Saturday, October 12, 2013
Unbalanced.
I have terrible balance. I have trouble standing on both feet in my back yard and looking up to see the stars. I sway like a palm tree in trade winds. I cannot stand on one foot for any reason without holding on to something.
I fall a lot -- a few years ago I somehow stubbed a toe on the hallway carpet and pretty much folded my foot in half and then fell on it. I broke nine bones.
I have fallen walking up stairs as well as going down. I have baptized myself with soda as I fell with a drink in my hand. I've had to quit wearing any kind of high heel because my ankles bend so easily that it's guaranteed I will fall.
I fell in the waiting room of a doctor's office when I got up after my name was called. That got me some spectacular bruises and some very worried doctors who were afraid I would sue them.
Over the years I have learned how to fall, and how to survive the aftermath.
It's a matter of perspective. I could feel sorry for myself and have a pity party because my balance is shot and my weakened joints makes falling a regular occurrence, or I can laugh about how ridiculous I look.
Case in point: I used to cover all the entertainment events at the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum. It's a beautiful place loaded with western art, a Rodeo Hall of Fame, the Hall of Great Western Performers and a lovely area full of memorabilia from movie and TV Westerns.
John Wayne is well represented there, as is Jimmy Stewart, Glenn Ford, James Arness and modern actors like David, Keith and Robert Carradine, James Garner, Ernest Borgnine, Tommy Lee Jones and Tom Selleck.
Every year actors get added to that list when the museum has its Wrangler Awards. They're given for literature, music, movies, TV shows and mini-series as well as the men and women who own and run ranches throughout the West.
It's a two-day event. The first night is a meet and greet cocktail party so the honorees can mingle with museum patrons who bought tickets. The second night is a formal dinner where the statues are presented.
Cowboy hats and boots are worn with tuxedos while the ladies put on their red carpet-worthy gowns and their good jewelry.
Before the dinner the media gets a chance to interview all the award recipients in a VIP room. Cameras of all sorts are set up, notebooks are out and notes taken. The media also gets to dress for this night, including me.
One year I was wearing a sapphire blue, floor length strapless gown when I caught the hem of my dress on the tip of my shoe.
Down I went, flat on my face. It was one of those horrible moments when all talking ceases and everyone, movie stars included, had their eyes on the woman flat on the floor.
It was totally humiliating, but in that split second I knew everything depended on my reaction-- kind of like when a toddler falls down and looks around to see whether he needs to cry or just get up and keep toddling.
I decided to get up and laugh if off. Thank heaven, nothing was hurt but my pride and when I started laughing, everyone continued their conversations and my husband and an actor helped me back on my feet.
The saving grace for me was that Mr. Selleck wasn't in the room. I had just regained my footing when he walked in and I promptly walked over to him and started asking him questions about the project that garnered him a Wrangler.
I also counted my blessings that nothing popped out of the top of the gown. The dress fit so well that nothing moved.
Several years earlier the late Charlton Heston was being honored and I caught him as he and his wife entered the museum.
I promised the legendary actor that if would give me about 10 minutes right then I wouldn't bother him the rest of the event and he kindly obliged.
I set my drink down by my right shoe and started asking questions. He was nice and gave me some great material to include in my main story. I have to admit I was pretty much star struck to be standing a foot away from the man who played Moses and Ben Hur.
As we wound up our interview I was thanking him for his time when he interrupted me to remind me my drink was very close to my shoe.
I was so grateful. I know had he not pointed it out I would have knocked over the drink and the probably slipped on the slick floor.
I miss covering those galas because over the years I became friends with several actors who attended, and once got to save one of them by creating cuff links using silver conchos and leather strips.
Barry Corbin (probably best know as the astronaut in "Northern Exposure" was backstage panicking because he had forgotten to bring any cuff links and his shirt had French cuffs.
The conchos and leather strips had been used as napkin rings and I was able to fashion what turned out to be a great set with a little ingenuity and I made a friend in the process.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Sandi rants about addicts/sent
I have worked for years to appear to be a pretty calm person. Mostly I succeed but there is one subject that will set me off like a cruise missile.
I started treating my arthritis with aspirin, yes, plain ole aspirin, in the 1970s. It took decades for me to start taking any pain medications that were addictive, and I did my homework.
I know when you take a narcotic for its intended purpose it works to stop the pain. That's it. Yes, there are side effects but not the ones people expect. I don't get high.
This is where I get angry.
I know many people who get high on various plants and other illegal substances and that is their decision. It's when they start messing around with the drugs I need to get me though the day I get mad.
I'd give about a million bucks to find out what the high is like that a healthy person feels when they take a drug meant for me or someone with a condition that responds to that drug. It must be something else because they have stolen prescriptions from my purse, offered me money for them and when I say no, they found someone to say yes.
They abuse doctors, lie to pain clinics and get the very drugs that so many of us must have to function in any capacity so they can enjoy a few hours of some kind of escape.
Then, when they get caught, they are sorry. They go go rehab and do whatever they do there and most of the time they leave the facility and start right back up.
I would also like to trade bodies with these people so they can feel what I deal with all the time for five minutes. I want them to know that every illegal pill they take makes it that much harder for anyone with chronic pain to get them legally.
I go through the same tests now as someone who abuses drugs. I get random drug screenings that I have to pay for to prove I have those opiates in my system, that I didn't sell them to some person who thinks they need them more than me.
I've had to take my pill bottles in and have the pills counted in my presence to prove that I take them when I'm supposed to, that I don't double up on them or I don't know what.
I know the bottom line is addicts don't really give a flying f*** what I think or how I feel, they just want to be high and are as addicted to them as I am for the pain relief they give.
I live in a state with one of the highest opiate abuse rates in the nation, so I really have to keep my mouth shut in public about what I have and what I take. I can only get a 30 day supply at one time, show my ID when I drop off a script and when I pick it up. The state drug agency now has my name on a list somewhere because I am a regular user.
I've also discovered that my pharmacy has a limit to the those very drugs they can get each month. If I get there after their allocation is gone, I've got to start hitting other pharmacies, hoping they still have enough left for my prescription.
I don't appreciate this, and every time I see a celebrity entering rehab instead of jail for having drugs they shouldn't have, I get angrier.
What can I do? Nothing really. I just wanted to get this off my chest and hope someone who takes drugs because they're fun will look at this and realize those pills weren't made for them, that somewhere someone is writhing in pain because they can't get them.
And I hope they go straight to hell.
I started treating my arthritis with aspirin, yes, plain ole aspirin, in the 1970s. It took decades for me to start taking any pain medications that were addictive, and I did my homework.
I know when you take a narcotic for its intended purpose it works to stop the pain. That's it. Yes, there are side effects but not the ones people expect. I don't get high.
This is where I get angry.
I know many people who get high on various plants and other illegal substances and that is their decision. It's when they start messing around with the drugs I need to get me though the day I get mad.
I'd give about a million bucks to find out what the high is like that a healthy person feels when they take a drug meant for me or someone with a condition that responds to that drug. It must be something else because they have stolen prescriptions from my purse, offered me money for them and when I say no, they found someone to say yes.
They abuse doctors, lie to pain clinics and get the very drugs that so many of us must have to function in any capacity so they can enjoy a few hours of some kind of escape.
Then, when they get caught, they are sorry. They go go rehab and do whatever they do there and most of the time they leave the facility and start right back up.
I would also like to trade bodies with these people so they can feel what I deal with all the time for five minutes. I want them to know that every illegal pill they take makes it that much harder for anyone with chronic pain to get them legally.
I go through the same tests now as someone who abuses drugs. I get random drug screenings that I have to pay for to prove I have those opiates in my system, that I didn't sell them to some person who thinks they need them more than me.
I've had to take my pill bottles in and have the pills counted in my presence to prove that I take them when I'm supposed to, that I don't double up on them or I don't know what.
I know the bottom line is addicts don't really give a flying f*** what I think or how I feel, they just want to be high and are as addicted to them as I am for the pain relief they give.
I live in a state with one of the highest opiate abuse rates in the nation, so I really have to keep my mouth shut in public about what I have and what I take. I can only get a 30 day supply at one time, show my ID when I drop off a script and when I pick it up. The state drug agency now has my name on a list somewhere because I am a regular user.
I've also discovered that my pharmacy has a limit to the those very drugs they can get each month. If I get there after their allocation is gone, I've got to start hitting other pharmacies, hoping they still have enough left for my prescription.
I don't appreciate this, and every time I see a celebrity entering rehab instead of jail for having drugs they shouldn't have, I get angrier.
What can I do? Nothing really. I just wanted to get this off my chest and hope someone who takes drugs because they're fun will look at this and realize those pills weren't made for them, that somewhere someone is writhing in pain because they can't get them.
And I hope they go straight to hell.
Sunday, August 11, 2013
To be or not to be
Aunt Sandi reflects on a tough decision.
I admire mothers more than any other group.
It's a non-stop job from the moment your child is handed to you after birth and it never ends.
Long after you are gone, you live on in your children and their children. Stories about you will be told for generations, your precious possessions will be cherished by your descendants.
I made the toughest decision of my life in my early 30s.
I decided not to have any children.
My practice husband and I had always planned to wait until we were in our 30s to start a family and by the time we got there, our marriage was falling apart.
Most interestingly, our divorce had nothing to do with my decision.
Genetics did.
I had my first genetic panel done when I was 33, and that's when it was confirmed I have the gene that carries arthritis, asthma, allergies and multiple sclerosis and I had a 50/50 chance of passing it on.
In my mind I saw two scenarios, neither pretty.
First, my child would grow up with a sick mom. I had no way of guessing how sick I would get, but not being able to do things like pick them up or run and play on a playground was a hard one. Also, I had no way to gauge the toll pregnancy would take on my already battered body and damaged spine.
The clincher was the chance I'd have a baby who could develop one of the diseases on that gene. How do you explain to a two-year-old why they are in pain and if they would take this pill or that shot they would feel better?
One summer I spoke at a camp for children with rheumatoid arthritis so they could see that they too could have a fun job while dealing with this nasty disease. What got to me were the questions they asked me about the realities of living with arthritis.
"Did I cry when they stuck me with the needles for blood tests?"
"Did the people laugh at me when I fell asleep in class because I hadn't been able to sleep the night before?"
I showed them the big white dents in the crook of my arm and was able to give them some cold comfort: "After a few years of those blood tests, the nerves there will die and it won't hurt at all."
I told them not to be afraid to ask for help or to ride in a wheelchair when the pain was so bad.
After that visit, I thought about it a long time and finally decided to not roll those dice.
Though I don't have children of my own, I have nieces and nephews, both by blood and by love.
