Monthly Archives: February 2007

The Dove

28 Wednesday Feb 2007

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The day I came home from rehab, I was sitting in the dining room, responding to emails. I heard a loud clunk. A beautiful, gray dove had flown into the living room window and was lying on the deck. I scrambled to get my walker, but realized that even if I did manage to go from my wheelchair to the walker then step onto the deck, there was no way I could reach down and pick up the dove, let alone hobble on one leg back into the house − with the dove in one hand and the walker in the other. So I sat in the living room, tears streaming down my face, until Rich got home from his errands.
 
He gently picked up the barely alive dove and placed it in the crock of a tree towards the bottom of our property. I’d forgotten about the bird until the next afternoon when I watched, through binoculars, a large hawk or falcon nibble on it.
 
Since the incident, I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time contemplating its meaning. I have an abnormal fixation searching for the meaning in the most mundane. For several days, I decided that life is a zero-sum game; whereas something must die before something else can be born. I was convinced that was the answer until I read several articles about escalating birth rates in parts of Asia and Africa, which aren’t offset by the atrocities and deaths occurring throughout the world.
 
I also reasoned that the dove sacrificed itself. Although, logic told me that it probably heard our cockatiels and ring-neck parakeets squawking and wanted to join them. Perhaps the window reflected the trees in our backyard and it couldn’t discern that it was a reflection.
For several days, I watched the hawks and falcon souring in our backyard to see if they could provide some meaning.
 
Yesterday, I had the answer. The dove signified rebirth.
 
I came to this conclusion after watching a squirrel scamper up one of our trees. When we first moved to Austin, we had dozens of squirrels in the tree canopies that stretched across ours and our neighbors’ properties. Within a few months, all of the squirrels disappeared. I always believed that the next door neighbor, who had piles of junk, had a rat problem and put out poison, which killed the squirrels. Rich thought our cats scared them away. But our cats are too domesticated and well feed to climb trees after squirrels.
 
Two years ago, we got a new neighbor, who removed the junk, trimmed the trees and keeps his property spic-and-span. As a result, I’ve spied a few squirrels scurrying across his trees. These squirrels seem to be now voyaging over to our trees.
 
Lately, I’ve also noticed an increase in the number of bright red cardinals. Our neighbor, on the other side, says that a family of skunks regularly visits him in the wee hours and must live under his workshop. Rich has spotted a baby opossum that set up camp under our shed.
 
Heavy rains in late January, filled up our creek and the small pond behind the dam. No doubt, it’s now teeming with life − small fish, turtles, plants, and probably a water moccasin or two.
 
The day I returned home from my accident, the death of the dove signified my rebirth. It was a startling and heartbreaking affirmation that I’d been given a chance to change my lifestyle and attitude and to evaluate what was important to me. It’s an opportunity to start over. To eat healthy, watch my weight, treat others with more respect, show my appreciation for what I have and what others do for me, and to relish each day rather than wish it away.

Home Again. Home Again. Hippity-Hop

23 Friday Feb 2007

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On Saturday morning, Rich took me home. He had to scramble to get everything ready, including buying a queen-sized, pillow-top bed to place in the family room, complete with soft jersey sheets, navy blue velour blanket, and super soft and fluffy comforter and matching shams. He also bought three cushy pillows and a cute ornamental pillow with a giant Easter egg on it.
 
Along with gingerly placing me in the car, he had to load a wheelchair, walker and combo commode/shower chair. These items had been delivered to HealthSouth the day before for me to take home. The wheelchair is rental. The others are my mine to keep. Oh goody, I always wanted an elevated commode.
 
While it should have been a joyous occasion, I had my reservations. Life had become easy and known at HeathSouth. In addition, my being in rehab all day, enabled Rich to concentrate on work and class while someone else gave me my medicines, cooked my food, oversaw my exercise and therapy sessions, and attended my various needs.
 
Now, he was to become the sole caretaker of me.
 
A few days after my accident, my Honda FIT, which we ordered in August, arrived. I had temporarily been driving Rich’s Kia until the FIT arrived. We now have the FIT and Rich’s Dodge Dakota. The latter would be impossible to get me into so it’s good that the FIT arrived… even if I can’t drive it for months.
 
The FIT is adorable. It’s like a giant red Chicklet and so easy to get in-and-out of, even in a wheelchair. All the seat fold down so we could easily “fit” in the wheelchair, walker, commode, flowers and plants given me, clothing, and other personal items. While I envisioned my virgin ride in the FIT being very different (i.e. my dancing around the car before I plopped behind the wheel and zoomed out of the dealership), it was gratifying looking out the large windows and waving goodbye to Brackenridge and HealthSouth.
 
Once we got home, the fun began.
 
First, Rich wanted to see if I could get into the new bed. The pillow-top bed with the coverings was 4-5 inches above my butt. There was no way I could get into it without Rich lifting me onto the bed. Not good. He had remove the frame and put the box spring and mattress onto the floor.
 
