My new walking legs / Poem: Adam Antosh, God's brave soldier

What in tarnation is that pink flower peeking from my lamppost garden?

After walking outside I saw to my surprise it was a Rose of Sharon shrub that had taken root! I have several in my back yard, so somehow it had floated over to the front, a welcome addition to the fading bounty of late summer.

If it looks like a hibiscus, that's b/c its Latin name is Hibiscus syriacus.

After my back surgery 10 days ago, it took quite a while to get back to the Real Me. I was doped up on pain killers, wondering if I'd have to go to Rehab to get off. Without fanfare I went off three days ago with no problem.

The two things I enjoy most now are:

Falling asleep. When I had sciatica, the worst pain assailed while lying in bed. Every part of my left leg, from the butt on down to my toes, ached, throbbed, sizzled, gnawed and bit. But sleep I did.

Now I can lie in bed and enjoy the delicious feel of clean sheets beneath me, while all thought turns off and I lay in a kind of meditation with myself. I've wondered, in this state, if this is what true Buddha-like meditation is all about.

You go deep into your interior and find out about yourself and the world by going inside the universe of You.

So I lie there, usually sleeping downstairs in a bed in the family room, the back porch door open to the sounds of the night.

The crickets and cicada make a lovely fine-staccato sound, reminding us we're all part of nature, from the teeniest unseen bug up to the majestic lions on the Serengeti. Is it too late for me to visit Africa? Scott and I watched the 2006 movie Invictus w/Morgan Freeman playing Nelsen Mandela and I thought, How I'd like to visit South Africa, and then on to Kenya.

All the while I'm falling asleep I've got the radio on. Not necessarily softly. I listen to WXPN. Late at nite, "Echoes" comes on with John Diliberto. I find myself swallowed up by the haunting tunes he plays.

I have never slept thru the nite. Often, if I feel sleep is elusive, I'll turn on the light and start reading.

A friend sent me Just Kids by Patti Smith (b. 1946), the story of her lifelong relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, dead in 1989 at 42. It's a wonderful book evoking long-forgotten memories that surface unexpectedly and I savor them there in my bed of comfort, rather than bed of pain.

The other thing I cherish is taking a hot shower. My shower of choice is in my downstairs stall shower where I am at one with the hot water, letting it flow over the large black n blue marks around my waist, where the incision was made, and letting it sop my hair.

When I had sciatica, the best I could do was an occasional shower that since I was standing, was excruciatingly painful.

In honor of my new ability to shower, I selected a new shampoo at the Giant supermarket. In my upstairs bathroom I have some expensive shampoo that cost $20 a bottle when I went to a spa, so at the Giant I looked for some really cheap shampoo that was better than a bar of soap.

Found it! Alberto VO5 for 79-cents a bottle.

When I came outa the shower this morning, I smelled like someone else, not like me.

Scott is a mellow guy. The things that excite him are: the creatures in the backyard, seeing the mother deer and her fawns when he marches thru the path to the train station on his way to work, finding red tomatoes in our garden, checking out great movies from the library, seeing me, and this-here video, which, I too, love. It's a six-minute rant about our economy.

At last, Scott said, someone is telling the truth. He found it referenced in an article by Paul Krugman in the Times.

In yesterday's blog about my former psychiatrist, I mentioned a poem I had written. This morning I found it and proudly present:

POEM FOR ADAM, GOD'S BRAVE SOLDIER

Born Oct. 11, 1963, died of complications of influenza, on Nov. 29 2003

When you know a man,
and a phone call comes
and a woman in a sweet voice says,
"You know, Adam died, don't you?"
You say to her:
"Adam? Who? Adam? You can't mean Adam."

And you remember him
the last time he was there:
a man in a suit, a deep pink necktie
shoes shined like they do in the Marines
(though they'd never have him),
his cheeks puffed with those quick
sudden smiles that
made him famous in our crowd,
lifting you from gloom as he
beamed his victory:

years spent in unrepentant mental institutions,
long corridors where antiseptic hid the lugging
grief of bodies, while his life flowed by onto the
linoleum corridors,
following orders like a desultory Marine,
following the shufflers, himself one,
passing from room to room as they do
to pass the day,

Sunstreaked rooms, I have seen them, too,
clear windows that would not open even
if you stood and tugged them all night,
or pried them with your plastic spoon,

It was a vast institution, famous in its day,
where visitors couldn't help
but gawk at what went wrong.

A day came and he was sprung free forever,
his mother drove him home through one of the
numbered iron gates.
God, in one of his everlasting fits of joy,
allowed him to flourish once again
on the earth that would wait for him
forever
until he was old, or even dead,
but he was not old,
when he was allowed back
- some torment still required -
allowed again to dream of women
who might be his,
and for babies they'd bear,
with names
like Rachel or Eben,
as he pulled out the drive
on his way to work.