Perhaps because I have never had to truly grow up and take care of my own children, I am the go-to aunt for fun.
All my brothers' children have done some pretty cool things because Aunt Sandi pulled some strings. Once, a niece and nephew were the children picked from the audience to star in the pre-intermission extravaganza at a performance of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.
One niece went backstage at a Garth Brooks concert. Her brother met Brooks & Dunn.
Another has gone to movie screenings with me and another owns a personal message from Tigger himself, telling him to mind his parents and say his prayers before bed.
Every member of my family has personalized autographs from various movie stars, rock bands and other celebrities. They own merchandise from movies and concerts and have spent time sitting with me watching concerts while I write the review on my laptop. They were always cool about walking slower when I used a cane or to help carry things for me.
I love all my nieces and nephews, whether they're related to me or not and I cherish it when the one's who are not really related call me "Aunt Sandi" anyway.
I was able to do a lot of traveling and bring home cool things because I didn't have children of my own to worry about at home. Yes, many times it was a struggle to get myself home, but once there I didn't have to take care of a child before collapsing myself.
Still, I see parents with their children, creating memories and a tight-knit family while I watch on the outside.
My first husband remarried and now has children of his own. I am happy for him and enjoy hearing him tell me all about them. It's funny to me, but he tells them stories about me and the things I've done, so in a very modern way, I'm a member of their family too.
Now that I'm well past the age to have children, do I regret not doing it? Truthfully, not at all.
When I feel depressed I wonder what will happen to me when I can't take care of myself, if I will wind up in a nursing home, the lady with no visitors.
Better days I know I may wind up in a nursing home, but all my nieces and nephews will come visit because of all the stories I have about things I've done, and maybe because they consider me family.
Every person with any form of this disease will make this decision on their own, or it's already out of their hands. If they got sick after they had children, it's a moot point.
I know for many women, having children is an essential part of their lives and they are heroes to me, sick or well. I'm just glad so many of them have let me borrow their children from time to time so I could be "Aunt Sandi."
I admire mothers more than any other group.
It's a non-stop job from the moment your child is handed to you after birth and it never ends.
Long after you are gone, you live on in your children and their children. Stories about you will be told for generations, your precious possessions will be cherished by your descendants.
I made the toughest decision of my life in my early 30s.
I decided not to have any children.
My practice husband and I had always planned to wait until we were in our 30s to start a family and by the time we got there, our marriage was falling apart.
Most interestingly, our divorce had nothing to do with my decision.
Genetics did.
I had my first genetic panel done when I was 33, and that's when it was confirmed I have the gene that carries arthritis, asthma, allergies and multiple sclerosis and I had a 50/50 chance of passing it on.
In my mind I saw two scenarios, neither pretty.
First, my child would grow up with a sick mom. I had no way of guessing how sick I would get, but not being able to do things like pick them up or run and play on a playground was a hard one. Also, I had no way to gauge the toll pregnancy would take on my already battered body and damaged spine.
The clincher was the chance I'd have a baby who could develop one of the diseases on that gene. How do you explain to a two-year-old why they are in pain and if they would take this pill or that shot they would feel better?
One summer I spoke at a camp for children with rheumatoid arthritis so they could see that they too could have a fun job while dealing with this nasty disease. What got to me were the questions they asked me about the realities of living with arthritis.
"Did I cry when they stuck me with the needles for blood tests?"
"Did the people laugh at me when I fell asleep in class because I hadn't been able to sleep the night before?"
I showed them the big white dents in the crook of my arm and was able to give them some cold comfort: "After a few years of those blood tests, the nerves there will die and it won't hurt at all."
I told them not to be afraid to ask for help or to ride in a wheelchair when the pain was so bad.
After that visit, I thought about it a long time and finally decided to not roll those dice.
Though I don't have children of my own, I have nieces and nephews, both by blood and by love.
Perhaps because I have never had to truly grow up and take care of my own children, I am the go-to aunt for fun.
All my brothers' children have done some pretty cool things because Aunt Sandi pulled some strings. Once, a niece and nephew were the children picked from the audience to star in the pre-intermission extravaganza at a performance of Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus.
One niece went backstage at a Garth Brooks concert. Her brother met Brooks & Dunn.
Another has gone to movie screenings with me and another owns a personal message from Tigger himself, telling him to mind his parents and say his prayers before bed.
Every member of my family has personalized autographs from various movie stars, rock bands and other celebrities. They own merchandise from movies and concerts and have spent time sitting with me watching concerts while I write the review on my laptop. They were always cool about walking slower when I used a cane or to help carry things for me.
I love all my nieces and nephews, whether they're related to me or not and I cherish it when the one's who are not really related call me "Aunt Sandi" anyway.
I was able to do a lot of traveling and bring home cool things because I didn't have children of my own to worry about at home. Yes, many times it was a struggle to get myself home, but once there I didn't have to take care of a child before collapsing myself.
Still, I see parents with their children, creating memories and a tight-knit family while I watch on the outside.
My first husband remarried and now has children of his own. I am happy for him and enjoy hearing him tell me all about them. It's funny to me, but he tells them stories about me and the things I've done, so in a very modern way, I'm a member of their family too.
Now that I'm well past the age to have children, do I regret not doing it? Truthfully, not at all.
When I feel depressed I wonder what will happen to me when I can't take care of myself, if I will wind up in a nursing home, the lady with no visitors.
Better days I know I may wind up in a nursing home, but all my nieces and nephews will come visit because of all the stories I have about things I've done, and maybe because they consider me family.
Every person with any form of this disease will make this decision on their own, or it's already out of their hands. If they got sick after they had children, it's a moot point.
I know for many women, having children is an essential part of their lives and they are heroes to me, sick or well. I'm just glad so many of them have let me borrow their children from time to time so I could be "Aunt Sandi."
I've Got Friends in Low Places
Like millions of other fans, I love Garth Brooks.
His career choices put his family first, which is a rare thing. He retired, moved back to Oklahoma, lives in a Tulsa suburb where he shared raising his daughters with his former wife, marrying country star Trisha Yearwood in the meantime.
While we both worked, I would do phone interviews that wound up in teasing and laughter.
He invited my husband and I to his big party to celebrate selling 100 million records, thank his song writers and everyone who had helped him get where he was.
I got a hand-written invitation to come to the party as a guest, not a reporter. My husband and I made the trip to Nashville where hubby wore a tuxedo and I wore a ball gown. We walked down a real red carpet, complete with photographers snapping pictures.
We each got a crystal memento of the evening.
Garth called me on my 50th birthday. I didn't know he knew when my birthday was.
After I left the paper, I pretty must dropped off the face of the earth for five years while my body and mind did some serious healing.
I started freelancing early in 2012, mostly for the newspaper I had worked for.
After the tornadoes hit May 19-20, I was busy writing about the storms, and then the company I work for sent me an e-mail asking me to call a number if I wanted to review the Blake Shelton benefit concert.
It was USA Today.
I was thrilled. My byline would be seen nationwide.
They e-mailed me again and asked if I would review Toby Keith's Twister Relief Concert in the football stadium at the University of Oklahoma.
I couldn't say yes fast enough.
Besides Toby, performers included Carrie Underwood, Willie Nelson, Ronnie Dunn, Mel Tillis, John Anderson, Wade Hayes, Kellie Coffey, the only rocker Sammy Hagar and my old friend, Garth Brooks with his wife, whom he calls Miss Yearwood.
For the show, all reporters were kept in the room the Oklahoma Sooners football team have their meetings. The artists were brought in to talk to us and we watched the show on big screen TVs with a direct sound feed from the stage.
Garth was at the show long enough to play. He had to return to Las Vegas to play a sold-out show that night.
I'll admit I've changed a lot in the last five years but when I looked Garth in the eye and asked a question, he answered it without recognizing me. I was a little hurt, but not surprised.
As his time with the press wound down, I walked up to Garth's publicist and asked her if I could say "Hi" to him. She smiled, and said yes.
As he walked by, she said his name and then, "Sandi would like to say hi."
He looked at me and the second the recognized me he grabbed me in the biggest bear hug and kissed my cheek. He couldn't believe I was there.
"I wondered how you were."
About this time his wife hugged me too, kissed my other cheek and said she was glad to see me too.
All of this happened in front of the entire press corps. If they didn't know who I was before then, they knew I was something special after that.
I knew I was something special after that.
I worked 14 hours that day, had one-on-one interviews with Ronnie Dunn and Sammy Hagar, which I'll write about later, but it did more for my self worth than anything has for years.
A long review ran on USA today's site on Sunday and a shorter version ran in Monday's Life section.
If you'd like to donate to , please go to www.unitedwayokc.org
His career choices put his family first, which is a rare thing. He retired, moved back to Oklahoma, lives in a Tulsa suburb where he shared raising his daughters with his former wife, marrying country star Trisha Yearwood in the meantime.
While we both worked, I would do phone interviews that wound up in teasing and laughter.
He invited my husband and I to his big party to celebrate selling 100 million records, thank his song writers and everyone who had helped him get where he was.
I got a hand-written invitation to come to the party as a guest, not a reporter. My husband and I made the trip to Nashville where hubby wore a tuxedo and I wore a ball gown. We walked down a real red carpet, complete with photographers snapping pictures.
We each got a crystal memento of the evening.
Garth called me on my 50th birthday. I didn't know he knew when my birthday was.
After I left the paper, I pretty must dropped off the face of the earth for five years while my body and mind did some serious healing.
I started freelancing early in 2012, mostly for the newspaper I had worked for.
After the tornadoes hit May 19-20, I was busy writing about the storms, and then the company I work for sent me an e-mail asking me to call a number if I wanted to review the Blake Shelton benefit concert.
It was USA Today.
I was thrilled. My byline would be seen nationwide.
They e-mailed me again and asked if I would review Toby Keith's Twister Relief Concert in the football stadium at the University of Oklahoma.
I couldn't say yes fast enough.
Besides Toby, performers included Carrie Underwood, Willie Nelson, Ronnie Dunn, Mel Tillis, John Anderson, Wade Hayes, Kellie Coffey, the only rocker Sammy Hagar and my old friend, Garth Brooks with his wife, whom he calls Miss Yearwood.
For the show, all reporters were kept in the room the Oklahoma Sooners football team have their meetings. The artists were brought in to talk to us and we watched the show on big screen TVs with a direct sound feed from the stage.
Garth was at the show long enough to play. He had to return to Las Vegas to play a sold-out show that night.
I'll admit I've changed a lot in the last five years but when I looked Garth in the eye and asked a question, he answered it without recognizing me. I was a little hurt, but not surprised.
