Holding my breath

 

 

 

 My current medical situation requires that every three months I'm subjected to MRI scans. After a few years of this routine, I've become pretty accomplished with the procedure.  I have a favorite outfit with no metal pieces, although some techs still request that I change into a hospital gown.  I did, once, alter my bottom wear and, just as the scan was starting, realized that there was a small metal zipper on a pocket that I had completely forgotten about.  Believe me, reading about how the magnets in an MRI machine can toss a wheelchair across the room makes you VERY aware of any metal on your body as you slide into that tiny tube.  Luckily, I don't become claustrophobic, I close my eyes and try to think of anything but the fact that my body is basically in a casket. 

However, I do struggle with one aspect of the test....holding my breath.  Apparently research has shown that better images are achieved if breath is held on the exhale rather than the inhale. So a gentle female robot voice instructs me to, "breathe in, breathe out, hold your breath."  Then, HOURS later, commands that I "relax."  As if.  I'm starved for air, I'm in a tiny tube, I have an IV hooked up in one arm, an emergency button clutched tightly in one hand (but not TOO hard), and I haven't had anything to eat or drink for at least 4 hours. (I learned that this has nothing to do with the accuracy of the scan, but is to prevent you from needing to vomit while you are in there...pleasant). Sure, I'll "relax."

(Interestingly, during mammograms the instructions are "take a breath, stop breathing."   The hold is on the inhale, and the instruction is not to hold your breath but to STOP. )

In actuality, the breath holds are, at the longest, about 20 seconds. Something I could probably do without any qualms in normal situations.  At night, if I have trouble sleeping, one of my strategies is to do "box breathing."  Breathe in for a count of 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4, repeat. It works pretty well to distract my monkey mind and ease me into sleep. I can swim underwater a fair distance. I've warned the MRI techs that the breath holds are hard for me and they say they will try to keep them short. I know that if I fail and take a breath, the images will be distorted, making interpretation more difficult. (Although in my case, I doubt that would make much difference in the end.)  So, I do my best. I try counting, I grit my teeth, press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.  I've tried taking bigger or smaller inhales, bigger or smaller exhales, doesn't seem to help.  Being told "DO NOT BREATHE" is an admonition that makes me want to breathe even more.

Think of all the times we hold our breath, wait with bated breath, or have the wind knocked out of us (literally or figuratively).  We do it in anticipation of good and bad, happy and sad. We do it when we are scared, when we are being sneaky, when we are excited, or when we are hurt.  Breathing is life and being asked to NOT breath goes against our basest instincts. 

I'm not sure I'll ever get better at breath holding for an MRI, but I've heard that, with practice, you can improve.  I'll test that out in three months.

 I sometimes feel I spent many years holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to fall, walking on eggshells, not daring to disturb the very delicate currents of air that circulated through my life. Only in the past 10 years or so have I felt that I could breath more easily, more freely.  I don't want to hold my breath!

Traffic and Roosters

 

 Growing up one of our favorite childhood games was "traffic." A very simple game, it involved me and my siblings riding our bikes in circles around our driveway.  We had a gas station by the front steps, a train crossing, a pedestrian crossing, and a garage in, naturally, the garage.  We would ride in circles, stopping to pick up passengers, waiting for people to cross, and getting our tires repaired. Our most memorable traffic accident involved putting my youngest brother's tricycle into the wagon, with him on top, and pulling him around...until he fell off and broke his collarbone. We had traffic lights, police, and, when feeling like a long journey we would exit the driveway and ride up and down our dead end street.

I'm just home from a few days with my grandchildren and while there spent some time playing traffic with my 4 year old grandson. He invented much the same game on the sidewalk in front of his house.  With chalk he designated the gas station, drew a traffic light, and put in a rail crossing. He would ride his bike and I served as the gas station attendant. We even got his younger sister involved, riding in her Little Tykes Cozy Coupe. It was made for playing traffic, it even has a gas cap! I wonder if children around the world play this game?  Before cars did kids play cattle drive?  or herding sheep?

I was also reminded of our strange obsession with teaching young children animal sounds.  My 1.5 year old granddaughter has the cow down pat, and is working on horses and chickens. One would think we would focus on more important vocabulary. How often in your life are you called upon to make an animal sound, other than playing or reading with young kids? So many children's books focus on farm animals. I have a satisfactory knowledge of the appropriate sounds (although there are the cluck/bawk/cheep, woof/bow wow/ ruff/arf dilemmas) and can even venture into monkeys or elephants. But what do we do with fish? giraffes? penguins? turtles? We have painted ourselves into a corner.