- January 2002

NOTE: Adam indeed was confined to Norristown State Hospital b/c there were no drugs invented that would quell his uncontrollable schizophrenia/schizoaffective disorder until the advent of Clozaril. Then, as the poem says, he was sprung free. He was an unforgettable brave soldier and in my opinion, died of a broken heart. His life's desire was to join his church in a mission to Africa. His psychiatrist said absolutely not. Shortly thereafter Adam was dead.

There was a snowstorm the day of his funeral, yet Givnish Funeral Home was packed. Members of his church mounted the stage to give praise to this extraordinary 40-year-old man whose embalmed remains lay in state. I too took the stage and addressed a brief encomium to his mother, Laura.

From the archives: My quarterly visit to the psychiatrist on Feb. 21, 2004 / Poem: Larry

I found this unpublished piece when cleaning out my old computer. I like it, even tho it's a bit disjointed. I no longer have a psychiatrist.

The phone rang.

“Hi Rob. Hold on a sec while I put on my headphones.”

I put on my headphones and clipped my phone onto my warm pink PJ bottoms so I could walk around the house and water the plants while we talked.

It was three in the afternoon. I’d gone to bed late after a fantastic day in NYC (“your second home,” said Rob).

“Tell me all about your weekend,” I said. “I can talk until 3:15 and then I have to get ready to see my psychiatrist.”

“What time’s your appointment?”

“Four, but he always runs late, so I’ll bring stuff to keep me busy.”

I figured I’d print out my Keys to Recovery which Dan loaded on the website and have him read them and I’m also going to write a poem about him. I can’t do anything without a deadline.”

“I’m happy for you, Ruth. You’ll get to talk about yourself. It’ll be good for you.”

Rob was one of the kindest caring people I knew. Always hang out with people who care about you, who ask questions about you, and compliment you. Lots of people send me pictures of themselves and I keep them on a beautiful desk in the living room, which is coated with two inches of dust. When I have my next Compass party, I’ll dust.

The Compass. I asked my psychiatrist to hypnotize me so I’ll be in the mood to work on the Compass.

Just then Rob’s other phone rang. This guy is amazing. He has three or four phones and every time I’m talking to him another one rings or his call-waiting beeps.

This reminds me that upon occasion, not very often, I’ll get a crisis call from someone I don’t know and right in the middle their call-waiting goes off and they say, “Can you hold on a minute?”

Like, they’re in the middle of committing suicide, and the beep goes off so they’ve got to answer it.

It was Pam, “The Singing Psychiatrist" calling Rob.

“Oh, tell her I say Hi," I said. "I haven’t talked to her since she got back from San Diego.”

Rob, Pam and me. We’re one big happy Jewish family. I commented once to Ada, “What would I do if I couldn’t say “Oy!” It’s a stress-reliever! What do gentiles do?

I could hear Rob talking to Pam in the background. This is probably a truism with Jews. You call up one Jew and they’re always talking to someone else in the background. When I call my mother, there’s always a bunch of people at the kitchen table and she talks to me and all the other people at the same time.

I can’t stand it. It boggles my brain.

The telephone is the weirdest invention. I’m sitting here all alone on the living room couch, the mailman comes to the door, and it looks like I’m having a conversation with myself, waving my arms, gesticulating wildly, laughing hysterically. I mean, can you imagine doing this when we lived in tents in the Negev?

“How was your trip to New York?” Rob asked.

“It was phenomenal.” Rob and I both learned the word “phenomenal” from Pam. You hang around with people and you pick up their lingo. Lingo, now there’s a word I never used before. Where the heck did that come from. You have a different vocabulary when you speak and when you write. Two different sets of language embedded in your brain.

When I talk to children, I talk to them as if they were adults. It’s fun to hear how people talk to one another. I used to go to a poetry group where the head poet rolled his eyes when another poet was reading. Rolling the eyes is great body language for: “Get a load of this character! This person is not within my belief system.” Or, “I’m giving you a message that I am totally embarrassed about what this person is saying.”

When was the last time, dear reader, you rolled your eyeballs?

I never do it. My contacts would roll into the soft tissue of my brain.

Then Rob’s call waiting went off. “It’s Phil,” he said.

“Robert, everybody wants you. You’re a fantastic human being! You help so many people. You even listen to my poetry over the phone. I can’t wait until you move around here.”

He’s going to be moving into a high rise nearby. It has an indoor swimming pool. I didn’t tell him, but I plan to visit and use his indoor swimming pool. When I swim at the Abington High School pool, I always ask the lifeguard for tips. She told me when I do the free style to keep my hands straight, not cupped, so I can slice the water aerodynamically. Swim like a fish. Grow gills. The smell of chlorine is one of my favorite smells in the world. After I go swimming, I love the smell in my hair.