As his time with the press wound down, I walked up to Garth's publicist and asked her if I could say "Hi" to him. She smiled, and said yes.
As he walked by, she said his name and then, "Sandi would like to say hi."
He looked at me and the second the recognized me he grabbed me in the biggest bear hug and kissed my cheek. He couldn't believe I was there.
"I wondered how you were."
About this time his wife hugged me too, kissed my other cheek and said she was glad to see me too.
All of this happened in front of the entire press corps. If they didn't know who I was before then, they knew I was something special after that.
I knew I was something special after that.
I worked 14 hours that day, had one-on-one interviews with Ronnie Dunn and Sammy Hagar, which I'll write about later, but it did more for my self worth than anything has for years.
A long review ran on USA today's site on Sunday and a shorter version ran in Monday's Life section.
If you'd like to donate to , please go to www.unitedwayokc.org
I tell stories for a living, and here are a few really good ones
I love interviewing people.
I enjoy asking them about things they've done and why they did them or how they did them and hear their stories.
Everyone has a few great stories, and I've got a few myself.
I told my reunion story with Garth Brooks at Toby Keith's Twister Benefit and I mentioned two other music stars I talked to that day.
Both Ronnie Dunn (formerly half of Brooks & Dunn and the one who sings on "My Maria") and Sammy Hagar (the Red Rocker himself, who also did time in Van Halen in the "Van Hagar" days) and I go way back and I love them both the way you love your mischievous friends.
Ronnie Dunn spent a lot of his life in Tulsa and we both were brought up strict Southern Baptists. We both discovered we had to make a choice between what we wanted to do and what the church wanted us to do and we both chose to leave our respective churches.
But that's where Ronnie learned to sing.
Actually, that's where most of the famous music stars from Oklahoma learn to sing -- in church. If it's in any water at all, it must be Holy Water.
I sat in a tiny room with Ronnie and as we talked (me writing furiously, him playing with my recorder) we both watched Garth thrill the sold-out show of 61,000 with his amazing stage presence and those songs.
Neither Ronnie nor I wanted to miss Garth playing a rare Oklahoma show and his very first in Norman.
Ronnie told me he sent two songs he wrote to Sammy Hagar for Sammy's upcoming duets album, and they did one, "Bad to Ford and Chevrolets." Ronnie has his own record label now, named after the statue of Willie Nelson he received in Texas for his songwriting talents. (Little Will-E/Warner Bros.). His new album "Kiss You There."
He's such a laid back guy that his humor can surprise you and you find yourself laughing as he slyly slides a joke into an answer.
Sammy Hagar now, is all rocker. I've had dinner with him and the members of Van Halen when they were on tour (I have the pictures somewhere but there's the problem of my mistake husband being in them that causes me to want to hurl when I seen them).
Before I left the paper, I had a one-on-one interview with Sammy in his dressing room before a sold-out show at an outdoor venue. I walked in to happy chaos. His wife was in there with their baby in a stroller. As Sammy and I sat down, she poured me some of Sammy new (then) Cabo Wabo Tequila in a WINE GLASS and Sammy cheerfully told me to just sip it. I asked where the lemon and salt was and he was shocked. I learned all about good tequila and that it can be sipped just like wine.
It could. It was wonderful.
So I did my interview with a drink in my hand (that's news to the paper, believe me) and we parted by me giving him one of my husband's custom guitar picks, and he pulled one out of his guitar to give back.
This time, I walked into another scene of organized chaos, but this time Sammy and his band were singing in full voice. I stood and listened, not recognizing the song but did know his wife and his much bigger daughter, who was in the floor coloring.
Sammy saw me and the singing stopped.
"I'm debuting a song today and we've never played it live," he explained. "I'm terrified."
The song was Ronnie Dunn's "Bad on Fords and Chevrolets" which Sammy said he de-countrified before they recorded the duet.
I assured him it sounded great and we sat on a sofa. I reminded him of the last time we met and the glass of tequila, and he laughed and said those days were over.
"I'm getting gout. Can you believe it? Gout? That's a form of arthritis you know."
Oh I do know. Before he starting talking about uric acid levels and dietary restrictions, I calmly told him I understood.
"I have RA, lupus, fibromyalgia and my spine looks like a toddler built it," I wisecracked, but it worked.
We talked about his new album "Sammy Hagar and Friends" due out Sept. 13. He duets "Margaritaville" with Toby Keith, whom he befriended on Toby's frequent trips to Cabo San Lucas and playing at Sammy club there.
It explained why Sammy was there.
We finished our interview with hugs and kisses (I got kissed on the hand when I arrived and on the cheek when I left).
The new tune is good. It's got a great hook and is a lot of fun, a lot like Sammy.
Much later in the evening, long after Toby had left the stage and the last firework explosion echo was long gone, I was wrapping up writing my story when a man walked in with a bunch of paper cups.
They were samples of Toby Keith's brand of Mescal, "Wild Shot."
Thinking, echoes of old days with Sammy, I snagged a glass. It was like the most tart lemonade you'll ever have but it was good, and a perfect way to end a memorable day.
And, it gave me some great stories to tell.
I enjoy asking them about things they've done and why they did them or how they did them and hear their stories.
Everyone has a few great stories, and I've got a few myself.
I told my reunion story with Garth Brooks at Toby Keith's Twister Benefit and I mentioned two other music stars I talked to that day.
Both Ronnie Dunn (formerly half of Brooks & Dunn and the one who sings on "My Maria") and Sammy Hagar (the Red Rocker himself, who also did time in Van Halen in the "Van Hagar" days) and I go way back and I love them both the way you love your mischievous friends.
Ronnie Dunn spent a lot of his life in Tulsa and we both were brought up strict Southern Baptists. We both discovered we had to make a choice between what we wanted to do and what the church wanted us to do and we both chose to leave our respective churches.
But that's where Ronnie learned to sing.
Actually, that's where most of the famous music stars from Oklahoma learn to sing -- in church. If it's in any water at all, it must be Holy Water.
I sat in a tiny room with Ronnie and as we talked (me writing furiously, him playing with my recorder) we both watched Garth thrill the sold-out show of 61,000 with his amazing stage presence and those songs.
Neither Ronnie nor I wanted to miss Garth playing a rare Oklahoma show and his very first in Norman.
Ronnie told me he sent two songs he wrote to Sammy Hagar for Sammy's upcoming duets album, and they did one, "Bad to Ford and Chevrolets." Ronnie has his own record label now, named after the statue of Willie Nelson he received in Texas for his songwriting talents. (Little Will-E/Warner Bros.). His new album "Kiss You There."
He's such a laid back guy that his humor can surprise you and you find yourself laughing as he slyly slides a joke into an answer.
Sammy Hagar now, is all rocker. I've had dinner with him and the members of Van Halen when they were on tour (I have the pictures somewhere but there's the problem of my mistake husband being in them that causes me to want to hurl when I seen them).
Before I left the paper, I had a one-on-one interview with Sammy in his dressing room before a sold-out show at an outdoor venue. I walked in to happy chaos. His wife was in there with their baby in a stroller. As Sammy and I sat down, she poured me some of Sammy new (then) Cabo Wabo Tequila in a WINE GLASS and Sammy cheerfully told me to just sip it. I asked where the lemon and salt was and he was shocked. I learned all about good tequila and that it can be sipped just like wine.
It could. It was wonderful.
So I did my interview with a drink in my hand (that's news to the paper, believe me) and we parted by me giving him one of my husband's custom guitar picks, and he pulled one out of his guitar to give back.
This time, I walked into another scene of organized chaos, but this time Sammy and his band were singing in full voice. I stood and listened, not recognizing the song but did know his wife and his much bigger daughter, who was in the floor coloring.
Sammy saw me and the singing stopped.
"I'm debuting a song today and we've never played it live," he explained. "I'm terrified."
The song was Ronnie Dunn's "Bad on Fords and Chevrolets" which Sammy said he de-countrified before they recorded the duet.
I assured him it sounded great and we sat on a sofa. I reminded him of the last time we met and the glass of tequila, and he laughed and said those days were over.
"I'm getting gout. Can you believe it? Gout? That's a form of arthritis you know."
Oh I do know. Before he starting talking about uric acid levels and dietary restrictions, I calmly told him I understood.
"I have RA, lupus, fibromyalgia and my spine looks like a toddler built it," I wisecracked, but it worked.
We talked about his new album "Sammy Hagar and Friends" due out Sept. 13. He duets "Margaritaville" with Toby Keith, whom he befriended on Toby's frequent trips to Cabo San Lucas and playing at Sammy club there.
It explained why Sammy was there.
We finished our interview with hugs and kisses (I got kissed on the hand when I arrived and on the cheek when I left).
The new tune is good. It's got a great hook and is a lot of fun, a lot like Sammy.
Much later in the evening, long after Toby had left the stage and the last firework explosion echo was long gone, I was wrapping up writing my story when a man walked in with a bunch of paper cups.
They were samples of Toby Keith's brand of Mescal, "Wild Shot."
Thinking, echoes of old days with Sammy, I snagged a glass. It was like the most tart lemonade you'll ever have but it was good, and a perfect way to end a memorable day.
And, it gave me some great stories to tell.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Stress triggers long-fogotten problems
Sandi's years as a newspaper reporter return to haunt her
Doctors have told me most of my life to keep my stress level low.
I have sincerely tried. I've taken classes, I know all the tricks to calm myself.
Sometimes our best efforts are not enough.
Anyone who chooses to be a news reporter of any kind must realize early that when disasters happen, regular assignments go out the window, or in some cases, gone with the wind.
I was fortunate for years. I wrote about movies, music, movie stars. The funerals I covered and obituaries I wrote were for celebrities. I traveled a lot and wrote about the fun things I did.
Those times were forcibly removed at 9:02 a.m. April 19, 1995 when the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building was destroyed in a terrorist bombing. The blast from that truck of explosives left a huge disaster area and people lost their lives in other buildings besides the federal one. Still, everyone's heart stopped when we realized the day care center in the federal building was hit and children were among the dead and wounded.
You may recall the photograph of a fireman carrying the body of a little girl. I saw that photo the day it was taken.
I made it all the way home before I broke down in tears, repeating "She had on yellow socks."
Because I write fast and describe scenes well, I talked to victims and first responders. I wrote about the secondary disasters -- the cancellation of major events, the implosion of companies who lost their revenue streams.
Everyone worked 12 to 18 hours a day. We ate catered food at our desks, we wrote feature stories about each casualty, putting a face on each person who died. We all cried as we wrote story after story.
