Tanja power

Tonight a friend brought by some homemade handpies which we secreted off to the basement to enjoy in front of episode 8 of The Last of Us.

In this episode, Joel, who has been unconscious for a bit due to being stabbed in the belly, receives two shots of penicillin directly into the gory wound. This treatment, plus 24 hours rest, rejuvenates him to the point that he is able to hop up and dispatch any number of people who would otherwise have dispatched him. He then takes his young protege, who had been on an arduous and bloody journey of her own, under his arm and they walk off into the snowy wilderness.

Of course it would be bad tv to show what recovery really looks like. Lots of episodes with Joel napping, one imagines. That awesome episode where he eats a surprisingly big lunch and then falls asleep on the couch. The one where he gets up and says, “I’m gonna do some laundry,” and Ellie says, “Uhm, really? Laundry? Why don’t I do the laundry?” And he says, “I want to feel like more of a contributing member of this family,” and then he goes off and does a load and has to sleep for two hours before being woken with a cup of tea and a piece of buttered toast.

“Could there be jam on the toast?”

“Of course there could.”

“Thank you. You can’t know what this means to me.”

“I can imagine.”

“I dreampt that I had been in a coma and all the progress was just a dream and that when I woke up I wouldn’t be able to move my arms.”

“That is a terrible dream.”

“But how do I know it’s a dream?”

“I promise you.”

“How do I know this isn’t a dream?”

“Because there’s no jam on your toast yet.”

“Ok.”

Then Tanja slept for a couple hours and we went to her wound appointment. The wound people are cheery and competent and no nonsense. They measured the wound on the back of her head, reported the progress, applied some silver nitrate to bring the super-granularity under control and told Tanja she didn’t need another appointment unless she wanted it. Her hesitancy was understandable–who wouldn’t want to come back to visit such upbeat, practical, business-like people. But Tanja chose progress and independence.

Then we went home and she slept for another couple hours before dinner.

“I’m not doing a lot of work today,” she said at dinner.

“It seems like you need the rest.”

“I’m listening to my body,” she said.

“Of course.”

“My body is my friend,” she said. It was such a sweet and honest observation that she began to cry.

There is just a tremendous amount of work that goes on behind the scenes in order to put on the Tanja show. Gears turning. Scaffolding going up. Preparations fine and gross. It’s a major production in the best of times. And now, after this destructive blow, it’s all hands on deck 24/7, all non-essential activities shut down.

So back to bed at 8:10. It’s not great tv. But it feels like real progress:)

Today was Tanja’s first outpatient PT session and it was gratifyingly similar to the OT session. Her therapist remarked that her story, as it appeared on paper, did not match up to the reality Tanja presented and, after running Tanja through the gamut of exercises, the therapist felt their time together would be brief– maybe a month of weekly sessions followed by monthly check ins for the rest of the year.

We celebrated by coming home and sleeping the afternoon away.

We’ve been getting meals delivered nightly by friends and it has been incredibly helpful. It might seem like we’re napping all the time– and we are–but there are also an inexplicable number of things going on that serve to keep us hopping, so when nighttime rolls around, having the meal dialed in is incredibly helpful.

It does mean that we are collecting various containers across a wide range of clever configurations–mason jars, Tupperware, snap top baking dishes, etc.

“Have you been tracking what containers go to whom?” Tanja asked.

“I haven’t, honestly,” I admitted.

“How will we get it back to them?”

“I guess they’ll ask?” I said. “Or maybe it’s like, ‘holy shit, you almost lost the use of your limbs, I suddenly am not worried about my tupperware.’”

Tanja was unconvinced by this and set a plan in motion. She sat at the dining room table with scrap paper and a pen and scissors and began making paper strips with various people’s names on them.

Sadly, the dishwasher–a stalwart ASKO of ten years service–choose this day to throw a service code indicating a pump issue. The Appliance Hospital had been notified but they did not show the kind of urgency we’ve come to expect from hospitals. A team had been dispatched and would arrive by April 11th.

So, I began washing the various containers and bringing them out to the dining room where I saw she had multiple strips labeled for each meal deliverer.

“Why the multiples?” I asked.

“Every meal has several containers. Each container needs a label.”

“Couldn’t you just have one label and put the various containers sort of together with that label.”

“But I’m going to put them all this box.”

She showed me a big cardboard box she had at the ready.

