The Eighth Post: "1-2-3 Intensity!"

I used to be an athlete. And even well after I considered myself a true athlete, I was in still in great shape. I ran at least three (most of the time five) miles per day. I was strong, not only because I lifted weights, but also because in my mind I knew no one could ever stop me. My athletic intensity was unwavering. You can’t learn that type of intensity. It is innate, genetic -- it's the sort of thing that never leaves your bones. 

When I was an athlete no one could beat me. I would take on any challenge because I would honestly believe I could win anything I competed at… I would play basketball against men in the University of Iowa Field House and win one-on-one games with ease. I would never allow anyone to run next to me on a track because I was in my own mental race with them, I'd push past them without a fleeting thought… In the gym, I would turn my treadmill up faster -- and on a higher incline -- than the guy, or girl, next to me because I wanted to show them that I was stronger, faster, and more capable.

And then.... When I was 23 I got sick.

In years past, I had broken my arm twice, broken every finger, torn ligaments in my ankles, and had concussions; this was definitely different.  It was the absolute worst pain I had ever felt. It was sharp and dull and throbbing and stabbing pain that was connected to every movement in my body: move a finger, feel a rush of pain; move a toe, shed a tear. That was fifteen years ago.

Nearly two months ago I was in the hospital. Just yesterday, I almost had to go back once more… I have lost count of number of times I’ve had the pleasure of being stuck with IV needles and hooked up to pain pumps filled with morphine. For over 15 years, I’ve had, what doctors refer to as, “chronic pain”.

Chronic…habitual…constant…recurring…continual…persistent…

Seems it’s a very common term these days, “chronic pain.” So common, in fact, when I tell new people what is wrong with me, they brush it off as no big deal. And I understand. I mean, how is anyone to empathize with what they can’t even begin to imagine? Being in pain every day, every second, of their life? It would be so much easier wrap one's mind around the concept of a starving child, or an abused pet, because everyone has felt a pang of hunger at one time in their lives, or felt seen the innocent eyes of the dogs in the shelters? Yet chronic pain? All. The. Time. Pain.??? Even if you've had a terrible injury, it's gone away and emotionally it doesn't break you down every day. Think about childbirth, supposedly one of the worst pains we can all go through, right?  It's that old saying, your mind let's you forget the pain- otherwise, why would the world keep on having babies? So, can anyone really “get” chronic pain if you don't have it yourself? I don't honestly know, but I have some great friends and family that try their best to empathize, there is no doubt about that.

In some ways, the public has become numb to the term “chronic pain,” just as they have become numb to words such as, “murder,” “war,” or “breaking news.” I mean, if you watch TV at all, then you’re familiar with the drug commercials for “chronic pain sufferers.” They sell awesome pain and anti-inflammatory meds with side-effects that may (or may not) include dizziness, blurred vision, heavy sweating, weight gain, hair-loss, hair-growth in unwanted places, memory loss, and, wait for it, oily discharge (WTF?). Well, rest-assured that I’ve taken them all. I’ve been on ten drugs at once, and then fifteen drugs, and then no drugs, and then more drugs again. I’ve been high; I’ve been low; I’ve been dizzy; I’ve heavy sweated; I’ve gained weight (lots); I’ve been balding; I’ve had a chin hair or two; Well, duh, I have chronic pain. (But hey, at least I’ve avoided that oily discharge thingy, because, oh shit, literally).

I have A LOT of pain people. I have TEN herniations in my GD spine that “doctors” say is a genetic problem, exacerbated by my life as an athlete (how fucking ironic, right?). One of my discs, the bottom one, is completely missing, so I have bone rubbing upon bone with every step I take. Wiggling my toes, if I can even feel them on a given day, can make me collapse in pain.

If I walk fifty feet from my car to the grocery store door, I have to take a deep breath to push through the pain. Then I will lean on a grocery cart to shop because otherwise I can’t navigate the aisles. I’d pass out from the pain of it all otherwise. I have learned to use breathing techniques to make it through almost every trip longer than ten feet, and I’ve used my sense of humor to make light of the sweating that results from the pain or the meds or both. There is a positive though, I can almost always keep a smile and a decent attitude. Almost always.

