that the participants might be so freshly parted from their addictive substance of choice that they’d be physically unable to sit still and pay attention. Which did happen—at one point, Emma gently chastised a man who, in the middle of the workshop, suddenly snapped open a newspaper and held it before his face as if checking sports scores. Gambling is one of the addictions represented here, Emma had told me.</div><div>
<br />So I wasn't expecting much. A recovering addict I know, an experienced rehabber, suggested I might expect to reach one person. Then, if I connected with two or three, I’d be pleasantly surprised. But I wasn't without hope: Emma said that this was a motivated group.</div><div>
<br />Any anxiety I felt was immediately relieved as we dove into the first interactive element‚ filling in the drawing above. It's supposed to be a man, but the rehabbers called it a gingerbread man. My questionable visual arts talents aside, this illustration is an effective tool. The man starts out empty. "What goes inside here?" I asked, and the room bounced to life. As participants called out suggestions, I filled them in. Among other things we added a heart, bones, kidneys, and a stomach. “Vomit,” one of them said—okay, that was a new one. I drew some speckles in the midsection, to their delight.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>When they had reached the limit of their biological awareness I said, “How about anger. Is there anger in there?” “Hell yes!” I heard. When I asked where I’d put that, one called out, “All over the place!” We added other emotions and then the title, “The Person With Too Much Inside.”
<br />
<br />I moved to the next whiteboard and, as the participants called them out, listed the reasons people might want to write. I've given this workshop in many settings and I’m usually thrilled to get five answers; I’ll fill in the few extra needed to illustrate my talking points. So imagine my joy when this crew came up with 17 reasons—so many I had to go back and squish them in, leading to jokes that I didn’t know how to number correctly. This is what they came up with (excuse the cell phone pic):
<br />
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyl9Q2P17I7cJ4utX12r9-ICkQzz-BRCW-xknUU2SCdh4U3epx64ybgaMNjNWkPD2m6iFbeLePUrcK9eIUHKqVSYPoMfOhSg_Q16S8CHmoXGP04trjQ4WdXcXVUgS4ULZBIeiTuRQPl_K/s1600/WhyWeWriteA.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPyl9Q2P17I7cJ4utX12r9-ICkQzz-BRCW-xknUU2SCdh4U3epx64ybgaMNjNWkPD2m6iFbeLePUrcK9eIUHKqVSYPoMfOhSg_Q16S8CHmoXGP04trjQ4WdXcXVUgS4ULZBIeiTuRQPl_K/s400/WhyWeWriteA.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641426519649455874" /></a>
<br />They really got into this part of the discussion so we lingered there, talking about all the ways writing can help people. I modified the drawing of "The Person With Too Much Inside" to relive some pressure: the opening in his brain lets inspiration in, the opening through his hand lets his feelings and ideas out. After a break I prompted them to do a writing exercise and to my great surprise, all but one of them shared what they wrote. Some of it was quite good.</div><div>
<br />Even though the workshop exceeded all expectations, I couldn't help myself: my gaze kept drifting to the one non-participant, a guy with heavy lidded eyes who would alternate between nominally paying attention and checking out. In looks and attitude, of all the people in the room, he reminded me most of Ron. He didn’t call out answers. He stared into space when the others wrote. And during the sharing period, when he finally moved his hand and I looked hopefully in his direction, he was pointing to the person on his left, signaling that I should call on his neighbor rather than him.
<br />
<br />When the workshop was over, I saw this guy one last time. As I walked to my car I saw him outside smoking. He was petting Strawberry, the unit's therapy dog, as if the animal were the only being capable of loving him and accepting his love. As our lives diverged I wondered if he was going to make it, because in so many ways, this young man was Ron. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Yet this time there would be no suicide drama. I was free to walk away. And as I did so, I was able to smile at him one last time, and say goodbye.
