I write this in a hunt and peck, one-handed fashion from my perch in paradise: Hilo, Hawaii, where the drama queen volcano Kilauea is wildly dancing and singing, erupting in her fiery, spectacular way. I take pleasure in knowing that when she settles down, or “pipes down,” as my mother impatiently used to say, there will most likely remain a blanket of littered pebbles: the cooling lava hardened into the sea green gemstone Peridot, which happens to be my birthstone. A blazing show of force and fury, a residue of quiet jewels. It is the bottom of an eventful year, that leaves us all with our own blend of anticipation, uncertainty and attempted hope. For so many reasons I am no exception.
A little over a week ago, as I was listening to my wee-hour BBC news programs, I heard an interview with Judy Robles, telling the story of her son Anthony. Raised in a traditional and religious family, much to her shock and shame she found herself pregnant at age 16. It was 1988. Unambivalent in her desire to keep and raise her baby, she knew she was in for a rough ride. She had no idea. Little Anthony was born with only one leg, the other missing all the way up to the hip. There was no stump even; nothing to attach a prosthesis to. But the young mother was undeterred. She loved her little son and undertook the unimaginable challenges of his care and upbringing. Being of color, fatherless and seriously disabled, little Anthony was up against great odds. It was a Hallmark attachment story, where the mother’s indomitable love, presence and encouragement inspired young Anthony to discover, hone his skill and excel as a competitive wrestler. By the age of 23, he rose to the level of US national NCAA (National Collegiate Athletic Association) champion for his weight class. It was a feel-good adversity story of parenting gone right. I thought, “I have to write about this.” Fast forward, one week later.
Balance
One thing I have discovered, to my chagrin and admitted embarrassment, is that one side effect of “spine issues” is irregularity of balance, a fact reverberating with ironies for me. In its literal sense, physiological balance is regulated by the vestibular system of the brain, located in the brainstem and receiving information from the inner ear. I remember only a little of what I began learning from Ruth Lanius about the attachment-developmental significance of vestibular stimulation and function. But I did remember it was significant. And I was humbly reminded that much like the vagus nerve, the spine appears to be connected to everything. Balance, however, in all its ramifications, has always been elusive to me. I remember already when I was about five, my mother impatiently and irritably attempting, clearly without success, to teach me the word and its practical meaning: moderation!! To this day I hate to say I still haven’t “got it.” Back to the present: literal balance.
I have increasingly discovered over the last year or so, that my balance is not good. For this lifelong endurance athlete, it has been a humbling blow that I have intermittently “faced” or been in denial about. Recent experience, as well as visits with various spine specialists have made it increasingly and painfully undeniable…
So last week, we went out with my beloved sister and brother-in-law. After a delightful evening, we were finding our way to the door of the busy San Francisco restaurant, and balance eluded me. Ungracefully I landed hard on my right wrist. Thankfully I did not hit my sorry head, so my few remaining neurons were spared. But it hurt. No, I do not drink or use substances: I was not “guilty” of that. Clearly it was my own raw clumsiness and/or pathology. Already after the brief drive home, my wrist and arm, besides being fiercely painful, were hideously swollen and grotesquely bent out of shape. But worst of all, the fear: Oh no!!! What does this mean, a disabled right arm? And what disability?
My sister, who had seen me go down, was of course worried and sad. They had hosted what was until then, a really nice time. Admittedly it was a rough night. Thanks to the eight-hour time difference, one of my angels in the UK was available at what was 2:00AM to me, and generously stayed on the phone with me for almost two hours, when I was finally able to go to sleep.
Later in the morning, we went to the emergency room. It was Sunday, right before a major holiday, so it was a skeletal staff. The wait in the ER is rarely short. But we were remembering the last time we were there, in the height of Pandemic lockdown, when I had an unrelenting mysterious nosebleed, that my husband was not allowed for COVID safety reasons to wait with me. Thankfully all of that is long past, and I have enormous gratitude and good feelings about that hospital, which is conveniently right down the hill from our house.
Acceptance
The X-rays showed what was no great surprise: my wrist is seriously broken. Yes, it hurts like a MF, but not all the time. I scrupulously declined all pain meds, citing my lifelong love of morphine. And much as I love and admire Keith Richard, I prefer to avoid his little detour. And now I must find my way, for a while one armed and without my ordinarily dominant hand. Thankfully, our trip to Hawaii was planned and in place. Cold and tired, I had been eagerly anticipating it, now more than ever. To be sure, as a one-armed, unaccustomed southpaw, everything, if I am able to do it, takes extra time and ingenuity, and a measure every child of neglect’s nemesis: asking for help. The hardest thing is opening jars or bottles, that require steadying and twisting, so my husband finds himself doing a lot of that.
Fortunately, here in Hawaii, sleeves are blessedly superfluous, as getting anything over the bulky and uncomfortable girth of my “temporary cast,” is an untoward challenge. And at home I tend to be unhappily freezing in what to many are the temperate climes of the Bay Area. When we return, I must see the orthopedic doc who will determine the “next steps,” the ER doc being uncertain as to whether it would be a simple “permanent” cast, or the dreaded “s word.” It is wait and see.
Meanwhile, I must adapt to what I can do and not do. Thinking of Anthony Robles, of course I want to do everything as usual. Even though I am almost 70 years old…Perhaps I must have the humility to scale it down, and most definitely to continue advancing the neglect recovery task of graciously requesting, receiving and appreciating help. Fortunately, I have an angel for a husband, a phenomenal team, and wonderful friends to help me with that. And we have both the resources and availability for good medical care. So far, the hunt and peck is working OK for writing. And for the videos you will have to indulge me the absence of makeup and earrings for a while.
Meanwhile, there are much larger fish to fry in this sorry world of ours. Before all this happened, I was going to write about a wonderfully hopeful turn of events, and thank EFT (Emotionally Focused Therapy) clinician, Sandy Jardine, and Academy for Therapy Wisdom’s Brian Spielmann for facilitating the delivery of Neglect Informed Psychotherapy to 148 Ukrainian therapists. It is a source of great joy, to make a contribution, however modest, to that misbegotten people.
My rallying cry for 2025 continues to be GIVE PEACE A CHANCE! And who know, perhaps I will be able to bake my sourdough with one hand? Or make cheese, if in smaller denominations? Let’s see!
Hope and Health, and Happy New Year to all!
Today’s song:
