The Lonesome Death of Evan Tanner

The question of whether Evan Tanner committed suicide or simply died an absurd death out in the desert was raised almost immediately upon word of his passing. There is no discounting the effect of his difficulties with life -- his substance abuse, his depression, the virtual destruction of his MMA career -- but it is also much too tempting to yield to the weird machismo of a martial artist's taking his own existence and snuffing it out, supposedly in heroic fashion, on his own terms.

The truth is destined to be a casualty. In any event, here is a summation of what is known as of this date, as copied from Wikipedia:

In the second-to-last entry posted on his Spike-TV blog on August 27, Tanner wrote,
"I've been sitting around this apartment, bored to tears, waiting on the last of the gear I need for the desert adventure to come in the mail. I've really been looking forward to getting out there. I've been writing about it a little bit here. It seems some MMA websites have reported on the story, posting up that I might die out in the desert, or that it might be my greatest opponent yet, etc. Come on guys. It's really common down in southern California to go out to the off road recreation areas in the desert about an hour away from LA and San Diego. So my plan is to go out to the desert, do some camping, ride the motorcycle, and shoot some guns. Sounds like a lot of fun to me. A lot of people do it. This isn't a version of Into the Wild. I'm not going out into the desert with a pair of shorts and a bowie knife, to try to live off the land. I'm going fully geared up, and I'm planning on having some fun.

I do plan on going back pretty far, so I did mention in one of my posts that I wanted to make sure to have good quality gear. Any failure of gear out in the desert could cause a problem."[7]

Tanner had recently purchased a dirt bike, and on September 3 he rode into the desert-like region north of Brawley, California to go camping.[8]

According to Tanner's manager John Hayner, Tanner called that afternoon to say that his bike had run out of gas, and that he would accordingly walk back to civilization.[8] [2]

According to the marine search and rescue team who found his body, he was in the desert camping and while trying to return to his camp after hiking to Clapp Springs, he succumbed to elements after he drank all of his water while hiking to anticipated wet springs, only to find them dry.

He waited until nightfall, after calling friends, to attempt a quest back to his campsite where he still had water and a fully fueled motorcycle.

Evan succumbed to the exposure of the elements. He was found 2 miles from his camp after having hiked 5 miles away. Temperatures that day reached 118 degrees Fahrenheit, and friends became concerned and reported Tanner missing after he failed to contact them.[8]

His body was discovered by a Marine helicopter on September 8, and the Imperial County sheriff's office cited heat exposure as a preliminary cause of death.[8]

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It's weird that I got worked up so recently over Tanner's fight with Kendall Grove -- a fight he lost in a split decision. A weird, and *wrong*, decision that scored this way:

29-28 Tanner

30-26 Grove

30-26 Grove

Thirty -- Twenty-six? More and more, I understand the constant vow of fighters to not let anything go to the judges, to not be subject to the whims of a decision.

It was a fight that did more than showcase two fighters in terrible need of redemption within the UFC -- the difference between Kendall Grove and Evan Tanner is rich and deep -- and exemplified by more than just the Mountain Man beard. Grove is a child, and spoiled. Tanner was a fighter/philosopher, and world weary.

Just how world weary is what we are all wondering now.

He beat her senseless

My apologies for not making mention before now -- but La Belle Bianca Castafiore will be de retours from a luxurious vacation early next week. We have missed her around the homestead -- her dulcet tones, her low key and comforting presence.

Yesterday and today have been marked mostly by pain and depression. I am doing the best I can to address each but these bastard symptoms are adroit at feeding off of each other.

Fred ferried me to the Infectious Disease doctor and Infusion Center, then off to see my VIPMD. I have not been keeping track -- but it hit me yesterday how much we are paying for the privilege of parking. It's outrageous.

Riding in the car brings me to tears, and that stresses the Fredster out, particularly as he is doing his best to avoid potholes, uneven streets, and rabid commuters. Having me sob doesn't do much to keep him calm -- and he is the one having to face some of the worst traffic known to motoring-kind.

I abhor others' logic in response to my illogical emotional outbursts. My MDVIP, for example, felt it necessary to point out that I am in much better overall health now that the infection has been "removed." Never mind that I am left with only one useful limb -- in his shortsighted view, I should be happy to be alive.

Harrumph. What a PollyAnna-Man. I might as well be gorked out, put in diapers, and parked in a corner somewhere. It took me five hours of hard work to accomplish the very basic of tasks this morning -- all before the gentry of the manor rose from their slumber, as I don't wish to be pitied, or aided. Just as Fred got up for the day, I was ready to take my first nap, and was, of course, in tears. He must think I do nothing other than weep.