<br /></div></span>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-80303638344296872142011-08-04T10:51:00.005-04:002011-08-04T11:18:14.170-04:00Healing with the Enemy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nAPYsx4hdXT-cVDWIg2MDg3kZbNfduDGHHW2yYZI70K7zmNXm2z4h35M9t3dL5B0bJUSOGcLw4dJsCqN99Dr-KqdxQ7jES6CPHmhMqAS0URgMHnmclFgXASIswCNozDO08NAqf7R8As9/s1600/canton_potsdam_pic.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8nAPYsx4hdXT-cVDWIg2MDg3kZbNfduDGHHW2yYZI70K7zmNXm2z4h35M9t3dL5B0bJUSOGcLw4dJsCqN99Dr-KqdxQ7jES6CPHmhMqAS0URgMHnmclFgXASIswCNozDO08NAqf7R8As9/s400/canton_potsdam_pic.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5637013953176915570" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The young man reads his hastily scrawled words from a spiral notebook. He has soulful eyes, a short, hard body, and bad teeth. In his story he is high and drunk and stealing and crashing two trucks. While he reads he reaches beneath the table to pet Strawberry, the lab mix therapy dog curled up at his feet.</p><br />“I was scared and went to the only safe place I could think of—my grandmother’s house,” he reads. “It was there I was arrested for the theft of two vehicles and DUI and a bunch of other stuff I was too messed up to hear.”<br /><br />The writing prompt I’d asked him to incorporate into his story: “grandmother’s house.” Is that how you would have used it? Not me.<br /><br />But this is not my milieu. This young man is now out of prison and doing a stint at the Canton-Potsdam Chemical Dependency Unit in Potsdam, NY, where yesterday I gave my “Healing Through Writing” workshop. Previously I’ve given this workshop at libraries and writers’ groups and bereavement groups. None of which bandied about words like: Addiction. Prison. Court-ordered rehab. Heroin. Cocaine. Relapse. Escape.<br /><br />I tried to pretend this was just another workshop. "Healing Through Writing" has always worked its magic before, and I prayed it would do so again. But somewhere deep inside I felt I was crossing enemy lines. For a good eight years after my first husband Ron committed suicide, I’d explain gently to my children (and anyone else who would ask) that Daddy was sick with a disease that had eaten him up from the inside out. I was speaking from my head, through the filter of obtained knowledge. Even my heart wanted to jump on board. But inside my muscles and bones, I held tight to my anger that he would choose alcohol over our children and me. I released that anger, slowly, through my writing.<br /><br />In any other setting, I would have been afraid of this young man, who told me he writes so that he won’t beat up on people with his fists. Except here in Potsdam workshop, there's a difference: during the break he came up to show me his poetry. It contained sweet, sensitive, insightful musings on life and death—the same kind of stuff I like to write about. I told him his writing moved me. "You have to do something to pass the time in prison," he said, telling me that when he wasn't writing he was reading and re-reading books obtained through the black market.<br /><br />He told me he writes as if speaking to his best friend, who was killed in a car crash by an erratic driver three years ago. The young man was to pick up his friend that night; instead, he went to get high. This odd fact may have saved his life, and he has some survivor guilt. “But he’s always with me,” the young man said. He shyly rotated his forearm to show me his friend’s name, tattooed on the white vulnerable skin of his forearm.<br /><br />I asked him if he had hope. Without missing a beat, he said, “Every day. And I’m going to work on my poetry even more when I get to the halfway house.”<div><br />Everyone has a story, and if willing to share it, you can find common ground. That’s what I love about these workshops.<br /><br />I’ll share more about this amazing experience in my next post. For now, I’ll leave you with this:</div><div><br /></div><div>I just conducted a Google image search for “Canton-Potsdam Chemical Dependency” to try to find a picture to accompany this post—and while scrolling through the images, on page four, I found the picture of Ron and me “torn asunder” that I created for a <a href="http://healingthroughwriting.blogspot.com/2010/12/till-death-do-us-part.html">previous post</a>. Why would it be there, I wondered—“chemical dependency” wasn’t even a keyword phrase associated with that post. Then, on page five, I found my headshot. When I put the cursor over my face, it said, "Healing Through Writing."<br /><br />Maybe Google knew something I didn’t. Maybe I was right where I belonged.<br /></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-42134525840159828602011-07-22T19:09:00.005-04:002011-07-23T10:40:06.367-04:00From retreat prompt to memorial tribute<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZnyh_9bMOi_BZKU3ZSE02-Pa_pRnMMcfXWYRRBkcbu_E-iV3YatmSgGRhSAdRS-jLKf_ogadQwXGNCB81lHhyphenhyphenaCV49qMjzoyxyo5YYYJaUB6Z4vDBKHKyeZpIiPHH5XNWUo33V_lI6m0n/s1600/TL+Gang+June2011.