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Yes. I know it is Wednesday…
Until Tuesday is the name of the book written by Iraq war veteran, PTSD and traumatic brain injury sufferer, author and veterans advocate, Luis Montalvan. Tuesday is the name of his service dog, and the book is the story of the road to recovery that started just at the other end of a leash.
Montalvan appeared on David Letterman last night. The story of how he sustained injuries is chilling. If you read the book you will find it both miraculous and telling that he returned to service and continued to deploy after sustaining those injuries. That is the kind of man he is; the kind that, like many service members, seems always going into places that strike fear, not because it is easy, but because it is important; to be shaking off their own injuries for the sake of their troops, their country or the mission.
It seemed to me, as I watched last night, that Montalvan struggles to keep it all together. It was clear to me that this was not an environment well-suited to his peace of mind. I suspect that he launched himself once more into the fray for the sake of so many returning veterans. This was his stage to advocate for support for those who suffer invisible injuries. It was his stand for better access to service dogs for veterans.
Once more shaking off his own injury for the sake of his fellow servicemen.
You can see the entire interview here:
Last night’s guest on the The Daily Show was Medal of Honor winner Leroy Petry. Maybe some of you caught the on air interview. Jon Stewart, known for taking on all-comers, showed unusual deference to this guest (as well he should).
If you missed the aired version you can catch the whole episode here (Sgt. Petry interview starts about minute 13).
Even you night owls probably missed the extended interview that was available on the web only, though.
The word Jon Stewart is struggling to come with around the 4:30 minute mark here in the extended interview, is “grace”.
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to catch up on the doctor’s appointments that I have neglected over the last 4 or 5 years. There’s a bunch of them…
Ack.
One of the downsides of actually going to the doctor is, of course, the risk that they will ruin your perfect health with their silly questions. It’s rather like looking at my balloon-headed beast with her allergic reaction to some bite or another, suddenly I began to itch.
Does this hurt?
Well…now that I think about it.
And your asthma?
Hmmm…wheez…It’s fine.
How long have you had that lump?
Huh?
So, today I had to have my mammogram redone and a follow-up ultrasound, just to be sure. I am fine. All is well so no need to worry.
Frankly, I wasn’t all that worried going in. Maybe I was being naive, but I just knew that it wasn’t an issue.
Once I was sitting and waiting, though, my anxiety level started to rise. You see when you have a diagnostic appointment rather than a routine check up, you wait in a different room.
Both waiting areas are similarly equipped. Both have herbal tea or ice water available. Both have a lovely selection of magazines and calming music being piped in softly. While the views vary slightly from one end of the building to another, both have windows letting in the sunshine.
Both waiting rooms also have gas fireplaces, although, in the larger room for those waiting for annual screening appointments, it was off the last time I was in, despite the chill of February. Today, on the other side of the building despite nearly 80 degree outside temps, the fireplace was blasting away. What’s more telling I suppose, is that several woman huddled nearby.
That wasn’t the only telling difference.
While the on other side most people are respectful of the serene environment, they are, in general, cheerful. There are occasional giggles. People chat.
There are no giggles on the diagnostic side.
My fellow waiters, if not definitively sick, have real symptoms; a reason other than the calendar for being where they are, and for many of them a growing familiarity with this room. And in that room is a respectful, somber, anxious silence.
With luck I will never go back to that side of the building. For the many women who will, I am offering up a silent prayer.
We’ve all had days that go from bad to worse; where one bad decision or unlucky event snowballs, and everything we do to correct it gets us deeper and deeper into trouble. Most of us have the benefit of doing that in the privacy of our own homes or the not quite so private, but still contained arena of our offices.
Yesterday, pro golfer Kevin Na had one of those days on national television, on a day that he had agreed to wear a microphone as tv crews followed his play.
A tee shot into the woods left his ball unplayable. Biting the bullet and taking a penalty shot he returned to the tee for a do-over… which also landed in the woods. Na’s next shot hit a tree, hit him (also a penalty) and landed further into the brambles.
When all was said and done, between penalties, a swing and a miss, both left- and right-handed shots around obstacles, Na finished the hole with scratched arms, a tear in his shirt, leaves and brambles stuck to what had been pristine white slacks, a 16 on his scorecard, 12 over par, and a smile…
…because sometimes you have to laugh or you’ll cry.
And he emerged a hero to the every-golfers around the country. He took a beating on this hole. He wrote down the unimaginable score of 16. And he went on to play an otherwise respectable round of golf.
Taking away the 12 extra strokes on this one disastrous hole, Na was 4 under par for the day.
It is not how you fall. It is how you get up.
You can see the whole misadventure here:
If you find yourself with a spare four minutes and would like a little bit of guidance on how to live this life…
While there are, of course, big names and veterans who are in the Iditarod to win it, and there are probably rookies who have high hopes of being the newcomer who shows the old hands up; many who sign up for this endurance run simply wish to finish. I, being in awe of those who would even attempt this race, think that “just wanting to finish” is a lofty goal indeed.
