Dehydrating up Woodland Park Hill

Yeah, I was an athlete, back in the day.  Before kids, and an adult life came into focus, I competed for the University of Oregon.  Several records and accomplishments ensued but after my 1984 Olympic Trials 400 meter hurdle race, I officially retired.  5-K road races kept the athlete in me alive until my kids were born and then I was content to just be 'mom.'  My inner athlete took a nap as I began to raise my kids but then I suffered a traumatic brain injury that robbed me of the motor skills of my entire right hemisphere.

My athletic background, I'm sure, is part of the reason I recovered as well as I did but I never regained enough physical ability to actually run.  The athlete in me survived though as I now coach middle school kids.  And I ride a recumbent bike as well as jump and jiggle with a group of seniors three days a week to keep moving. But this last fall, I signed up for my first road race since before my accident.  With the OK to ride my bike while the others ran, I was set.

It was a mid morning start and I left the house early, on my bike, and got an iced coffee drink to enjoy on the way to the start.  I had not had anything else the entire morning.  Previously, I had ridden 70 miles in a not-race so the 5-K did not seem like a big deal.  Silly me.  Excited about the race aspect and envisioning myself riding along side real athletes, I made my way to the start.

Because I was the only contestant pedalling, I started at the rear and carefully steered my way past the walkers and slow goers.  We wound our way through Woodland Park and it was more difficult than I had anticipated; maneuvering my trike safely through the mass of runners.  I didn't break free of the mob until I reached the bottom of the hill.

Then, I thought, "Now I can really get after it!"  So I started up the hill, limbs a turnin' those wheels round and round.  I grew up near the top of the hill so thought I knew its scope but I was wrong. My head began to ache but I continued to push for the summit where I knew it flattened out.  The more I pushed, the worse my head felt until it began to throb. There would no more hills, I was certain, so my focus was getting up that hill.  The closer I got to the top the harder my head hammered; it was as if what remained of my brain was going to explode cleanly out the top.

Finally, the road evened out, and the hill was behind me but the pounding in my noggin continued. I had a water bottle in my carrier but to retrieve it I had to stop my bike and my competitive side took over. Before the race, I told myself I'd take it slow and enjoy, but because I wanted to catch those runners I had thought about riding with, I pushed on.

By the time I passed the Conrad Mansion, I realized I had to stop.  I was going to have to scoop up brain parts and the skull shrapnel because my head was literally ready to blow.  I slowed to a stop on the side of the sixth avenue between third and fourth street.  My head remained intact but the assault within continued.  Half a block down, a race official I recognized shouted to ask if I was OK.  Of course I said I was, as I fumbled for my cell phone.  I carry it in a pocket that hangs around my neck and it was then I realized it was for moments just like this.  Standing up to finagle myself off my trike was an impossibility because I knew I was on the edge of consciousness.

Finally, the battle in my brain eased slightly and I was able to ask my husband to come to the east side of town to get me. As I waited I was even able to pedal very slowly out of the race route.  When Dan arrived he had to help me off my bike and into his SUV, then he loaded up my bike.  My head still rang with pain but I was able to down a bottle of Powerade on my way home.  Again, with his help I reached my couch to lay down.  It wasn't long before I was up and hobbling to the bathroom where I vomited all the liquid I had consumed.  It took several hours for me to feel well again.

At what point, I realized I was dehydrated, I don't know, but when I did I couldn't help but think, "Oh, this is why I tell my KMS kids to stay hydrated."  Never, had I felt as physically spent as I did that day but I learned a valuable lesson.  HYDRATE

Taft Tunnel

This is the Taft tunnel, nearly 2 miles connecting light to light.  