I cannot make you understand.

There was a sweet elderly couple in the waiting room at the doctor's office yesterday. They carried a folded walker, so I am not sure who actually needed it. It seemed to function like a sleek fashion accessory -- the shades pushed up into the hairline, the pink crocodile cowboy boots.

She said, in that quiet, sweet voice that some confused -- but secure -- people adopt: "This is a nice room. I wonder what they use it for." Her husband told her that it was a waiting room and that patients sat there until seeing the doctor. She was clueless about being at the doctor's office but covered well -- laughing, tossing out "of course" after "of course."

A few minutes later, she wondered why she was there, and he told her that she had some sores on her arm that would not heal, and together they looked at those reddened spots of skin. She managed more laughter and the obligatory "of course."

She had beautiful poofy white-white hair, no grey, and swimming blue eyes.

I dreamt that he beat her senseless in the elevator on the way down to the very expensive parking garage.

Experimental Treatment CRPS-1

Forwarded from Jim Broatch, Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome Association (RSDSA): Clinical trial for experimental new treatment for CRPS-I at McGill University Health Centre

Clinical trial for experimental new treatment for CRPS-I at McGill University Health Centre
Investigator:Dr. Mark Ware
MUHC Pain Centre
Montreal General Hospital
Candidate profile:· Over 18 years of age· No kidney or liver disease· No diabetes
Length of trial: 10 weeks maximum
For more information: Please contact the Research Nurse, Sylvie Toupin at (514) 934-1934, ext: 44348

http://rs6.net/tn.jsp?e=001jEj1hqYmc_-tpdQk65GWBWAkHnL5UgPORxCXsPaIbHSPuEFWQswP7BKnuU6Wxa9jZCW0RXD5Lftv7BDk9AsZ0jkSNp-S_vCzSw0P1A53iXuARO0AN1RgC4C3lefrjleFNK825kaLYF7tVEjAPnAnDN6EyHeEcTaF


This E-alert was made possible by the contribution of the members of the Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome Association (RSDSA). To learn more about becoming a member of RSDSA, please click here.

RSDSA Home Page

The Dilaudid Effect

Not exactly dreams, I envision static vignettes wherein figure some of the most important people in my life. I seem to be dreaming staged photographs -- some of Annie Leibovitz quality, most black and white, all extremely legible (no need to wonder about envy, or loss). That these things are drug-induced seems likely, but I am clearly the Editor-in-Chief of content and, perhaps, intent. I am comfortable in the knowledge that there is no schism to me -- at least not anymore, at least not in any way that matters.

My Mother holds a tall blond toddler, standing on a concrete slab of a balcony in Ankara, thin-waisted, pointy breasts, Modigliani-neck, a pale blue linen dress. Her hair is thick and black, wound carefully into a style that defies caricature, that is: timeless. Timeless. That pretty well sums her up -- but not the tall blond toddler. She somehow managed nearly straight blond hair, very, very fine, atop her fearful face with the open eyes, and freckles. My Mother is strong, for the long little girl leans away from her firm body, hands in the air, grabbing, grabbing -- creating some tough torque, a kick in the belly. She told me, I think, that there were airplanes everywhere, that I was reaching out to the sky, that they were dropping leaflets about Kennedy's assassination.

Why? Why would they do such a thing, in Ankara, of all places? A civilized locale, neighbors within a nod, a wave. Why would they drop leaflets in the city, where the sky is much too crowded for competing airplanes? And what could they possibly say that our radio had not?

Still, it is an iconic image, her there, framed by the doors to the tiny balcony, me (long, blond, and ugly) pushing against her to reach for the sky -- which we cannot see, where there may be heroics going on, but likely not. I cannot be quite four yet, which means, obviously, that she hasn't left us, that she is still Mother, still larger than life -- but, as always, concerned with fiction.

There are others, like the glom of my oldest brother onto the cover of Dylan's Nashville Skyline, or my stepsister's bright orange Vega (we were pretending that it was a sportscar... shoot, pretending that it was a *car*!), around which a small crowd is gathered, speechless at her choice. There is the Other-Brother-Unit...

No, that is a lie. There is never the Other-Brother-Unit. He is too precious; He is always gifted, in me, in my mind and heart, with many more chances. He just sort of floats around these stillbirthed dreams of mine, never fixed, often laughing, even through tears.