But there are limits, of course. At some point the checkpoint volunteers will need to move on or come home. At some point, enough is enough for the musher and the dogs, too. While some mushers will scratch along the way as their dogs fatigue or as even they themselves become trail weary or injured, the trail committee reserves the right to remove a musher and his team from the race for a number of reasons
To scratch is to make the decision for yourself and your team. To be withdrawn is to have officials make the decision for you, although that is not, necessarily, meant to be punitive.
Mitch Seavey was withdrawn on Thursday morning after cutting his hand, nearly severing a finger, we’re told, while opening a bale of straw. In a brief interview while walking to an aircraft for his ride home, he called the trail committee’s decision a good call. Still, he did not look happy. Like the dogs who had been dropped for injuries or illness, that he would rather still be racing was written all over his face.
Seavey’s withdrawal was for injury; both for his own good and for the sake of the race; loss of life or limb being very bad publicity, you know.
Other withdrawals may stem from rules violations; unethical or un-sportsmanlike behavior.
One last rule deals with a musher and his or her team’s failure to stay competitive, although one might argue that “competitive” might not be precisely the right term, as this rule deals with the musher at the back of the back. Like I said before, though, at some point volunteers must leave and checkpoints must get shut down. To that end, the last guy through, called the Red Lantern, must make certain cut-off times.
Those cut-off times are evaluated at McGrath, Grayling and Unalakleet and are dependent every year on the time the leader passed those checkpoints.
The current Red Lantern is #57 James Bardoner.
Bardoner had 72 hours from the time the leader entered McGrath to arrive there himself. He checked in at McGrath just a little more than 56 hours after Martin Buser, the leader at the point on the trail. The Red Lantern will have 96 hours from the point the leader entered Grayling to make it to that checkpoint. Hugh Neff arrived there at 4 p.m. on the 11th, so Bardoner, or anyone else who follows on the trail will have to make it to Grayling by Tuesday afternoon. With more than 100 miles to go over the next day and a half, it remains to be seen if he will stay in the race.
I won’t jinx him by saying whether I hope he makes it or not.
A long time ago, I wrote about how difficult family dynamics can make dealing with stressful situations, like aging parents, even more difficult. Even in the best of families, there are times that are just plain difficult. And even in the good times family can simply be hard.
We have huge expectations and a lifetime worth of baggage that come along for the ride in the family car. Sometimes there are unforgivable wrongs behind the hard feelings. Many times there are resentments that linger from something so utterly uncontrollable as the order in which each sibling was born or as incomprehensible as perceived favoritism or simply from the pressure to be a good kid.
I was once again reminded of this by a particularly telling statement made amidst the daily razzing one of the morning show DJ’s was taking.
The subject of the day’s razzing stemmed from the co-hosts’ incredulous reactions to the news of the host’s actions the previous week when his elderly neighbors found themselves in crisis. The morning show host had grudgingly recounted his efforts of the previous week; hesitant I am sure both for the disbelief he would face and for blowing his cover as the guy least likely to come through. But his wife had let the cat out of the bag and the co-hosts weren’t going to let it go.
What struck me in the middle of this conversation was the host’s declaration that he could not have done for his own parents what he did for his neighbors. In that statement, he held no malice for his own folks. He just meant that the combined obstacles of added work in the face of bearing witness to his parent’s decline would have been more than he was willing, or maybe able, to contemplate. To illustrate his point he recounted that the interaction of his neighbor’s daughter with her parents, her mother in particular quickly devolved to shouting.
“Mom why can’t you…? You know that doesn’t go there. You know dad can’t come home now!!”
Been there.
Shouted that.
Caring for an elderly parent, particularly one with dementia, isn’t just a series of tasks. It’s not just another household to clean and five times more doctors appointments to keep track of. It’s not just about the fact that every couch crevice and coat pocket is host to a wad of damp kleenex and every scrap of paper has a note scrawled with some vital piece of unintelligible information. It’s not just the endless stream of questions…or really the endless stream of question (singular); the same one repeated until you become convinced that not only is there a genetic component to many forms of dementia but that there is a fair chance that it is also contagious and that you seem to be showing all the symptoms, too.
Caring for an elderly parent comes with fear of getting it wrong, anxiety over getting their disease, real or perceived pressure from siblings and the very real sense of impending loss. That, my friends, is a lot of baggage to get loaded up for a single trip to the doctor, and it is a lot of stuff to get in the way while you are trying to vacuuming. It’s a lot to carry in from the car every time you go to visit.
On a long journey like the trip through aging parenthood, we need to learn to travel lighter.