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZnyh_9bMOi_BZKU3ZSE02-Pa_pRnMMcfXWYRRBkcbu_E-iV3YatmSgGRhSAdRS-jLKf_ogadQwXGNCB81lHhyphenhyphenaCV49qMjzoyxyo5YYYJaUB6Z4vDBKHKyeZpIiPHH5XNWUo33V_lI6m0n/s400/TL+Gang+June2011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632318269031363298" /></a>While retreating with the above crew at my summer home in Northern NY State in June, I posed a writing prompt I lifted from a post by <a href="http://bloodredpencil.blogspot.com/2011/06/dont-rush-to-judgment.html">Kim Pearson</a>, a fellow contributing editor at The Blood-Red Pencil:<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:georgia;font-size:medium;"><blockquote>Describe a room in your house, perhaps the room you are sitting in now. Describe everything and anything in it – without using any adjectives or adverbs that imply opinion (such as pretty, or dirty, or jarring, or too anything). Use only words that cannot be disputed.</blockquote></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Since it was a beautiful day, I suggested my retreaters might also choose an outside space. Yet when we began writing, no one moved from the room we were in. So I went outside and sat in an Adirondack chair to serve as a role model. The first thing I saw was "Mahn-Go-Taysee," the canoe pictured above. I</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:georgia;font-size:medium;"> started writing from this prompt through a filter of loss; my father. who died at the end of April, had loved this canoe. With a little adaptation my writing became the piece below, which I read last Saturday at his memorial service.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>[Note: When trying to get your writing life back to normal after suffering such a loss, I recommend you refrain from posting a picture of your father looking youthful and handsome on your blog. It's been very hard for me to add something that would push him from the "front page," scrolling him into my past. I'll do so gently, by sharing here my tribute.]</i></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">* * *</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 22px; font-family:Georgia, Times, serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mahn-Go-Taysee</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The overturned canoe graces the lakeshore as it has every year, vivid yellow against green growing grass. This year fore and aft seem more neck and tail, curving over sawhorses in a reverent bow. Above it, in the pines, birds twitter strange syllables as if calling its name: “Mahn-go-taysee.” If they could tell the story of that name, I’d love to hear it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The name was from Uncle Bob’s Hiawatha period. Translated, the Ojibway means “loon-hearted brave.” I never heard anyone venture a guess as to what that meant, exactly. Perhaps Dad approved simply because of the name’s reference to the majestic bird that returns to the lake with its mate every summer to raise its young, just as he did.</div><div><br />I think of this as I place my palm on the canoe’s back. Its warmth surprises me. I almost expect a heartbeat, as if it has absorbed and reflected the life around it. My fingers skim blemishes formed by hardened sap, and stuttering scars left by generations of children navigating submerged rocks discovered too late.</div><div><br />It seems like only yesterday this canoe wintered over in the basement of our Maryland home, its ribs exposed, although in truth it has been some forty years. Dad had asked that we each take short shifts with the sanding; with seven in the family it would be done in a jiffy. But my memory is of my father’s hands on the sanding block, <i>swish-a-swish-a-swish,</i> raising dust into the air that tasted sweet on my tongue. I watched him from a perch on the basement steps. At fourteen I knew nothing of endurance, and tired too quickly to be of much use. But I sensed the importance of the project, and of witnessing it.</div><div><br />I run my fingers over the letters. With a sure hand and the flourish of the artisan, Dad had painted them so bold and thick that even the blind might read them with the hands: Mahn-go-taysee. Was being loon-hearted anything like being “crazy as a loon”? I suppose that phrase refers to the bird’s giggle-laugh that, like the cries of a child relentlessly tickled, is actually a sign of distress. What if being loon-hearted is to be crazed with love to the point of foolishness?