Ode to a lost friend

"I just found out my best friend died."
Those were the words uttered as an excuse
For the overcharge at a local restaurant.
I hadn’t noticed a mood change
I didn’t see the verge of tears look on her face
I detected a quiet sniffle but nothing more
Her best friend just died

There will be an autopsy
Autopsies are never good
They refer to the OD’d, the beaten, the run off the road kills
They’re for the junkies and the villains
And the murder driven psychos. 
Not for best friends or daughters
Or dates for the prom.
Autopsies are for others.

You have to finish your shift.  
Going home is not an option
Being sad is not in the job description
Selling strudel and cakes,
And ringing up the guests and wursts
Of this charming gasthaus.
That’s what you’ll do until end of shift
When you can call your family, or other friends
To give them the news and sit with them in silence -
On opposite ends of the phone
Listening to the quiet of pain
Wondering what to say.
For there really aren't any words
To take away the shock.
"I just found out my best friend died."

The mind of a poet, the heart of a warrior

I was once asked to write an essay entitled, "Who are you?"  At that time, I could only answer in a way that related to my father.  Who I was – or was not – was dependent upon our rather contentious relationship.  He has since died, but I understand that the answer is still very much the same.  Who am I?  I am the child of a poet who died in the war, then lived to write about it.

I am the minstrel daughter of a troubadour who described his world through poetry and music. From jungles of Vietnam to the mountains of North Carolina, my father soothed the pain of separation, poked fun at his friends, and taunted the foibles of an imperfect government.   His gifts were music and words, and I am blessed to have a portion of his talent. 

I am the warrior child of a Marine who fought battles in the Pacific during World War II.  My father never talked much about the war, except the recitation of assignments he had in theater; Binika, Rendova, Munda: exotic names for desolate, war torn islands.  He told funny stories that glanced over the reality of war.  Midnight requisitioning; flirtation with nurses; getting around the strict system of the military: these were his public memories of battle. Semper Fidelis.

I was born to a visionary blinded by the atrocities of war.  When my father came back from the Pacific, he suffered from a form of hysterical blindness.  While he joked about the war in public, his private memories included horrors so profound that they shattered him.  The military doctors administered shock treatments to help him recover from his illness. The treatments only twisted his memories and created a broken and dysfunctional psyche.  For decades I questioned the story of his reaction to war. Then last spring, in the midst of my own battles, I awoke with blindness in both eyes - a form of optical migraine.  Though my vision returned within minutes, I finally understood the way that the body can cope with too much stress.

I am a restless child of gypsy parents. Even my grand parents and great grand parents were restless wanderers.  The joke in our family was that I started hitchhiking at the age of three. However, the real journey began when my father was sent to Vietnam as part of a rebuilding mission with USAID.  My mother, sister and I went to Thailand, and while I held court in the streets of Bangkok, my father raided the opium parlors of Saigon, excavated VC camps and watched as convoys of trucks got blown up by the enemy. Dad fought his own battles in Vietnam, with alcohol, with malaria, with corruption so vast that his attempts to clean it up only scratched the surface.  My father’s exploits eventually wrecked our family.  But I understand all too well the anticipation of the next adventure.

I am a living legacy to my father's imperfections and to his great gifts.  He was a prodigy who knew the darker side of genius.  He knew the private horror that came with facing demons of his own making, while fighting against those that were bequeathed by another generation.  I struggle with my own moments of insanity, but now understand now that they are the "flip side" of an artistic mind.  Intelligence and creativity are but places along a mental continuum.  They are often accompanied by the darker side of the mind - depression, self-doubt, racing thoughts, and the high flight of mania. 

In the days before designer drugs, I too might have been an alcoholic or an addict or some other lost soul.   But thanks to good timing and the compassion of family and friends, I have carved a life out which did not include either of those outcomes.   It has not been perfect, but it is sufficient. 