Anyway, I wrote a poem about my psychiatrist in 15 minutes, printed out some other poems that I would read him if we had time, and took the back streets to Abington Hospital. I always park in the same spot so I can get in my power walk. It felt fantastic to walk real fast and get my heart rate up. Then I took the stairs up to his office for more exercise. (When I worked as my dad’s secretary in NYC many years ago, I’d walk up 16 flights of stairs for exercise.)

I arrived at 4 on the dot. Shifts were changing. I walked real fast, averting my eyes when I saw sick people being rolled around on gurneys. I used to look at them, but now I avert my eyes.

See the movie Million Dollar Baby. Terrific! Clint Eastwood did the right thing. That’s my opinion anyway. My psychiatrist told me I wield a lot of influence over people. That I should be careful what I say. I told him, “Larry, nobody looks at the goddam website anyway! Who has time to read all this stuff?”

I love visiting my psychiatrist. “Call me Larry,” he said when we first met. “I consider us colleagues.”

She went into the waiting room and put her stuff on the chair. Stuck her wallet underneath everything so no one would see it. $300 plus credit card, library card and business cards. She trusts everybody. Left her door open when she left the house. Depends on where you live. When I lived in Ossining, New York, I didn’t leave the door open. When I lived at Castor and Cottman I didn’t leave the door open. You use your judgment and good sense.

Larry would be checking me for hypomania. He can’t believe I’m on nothing but Klonopin and thinks I’m gonna go off my rocker any day now.

A guy left Larry’s office carrying a plastic bag full of samples. He was walking like a zombie. I was sitting out in the hall working on a short story in my Mead Composition Book.

“Make sure you’re not published posthumously,” Rob said earlier. He’s very low key. He was checking me for hypomania when I mentioned to him I bought a mezuzah and talked to God upon occasion. I should have left the God part out. I haven’t talked to God lately. It comes and goes, the relationship. Off and on. Sometimes I forget about him. Hence the mezuzah.


My neighbor Bill Carr, hung up the mezuzah for me. Here's a poem I wrote about him. He died several years ago, a former insurance salesman with a gift for gab.

Jews are commanded to hang the mezuzah on their doorpost. It contains a piece of parchment with the "Shema Yisrael", beginning with the phrase: "Hear, O Israel, the LORD our God, the LORD is One." Even if I no longer believe in god, I do believe the whole Universe is One.

While Rob was checking me for hypomania, he said, “But I interrupted you. What were we talking about.”

“We were talking about the great movie I saw, Million Dollar Baby,” I said. “One of the ways you check someone for hypomania, Rob, is you see if they remember what they were talking about. I passed the test.”

So now it’s Schwartz’s turn to see if I’m hypomanic. I brought in a little pile of papers. I wrote a poem for you, I said, and began to read it.

Through the miracle of mobility
we will be together again
in less than an hour,
for only an hour.

It’s all I need.
An hour with Larry.

I will sit in the chair
across from you
slip off my coat onto the back of my chair
place my warm gloves on the floor
and present you with my poems
and my list of things I’ve done

And watch the way you watch me
from start to finish.

That’s why I’ve chosen you
among all the others,
I like how you watch me….

I could tell he was bored.

“These are my Keys to Recovery,” I said. “My son loaded them on the web for me.”

He couldn’t wait to read them. He has flared nostrils. All-white hair, parted on the side. Gained a little weight since I saw him last. Looked tired. Told me he was recovering from a cold. I know nothing about his personal life. Am not really interested other than the rudiments.

One of his patients died, a member of our group - Adam A - and he asked me if he should go to the funeral.

“It would be nice,” I said. “I’m going to go just to give my condolences to his mother.”

I wrote a poem about him after the funeral and read it to his mother over the phone. She was sobbing on the other end. I emailed it to her.

Every time I pass the funeral home Givnish, I think of him.

I was sitting in the chair looking around while Larry was reading.

“What page are you on?”

“Five.”

“You’re not saying anything. Do you like it? Is it good?”

“So far!?” he said holding out his hands.

Then he started getting excited. In a bad way. “Ruth, you’re giving the impression that medication isn’t important.”

“Oh, Larry, that’s totally not true.”

“You’re a leader and you’re telling people you don’t take medication….”

“Larry, I started off saying that through a series of mishaps and just plain good luck, I’m only on one psychiatric medication. I’m not telling people to go off. What”s my No. One Key to Recovery: Find a Good Psychiatrist. And number two? Get on the right medication. Key number two. Look, I even list all the goddam medication categories at the end.”

“I think you should list it under medication. Put it under No. 2, don’t leave it for the end.”

He continued to read. Then...