It’s mid-term week at one of the area colleges. Two months into the semester, and for many students, it will be another two months before getting to go home again for the holidays. On top of the academic pressure, for many there is work pressure, financial worry and social pressure, as well.
I look back fondly at my college years, but it wasn’t all fun and games. It was hard work, and it was, at times, quite stressful. I had the benefit of the brigade structure. I was accountable for my actions and for people in my squad every day, but other folks were accountable for my well-being, as well. Most campuses don’t have that kind of support structure, and, indeed, even where I went to school it was far from foolproof.
More than ever, though, it seems that campuses across the country are struggling to support the well-being of the many teens at-risk. The news has been plastered with stories of suicide, substance abuse, bullying… The list goes on.
The campus I went to today has a very active chapter of a national organization called Active Minds, a group that actively works to de-stigmatize mental illness and advocate for access to mental health resources. Today they were taking a mental health day; inviting the Rochester Chapter of Therapy Dog International to come down to the student union.
We arrived in force, with 8 dog and handler teams and enough slobber to go around.
For the two hours that we were there, the beast and I were surrounded by college students of every shape and size; some fearless and eager for puppy kisses, others less bold but still seemingly in need of a little unconditional love. One or two of the students came and sat with us for nearly the whole two hours, others stopped by then moved on to other dogs, still others returned again and again for one last pat or one more kiss.
The beast loved it and was loved in return. Her tail wagged for nearly two hours straight. She licked faces and wiggled for the whole crowd; circling around to make sure she didn’t miss anyone.
One young woman lingered on the edge of the crowd for the longest time; watching and gradually edging a little closer to the beast and I. At one point, I overheard her tell a friend that she’s never had a dog and she was afraid. Eventually she joined the group sitting around the beast, still watching, at first, working up the nerve. You should have seen her face when she finally sunk her fingers into some fur.
Now that is therapy!!!
I am blessed that, for me, dark days do pass. I don’t always remember that, but even in my deepest holes, I think that somewhere in the corners of my brain I do know that this will not last forever, or, at the very least, I have the kind of friends who will stop and the top of the hole and bellow down for me to get my sorry butt out.
It doesn’t make the hole any less deep, but at some point in my misery the thought will emerge that I need go in search of a ladder. I need to let someone wrap their arms around me and say it will be OK. I need to listen to the voices of those who have been there; who know the pain and also know that it gets better. I need to take their offers to help.
It’s amazing what happens when I look up out of the hole.
When I look out of my hole I realize that I can begin to reshape friendships that no longer have the benefit of geographic proximity and form them into something that capitalizes on the distance; that revels in their new experiences.
Even though I cannot change the course of my mother’s illness and I cannot change the timeline, when I look past the gloom I can remind myself that I am here because I long ago decided that this was the choice I could best live with in the long run; regardless of the challenges in the near-term.
I also remember that I am not alone in this vigil; that 14 million families in the U.S. alone are in this boat with me; that millions more have done this before me; many without the support of their families, the benefit of understanding the process, the ability to distinguish between the illness and their loved one, or the means to get assistance.
When I let the beast get close enough, I am reminded that she does have some endearing qualities. I find out that she can be good. She can listen… and, given the chance, the girl can snuggle. Her being curled up next to me, breathing on my ice-cold feet came as a potent reminder that I didn’t really want to give her away or give up on her.
So now I just need to get writing again. Then, maybe, I will have put last week behind me.
I wrote several days ago about receiving our official paperwork from Therapy Dog International (TDI). It was a big day, but, like many of those big milestones, just when you think you are done, it turns out that you have simply opened the door to the next big thing…and that’s OK. It’s important to keep learning, growing.
Last night’s email brought the TDI newsletter filled with all the mundane news of the organization; reminders to get our annual renewals in, clarification on vaccination requirements, list of agencies requesting therapy dog team visits. The usual stuff…
This month’s newsletter, though, also contained an article on the work of therapy dogs in Disaster Response. The dogs provide a little bit of love and maybe a little home to those folks who have been displaced by disaster; those folks having the worst day of their lives. The Disaster Stress Relief Dogs are also frequent visitors to the camps of folks who show up to help and who, collaterally, bear witness to unspeakable injury and horrific damages.
The nice thing about the dogs is that they don’t need for you to tell them about it. They would just like to know if a good snuggle or a hug or, perhaps, some slobber might help take your mind off it.
We don’t have a history of natural disasters around my hometown. (Knock on wood) We don’t get hurricanes or tornadoes or serious floods or forest fires. I would consider the likelihood of some kind of terrorist attack centering here highly unlikely (again, let’s knock on wood). Where there are no disasters, there can hardly be said to be a need for a Disaster Stress Relief Dog, and I am uncertain if I would want to bear the cost of travel with the beast to get to where we could do some good.
Still it was an appealing opportunity to me.
I started the online training courses last night…
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