And just so we can get past the “have you tried this” or “have you tried that” thing (because that is always what comes next after I tell people what is wrong with me), here is what has gone on in my life…I’ve had several surgeries (ten to be exact); multiple injections of steroids; injections of numbing agents; cauterizing of nerves; acupuncture (3 sometimes 4x per week); massage; chiropractic adjustments (three a week at times); holistic solutions; drugs for pain; drugs for stopping synapses from firing in the brain; more drugs for swelling; drugs for relaxing muscles; And I’ve even had a machine permanently implanted in my back- it’s called a neuro-stimulator and it sends electrical shocks to my spinal cord in order to try to trick the nerves into feeling electrical shocks in rather than pain running down the lower third of my body. So yes, I’ve tried it all. I’ve been to more doctors and hospitals than most people see in a lifetime, and the bottom line is always, “you have to learn to live with this, it’s the way you will spend the remainder of your life.”

Having pain is an abstract problem. I get that. After all of these years, I finally appreciate that lots of people can never understand or grasp the concept of being in pain 100% of the time, and I'd never wish it upon any of them. And I most definitely now comprehend how others can't put their arms around the often times dark mental space I have to pull myself out of, just to wake up each morning and function as a normal person. Finally, after all of these years living this way, I have come to realize that there are some great people out there who all try their best to help and understand. Geez, if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d mostly roll my eyes too- "just get better for God's sake, stop complaining,  the old 'back' excuse is getting OLD, really, really OLD".

On my Varsity high school basketball team, before taking the floor for a game, we’d say, “1-2-3 INTENSITY," and I'd feel such a rush of adrenaline. These days, it’s what I say when I wake up each day (sorry, that is so Jerry McGuire, but it's true).  I need that extra push to put my feet on the bedroom floor and begin pushing through normal, everyday activities. Pouring cereal, opening the fridge, and then pouring the milk…most days that can make me double-over in pain. Scrubbing a sink? Forget it, I have to mentally prepare for days to break the Soft Scrub out. Washing my tub? I have to meditate and take two pain pills before I even attempt it. Forget carrying the laundry down a flight of stairs, or bending to pick up toys. It is a different way of life, but over the years, WE’VE adjusted.

It helps that my husband is possibly the greatest human being to exist on the planet. No, he has not won a Nobel Peace Prize or solved Global Warming.  Poor guy never even won a scratch off lottery ticket before he got stuck with my back and me. And God love him, he married me knowing my back was this way. I’m sure he always thought it would get better, and the journey we’ve been on would never be the way it has turned out, but he went through with it knowing it could be really, really bad, and it has been.  Probably worse then he could have ever imagined.

Hubby seen here contemplating his decision. Photo Cred: Barb Fyfe

This man comes home from twelve-hour workdays to do the laundry and clean the house. He takes off precious time from a high-pressured job to take me to every doctor’s appointment. He researches new possible cures in Europe and finds specialists in big hospitals doing new things in other cities here in the U.S. He’s always picking up slack, and there is so much slack to pick up. This man, who has lost his mother to cancer and his father to multiple organ failure, all in the last 7 years, picks up MY slack. He nurses me, he loves our children, he puts them to bed, he puts me to bed, and then does more work for his actual job or things around the house. It is simply amazing…and he never complains to me.

Greatest. Human. Being. Ever.

Sometimes I worry that he will leave us all in disgust, but just when I feel that way he sits on the couch and holds my hand and tells me how sorry he is that I can’t do the things I want to do.  You could not wish for a better person to grace your life. And the crazy thing about my husband, if this happened to a friend, he’d be at their house doing the same things for them, I doubt he ever thought twice about marrying me. Often times, the pressure he is under worries me, but he seems to brush it all off because I have chronic pain, oh, and because he must really love me.

His determination to get me better, or feel better just for a day, makes me want to be better, and not wallow in self-pity (not saying I don’t go there, because I frequently do, but he can bring me out just within minutes of going to that dark place many people with chronic pain go to live the remainder of their days). He keeps me laughing and I like to think I keep him laughing (because, if I had to face facts, my quick wit is just about the last thing left that’s quick about me). Without cracking up, we'd probably both lose it.

