Tanja power

Today at PT, Teedub worked out on a brand new Proprio Reactive Balance System, a cutting edge tool used by everyone from NASA to the Atlanta Falcons on up to Tanja. It’s brand new to her facility, so the company sent a trainer and, using Tanja as the talent, they shot a video that will be used to get the rest of the staff up to speed.

The Proprio is basically a platform you stand on and it challenges your balance. You’re wearing a motion-capture belt, so the sensors can track what you’re doing and, more importantly perhaps how you’re doing it. Though now that I’ve written that sentence, I’m not sure what the difference is. . . Essentially, the goal is to keep your balance and not get pitched from the machine, but the exact way you recenter your self will differ depending on a variety of factors and that in turn informs your therapy.

The trainer pointed out, on numerous occasions, the way Tanja’s compensatory movements differed from that of a healthy individual. Of course, part of the reason Tanja was up there–beyond whatever benefit she might glean–was to give the therapists something “abnormal” to look at. Otherwise anyone of the the PTs could’ve been the video guinea pig.

That said, by the time the session was over, Tanja felt thoroughly demoralized from all the little lessons she had provided.

“You see here,” the trainer said, pointing at a screen invisible to Tanja. “She’s compensating forward.”

“Could it be,” the PT asked, “that given the nature of her injury, she’s just being super careful not to fall backward?”

“Excellent hypothesis. Yes. But at some point you need to move through the world like you’re confident.”

“I suppose,” Tanja said to me later, “I just wanted all gold stars in every test, but they probably needed me to fail just so they could see how it works.”

Needless to say, I jumped in and gently suggested that there is a big area between gold stars and failure, that “fail” was probably a less than generous or accurate word to use, that the whole point of having therapy is to find room for improvement and that pretty much everything the admittedly flat-footed trainer said indicated that Tanja is at a place from which she can progress to the next place which is a good thing not a failure.

And all that is true, sure. And it had to be said. But it just replaces one person telling Tanja she’s wrong with another delivering essentially the same message. And at a certain point, one grows tired of being corrected by people who don’t actually know what the hell is going on. Even with all the help and all the love, Tanja is alone in that body. The feelings she experiences–the constantly changing sensations in her arms and legs, the pain and tightness in her shoulders, that goddamn brace–she experiences alone.

I suppose that’s true of all of us. No matter how empathetic we or the people around us are, we’re just guessing. Language is an approximation. Our gut instinct, notoriously inaccurate. So, I guess you just keep trying, keep plenty of slack handy, and rejoice in those occasions when you seem to get it right.

Lucky thirteen on the Collar Countdown Calendar!

The Telephone

“When I was just as far as I could walk
From here to-day,
There was an hour
All still
When leaning with my head against a flower
I heard you talk.
Don’t say I didn’t, for I heard you say—
You spoke from that flower on the window sill—
Do you remember what it was you said?”

“First tell me what it was you thought you heard.”

“Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
I leaned my head,
And holding by the stalk,
I listened and I thought I caught the word—
What was it? Did you call me by my name?
Or did you say—
Someone said ‘Come’—I heard it as I bowed.”

“I may have thought as much, but not aloud.”

“Well, so I came.”

–Robert Frost

In the ad biz, if you hang around for the strategy calls, you will inevitably hear someone invoke the “frog in hot water” metaphor to describe a process of incremental change—increase in price, decrease in service, whatever it may be. And it’s generally done in a knowing, offhand way, like, “You know, boiling frogs, am I right?”

If you’re not familiar with this bit of wisdom, it goes like this: put frogs in a pan of water and increase the heat ever so slowly; they won’t notice the change but will simply hang out until they boil to death.”

Fortunately, some people at the Smithsonian decided to actually test it out and, as you would imagine if you thought about it for a second, it turns out that, first of all, it’s no simple matter to get frogs to sit in a pan of water no matter how comfortably tepid it might be. And, should you somehow succeed in getting them to relax in your pan, and you then begin to increase the temperature a fraction of a degree at a time, the frogs will simply jump out the moment they become uncomfortable.

Of course they do. Frogs are very capable, in their way.

The real question is, who came up with this metaphor? And what does it have to do with Tanja?