Next, we realized that the wheelchair, even with the door removed, didn’t easily fit into the bathroom. I’d had to “park” in the hallway and use the walker to make some tricky turns into the bathroom and onto the “pot,” which I quickly discovered was much lower than those at HealthSouth.
 
That night, I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair, something I hadn’t done in five days. The task proved very difficult for Rich and painful and exhausting for me. We originally tried the walker, but after getting me balanced on the ledge in front of the shower, we quickly realized that we were at checkmate. I couldn’t step into the shower with my bad leg and I could safely hop off the ledge into the shower using my good leg and the walker.
 
The solution was to place the wheelchair over the ledge so I could step into the shower with my good leg. The problem was negotiating the wheelchair around the large glass shower door. It took multiple tries to get me in-and-out of the shower and to optimally position the shower chair. Half an hour later, I was washed and in bed − shaking with cold and pain. Poor Rich was shattered.
 
On Sunday, we continued to work out the kinks of my coming home. Rich built me a carpet-covered bench on which I can do my leg exercises. He also bought me a set of hand weights to strengthen my upper body. The glass shower door was removed to make it easier to get me in the shower. I conceded and allowed Rich to place the raised commode − with sturdy handles on the sides − over the toilet. Rich went shopping and got easy-to-prepare foods along with skim milk, non-fat yogurt and cottage cheese, fresh fruits and vegetables, and juices. We also set up my computer downstairs so I could check emails and write this blog. 
 
On Monday evening, I started to have a very painful burning in my left “butt check.” After spending a large part of Tuesday and Wednesday in bed because of the discomfort, we contacted my orthopedic surgeon. Several x-rays on Thursday confirmed what the doctor and my mother-in-law believed − my nerves were coming alive and rebelling. While unpleasant, it’s a part of the healing process.
 
The best part, my pelvis is starting to knit together and is considered “stable.” It was interesting to see the fractures. I was convinced that the fracture along the back of my pelvis was a clean “line” that could slip-and-slide if I put any weight on the leg. Instead, it’s jagged like a zipper so the bone is somewhat locked together. Evidentially, the massive impact to the left-side of my body pushed in my pelvis, snapping it before it returned to its original position, leaving a fracture, but no separation. I was very lucky.
 
I now have up to 8-weeks to wait until the bones thoroughly knits together and I can start to walk. By three months, I’m supposed to be fairly mobile and pain-free. In six months, the doctor said I’ll feel great and a year from now, the accident will be a memory.
 
The upside. I get to eat lots of non-fat dairy food and hard-boiled eggs. Screw the cholesterol in the eggs. I need the calcium, protein and minerals. Plus, a hard-boiled egg for breakfast with a little Mrs. Dash, a piece of fruit and glass milk is heavenly. Yogurt has become a staple at lunch. And Rich has been cooking some nice dinners of fresh salads, lean meat, and a little starch. My appetite is light because I take 12-14 pain pills a day!!!
 
Twice a day, I take an anti-inflammatory to relieve pain and swelling. Every four hours, I can take up to two hydrocodone/acetaminophen pills, which are part narcotic and reduce pain by binding to the opioid receptors in the brain and spinal cord. These pills can dull the pain within 20-minutes.
 
Every morning, Rich wakes me up around 5 a.m. to give me two hydrocodone/acetaminophens so I can tolerate getting out of bed several hours later. Within ten minutes, my body is flushed with “heat” as the pills flow through my veins. It’s a strange sensation. Unfortunately, they make me tired so I need to take a nap everyday afternoon and I’m often “fuzzy-brained.”
 
At least, I’m home and getting stronger. My pain is under control and I’m with my amazingly patient and caring husband!  

People to Thank

18 Sunday Feb 2007

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My ability to heal hinged on the faith and kindness of many, many people. Lula, Lynn and Cheryl, "the vision in fuchsia" were my primary nurses at HealthSouth. Lula is a strong woman who in spite of my tears pushed me to succeed in my therapy by ensuring that I got my pills and icky shot (in the stomach). Her no-nonsense attitude gave me strength and comforted me when I hit rock bottom after painful therapy sessions.
 
Lynn’s sweet South Carolina voice and kind pats on the back were very soothing. She’d checked on me often and when I was tired, encouraged me to persevere.
 
Cheryl would glide into the ward at 7 p.m. A tall, very distinguished black woman, she almost always wore fuchsia or dark pink, hence, she became "the vision in fuchsia." She smile little, but you could tell that she had a heart of gold. I always breathed a sign of relief when "the vision of fuchsia" came into my room late at night or early in the morning.
 
Rene is a nursing assistant that works at night. He visited me several times the night that I arrived and was so gentle when my psyche was so fragile. One night, I slept horribly and was in terrible pain. Even though another nursing assistant had been assigned to me, Rene was the one who responded to my beeper. My heart glowed when I opened my eyes and saw him walk into the room. My pain immediately eased.
 
