Dr. Chris

I won’t be seeing my friend, Dr. Chris, today.  Business just got too slow and the rent too high, so he had to close his doors.  For three years I’ve seen him at least three times a week, for several hours at a time.  Technically he’s a chiropractor, but for me he’s been so much more than that.  When I first arrived in his office, referred by a friend and desperate, I could barely get myself onto one of his tables so he could work on me.  I’d had a bulging disc that I’d been working on with a physical therapist, but I thought I could heal even more if I had chiropractic help as well.  I went to someone with a good reputation.  I was interviewed by one person and treated by another.  My theory is that communication went awry because with one aggressive move, that chiropractor turned my bulging disc into a herniated one.  Once the jelly is out of the doughnut, there’s no putting it back.  I could barely walk.  Keith would take me from home to school so I could teach, and then cart me back so I could get horizontal on our firm sofa.  If I moved suddenly it would feel like someone was stabbing me in the leg with a knife.  I went, in under a second, from being able-bodied to being permanently disabled.

I wasn’t very trusting after that.  Western medicine offered me the choice of cortisone injections into my spine until the cortisone would begin to degrade my spinal tissue, or permanent medication that had a list of horrific side-effects.  I tried the cortisone twice but it hurt like hell, had minimal productive effect, and caused my heart to race for days.  I tried acupuncture.  I think it helped a bit.  I tried sound wave therapy.  I don’t know if that helped or not.  My last traditional treatment option was to fuse my discs together, and my physical therapist did not recommend it.  He said that over time the fact that two discs were in an unnatural position would affect the discs above and below causing an eventual cascading failure.  Finally a trusted friend recommended Dr. Chris.

Chris Abrahamson is a tall, fatherly Swede, and the most gentle man I have ever met.  His prices were ridiculously reasonable and I immediately felt safe with him in spite of myself, so I decided to give it a shot.  The first time on the table, I could barely tell he was doing anything.  He was touching my spine but not with a lot of pressure.  I would have thought he was a fraud except that when I got up I felt a little better.  That was the continuing trend.  I’d go.  He’d be gentle.  I wouldn’t know why but I’d feel better.  Continuing treatment is necessary for maintenance and there’s never going to be yoga, running or any high impact activity in my future, but I can get around pretty darned well these days.  He is everything a chiropractor or any kind of doctor should be.  But here’s the thing, he’s more than that.

Chris is a genuine healer.  His calming presence is soothing to everyone who has come into his office.  I’ve watched it happen.  People are full of anxiety and stress, and when they leave they are relaxed and smiling.  Personally, I have an anxiety disorder.  I can have my heart racing when I’m thinking about flowers.  Part of the reason I went to see him so often was because when I went, it calmed me, even on really hard days.  I also have a hard time expressing how I feel, and so I carry a lot of my feelings in my physical body.  It’s weird, I know, but it’s true.  There were times when no one else was there and he would lay his big open palm on my shoulder or stomach and I would start to bawl my eyes out.  It didn’t bother him.  He’d just sit on a stool at the head of my table, his hand on my shoulder, saying oh so quietly, “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”  He’d hand me Kleenex and then when I sat up he’d sit next to me and I’d finish crying on his shoulder.  He always had a twinkle in his eye and when I was depressed he could always make me laugh.

Once Keith was out of town and I was at home and accidentally grabbed the handle of a skillet that had just come out of a 450 degree oven.  I could hear my fingers sizzle.  I was in so much pain and had no idea what to do because ice made my pain go through the roof, and all I could remember were old wives tales about burns.  With my remaining functional hand I texted him at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and he texted right back, “No ice!  Use a bowl of cool water!”  I did so and texted a couple more questions.   Then I tried to leave him alone.  Pretty soon I got an incoming text.  He was checking on me to make sure I  was okay.

When I needed emergency surgery he came and visited me in the hospital even though he hates hospitals.  He held my hand and got teary-eyed because it was right after surgery and I was a mess.  He really, truly cared about me.  It was so appropriate and so extraordinary to have a doctor as a father figure caring for my emotions as well as my body.  Maybe because it was another chiropractor who hurt me, after a while he only charged what I had on my HSA.  The way he treated me changed the way I view God because it changed the way I view men and fathers.  And I know I’m not the only one who has been utterly blessed to know this man and be helped by him.

Monetarily some may look at his life and think it small.  They would be wrong.  I have never met anyone who gave so much to so many, expecting so little in return.  This is, in my opinion, the definition of a powerful, meaningful, important life.  Without him and his generosity there would be so much more suffering in the world.