Temperature control is big for T. these days. Mostly it’s a spectral chill in her extremities—cool hands, feet that feel to her like ice but are perfectly warm to the touch.

Less frequently it’s heat—yesterday her arms felt sunburnt to an extreme, today they itch. It’s almost as if her body is running through all the available sensations to see what’s working, calibrating and recalibrating all the gauges.

Tanja’s conscious mind is very much perplexed by these changes. She wonders what the hell is going on. But again and again she comes back to trusting in that other, less conscious, part of the equation. The body knows what it is doing and there is no percentage in second guessing it right now.

We’ve been underestimating frogs for decades. Let’s not do the same to Tanja, am I right?

14 days left in the countdown!

https://www.google.com/search?q=ray%20charles%20green&tbm=#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:1e9067d8,vid:WHxyt-UHrdw,st:0

Not to make it all about me, but yesterday, whilst playing squash at the club, I twisted my ankle. I have twisted this ankle many times, starting in 1982, so it’s a familiar feeling and the immediate question that always comes to mind is, “How bad is this one going to be?” My sense on this occasion, as I examined the floorboards of Court 2 on my hands and knees, was that it wouldn’t be bad at all. I walked around a bit. I played a few more games. It was sore but not awful.

However, by the time I got home it had puffed up considerable, so I put it in a handy ankle compression unit, covered it with a bag of ice and lay on the couch where Tanja usually naps. After forty five minutes of this, I was incredibly uncomfortable.

“I think that’s probably enough,” I said.

“Seriously?” Tanja asked.

“I can give it another fifteen.”

“Minimum,” she said.

Time seemed to stand still. I struck me as unjust that I, who just hours ago was darting about the court like a gazelle, of sorts, would now be glued to this couch, my athletic career cut short, caught in the grip of what can only be described as discomfort.

As I had this thought, it also occurred to me that there might be a lesson in here somewhere. But the sensation in my ankle overpowered my ability to concentrate, so the epiphany was lost.

The collar countdown is at 15! That’s fifteen days, but still, we’re getting there. Tanja had OT today which is always a good thing because her therapist is so encouraging AND she massages Tanja’s long-suffering shoulders. Moreover, Tanja reports that these shoulders are feeling, overall, less painful.

“I don’t want to jinx it,” she added.

“I don’t think it works that way. Like you say something positive and then get punished.”

“Probably not.”

I mentioned before, I think, the immense feeling of gratitude that buoyed us up early on, inexplicably, when she was so immobile and so hurt. It’s mysterious but perhaps it was a sense, in the aftermath of surprising loss, of how very much we still had.

Then Tanja got so much better so quickly. We know how lucky that is. We know it. But when you’re working hard for something, there’s a little acquisitive edge–“I’ve got this back, but I haven’t got this. I can do this but I want to do that.” It’s not all bad, that impulse–it’s a component of being driven–but it works against gratitude a little bit.

Tonight though, somehow–still ready to work, still game to support Tanja in whatever comes up, still prepared for ups and downs–the gratitude is back in full. And it is very welcome.

Lots of love to you, whoever you may be 🙂

Today was a gardening day, among other things.

Tanja has a passion for gardening and a real knack for it–well, knack may be putting it lightly–but since the fall she hasn’t wanted to talk about the garden because, I think, it is upsetting for her to face being unable to do, for the moment, this thing she loves. I think this because it is exactly what she has told me.

So, I’ve been out there doing the things I know how to do, just awaiting Tanja’s inevitable return. And recently, she has been able to consider it more. She had that afternoon of gardening a week ago, after which she retreated a bit because the difficulty of it surprised her and she needed to regroup.

And yesterday, she indicated she was prepared to do a garden little work today.

So, first thing in the morning, I took Tanja back to the greenhouse to see what I’d been working on.

Ok, you got me. We don’t have a greenhouse. This is a photo from our morning trip to Marbotts. Tanja is not a huge geranium fan, but it was so warm in there and the colors seemed to leap off the flowers and fill the air, so we hung there for a bit.

“If it were always this warm,” Tanja said, “I don’t think I’d even notice how cold my arms are.”

