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.

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.

Six degrees of Sandi Davis/done

Sandi's adventures provide great stories

My husband and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary. The card I gave him describeds me very well.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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