I guess we all need someone to love and admire while we are awake! And he has a calling card that we are going to obliterate week by week, every Thursday night, ticking off those minutes like small time bombs.

When I told Professor Bersani that I wanted to write about the role of habit in Proust -- he told me that he would not approve the topic, as it had "already been done." I had the flu, it was raining, and the stacks were musty. The essay in question? A mostly self-referential work by Beckett.

"The laws of memory are subject to the more general laws of habit..."

Parkour and Free Running

My brother offers me armchair travel -- one of the few insightful people who recognize the need to get *out* of both this body and this place. He shows me the large and the minute of canyons and flowers perfect in a rocky crack.

The internet is, of course, an incredible gift. I can go, virtually (if, alas, no longer virtuous)anywhere, anytime.

I thought my need for compensatory movement would eventually die out and disappear, and simply rededicated my efforts at mental tennis mimicry... but it becomes less and less satisfying.
Fortunately, I discovered the world of parkour and free running. Sweet relief. A conduit for challenge, joys, and tears. If you've not yet had the pleasure, go check out some of the marvelous videos over at YouTube:

Home

On 25 August, I had surgery to see if my right shoulder prosthesis (one of three -- prostheses, not shoulders) was infected and needed removal. After finding 4 pockets of pus and having the prosthesis fall out of its own accord, I wasn't doing well. So they decided to keep me on the ventilator, hide me in the ICU, and not close the wound. On 29 August, the second surgery was performed with the goal of "washing out" the wound, putting in several drains, and inserting a sorry looking cement spacer impregnated with antibiotics.

My cultures were inadvertently left in the OR overnight, so what organisms were growing became a topic of consternation between my surgeon and his staff and the infectious disease guru and his minions.

I did, however, clearly grow MRSA, and so spent my 10-day stay in isolation. Yellow is a most unbecoming color and Fred found those blue gloves hot and cruel.

My supremely talented orthopedic surgeons are adroit at deflecting my pleas for promises of a new prosthesis in a few months -- they just won't commit. My main orthopod does a bad imitation of a spastic retard when I ask him what my arm movements would be like without a shoulder.

He fails to understand that this would leave me with one functional extremity. He fails to understand, indeed, everyone seems to fail to understand, that I cannot lose any more.

Did you hear me?

I cannot lose any more.

I am on i.v. antibiotics at home -- vancomycin and *bleep* (I cannot remember and don't feel up to rolling into the kitchen). So that is 4 infusions a day for 6 weeks. It is not a big deal -- except insofar as it reminds me of circumstances I'd rather ignore for a bit.

The pain is horrible but I believe the management of it is at the optimum.

(Don't touch that sentence... It was difficult enought to formulate once -- I won't do it again.)

The Friday before surgery, I had an echocardiogram to rule out endocarditis, as I have a bicuspid aortic valve. Thankfully, I came out "clean." Oh, except for the aortic arch aneurysm that is currently measuring at about 4.7 cm. The cardiologist who called and reamed me out for missing a few years of testing was not hesitant to scare me to death.

So there is much on my mind and much that is hurting the body -- the CRPS/RSD, for example, is unbelievably inflamed (my legs have never ever looked/felt this terrible).

Despite getting two units of blood to boost my hemoglobin of 6 -- I am tired and wonder what my H & H is now. My surgeon's admonition of how to go about life until seeing him at the 6 week mark? "Rest and think healing thoughts." What a lovely man, not to mention a talented physician. I don't know if it is technically true, but my heart says that he saved my life.

Well, off I go to try and catch up on some reading in the ether of the blogosphere... Thank you for any stray good thoughts you can label and let loose on my behalf in the coming weeks.

And fun is good

I continue to be graced by TW's photos (and his channeled thoughts) over at American Idyll.

If you

never have,

you should.

These things

are fun,

and fun

is good.

--Dr. Suess

Bianca's Big Mouth or Wetback Entitlements

Mes chers lecteurs, mes lectrices hors comparaison,

Je vous écris à propos d'un petit rien.

Voir: http://prpnurse.blogspot.com/2008/08/entitlement.html

Dégueulasse! Jonathan Swift, a-t-il dû se soumettre à de telles bêtises?

"Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle dans ce miroir..."

Quelle saloperie! Je viens de perdre ma tête, de m'énerver, de me mettre en colère! De quoi s'agit-il? Il s'agit d'une blogueuse impérieuse, pseudo-pseudo, qui voudrait être toutes choses pour tout le monde (eh oui, tout le temps!).