Susana was the nursing assistant during the day. I adored Susana. Throughout the day, as I wheeled through the floors to relive my pain, I’d see Susana. She always put a smile on my face and made me feel warm inside.
 
Brianna, also a nursing assistant, is a beautiful woman inside-and-out. She was always very happy and accommodating.
 
All of the nurses and nursing assistants worked very long hours… often five days a week, twelve hours a day. While these long hours must have been horrendous on their personal lives, it was nice (selfishly) to be able to see the same nurse and assistant everyday, twelve hours a day!
 
Nathan was my patient physical therapist. He dealt with me on my level, which wasn’t easy. I refused to do what he told me unless he provided an explanation and elaborated on which muscles were working. I wanted to understand what muscles I needed to concentrate on to lift or bend my leg. With his assistance, I could make a full circle around half the wing using a walker. I didn’t want to disappoint him so I pushed through the pain and discomfort.
 
Michael was another physical therapist. The first time I met him, I was lying on a large mat crying and unable to articulate my pain. I had to wait 20 minutes or so for my pain medicine to kick in. While waiting, he talked to me, explaining that he’d sustained various injuries playing football, basketball, etc. He never pushed me to do anything. Nothing. But he made me determined to tackle each new exercise – at my own pace. Soon, I was doing many of the exercises on my own and showing him that my tears lead to success.
 
While I didn’t interact with Freddy very much, his perpetual upbeat personality and smiles was a joy while in the gym. He tends to work with people with paralysis or an inability to control their lower extremities. One day, before my mat class, he lay beside me and answered my endless questions about injuries and various treatments. The world needs more Freddy’s.
 
Kim was my occupational therapist. I intensely disliked what she made me do because it seemed so simple, yet so exhausting. She’d have me pedal a machine with my hands for up to 15 minutes. Pure agony after 5 minutes. I wish her luck in joining her husband in New Mexico and enjoying life on their ranch with their Thoroughbred and Painted horses.
 
Equally important in my recovery were the other patients. Remember, I’m an extreme introvert and would have been happy to hang out in my room, reading and lamenting my misfortune. However, I quickly realized that talking to other people distracted me from the pain and speed up the time between therapy and the haven of my bed.
 
Fay is a very gregarious woman who lived by herself in Smithville. She’s a wonderful conversationalist, optimist and one of my biggest cheerleaders. I deeply appreciated her friendship and wish her a rapid recovery from knee surgery.
 
From Tennessee, Ann bubbled with Southern cheer. The last few days of my rehabilitation – before she went home – she talked to me for hours about her real estate business, life in Texas and Tennessee, and many other topics that made the time pass. A strong woman, I have no doubt that she’ll lights up the life of everyone she meets.
 
Tiny with beautiful, gray hair Evelyn spoke little, but when she did, everyone listened. I loved her smile and cherub face. I hope she’s back on her feet quickly after hip surgery.
 
Walter has been a carpenter of houses and buildings all of his life. As a result of his hard work, he wore out his shoulders, hips and now knee. While his body and face was completed wrinkled and worn, his eyes were like those of a child – two clear, light blue sapphires. Everyone liked Walter. He was witty, determined and very much alive.
 
Sue left the day before me. A trim and regal woman who read the newspaper throughout the day, Sue, endured her pain quietly. My heart lit up to see her trailing behind her son in her wheelchair as he pushed a cart full of her stuff out of HealthSouth, the first step in going home.
 
Most of the people I met were recovering from hip or knee surgery where the expectation was to start walking as soon as possible. Mary, like me, however wasn’t supposed to put any weight on her leg for six to eight weeks. She had her ankle rebuilt with pins and plates. Ouch. She’d moved several years ago from Southern California to Austin to spend time with her grandson. Hopefully, she’ll be up on her feet in a couple of month and walking along side her grandson.
 
A few days after I arrived, Viola became my roommate. I can’t say enough wonderful things about this stately, wise and gutsy woman who kept my mind off the pain and also provided advice about life and my condition. A week before, a car had backed into her then drove off after checking to make sure she was okay.
 
She wasn’t okay and had to have hip surgery. After a day of getting to SouthHealth, she was walking with a walker and could effortlessly stand on two feet while she sifted through the clothing her husband brought her, brush her teeth, etc. She claimed that she wasn’t in pain. I think she was extraordinarily strong and didn’t let pain bother her!
 
Viola’s husband is a retired radiologist who enjoys taking digital photographs. He brought me a CD full of wildflowers picture he’d taken around Austin and his property in Bastrop. I cherish the CD for his thoughtfulness and as a great memory of Texas’ wonderful wildflowers.
 
During my last night at HealthSouth, I had a nightmare in which I was yelling out loud. Viola knew that I was taking OxyContin (synthetic codeine) so had very vivid dreams. In my dream, I could hear the frightened voice of the nursing assistant ask if I was okay. Viola reassured her that I was okay. Half of my "head" was laughing, hearing Viola calming the nurse. The other half was recovering from the silly nightmare. I wish Viola and her family a healthy life full of warm memories.
 