I don't think my grandson has ever seen a rooster, but when we play pretend games he always signifies morning and time to wake up with the sound of a rooster, "cock a doodle do," not an alarm clock. Where does that come from? I know that animal sounds differ round the world, so we don't even have a common base for what animals sound like, let alone how they are named.  Do roosters really sound different in Germany?  Kikireki? Most children in the US do not live on, or even near, a working farm. Why do we focus on animal sounds?  What makes them relatable to children?  I'm sure someone has written a doctoral thesis on this topic and I am now off to search for it. 

Redbuds

 

 

I recently moved back to my hometown area. I feel comfortable here.

In my yard I have a beautiful redbud tree (not the one above, my poor photo of my redbud is at the bottom.)  They seem to be everywhere I look.  The blooms start in April, before there are many leaves on trees, so the colors really stand out.  I've always wondered why they are called "redbuds" when the flowers are more pink or purple in color. I know we had redbuds in central NY, but it seems there are even more here. At least I notice them more.

My sister Martha died in an April many years ago and I remember my dad telling me of driving home from the funeral, looking out the car window, and seeing the woods full of redbud trees in bloom. Ever since then, he said, seeing the redbud trees in April reminded him of Martha. When my mother passed away, he had a redbud tree planted by the history museum where they had both volunteered.

One of my favorite things about the trees is how the blossoms can come right out of the trunk, not only sprouting from the branches.  It's as if the plant can't contain its excitement about the coming spring weather. It's bursting at the seams.

For me, the redbuds carry all of these stories--my sister, my mother, my father, and, now, my new home and new beginnings. I'm starting to think I might need to plant another

"HOME"

For the last 2 years I've lived with a spectacular view of Lake Michigan, but it never quite felt like home.  Some years ago I wrote about the concept of paracosms, detailed imaginary worlds often created by children that artists may also use to define their work and ground them in a particularity (think Hogwarts). I argued (although I can't find that blog post, that's what you get for not creating tags....) that the same concept applied to those of us who grew up near the Indiana Dunes. I'm not sure a week goes by that I don't see a post on social media from a friend, classmate, or relative referencing the dunes.  We are grounded in a particularity.

Now, I've moved "home," back to the Duneland community where I spent the first 18 years of my life. I haven't lived here for nearly 50 years, but it has always felt like home to me, the place where I am most comfortable, where I find the greatest peace, and where I've wanted to return. Thinking of my residential timeline it is roughly 18 years in one house, 10 years around central Indiana, 10 years in Pennsylvania, 19 in Upstate New York, and 9 in Chicago. Looked at that way, this community rivals NY for my residential longevity. 

Still, it felt odd to change my phone GPS maps app to define this new address as "home." I guess like changing a relationship status on Facebook, changing your map setting is when you know the change is really official. I'm still surrounded by boxes and discovering odd surprises in this house, some good, some not so good, but it feels like home.

BTW, even thought I grew up close to the tip of Lake Michigan, I did not learn the mnemonic for the Great Lakes (HOMES) until well into adulthood. 

The perils of living alone

 One might think that the scariest part of living alone is not having someone there in case of a fall, a heart attack, or some other medical emergency.  Who would help you if you fall and can't get up?

But, that is nothing compared to the emergency of being in the shower and realizing that the only body wash that you can use (Olay moisture ribbons, the purple kind, not the pink that you bought once when you couldn't find the purple in the store and found out that it is not the same body wash in a different color, but an inferior product) is missing.  You recently ordered a refill supply of the purple bottles off of Amazon because it is difficult to find in the store and your package of five bottles is sitting by the front door of your apartment where you dropped it as you came in with a load of mail, groceries, and packages, thinking you would open it later and put one bottle in the shower and the other four in the closet (where you were sure you already had a spare bottle, but did not).  So, you turn off the water, wrap yourself in a towel, gingerly (so you don't fall!) step out and make your way across the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the hall to retrieve the package.  Once you are back in the bathroom you realize that the package is impenetrable and you need to take it back through the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen where you can slice it open with a pair of scissors (note to self, put pair of scissors in the bathroom). Now, back in the shower, you restart the water, finish your shower, and hope that Olay never discontinues the purple moisture ribbons like Pantene discontinued their Silver Expressions purple shampoo 

BUT....It's back...sort of...from Pantene website:

We've heard you, and we are bringing Pantene's Silver Expressions Purple Shampoo back!

Still on Amazon this note :  Temporarily out of stock.