My husband. He works so hard for this family. Not just the way normal people work hard for their families. My husband has saved my life.

Fifteen years ago, when I would workout, I would do it because it made me feel like I was strong, determined, intense… Honestly, I would love to go back to that space, the place where I was indestructible and undeniably, an athlete.  But since I now am able to admit to myself it is quite impossible to be that person ever again, I am happy to be strong, determined, and intense in a different way all-together. I fight through each day, and I do it for myself and for my children. And I do it for the man who fights for me, the strongest, most intense, most determined, and most committed person I have ever known.

Greatest. Human. Being. Ever. Thank you, Jason.

Here he is, the best! In a rare relaxing time floating down the Zambezi River in Africa

The Fourth Post

-->

Four years ago, around mid-August, I was casually putting some platters back into my dining room buffet after a brunch we had hosted, when I was suddenly forced to my knees by the roar of a fighter jet flying low and directly over my house. The sound was so loud, and the plane so close, that it shook the pictures on my walls, made my wine glasses clink together, and it was so terrifying that I fell onto my knees, covered my head with my hands, and immediately started sobbing. In one quick moment, I lost control of my emotions.

Minutes later, I was still on my knees. Shaking. Sweating. Muscles tense. Heart pounding so loud I was sure my children, who stood inches away from me, could hear it. There I was, gasping for air, and desperately reaching out for my husband to help me. Total loss of control.

Fifteen minutes after that jet flew overhead, with my shirt soaked in sweat and my eyes bloodshot from crying, I was calm enough to completely comprehend that the fighter jet was actually just a part of the Chicago Air & Water Show. Of course this jet was not going to crash into my house, or patrol my airspace for days on end, or even crash into a building.  At that point, I was composed enough to realize where my reaction came from. It was not the first time a jet had gone over my head.

****

I moved to Manhattan in 2000. It was the greatest and bravest decision I had ever made. I had no family in New York, and only a handful of friends, but I was determined to go to NYU, get my graduate degree, and start a life built completely on my own. I had a successful career and amazing bosses that allowed me to pick up my life and move 900 miles away but remain with the company and work from my own apartment. I had parents who had faith enough in me to let me go alone to that big city without ever blinking an eye. I had some great friends who promised to visit the minute I was settled into my new apartment. Absolutely nothing was holding me back from my experience of a lifetime.

My move to Manhattan started off with just the right proverbial bang… my father crashed the rental moving truck into a parked car as we were pulling out of Chicago. And once we arrived in New York, and began to load my belongings into my tiny $1700/month studio apartment, my father slipped on an ice patch while standing on the back of the truck and fell backwards towards the street. Luckily, I was standing there, and with catlike reflexes caught him, so he didn’t hit his head. Unluckily, I caught him while I was holding a small knife in my hand (used for opening boxes) and I cut him one inch above an artery in his hand. So less than an hour into my residency I was calling 911- I did not even know what address to give the 911 operator.

The ambulance and the police came.  They actually asked my dad if he wanted to press charges against me, and believe me, I think he may have hesitated with his answer. An ambulance ride across town, fifty some odd stitches and a large sling later, and my dad was back in my apartment in a chair writhing in pain and wondering how I had gotten him into such an outrageous situation. He only survived that move by one tiny little inch.

****

Months later, fully in the swing of my new life, it would be the summer of weddings. I flew back to the Midwest for 8 weekends in a row for weddings and wedding showers and dress fittings. One of those weddings was of my cousin, Erin, and her husband Carl.

Even though they lived in Boston, they had decided on a Chicago wedding. They had once lived in Chicago and they considered it the perfect spot to tie the knot. He is Chinese, so they had a traditional Chinese tea ceremony and Erin even wore a beautiful red traditional Chinese dress during the reception. I remember everything so vividly – the colors, the music, the conversations. I am, in fact, blessed and cursed in this way. I can remember the details of events and even conversations that have occurred in amazing detail from as early of an age as three. In this particular case, I am so grateful that I can remember her wedding weekend.