Je me demande... serais-je aussi bouleversée si demain n'était pas demain?

When will they understand that to laugh in the mirror comes only with the well-developed, umm... capacité... la habitude... of seeing oneself? I am fearing the ones without the laugh en face de, in the face of -- the looking glass.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Retired Educator, here. I need La Belle Bianca's grande bouche getting me in trouble today, of all days, like I need a prosthetic shoulder joint or aortic aneurysm fix!

a cup of trouble, anyone?

dear all,

would anyone like to borrow some trouble?

i had my echo at 8:30 this morning. i asked the tech how it looked and she gave me a thumbs up and a "looks good to me." so we go home and i plan to pay some bills, declutter my piles of paper, etc.

ring ring ring.

it is one of the cardiologists. he is talking fast, and i cannot understand the words.

so... my heart is pumping well. i still have my usual aortic regurgitation from my bum aortic valve. and then there was that other thing. oh what was it?

oh yeah! where the aorta attaches to the heart ("the aortic root"), well... it is kind of dilated. like in an aneurism. i become a regular chatty cathy -- i ask if this precludes me having the surgery on monday and he says, no, that will be fine. then he starts to yell at me about how i need to have echos regularly -- that they found this dilation back in 2003. i don't *remember* that! (after i hang up and am talking to a weeping fred, he reminds me -- my cardiologist told us that it wasn't as bad as it looked on the echo -- and that i did NOT need to foillow up with him anymore! fred remembers that vividly.)

anyway, it measures 4.65 centimeters. i ask what needs to be done about it -- and the guy fairly hoots! (he actually was very nice) "major open heart surgery," says he.

well, what kind of symptoms should i be looking out for? and i am getting a chill just typing his response.

"you won't have any symptoms."

as in, it blows, i die. (hence, the weeping fred.)

there must be something extremely wrong with my mental health, this all seems like a great big joke to me! whahaha! what's gonna happen next?

i told fred that this is definitely an incentive to live in the moment.

so -- i guess it is a good thing i don't have hypertension.

whahahahahahahahaha!

love,
prof

Hiatus

Retired Educator here,

I am having surgery Monday to remove an infected shoulder prosthesis. No one was able to tell me whether or not I will have internet access if I bring my computer. The closest intel was "Well, I know that we are a wired hospital because we have these things everywhere!"

Huh. I anticipate major 'puter withdrawal. The distraction would have been nice and I also was looking forward to blogging the patient-side of a hospitalization -- now that I am more familiar with the major gripes let off by medical types, I think it could be an interesting exercise.

Yes, thank you very much, I know that there is nothing preventing me from taking notes, even sketching the pieces out long-hand. I can still do it. Still -- stop trying to solve my problems, you people, you! I need to fuel useless angst -- it serves to crowd out the more dire reality! You're just messing with my Trojan Horse of Denial.

I'll be in the hospital between 5 days and several weeks, according to the surgeon. According to his nurse, I'll be there 3 days. I'm thinking she probably knows best. They will put in a cement spacer that is laced with antibiotic -- after a "few months" that can be replaced with a new prosthesis. I'll also get i.v. antibiotics through a PICC line. My orthopedic surgeon, however, seems intent on depressing me further by saying, and saying again, that I could end up "without a shoulder joint." There is nothing someone who is already a geeky gimp stuck in a wheelchair wants to hear more! Excuse me while I panic.

I couldn't even get him to give me odds. That's low, when someone won't even give you odds.

If Dr. Seuss had written for ER

by Brent Fogel

Kerry: Now Mark, I think this ER's great,But...there are problems that can't wait!Now Benton's fine, and Carter too,But Ross and Susan just won't do!Now who do you think that we should hire,Since both of them today I'll fire?

Mark: Kerry, maybe we should wait and see...

Kerry: That's great Mark! I knew you would agree...

Jerry: Dr. Weaver? Sorry to interrupt...But the paramedics just pulled up.

Mark: Ok, I'm here. What have you got?

Shep: This little boy has just been shot!His pulse is faint, his breath is weak.We did all we could to stop the leak.

Riley: And this woman here, she has a broken hip...

Carol: How did she fall? How did she trip?

Shep: The kid's mom was getting in my hair,So I shoved her--lightly--down some stairs.

Mark: Benton, Kerry! Take the mom to three!Doug and Susan! Come with me!

Riley: But wait, but wait! Oh don't you see?We've got some more; one, two, and three.