Finally, my doctor at HealthSouth, Nancy Gonzales, played a huge role in my recovery. She visited daily and spent more time giving me pats on the back and hugs then actually listening to my whining. She’s a wise doctor who knows that kindness and the human touch is the best medicine.
 
The day after my accident, Drake S. Borer, skeletal trauma (orthopedic) surgeon, paid Rich and I a visit to chat about my two recovery options: Drill a massive pin into my entire pelvis and hopefully miss important nerves and my spine cord or go through rehabilitation and allow my bones to naturally knit back together. Such a joker. He gave me two days to prove that I could tolerate the pain.
 
If one were to choose a surgeon, it definitely would be Dr. Borer (what a great name for someone who relishes boring pins into people’s bones). He’s drop-dead handsome with a great bedside manner and enough confidence for half a dozen surgeons. But, "no thanks" to a pin that might cause scar tissue or have to be removed one day.
 
More importantly, I’m not having someone operate on me with a Mexican Day of the Dead image on his business card – a skeleton in cowboy boots and hat reclining on a longhorn. I will have to see Dr. Borer in a few weeks for an x-ray and evaluation. I hope nothing has slipped!

Road to Recovery

18 Sunday Feb 2007

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(written 2/15) After an accident, it’s hard to believe that life will ever return to normal. A few days after the accident, I could barely read a magazine, let alone consider going back to work. While I probably won’t be zipping around with a walker or crutches for a many, many weeks (I love my wheelchair), the fog is starting to lift and I can happily focus on doing daily activities rather than laying in bed and wondering who’s going to enter my room next.
 
Since Sunday evening, I’ve been at the HealthSouth rehabilitation hospital in downtown Austin – across from Brackenridge Hospital. Rich worked hard to get me placed in a rehabilitation program within four days of my accident.
 
On the appointed day, two nursing assistants from HealthSouth arrived with a wheelchair and cart to carry over my clothes and the numerous flower bouquets I’d received. They wheeled me through the Brackenridge trauma center, past the room where they conduct CAT scans, past the salt-and-pepper-haired trauma doctor who was studying a chart, through the hallway that was lined with gurneys a few rainy days earlier, and past the many trauma bays where people arrive broken and often, never go home.
 
I cried my first night at HealthSouth. I’d become accustomed to Brackenridge and my little room with the narcissus-bordered wallpaper, Wedgwood blue trim, and floral curtains. It was my haven in the madness.
 
With so little control over my life, going somewhere that required I learn new nurses, doctors, rooms, routines, expectations, and other patients seemed overwhelming. However, with so many aspect of my accident, I was lucky once again. I was placed in a room by myself with a window that stretches from one wall to the other. The view is amazing. I sleep with the drapes open and can see the spectacular Frost Bank, Sheraton and Omni Hotels, and the colorful lights from other downtown Austin office buildings. As I was told, people pay big bucks to have such a view. It was comforting to wake up in the middle of night or early in the morning and see the view.
 
One of the focuses of rehabilitation is interactions – with therapist, nurses, doctors, and other patients. "Interacting" isn’t easy for a bona fide introvert like me who prefers to be alone and not ask for help.
 
Nevertheless, the first morning of my rehabilitation, I was happy when JoAnne, an occupational therapist, helped me out of bed and wheeled me into the shower. It was heavenly to wash my hair and scrub away the blood on my legs. Once in clean clothes – purple pajamas and socks with rubber on the bottom – I was given breakfast before an assessment with a physical therapist.
 
Every day is supposed to get easier. I measured ease by the amount I cried. The first day was filled with tears from the pain and frustration of struggling to do the simplest tasks, coupled with my left leg and hip constantly cramping. Two things made it tolerable… lots of pain medicine and a wheelchair. Being able to wheel myself the bathroom and around the halls was a huge boost to my confidence and the ultimate goal of becoming independent. The pain medicine is trickier.
 
With me, I’d take the medicine in the morning; feel great for many hours then wait for a nurse to "automatically" give me more. The nurses are very busy with other patients and I don’t want to be pesky. The problem was that I’d end up in tears and unable to complete therapy. After a few days, it became clear that my medicine not only had to be significantly increased, but I needed to stick to a schedule. Twice a day, I’m given a long-acting painkiller (along with other pills) then every four hours, I can have one to two short-term painkillers. Sound like a great plan, except the pills make me dopey (adding to my frustration), irritate my stomach and interfere with other aspects of my bodily functions. Grumble.
 
The pills also make it difficult for me to tell time. It sounds strange, but I’m having difficulties with numbers. My head "thinks" words, but can’t figure out the numbers on the clock! In occupational therapy, I have to sit in front of a machine and pedal my arms as if I’m on a recumbent bike. The clock is directly in front of me, but I can’t internalize what it says. I see the numbers and the second hand going around, but I can’t figure out how to add 15 minutes to what I see. Very bizarre.
 