“Larry, I wrote a poem and loaded it on the website to show my opposition to the war in Iraq.” I’d brought the poem but there wasn’t enough time to read it. I told him the last lines. When you write things, you memorize the lines. “It’s from the point of view of an 18-year-old kid who’s dying, and so he’s kissing his hands and feeling his face because there’s no one else to do it. He’s dying all by himself.”

“Ruth, that’s extraordinarily creative,” he said.

“Really!” I said. “Thanks! Yeah, the idea just came to me. Larry, I like when you compliment me. Listen, you didn’t vote for Bush did you?”

“Oh, now I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re hanging by a thread. What, if I voted for Bush I’ve lost my credibility as a psychiatrist?”

“Forget it. Let’s not go there. Forget I ever said it. Hanging by a thread, for chrissakes.”

“Ruth, I’m your doctor. If anything happened to you…”

I leaned back in my chair. I didn’t want one of his sugarless candies. I hadn’t brought my water bottle. I wanted to travel light. My purse weighs a ton, so I only brought the wallet.

“When I was going through all those medication changes, Larry, when I was coming off all that stuff, my mind felt like it was being torn asunder. It was terrifying. My mind was reshifting itself. Like tectonic plates that shift when the earth shifts. Memories came flooding back. My mind opened up. I started remembering books I’d read. I was just telling someone last night about Chekhov’s story The Lady with a Lapdog. It was like all these portholes in my brain were opening up that were blocked. It was a study in terror. I just went along for the ride and had faith that my mind would settle down and I’d come out whole.”

He nodded.

“I’ve won the battle, Larry.”

“You’re an extraordinary woman.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to qualify it and tell me I’m going to get sick. Is it possible for you to keep an open mind? I’m the queen of paranoia but I’ve given up my reign.

I’d brought a terrific poem I wrote about Simon. I was lying on my couch with the white eyelet cover pulled over my head so you could see the light coming through and it was raining and I had this great idea for a poem and ran up to my computer before I forgot it. Didn’t even bother emailing it to Simon. He never reads my emails.

“What page are you on?”

“Seven.”

“You’re not saying anything nice. By the way, I gave a talk to the nursing students. They were supposed to tell you and say hello. Did they?”

“Yes, they did.”

“I delegated authority. Sharon Piercy in my group gave the talk and I sat off to the side making hysterical jokes. I wasn’t at the meeting either the other night.”

“Oh, now I know you must be getting sick. Why weren’t you at the meeting.”

“Larry, there’s other things in the world than mental health. Look, I’ll always be here, but I’ve got to write. I’ve got to write so bad I can taste it.”

“Ruth, you’re a very good writer.”

“It doesn’t count. I’ve gotta get published and have my picture on the dust jacket.”

He was on the last page.

“Thanks, Ruth, for giving me credit here.”

“Yeah, Simon is really the main person. I read him every word. He’s a very wise person. Larry, when I leave your office, we have to make sure I leave on an upbeat note. I’m not having a good time.”

I pictured it outside. Getting dark. I’d walk briskly to my car and would enjoy that. It was all fixed from when I crashed into the schoolbus. I had a great relationship with the auto body guy. Bill Spilinski. He was a true master. Si talked to him on the phone. He thought he was cheating me. I knew he wasn’t. You can tell when a person’s honest or not. Very very quickly.

“When do you want to come back?”

“Well, I guess in three months. Isn’t that when I see you? Every three months.”

“It should be two months. You’re not on any medicine.”

“I’ll be back in three months. When’s that?”

He got his little book out of the drawer. I wasn’t watching. I was thinking. This man doesn’t trust me.

“How’s May 16?”

“Fine. Can you imagine the month of May. The flowers will be out. It’s just so hard to imagine. I mean, February’s the worst month. Do you think so?”

“You mean the endless process of dark days?”

“Yeah. Hey, have you been to any conferences? My friend Pam went to one in San Diego. I haven’t talked to her since she got back.”

“I went to one in Bethesda.”

“What did you learn?”

“Robert Post said to prescribe 1 mg of folic acid for women, 2 mg for men. It’s good for the central nervous system.”

“I hate vitamins. They give you awful burps.”

“Ruth, I’ll write you a prescription. It’s good for the ….”

I forget which brain chemical it was supposed to help. I’m a writer not a scientist. I can’t keep them straight. Lost my desire.

He wrote out three prescriptions and I tucked them in my Mead composition Book. We stood up to go. He put out his hand. We had a huge handshake.

“Let’s see if your next patient is here,” I said. “I didn’t hear anything.”

No one was in the waiting room.

We talked some more. He shook my hand again.

“I’m giving a talk to the Einstein residents on Friday,” I said. “I’m going to tell them to give their patients a firm handshake. You’re a master of the handshake. Nice and firm. Very strong. Very strong. It’s meaningful. A meaningful handshake.”

