Tale as Old As Time

My husband and I are lucky enough to live close to a great musical theater in the Chicago suburbs, and we’ve held season tickets for years. But I wasn’t looking forward to seeing “Beauty and the Beast” there yesterday.

For one thing, it’s days from Christmas, and I was smack in the middle of my annual bout with anxiety and guilt about the holiday, feelings that predate my brain injury. (As in “The Grinch,” please don’t ask why; no one quite knows the reason.) I also was overwhelmed and longed for my comforting routines, both of which are well-known TBI traits.

There was also the show itself. “Beauty and the Beast” is family fare, and our former Disney princess is now a city-dwelling career (gasp!) woman.

But as my husband drove us to the theater, I began humming, and then singing lyrics that I thought were stuck somewhere in my brain. I continued as we walked hand in hand from our parking spot a few blocks away:

“Barely even friends, then somebody bends unexpectedly.” 

My husband reminded me that I was singing the title song–and that brought back a beautiful image of my daughter as a toddler, when I used to finish with our own version of the chorus:

“… Beauty and her daddy.”

He also brought back the memory of our little girl’s purple “Belle dress,” a short, sleeveless number that she wore for such a long time that it eventually became the top for leggings! We still have that Belle dress, by the way.

Somehow I managed to keep the waterworks in check … almost.

Then we got to the theater lobby and beheld all the little Belles in their flowing yellow ballgowns. Beauty, indeed! This was definitely the intended audience, so while I was standing around getting all mushy and nostalgic, my husband was looking around for an adult-Belle pair with whom we could swap our front-row/center tickets. We ended up giving a young girl and her grandma a gift, but it was truly a gift for us, too.

The production was wonderful. The most beautiful moment of all came when, after the candlestick Lumiere cries, “Now we’ll never be human!” a little girl’s voice rang out from the rafters. “Yes, you will!” The audience laughed and applauded. (Later in Act 2, a transformed Lumiere offers a brilliant bit of improv: “Zee child was right!”)

All in all, a fabulous day at the theater. Um, except for the seizure/anxiety attack I fought off in Act 1 when Belle was being ridiculed by the townsfolk for being “odd.” As an oddball, that hit too close to home, plus I’ve been tired and stressed and … you know.

Also, as always during curtain calls, I immediately stood to cheer, adding “Bravo!” and “Brava!” as needed and generally making a fool of myself. I just want the performers to know how much I truly appreciate them. This time, though, I felt my husband pull my sweater down over my pants. I asked later and, yes, my underpants had been showing.

Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

Flushing Mr. Hanky

Anybody remember that seasonal “South Park” character Mr. Hanky, the talking, er, poo with the Santa hat that would show up and say, “Hidey-ho!” or something like that?

Well, that’s what I felt like had been left in my Christmas stocking in recent days. One turn of misfortune after another had left me full of self-pity. First I learned I would need yet another root canal on one of the teeth that was cracked in the 2008 car crash that led to my brain injury. (But thanks to that TBI, I’d been able to smell that something was up when I flossed.)

Then that night, while flossing as I sat on the bed, something fell in my lap: the crown over yet another tooth. Hidey-ho! And this same thing had happened to me months before while I brushed my teeth over the sink. This was a different front crown, I forget which, but I’ll never forget what my mouth looked like. The horror, the horror!

So wah-wah, poor me.

My husband took care of everything, getting me an appointment today for the crown replacement (I was going to keep my mouth shut until Monday, when I get root-canaled) and explaining that my anti-seizure drug tends to weaken teeth and bones.

He then drove me to a yoga class, which he knows works like magic for my outlook.

Bad teeth … bah! I’m alive, I’ve got family and friends who love me and it’s Christmastime.

Down the drain, Mr. Hanky! (Well, not the cartoon character; he’s hilarious.)

Free Piano Lesson With Brain Tune-Up

Howdy, folks! I just got my electrodes unglued after spending a few days looking (and possibly acting) like Gollum of “Lord of the Rings.”

This week was my annual at-home EEG. I still have what I call “invisible” seizures, even though they’re not the convulsive kind, and only very rarely do I get an “aura,” the feeling that one might be coming on. Even those sensations, I’m told, could be anxiety attacks.

ANXIETY??? WHAT’S THERE TO BE ANXIOUS ABOUT THESE DAYS???!!!

Ahem. Anyway, this time I was monitored around the clock by video, so that any time something weird showed up in my brain waves, my neurologist would be able to match it with my facial expression, especially my eyes. I also kept a log of my activities. (I figured that “writing in my log of activities” didn’t count as an activity.)