My friends had a 10 month old grandson in the day care center. He was identified by DNA with two other babies. I wrote his feature story and it is still the hardest story I ever wrote.
The bombing was the birth of "The Oklahoma Standard." When one of us is hurt, all of us hurt and we will help anyone who needs it until they don't any more.
I saw a therapist after the bombing. All the reporters did. She taught me so much and helped me cope with stress of all kinds.
We will skip the 1999 tornado for now because I was so sick by then I don't remember much about covering it.
I am well enough now that when the tornadoes that ripped through the Oklahoma City metro area Sunday and Monday I was asked to work for the paper, and thinking I could handle it, I said yes.
I didn't take the first hint I was going to have problems. When I heard children had died, I started crying.
I was covering volunteer efforts from several angles. So many people came to the disaster areas with supplies and to volunteer they had to be turned away. Supply depots were created and there are lists for people to sign to volunteer in the next few weeks and months. I interviewed a man who has volunteered for one charity for 30 years and works with assembly lines to build and fill boxes.
I wrote two stories Friday and turned them in. I thought I was doing great until I went to dinner with a friend Saturday night.
I could not remember a single story I had written that week. I drew a complete blank. It was like I had never done them. I started stressing out, my energy level tanked and I rushed home to look them up on my computer. One story had run, one ran Sunday and two more were waiting to go.
I spent the next day in my pajamas, in bed, watching anything but news. I secretly hope the paper won't call with more projects for a few days, but if they do, I'll say "Yes," because the Oklahoma Standard lives in me too.
I would like to thank every single person who works at Creaky Joints for letting me write about this now, and all of you who clicked "Like" when you found out I was safe. You cannot imagine what that did for me. I owe all of you a hug.
Doctors have told me most of my life to keep my stress level low.
I have sincerely tried. I've taken classes, I know all the tricks to calm myself.
Sometimes our best efforts are not enough.
Anyone who chooses to be a news reporter of any kind must realize early that when disasters happen, regular assignments go out the window, or in some cases, gone with the wind.
I was fortunate for years. I wrote about movies, music, movie stars. The funerals I covered and obituaries I wrote were for celebrities. I traveled a lot and wrote about the fun things I did.
Those times were forcibly removed at 9:02 a.m. April 19, 1995 when the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building was destroyed in a terrorist bombing. The blast from that truck of explosives left a huge disaster area and people lost their lives in other buildings besides the federal one. Still, everyone's heart stopped when we realized the day care center in the federal building was hit and children were among the dead and wounded.
You may recall the photograph of a fireman carrying the body of a little girl. I saw that photo the day it was taken.
I made it all the way home before I broke down in tears, repeating "She had on yellow socks."
Because I write fast and describe scenes well, I talked to victims and first responders. I wrote about the secondary disasters -- the cancellation of major events, the implosion of companies who lost their revenue streams.
Everyone worked 12 to 18 hours a day. We ate catered food at our desks, we wrote feature stories about each casualty, putting a face on each person who died. We all cried as we wrote story after story.
My friends had a 10 month old grandson in the day care center. He was identified by DNA with two other babies. I wrote his feature story and it is still the hardest story I ever wrote.
The bombing was the birth of "The Oklahoma Standard." When one of us is hurt, all of us hurt and we will help anyone who needs it until they don't any more.
I saw a therapist after the bombing. All the reporters did. She taught me so much and helped me cope with stress of all kinds.
We will skip the 1999 tornado for now because I was so sick by then I don't remember much about covering it.
I am well enough now that when the tornadoes that ripped through the Oklahoma City metro area Sunday and Monday I was asked to work for the paper, and thinking I could handle it, I said yes.
I didn't take the first hint I was going to have problems. When I heard children had died, I started crying.
I was covering volunteer efforts from several angles. So many people came to the disaster areas with supplies and to volunteer they had to be turned away. Supply depots were created and there are lists for people to sign to volunteer in the next few weeks and months. I interviewed a man who has volunteered for one charity for 30 years and works with assembly lines to build and fill boxes.
I wrote two stories Friday and turned them in. I thought I was doing great until I went to dinner with a friend Saturday night.
I could not remember a single story I had written that week. I drew a complete blank. It was like I had never done them. I started stressing out, my energy level tanked and I rushed home to look them up on my computer. One story had run, one ran Sunday and two more were waiting to go.
I spent the next day in my pajamas, in bed, watching anything but news. I secretly hope the paper won't call with more projects for a few days, but if they do, I'll say "Yes," because the Oklahoma Standard lives in me too.
I would like to thank every single person who works at Creaky Joints for letting me write about this now, and all of you who clicked "Like" when you found out I was safe. You cannot imagine what that did for me. I owe all of you a hug.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
The Boxer
Sandi's Going Down Swinging
Dealing with any autoimmune disorder is a war.
There are skirmishes, offensives, victories and defeats.
The key is to keep fighting.
I've always told anyone who felt sorry for me because I have RA and all the other problems that I am fighting this as hard as I can and I'll be going down swinging.
It's just sometimes it's so hard to make that fist.
I heard "The Boxer," by Simon and Garfunkle a few days ago and it brought me to tears. Maybe it was I've been feeling really ratty lately but most likely it was the news I got at my last doctor's visit, but the story of the man who is beaten over and over got to me.
I was crying and it took me several days to pinpoint why that song would set me off.
My appointment was one of the fast ones I have. I'm there long enough to get the prescriptions for concoction of pain meds I take to control that particular monster.
When my doctor's assistant came in, I asked her to tell me why I wasn't on any medicines that dealt specifically with the battle in my bones.
I knew I can't have NSAIDS any more because my kidney levels have been off for years, but the next bit of information was a sucker punch.
The PA looked through my charts and told me I couldn't have any more drugs that would suppress my immune system. Its suppressing itself enough on its own. Anything else would be dangerous.
So, I find myself out of drugs to take.
Since 1974 I have been taking one thing or another to fight the disease but I guess my battle is over until the next new drugs hit the market.
What this means is for the first time in decades, I'm in the ring alone, fighting hand to hand against my disease, and I'm afraid.
It's why I started to cry when I heard:
"In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he caries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him out
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
'I am leaving, I am leaving'
But the fighter still remains."
And I remain, and I will go down swinging.
Dealing with any autoimmune disorder is a war.
There are skirmishes, offensives, victories and defeats.
The key is to keep fighting.
I've always told anyone who felt sorry for me because I have RA and all the other problems that I am fighting this as hard as I can and I'll be going down swinging.
It's just sometimes it's so hard to make that fist.
I heard "The Boxer," by Simon and Garfunkle a few days ago and it brought me to tears. Maybe it was I've been feeling really ratty lately but most likely it was the news I got at my last doctor's visit, but the story of the man who is beaten over and over got to me.
I was crying and it took me several days to pinpoint why that song would set me off.
My appointment was one of the fast ones I have. I'm there long enough to get the prescriptions for concoction of pain meds I take to control that particular monster.
When my doctor's assistant came in, I asked her to tell me why I wasn't on any medicines that dealt specifically with the battle in my bones.
I knew I can't have NSAIDS any more because my kidney levels have been off for years, but the next bit of information was a sucker punch.
The PA looked through my charts and told me I couldn't have any more drugs that would suppress my immune system. Its suppressing itself enough on its own. Anything else would be dangerous.
So, I find myself out of drugs to take.
Since 1974 I have been taking one thing or another to fight the disease but I guess my battle is over until the next new drugs hit the market.
What this means is for the first time in decades, I'm in the ring alone, fighting hand to hand against my disease, and I'm afraid.
It's why I started to cry when I heard:
"In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he caries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him out
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
'I am leaving, I am leaving'
But the fighter still remains."
And I remain, and I will go down swinging.
On the Road Again
Sandi tries to make her road a smooth one
BEFORE:
I'm traveling this week.
For the first time since 2006 I'm boarding a plane and leaving.
I am going on a four-day travel junket with other travel writers to spend a few days in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I am both excited to leave town and terrified I'm not strong enough to make this trip.
I'll be writing several stories for the travel section of my newspaper and I've got two weeks after I return to get them done.
I thought it might be interesting to write what I hope happens before I leave and finish this blog with how it actually went.
So -- I have my airline tickets and know where my seats are. I change planes in Atlanta. Tomorrow I should know which gates I'll need and that will decide if I need to hitch a ride on a cart or stroll through the airport.
I've decided not to check a bag but travel light. This is a no brainer because 20 years of packing made me a pro. Still, I read all the new rules the TSA provided and have a good idea what's going and what's staying.
I am going to do the U.S. Post Office's "If It Fits, It Ships" to send home all the stuff I get (press kits, souvenirs, stuff like that) to keep my load light.
I am starting a steroid dose pack before I leave so I will feel the best I can while I'm gone.
I have tried to pick activities on the trip that won't tax me too much, but I do realize I will be on my feet a lot more than I have been. (Reason One for dose pack).
I picked a short trip. I have two days of activities and then I'm out.
I'm taking a cane. I don't want to but don't want to take any chances.
AFTER
A week ago I was in Virginia and a friend took me to a discount store to buy a suitcase for all the things I bought or was given.
Yes, I'm back.
On the whole, the trip was a big success. Traveling was easy. My gates at the Atlanta airport were close enough that I could easily walk between them.
I think the dose pack was the key. It kept me flexible enough I was able to walk up and down stairs, tour museums and wineries with little trouble and keep up with everyone else.
I made it home by noon Sunday and took it easy. I could tell when the steroids wore off because the pain increased, I discovered some muscle strain in my shoulder and I was really tired.
I bought the suitcase because we were given many things that I didn't want to leave in a box for the post office. I wound up packing all the souvenirs and gifts in a new hard-sided suitcases and wrapped all the fragile things in my clothes.
I carried on the suitcase full of interviews, notes, press kits and brochures. I could replace everything but those.
I was really lucky that I flew the day before the FAA furloughed their employees and there were slowdowns in the air.
It's good to know I can keep up with healthy people. One of the writers ran a half marathon while she was there. Other writers took bicycle tours though neighborhoods, hiked and stayed out late at a music festival while I found myself at mountaintop wineries, marveling at the beautiful pastoral scenes and the mountains showing their spring colors, and hitting my hotel room right after dinner.
Still, I believe I can do more of these, which makes me happy. I love to travel and now I know I can do it within reason and good planning.
The agency who books these tours has invited me to come on other trips with them.
I believe I will.
BEFORE:
I'm traveling this week.
For the first time since 2006 I'm boarding a plane and leaving.
I am going on a four-day travel junket with other travel writers to spend a few days in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I am both excited to leave town and terrified I'm not strong enough to make this trip.