We got tomatoes: Black Krim, Mortgage Lifter, Big Beef, Sweet 100’s and, Tanja’s favorite, Sun Gold (although Marbotts has a different name for them). We got a couple Japanese eggplant because they did so well last year. We got peppers: cayenne, banana, habanero, and a couple varieties I’ve never heard of before. We got a new rosemary to replace the one our strange, on again off again winter laid to waste.

“What about spinach?” I said. “We eat a lot of spinach.”

“I think it’s too late to plant spinach,” Tanja said.

“Then why are they selling this,” I said, holding up a start triumphantly.

“That’s perpetual spinach,” Tanja said, reading the plastic stake.

“What’s that?” I said.

“I have no idea.”

“Perpetual sounds good. Much better than temporary spinach.”

“It’s a kind of chard,” Tanja said, reading the description, “whose leaves resemble spinach in shape and taste… more hardy… longer season… more tolerant of heat.”

“That’s my kind of spinach.”

We got flowers and grass seed and fertilizer. It was wonderful. Mr. Marbott passed last year but you could see his features in the young man behind the register. He rang up our stuff and when he got to the grass seed he said, “You’ve got lime?”

“We’ve got a ton for some reason.”

Mr. Marbott was a big proponent of lime when you reseed.

Then we came home and planted stuff. Or I did. Tanja was a little wiped out, so she napped and when I came back in she was just finishing unloading the dishwasher.

“How it go?”

“Fingers crossed.”

Planting is an act of faith. The thing you’re doing–digging a hole, sprinkling some water–doesn’t amount to much and, while it’s not unpleasant, it’s nothing you’d likely do if you didn’t believe in something else, something more, further down the line. Then these things grow, slowly–you never see them grow if you watch, but they’re working none the less; you go to sleep, they’re working away, sending out roots; you read a book, they’re working away; take a nap, do the dishes, eat a meal, watch a show, they’re working away. It’s hard to plant at a little sprout and think, “soon we’ll have eggplant.” But look away, think about other things for a second, and there it is.

Not that Tanja is an eggplant.

Countdown is at 16. Is that possible? Just 16 more days.

Last night, we were abed. I was under the impression that Tanja had preceded me into slumber; her eyes were closed and there was a calm about her that suggested sleep. I turned out my light and settled down myself.

Just then there was a noise. Well, I call it a noise–and that’s what it was–but such a slight, infinitesimal noise that one would struggle to put it into a word–you can’t call it a “click” or a “tick”–that’s far too sharp, but ‘thid’ or “dith” gives it too much weight. There isn’t a great combination of letters for it. It existed as a noise, but just barely.

But an instant after the sound, Tanja spoke, urgency in her voice.

“I heard a marmorated stink bug.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“A marmorated stink bug. I heard it land on the wall.”

“What makes you think it’s a marmorated stink bug?”

“Because it made the sound of a marmorated stink bug landing on a wall.”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“On the wall above the door.”

“That’s even more specific,” I said.

I turned on the light and looked over the door. There was something thing there.

“Do you see anything?”

Tanja, constrained by the collar, could not look without sitting up in bed and turning her entire torso. It would’ve been a simple thing to just turn the light out and say the coast was clear. But that would be deceitful. And anyway, now I was intrigued. There was something there, but my eyes were not sharp enough to identify whether it were an insect at all, far less the species. What chance it would prove to be a marmorated stink bug.

I threw back the covers, rose from bed and made my way across the expanse of our chamber until I reached the wall. There, on the wall above the door, was a stink bug, marmorations and all.

“I’ll be goddamned,” I said.

“Will you get rid of it?”

“You don’t even need me to confirm it,” I said, amazed.

“I heard it land,” she said. “Will you get rid of it?”

“You hear something land.”

“Will you get rid of it? I hate them.”

Native originally to Asia, now quite common in the Mid-Atlantic, they are, apparently making progress in the PNW. I got a tissue, crushed and flushed.

By the time I lay back down, Tanja appeared to be sleeping again.

“What did it sound like to you?” I asked. “What in that noise said marmorated stink bug?”

Silence. Feigning sleep.

“If you heard that bug, you can hear me.”

Silence. Then:

“I heard the feet land almost all at once, and then you can hear the wings fold a moment after.”

“Come on.”