When we enter, Light comes with us. Following us, 

it is next  to us  and around us.  Then traveling into rock 

Light decides to stop without warning and leaves no hint 

that it was ever really with us.  Mid-tunnel, asleep in the 

black, a sign whispers that we crossed a border.  The ebony 

tunnels’ trails are seamless but Montana black is the same as 

Idaho black. It is dark, the black dark when eyes squeeze tight, 

shut and one lid pushes hard on the its pair.  This dark is 

unrecognizable but we must find its finish; ride up-right true, 

focusing the fragile searching beam shining from handles held 

tight, but unsteady.  The ray  settles on the reflective patch in 

front of me safe on your back, but the weak beam is skittish

and bounces quickly off and is lost inside dark, catching  

nothing solid.  Black takes over and I am lost again but then 

my glow finds that safe place on your back and each time it 

does, it stays steady longer and I am good in knowing you

are there to help get me out of the dark, back to light, and 

we’ll be safe.  It presents, far away, as the slightest pinprick 

of daytime. Insignificant but still magnificent against the 

endless black sheets that swallow. But as we travel on it grows 

and expands and moves. Our target shows easy, to know and 

maintain and we meet light as unknown knots relax  and untie 

themselves as  our old companion engulfs us with the sweet 

safeness we remember.

Lexie Wyman

"Good" Arm Gone Bad

     The bicep not affected by my head injury has been sore for over six months so I finally went to my doctor. I've had many surgeries but the two important here were for a herniated disk and torn rotator cuff. I thought my new problem dealt with my shoulder even though my symptoms mirrored the those of my herniated disc.  But I like my orthopedic surgeon better than my spine doctor so I went to him first.

Dr. E had operated on my shoulder so when he told me my pain was not coming from the rotator cuff I believed him.  One must trust individuals who have had their digits inside you.  He sent me to my spine person, his hands had been under the skin on my neck, fiddling with my parts, also. He send me to a guy who tested my nerves with tiny electrical shocks to identify which one was pinched.  After that I went to the hospital for a nerve block. It was a quick procedure and almost painless but it did no good.  The dull aching sensation in my bicep remained and when I saw Doc Spine he told me I needed to go back to my orthopedic man.

By now I was pretty tired of the run around and said, half jokingly, that one of them better fix it because it still hurt.  I could tell he was taken aback by my mini show of emotion because he seems to have none.  I call him Mr. Personal.  He does not care unless there is a chance he can perform surgery so when he realizes he can't, he is done with you.  I've been told he does care and because he is a fine surgeon I hold that comment close.

So I'm sitting on the toilet (number 2) the morning of my final appointment and I turn, using the sore arm, to wipe.  Yes, that's not pleasant but is an important part of the story.  My arm began to tighten but I had lived with the pain for what seemed like a lifetime so my arm continued its route.  Then I felt a pop, or a pull, or a strain and was unable to finish my job.  The pain was pretty intense but I wasn't too worried because I was seeing Dr. E in a couple hours.

By the time my appointment rolled around I had some slight bruising on the inside of my elbow but I attributed that to a recent bike fall.  I waited, in the examining room with my shoe off.  My barefoot would remind me to question him about a hammer toe.  He had previously fixed it but the toe had pulled back to its original presurgery position.  It was not why I was there but I was going to get as much information as a could without another appointment.   He looked and blamed it on my whacked brain.  It was 'tone' and my brain was doing it.  OK, let's move on.

I told him the nerve block did not work and the arm still hurt. I let him know I wasn't sure he could even check it because of the muscle strain or pull from that morning.  He examined me briefly, twisted and fondled my arm, sat down casually, legs crossed and arms behind his head and told me I had severed a bicep tendon.  And then with a big smile, said I had taken care of my arm issue, myself!  He said my pain had probably been chronic tendinitis and that surgeons go in and sever it, for relief. Therefore, it ought to be good in about three weeks, he said with a smile.  He said to come back in then but I made no appointment.  I already have less pain so maybe I did fix myself!