I'll be writing several stories for the travel section of my newspaper and I've got two weeks after I return to get them done.
I thought it might be interesting to write what I hope happens before I leave and finish this blog with how it actually went.
So -- I have my airline tickets and know where my seats are. I change planes in Atlanta. Tomorrow I should know which gates I'll need and that will decide if I need to hitch a ride on a cart or stroll through the airport.
I've decided not to check a bag but travel light. This is a no brainer because 20 years of packing made me a pro. Still, I read all the new rules the TSA provided and have a good idea what's going and what's staying.
I am going to do the U.S. Post Office's "If It Fits, It Ships" to send home all the stuff I get (press kits, souvenirs, stuff like that) to keep my load light.
I am starting a steroid dose pack before I leave so I will feel the best I can while I'm gone.
I have tried to pick activities on the trip that won't tax me too much, but I do realize I will be on my feet a lot more than I have been. (Reason One for dose pack).
I picked a short trip. I have two days of activities and then I'm out.
I'm taking a cane. I don't want to but don't want to take any chances.
AFTER
A week ago I was in Virginia and a friend took me to a discount store to buy a suitcase for all the things I bought or was given.
Yes, I'm back.
On the whole, the trip was a big success. Traveling was easy. My gates at the Atlanta airport were close enough that I could easily walk between them.
I think the dose pack was the key. It kept me flexible enough I was able to walk up and down stairs, tour museums and wineries with little trouble and keep up with everyone else.
I made it home by noon Sunday and took it easy. I could tell when the steroids wore off because the pain increased, I discovered some muscle strain in my shoulder and I was really tired.
I bought the suitcase because we were given many things that I didn't want to leave in a box for the post office. I wound up packing all the souvenirs and gifts in a new hard-sided suitcases and wrapped all the fragile things in my clothes.
I carried on the suitcase full of interviews, notes, press kits and brochures. I could replace everything but those.
I was really lucky that I flew the day before the FAA furloughed their employees and there were slowdowns in the air.
It's good to know I can keep up with healthy people. One of the writers ran a half marathon while she was there. Other writers took bicycle tours though neighborhoods, hiked and stayed out late at a music festival while I found myself at mountaintop wineries, marveling at the beautiful pastoral scenes and the mountains showing their spring colors, and hitting my hotel room right after dinner.
Still, I believe I can do more of these, which makes me happy. I love to travel and now I know I can do it within reason and good planning.
The agency who books these tours has invited me to come on other trips with them.
I believe I will.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Tunes tame the worst pain
Tag: When "I Can Hear Music," it wields a "Strange Magic" over this "Rock and Roll Girl"
No matter how sick I am, one thing makes me feel better.
Music.
One of my first clear memories is waking up from a nap and hearing a radio playing "Wake Up Little Susie" by the Everly Brothers.
I remember getting my first record player when I was five and the records that came with it.
I started playing the flute when I started junior high school and moved to piccolo shortly after. I could play all the required school music as well as every flute part from every rock song of the era, and the theme song from "Laurel and Hardy."
I started taping my own cassettes of tunes from FM radio in the late 1960s and kept it up until CDs took over. I probably have 100 tapes custom made by me.
I've never not listened to music and it paid off big time. I've had two jobs where knowledge of the music business was essential.
I worked as an event coordinator at a convention center and worked every concert they had. I knew so much about the bands that other managers started asking my advice on whether to book a band into their arena. Once, I was only one person off of an attendance estimate I made. It was bliss.
The second was becoming a music critic for a daily newspaper. I got paid to listen to all kinds of music and write about it. I talked to performers, promoters, publicists.
For a brief time, I had a writing assignment from Rolling Stone Magazine to write about the Oklahoma City area music scene. The federal building bombing stopped that story and they never called me again.
Computers changed the way we all listen to tunes. The only thing I cared about when I updated my phone was how music sounded on it.
One website, blip.fm, allows anyone to be their own DJ and play songs for everyone else on the site at that time. It's so much fun to do and something I can do regardless of how sick I am, how much the pain is nagging or when sleepless nights attack.
No matter how bad I feel, I can always manage to lie down with a set of headphones and my massive music library on my computer set on shuffle and let the hours go by.
My daily newspaper pays me to write for them again on a freelance basis and a few weeks ago I got to relive my glory days by reviewing an Eric Clapton concert with the Wallflowers as an opening act.
There's nothing better than sitting in free seats, taking notes about the music and the audience reactions and crafting that into a review that others will read the next day. I try to bring the concert to them, and I love doing it.
I spent the next two days after that show pretty much in my pajamas and sleeping off and on, but it was so worth it.
My love of music has passed to my youngest nephew, who is a music composition major at a big university. Though most students his age would prefer a gift card for music downloads, we buy him classic rock we think he'd like. For instance, he got "Bridge Over Troubled Water," by Simon and Garfunkle, "The Whole Story" by Kate Bush and "Classic Yes" by Yes for his birthday, a Todd Rundgren compilation for Christmas.
It's wonderful to share music that has gotten me through all kinds of times. He introduces me to music he likes, and best of all I get to hear the music he is creating.
Best of all though, my husband is a musician. Occasionally I get a private concert of tunes he's written over the years, including a few written just for me.
There's no medicine better than that.
No matter how sick I am, one thing makes me feel better.
Music.
One of my first clear memories is waking up from a nap and hearing a radio playing "Wake Up Little Susie" by the Everly Brothers.
I remember getting my first record player when I was five and the records that came with it.
I started playing the flute when I started junior high school and moved to piccolo shortly after. I could play all the required school music as well as every flute part from every rock song of the era, and the theme song from "Laurel and Hardy."
I started taping my own cassettes of tunes from FM radio in the late 1960s and kept it up until CDs took over. I probably have 100 tapes custom made by me.
I've never not listened to music and it paid off big time. I've had two jobs where knowledge of the music business was essential.
I worked as an event coordinator at a convention center and worked every concert they had. I knew so much about the bands that other managers started asking my advice on whether to book a band into their arena. Once, I was only one person off of an attendance estimate I made. It was bliss.
The second was becoming a music critic for a daily newspaper. I got paid to listen to all kinds of music and write about it. I talked to performers, promoters, publicists.
For a brief time, I had a writing assignment from Rolling Stone Magazine to write about the Oklahoma City area music scene. The federal building bombing stopped that story and they never called me again.
Computers changed the way we all listen to tunes. The only thing I cared about when I updated my phone was how music sounded on it.
One website, blip.fm, allows anyone to be their own DJ and play songs for everyone else on the site at that time. It's so much fun to do and something I can do regardless of how sick I am, how much the pain is nagging or when sleepless nights attack.
No matter how bad I feel, I can always manage to lie down with a set of headphones and my massive music library on my computer set on shuffle and let the hours go by.
My daily newspaper pays me to write for them again on a freelance basis and a few weeks ago I got to relive my glory days by reviewing an Eric Clapton concert with the Wallflowers as an opening act.
There's nothing better than sitting in free seats, taking notes about the music and the audience reactions and crafting that into a review that others will read the next day. I try to bring the concert to them, and I love doing it.
I spent the next two days after that show pretty much in my pajamas and sleeping off and on, but it was so worth it.
My love of music has passed to my youngest nephew, who is a music composition major at a big university. Though most students his age would prefer a gift card for music downloads, we buy him classic rock we think he'd like. For instance, he got "Bridge Over Troubled Water," by Simon and Garfunkle, "The Whole Story" by Kate Bush and "Classic Yes" by Yes for his birthday, a Todd Rundgren compilation for Christmas.
It's wonderful to share music that has gotten me through all kinds of times. He introduces me to music he likes, and best of all I get to hear the music he is creating.
Best of all though, my husband is a musician. Occasionally I get a private concert of tunes he's written over the years, including a few written just for me.
There's no medicine better than that.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sandi looks forward/done
Tag line: Looking forward is a lifesaver
The darkest part of living with arthritis is depression.
When you feel so lousy that you can't reach for the pills designed to help you feel better, you know depression has set in.
The thoughts that you try so hard to stuff into a tiny corner of your brain burst out like fake snakes from a can of peanuts.
"I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired."
"What if I never feel better?"
"All my friends are so tired of hearing me complain."
"I don't know why I even care."
It's about this time my strength of will kicks in. I force myself to sit up in bed, get my pills, take whatever meds that are due, and plan something.
I have discovered looking forward to something, anything, can keep those dangerous thoughts at bay, and yes, even make you feel better.
Your event doesn't have to be some dream trip or shopping spree. It can be as simple as knowing "Downton Abbey" is coming on PBS in a few days, or a radio station doing a program of music you like.
It just has to be something that keeps your interested in sticking around.
Me? Right now I'm looking forward to seeing Jimmy Buffett in concert May 4 in Dallas. We have our tickets and a hotel room for the night.
I'm watching travel sites for a deal on a rental car and trying to discover a Parrothead group here that is having a tailgate party in the parking lot.
I've seen Mrs. Buffett's Baby Boy twice, but my husband hasn't, so I'm also excited to watch him see all the weirdness a Buffett concert brings with it.
Yes, that's a pretty big one, but sometimes it's knowing that a magazine I like is due in the mail, or a free movie screening is in two days, or I have a new book to read, that's enough.
I've gotten pedicures, made lunch dates with old friends, gone through a box of stuff left over from our last move.
Keeping your brain occupied does wonders for lightening your mood, and we all need coping mechanisms of any kind come in handy.
Sometimes every trick I have fails. Then I know it's time to call my doctor and tell her I'm depressed. If it's really bad, when I start thinking how nice it would be not to deal with any of this anymore, I call my therapist.
Yes, I have a therapist. I've had one since the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and she has saved my life. There are times and situations when only a professional can show you the light in all the darkness, and there is nothing wrong with having a tune up from time to time.
Right now, this blog is working as one of mine. I mean, May 4 is still a while away.
The trick with this is making sure you're in the best health you can be to enjoy your treat.
It's a fine line, but one that's essential to follow to feel as happy as possible with this complicated disease.
The darkest part of living with arthritis is depression.
When you feel so lousy that you can't reach for the pills designed to help you feel better, you know depression has set in.
The thoughts that you try so hard to stuff into a tiny corner of your brain burst out like fake snakes from a can of peanuts.
"I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired."
"What if I never feel better?"
"All my friends are so tired of hearing me complain."
"I don't know why I even care."
It's about this time my strength of will kicks in. I force myself to sit up in bed, get my pills, take whatever meds that are due, and plan something.
I have discovered looking forward to something, anything, can keep those dangerous thoughts at bay, and yes, even make you feel better.