“And when they’re together in the box,” she continued, seeing that I was not following, “they will each need their own label.”

“What if you put each person’s containers in their own paper bag,” I said. “Kinda grab and go.”

“I don’t want fifteen bags in my office.”

“I don’t think if would be fifteen, would it?”

“But you know what I’m saying.”

I felt like I knew exactly what she was saying. And I didn’t love it. So, in a weakened state, I said the snarkiest thing I’ve said in four weeks.

“Since you’re the one doing it, let’s do it just the way you want.”

“Perfect,” she replied.

So every container now holds a little handwritten tag indicating to whom it belongs.

Except for two nearly matching, rectangular tupperware containers–translucent body, red lid, one a little deeper than the other–that we cannot place with a family. If these are yours, please let me know and I’ll have some name tags generated and they will move to the official box of dispersal to await your arrival.

On an upnote, we’re seeing strong signs of the return of Tanja’s fine motor skills. She is once again able to press my buttons with unerring precision.

It does tire her out though.

So, as last man standing here on Saratoga Street, I will offer up this tune, a long-time favorite of mine which, truth be told, simply does not move the needle for Tanja. It turns out nobody is perfect 🙂

What a day!

In the morning it was all fog and fumes through the bedroom windows but lit up as if from within by the sun off there to the east somewhere so that the whole world was a kind of bright grey. This is the kind of morning that always causes Tanja to announce that it will be a sunshiney day. This morning was no different.

“This looks like it might burn off,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

The weather app did not share her optimism, indicating, at best, a glimpse of sun in the late afternoon.

We drove downtown for her first outpatient Occupational Therapy appointment, the road full of people anxious to gain an advantage. We ran the wipers intermittently to keep the windshield clear.

But by the time her appointment was over and she found Wren and me on 23rd, the sun was out and the sky was blue. It brought to mind the words of the other Chuck D.:

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light and winter in the shade.”

On the corner of Lovejoy and 23rd Tanja filled us in about her appointment.

“The therapist told me that she’d been reading my history and was surprised when I walked in. She said, with my injuries and this much time, it was surprising to find me doing everything I’m doing. She said she expects me to make a full recovery.”

We’ve loved the people we’ve dealt with at every stage in this process. And they have all been very practical, reasonable, cautious people. Nobody holds out false hope.

So, for us, looking for every sign of improvement, trying to find encouragement in things that feel like set backs, and basically whistling in the dark, having this professional levy this assessment is wonderful.

Tanja is doing great. She’s walking. She’s tying her own shoes. She’s feeding herself. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could garden again? If she could knit again? If she could do those incredible little drawings that capture the spirit of a being, usually some animal, in just a few inexplicable strokes of the pen? If she could play the piano again? Haven’t we been just a little bit afraid, in the quiet part of our hearts, that this was too much to hope for? That it was even a little bit greedy?

Well, I don’t think Tanja has ever looked at it that way. She’s just been working hard and hoping for the best. It’s not like she deserves it or doesn’t deserve it. It’s not like someone somewhere is weighing pros and cons and delivering justice. She’s just working hard, hoping for the best and it looks like the best is going to be quite good indeed!

She walked a ton today–we were so happy about the news we walked down to Killer Burger and feasted, the walked back to a thrift shop Wren wanted to check out and now Tanja is pretty much pooped out. And tomorrow is her first PT outpatient day!

So we must draw a curtain on this day, a day that turned out sunny despite what the experts predicted. Who knew?

On our drive home, Wren played this song because he knows how it makes Tanja feel:

We are getting more into the routine of rehab here on Saratoga Street. We’ve created a facsimile of the schedule they had at RIO only this one is headed “THOR” an acronym for Tanja’s House Of Rehab, obviously. It’s just a sheet with slots for every hour, but it lets Tanja plan her day and make room for her exercises while also enforcing plenty of rest which, like any growing teen, she needs in abundance. She is capable of dropping off to sleep with stunning alacrity only to awaken fifteen minutes later seemingly renewed.

Today she walked around Peninsula Park and home again, a distance of approximately 1.5 miles. She did this at a brisk but not punishing pace that showed no sign of flagging so it was surprising that, on passing through the threshold, she took immediately to the couch and launched into sleep for a solid hour.

She also did another round of the electro-therapy, this time on her shoulders. It’s a strange bit of science but it’s said to help.