Before the ceremony took place that Saturday, my cousin Kate and I stole away from the family to have lunch at a local bagel shop. While there, we spotted our older cousin Karleton pushing his adorable 16-month old son in a stroller on their way to the zoo.  It was hard not to spot him- his 6’4 frame, wire-rimmed glasses, UNC hat, and goofy smile. He stopped to chat with us about nonsense and to crack a few smartass remarks about how handsome he was and how handsome in turn  (yes handsome) we were since we were related to him.  After a few minutes of sarcastic banter, he continued on his way towards the zoo, and as he walked away, I remember remarking to Kate how crazy it was that he had a son. Holy shit, were growing up, and man, he was such a natural father. Both Kate and I just stared in awe at him as he effortlessly pushed that kid down the street, and we cracked up talking about how random that was to see him just walk by in such a big city and how utterly hysterical his demeanor always was. She and I both remember that lunch so well.

At the wedding, we danced the night away to disco and hip-hop and Motown and everyone watched in amazement as my Great Uncle, who was 79 at the time, danced longer and with better rhythm, than any of us in our twenties. If one measures the success of a wedding by tired feet, then I would say this was a good one. I’m not sure there was a single person who did not test out that dance floor.

****

Tuesday, September 11, 2001. It was about 8:55am and my cell phone was ringing. While I was usually up and working by 8am, this particular morning I was still in my bed. The night before I had flown in very late from Hilton Head, SC, and I was exhausted. I saw the call was coming from someone in my office, so I picked it up, trying to sound awake and slightly embarrassed I had overslept. On the other end was a panicked voice. “Amanda, are you in your apartment?”…Well, yes I was. “A little plane just crashed into the World Trade Center”…So I rolled out of bed, and turned my TV to The Today Show.

Then my call waiting beeped in and the caller ID said it was my brother. “Amanda where are you?”…Well, in my apartment. “OK, I guess a plane hit the Trade Center”…I knew already. I was watching on TV. But actually no one really knew what it was. At first it was a small plane, maybe a twin engine? The reporters did not know anything. Speculating. Then, at 9:02, as I was watching the news and talking to my brother, I saw another plane fly into the South Tower.

This time, no one was speculating. It was no small plane. It was a large passenger jet. Plain as day, it was a United plane. And then I said to my brother, “oh my God, I gotta go.” And I hung up.

I ran down two flights of stairs and out the front doors of my building. I do not know why I ran outside. Panic. Often times you’ll hear people talk about the weather that day because it was such juxtaposition of perfect and disastrous. It was 80 degrees, not a single cloud in the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Zero humidity. Yes, under any other circumstances, this was perfect day in New York. But today was “9/11”.

When I ran into my street, everything actually appeared normal. After a few moments of deep breaths, I went back into my apartment and turned on my computer. The TV was still on, and by now, it was not hard to figure out that we had just experienced a terrorist attack. I sat in my office desk chair, and watched as my email inbox was just a continuous stream of emails. Subject lines, “are you ok?”, “what’s going on?”, “trying to call”. They kept popping up and I would open, and reply back, “yes, I’m fine” or “thank you for asking, I’m fine.” Finally, I sent a mass email out to everyone saying I was safe. 

By 945am, it was clear the entire country was under attack, not just New York. We could not use our phones. “All circuits are busy.” Hmmm? You think? My voicemail box kept flashing new messages…1, 2, 3…19, 20, 21, 22 …Just around this time was when I figured out I had no one. No family to go to, no way to get out of the city, only a handful of friends. My experience of a lifetime was suddenly a lonely and terrifying mistake. Thoughts raced through my mind. What was I supposed to do? How do I get off this “island”? What if they keep attacking, where will I run?

I was glued to that office chair, but now under the reality check of my isolation, I was praying for emails, any contact to the outside world was comforting. Could someone please instant message me? Where once I was living my dream, it was so clichéd to think that in an instant, I was living a nightmare.

Then at 10:13am another email, subject line: Very bad news. I opened it.

The email came from my aunt in North Carolina. I began reading. It said my cousin, Karleton, was probably on one of those planes that hit the World Trade Center.