Your event doesn't have to be some dream trip or shopping spree. It can be as simple as knowing "Downton Abbey" is coming on PBS in a few days, or a radio station doing a program of music you like.
It just has to be something that keeps your interested in sticking around.
Me? Right now I'm looking forward to seeing Jimmy Buffett in concert May 4 in Dallas. We have our tickets and a hotel room for the night.
I'm watching travel sites for a deal on a rental car and trying to discover a Parrothead group here that is having a tailgate party in the parking lot.
I've seen Mrs. Buffett's Baby Boy twice, but my husband hasn't, so I'm also excited to watch him see all the weirdness a Buffett concert brings with it.
Yes, that's a pretty big one, but sometimes it's knowing that a magazine I like is due in the mail, or a free movie screening is in two days, or I have a new book to read, that's enough.
I've gotten pedicures, made lunch dates with old friends, gone through a box of stuff left over from our last move.
Keeping your brain occupied does wonders for lightening your mood, and we all need coping mechanisms of any kind come in handy.
Sometimes every trick I have fails. Then I know it's time to call my doctor and tell her I'm depressed. If it's really bad, when I start thinking how nice it would be not to deal with any of this anymore, I call my therapist.
Yes, I have a therapist. I've had one since the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and she has saved my life. There are times and situations when only a professional can show you the light in all the darkness, and there is nothing wrong with having a tune up from time to time.
Right now, this blog is working as one of mine. I mean, May 4 is still a while away.
The trick with this is making sure you're in the best health you can be to enjoy your treat.
It's a fine line, but one that's essential to follow to feel as happy as possible with this complicated disease.
Six degrees of Sandi Davis/done
Sandi's adventures provide great stories
A couple is watching TV and the woman is talking telling her husband some kind of trivia about the actor. The man is thinking, "I want my own TV."
I have had run-ins with celebrities my whole life, but when I worked as an entertainment writer I met so many celebrities that if IMDB didn't exist, I'd be lost.
For 15 years, about every other weekend I was somewhere watching a movie or three set to come out in the next month or so and interviewing the cast and crew. That way, my newspaper would have a story about the stars and a review from their own critic on opening day.
It's a good system.
I did the junket for "The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement" in 2004. I was excited to get to interview Julie Andrews and Anne Hathaway (who won an Oscar Feb. 24), so much so I forgot all about some guy named Chris Pine.
I saw 2009's "Star Trek" in 2009 with no recognition. It stayed that way until I saw "Princess Diaries 2" on TV. My jaw dropped. I had interviewed the new James T. Kirk five years before.
One day in 1995, I met NBC's weatherman Willard Scott, my governor, one of my senators, a state congressman who played football at my alma mater and Jesse Jackson Sr. Yes, all of them in one day.
By the way, if you ask Willard Scott if he's a meteorologist, he answers, "No, I'm a Baptist."
At the junket for the movie "Evita," I had a one-on-one interview with Antonio Banderas about his role in the movie. I heard his publicist telling him who he was speaking with next, and I walked into the room.
He sang "Oklahoma!" to me, full voice. The whole song.
I stood there, trying not to drool, and listened.
He kept motioning me to sit down, and I kept shaking my head, "No."
When he finished the song, I told him that was our state's song and I had to stand. He told me he knew every word to every song in the musical. We had a nice chat, and he gave me an autograph.
Yes, that's nice, but Antonio Banderas sang "Oklahoma!" for me.
And yes, I interviewed Madonna too.
Remember the movie "Twister"? It was partially filmed in Oklahoma and I went on the set visit and saw an old friend, actor Bill Paxton.
He's from Fort Worth and is one of the nicest guys. During the junket, he and I joked about the tornado drills we endured in elementary school, to the disbelief of the writers not from Tornado Alley.
I was dressed in jeans and a shirt that day.
A week or so later Paxton and company were in Oklahoma City for the world premiere of "Twister" and we ran into each other again. This time I was in a full-length gown, hair done, wearing makeup. We wound up at the after party doing vodka shots from the ice sculpture. There are photos, somewhere.
A week later I was back on Los Angeles doing the junket for the secret-agent spoof, "Spy Hard." I had just finished a one-on-one with Leslie Nielsen and had some free time so I decided to visit the hotel's hot tub. I was wearing a my bathing suit, a hotel robe and flip-flops, my hair pulled on on top of my head. I was waiting at the elevator.
The doors opened and Bill Paxton stood there with his publicist. We locked eyes and started laughing.
"Are you stalking me?," I asked.
"Yes," he said.
The other people on the elevator couldn't understand why we stood there hugging and laughing.
You can't make this stuff up.
The point is this. My carry-on luggage literally rattled from all the medicine I had to take with me. I was using a cane. My memory was (and still is) like Swiss cheese, but I had fun.
And now that's all that's behind me, I can recall these things that happened to me, and annoy my husband with them while he's watching TV.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
The lights are on and no one's home. DONE
When the world gets to be too much, Sandi pulls in the welcome mat and hides behind her front door.
I am a big fan of historical and period fiction. While this means I can run categories of European royal titles on "Jeopardy," it also has given me a good grasp of their etiquette too.
What it means is this: If I don't feel well, I am not "At Home."
A century ago and well before that, ladies and gentlemen of leisure could choose to not be at home. Their servants would accept flowers, gifts, cards and invitations but allow no visitors. The maids and butlers were the bodyguards of their day, protecting their people from unwanted intrusions.
Unless you count my barking dogs, I don't have servants*, but this small detail does not stop me.
My car may be in the driveway, you may be able to hear music coming from my house, but knock on my door and there will be no answer but barking. Call my phone, get voicemail. Send an e-mail, no reply.
I am taking the day off from humanity. I turn off all ringers, computers, cell phones, tablets -- anything that will disturb me.
There are days when I simply cannot deal with anything. I don't want to talk to anyone, see anyone, hear any news, read anything current.
I am guilty of peeking through curtains to see who is standing on my porch, but I don't answer the door. They can leave a note.
There is nothing wrong with this. We all have days when we simply cannot cope with the world and we are entitled to absent ourselves from it for a day. Or two. Or five.
When we have a better grasp on things, we can return the calls, the e-mails. A simple explanation of, "I wasn't feeling well" should be enough for anyone who pries.
I think for those of us with all forms or arthritis, auto-immune diseases and other syndromes, not being "at home" is an idea whose time has come.
In these times of being expected to be available 24/7, sometimes it simply is not possible.
I raise the drawbridge to my castle on a regular basis and these days I don't need a really good reason. It can be the obvious: I feel like hell, or I am exhausted. It can be depression, or just that my psyche cannot handle one more bit of bad news. On the other side, maybe I want to play with my dogs, or feed the birds and watch them.
The first few times you let people stand at the door and knock, you will be tempted to answer it because that response has been pounded into each of us. Guess what? You can ignore it. Caller ID makes it simple not to answer the phone. The harder thing is to not listen to the messages. Checking out of e-mail and Facebook is becoming almost impossible for some, but do it. It's good for you.
Take those days of solitude to take care of yourself. Stay in bed all day with some nice scented candles lit to set a mood. Pull out the books you've promised yourself you would read, and do it.
Fix yourself your favorite foods, watch your favorite movies. Baby yourself. You deserve it. I know this, because I know I certainly do.
So, roll up the welcome mat. Turn off the porch light. Take some time to heal your frazzled self inside the safest place you know: your home.
You'll feel better for it.
*Since I don't have children, it's easier for me to institute the "not at home" policy at my house. For those of you with children, a little instruction and you may have your own servant/bodyguards who will greet visitors and help them without getting you involved. They also can take phone messages and keep them for you when you feel like dealing with them. They may enjoy feeling like they have a more active part in help you recharge.
I am a big fan of historical and period fiction. While this means I can run categories of European royal titles on "Jeopardy," it also has given me a good grasp of their etiquette too.
What it means is this: If I don't feel well, I am not "At Home."
A century ago and well before that, ladies and gentlemen of leisure could choose to not be at home. Their servants would accept flowers, gifts, cards and invitations but allow no visitors. The maids and butlers were the bodyguards of their day, protecting their people from unwanted intrusions.
Unless you count my barking dogs, I don't have servants*, but this small detail does not stop me.
My car may be in the driveway, you may be able to hear music coming from my house, but knock on my door and there will be no answer but barking. Call my phone, get voicemail. Send an e-mail, no reply.
I am taking the day off from humanity. I turn off all ringers, computers, cell phones, tablets -- anything that will disturb me.
There are days when I simply cannot deal with anything. I don't want to talk to anyone, see anyone, hear any news, read anything current.
I am guilty of peeking through curtains to see who is standing on my porch, but I don't answer the door. They can leave a note.
There is nothing wrong with this. We all have days when we simply cannot cope with the world and we are entitled to absent ourselves from it for a day. Or two. Or five.
When we have a better grasp on things, we can return the calls, the e-mails. A simple explanation of, "I wasn't feeling well" should be enough for anyone who pries.
I think for those of us with all forms or arthritis, auto-immune diseases and other syndromes, not being "at home" is an idea whose time has come.
In these times of being expected to be available 24/7, sometimes it simply is not possible.
I raise the drawbridge to my castle on a regular basis and these days I don't need a really good reason. It can be the obvious: I feel like hell, or I am exhausted. It can be depression, or just that my psyche cannot handle one more bit of bad news. On the other side, maybe I want to play with my dogs, or feed the birds and watch them.
The first few times you let people stand at the door and knock, you will be tempted to answer it because that response has been pounded into each of us. Guess what? You can ignore it. Caller ID makes it simple not to answer the phone. The harder thing is to not listen to the messages. Checking out of e-mail and Facebook is becoming almost impossible for some, but do it. It's good for you.
Take those days of solitude to take care of yourself. Stay in bed all day with some nice scented candles lit to set a mood. Pull out the books you've promised yourself you would read, and do it.
Fix yourself your favorite foods, watch your favorite movies. Baby yourself. You deserve it. I know this, because I know I certainly do.
So, roll up the welcome mat. Turn off the porch light. Take some time to heal your frazzled self inside the safest place you know: your home.
You'll feel better for it.
*Since I don't have children, it's easier for me to institute the "not at home" policy at my house. For those of you with children, a little instruction and you may have your own servant/bodyguards who will greet visitors and help them without getting you involved. They also can take phone messages and keep them for you when you feel like dealing with them. They may enjoy feeling like they have a more active part in help you recharge.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Simple question causes "Fines" DONE
Simple questions causes "Fines"
When it's difficult to answer an easy question
Who would ever image that the simple sentence "How are you?" could mean so many things?
There is far more than a double standard here.