I had no clothes to wear for the Einstein residents. My daughter loaned me a pair of beautiful striped silk pants and a low-cut pink blouse. She told me I should wear clothes that hug my body and told me not to wear my diabetic socks from the Sox Lady in Furlong.

What do you wanna bet? I’ll bet you anything I’ll be wearing my diabetic socks.

I left his office and started quoting myself: These walls are lined with hope. I’ve walked these carpeted halls many times. This time I took the steps down. You have to be careful when you use the stairwell. When I was a student at Temple University a man blocked my way as I was on the stairwell. I was a married woman and have always had good self preservation techniques.

“Ruth,” I said to myself, “your only defense against this big towering man is to scream.”

I had never screamed before but gave myself instructions. I let out a towering scream that echoed throughout the stairwell. The man ran away. I quickly ran in the other direction. No one came to my rescue. I reported him to the campus police, and never used the stairwell again.

PS - My psychiatrist refused to believe that my manic depression had gone away for good. I wrote him a Letter of Dismissal in which I quoted the Hippocratic Oath saying "Do no harm" and told him the harm he had done me on our last visit. I never saw him again, except by accident. I did however recently mail him my latest Guest Column from the Intelligencer, in which I mentioned my kidney transplant and the resolution of my bipolar disorder.

LARRY, A POEM

Larry called and
left me a lovely message.
We haven't been in
touch in ages.
I was well and not feeling any
imminent urges to asphyxiate
myself in the garage, even though
I haven't one.

But his voice was warm and clear
on the message machine
and it was just as if the two of us
were together in his office with
the files all over the floor and
pictures of naval battles on the wall.

Hey, I'm back! I can walk a straight line

Today my friend Dorrie picked me up for breakfast at the one and only Daddypop's in Hatboro, PA. She's a wealth of information about the town. Her husband Norman is the mayor so he hears just about everything.

I mentioned "the White Walker," a colorful local figure who I used to see at Daddypops and talk to on the streets. She told me his real name, something like Bill Babcock. You could find him pushing a lawn mower down the street. He was so helpful she said. Everyone in town knew him.

He passed away a couple of years ago. I still see him in my mind's eye. He lived on the property of Jarrett Dodge, maybe as a watchman.

Driving with Dorrie felt like my world was slowly coming back. At my age, when you don't leave home for a couple weeks except to go to and from Abington Hospital or Einstein Hospital, the world shrinks and you've gotta relearn it again.

Did I tell you I watched the wonderful movie Hud? Starring Paul Newman, Patricia Neal, and Melvyn Douglas, it was spectacularly filmed in B&W in Texas, where author Larry McMurtry sets all his novels.

Hud is a cad. Few people like him. He gets drunk and attempts to rape Patricia Neal (sorry I slept thru that part), but she tells him at the end of the movie, We would've eventually gotten it on. I put down my dish towel a time or two when I saw you standing in your undershirt.

Melvyn Douglas was superb as the old rancher who kept everything together until hoof n mouth disease struck his herd. I tell you, if you don't know a thing about cattle - and I feel privileged that my ex's widow, Donna - showed us the cattle on her ranch in Ardmore, TX - you will be terribly moved by Douglas's struggle to put his cattle down when the US Ag Department showed up and insisted he and his men shoot the animals and bury them in a lime pit.

I never know what I'm gonna blog about till my fingers get going, as they are at 10:11 p.m.

Worked on the New Directions' website a lot today. "Lenny" was hospitalized at a local psych unit. I got a call wanting to know what residential facilities he might live in, since, sadly, he is unable to care for himself.

Here's what I came up with:

Residential Facilities for People with Mental Illness It's located on the very bottom

We've had loads of unusual calls lately.

While my back was healing and I was on painkillers, which I went off last nite, I could not talk on the phone. I was exhausted and totally into myself.

I forgot who I was.

Surgery is a curious thing. Why should it take so much out of a person? Well, certainly the anesthesia does something profound to your body. Many people go into a depression afterward. I was simply not myself, nor could I experience pleasure, except when eating! or seeing Baby Grace!

I don't have an alarm clark, so ya know how I get up in the morning?

I call my Verizon answering machine and create a "Reminder." But as we know if we listen to the news, the landline is becoming obsolete, and people are getting rid of cable TV by the hundreds of thousands. If they'd lower the price, I'd pay $10 a month so I could watch Turner Classic Films. Or perhaps not. I love checking out free DVDs at the library.

I was fascinated by Republican candidate Michele Bachmann, so did an Internet search on her. She's greatly influenced by the teachings of the Schaeffer Family. I just requested two books by Schaeffer's son, who has come full circle and become an atheist. He's embarrassed that he and his family are responsible for the conservative Christians that brought about Bush Jr and that whole league of bigots, racists, and class elitists.

The world is reeling as we speak - Greece, Paris, London.