Kerry: You've got three more? How can this be?Explain it, tell it all to me!

Riley: Well, Shep was driving. Really fast.A light turned red. Shep hit the gas.We hit a car, it hit two more.Soon the total rose by four.Another bang! Another crash!But we couldn't stay, we had to dash!We grabbed these three but I am sure,The injured totaled sixty score!

Carter: These people really are a mess!Their injuries I cannot guess!It makes me sick, my knees are weak,A toilet I must soon go seek...

Benton: It's ok Carter! Stay on your toes!It doesn't get worse than this you know!To Trauma four let's take these three.You can do it, come with me!

Green: Ok, let's get this boy on the table.To save his life if we are able!

Haleh: Dr. Green! This boy is cyanotic!I can't find a pulse...oh, wait I've got it!But it is weak! Oh, woe is us!

Doug: Give him saline! IV push! CBC, chem 7, stat!We will save him, bet on that! Oh no, he's showing poor perfusion!Lydia, start a blood tranfusion!

Lydia: But Dr. Ross, I hate to say.The blood bank didn't come today!We're out of blood, I can't believe!

Doug: Here, use mine! (rolls up his sleeve)

Kerry: We need some help! There's been a crash!Someone's heart stopped with a flash!But Dr. Benton saved the day,And Carter's going to be ok.

Susan: What can I do, where can I go?I'm not incompetent you know!I deserve a chance and with good reason,I only killed one guy last season!

Chloe: Hey, Suze? Look! It's me...I doing great...oh, can't you see?I'm back on drugs and feeling woozy,Can you take care of little Susie?

Susan: Not now Chloe! I'm in a panic!

Kerry: Get Susan out, she can't handle it!

Mark: It's fine! It's done, the kid's ok.We're sending him up on his way.To surgery he's off to go,They must sew up that bullet hole.But Dr. Ross, he's out of sorts...We had to take a dozen quarts.

Benton: Ok, we're done. I did it all.I used a double breasted suture saw.I closed them up, I fixed their ills.I patched their wounds, I gave them pills.I have their livers in this sack.I did it all, behind my back.I need more patients, give me more!I just cured three, now give me four!

Carter: What happened? Did I miss it all?I saw some blood. I took a fall.But it doesn't matter, we saved the day!

Carol: Get ready! There's more on the way!

$25,000 ou La Litote

Comment se fait-il qu'en lisant l'article cité ci-dessous, j'ai pensé tout d'abord à Corneille, à cette litote célèbre de sa Chimène?

Qu'est-ce que c'est, une litote?

Selon un certain D. Fontaine: "Affaiblir une expression pour lui donner davantage de force." Supposément une figure de style délicate... ici cela me semble aussi délicat qu'un marteau. "Shoddy care"? $25,000?

"Va, je ne te hais point."

California fines 18 hospitals for shoddy care
Published: 8/19/08, 9:46 AM EDT
By SHAYA TAYEFE MOHAJERLOS ANGELES (AP) - Eighteen hospitals in California were fined for state health code violations in which patients died from various mishaps such as an improperly inserted tube and a ventilator that wasn't turned on. Other violations include surgical tools left inside patients after surgery.

The fines made public Monday stem from investigations by the California Department of Public Health that found shoddy care had either killed or endangered the lives of several patients. The hospitals were each fined $25,000 - the latest of dozens of penalties the state has issued in recent years to more than 40 hospitals.

Kathleen Billingsley, director of the health department's Center for Healthcare Quality [said,] "The entire intent of these fines is to improve the overall quality of care in California."

The report detailed a death at a La Mesa hospital in which a worker failed to turn on a ventilator for a patient who was being transferred....

Today's Diary: The Man on the Train

Retired Educator, here --

I am in an odd place, and by that I do not mean merely living in Tintin-world with a quasi-fictive diva, La Belle Bianca Castafiore, my darling intrepid Fred, and three very wily cats -- always half-stuck in Marlinspike Hall et (ce qui est beaucoup plus important) dans la Tête de Hergé, qui est, d'ailleurs, très décédé.

Quasi-fictive -- what do I mean by "quasi-fictive"? Have you ever heard La Belle Bianca Castafiore belt it out? Do you really have a clue as to how "belle" she is in "ce miroir" -- how captivating is her laugh? No? Then check yourself, my friend, check yourself! The tree, it falls in the forest -- the one hand, it claps.