“Did you hear it?” she challenged.

“I heard something.”

“And what was it?”

“A marmorated stink bug, but..”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

That’s when it struck me. They say that when you lose one sense, the others work to compensate. Of course Tanja is rapidly regaining the movement she lost, but is it possible her other senses, having begun, in a panic, to increase their sensitivity, found that they enjoyed their new strength?

Is it possible she is growing stronger, by the day, in ways that we can neither imagine nor measure?

I have been sitting here trying to think of other possible explanations and I’m afraid there are none. Applying Occam’s Razor, we come to the inescapable conclusion that, like Peter Parker before her, Tanja has been made into a superhero by a strange and unfortunate accident.

Fantastic.

I mean, she was already a lot, you know? This is just going to add. Especially once she lands on a good name. Super Ears seems too flip. Aural Woman to open to misinterpretation. Perhaps, she ‘ll take inspiration from one of the darker heroes, like The Punisher. Perhaps she’ll call herself The Listener.

Well, the Listener had a very busy day today, lots of practical OT, an outing to a movie, another impressive run at the daily jumble. Her grip is getting quite strong. She high-fived me today and it was pretty solid. Progress is being made.

And only 17 days left in the countdown. Good night!

The Listener
— by Billy Collins

I cannot see you a thousand miles from here,
but I can hear you
whenever you cough in your bedroom
or when you set down
your wineglass on a granite counter.

This afternoon
I even heard scissors moving
at the tips of your hair
and the dark snips falling
onto a marble floor.

I keep the jazz
on the radio turned off.
I walk across the floor softly,
eyes closed,
the windows in the house shut tight.

I hear a motor on the road in front,
a plane humming overhead,
someone hammering,
then there is nothing
but the white stone building of silence.

You must be asleep
for it to be this quiet,
so I will sit and wait
for the rustle of your blanket
or noise from your dream.

Meanwhile, I will listen to the ant bearing
a dead comrade
across these floorboards—
the noble sounds
of his tread and his low keening.

Today was, all things considered, quite a good day.

With that update out of the way, let it be known that this blog, like all human endeavors, will one day come to an end. It is perfectly feasible to track and record Tanja’s progress through life on a daily basis but, realistically, given what we’re learning about recovery from spinal injury, the daily updates will become more and more granular and repetitive. There’s a reason the neuro team only wants to see her every six weeks–they like a little narrative progress, the better to separate the trend from the noise.

That said, tonight is not the night for ending. I figure, just for symmetry, we’ll stick with this through the collar countdown and then maybe a couple days after because I imagine you, like Tanja, are anxious to see what life without the collar is like. (My conjecture is that there will be an immediate and noticeable improvement–to go nautical for a second, I think she has hit a squall of considerable force and it has battered the ship considerable, but she’s now hove-to and making little apparent headway, but is safe, riding out the storm, and all the while repairs are being made so that when the moment comes to pull the reefs out and fill the headsail, this ship will fairly leap. But that is just conjecture.)

So, if the collar comes off on the 23rd, as we hope, and it is now the 5th, as we know, then we can calculate that there are 18 days left, more or less–that’s the thing about about math, there’s no one right answer–plus some additional days to document subsequent sea trials.

So many more stories to share, not to worry.

Part of what made today so great, in my view, is not just what Tanja did, not even what Tanja did, but, rather, how she did it.

She walked 3.5 miles in the morning, and at an improved pace of something like 16.5 minutes per mile. Great start.

Then she busted out the Wednesday Jumble, no prob.

Then she did her OT, throwing around those adorable 1 lb. weights. At one point she cast them aside and proceeded to double her lift, carrying on as if it were no big deal.

They she went shopping at New Seasons. Then she napped hard. Then she ate lunch. Then she read an article in the The Atlantic until she got to a paragraph that began, “If you haven’t read To the Lighthouse stop reading now.” Then she went downtown and went shopping in Powell’s emerging with To the Lighthouse and The Illustrated Man. Then she came home and read until friends showed up. She chatted for a good 2.5 hours, which is a new record, post 3/3/23. Then she watched a very dramatic TV show. Now she seems to be asleep.