And Obama. The man with the sonorous voice has lost the voice and the hope for change and sits in his bedroom crying. This is the time when an Edith Wilson could be most helpful. Michele, get your husband back in the saddle.

Well, I guess I was just busting to write about politics.

Who knew?

Here's Scott in his work clothes. He takes the garbage out for me. We marvel at all the junk mail I get.

Talmud and "The Earthly Delights"

Because of my recent spine surgery, I will soon regain the intense pleasure I experience towards life. Today is Day Five post-surgery. The pain is well-controlled and is even subsiding. I try to walk as much as I can, up and down my street. Walking was a strain at first, but I'm slowly exercising new muscles that hadn't been used due to intense sciatic pain.

I am also starting to have moments of total appreciation of what the Talmud calls, this "Garden of Earthly Delights."

Legend has it that after you die, the first thing God asks us is: Have you experienced my Earthly Delights?

During my two years of intense physical pain, I could not appreciate Beauty. This was not just a personal loss, but an existential one as well.

Everything cries out: Here I am. Look at me. Aren't I unique? Aren't I beautiful? Sample me in my many forms. And come back for more.

Right now, here in my living room, there is so much beauty to see:

- the patch of sunlight on my pink armchair
- the pink crepe myrtle in the neighbor's yard
- all the artwork I've done over the years, decorating the walls and hanging from the ceiling
- a wall-hanging my niece Melissa brought back from Ecuador, where her dad is from
- and the lone maple tree in the backyard, home to thousands upon thousands of creatures

Stop, pause, wonder, and appreciate.

So, at long last, Beauty makes a comeback.

Click twice to enlarge these three deer in my backyard.

Part 3: Back Surgery, Day 3 of recuperating - My surgeon calls to check in

I'm keeping a low profile during this important period of recuperation.

As soon as I hit the sack, I'm fast asleep, thanks to Codeine w/Tylenol and Phenergan.

But I also keep the phone near me, just in case someone from Orthopedic Care calls me.

That's what happened this morning around 11 a.m.

It was my surgeon, Dr Guy Lee, checking up on me.

Any surgery today? I asked him.

No, he said, just sitting around the office.

Lots of noise in the background.

He asked about the pain.

Well, the pain's terrible.....not the sciatica, but from the incision....but the pain medicine is pretty much doing the trick.

That's good, he said.

In fact, here's a paragraf from one of their post-op booklets:

Patients with spine problems occasionally require a great deal of narcotic medication to suppress pain. These narcotic medications (Percoset, Codeine, Demerol, Valium, etc.) are addicting.

While my doctors will provide medication to suppress the pain associated with surgery, after three months postoperatively, they will limit the use of these medications.

I've never been on meds like these before, and told that to Dr Lee.

It's like I'm tripping, I told him.

Like in the sixties?

Yup. It's kinda neat, I said.

We bid each other goodbye, he said to say hello to my daughter and my son, and then I decided to get outa bed.

This is the hardest thing. I slide off the end of my long bed, making the same noises I did - instinctively - as when I took Childbirth Education Classes in Texas and had natural childbirth.

Okay, I just 'tripped' right now.

I'm really exhausted and will go to bed when I finish this post. So I close my eyes and have a nice conversation with Sarah, in her red top. She's sitting in the corner of the living room couch directly across from me.

When I opened my eyes from this 30-second dream, I was surprised to see she wasn't there.

In fact, Scott and I drove her to the train station for the 6:59 into Reading Terminal, hoping to arrive at Penn Station, NYC, around midnite.

The meds put me into a vile mood. I snap at people. I find fault with them. It's kinda like the irritability/angry stage I used to get hypomanic when I had bipolar disorder.

Don't you think I should stop complaining now and write about something neat?

Let's see what photos I took today.

I think the operative word is "overexposed" --

OMG, I said to myself after waking up from my hallucinatory dreams. Why is someone on my lawn with a ladder?

I called Sarah over. She was working on her laptop in the kitchen, having done an interview with a famous retired jogger.

Mike, who lives two doors down, was flying his electric helicopter w/his sons Lucas, 15 mos, and Jacob, 4, when the darn thing got caught in my tree.

How long does it take for the Boys on Cowbell to rescue a helicopter from a tree?

Half an hour.

Scott got his tree pruner from the garage and attached it to the original stick Mike had unsuccessfully used, with duct tape.

Oh, yes, murmur, murmur, murmured the boys about the excellent choice of duct tape.

Here we are, admiring the helicopter that once lay in the branches of my tree.

Recipe for success: Neighbors pitching in to rescue small battery-operated helicopter, manufactured by Blade.

How come I hear the voice-over by Rod Sterling?

Part 2 - Back surgery - photos of Guy Lee, MD; nurse Patti, and the kids

This is me, a couple of minutes ago.

I can stand.