His life has become an example of true success to me.  Even if I don’t make a lot of money I want people at the end of my life to say that I made every bit of difference that I could, loving people and the creatures of the world to the best of my ability.  I may not be a healer in the traditional sense, but I can be a lover of all through my research, my art, my words, and my actions.  I will sometimes fail, but I will keep recommitting to love because those with the most beautiful lives I’ve seen, like Dr. Chris, have done the same.  Hopefully we’ll go out once in a while for tea because man, I’m going to miss that guy.

17 Days

17 DAYS

A good number of years ago now my mother was closing in on her 28th hour of labor after having waited an extra three weeks for me to arrive, and exemplifying to women everywhere the reasons for contraception.  By all accounts it was a miserable experience, followed by another six months dealing with a colicky baby.  I don’t know why they were surprised when I did not have children.  I know, of course, that women say it’s worth it and I fully acknowledge the wonder of new life.  However, enough time has passed that I think it’s safe to say my own life is no longer new.  At this point I’ve earned a graduate degree, had a couple major organs removed, gotten the requisite glasses for old people, and obtained a major back injury.  I have sleeping problems, waking problems, mental health issues, marital issues, and a potential bunion.  This part of getting older is not fun, and I think it’s the discomfort that drives most people to either go into denial or reach a phase or two of reflection, pondering the meaning of it all.

This spring my husband has actually named something for me that has resurrected from my childhood.  Because of the earlier mentioned back injury I’m no longer able to run.  This has led to a necessary reconciliation to the idea of walking as exercise.  Imagine me sighing.  I just did.  It never counted as exercise before.  It was for other people who didn’t have the desire to push through the pain, sweat in the rain and grit their teeth so that their brains would stop spinning and they could be purely physical.  That’s what running was for me.  It’s taken me a good couple of years to accept the slow path.  My brain keeps pumping away at thoughts.  That is, it spins its usual frenetic cycles until I see something beautiful.  Flowers have begun to stop me in my tracks.  I pull out my trusty iPhone, decide not to care about appearances, crouch in whatever position is necessary and capture the riveting bloom to some degree of satisfaction.  Sometimes I concede and realize I cannot do it justice, and sometimes I am doggone proud of my unskilled photography.  It is always a life-giving moment.

Keith caught me at it because he was going to pick me up from my usual walk route from our condo one day.  He has me on the creepy Find-a-Friend app without which we’d never be able to find each other.  He watched me leave the condo and within two blocks he saw the little blue dot that was me hovering for several minutes at a corner, unmoving.  He decided to go around the block a few times to give me a little more walking time.  I soon proceeded down some stairs, around a corner, down another block, and then stopped again, hovering like a hummingbird sipping nectar.  He caught up with me at our favorite neighborhood garden.  He smiled and said, “It’s just like when you were in kindergarten.”

Oh my God!  I hadn’t put that together!  I was late 17 times for the first half of kindergarten even though it was only three blocks from my house.  It was the only thing besides daydreaming that ever merited a note to my parents.  I wasn’t late because I didn’t want to go to school.  I was late because I was enraptured by everything along my path.  I didn’t want to study like a scientist, either. I wanted to discover and love.  I longed for the fuzzy caterpillars to crawl down my index finger and wave their searching antennae in the open air.  I wanted to study the pattern in the veins of the leaves.  I wanted to gently prod the pill bugs so they’d roll up in their delightful balls and I wanted to marvel at the colors and patterns of the flowers.  All I remember about kindergarten itself is an empty hall full of coats, scarves and snow boots.  Those 17 days though, I remember really well.

It’s been a while.  Now I’m teaching interior design, and since hearing William McDonough speak at a conference I have become compelled to research issues around environmental care.  I’ve incorporated it into every class from space planning to materials for interior use, to design history and now a course that I am proud to say expands my reach to the fashion program.  I have a wider audience with my textiles class, and I love it.  I want to spread news of how things are being created and manufactured in the world, what we’re using and where it ends up at the end of its life.  I am a fountain of horrifying information regarding the chemicals that we use with utter disregard for human health.  It makes me really fun at parties.  But there’s a link here, and I haven’t shifted from delight to what might be considered politics just to make my readers miserable.  It really goes back to those 17 days.  My whole life goes back to those 17 days.

In those 17 days, for which I was roundly punished, I developed a profound love affair with the natural world.  My heart filled with so much love that now, decades later, I walk down the sidewalk to my university office and quietly whisper “I love you” to the frenetic squirrels, wispy ferns and majestic trees.  I love nature so much it hurts, and I mean that in a physical way.  When I learn of the latest environmental catastrophe my chest aches and there is nothing that will soothe it.  Does this mean I don’t care about humans?  Of course not!  How in the world are humans supposed to live healthy lives without abundant access to clean water, soil and air?  The concepts of care for nature and care for humans are inextricably intertwined.  My students will tell you, at least by their senior years, that I’m ridiculously soft-hearted.  I have to tell them at the front end of each quarter that just because I’m nice, it doesn’t mean I have low academic standards.  I’m nice and I write extremely difficult exams out of love, because I want them to be prepared for the world.