So that’s what she did. But she did it all with the energy turned up a notch and just a little extra glow, as if there were a furnace within that had gone from embers to flames. This was especially evident as I watched her talk with friends. Her arm movements, her body language, her smile: She seemed more… herself.

When I mentioned this to her she did not disagree.

“And it’s funny,” she said. “Because I woke up so tired. We were up late, I woke early and I had a little trouble sleeping.”

“Why do you suppose you couldn’t sleep?”

“Sometimes I just wake up, like one does, and before I can fall back asleep I suddenly realize who’s sleeping next to me,” she said. “And then I just lie awake counting my lucky stars.”

“That’s sweet,” I said. “And, you know, sometimes I just make stuff up, to pad the blog out.”

Very little to report today, in all honesty.

It wasn’t a bad day, but not every day can be stellar. There have to be days for regrouping. Tanja, by nature, likes to get things done, so she was busy all day. Work leads to fatigue. Fatigue opens the door to worry. And there is plenty to worry about.

We’ve said this before but, in the movie, when someone is recovering—learning to walk again or some similarly fundamental challenge—the difficulty of the challenge is conveyed economically. In Casino Royale, James is beaten nearly to death, then there’s a shot of him in a wheelchair, then he’s back.

They don’t linger in the day to day, because it is dull, repetitive and difficult. But that is where the work gets done.

And that’s where we are right now.

This morning Tanja drew the curtains and pointed out how, seemingly over night, the trees had filled with leaves. The maple is full of them; the chestnut that towers over everything and was bare twigs a few days ago is now impenetrably enfoliaged. It is remarkable how it happens so gradually and so suddenly.

In the front yard, our apple tree is looking so happy and healthy—it always feels like a promise of good things to come.

19 days remain in the countdown.

“What would you say about today?”

“I’d say it was a pretty good day.”

“I think we’re going to need more. How was your walk? We never talked about your walk.”

“My walk was great. Three and a quarter miles. Felt great. But it wasn’t any faster. Still 17 minute miles.”

“I’ve never knew you were so obsessed with speed.”

“Well, we used to do fifteen something. So it’s not as fast. But it felt fast. . . And OT was great today.”

“What great about it?”

“It was a mix of exercises and her just rubbing my shoulders to really get at the pain. That helped a lot.”

“Does she say anything encouraging,” I ask, feeling very much like a parent.

“Yes. She’s super encouraging.”

“Is there anyway you could unpack that a little?”

“Well, for example, I told her that if my shoulders are always going to feel like this, I’m not sure I can do it, and she said, basically, don’t worry, that I was still in the acute phase, very close to the accident, so its normal to feel this kind of pain.”

“You’re in a very cute phase. I’m sorry if that’s painful because I think it’s likely permanent.”

“You’re funny,” she said, without much conviction. “Oh, you can also say that I had a lot of energy today. I took the bins out, I did the laundry, I did a load of dishes.”

“I’m not saying that. People will think I do nothing.”

Silence.

“People will have the false impression that I don’t do anything.”

“What? I’m sorry. I think I must be getting sleepy.”

“Did you nap today?”

“I lay on the couch but I did not sleep.”

“So no dreams?”

“No dreams.”

“That’s no good. You’ve got to have a dream.”

“I didn’t sleep, though.”

“If you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true.”

“Okay. I get it. I think I might read now. Or sleep.”

Silence.

“I have a dream.”

“That’s nice.”

Quite a bit more silence.

“Do you want to hear it?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“I’ll just wait for it to come true and you can show it to me then.”

There are 20 days in the Collar Countdown.

First of all, let’s set the record straight.

The ink was hardly dry on last night’s dispatch about our “last” mealtrain meal, when a car pulled up under the apple tree, a young person got out with two bags and brought them up onto the porch. This was our actual, last, last mealtrain meal and it was a joy. We don’t normally go into detail about these meals–they have been so varied and so wonderful, each in its own way, that to mention one and not another doesn’t seem right. So I will just say that, as I took the bags, I peeked in and said, “That looks delicious.”

“Yeah,” the delivery person said. “I’ll say. I wish I was invited.”

Then they actually paused a second to see if the invite might arrive.

Then they smiled so I would know they were only kidding.

Then they reluctantly turned away and went back to their sedan.