For sciatica patients, standing is usually the most painful thing we can do. When I had sciatica (two days ago) I would brush my teeth while pacing up and down the hall.

Now the extraordinary pain is limited to the incision and its environs.

For this, I take Codeine w/Tylenol, plus Phenergan, every 6 hours.

The pain is controlled.

What you can't see in the photo is the Back Brace I'm wearing. I even sleep in it. It's another way of diminishing the pain, but its purpose is to keep the sutures together.

Yesterday I was exhausted. I said to Sarah, who is staying here until Friday (today is Thursday) that I would really like to TALK about the surgical procedure but I don't have the strength.

Toward the end of the day, when Dan joined us, I was able to p'pate in the lovely art of conversation.

We must have several brain parts with which we communicate. Writing, of course, is vital for me. Since I really had no one to talk to in my childhood, I began communicating thru pictures. I still have pictures of birds I drew from our backyard in Cleveland Heights.

When I learned to write in the first grade, I began writing about my teachers in a Spiral Notebook. I kept track of them, and their idiosyncrocies, until I went to junior high.

I also began writing short stories. Why not? Our textbooks at that time consisted of fairy tales from other lands, such as East of the Sun, West of the Moon. I decided to try it myself and made up foreign names for the princess-in-distress and her antagonists.

So, writing is very important to me. But so is talking.

I needed to talk about my surgery to people who understood.

Lucky for me, Dan and Sarah were here.

Sarah made Dan some delicious ice tea. We talked about this and that before I began telling my tale.

B/c I'd had prior surgery at Einstein, I wanted to compare the experiences. My main concern was: What will my last memory be before I "go under."

Basically I remembered everything.

Everyone at AMH worked as a team to help me, the patient, feel comfortable, relaxed and hopeful.

Their care was extraordinary!

So Derek wheels me from the Pre-Op room, where I removed my contacts and put my Kay Ryan Collected Poems into a bag to take home.

I can't refrain from talking to Derek....remember Talking quells anxiety. I asked him where the OR was.

Right around the corner, he said.

And where are we, I asked.

Second floor Lenfest Building, he said.

He steered me into the OR and parked me flush to another table, which I didn't notice until Nurse Debbie pointed it out.

Derek wished me luck - everyone is trained to do this - and it really pays off - the patient who is about to undergo the Scalpel - feels very good about the operation.

Debbie tells me she'll be my nurse.

What sweet words: My nurse.

Sort of like Virgil accompanying Dante in the Divine Comedy. Some experiences are so profound, they require a guide.

After Debbie introduced herself and took my vitals, she held my hand.

Later, I thanked her. "I never realized," I said, "how comforting it is to have someone hold your hand."

Whenever she would leave my side for a moment, she'd say, "I'll be right back."

They do not leave the patient alone for a second. Tres importante!

She put leggings on me, which keep your circulation going during the operation. I told her I remembered the stockings from Einstein where I got my kidney t'plant. The whole OR heard me mention my kidney transplant in April and were pretty darn impressed.

Tho everything was a blur, I saw something which beggared description.

What's that strange-looking thing that looks like a slab of meat, I asked Debbie.

She lay it on my lap. It was very cold.

She explained the ingenious operating table to me which was two feet from my bed.

The patient lies face down on a surface which has rungs like a ladder.

My head goes in a hole so I can breathe.

My knees are propped up on the roast beef.


Steve, the nurse-anesthetist, had his hand on my right shoulder. Then he would fiddle with some of the anesthesia equipment, which I couldn't see.

It just occurred to me that Dr Atkins, the anesthesio'st, would not appear until I was ready to "go under." Or, he may have appeared at the very end, and that was my last hazy memory.

I'd met both Steve, the nurse anesthetist, and Dr Atkins in the pre-op room.

Atkins made sure I knew that he considers Steve his colleague, his "bud."

I take note of people's last names. Jewish people like myself often have funny ones - Feigenbaum, Shesol, Lefkowich - funny, that is, when compared to the pure English came-over-on-the-Mayflower strain.

Atkins. Patterson. Sinclair. Lee.

So simple. So easy to spell.

Here are some of my Einstein Kidney Transplant doctor surnames:

Zaki, Campos de la Torres, Kung, Khanmoradi.

Dr Lee told me he would mark the proper site on my body so he wouldn't accidentally operate on my toes.

Here's the mark denoting my herniated disc at the approximate location of the herniated disc at Lumbar 5, Sacral 1.

Every time a nurse or someone important approached me in the OR they asked me the four big questions, Name, Birthdate, Why are you here, and what's on your WishList at Amazon.com.

Steve put a thick plastic mask over my nose and mouth.

Oh no! They hadn't done this at Einstein. Would panic ensue?

Steve, I muttered under the mask, what's this for?

To help you breathe, he said.