Facebook and Why I think the Way I Do

  and 

Facebook (FB) has become my primary source of entertainment and I don't know how to categorize this fondness. Is it good or bad? Right or wrong? People who don't FB don't understand it and to tell you the truth I don't either. I worry about revealing my love of FB though. Wouldn't it be equated with the comment, "I love TV and watch it all the time!"? Maybe I shouldn't have to justify it but it still seems like a guilty pleasure. Sometimes I comment, usually on others' comments and sometimes I type one out and then erase it. I guess I think if I type it out, I've gotten it off my chest and I can let it go.  The erasures are the thoughts, made on the spur of the moment, with little or no processing. I "try" hard not to comment and sometimes my kids act as my overseers. They let me know when to tone it down and use my 'inside voice' but there are times, when I can't help myself.  I lay that issue in the lap of My TBI.   My head injury can be used as an excuse for lots of the things I do so why not throw that in?

My history with FB goes like this. I joined 9 or 10 years ago when I lived in Boise. Then, after my divorce, whenever I visited Montana, I met up with an old high school friend. He and I talked about this Facebook thing and decided to do it even though neither of us understood why we would want to. After joining we quickly forgot about it but, little by little it hooked me. The only way I can explain this trend is that, to me anyway, it is like a magazine with very short articles about my friends and family. At least that's how it started for me. That, and I could play a new kind of solitaire, and save a few jungle animals which, I figured, might help my damaged brain (severe TBI in 1991.)

I excused my new obsession by saying, "I get to see pictures or my kids and keep up with their lives on FB."  That part was easy because my grown children live a state away.  But then I retired, and my spare time seemed limitless so I found myself spending more and more time on my laptop.  Finally, after Tump became our president, I became seriously addicted to the crazy story that someday will be history.

"Facebook shouldn't be your only source of news Mom," Son-Harrison told me," eye roll included. But I have never been political so I didn't know what I knew.  I taught U.S. History to 5th graders so I know the basics but more was needed so I went the extra mile to educate myself about the current actors and key issues facing our country.  To that information I added what I found when I dug through the files in my brain.  Then I wrangled all that with my beliefs and put them into words.

I setup my FB feed to include both mainstream media and news from the right and far right and then I simply read, a lot.  Because I found out FAKE news is really a thing, I always check my sources' reliability.

Because of my head injury I can be fairly random and I am not timid about voicing my opinion, at least about our current president, so my FB friends know what I think.  You won't change anybody's mind on FB, daughter-Rachel said, and I am not even going to try. Instead, I want to explain how my world view came into being.

I grew up in the red state of Montana and don't remember seeing prejudice although I am sure it was there. The stools in my dad's bar were filled with all types of people and Dad treated everybody like a good friend. Then, I went to the University of Oregon and unlike Kalispell, it was very diverse. There were all sorts of different looking people in Eugene; ethnically and otherwise.  It was not uncommon to see a bare boobed nursing mother with dreadlocks, feeding her naked toddler at the local bagel shop and I competed against many African Americans, who to me were just athletes.  I never saw an angry, mad or mean hippy, though, and I never felt uncomfortable or unsafe anywhere.  I stand with all races, faiths, sexual orientations, rich or poor.

Then I lived in Lynden, Washington.  It was once the "Berry Capital" of the world!  All those berries as well as other crops needed to be picked but we were a town of only around 5,000.  High schoolers did some of the picking but it was also necessary to hire migrant workers, to bring in the crop, completely and timely.  Those farm workers' kids were in school with mine.  Parents worked hard to provide for their children the same way all parents do.  Therefore I stand with migrants who may or may not be legal immigrants.

Several years ago my best friend married a man, who rode under the floorboards of an uncle's truck from Mexico to California at a very young age and went to work as a dishwasher.  He worked his way up to Chef and was granted amnesty by President Reagan.  He works hard, pays taxes and is a wonderful man who has contributed, only positively, to our country.  Therefore I stand with immigrants.