Today, after spending four full days in rehab, I’ve been cleared to go home in a day and a half. In total, I spent 9 days in the hospital and rehab. I can’t believe how much time has passed. It’s been an eternity in light of my having never had a serious injury or broken bone or been in a hospital, outside of a short half-day stay for a medical procedure.
 
I did find the silver lining in what happened. I learned that I’m not an island. I need other people and that my action definably impacts others. I learned that my health is everything and it is my responsibility to maintain it through good nutrition and exercise. I learned to consider the plight of others before lamenting my own. And I learned that love – my love for Rich – can motivate and propel me to achieve what I thought was impossible.

Kindness in the Chaos

13 Tuesday Feb 2007

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Brackenridge Hospital, in downtown Austin, is the area trauma center. While I desperately wanted sympathy as they wheeled me, strapped onto a board, onto the examining room, there was none. With trauma, time is everything. The faster the doctors can make a diagnosis, they faster they can remedy a cure.
 
The gentle, reassuring voice of Hector in the ambulance, was replaced by the brusque, no-nonsense medical slang of two technicians (or maybe they were interns) in light blue scrubs. They asked the same questions I’d wearily responded to before – what’s my name, was I driving to work, what day is it… where does it hurt… what’s my age.
 
With special scissors, they cut through my favorite, orange sweater and bra strap. They offered to pull off my pants, but I screamed in protest. My pants, like my underclothes, immediately became victims of their scissors. The thick, heavy leather jacket from a friend lay beneath my crippled body. They’d thoughtful pulled my arms out of the sleeves.
 
I didn’t want to be difficult, but flaying my arms seemed to be the only control I had over my body besides crying and screaming. The nurses and technicians grew angry with my flaying.
 
I wanted to say, "Fuck you," but knew my pain wasn’t their fault. Their determination to quickly diagnose was a necessary evil before morphine could be surged through my veins and my leg propped up on a pillow.
 
First, the x-ray technicians needed to take pictures of my spine, leg and abdomen. Fortunately, I was on a table that enabled them to slide the film underneath me and not lift my body. The head technicians called me sweetie and apologized when he caused additional pain.
 
A second shot of morphine was administered and the staff grew less concerned with my condition, seeing that my spine wasn’t broken and my injuries centered on my pelvis, ribs and possibly a collapsed lung. Rich had arrived, which further eased the pain and fear. He helped pull the leather coat out from under me and showed me where the shoulder belt had cut into the leather. He also called Rebecca, the only number I had in my cell phone of someone at Dell.
 
The next concern was internal injuries. The board that I’d been laying on was removed and I was wheeled to the CAT scan. This technician and his helpers were very nice and sensitive to my pain. Using a sheet, they gingerly lifted me onto the half-tube that enters the circular CAT scan. I felt safe and protected in the gently curved tube that slowly moves in-and-out of the machine. They’d propped pillows around my body so it was easy to close my eyes and relax… until they injected the dye.
 
While not painful, it was very unnerving, thick and warmish like a spicy soup coursing through my veins. While it lasted only a few minutes, it sent me into a panic. By the time I was wheeled back to the trauma center, I was hyperventilating and hysterical. Poor Rich tried to soothe me as my blood pressure rose to 100 over 110. I tilted my head back and watched the monitor as my blood pressure escalated, but I was unable to articulate what was wrong aside from the horror of the morning coupled with the pain like a shelf of books had tumbled onto my chest. There was a book titled, "work," another labeled "home life," an encyclopedia called "hiking and biking" landed on my stomach, and finally a small tome called "meeting Rich’s needs" fell on my head.
 
Hearing my cries, the trauma team injected me with a more powerful painkiller and quickly inserted a catheter to drain my bladder and make me more comfortable. After I stabilized, they decided to do another CAT scan to determine if my lung had collapsed since I complained of pain on my left side and had difficulties inhaling. This scan didn’t involve injecting dye. Plus, my veins were thick with painkillers.
 
With all the test results in, the trauma doctor, who resembled a character from a TV show with shaggy, salt-and-pepper hair and a calm demeanor, relayed the bad news. I had fractured my pelvis in four places and had every reason to be "green" with pain.
 
The trauma surgeon, a short, elderly man who was attended by two perky interns, didn’t seem overly concerned. He said that they wouldn’t be "performing surgery today." He then hung out in my room and lamented over how flimsy cars are now made. In the "old days," he explained, the cars were made of steel and people didn’t get such serious injuries from accidents. I tried to appear interested as he lectured about airbags that didn’t really work and having a car crumple around a person didn’t save them from terrible injuries. While his bedside manner letf a lot to be desired, it did give me comfort. After all, if I had sustained truly crippling injuries, he wouldn’t have been so cavalier.
 