Then he told me he was gonna give me something to make me sleep. This was before Dr Atkins, the anesthetist, would come in.

I hoped Steve would not say another word. One time, an anesthetist asked me to think of somewhere nice I'd like to go.

I had a small panic attack. I was in mental turmoil trying to decide which of the Caribbean islands I liked best, or, then again, I do like my green backyard.

Sarah and Dan waited on the mezzanine. Surely, mezzanine must be one of those beautiful words, conjuring up stage plays, little apparatifs between acts, clinking glasses.

An aside, I take codeine and Phenergan every 6 hours. They're really starting to kick in now and I'm becoming exhausted.

I never read side effects of meds or I'd get em all. Accidentally, tho, I noticed on the bottle, the word Dizziness.

The kids waited and amused themselves by working on their laptops. Sarah also went downstairs and had a good breakfast at the commissary, fresh strawberries and a so-so omelet.

Finally Dr Lee came out.

The operation was a success, he said. Your mom is doing great. She should see a lot of relief. It took a while to get the disc off the nerve. Your mom might feel the pain return in a week b/c the nerve might swell b/c it had been so compressed by the herniation.

When he came to see me in the Recovery Room,I was seated in my street clothes by the window that led out onto Highland Avenue.

Dr. Lee, I exclaimed. My sciatica is gone.

Of course, he said, smiling. You should've done this two years ago.

Surgeon Guy Lee in the pre-op room. He gladly let me photograph him. Told him I'd use it on my blog.

My wonderful pre-op nurse Patti Patterson. "You mean," I said, "of all the guys out there, you married a Patterson?"

She was extremely helpful, seeming to anticipate my every need.

Dan Deming, awaiting the big moment: his mom's back surgery.

Of course, he got to sit in when Baby Grace was born last August.

We said our last-minute Goodbyes before surgery. I'd actually forgotten I had my camera w/me until Guy Lee came in. Then I remembered: Photos Photos and more Photos.

Part 2 - Sciatica is gone! Surgery was at 7:30 this morning

For the first time in two years, I have no more pain in my sciatic nerve.

Am sitting here typing on my living room couch w/o my contact lenses, so please excuse any typos.

My son Dan picked up Sarah and me at 5:45 this morning and drove us in the semi-darkness to Abington Memorial Hospital for my 7:30 a.m. surgery.

Since the signs for the beautiful new Lenfest Building were difficult to follow, we made a couple loops around the hospital before we found its main entrance.

At check-in on the mezzanine, there were loads of patients waiting, like us. for their own "same-day procedures."

The nurses were fantastic, esp. Patti Patterson who took c/o me from the moment I went into the exam room.

I did take photos but am in too much pain from the incision to load them now. I'm on Percoset every six hours plus something else to augment it.

The pain is much better since leaving the hospital.

I knew right away the surgery worked.

I was in the Recovery Room and squeezed the toes on my left foot.

No pain at all.

Then I concentrated on my once-throbbing puslating electrified butt.

Nothing!

When I was sheeled into the Operating Room I took a good look around. Steve, my nurse anesthes'st and Debbie, the RN. took great c/o me.

I told them I was gonna see what I remembered up until the time I went out. At Einstein, where I'd had my kidney t'plant, I remembered practically nothing, probly b/c it was a four-hour operation, major surgery, invasive, while this was minimally invasive.

I was in this OR for two hours.

"Your herniation was huge," said surgeon, Dr Guy Lee.

I was so happy to hear that.

Two years of misery. And more. One summer I could not move. The ambulance came and took me to the Abington Hospital Emergency Room where painkillers restored my mobility.

Sarah is sleeping upstairs in my bedroom. She and I watched two episodes of the Twilight Zone last nite before going to sleep.

She wasn't scared, but I was terrified, covering my eyes. She told me one of the episodes was written by the famous author of something I can't remember.

Last nite Sarah, who is preparing for the Philadelphia half-marathon, jogged in the 90-plus heat in our hilly neighborhood. The run was so difficult she had to stop and walk a couple times. Then she prepared one of her magnificent meals for Scott and me. I was mindful I must stop eating and drinking by midnite.

She made flounder, encrusted with ground almonds and a pesto sauce. The basil was from a farm close to her Brooklyn neighborhood. She gets all her produce from them, as do many other people who support this small organic farm and enable it to survive.

I am quite tired and will return, after this post, to my downstairs bed, where I sleep face down. I'd asked Dr Lee what position to sleep in and said said, Anything you want.

Later on, I'll tell you how wonderful he is.

Nicole and Baby Grace came to visit in the hospital but they just visited with Dan and Sarah in the visitor's lounge. Dan showed me Grace's latest photo on his iPhone.

Thanks for your support all of you! The healing phase has already begun.

Am going straight to bed now w/o editing this.