Since December or January, I have been fighting an infection which translated into daily fevers and sweats, pain and general misery. Since this was an addition to an already difficult mix of SLE, CRPS / RSD, multifocal AVN, and adrenal insufficiency, I haven't been, ummm, well. Finally, my white count fought its way out of the 13,000s and the 15,000s, making its way to the 17,000s -- the platelet count went bonkers -- and so on. In spite of several visits to high-dose-steroid land, the pain and inflammation were not self-limiting or even slightly improved. So I was sent to my favorite orthopedic surgeon to determine whether one of my three joint replacements, or one of my three reconstructed joints, was infected. Yesterday, after managing to finally unearth my gallium scan results, it was declared a fait accompli. The right shoulder is the offender.

So I have been in this weird, strange place of fever and fiction, dread and denial. I am not sure that I can go through the process of losing that prosthesis, being further limited in what I can do. I am already living this vida loca from the perch of my wheelchair.

I maintain a diary and while a part of me knows this is nothing but an intentional confusion, some days, I want the diary to speak on the blog. The interstices, they have always fascinated me, even -- no, *especially*-- in my academic life -- which, I'd best acknowledge, is as dead as Hergé's tête.

Public blithering, always a pleasure. En tout cas, this is what I wrote today, in diaryspeak:


dear diary,

i sat down to purge my soul and instead got hung up thinking about an album by the roches. it must have been one of their first, as most of the songs were written around 1979. ah, yes, it was their first. that LP once felt like the soundtrack for my pretty awesome and full life. with the help of heavy denial, amnesia, hard drugs and heavy metals, it still can!

that was around the time that i both worked 40 hour weekends (...) and had a side gig working nights at a convenience store. the fact that i was also going to school full time ought to be more important but somehow it just sits there like an overweight, exhausted factoid. i was sharing a house with the woman i still call my best friend, all current evidence being, unfortunately, to the contrary. we were a tad bit wild, so it is safe to say that my approximate 60 hours of work a week plus my 21 semester hours probably saved my sorry ass. it turned out that she wasn’t actually *enrolled* in school – she had dropped out and was spending most of her time waging war against corporate america (she is iranienne). [ha! neither assertion complements the other! what a hoot that i had a moment of thinking the one danced with the other!] still, we managed to meet up most weekday afternoons in the foreign language department lounge – i thought we were meeting after classes! in reality, who knows what she had been doing all day beyond passing bad checks to buy such household staples as cognac and fresh flowers.

not terribly domestic (or domesticated), she was famous for waxing and polishing the twisting wooden staircase to our second floor. i was well-known for almost breaking my neck upon said stairs.

she saved my convenience store job on several occasions. perhaps it was due to a slow build up of fatigue, perhaps i just really hated that job, but i developed a serious pathological aversion to the task of cleaning, straightening, and filling the cooler section of the store. it was cold, it was creepy – when you are the only one there and it is 2 am – everything is creepy! i began to leave it a sad mess, as my dedicated manager quickly noted. few things escaped her jaundiced alcoholic eye, except the occasional bank deposit bag that she tended to leave on the hood of her car.

romy began driving over and doing the cooler part of the job for me! bless her sweet bones! the real gift was one of company. i betrayed little of the fear that some nights obsessed me. after an incident that ended with me chasing away four or five guys intent on robbery (don’t ask. to this day i don’t know what possessed me! i was so angry that they would even *think* of robbing “my” store. harrumph.) – i was happy for her company. if my manager had ever come in... ah, but did i mention her jaundiced alcoholic eye? i could easily just have cued romy to switch off the back cooler lights and waited her out – luckily we never had to do that.

we did, one night, have to escape two idiot guys (sum doods) who were not stellar citizens. they wanted admission to the store of Convenient Wonders, but i had closed. romy and i headed for the pristine 1965 baby blue cadillac that was to serve as our cushy ride home -- only to find a flat tire.

lucky us, we had the two yahoos to change it. they were three sheets to the wind (someone tell me of that phrase's origin.) but still focused enough to realize that they had two pretty girls, and that one of them was kinda foreign looking. small detail... this was during the “hostage crisis” in iran. romy did not advertise her background, her home. relatives and friends of hers in the states had been attacked, and calumnied.

so our sum doods played twenty questions and by the end, we had them convinced that romy was CUBAN. they had a brief offer of persian, but did not seem to understand the term, and kept arguing that she looked like an “island girl,” and the island heavy on their little minds was cuba, and only cuba. to keep them happy, we interspersed some spanish in our witty conversation, encouraging them to “andale, andale, ariba!” with that there tire change.