I would say that progress is to be found in odd moments. Little things are striking her as uncomfortable–finally!–after more than three weeks. An unscientific opinion, based in optimism, suggests that as she heals the obvious stuff that wasn’t bugging her can begin to make itself known.

Chief among these is the collar which is truly starting to annoy her now. The good news is, the collar is something that is guaranteed to go away. The bad news is, it might be another month.

But if you want a real concrete example of progress, in the category of a thing she did today that she could not do yesterday, here’s this. As she was getting ready for bed she asked me if I would take her cardigan off.

“Of course,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “I just took it off.”

It is truly a great way to end the day.

Just like this song! Babs starts so big you think she has nowhere left to go. Then she proves you wrong.

Tonight, after dinner, Tanja announced, “Well, I fed myself. And I used a knife and fork.”

Wren and I looked at each other. I can’t be sure but I imagine we were thinking along the same lines: namely that he and I had been sitting there having a normal, chatty dinner giving zero thought to how Tanja’s food was getting to her mouth.

“And,” she said, “Who put the plates on the table? I did.”

“How did you do that?” I said.

“One at a time,” she replied.

“I meant, how did you reach them?”

“I just kinda did it.”

That’s what her progress is like these days. Incremental. Almost unnoticeable, until it isn’t.

In fact, in some ways, the best measurement of her progress is in all the things I don’t get to do anymore. I only get to feed her if she is really tired, or if it’s soup. Other than that, my forking skills are unneeded. She can get her shoes on and off without me and I stand jealously to one side as she knots and double knots the laces. And tonight the pants came off without any of my expert help.

But the thing I really miss is brushing her teeth.

The first time she asked me to do it, she sent me down to Safeway for a decent toothbrush and some Tom’s toothpaste. I came back to the ICU, proudly showed her my purchases and awaited praise.

“Ok,” she said. “Perfect. Can you brush my teeth now.”

“Absolutely,” said I, wondering if, in fact, I could. It hadn’t actually dawned on me until then that, with her hands essentially immobile, she would not be doing it herself. So I put toothpaste on toothbrush.

“Wet the toothbrush,” she said.

I went over to the sink and doused it, came back to her bedside, she smiled and I went in.

It was challenging and strangely fun. The back teeth are the toughest, of course, because you want to give the gums a good scrub but you don’t want to jam the toothbrush into the far limits of the mouth. A balance must be achieved. Upper, lower, buccal, lingual. A quick brush of the tongue. The rinse is hard to do elegantly, because she was reclined and wearing a c-collar, but she took a sip from her water bottle, swished and then I held a cup and a paper towel and she spat as best she could.

“I don’t know why I haven’t been doing this for you all along,” I said.

As we progressed, and she could sit up more, we got pretty good at the whole process. And then, one day, she did it herself.

“Wow! That’s great! Look at you,” I said. And I meant it. It’s great she can do that, and so much more now. But I kind of miss it. Not even kind of.

If you’ve got that person in your life and you’re having a particularly good night, or maybe a particularly bad night, like maybe you’re lodged in one of those fights that you know full well should be over, that will be over tomorrow so why not tonight?, or maybe just a normal night where you’re a little bored, not with them, exactly, but there they are, so convenient as a receptacle for your discontent–if any of these, or really any other circumstances apply, maybe the thing to do, even if you’re pretty sure you don’t want to, or especially if that’s the case, is to simply show up bedside with their toothbrush, a cup of water and a hand-towel and say, “Darling, may I brush your teeth for you?”

I bet something would happen. And it might be something fun!

And if that works out, maybe get yourself a pack of Huggies wet-naps and go next level.

But this is about Tanja’s progress, so my apologies for getting off topic.

After dinner, she brought her plate out to the kitchen and tugged at the dishwasher door. It resisted her efforts. Might as well have been the gates of Jericho. She put the dish in the sink.

“That’s all I’ve got,” she said. “I guess I’ve progressed from being a baby to being a teen.”

Here’s a song that always gets Tanja going. I don’t think we’ve referenced it before but it fits her so well, somehow, that twice would be ok:

It’s nearly impossible to be around Tanja these days and not see strong parallels to last century’s great hero of flight, Chuck Yeager. Every morning she wakes up ready to see what this craft of hers can do, eager to find a way, by hook or by crook, to push it to its limits and beyond. And having set a new benchmark one day, she wakes the next ready to push further.