I had to limit myself to areas where the camera could see, so during the day we kept the tripod-supported device on the kitchen table, rotating it as necessary. In the evenings it would be in the living room, showing the folks at Neurotech that we eat dinner on the couch in front of the TV. Then up it would go to watch me read and sleep. Bathrooms were off-limits, camera-wise.

Michael, a former Army medic who works for the home EEG-monitoring company Neurotech, got my head hooked up. As he expertly performed my “reverse makeover,” I couldn’t help but notice the awesome eagle tattoo on his forearm. He’d served in Afghanistan and is still in the Reserves.

We talked about the vets I’d met as a volunteer yoga instructor at the local Veterans Center — from Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan.  I also told him about how my dad joined the Navy in World War II even though he was underage and now keeps his own awesome (anchor) tats covered with his sleeves.

It turns out both Michael and I had taken only a bit of piano lessons long ago and mostly liked to teach ourselves. I have a stash of songs deep in my brain that my fingers know how to play with only a little practice, but sight-reading is a challenge.

He taught me the correct finger positions for playing a C scale with the left and right hands simultaneously. Elementary stuff, but I’m still working on it, as well as other scales. He also taught me some chord progressions that have led to aha! moments for me musically in the past couple of days.

So thank you, Michael of Neurotech, for your service to the country and also to my brain.

I’m Back

Singing country crooner Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” in the shower probably isn’t the best way to perk yourself up when you’re feeling out of sorts, especially if the fear that you are crazy is what has you “feelin’ so blue.” Still, I love that song, and I love singing, so …

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Patsy Cline

The problem was the song wouldn’t get out of my head.

So I turned to my own personal channel-changer: my brain. “This song is depressing,” I thought at it. “Give me a better one.” (Music works like that for me.)

Immediately, I heard a familiar quick-chiming guitar riff.

“Hahaha! ‘The Bitch Is Back’!’

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Sir Elton John

 

The Note and the Notes

My father, the 91-year-old co-owner of the very big Ace Hardware in my very small hometown, never forgets a birthday, including those of in-laws and grandchildren, but he often forgets to mail the card in time. When he does, he never fails to call and wish the recipient a happy birthday. On Saturday he called with greetings for my husband.

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Dad asked if I’d received the note he’d sent me recently, along with a copy of an article that he found applicable to both of us–me as a brain injury victim and him as a nonagenarian. I hadn’t found it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t somewhere in the pile of mail on the kitchen table.

I dug around and soon found the business-size envelope addressed to me, in his familiar handwriting. The clipping was headlined “Fish More, Live Longer,” and it began with the observation that time seems to pass more quickly as we age, whereas kids seem to be forever impatient for things to hurry up and happen.

The theory is that children are constantly getting new mental images and experiences but that, as we age, “we lose this intensity of perception, and the world becomes a dreary and familiar place–so dreary and familiar that we stop paying attention to it.”

So lifelong learning and challenges are the key to keeping or regaining a healthy brain, as is taking time to “fish more” (or stop and smell the roses).

Dad and I are literally on the same page! Not only does he go to work at the store every day, he participates in numerous community activities and is locally famous for his garden and fish pond.

And about that note? The best part was the phrase “I think you and I have a lot in common.”

Besides paying me an enormous compliment, I think he was kinda-sorta suggesting a blog idea, so I was going to get right on that after the relaxing weekend I was having with my husband, whose birthday coincides with the long Fourth of July weekend.


But Saturday evening, as we were relaxing outside in the shade of the patio umbrella listening to music, a familiar classical piano piece came on, and so did a lightbulb in my head. “Hey, I think I used to play a simple version of that!”

Ted told me it was Beethoven’s Fur Elise. So I ran inside to try it out on my “piano” (electronic keyboard). Muscle memory didn’t work, but I quickly figured it out, scribbling down the notes (just letters) as I went. I asked him why my fingers didn’t remember the notes, as often happens with songs I’d learned in childhood. He said, “Maybe it was from that piano class you took in college.” What piano class??? (That’s brain injury for ya.)

Yeah, so apparently sometime after I met Ted junior year, I took a piano class. Before graduation I also managed to squeeze in History of Rock and Roll and History of the Beatles, which I do vividly remember.

When I posted about the musical memory/non-memory on Facebook, along with a photo of my musical-ish scribbles, one of my friends replied with a cartoon clip of Shroeder playing the opening of Fur Elise in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Hmmm, I says to myself, maybe I was just imitating Shroeder.

The next day, I sat down at the “piano” bench again. I’ll let Facebook tell it: “ON SECOND THOUGHT: Yesterday’s musical epiphany didn’t sound quite right when I tried to play my scribbles today, so I had another go. Still don’t know if I learned “Fur Elise in an unremembered college class or from Schroeder of the Peanuts. Either way, it was a good brain exercise.”