But slowly, in case, you know, I relented.

Then I locked the door, called the family and we feasted.

Mealtrain, done, with an exclamation point.

Today was an excellent day in many ways. No major breakthroughs. Mostly a day to rest and recuperate. If I were to do a little mind reading, I’d say the lack of all-day energy is the thing that has Tanja most worried right now. In the before times, the pace of her day, the way she moved through a project, buttoned it up and moved to the next, the sheer velocity with which she committed herself to whatever it was, was epic, so epic that it often felt like a rebuke to me, with my more contemplative approach to work.

There was a moment yesterday when I, sitting in my work chair, diligently conjuring the proper caption to put under a social post featuring a young person wearing a new t shirt, suddenly sensed that old, familiar energy surging through the house. Tanja on the move. And suddenly, in spite of my best intentions, I was annoyed, just like in the old days. And that annoyance was so fondly familiar that it made my heart soar.

That’s the energy she misses. And that’s okay. I’m not a doctor, but I feel certain that rest is key now, that energy is building, strength is returning, her power waxes. It is just a matter of time before she is constantly bugging the crap out of me.

Though perhaps, as she grows stronger, I can also work on my weak points…

Tanja asked if I would wash her hair today.

“I know I did it myself last time, but I’m just not up for it today.”

“I, on the other hand, am very much up for it.”

“You sure.”

“I was born for this.”

And I am getting better at it, the conditioning, the detangling, etc.

But the reason I mention the shower is just because of a moment after all the hair care. Tanja gets to take the collar off for a minute so the pads can be changed out for a clean, dry set. This is an opportunity to apply some TLC to the normally hidden skin; she sits on a stool in front of the mirror and I gently scrub her neck with a small loofa and then apply moisturizer.

It’s lovely to see her face in the mirror. The absence of that collar changes so much. With the wet hair, freshly combed, she could be a kid almost.

Then the collar goes back on, like a clamshell, and I tighten it down with the strap on either side.

“How does that feel?” I ask, eyeing the fit.

She just looks at me in the mirror.

“Sorry,” I say.

The countdown is at 21 days. Three short weeks. It is conceivable that the doctor with look at the x-rays at that time and opt for more time. But let’s not imagine that right now 🙂

Yesterday the official meal train ended, with a pizza, whose delicious panoply of ingredients seemed to salute, indirectly, all the delicious meals that had come before. There remains one anticipated ceremonial meal yet to be received and gratefully disappeared into the Algers, but for all intents and purposes, we are done. And we just want to take a minute to give our thanks for these many acts of caring and kindness. All this recuperating and regenerating Tanja is doing takes a lot of energy, from her obviously, but also somehow from me and Wren, even though we are largely spectators to the healing.

There have been so many days when, as evening rolls around, the realization that food is on the way has brought us a second wind.

And the fact that we now feel capable of taking on our own KP duties is due to the running start the meal train gave us.

Of course, it is just super satisfying to receive these kindnesses–and all the other similar kindnesses–that our friends and family have seen fit to deliver. They are good, in and of themselves; and they are an opportunity to look at this friend or that and reflect on the things we love about them–something we maybe don’t do as often as we should in easy times.

Wren once read this sci-fi fantasy book wherein the young hero, as he begins to realize the extent of his powers, discovers that he can draw energy from other living beings in his vicinity. He first learns this, sadly, when in the course of practicing some intense spell-casting he inadvertently kills all the earthworms, bugs and plants in a 30 foot radius by sucking them dry of energy.

Then he sets out to learn how to control this, so that he can pull power from the earth but leave the worms enough to bounce back with.

That’s our goal. Get the meals, get the support, get all the love, but not kill anyone, metaphorically.

And we do not mean to limit this to meals–it’s just the end of the train that has us thinking about food. There have been heartfelt cards, the loveliest of flowers, restorative visits, schlepping of teenager, much chocolate, an obscene amount of girl scout cookies, texts, phone calls, a hundred different kinds of support–all just different forms of kindness and love. I think we’ve said thank you. I hope we have. We feel very grateful.

Thank you.

There are 22 days in the Collar Countdown. Today was OT, PT and Acupuncture in the morning, followed by a quiet indoor afternoon. All is well.