To see Tanja trying to pull on a jacket, something that would’ve been unthinkable a week ago and will be routine a week from now but that, today, requires intense concentration and physical ingenuity, is just like watching Sam Sheppard playing Yeager in The Right Stuff using a length of broom handle to close the X1 hatch despite his character’s broken arm.

And when Tanja took her first bath yesterday, was she dismayed that she could not sense the temperature of the water on her legs? Well, yes, actually, dismayed and surprised. But she was encouraged that she could sense the wetness of it and took that improvement as a sign that normal feelings were returning.

The water, for the record, was quite hot, the way she has always liked her bath. The room itself had been warmed up by a space heater, also to her pre-3/3 specifications. It was cozy as cozy could be. Perhaps too cozy.

When Tanja rose from the tub and stepped onto the bath matt she announced that she was feeling light headed. In fact she repeated it, calmly, over and over, like some kind of cockpit alarm.

I swept the shampoo bottles off the little stepstool by the tub and guided her onto it. She leaned on me for a moment and then all engines shut down and she went limp, like Yeager going into G-loc.

“Tanja?” I said.

Nothing.

“Tanja?”

Nothing.

C’mon, Tanja, I thought, watching the X1 plummet earthward. Then I could feel a little difference in my arms, like the afterburners had kicked in. The craft began to respond.

“Tanja?”

“Yeah?”

“You there?”

“Yeah. I got light headed. Too warm, I think.”

We went to the bed and she lay down for ten minutes. Then she was back and ready to take another run at it.

It’s little stuff. Today she ate soup with a spoon for the first time since 3/3. It was glorious to see. The soup had been dropped off by a friend and neighbor–matzah ball soup with noodles and a little foil wrapped rectangle that, when opened, revealed a dense, almost nutty bread. Something about the bread really hit home and there was a sudden surge of emotion that seemed perhaps to be about something more than a simple baked good, however tasty. We dined like royalty because we felt loved.

Now, I know there are undoubtedly those among you thinking, “Dammit, that should’ve been my food making Tanja cry with its loving goodness, but that son-of-a-gun Jed told me to hold off.” Well, yes, I’ve been reluctant to seek help because we just feel so lucky and so loved and we’re doing so much better than I’d thought we’d be doing at this point.

But the days are very full now. And it is absolutely awesome to eat a meal someone else has cooked. So here is that site we talked about…

https://www.giveinkind.com/inkinds/P6T3Y2P6T3Y2P

You have to register to use it–but registration and the subsequent using are free. We totally do not need or expect food every day, but if you feel like picking a day, we’d be thrilled and it would lighten our load and lift our spirits. You’re the wind under our wings 🙂

Hello dear friends and family, near and far. It’s me, Tanja! I don’t even know how to express how full of love and gratitude I am. Each and every one of you has helped me get to where I am, and where I am feels pretty good right now.

I’m home, feeling very cared for and loved, and every day I feel like I’m making another step towards what I am determined will be a full recovery.

I’m enjoying having everybody under the same roof again and not having to say farewell to Jed three times a day. I really cannot put into words how loved I feel by all of you. I love all of you so incredibly much.

In the coming days, I’d like to reach out individually as well, but for now I wanted to hop on the blog to say hi and thank you.

Today started like the others and ended quite differently.

At about 11:30 this morning, they booted us out of RIO and we made our way across NW 22nd. It was actually snowing as we stepped outside but before we’d made it half a block, the tenuous flakes had reverted to their liquid state, making one think, of course, of the words of Dan Fogelberg. You know the ones:

...And as I turned to make my way back home
The snow turned into rain…

That transition was, for the character in Fogelberg’s ballad, an embodiment of melancholy. For us, however, it was ideal. Tanja had expressly wished for a rainy day so she could home and get cozy. In the rain, we made the drive I’ve made so many times of late, but this time I was no longer alone.

The living room is now set up as a kind of activity center for Tanja. There’s the puzzle table. There’s the keyboard for dexterity practice. And the all-important couch for the therapeutic resting.

Within fifteen minutes of our arrival, the sun poked out and began soaking the porch with bright, warm light. Tanja and Wren sat out on the steps–the air was chill, but the sun was warm–and they looked so good and natural together that it felt for a moment as if the past three weeks had never happened.