</div><div><br />Perhaps it was foolish of my father to spend so much time preserving this old boat, with so many other low-maintenance, hi-tech materials becoming available. Yes, it sliced through the water leaving only its thin wake in evidence, but it was tippy. Dad taught us to paddle in this canoe, as soundlessly as an Indian whose very life depended on stealth. To abandon our mother’s hand-caned seats and kneel in the center if paddling solo while caught in a stiff wind. He taught my sisters and I how to switch places, one crawling through the straddled legs of the other. Balance and harmony were paramount; a canoe was no place for squabbles. And within the confines of this vessel we kept the peace well—as far as I know, it did not once overturn.</div><div><br />I can still see my father in the basement, working night after night within the glow of his worklamp, as alone as the loon can sound with its haunted, hollow call. The restoration would end up taking ten years. Maybe to be loon-hearted means to carry on despite what one knows of abandonment and lone effort. Yet in the end our ever-buoyant father painted the canoe the color of sunshine, building the brilliance coat after coat.</div><div><br />My hand skims the chipped keel. I was married by the time I helped fashion this finishing touch, to Dad’s specifications, from a hard-to-find length of oak with no knots. It is rough now from running the boat onto the sandy shore, time and again, like Mom told us not to. In ways both constructive and destructive, this craft was a family work of art.</div><div><br />The breeze bends long grasses and pushes ripples against the shore but the canoe continues its vigil with the patience of an elder. No one is immune to the ravages of age, not even Mahn-go-taysee. Upon the completion of her restoration in 1985 my dad wrote, “My modest assessment is that it is absolutely gorgeous!” Now deepening cracks cause mildew-edged canvas to peel from her gunwales—but inside, bathed in the spirit of the loon-hearted brave who revived her, resilient ribs have clung to both strength and beauty.</div><div><br />A motor starts, a dog barks in the distance. Beside Mahn-go-taysee, I watch as out on the lake a child or perhaps a renter flails oars, sending a rowboat into a spasmodic circle. I smile; they too will learn. I pat the canoe, soon to earn temporary respite from such training sessions.</div><div><br />One day we will restore her. Even Trout Lakers who’ve traded in double-seater outhouses for indoor plumbing understand the importance of clinging to some aspects of bygone eras. And I am one of Jack Graham’s children: if what stands between one of us and something we find meaningful is simply the acquisition of new skills, the scraping together of elusive funds, and monumental effort over an indeterminate stretch of time, why not go for it?</div><div><br />But before sending her to her well-earned rest, unable to resist the way she is stretched before me, soaking up the sun and the view as my father himself so loved to do, I slip my arms around Mahn-go-taysee and lay my cheek one last time against what warmth remains on her flawed, beloved surface.<br /></div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVStowTwqogmnm0iVId44_2MdLgttknvHejgTVKjk_H-tRf65AOkpENSwrTyJRZMdsv1y_Y6tv8hHWCu5TyhDdEz3BloYs4dPq6i3Jx3O8B68rwSTLt3zockhgd6tWMRlHcttNruleLQl/s1600/family.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVStowTwqogmnm0iVId44_2MdLgttknvHejgTVKjk_H-tRf65AOkpENSwrTyJRZMdsv1y_Y6tv8hHWCu5TyhDdEz3BloYs4dPq6i3Jx3O8B68rwSTLt3zockhgd6tWMRlHcttNruleLQl/s1600/family.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVStowTwqogmnm0iVId44_2MdLgttknvHejgTVKjk_H-tRf65AOkpENSwrTyJRZMdsv1y_Y6tv8hHWCu5TyhDdEz3BloYs4dPq6i3Jx3O8B68rwSTLt3zockhgd6tWMRlHcttNruleLQl/s400/family.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632555464211009826" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My new, smaller family</span></b></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-76766215112047609402011-06-14T11:13:00.004-04:002011-06-14T12:22:59.257-04:00Men watching<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8NDMjH7YOmP8xVGiBgLqMjjpa5GyENtguX3ebzwsPImgROsFlJYFsJ9T-T4U7uAlSRwDxRb0S69TuidPkk-NJyUL50dO2b4r5dxY6N4LPdTL5UeZPVdTz9KEHEv6TdXcd6T6a4wwQ6LD/s1600/YoungDad2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 347px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8NDMjH7YOmP8xVGiBgLqMjjpa5GyENtguX3ebzwsPImgROsFlJYFsJ9T-T4U7uAlSRwDxRb0S69TuidPkk-NJyUL50dO2b4r5dxY6N4LPdTL5UeZPVdTz9KEHEv6TdXcd6T6a4wwQ6LD/s400/YoungDad2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618111581745514018" /></a><br />Okay ladies, truth time: if you saw this handsome dude in the mall you'd look twice, wouldn't you?<br /><p class="MsoNormal">I'm lucky. I was watching him my whole life.</p><p class="MsoNormal">This is my father, before I ever knew him. He passed away on April 27 and I haven't posted since then. Even dedicated writers experience seasons: a time to record their lives, and a time to set down their pens and immerse themselves so fully that they might live something worth writing about. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I could have written sooner of the shock when I got to the hospital and heard my mother, so small in the waiting room, say, “He didn’t make it.” I could have written of the panic urging me to connect with the only sister within striking distance—“Can you leave work? Come to the ER right now”—so she might witness with us the cooling evidence of this loss. I could have written of the way the chaplain tugged at the wedding band ensconced on my dad's hand ever since my mother placed it there sixty years ago, and the way that struggle left my dad’s fourth finger lying unnaturally straight, never to curve again alongside his others.</p><br />But these are observations, and since what I seek on this blog is perspective, I had to wait until I gained some. And this is what I keep coming back to: the differences between my first husband and my father. <div><br /></div><div>I’ve written about Ron a lot on this blog, because for fifteen years I watched him as well. In choosing death, he taught me a lot about life. Because he was fourteen years older than I, one could posit that I sought in my first husband a father substitute, and one might be right [I totally wrote that sentence in my Dad’s voice]. Ron was the hugger my father wasn’t, giving freely the affection I sought to earn from my father. But both men were aloof, and unpracticed in sharing their inner emotional lives. What I learned from them both I learned by processing my observations.</div><div><br /></div><div>But unlike my father, Ron was overwhelmed by life’s challenges and possibilities, and he committed suicide at just about the same age my dad was when he faced off against the first of many life-threatening illnesses: cancer, encapsulated on a kidney he would lose. He didn’t need it—spirit would fill in what the body couldn’t provide. My dad would continue to fight for his life for the next thirty years, pummeling into remission two more kinds of cancer. During those years he would have and enjoy all of his eight grandchildren.<br /><br />By the time his first grandson was born—my son Jackson—my father was already well into a string of heart attacks that would lead to angioplasties and stents and quintuple bypass surgery. So worried was I for his life that when Jackson and I left the hospital in 1987 we went straight to another: Ron drove us from our room downtown to my dad's in another section of the city. I wanted to show Dad his first grandson...just in case.<br /><br />My dad would live beyond Jackson’s college graduation because time and again he reached death's threshold and bounced off. When my mom called that last morning of my father's life to say he’d had a massive heart attack and that the ambulance had just left, I didn’t know what to expect. I grabbed the living will and power of attorney, dutifully, but also his med list. How many times had I driven the hour to get there to find him holding court in the emergency room, greeting my arrival with a hearty, “Well hello, Kathryn. What are you doing here?” On that final drive, until I would observe for the last time his silent, unmoving face, I held all possibilities aloft.<br /><br />These past few years my dad was frustrated by dementia and a tremor that kept him from two of his great loves, reading and painting. Yet still his body continued to carry him proficiently through all his daily tasks, and he accepted the challenge of finding what pleasure he could in life, much of which involved the treasured company of my mother. When his heart seized this time the end was astoundingly complete. He lived to be 86, beyond any doctor's expectations, and there is some small measure of relief in the fact that this brilliant, creative man did not have to suffer any further the ravages and indignities of dementia.<br /><br />Ron’s death at age 54 was also sudden and complete, and offered some measure of relief in a household that had weathered the storm of his psychological torment. We hope he rests with a peace he never knew in life. But the torment that was his continued for those he left behind.<br /><br />My dad, on the other hand, left behind a precious gift: peace. All things must come to an end, we know this, and that includes the life of Jack Graham, fighter pilot, industrial designer, corporate executive, weekend carpenter, artist, writer, devoted husband, father, and grandfather. It was clearly his time to go, and we can rest in this knowledge. Because if it were within his power to stay, he’d be calling to me now from the porch of our camp: “Kathryn, is there any more maple cream?”<br /><br />I licked it from my fingers this morning, Dad, thinking of you. May the toast in heaven be slathered with it.<br /></div>Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5769028919762785741.post-72887991130838472822011-04-25T10:38:00.003-04:002011-04-25T10:44:31.297-04:00Facing Mortality: A challenge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVm6-Gy3SzSLAFtMMOG_ftbAiiVSRfaOl4IPlpsc8B-mJVCjmYHhRyC6eS5ioyEkDwJAoCiLkb3s6JKKKwN75CzhZn0lCYrKsQTtL9S5XXEeAKrzh3XRVHWcGr6bU1y7GOp0pBI-urCfTO/s1600/last-will-testament1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVm6-Gy3SzSLAFtMMOG_ftbAiiVSRfaOl4IPlpsc8B-mJVCjmYHhRyC6eS5ioyEkDwJAoCiLkb3s6JKKKwN75CzhZn0lCYrKsQTtL9S5XXEeAKrzh3XRVHWcGr6bU1y7GOp0pBI-urCfTO/s320/last-will-testament1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599530872768448258" border="0" /></a>Lately, in addition to writing about my past, I’ve been losing weight and getting fit—in many ways, attempting to turn back the clock. Beyond living life to the fullest, I haven’t spent a whole lot of energy preparing for my own death. And why should I? I’m a busy lady. With so many other people expecting things of me, and me expecting so much from myself, how can I work something like that into my schedule? I mean, come on—like many writers, I don’t do anything unless it comes with a deadline.<br /><br />Oops. I guess when it comes to preparing for death we all have a deadline. We just don’t know when it is.<br /><br />You might think I’d be the last person to be caught without the proper documentation when I reach the pearly gates. After all, I’m a writer—how hard can it be to slap together a last will and testament when there are templates to work from? Furthermore, I’m assisting aging parents as they deal with dementia, and have already reaped the benefits of the attention they paid to their advance directives and powers of attorney. My husband’s mother even planned her own funeral, and told Dave she wanted balloons at the party afterward; at his time of grief all he had to do was decide the order in which to sing her chosen hymns.<br /><br />I should have learned this lesson after my first husband’s suicide.<br /><br />For reasons that seemed practical at the time, Ron never added my name to the farmhouse he already owned when we married. We were just starting out our happy lives together; who was thinking about what might happen if Ron died?<br /><br />I found out what happened—as concerns the farmhouse, there was no clear right of succession. You might think property would go to the spouse; after all, I’d cared for it and renovated it and called the place “home” for fifteen years, and raised my children there. The State of Pennsylvania had other thoughts. According to a pre-set formula, the boys and I inherited jointly—and because of that, I entered into a business relationship with my eight- and ten-year-old sons.<br /><br />Ron dying without a will or power of attorney also meant that after his suicide—at a time when I was in deeper shock than at any other time in my life, and my kids needed me more than ever, and I had, literally and figuratively, a huge mess to clean up—I also had to go to the courthouse and get administratrix papers just so I could close our joint bank account or sell our jointly owned cars.<br /><br />I did move forward with a will in those first years after Ron’s death, but in a test of resolve that I failed, when I went to sign it, the lawyer’s computer had crashed and she’d lost it. I could not scrape together the energy to do it again…and now it’s more than a decade later.<br /><br />So it was with great interest I attended a recent series of programs at my church on preparing for the end of life. It was quite well attended—I wasn’t the only one who had put this issue off, and it seemed we all needed to hear the message one more time.<br /><br />Yesterday, with both sons sitting around the table after Easter dinner, we talked about my will, how I planned to handle things, and what their wishes might be as concerns a few business details. I’m finally going to tend to this.<br /><br />I have no more time or disposable income than I have had any other week in the past ten years, but I’m going to do this because that church series reminded me of something I’d already known: such preparations are both responsible and a huge gift. Acting on this knowledge is long overdue. I love my children, and should I predecease them, I want my passing to be a time of reflection and remembered joy and allowable grieving, unsullied by legal hassle. And should I linger, I want them to be clear on what I believe is a viable living state so they can make decisions not associated with inner turmoil.<br /><br />I can help them with that, and I will. My appointment is at 10 a.m., May 2. How about you: are you prepared for your own demise?Kathryn Crafthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08371458857187160425noreply@blogger.com11