Around 12:30, six hours after the accident, I was transferred to the trauma ward on the eighth floor of Brackenridge. I had a private room with a view of the University of Texas. Kristin and her helper (I wish I could remember her name), removed my cut-up clothes and put me in a hospital gown. They brushed away some of the crushed glass from my body and from my hair. She examined every inch of my body, gave me some painkillers and tried to reassure me that I was going to be okay.
 
There is kindness in chaos. It just takes a few days to remember the good parts or as Rich keeps telling me, "find the silver lining."

Driving Down the Road

12 Monday Feb 2007

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It’s Thursday morning around 6:30 a.m. I’m driving down the freeway in the far right-hand lane in Rich’s Kia. Traffic was light and the freeway damp from a light dizzle. Maybe I wasn’t paying attend or simply misjudged the speed of the car in front. I slammed on my brakes and the cars skidded to the left across two lanes.
 
Your life is supposed to flash before you at times like this, but it didn’t. I just thought “Oh no, something bad is going to happen. Maybe I won’t live.”
 
The next thing I remember was wondering why I was asleep and dreaming such a strange dream with so many voices and the creepy horror that you’ve passed out. “Open your eyes” my brain tells my head. And I do. I’m so confused. At first, I don’t know where I am. It’s all very surreal. I closed my eyes trying to recall what happened.
 
A man named “Joe” is in the passenger side holding my hand. He’s trying to keep my hand from touching the glass that’s shattered on the seat. And he’s saying over-and-over again, “You’re going to be okay. Just don’t move.”
 
The pain hits me like I’d fallen and I can’t breath. Nothing can take away the pain. Not Joe’s soothing words. Not the reality that I’m alive. Nothing. I’m in so much pain. I can see my leg twisted, my ankle pinned between driver’s side. The rest of my body is sprawled across the passenger side. The pain. The pain. I know that I’ve broken my hip.
 
I can only scream and try to squirm into a more comfortable position. But Joe won’t let me. Soon a nurse, obviously on her way to work identifies herself and tells Joe to move. I hate the nurse. She’s clinical and deeply concerned that I’ve broken my spine. She’s not soft-spoken and kind like Joe.
 
And now a paramedic appears. He too, like the nurse is on his way to work. He demands that I not move. He grips my head and offers no comfort for my twisted hip. There’s so much confusion and the nurse is wondering why it’s taking so long for the paramedics to appear. So much pain. So much horror.
 
 “Were others hurt,” I wonder? “Why are so many people standing around? And is the front of a truck really pushed into the driver’s side of the Kia. I can reach over and touch its headlight.
 
It doesn’t matter. I just want the pain to end.
 
Soon the police, the paramedics and the firemen show up. They use flashlights to ascertain how my leg is pinned in the driver’s side. Someone crawls into the back seat to hold my head steady. The truck is backed up and the driver’s side door is removed. It seems like an eternity until they pull me out of the car and strap me to a board. I’m loaded into an ambulance where I close my eyes – hoping to pass out. Hoping to end the pain.
 
I fantasized about seeing Rich within minutes since the hospital is moments from the crash site, but they took me to the Brackenridge Trauma Center. My clothes are cut off. X-rays are taken. IVs are started. They poke and prod as I scream and flay my arms. Everyone is so angry at my intolerance. But I don’t care. I want Rich. I just want Rich to hold me.
 
So much time passes before a social worker arrives and calls Rich. Oh god, my life has come down to two things. Let me see Rich and end the pain. Both are important, but if only I could see Rich, everything would seem so much better.
 
Time drags. And the pain doesn’t subside. More morphine is administered. The x-raying continues along with the prodding.
 
Rich arrives. Nothing else matters. Rich is by my side.
 
Five long, painful days later, I write this blog, once again waiting for Rich to arrive. My pelvis has been fractured in four places – a lengthy fracture across the back and three in the front. Two of my ribs are cracked. My body is bruised. The pain is somewhat controlled with medicine. My life has been turned upside down.
 
Crying is my own relief.
 
I’m in a rehab center to learn how to tolerate the pain and learn how to walk on one leg with a walker for the next 6-8 weeks.
 
Rich says there’s silver lining in what happened. I’m still looking.
 
 

The Art of Wedding Cakes

06 Tuesday Feb 2007

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Prior to meeting Rich, I had a serious addiction to the Food Channel. If I was a bit down, nothing made me feel better than seeing an episode of Rachel Ray or getting caught up in the dramatics of Iron Chef. My passion for the channel hasn’t waned so whenever Rich is busy and it’s an hour or so before bedtime, I sneak into the bedroom and tune into a food show.
 
On Sunday night, I saw the finals of the National Wedding Cake Contest at the Oklahoma Sugar Show. The winner, an instructor at the Culinary Institute in Austin, Texas, made an Indian-influenced cake. The cakes were extraordinary, some of which took a hundred or more hours to decorate with intricate piping, ornate flowers (out of sugar), and folds of fondant, and decorations out of sugar paste and other ingredients.
 