Tanja has still got a long way to go. But we know we have been very, very lucky–whatever you mean by “luck.” It is often hard to make sense of why some things happen and some things don’t. Without pretending to be an expert in human consciousness, I believe it has something to do with our hard-wired compulsion to turn data into stories. We do it all the time, with hardly any effort.

It feels right to say that Tanja had this terrible accident, so unlucky, and then, with typical spirit and energy, she took on her recovery and created this progress we’re seeing. And there’s something to that. But a lot of it is chance–the displacement was bad, but not as bad as it could’ve been. The fall could’ve been four stairs instead of three, the injury complete instead of incomplete. The operation went well. The care was great. We are grateful.

A lot of people in my cohort don’t think much of the music of Dan Fogelberg. Folksy to the point of softness. Maudlin maybe. But for whatever reason, back in 1979, he landed with me. I spent a lot of time singing along to Illinois. Then, you know, I drifted on to harder stuff.

So I was not aware of his battle with and ultimate death from cancer. Handsome, talented, husband, father. Did he have spirit? Did he have luck? So when he popped into my head today, after so many years, it just made me think about friends and colleagues I know who are dealing with their own trials, making sense of them however they can. We all know these people and, given time, we’ll all be these people, each in our own way.

Sometimes you feel there is not much you can do. But thoughts, notes, cards, flowers, chocolate, food, prayers, kindness and love–I’m happy to say these things have made and continue to make a huge difference for us. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

Happy to announce we will have a guest writer tomorrow!

Meanwhile, it would be too much of a softball to drop Illinois in here and, honestly, Tanja doesn’t recognize the existence of Dan Fogelberg. But when I went to get her this morning, I left the radio going and when we came in, KMHD was playing Nina Simone, a favorite of Tanja’s:

The porch is clean, the kitchen is scrubbed, the living room has been transformed into a board game playing, jigsaw puzzle solving, keyboard practising, couch resting paradise. Wren and I have watched a double-installment of our TV drama, finishing it off, so that we are prepared to begin something new tomorrow when the lady of the house returns.

Today at RIO was family day for Tanja–a pre-release protocol whereby a responsible family member shadows the PT, OT and RT so as to be prepared to support the patient on return. Our experience was a bit of a let down as all three therapists reported that there was little they could show me because Tanja is essentially doing everything. There are areas where she needs to improve–strength needs to increase, range of motion could be improved–but she doesn’t really need spotting or assistance. I will stand by to hype her moves and to mop her brow, nonetheless.

When I arrived at her bedside this morning Tanja was excited to tell me something.

“I learned a new term today,” she said. “I overheard to nurses talking–you know they refer to everybody by room number. And one nurse said, ‘5’s wife is gonna be late today. Can you fork him for me?’ She meant, you know, feed him breakfast.”

“That’s such a good term,” I said.

“I know,” Tanja said. “And the other nurse was like, ‘I’ve never forked him.’ ‘Oh, he’s easy. No problem.’”

So at the afternoon family meeting, when a representative of all the disciplines on the team–medicine, OT, PT, RT and social work–gather to talk about progress and, in this case, discharge, the subject of Tanja’s tremendous progress was front and center.

PT announced that she was crushing it. OT piled on. It was like going to school conferenes for a gifted child; we just sat there collecting praise. And finally the physician weighed in.

“Usually discharge meetings are full of instructions for the family caregiver,” she said, addressing me. “But honestly, Tanja is in very good shape to lead her own recovery.”

“Well,” I said, “She’ll still need me to fork her from time to time. . . Cuz she still can’t use a knife.”

Anyhoo, there’s lots of work to be done–by Tanja–but we are feeling so lucky.

“When I think back to those days in the ICU,” Tanja said this afternoon, “I just wonder, why the hell was I so upbeat?”

It was strange to hear her ask that because it was what I was asking myself at the time. When I came into the ICU, the day after her surgery, and she could barely budge her finger tips, and she made her baby analogy, I thought, “That’s insane. Let’s go with it.”

But the baby analogy was a good call in the moment. And more and more I’m coming to understand that the moment is all there ever is.

Some exciting bookkeeping notes:

First, I’ve written all these posts but only today did I finally read one, only to discover that they are all automatically labeled with the day and date, so my giving them the day and date as the title is a little bit the opposite of tech savvy. Many thanks to you all for having the kindness to refrain from pointing this out.