But then … a thought: What if this came from the songbook that came with my keyboard, which I received years after my TBI? I’m no good at sight-reading, and it’s hard to make recent memories stick, so maybe I labored over this thing and then put the book in a drawer and forgot it?

I looked through my songbooks and, yes, there was a version of Fur Elise. Rats!

So it’s still a musical mystery, but there’s something else here–something that ties together the note from my dad and the notes spinning (happily) in my head. The connection came, as connections often do, during a moment of quiet contemplation. I often find these moments, as Dad does, in nature.

Such moments also come during prayer or meditation. Today’s epiphany came at the end of yoga class, during savasana, a time when we lie on our backs with our eyes closed and our bodies and minds completely relaxed.

A song began playing in my head: Fur Elise! And suddenly I knew how the two competing topics would become one. My musicality came from my late mother’s side of the family. I can close my eyes and see her smiling and singing in church. Yes, I’m glad I inherited my dad’s energy and zest for life, and I’m also glad that my mother put music in my heart.

Tougher Than I Know

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Part of the flier my husband created for the yoga classes I teach to veterans.

My husband likes to tell me something when I’m feeling down–not just down-in-the-dumps down, but “I’m a brain-injured dumb-dumb, and I can’t cope with this and this and this and whatever anymore” down.

You can probably guess by the title of this piece what his message is. “You’re tougher than you know,” he always says, and I always end up feeling better. Then we always end up laughing about an incident during my hospitalization after The Accident more than a decade ago, during a time when I was in and out of consciousness and mostly out of coherence. A former high school band mate who’d gone on to become a professional musician had apparently told my sister at one point that I had perfect pitch. In the hospital I became convinced this saxophonist had called me a “perfect b—-!” During the years that followed, that silly misunderstanding morphed into my husband’s belief that I am “one tough b—-” (meant as a compliment, of course), and he’s almost made me believe it.

But yesterday, from beginning to almost the end, was a true test of my tough b—-ery.

So I wake up, resolved not to hoof it to the Community Center gym as I usually do because I was nursing a twisted ankle. With coffee in hand and a pillow propping up my foot, I was reading the newspaper when a call came from the Veterans Center, where I was due to teach my next yoga class in a week.

The social worker there greeted me in a cheery voice and said she wanted to let me know who was expected at tonight’s class. (You might recall from the previous paragraph that the next class wasn’t for a week.) Oops. After my initial panic, I told her I’d be happy to teach.

The truth is, the center had been having trouble getting participants to commit to coming to yoga. For the most part, they come for counseling, so getting even a small turnout to my classes has been a challenge. I understand that. It’s just that I’ve spent many a stressful Tuesday and/or Wednesday trying to reach the right contact person at the short-staffed, overworked office.

And I’ve been known to obsess over the yoga sequences I plan, revising or completely redoing them up to the last minute.

And I don’t drive, so I coordinate with a neighbor to take me to the center. That arrangement went off without a hitch … until yesterday. She hadn’t come to pick me up, so I lugged my equipment to her door and rang the bell. … Nothing. So I tried her cell phone, leaving a message that we must’ve gotten our wires crossed about the date (the class used to be on Thursdays) and that I would get another ride. (She called me after I’d gotten to the vet center–oops, spoiler alert–apologizing profusely for having fallen asleep. No worries, Pat!)

And it was raining. And I’m not good with Plan B’s.

But then I pulled up the hood of my raincoat, walked back across the street and called my next-door neighbor, Ian. (Ringing doorbells is so last century.) He just needed five minutes for his little boy to finish his dinner, and he’d be right over, with his son in tow. So I got to know a neighbor I’d only spoken with in passing and made it to the Veterans Center in time.

The yoga class, as always, was a joy! When I told the class that I’d have missed the morning phone call if I’d gone to the gym as planned, one of the veterans said it must have been meant to be. I think he’s right.

The overworked social worker had offered to drive me home, but my husband made it back from work in time to pick me up. I told him his words had gotten me through what for me was a hard day.

“You’re tougher than you know,” he said. … “B—-.”

Is That a Duck on the Roof, or Am I Just Quacking Up?

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Check out the view from my cat’s bedroom window this morning. (Don’t ask.) Upon closer inspection (see pic below), I confirmed that, in fact, a duck and not a goose was sitting on my neighbor’s rooftop. The mallard stayed there soaking up the sun for quite a while … but soon enough, I heard him quacking into the distance to start his day. I wish I could say the same for myself (except for the quacking), but I got distracted by my brain-injury blog and hampered by my own brain’s inability to handle technology. I don’t know where my feathered friend was headed, but I imagine he was seeking better real estate.

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