A week ago, I ordered a small cake from a specialty bakery to celebrate Rich’s and my meeting six years earlier. It’s was the perfect excuse to splurge on a mini wedding cake, complete with two large rose buds out of sugar paste that I placed in a glass jar for prosperity or until they start to turn moldy. The cake, which we ate over four nights, had two inches of dark chocolate ganache inside. Splendid indulgence.
 
The day before our anniversary, I decided to make a special dinner. Since I was running very short on time and wanted to prep everything before Rich got home (around 7:30 p.m.), I quickly jotted down a menu based on what was in the refrigerator and freezer – frozen salmon and shrimp, dried cranberries, a yam, some zucchini and broccoli, a handful of string beans, a bag of pears, a pomegranate lurking by an onion and other fresh produce, and some hearty herbs in my garden. It took around 40 minutes to prep then shove everything towards the back of refrigerator.
 
The next day, I rushed home and tried to act nonchalant as I started cooking and staging the plates. Rich, for some reason, felt it was necessary to run downstairs every five minutes and ask what I was doing. Earlier, when I got home from work, he’d recommended getting pizza so I could spend the evening getting ready for an interview with Microsoft the next afternoon.
 
His pestering muddled my concentration and the order in which I needed to get everything done… like the salmon. I’d yanked some rosemary stems off the bush, laid the salmon on top, added some lime juice, covered the pan with foil then tossed it into the oven. Twenty minutes earlier, I had put a pan of sliced yams, zucchini, onions, bell peppers, and tomatoes in olive oil, spices and crushed garlic in the oven. I thought the vegetables would take at least 30-40 minutes to cook. Nope, they were practically done.
 
Not panicking, I finished setting the table and placed the cake in the center with some candles. My appetizer of marinated shrimp looked nice on a leaf of romaine with sliced red onions and thin strips of carrots. I’d combined the shrimp with super finely chopping red bell pepper, celery, red onion, garlic, and thyme (it’s one of the few herbs still a live in the garden) along with aji mirin, chili oil, and a sprinkling of freshly ground pepper and salt.
 
I then pulled the vegetables out of the oven and groaned when I saw the half-cooked salmon. Thinking quickly, I moved up the rack and set the oven for broil while hollering for Rich to come downstairs.
 
Rich, like so many men, often fails to realize that the year is punctuated by anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. Standing behind the corner, I watched as he came down the stairs and spied the candle-lit table. I could see the cogs turning in his head until the answer like a long-lost file appeared, "It’s our anniversary," he blurted out!
 
At least, he remembered!
 
As we ate our shrimp, I tried not to think about the salmon. It was a relief when I opened the oven door to find the salmon was slightly caramelized and the rosemary wilted. I proudly placed it on the plates with a drizzle of the dill sauce I’d made the day before along with my roasted vegetables and some lightly seasoned steamed broccoli.
 
It was the best salmon I’ve ever eaten. I’m now convinced that the secret to great salmon is to bake it until partially done then finish it under the broiler. And use fresh rosemary!
 
For dessert, prior to cutting into the cake, we had sliced pears with a cranberry sauce (made from reconstituted dried cranberries) and a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds. I keep my pomegranates in the refrigerator. Like expensive caviar, I stingily use the seeds in salads and deserts.
 
I can’t wait for the next occasion to celebrate with mini wedding cake and a tasty meal.

The Constant Gardener

04 Sunday Feb 2007

Posted by in Movies

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Last night, we saw The Constant Gardener. I didn’t want to see it, but since it arrived from Netflix and it was Saturday night – our big movie-watching night – I obliged. Rich is in charge of ordering movies from Netflix. He goes through various phases. For a couple of weeks, he ordered instructional videos on sailing and nautical flicks. He’s now swinging back to Indies and edgy drama.

I knew The Constant Gardener was an exceptional film that dealt with disturbing materials… something about Africa and corruption. I was hoping, however, to see something cheerful after suffering through an episode of Horatio Hornblower along with Master and Commander the night before. With a bad attitude, I curled up on the sofa to see The Constant Gardener.

It was unexpectedly absorbing, deeply disturbing and magnificently acted and directed. In a sentence, it’s about an English diplomat (who’s constantly gardening) and his activist wife who discovers that a prominent drug company is testing a new, often fatal drug on unsuspecting natives in Kenya. Throughout the movie, you wonder whether it’s really fictional. Conceivably, in countries where regulatory bodies like the FDA don’t exist, drug companies could be doing experimental testing, causing detrimental side-effects or high death rates.

It happened in the United States for 40 years. Between 1932 and 1972 (just 35 years ago!), the U.S. Public Health Service conducted an experiment in Tuskegee, Alabama, on 399 black men in the late stages of syphilis. Instead of treating them, they allowed them to degenerate and eventually die. Their bodies were then autopsied to determine how syphilis affected blacks as opposed to whites. According to a news report by news anchor Harry Reasoner, the experiment “used human beings as laboratory animals in a long and inefficient study of how long it takes syphilis to kill someone.”

