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.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
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.
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