Then, I moved to Boise and when questioned about my political bend, I said I was not sure.  A fellow instructor told me all teachers are democrats.  Still, I wasn't certain.  I simply voted for the candidate I liked more.

I taught at a school designated E.L.L. (English Language Learners) so we had a number of refugees and I came to know the my students' families.  They also only want, for their children and family, the same things we do.  Most were wonderful people and were in our country because they were not safe in their own therefore I also stand with refugees.

My years in education also taught me about the people living on the fringes of society.  I learned about hunger, violence and despair.  My belief is that we cannot know what we have not experienced and those on the edge are people who deserve respect unless we are given reason not to.  Therefor I stand with the poor.

So now people, whether in agreement or not, might be able to better understand my liberal rants.  And now you know how easily I can be contacted on Facebook because I'll probably be there!

"Still Lexie" the Book: Done

My book's title is Still Lexie because I am. In 1991, I suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car crash in California's high desert.  Some head injuries cause distinct personality change but when mine finally surfaced from the fog of uncertainty no one told me it had changed.  

I didn't need anyone to tell me that physically, I emerged a very different person.  I never regained total function in my right hemisphere and I call the way I walk a 'hobble.' Even after two surgeries my eyes continue to wonder around their sockets, too, both working just not in unison.  My balance continues to be a major issue and I now use a rollator, walker on 4 wheels, when I need to be upright for a long period of time, especially on the track at K.M.S.  I am also slower mentally but friends, especially those with no reference to the before me, say they see no limitations apart from my limp. They are polite.

After several years of pecking at my laptop with the 5 fingers on my left hand and the right pointer digit, I have finished "Still Lexie" my memoir. I am now in search of a Kick-Ass Literary Agent and, or Publisher.  Actually, I'd take anyone willing to publish me.  Currently, I am sending out submissions. 

I began writing this book in Boise in 2009 by reading the accident report for the first time and writing the details around the actual crash, taken from accounts from those that were there.  They were conscious, whole individuals, I was not.

After divorcing, I decided to move back to my home in Montana, where I began.  I continued to write sporadically but was having a hard time organizing.  The book took a backseat.  For the most part, I was focused on getting my new, single life together.  But then, Facebook told me a classmate, Kelly, published a book.  When I actually saw her, probably for the first time since high school, she shared that she enjoyed my blog. "There's a book there, you know!" was her comment.

As casual as I could, I said, "I've started writing one and lots of my blog stories are in it."

It is difficult to say, out loud, "I am a writer," unless you've had material published.  It puts your writing abilities on display and what people actually hear is, "I want to be a writer."  Kelly had been published therefore she was a real writer and I was encouraged.  

She asked me to send her what I had written and said she would help me get it done. And she did. Kelly was only an acquaintance in high school, the friend of my friends but we have quickly bonded and I am certain I would not have completed the book without her help and her friendship.

From her I leaned it needed to be a memoir and because of that I would have to start at the beginning. She told me my readers needed to know me before the accident so I started when I did; my birth in Kalispell, Montana.  I had not lived here since coming home summers during my college years in the early 80s so writing about my childhood came easier after returning to the Flathead valley.

I wrote about my childhood; growing up in this last best place which I now appreciate tenfold.  I had help recalling my high school years and early track career from coach Joe McKay, who I see a few days a week at Sykes, a local diner.  Then, I travelled to Eugene to meet with Mark and Tom my Duck coaches extraordinaire. When I thought I was finished, my children read what I had written and gave me their ideas.  I made some changes, wrote some more and finally arrived at the conclusion.

My objective was to tell my story; the rise, fall and return to self of one of Montana's best track and field athletes.  It's from my point of view and was not always easy but it was something I had to do for myself. It is a book about my life, almost to date but includes Montana stuff, things about Track and Field at the University of Oregon and general head injury information.

Reaching this finish line, years after leaving the blocks might be more satisfying than any race any race I ever ran, maybe.