I lost my breath. I pushed my office chair out from under me and I fell to my knees. I began hitting the seat of the chair and screaming, “no, no, how can this be? No, how can this happen?” The sobs came as gasps for air. That moment is frozen in time. I don’t know how long I sat on my knees there in front of my chair, it was as if time stopped. I was watching those large towers fall to the ground and I was still sitting on my floor. I could not feel my body and I began to see everything happening as if I was watching it on TV in some action packed unimaginable thriller. It would be days before I would be willing to live in my body again.

The first thing I did after regaining some composure was try to use my cell phone to call my home in Chicago. I knew my mom was at work and if she received this news about her nephew, she would need my father to give it to her, not an email. She was the type of person who needed family to brace her.  I dialed the home number over and over. All circuits are busy. Then a miracle- my father answered. “Did you see the email from Barb?” He hadn’t. “It’s bad Dad, Karleton was on that plane.” My normally stoic and close-to-the-vest with his emotions father emitted a sound that I’ve only heard twice in his life, one of utter shock and sadness all rolled into one. I had delivered the worst kind of news. “Dad, you have to go get mom. You have to go to her work and tell her.”

I sat in my office chair again, hoping for a sign of what to do. My instant messaging on my computer was in full swing. A good friend, who worked in the Newscorp building on 6^th Ave. said, “it had to be Bin Laden.” And as I was responding he said, “they are evacuating us. Call me if you need anything.” I didn’t even have a chance to tell him about my cousin.

Karleton was the kind of guy that everyone wanted to know. He picked up friends everywhere he went, and everyone who was his friend consistently said the same things about him. He was kind, he was generous, he loved his wife Haven “unequivocally”, he couldn’t get enough of his new son Jackson, he was too smart for his own good, he was tall, he was hilarious, he was always awesome, he was handsome, and ok, he was fancy…he once jokingly described himself as ubiquitous, and hot damn, I think he was.  Karleton, or KDBF as our family referred to him, was the kind of person that everyone thought was their very best friend. He made everyone feel special. Months after he died, we’d get emails from people about how they considered him their best friend and they’d tell a story about how they were lucky enough to spend time with him and Haven having dinner, or how KDBF would take them out for a cup of joe just to spend some time and catch up.

I had just emailed back and forth with KDBF the day before 9/11 about his son, 18-month old Jackson. He had sent out pictures from his trip to the Cape where he was holding Jackson’s hand on the beach. The pictures of this extremely tall man and his baby walking down the beach towards the water warmed your heart, and I told him so in my reply email. He replied to me, “thanks Cuz. You’re too kind. Love, KDBF” One day later, those same pictures broke my heart and I printed the email and hugged it close.

By mid-day, I began to see the people walking by my windows. I decided to brave the outside and I went out to my front stairs. People were walking in one direction- North. Most of these people had their briefcases and work bags. Women were wearing high heels, some were barefoot, but these people were all trying to make their way home. There was no bus service, no subway service, and no commuter trains. They closed the bridges & tunnels to all civilian cars. In a city that counted on public transportation, there was none. Anyone who wanted to go home had to walk across the bridges to get there. What I saw, was the beginning of the mid-town crowd. It would be hours before I would see the soot covered people making their way from downtown.

I directed myself to the nearest ATM thinking it might be practical to have extra cash on hand. Apparently I was not the only one thinking in this way. The line was at least two blocks long to use the typically unused machines in the vestibule of the bank on the corner. My wait in the line was long. I was standing there when I first heard the fighter jet boom overhead. It shook my body to the core and I stood there alone, tears running down my face. The woman behind me rubbed my back as she tightly held her young daughter’s hand. No one said a word, the silence was eerie, horrible, suffocating. My city that was always buzzing, was now at a loss for words.

Another jet. Another gasp for breath. This would go one for hours, until my brain was able to block out the noise.