I have discovered no matter how bad you feel, healthy people really just want you to say "Fine." They have no inkling of the degrees of "Fine" that exist.
The majority of people do not understand what it's like not to feel well for more than a few days, unless they've gotten the flu that's going around this year. Even then, that kind of sick, and our kind of sick are nothing alike.
People with RA, chronic fatigue, Lupus, Fibromyalgia or any of the many syndromes we deal with, have a completely different standard of feeling well.
Most days, if I can get up, get dressed, put on make-up and go out somewhere for more than a few hours, that is a red letter day, especially if I didn't spend a week in bed resting up for it.
That's the day I am "Fine."
Then, there are days that I think are good if I turn on my laptop, sit in bed in my pjs and cruise the internet for a few hours, TV on the the background and dogs on the bed for company.
I'm doing "pretty well" those days.
Lastly, there are the days that are so bad you simply stay down and endure until you feel better.
I don't answer people those days.
Frankly, it's been so long since I have felt tradionally "Fine" I'm no longer quite sure what is involved.
I admire the people I know who actually are up out of bed, dressed and ready to take on the day by 7 a.m. Really. Wow.
My friends who work all day, every day -- which I used to do -- impress me. I did it for the best part of 35 years, yet I can't imagine doing it now.
I am slowing revving up my writing career again, and I have wonderful things to do. However, just when I believe I'm doing better and can do a little more, my body gives me a harsh reminder that I am not ever going to be "Fine" again.
All that said, I am trying to think of a way to answer the question "How are you?" with something that isn't a lie, but an answer that will let them know I'm the best "Fine" I can be on that day.
"Okay," is a wishy-washy answer, "Fair to middlin'" is one good where I live, "Still above ground" is a perfect answer to someone who doesn't mind a bit of sarcasm.
"Well" is a contender. It could imply I was going to say more, like "Well, other than the screeching pain in my back, I'm okay," or "Well, what are the other options?"
I also try to dodge the question with something like "Ask me later," or "It's too early to tell" or my current favorite, "I'll keep you posted."
But, the big question is: how am I today?
"Well, ask me later. If I'm still above ground, I'll keep you posted."
When it's difficult to answer an easy question
Who would ever image that the simple sentence "How are you?" could mean so many things?
There is far more than a double standard here.
I have discovered no matter how bad you feel, healthy people really just want you to say "Fine." They have no inkling of the degrees of "Fine" that exist.
The majority of people do not understand what it's like not to feel well for more than a few days, unless they've gotten the flu that's going around this year. Even then, that kind of sick, and our kind of sick are nothing alike.
People with RA, chronic fatigue, Lupus, Fibromyalgia or any of the many syndromes we deal with, have a completely different standard of feeling well.
Most days, if I can get up, get dressed, put on make-up and go out somewhere for more than a few hours, that is a red letter day, especially if I didn't spend a week in bed resting up for it.
That's the day I am "Fine."
Then, there are days that I think are good if I turn on my laptop, sit in bed in my pjs and cruise the internet for a few hours, TV on the the background and dogs on the bed for company.
I'm doing "pretty well" those days.
Lastly, there are the days that are so bad you simply stay down and endure until you feel better.
I don't answer people those days.
Frankly, it's been so long since I have felt tradionally "Fine" I'm no longer quite sure what is involved.
I admire the people I know who actually are up out of bed, dressed and ready to take on the day by 7 a.m. Really. Wow.
My friends who work all day, every day -- which I used to do -- impress me. I did it for the best part of 35 years, yet I can't imagine doing it now.
I am slowing revving up my writing career again, and I have wonderful things to do. However, just when I believe I'm doing better and can do a little more, my body gives me a harsh reminder that I am not ever going to be "Fine" again.
All that said, I am trying to think of a way to answer the question "How are you?" with something that isn't a lie, but an answer that will let them know I'm the best "Fine" I can be on that day.
"Okay," is a wishy-washy answer, "Fair to middlin'" is one good where I live, "Still above ground" is a perfect answer to someone who doesn't mind a bit of sarcasm.
"Well" is a contender. It could imply I was going to say more, like "Well, other than the screeching pain in my back, I'm okay," or "Well, what are the other options?"
I also try to dodge the question with something like "Ask me later," or "It's too early to tell" or my current favorite, "I'll keep you posted."
But, the big question is: how am I today?
"Well, ask me later. If I'm still above ground, I'll keep you posted."
Friday, February 1, 2013
Sandi's time is as precious as anyones DONE
My time is as valuable as my doctors', or "It's just a jump to the left."
Nothing, nothing is as annoying as waiting on a doctor who is late for an appointment with you.
It's not fair.
All my doctors have receptionists who call me a day or so before an appointment to ensure I remember exactly what time my appointment is, and to remind me to come a little early if labs or paperwork is involved. They happily remind me if I don't call and cancel the appointment I will be charged anyway.
So, I keep my word. I show up, sign in, pay my money, fill out my forms and start waiting.
It seems, once inside the reception area, I am at the mercy of the nurses, physicians assistants and the doctor. They prove Einstein was right: time is relative. My time becomes less important than theirs.
Occasionally, I've gotten called from the waiting room within a few minutes of my assigned appointment time. Now, doesn't it seem that I should be seeing the doctor right then?
Never happens. I see nurses who take my vital signs and do all the interviewing about how I've been. They make notes in my chart and take it with them when they leave me in a cubicle, waiting for the doctor.
It's then that time stops completely.
I've waited up to four hours for a doctor to drop in to check on me. There always is some excuse, some of which are perfectly reasonable, but mostly, it's just bad time management.
I swear, someday I am going to prepare a bill to hand to my doctor when I've been kept waiting long enough to feel like my time has been wasted.
It's not unreasonable to turn the tables. I could call the doctor's office the morning of my appointment and say I will be there at our specified time, and if I haven't been seen in a reasonable amount of time, I will start subtracting money from my bill.
I have no problem paying for lab work or for equipment used in my appointment, but my time is as valuable as the doctor's, and when mine is wasted, I think I'm entitled to recompense too.
Perhaps everyone who is as tired of this treatment as I am can get together with me and we'll make a plan on how to be treated fairly.
Then, we can all do the arthritic version of the "Time Warp" in celebration.
Nothing, nothing is as annoying as waiting on a doctor who is late for an appointment with you.
It's not fair.
All my doctors have receptionists who call me a day or so before an appointment to ensure I remember exactly what time my appointment is, and to remind me to come a little early if labs or paperwork is involved. They happily remind me if I don't call and cancel the appointment I will be charged anyway.
So, I keep my word. I show up, sign in, pay my money, fill out my forms and start waiting.
It seems, once inside the reception area, I am at the mercy of the nurses, physicians assistants and the doctor. They prove Einstein was right: time is relative. My time becomes less important than theirs.
Occasionally, I've gotten called from the waiting room within a few minutes of my assigned appointment time. Now, doesn't it seem that I should be seeing the doctor right then?
Never happens. I see nurses who take my vital signs and do all the interviewing about how I've been. They make notes in my chart and take it with them when they leave me in a cubicle, waiting for the doctor.
It's then that time stops completely.
I've waited up to four hours for a doctor to drop in to check on me. There always is some excuse, some of which are perfectly reasonable, but mostly, it's just bad time management.
I swear, someday I am going to prepare a bill to hand to my doctor when I've been kept waiting long enough to feel like my time has been wasted.
It's not unreasonable to turn the tables. I could call the doctor's office the morning of my appointment and say I will be there at our specified time, and if I haven't been seen in a reasonable amount of time, I will start subtracting money from my bill.
I have no problem paying for lab work or for equipment used in my appointment, but my time is as valuable as the doctor's, and when mine is wasted, I think I'm entitled to recompense too.
Perhaps everyone who is as tired of this treatment as I am can get together with me and we'll make a plan on how to be treated fairly.
Then, we can all do the arthritic version of the "Time Warp" in celebration.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
The war inside rages on, or the invisible battlefieldDONE
I've had arthritis a long time and it's been a long battle.
Basically it's your body against your strength of will, aided by drugs, therapy and rest.
It's a dirty war because you never leave the battlefield and the skirmishes can go on for years.
The best days are the ones when you discover you're winning, you've beaten back the disease and slowed the damage.
The worst is when the sickness is rampaging through your system and you're out of energy and ammunition. You simply lie where you are, waiting for relief via steroids or morphine or something with an unpronounceable name.
There are no negotiations and cease fires are rare.
In this war, we pray for our version of the military -- our doctors, and our version of black ops -- researchers.
We wait for the next magic bullet and hope its powers to contain or destroy are what the doctor ordered.
We endure the "injuries" (aka side effects) with stoicism and hope. We rejoice when some people get better, we feel their pain when they don't.
We mourn with friends and family when a loved one has lost their fight and we remember them as the brave, honorable warriors.
Many of us show our battle scars -- our limping gaits, twisted fingers, swollen knuckles, oversize knees, ankles and wrists. Others have rashes and sores that are ever present and hard to explain.
Then there are those of us whose scars are on the inside. People can't see my spine is stacked like a toddler's building blocks, or that my damaged nerves cause never-ending pain.
Our good friends, our allies, know we don't sleep much, or we can't seem to stay awake, that we forget things all the time, that we cry with frustration when the money runs out before the doctor bills are paid or the prescriptions are bought.
Still, we soldier on. We do what work we can. We rejoice when we win those hard fought battles and are stoic when the going is rough.
We hang on with courage, we use our strength of will to meet our daily goals, whether they are simply getting up and dressed at some point in the day, or doing the laundry and helping cook a meal.
Our battlefields may be invisible to the healthy among us, but the rest of us believe eventually we will win the war.
What can friends and family do? They can be our USO. They can cheer us up, listen when we whine, comfort us when spirits are low and keep believing we are doing the best we can with what we have.
The war inside rages on, or the invisible battlefield
Basically it's your body against your strength of will, aided by drugs, therapy and rest.
It's a dirty war because you never leave the battlefield and the skirmishes can go on for years.
The best days are the ones when you discover you're winning, you've beaten back the disease and slowed the damage.
The worst is when the sickness is rampaging through your system and you're out of energy and ammunition. You simply lie where you are, waiting for relief via steroids or morphine or something with an unpronounceable name.
There are no negotiations and cease fires are rare.
In this war, we pray for our version of the military -- our doctors, and our version of black ops -- researchers.
We wait for the next magic bullet and hope its powers to contain or destroy are what the doctor ordered.
We endure the "injuries" (aka side effects) with stoicism and hope. We rejoice when some people get better, we feel their pain when they don't.
We mourn with friends and family when a loved one has lost their fight and we remember them as the brave, honorable warriors.