Second–this is huge–with Tanja coming home we recognize that we may need some support–with things like meals, gardening, getting Wren home from school and so foth– and all sorts of kind people have offered help, so we’re launching a website to make it easy. I’ll post details here tomorrow. No presh, obviously, but they say it takes a village and you guys are the best villagers I know 🙂

Lastly, here’s a tune Tanja loves. She is convinced she discovered it. Maybe she did. It might be a tiny bit sad for the occasion, but think of it as a bit of a love song for the wonderful people of RIO.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZcHvFKFnKk

They say, “No news is good news,” which is pretty ambiguous if you think about it, and inaccurate because right now it feels like, actually, all news is good news.

Yes, Tanja had a period of low blood pressure this morning which led to her feeling out of sorts for a bit, but the medicos put her into compression stockings and gaver her a kind of tight, white cummerbund and soon she was back in business.

Just in time too because her schedule was demanding today. It is as if, with the news of her early release leaking out, the therapists were anxious to get their licks in while they could. The morning was filled with OT, PT and a thing called Recreational Therapy (where they quiz you about what you do for fun and then give you exercises designed to show you how difficult your favorite things will be for a while).

For lunch it was a ham sandwich, which looked fine, and some broccoli prepared as if to punish Tanja for complaining about the veggies.

Then starting at 1:00, the various therapies began again, keeping her busy, with an hours rest in the middle, until five when her home team arrived with an Incredibowl from Rabbit’s Cafe–a delicious mixture of kale and broccoli, but really tasty broccoli redolent of sesame oil, and brown rice and savory soy curls in a peanut sauce with a garnish of pickled red onion.

The tingling, which Tanja described as feeling like your arm had fallen asleep, but the deepest, most troubled sleep ever, and which used to extend from shoulder to finger tip, has now receded so that it is nearly gone from her left side entirely and is confined on the right to just her hand. Meanwhile her grip on the right continues to strengthen, while the left lags a little. It gives her a bit of a superhero feeling to me, Iron Woman maybe–equipped with one super-sensitive appendage and one super powerful one.

Early on in this journey, I kept careful notes of all the things the doctors said with the idea that, in my downtime, I would look these things up, educate myself and be the best advocate I could be for Tanja. But the very first time I went to the Internet to research a phrase I’d caught, the description presented was so overwhelmingly varied, with rapidly branching if/then diagnostic paths, each one accompanied by what I assume were worst case outcomes, described in terms that were not well known to me but which suggested tremendous difficulties of every sort imaginable–I simply closed my laptop and decided my optimism would be more valuable than any medical training I might pick up at this late date.

That said, Spinal Shock Syndrome has come up a couple of times and it comes up here now because it helps give a little bit of context to her healing. Again, if you look up Spinal Shock Syndrome, it will lead you down a rabbit hole. But the super-dumbed-down soundbite that several of the PT professionals have shared with Tanja amounts to this: you can expect to see a period of relatively rapid improvement for three to six weeks after an injury as some aspects of Spinal Shock, like inflammation, subside. Tanja’s improvement has been surprisingly rapid. The speed and extent of this improvement plus the fact that we haven’t even hit the three-week mark yet is a really good harbinger of continued rapid improvement over the next few weeks.

If you consider what she was able to do two weeks ago, one week ago and then today, and you extrapolate that improvement over time, the calculation indicates that she will be capable of unaided flight by Christmas. She could conceivably relieve Rudolph in a pinch.

However, the experience of the PTs suggest that she might see continued improvement over the next few weeks, slower but still important progress over the first three months, perhaps something of a plateau at that point, and then continued progress to the twelve month mark.

It’s all super speculative but the thing we are focused on now is the immediate future and setting her up for her best recovery.

I had the good fortune years ago, when working on a bit of documentary content, to spend a couple weeks holed up in the basement of a major NBA star who was making a title run. It was like being a termite–we could do our work as long as no one noticed us. But what was interesting was that this guy did essentially two things the whole time we watched him. He kicked ass on the basketball court. And he lay immobile on the couch with a fuzzy blanket over his ridiculously long legs. Yes, there was some travel back and forth. But other than that he was either demolishing or resting. I’ve never seen someone rest that much. It was inspiring.

And that’s what’s next for Tanja!

Here’s the badass hype-song that superstar played in his car on the way to games.