For at least 45 minutes I stood in that line for money, and miraculously, I was able to get $200 of emergency cash when it was my turn. Relieved that I had money, I walked over to the Duane Reade on the next block to buy bottled water. In the chaos of the day, some of the news outlets were telling people to buy water. No one knew if the attacks were over and we had to be somewhat prepared for anything because at this point, not a single person could have seen this beautiful day turning out so ugly, and no one wanted to speculate on what was to come next.

The aisles of the Duane Reade were trashed. Everything was strewn on the floors. Only a few water bottles remained and they were rolling around on the floor. The coolers were practically empty and the store clerk, a small Filipino woman, looked disheveled, exhausted, and scared.  I gave her one of the twenty dollar bills I had just taken out of the ATM , got my change, and walked out of the store with my 3 gallon bottles of water I had picked up off of the floor without ever saying a word.

Once back home, I continued my routine of refreshing my email every few seconds. As news spread to more family and friends that KDBF was on Flight 11, emails and voicemails poured into my little apartment. My instant messaging was crazy- talking to my best friend who was stranded in Las Vegas, talking to officemates offering to help me get out of the city when it was possible, talking to a friend who was waiting to hear from his brother that worked downtown.

My family kept every email. We have thousands of emails from all over the world- we kept them for the future. So we didn’t forget the kindness of the world. We kept them for KDBF’s kids.

The friend who was waiting for his brother, his apartment was at 28^th St, and I’d been there a few times to hang out with other friends from time to time. He said I could come over if I needed to be somewhere with people since I was all alone and grieving and he was gathered with friends waiting for his brother to hopefully arrive. I had to go physically see people I knew.

I stepped out of my apartment again. A man covered in black dust was walking barefoot down the street. He was tightly clutching a briefcase, had a dark colored suit on, but it was ripped on the side of the thigh and turned a lighter shade from the soot, his feet were bare and bloodied, and he had dried blood streaks on his face. He stared straight ahead and just walked, zombie-like, with a very quick pace. I could not take my eyes off of him. There was a ball in my throat and the chill in my spine was like nothing I’d felt before. It hit me again, we were under attack, iconic buildings were gone, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, were dead. KDBF was gone. Hurry, hurry, find a cab.

It was no surprise that there was not a cab to be found in the city of a million cabs – but, as if God was actually looking out for just me, out of nowhere, there was an empty cab, and I jumped in. A kind old man was driving, he looked like George Carlin’s grandfather. His eyes were so honest, and he appeared disillusioned and drained. I told him my destination and as he handed me a long steamed red rose, he said, “there will be no charge today. I am trying to get everyone to their loved ones.” God bless. I told him about KDBF. I had to tell someone. He cried. He got me to my friend’s apartment. I tried to give him two twenty dollar bills, but he refused. I told him it was to cover gas, he still refused.

Later that night, after spending time with my friend and his friends (and with great relief, his brother had arrived and was leaving for Long Island when I walked into the apartment), I walked home. 10PM and the city was dead.

Then the jets became noticeable again. I’ve never been so shaken, defeated, lost.

At home, I was back in my office chair. Back to reading emails, instant messaging, and reading articles. A strange game became watching the scroll of the names of the victims at the bottom of the TV screen. Each time they came to the listing of KDBF’s flight, I just held my breath hoping his name was not there. It always was.

****

On the eve of 9/11, eleven years later, I can’t believe where I am. No longer alone, I have three perfect children, an extraordinary husband, beautiful friends, and my extended family is so awe-inspiring.

The long, long, way my family has come from that day is simply overwhelming. KDBF’s gorgeous and talented sons (turns out his wife was newly pregnant when he took that flight. She had delivered the news to him on September 9^th) are growing up happy and loved. They have a little brother and a father who has adopted them. His sisters are raising kids he’d be so proud of- he would have been a hilarious uncle. My aunt and uncle have grown emotionally and worked though a parent’s worst nightmare beautifully. And my cousins, all of them, we all have our own stories of that day. There are times when some of us will share our stories with each other and get emotional, however, most of the time, we will simply send a quick text or an email as a reminder of how freakin' handsome and ubiquitous Karleton was. Doing this reminds us all, we’re never alone, and it never fails to bring a smile to my face. Handsome and ubiquitous. Damn, that he was, that he was.