Basically though, I’m a mush-ball of affection, and this world is hard on people like me.  The hardest part of getting older for me (besides those missing organs) is the increasing knowledge of how much we humans are causing suffering on multiple levels everywhere I look.  Knowledge is a hard thing for a soft heart to bear, which actually means I am one tough mother.  It takes guts to stay soft and know what I know.

So here’s my resolve as I move forward.  I’m embracing the love of my inner kindergartener.  I’m determining to stay soft while I keep daring to learn more.  That’s the impetus behind my application for doctoral programs this spring.  I am willing to bear the pain if it means I have a better platform for speaking a little bit louder, having more credentials so I can publish and maybe even reach the people who mistakenly believe that caring for the environment means leaving humanity behind.  If I have to bear this pain, I am going to make it mean something.  I need to be part of creating change in our manufacturing systems so that kindergarteners everywhere have the ability to walk out their front doors and experience the wonder of an unspoiled world.  If you’re Christian, nature points to God.  If you’re not, nature points to health.  Caring for it is a win-win for everyone, everywhere and I haven’t even gotten to the related issues around slavery and social justice.  It’s depressing to talk about the startling suicide rates among cotton farmers in India on my birthday.

On this day I’m committing to love and clinging like mad to wonder.  Those flowers that I photograph will keep me alive, along with hugs from friends.  I will soak in the sound of the rain in the trees and continue saying “I love you” as I walk around campus, sometimes to people and sometimes to the chattering squirrels.  There are plenty of people out there, muttering anger and hate.  If muttering love makes me eccentric, so much the better.  I already have the purple hair.

Putting it Out There

It’s been a while.  Hi!  I just posted on my vlog about being vulnerable, so here I go in written form.

I hid in the corner, back then,

so young, so

shamed by being my

self, shaking, feeling

anxious for no reason and so

so

stupid.

You saw me and coaxed me

out as though I were feral,

or as if I were hiding in

a shell somewhere where people

payed money to stare and tap

and wish I were more brave.

You saw me in there and I don’t know

how you did it because I didn’t

know how to be seen or even

what color my sad fins had

joined to become after they

began life as hands.  I

felt loved.  I felt safe

enough to let my 20” deep

aquarium thick glass to keep the

sharks in/out wall

down

and all the water flooding through

the entry.  And it was good.  God.

I miss you so much.  But you

left me full, with fingers and lungs and

the ability to breathe air in the

company of others.

 

2014 Year in Review

I’ve noticed everyone putting together digital photo albums to commemorate the last year. They look great. Really. I’m just not up to doing it. 

Last year I put together Christmas cards with an insert that said “Don’t Ask” instead of my usual, newsy update. I didn’t actually get most of them sent. I guess that’s just something that can happen when a person has had a breakdown during the year.

There are actually quite a few surprises associated with breakdowns, although of course, I’m only familiar with my version. Long after the death wish phase has passed a person can find new evidence of collateral damage. One of the most disturbing things to me is that my handwriting changed. I don’t like this at all. I used to have pretty great architectural lettering, and now I just can’t manage that much control. I’m still taking an insane number of supplements as guided by my naturopath, because so many of my systems are still depleted. Sleep is fickle and problematic. 

On the other hand, I’ve noticed that I have much less tolerance for taking the blame for things. It’s sort of ironic. My breakdown caused me to see the factors that led to it, which in turn resulted in the revelation that I’m a really strong person. Yes, I have real issues that I have to face, but I’m a damn powerhouse to have made it this far. I don’t want to put up with any more of the “it’s all your fault because you’re fucked up, you dear and delicate soul” shit. I have a lot of great insights, both in spite of and because of my experiences. I am full of compassion and loaded with the need to be real. A person never fakes his or her way out of a breakdown. 

How in the hell am I supposed to cram this into a happy little “year in review” album for Facebook?  I don’t have pictures for the times I’ve managed to get out of bed and go to work even when I felt like I couldn’t move. I didn’t take selfies at the doctor’s offices. Not any of them. I didn’t record my voice when I allowed myself to be angry about some injustice in the world. All I have are cat pictures. 

I guess if you’re getting this, it’s my version of a 2014 summary. I was still recovering from the breakdown in 2013 when I got a herniated disc from a bad chiropractor. There was a shooting at my school. I go to a new and gentle chiropractor three times a week, see a therapist and insist on honesty in my relationships. I love my husband and a freakin’ lot of other people. And animals. I love almost all of them. And I can give six hours worth of lessons on environmental issues without looking at my notes. That about sums it up. Maybe next year will involve more images and a  link to a Christmas carol.