Even more heinous was that 40 of their wives were infected with syphilis and 19 of their children had been born with congenital syphilis. Even when penicillin became widely available to treat syphilis, the men were discouraged from seeking treatment. During World War II, 250 of the men registered for the draft and were consequently ordered to get treatment for syphilis. The Public Health Service, however, exempted them from treatment, allowing their disease to further progress.

Watching The Constant Gardener, I can’t stop myself from thinking that corporate profits and corrupt governmental policies are always going to supersede people’s rights.

Up close with a Longhorn… kinda’

03 Saturday Feb 2007

Posted by in Texas Life

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Last weekend, as we were driving down a country road, we passed a large herd of cattle, most with sizable horns. They were gathered around a large bale of hay that had just been added to their feeding trough. I begged Rich to turn around. He barely parked before I leapt.
 
Seeing me, the owner approached the fence where I could pepper him with questions. After a while, I asked if I could get closer. It’s so obvious that I’m a clueless city slicker. No BBQ-eating, boot-kicking, hell-raising Texan would "pet" a cow as if it was cute puppy.
 
Happily, the owner and his young son obliged my curiosity.
 
He had one male Brahman bull. The others were thoroughbred or mixed Brahman, Ankole-Watusi, Gir or Limousin cows (females). Brahman are beautiful animals with long, floppy ears, gentle faces, small horns like giant ice cream cones that stick out from the side of their heads, an abundance of loose skin, and a large hump over the top of their shoulder and neck. His bull was a deep gray and while he occasionally peaked at us, he was more interested in chomping on hay.
 
There were also two pale gray Brahman cows; both were only a few years old and very shy. They reminded me of Japanese school girls, dressed alike, inquisitive, but too bashful to get very close.
 
Similar to a Brahman is a Gir. They have firmer skin than a Brahman and larger horns that sweep back and spiral up. They’re also mottled. Like the Brahman, they have floppy, pendulous ears.
 
The cows that had caught my attention and had the most extraordinary and large horns were the Ankole-Watusi. One article on the Internet referred to them as the "cattle of kings." The cows that we saw weren’t very large. Their horns; however, were amazing. One young, cow was white with deep red splotches. While the circumference of the horns on Texan longhorns is about the same across the entire horn, the base of Watusi horns, which is starts at the head, is very large. The horns can point upwards. The horns of the little white and red cow extended straight out from her head, 18 or more inches. Then horns were bigger than her head. The owner mentioned that the horns are like radiators. Blood circulates through the horn where it’s cooled.
 
The other cows were thoroughbred or mixed Limousin, which come from France and appeared on cave drawings. They’re sturdy animals and the only cows that we got to pet. The rest were either interested in eating or wary of us.
 
We spent half hour learning about the cows and the challenge and expense of ranching. The owner works in high-technology so he has the luxury of raising the animals for "fun" and seeing what his Brahman bull produces (so to speak). Two weeks before, during the ice storm, one of his cows gave birth to a solid deep red calf. Between the legs of the many cows, we caught glimpses of the calf.
 
I can now leave Texas having pet a "long-horned" cow!

Welcome and thanks Microsoft

03 Saturday Feb 2007

Posted by in Microsoft

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It’s the day after Dell announced that there would be no bonuses for the year. Of course, I’m furious, having juggled dozens of projects for the past year that were previous done by four people. Adding to the insult was the email from Michael Dell saying we “need to reduce redundancies.” Does that mean that along with getting no bonus, we need to identify people within our groups who are redundant and should be shown the door? Possibly myself?

While I’ll miss the money, it doesn’t really matter to me because for the past few years, we’ve been making plans to return to the Pacific Northwest. For the past few months, I’ve been applying at Microsoft in hope of securing a position and leaving in late March after my bonus is paid.

Earlier this week, I received an email from a Microsoft recruiter asked whether I was interested in a position overseeing one of their blog sites. Not knowing much about blogging, I decided to do some research, starting with the history of blogging on Wikipedia. I then clicked my way through the web to various site and came to the conclusion that I was missing out on all the fun!

While I’ve been writing a monthly newsletter – Austin Adventures – to friends and family for over four years, it was becoming cumbersome. It took weeks to write and the end-result often drags on for six to seven pages. In addition, they lacked spontaneity. By only writing every few weeks, they lack the spark of detailing daily events and observations.

Last year, I finished designing a website using Microsoft Frontpage, which has yet to be published. It includes the complete collection of Austin Adventures along with my work portfolio and numerous photos and personal writings. My hesitancy to post the site, like Austin Adventures, centered on it being so static!

Microsoft offered the perfect solution… Windows Live Spaces. It’s so easy!!!

Welcome to my blog. Welcome to my thoughts, my challenges, and my life. Welcome to Rajalar