if my memory does not fail me, little miss anti-everything actually worked in the cotton fields for one or two weeks that same summer. it was a magical summer of possibilities – we were at an age where we successfully confounded world fears with dastardly daring, panache, and other-funkily-worded grand attitudes. it would take me many pages to write enough that the sexual energy of that time could be distilled into the one, or two, right words. Quelquefois, il n'y a pas de mots justes.

anyway... the jobs! the hot, sweaty, elevating and demeaning, safe and dangerous work – comingling with our existential confusions, and our out-and-out joy in living. my mind goes to the roches’ plaintive mr. sellack:

Mr. Sellack
( Words & Music by Terre Roche )

O Mr Sellack
Can I have my job back?
I've run out of money again.
Last time I saw ya
I was singing Hallelujah
I'm so glad to be leavin' this restaurant.

Now the only thing I want
Is to have my old job back again.
I'll clean the tables;
I'll do the creams;
I'll get down on my knees and scrub
behind the steam table.

O Mr. Sellack
I didn't think I'd be back.
I worked here last year
Remember?
I came when Annie
Was going on vacation
And I stayed on almost till December.

Now the only thing I want
Is to have my old job back again.
I won't be nasty to customers no more.
When they send their burger back
I'll tell them thatI'm sorry.

Waiting tables ain't that bad.
Since I've seen you last,
I've waitedfor some things that you would not believe
To come true.

Give me a broom and I'll sweep my way to heaven.
Give me a job;
You name it.
Let the other forty-million three-hundred and seven
People who want to get famous.

Now the only thing I want
Is to have that old job back again.
I'll clean the tables;
I'll do the creams;
I'll get down on my knees and scrub
behind the steam table.

**************************
i won’t drive you all crazy with my demented trip down memory lane with the roches... i actually did not start with mr. sellack – no, i began with a pity party driven by the refrain of i am trying not to have a bad day...

it was another night of not sleeping, of actually fighting my way through some kind of dense, heavy fog of fatigue – hearing myself begin to snore, trying to relax and go with it – but twitching back to wakefulness – afraid of sleeping? it was hot because my fever would not *quite* break and i alternated between sweating and burning dry, and because our demented cat marmy has decided to literally stick to me.

and i came into today ungrateful, full of dramatic suffering. i also had to contend with more cat piss – but that doesn’t fit the heroic theme of my wounded travails... thank god fred was sleeping... it gave me time to get over myself somewhat.

as a result of the beginning of this rapid prednisone taper, i was hit with major gastro-intestinal upset and backache, plus a headache. i don’t *do* headaches very well. i also fear addisonian crises -- having had three of them when fighting infections in the past. you've no idea how stupid it feels to completely forget about your adrenal insufficiency and end up in a crisis.

so i started trying to clean up my pitiable pity-party – and into my feeble head sauntered the roches... and the train.

The Train
(Words & Music by Suzzy Roche)

I sit down on the train

with my big pocketbook

the guitar and a sugar-free drink

I wipe the sweat off of my brow

with the side of my arm

and take off all that I can

I am trying not to have a bad day

everybody knows the way that is

Even though my baggage and I

are using up a two person seat

I'm not trying to be funny

but the guy who sits down next to me

is even bigger than that

we are overflowing out of the seat

I can't look at him

he doesn't look at me....

My face is pressed upagainst the window

and through it I can see

the reflection of the train

I spy on the big guy

sitting next to me

he's drinking two beers

and reading the New York Post

trying not to get in my way

everybody knows the kind of day that is

He is miserable

I am miserable

we are miserable

can't we have a party

would he rather have a party

after all we have to sit here

and he's even drinking a beer

I want to ask him what's his name

but I can't cause I'm so afraid

of the man on the train
****************
it has become my pity-party theme song. we’re all of us screwed up and scared, why can’t we turn and share all that we know we share?

because we are all so damned afraid of the man on the train.

love,
retired educator

American Idyll: We Continue our Journey

(la photo, elle vient du photographe tw qui dirige un blog qui s'appelle American Idyll)

It is necessary that to you I whisper. It is perhaps possible that you alone do not know of my deep sorrowful suffering with the mal de tête terrible. Yes, my adoring public, moi, I am a migraineuse. After all of the médicaments and the careful avoiding of the light and of the sound, it is an addition good to look at the pictures merveilleuses of this place the Américains call so correctement the Grand Canyon. This blog, it is become my blog the most favorite when La Belle Bianca Castafiore, moi, or I am in the pain très profond or I am not making the sleep. Quelquefois, simply the looking at is a cure.