Many of us show our battle scars -- our limping gaits, twisted fingers, swollen knuckles, oversize knees, ankles and wrists. Others have rashes and sores that are ever present and hard to explain.
Then there are those of us whose scars are on the inside. People can't see my spine is stacked like a toddler's building blocks, or that my damaged nerves cause never-ending pain.
Our good friends, our allies, know we don't sleep much, or we can't seem to stay awake, that we forget things all the time, that we cry with frustration when the money runs out before the doctor bills are paid or the prescriptions are bought.
Still, we soldier on. We do what work we can. We rejoice when we win those hard fought battles and are stoic when the going is rough.
We hang on with courage, we use our strength of will to meet our daily goals, whether they are simply getting up and dressed at some point in the day, or doing the laundry and helping cook a meal.
Our battlefields may be invisible to the healthy among us, but the rest of us believe eventually we will win the war.
What can friends and family do? They can be our USO. They can cheer us up, listen when we whine, comfort us when spirits are low and keep believing we are doing the best we can with what we have.
The war inside rages on, or the invisible battlefield
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Vomiting from coast to coast/DONE
Welcome to the holiday season, the time when we tend to overdo everything. Most people put on a few pounds from all the amazing food available and way too many of us drink a bit too much and pay dearly for it the next morning.
There really is not much worse than a hangover, unless it's really overdoing it and spending the shank of the night driving the white Honda.
Vomiting is simply awful, and most people can avoid it 90 percent of the time.
Not me.
I have had arthritis a long time. I have been on so many drugs I can't remember all of them but I do know this: I have been on every non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug( (NSAID) that has been on the market. For example, I was on Motrin while it was a prescription.
They may have worked for a time, but they always stopped, and I always was put on a different one.
I didn't know it then, but while it helped with inflamation, it also did a number of my stomach lining, giving me gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD).
If you add this to the sad fact I have one of the fastest gag reflexes on record, it means I can pretty much vomit at will.
Before Gerd was so fashionable I spent a fortune on allergists and digestive specialists. I was told by one, the best diagnosis he could come up with for me was "You have a funny tummy." (Say this was an upper crust British accent and it sounds much better. I always smiled when my British doctor said it).
Whatever the reason, I spent years retching from coast to coast at all the best places. Whether traveling as an event coordinator, movie critic or travel writer, I have emptied the contents of my stomach in the best joints around, including the friendly skies.
I became a master both of heaving and hiding it. I could do a phone interview at my office, talking to movie stars or rock gods, taking notes and throwing up in my trash can with no one the wiser.
It was not fun. I tried all sorts of anti-nausea drugs and some worked for a time, but not always. The first drug that really worked was the original "Little Purple Pill."
When I started taking it, it was $10 a pill. Now, it's everywhere. And, while it soothes my unruly innards most of the time, it still doesn't work 100 percent of the time.
I've used barf bags on airplanes, drink cups in darkened theaters.
One would have thought I'd become thin as a rail, but the addition of steroids to the mix nixed that.
Oddly enough, I was out on disability before acking finally drove me to the ER, and it wasn't because I was throwing up blood. It was because I couldn't stop gagging.
Every time I wound up in an ER, my potassium had tanked. I'd get a bag full of saline and potassium and a wide variety of drugs that those docs hoped would stop that nasty gag reflex.
Once, I impressed the nurses with my prescience. I could tell them with pinpoint accuracy when I was going to be sick, and to get me one of those lovely basins. It was strange to have an audience, to know my gastro-intestinal system so well.
These days NSAIDS are banned for me, and that with the addition of potassium and B-vitamins to my diet, I haven't been sick. I don't know if this is coincidence or dumb luck, but I do feel better knowing I can now talk to celebrities face to face without the fear of heaving up my dinner at their feet.
The final insult? To this day I can't drink anything too acidic -- especially wine. A small glass of red wine is not equal to a night full of tequila shots and beer.
With that, I'll save the biologics for another day.
There really is not much worse than a hangover, unless it's really overdoing it and spending the shank of the night driving the white Honda.
Vomiting is simply awful, and most people can avoid it 90 percent of the time.
Not me.
I have had arthritis a long time. I have been on so many drugs I can't remember all of them but I do know this: I have been on every non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug( (NSAID) that has been on the market. For example, I was on Motrin while it was a prescription.
They may have worked for a time, but they always stopped, and I always was put on a different one.
I didn't know it then, but while it helped with inflamation, it also did a number of my stomach lining, giving me gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD).
If you add this to the sad fact I have one of the fastest gag reflexes on record, it means I can pretty much vomit at will.
Before Gerd was so fashionable I spent a fortune on allergists and digestive specialists. I was told by one, the best diagnosis he could come up with for me was "You have a funny tummy." (Say this was an upper crust British accent and it sounds much better. I always smiled when my British doctor said it).
Whatever the reason, I spent years retching from coast to coast at all the best places. Whether traveling as an event coordinator, movie critic or travel writer, I have emptied the contents of my stomach in the best joints around, including the friendly skies.
I became a master both of heaving and hiding it. I could do a phone interview at my office, talking to movie stars or rock gods, taking notes and throwing up in my trash can with no one the wiser.
It was not fun. I tried all sorts of anti-nausea drugs and some worked for a time, but not always. The first drug that really worked was the original "Little Purple Pill."
When I started taking it, it was $10 a pill. Now, it's everywhere. And, while it soothes my unruly innards most of the time, it still doesn't work 100 percent of the time.
I've used barf bags on airplanes, drink cups in darkened theaters.
One would have thought I'd become thin as a rail, but the addition of steroids to the mix nixed that.
Oddly enough, I was out on disability before acking finally drove me to the ER, and it wasn't because I was throwing up blood. It was because I couldn't stop gagging.
Every time I wound up in an ER, my potassium had tanked. I'd get a bag full of saline and potassium and a wide variety of drugs that those docs hoped would stop that nasty gag reflex.
Once, I impressed the nurses with my prescience. I could tell them with pinpoint accuracy when I was going to be sick, and to get me one of those lovely basins. It was strange to have an audience, to know my gastro-intestinal system so well.
These days NSAIDS are banned for me, and that with the addition of potassium and B-vitamins to my diet, I haven't been sick. I don't know if this is coincidence or dumb luck, but I do feel better knowing I can now talk to celebrities face to face without the fear of heaving up my dinner at their feet.
The final insult? To this day I can't drink anything too acidic -- especially wine. A small glass of red wine is not equal to a night full of tequila shots and beer.
With that, I'll save the biologics for another day.
Pain management or purple prose?DONE
There is pain, and there is PAIN.
If you're reading this, you or someone close to you is dealing with pain on a regular basis.
Whoever you are, I hope your pain is easily controlled, something you can ignore and go about your business, because there are too many of us out here who have pain that doesn't behave in any predictable manner.
Most people dealing with chronic pain (it's considered chronic if you've had it 90 days or more) have their own coping strategies, things we do while waiting for the medicine to kick in.
Because I am a writer and words are my tools, I try to find ways to describe the pain so someone who thinks pain is a headache or a bruised shin gets a picture of what it feels like inside my skin.
There are days when it feels like a blacksmith is using a red-hot pincers to lift up my kneecaps and hammer equally hot nails inside.
There are the mornings when I literally roll out of bed and tell my husband "I feel like I've been beaten with hammers."
The weather can be a vicious enemy when fronts come through. We had a major one come through recently. I was sitting in an office waiting for my rheumatologist to come in and I knew when the barometric pressure started changing. Imagine you have firecrackers taped around your kneecaps and the fuses are lit. That explosion is unbelievable. Then imagine someone is shoving a chisel into your shoulder joint, or your rib cage is full of C4. Those are some big time explosions too.
Ow!
For some reason, today I feel like my bones are being held together with barbed wire.
I know it sounds like I should be writing a screenplay for a slasher movie but it's how I keep my sanity.
If I make fun of the pain, it makes it a little smaller in my brain and a smaller foe is always easier to manage.
And, it beats swearing -- though if I'm alone the language coming from me would probably make a sailor blush.
And, when all else fails, I lie down. "Home and prone" with heat is my last defense. Generally if I combine it with listening to music or trying to conjure up memories of some of my favorite experiences, I can live through it until those pain killers start taking off the edge.
So, right now, I'm propped up in bed with pillows behind my back and a netbook in my lap. I'm wearing headphones and am listening to my favorite playlist on a free music website.
I've got about 10 more minutes until the pills should start working, so I thought I'd share my woes with you guys.
If you'd like to share your coping strategies, I think it's a good idea. The more we share, the more we can discover something better to try.
If you're reading this, you or someone close to you is dealing with pain on a regular basis.
Whoever you are, I hope your pain is easily controlled, something you can ignore and go about your business, because there are too many of us out here who have pain that doesn't behave in any predictable manner.
Most people dealing with chronic pain (it's considered chronic if you've had it 90 days or more) have their own coping strategies, things we do while waiting for the medicine to kick in.
Because I am a writer and words are my tools, I try to find ways to describe the pain so someone who thinks pain is a headache or a bruised shin gets a picture of what it feels like inside my skin.
There are days when it feels like a blacksmith is using a red-hot pincers to lift up my kneecaps and hammer equally hot nails inside.
There are the mornings when I literally roll out of bed and tell my husband "I feel like I've been beaten with hammers."
The weather can be a vicious enemy when fronts come through. We had a major one come through recently. I was sitting in an office waiting for my rheumatologist to come in and I knew when the barometric pressure started changing. Imagine you have firecrackers taped around your kneecaps and the fuses are lit. That explosion is unbelievable. Then imagine someone is shoving a chisel into your shoulder joint, or your rib cage is full of C4. Those are some big time explosions too.
Ow!
For some reason, today I feel like my bones are being held together with barbed wire.
I know it sounds like I should be writing a screenplay for a slasher movie but it's how I keep my sanity.
If I make fun of the pain, it makes it a little smaller in my brain and a smaller foe is always easier to manage.
And, it beats swearing -- though if I'm alone the language coming from me would probably make a sailor blush.
And, when all else fails, I lie down. "Home and prone" with heat is my last defense. Generally if I combine it with listening to music or trying to conjure up memories of some of my favorite experiences, I can live through it until those pain killers start taking off the edge.
So, right now, I'm propped up in bed with pillows behind my back and a netbook in my lap. I'm wearing headphones and am listening to my favorite playlist on a free music website.
I've got about 10 more minutes until the pills should start working, so I thought I'd share my woes with you guys.
If you'd like to share your coping strategies, I think it's a good idea. The more we share, the more we can discover something better to try.
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