Life Interruptus - Chiari Type I

Last week, I went in for an MRI. I had been experiencing memory loss, frequent falls, loss of fine motor movement in my fingers. I figured it was a routine CYA test. But then my doctor called - the diagnosis was Chiari Malformation, Type I. The cerebellar tonsils are protruding through the hole in the base of my skull by about 9 mm. Chiari can cause strangulation of the spinal cord, resulting in disrupted flow of cerebrospinal fluid. You can imagine what kind of havoc that causes.

My first impulse was to laugh. After 20 years and a dozen specialists, all of the weird symptoms finally made sense. Everything from ringing in the ears to memory loss, constant falls, running into things. It's all part of the problem. Friends looked shocked, some cast a light hearted joke; most stayed silent. What do you say? I'm really sorry that your brain is oozing out your skull? Too bad there are no cures? I hear surgery is only partially successful...how does that make you feel?

In reality, the diagnosis was both sobering and liberating. I could finally understand why some things happened. Why there were days when I could simply not function. I had a list of over 20 weird symptoms, but no one could ever figure out the cause. Now we know. Still waiting to talk to the neurologist, but for now I am taking it easy, reading all about it, and formulating questions. The more I know, the better I can prevent further damage.

Fear of flying?

Rule number 56.  Neoprene rubber doesn’t bend well at sub-zero temperatures.   It’s one of the many rules that military aircrew learn over the length of their career, but on a cold January morning in 1984, I was about to get an education of my own.

I was a survival instructor assigned to the Naval Air Test Center at “Pax” River, Maryland.  We taught pilots the basics of survival in the air and in the water, and so were encouraged to get “stick time,” or flight hours, in a variety of aircraft. The Naval Test Pilot School was the ideal place to do it.  The school sits on a bluff overlooking the Patuxent River, and is home to a staff of uniquely qualified pilots and aircrew who spend their days testing aircraft and training other pilots to do the same.  It houses a diverse collection of aircraft, boasts a flexible schedule, and is home to some of the hottest pilots on the planet.  Seriously.  What’s not to love?

I was fortunate enough to have an old friend stationed there during my tour, so I looked him up and asked if he would be the one to take me on my first flight.  This guy was as straight as they come: solid pilot, godly man, pillar of the community; you get the picture.  I felt safe with him at the controls.  He agreed to take me on my first flight in an ejection seat aircraft.  I had been flying in commercial planes since the age of 6, and had taken a few helicopter trips in Florida, but this was my first “real” flight.  I was slightly terrified, despite the fact that I trusted this man implicitly.

The morning of the fated flight came, and I reported to the school dressed in a shiny new flight suit and boots, ready to go.  I immediately learned we were required to wear rubber wetsuits under our flight suit to ward off hypothermia in case we had to eject or land the plane in water (not helping the whole terror factor, guys), so off I went to find one that would fit.  Off came the flight suit, and I ended up with a slightly too-small wetsuit and another, slightly less shiny flight suit.  Add an enormous helmet and 40 lbs of flight gear, and I was just another one of the guys; we were ready to go. 

As we opened the door to go out to the aircraft, bitter wind blew us back into the hangar. I looked over and the pilot’s lip was bleeding from the cold slap.  It should have been a sign. We soldiered ahead and made our way to a small, two-seater training aircraft.  I could feel part of my breakfast trying to escape, but swallowed hard and followed the pilot out.  Piece of cake, I thought.

Getting into the aircraft is no mean feat.  The lowest step is approximately 4 feet off the ground.  There are no step stools or fancy ladders, you just hike yourself on up there…unless you are wearing a full body suit of ¼ inch neoprene.  Did I mention that neoprene becomes less pliable in cold weather?  So there I was, staring sheepishly at this step, wondering how the hell I was going to get up there.  The crew chief, the guy in charge of the aircraft, comes over to assist.  “Just put your foot up there into the lowest step and I’ll give you a boost.”   So I raised my foot – about 2 feet off the ground  - and it slapped back down as the large rubber band I was wearing yanked me back.  The crewman had to forcefully lift my foot into the stirrup, then as I started to pull myself up, I felt this hand planted firmly on my right cheek and up I went, nearly head first into the plane.