Pain and Oversize Pink Frames

Oversize Pink Frames by Linda Farrow for Luxe
PRICE: $525
AVAILABLE AT: Aloha Rag
505 Greenwich St.
Soho
212-925-0882

Retired Educator, here. La Belle Bianca Castafiore? Wouldn't you know that she is a migraineur (proprement dit: migraineuse)? And so it is hand-to-forehead, sigh-then-moan, a red-lipped pucker (Chanel Rouge Hydrabase Creme Lipstick in Red N°5) and these big old pink-framed dark glasses, all topped with that blessed paisley turban that announces her migraines like a neon sign. Quel douleur, quel désespoir profond, quelle souffrance! Néanmoins, je ne peux pas la convaincre qu'elle serait infiniment plus heureuse dans sa propre chambre! I cannot convince her to retire to her well-appointed, restful, easily darkened room that just happens to be at the opposite end of our cozy Marlinspike Hall. No, she prefers to suffer in plain view.

I find myself humming quite a different version of her favorite refrain:
"Je ris de la voir si souffrante dans ce manoir!"

In the midst of this mini-petit-micro pain crisis, I checked my correspondance to find the sainted Jim Broatch calmly at work, connecting people with CRPS / RSD to all kinds of possibilities out in the world. It is so easy to lose oneself with this disease -- not just by deciding to saw off one's arm one Saturday afternoon -- but by losing social interaction. As hard as it is to leave a protected environment and risk being jostled, pushed, stepped on, or -- my personal favorites -- slapped on the shoulder or given that well-meaning warm hug by the requisite Church Lady, we have to go out there or totally give in to a life of pain, spasms, contractures, and depression. So God bless Jim and his talented minions for their constant assault on our laziness and fear!

Here is the latest e-alert with details about a recruiting study -- one of the few I have seen that explicitly includes those of us with CRPS Type 2. I was starting to get an inferiority complex and I think we can all agree that I don't need another complex...


Study Currently Recruiting: Neurotropin to Treat Acute Dental and Chronic Neural Pain

Neurotropin to Treat Acute Dental and Chronic Neural PainSponsored by the National Institute of Dental and Craniofacial Research (NIDCR)

Purpose: This study will examine the effectiveness of the drug neurotropin in treating acute pain after tooth extraction and chronic pain after injury to a limb or a large nerve.

Individuals who meet the following criteria should apply:

Three groups of patients will participate in this study: 1) dental patients undergoing removal of impacted third molars (wisdom teeth); 2) patients with chronic regional pain syndrome type 1, or CRPS-I (also called reflex sympathetic dystrophy); and 3) patients with chronic regional pain syndrome type 2, or CRPS-II. CRPS-I is pain that develops after relatively minor injury to an arm or leg, but lasts much longer and is much more severe than would normally be expected. CRPS-II is pain resulting from injury to a large nerve.

Candidates will have a history and physical examination, blood tests, electrocardiogram and, for dental patients, oral examination and dental X-rays to confirm the need for third molar extraction.

Participants will undergo the following tests and procedures:

Patients with CRPS I and II will receive an individualized regimen of physical therapy and standard treatment to control their pain. In addition, they will receive neutropin or placebo tablets for 5 weeks, then no trial medicine for at least 1 week, and then the other trial drug for the next 5 weeks. That is, patients who took placebo the first 5 weeks will take neutropin the second 5 weeks and vice versa. Neither the patients nor the doctors will know who received which drug during the two intervals until the study is over.

Patients will complete questionnaires about their pain, quality of life, and ability to perform daily living activities. They will have various tests to measure pain (such as sensitivity to heat and cold, to an electric current, to a mild pin prick, etc.); to provide information about changes in their condition (such as tests of range of motion of joints and limb size); to measure blood circulation and sweating in the arm or leg (such as measurements of blood flow to the limb, skin temperature, and sweat production), and other procedures.

Contact:
National Institute of Dental And Craniofacial Research (NIDCR)
9000 Rockville Pike
Bethesda, Maryland 20892 United States

Patient Recruitment and Public Liaison Office1-800-411-1222 TTY 1-866-411-1010 prpl@mail.cc.nih.gov

http://www.rsds.org/3/research/neurotropin_research.html

This E-alert was made possible by the contribution of the members of the Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome Association (RSDSA). To learn more about becoming a member of RSDSA, please click here.