 After righting myself and regaining my composure, I got seated into the cockpit.  It was barely wider than my shoulders and just long enough to hold the ejection seat, a control stick, and the largest control panel I had ever seen.  Breakfast threatened to come back a second time.  The ejection seat perhaps deserves a brief explanation.  Imagine a 4 inch molded rubber pad strapped to 20 pounds of TNT.  A pin the diameter of a pencil is the only thing between you and permanent weight loss.   It made my ass twitch (with apologies to Kevin Kline).

Finally, strapped in, pins pulled, helmet secured, oxygen mask in place (what?), we got the go-ahead.  The engines revved, and we were off.   So I thought.  I looked back and the aircrewman was giving us the infinity sign (a figure 8 on the side for you non-math majors).  It was the first sign I memorized in training: The plane was on fire.  Well, shit.  I didn’t think anything could burn in that weather.  The engine was shut down and we quickly reversed the ingress process: Pins in, fall out of the plane, limp back to the hangar.  I thought we were done.  Then my friend said, “it should only take a few minutes for them to bring the other plane around.”

Oh, God.

Chiari and bipolar disorder do not mix

Some of you have heard me talk about chiari malformation and about my experiences with bipolar disorder.  The combination is deadly.

Case in point: last Saturday, I spent too much time in the sun and got overheated; as usual I went from normal to heat strike without the benefit of anything in between.  (Outside temp was only 75 degrees, and I was under an umbrella most of that time!) The result was increased intracranial pressure. Got something cold to drink to keep body temp from spiking, but the headache was poised and ready to flare.

I realized I needed to get back to the house quickly, so I loaded up the car. I messed up my neck and shoulders lifting the bike onto the rack. [Total wt only 41lbs]  Massive headache kicks in (chiari).

I drove to my storage shed to unload the car in the rising heat; had to move a bunch of boxes to do that, because everything I own is in limbo at the moment. As I was working in the shed, three guys on Harleys decide to rev it up as they drove by; my throbbing head felt like it would explode. Headache and agitation now on overdrive.

Finally got all the boxes sorted and decided to take one home that needed to be gone through. I grabbed the box, turned around too fast, missed a step, fell over something on the floor of the shed. Landed on the gravel, contents of the box scattered because box is now broken.  Trashed two critical hard drives that fell out of the box. Legs are both injured, right hand is bruised and bleeding. Things got ugly.

Psychotic break. There I was, this 200 lb middle aged woman, weeping, screaming, cursing a blue streak, bleeding; I couldn’t move because I just reinjured everything I hurt the LAST time I fell (frequent falls are a gift from chiari). I was sitting in pointy gravel, so getting up required putting raw bleeding hand on said gravel to stabilize. Got up, screamed at the box (logically), shoved everything into the car and drive home.

Got to the house and completely lost it. I was borderline suicidal. I was standing at the bathroom sink sobbing uncontrollably, repeating, "I can't do this any more." At that moment, I could not forsee a future that did not include this kind of physical and emotional pain. (Bipolar is extremely narcissistic.) I wanted to give up.

Fortunately, my mother was there. She had me sit down, then packed my head and neck (and bruised, bleeding arm) with ice. I began to do my mindfulness practice... breathing, calming the brain, beating some more.  It took the better part of a half hour before I could stop sobbing and utter coherent sentences. I was exhausted,  embarrassed, and bleeding.  But no longer ready to toss in the towel.

Total elapsed time: one hour 20 minutes.

You all know someone with emotional issues. You may have friends who get migraines or muscle spams just from turning their head the wrong way. I wrote this to encourage you to see beyond the obvious.

The next time someone with chiari or bipolar or any other "invisible" illness tells you they've had a rough day, just take their word for it. Be understanding, even if you don't understand. And give then a hug if they're not too bruised.