Accidental Akronite

So here’s a statement you don’t hear every day from a young mother speaking to her son:

“RODNEY! Don’t you dare leave your arm over here! Get back here and get your arm!”

Yup. That’d be precisely what I heard around 3:15 p.m. on Wednesday while I was anxiously awaiting my new orthotics in the waiting room of Yanke Bionics.

When I signed in at the registration desk, I realized I was the one, the only person in the waiting room with all of my limbs in tact. Two arms, two legs. Feet, hands, fingers, toes. Everyone else waiting patiently in the uncomfortable chairs were missing pieces of themselves. One older woman had her new prosthetic leg lying across her lap in a plastic bag. Another older man had most of his prosthetic leg covered up with a white tube sock and shorts.

And then there was Rodney, whom I figured was about seven or eight years old. His two younger siblings were tucked in a corner, playing with a frisbee. Rodney and his mom were signing in and then Rodney got distracted - like kids (and adults) do by all the commotion his brother and sister were making in the corner so he took off after them. Only he forgot to take his prosthetic arm with him. Left it right by the registration window where his mom picked it up and waved it in the air as she called after him.

She must have realized the humor in what she said because she turned to her impromptu audience and said, “If you only knew what I paid for this thing. I almost cried when I got the bill. Rodney, get over here right now and pick up your arm!”

How can you not love this woman’s approach to her son’s physical tragedy? She acted like it was perfectly normal to tell Rodney to pick up his arm. And for Rodney, it is normal. Later, when I was still waiting for what were becoming my increasingly insignificant orthotics for my running shoes, Rodney said, “Look mom, I’m using both my hands to pick up the frisbee.” One real, one made of titanium or carbon or some type of metal.

Way to go, Rodney! The kid with the cool bionic arm. I only hope other kids in school find it cool, and don’t give him any trouble over it. And even if they do, Rodney seemed to have enough confidence and bravado to get him through the teasing. Maybe his mom’s attitude had something to do with his self-assuredness, a mom who seemed to choose pride over pity, humor over horror, love and laughter over languishing in depression that her kid was missing his right arm from the elbow down.

Anyhow, insert Catholic guilt here. Seeing the lack of limbs in that waiting room made me feel about as big as a flea on an elephant for whining over my self-induced (from running) foot problem, and for asking the doc to put a rush on my new orthotics so I can run the marathon on Sunday with perhaps a little less pain than I’ve been experiencing the past couple of weeks. My issue is so very small in comparison to adjusting to life as an amputee.

Which then got me to thinking about the wheelchair marathoners and how I always get choked up when I see them at the Start line. And how humbled I am when I pass them or they pass me on the course. I think my training has been a bitch? Please.  

There are more than 3 million amputees in America, with males making up 77% of this population. The Iraq War isn’t helping reduce these numbers and neither is diabetes, one of the primary causes of amputation along with vascular and circulatory diseases. In January 2007, TIME magazine reported that the 500th soldier returned to the states as an amputee. Sadly, this number doesn’t include the men and women who lost toes or fingers. Apparently the military doesn’t think our digits are that important.

But, it’s not all gloom and doom out there. As prosthetic technology improves, more and more amputees are competing as sprinters, marathoners, soccer players, rowers, cyclists and more. Dick Traum was the first runner to complete a marathon with a prosthetic leg in 1976 before the high-tech versions were available. He ran with a strap-on leg and finished in seven hours and 24 minutes. Today, the times and the technology are far better.

Amy Palmiero-Winters broke the world record for female below-knee (BK) amputees by posting a 3:04:16 in the 2007 LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon which also happened to be one of the hottest marathons in the city’s history. She ran the Cleveland Marathon in 2006, finishing in 3:26.

Oscar Pistorius, a double-amputee, has been trying for more than a year to be included in the Mens Olympic Trials for sprinters but has been banned from competition because officials believe his carbon-fiber prosthesis gives him a “clear competitive advantage” over runners with two thighs, kneecaps, calves, and feet. Huh? Are you kidding? The two-legged men might experience a little chafing now and again but I’d bet my bottom dollar they don’t withstand half the pain Pistorius and Palmiero-Winters do.

Regardless of official rulings, Amy and Oscar have made it clear in interviews and advertisements that they want other people to see them as “just another runner.” No special favors, no pity parties. They put in the training and the miles just like every other person on that course. For those of us with all of our limbs, it’s difficult not to feel some sort of sympathy for those who have lost an arm or leg. We simply can’t imagine what life must be like to have to put on your arms or your legs every morning, just like we put on our robe and slippers.

But then you see a kid like Rodney, all smiles and pride while he’s picking up that frisbee and you think maybe that kid will be the next famous gymnast or pitcher or basketball player. Because, really, he’s “just another kid” and that’s exactly what his mom wants him to be.

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“School is out for SUMMAHHHHHHH!,” Alice sang when Mom picked her and Macy up from doggie daycare. She trotted to the car with a confident swagger while Macy followed behind, distracted by all the smells in the parking lot.

“Are we done with school forever?” Macy asked. “Did we graduate? I don’t remember any pomp and circumstance unless you count the way you herded that hyper poodle into the corner? I don’t think he was very happy with your alpha-ness.”

“Nah, we’re not done forever with daycare, just for now,” Alice said. “Pretty good times in there with that poodle. He didn’t know what hit him in the hind quarters.”

Macy hopped into the backseat after Alice. Mom was reading two white slips of paper and frowning. She read the first piece and then the other. Then she read them again, shook her head, and turned toward them.

“Just wait until your father sees these,” she said, shaking the papers at them.

“Dammit,” Alice whispered. “Freaking report cards. I think we got graded at daycare today. What kind of Dog-Whisperer-Be-Good-Take-The-Bark-Out-Of-Dogs conspiracy crap is that? I don’t like where this is headed.”

Macy reviewed the day in her mind. She only barked 12,000 times which wasn’t very much considering they were there for almost 8 hours. She made a quick calculation - 1,500 barks an hour. Surely that was an acceptable rate of yapping for any dog. There was so much to talk about at daycare. And then there was that scuffle with the Beagle. That beagle was always getting too close and sniffing her too much. He was a close-sniffer and she had to make it clear she is a girl who likes her privacy and space. Oh, and there was that “not listening” thing when the daycare teacher called her name 40 times in a row but Mom usually called her name 50 times before she listened. The teacher should know that about her by now. She had what Mom and Dad called selective hearing. She played good with the tennis ball and she herded all of the goofy labs and retrievers into a corner where they belonged. She even protected the Chihuahua when all the other dogs were picking on her. If she got a bad grade, it was clearly Alice’s influence.

“I think I was a very good girl,” Macy said. “I’m not worried.”

Alice snorted and looked out the car window. The problem with daycare was there were rules. Rules that did not apply to the Aussie. Rules that were meant to be modified to the Alice Way of Living. Did those teachers not understand that she required a steady stream of Milk Bones to do her job properly? What did they want - chaos and madness and sheer disaster? If she was down a meal or even just a measley treat, there was no way she could continue to police the grounds of the daycare center and ensure that all the other dogs were in order. The pressure was immense, to be sure.

Did those teachers not know that she was GREATEST HERDER OF ALL TIME and deserved special treatment, including first dibs on toys, food, attention, and did we mention food? She had tried and tried to get them to understand that when she sat in front of them and panted and looked like she hadn’t had a meal since 1977 when Carter was president and everyone was crazy for peanut butter (which, in her opinion, was the best kind of crazy to be) that this behavior should automatically result in some form of treatery. She wasn’t picky. A bone, a scrap of banana, a graham cracker, was it too much to give a girl some damn yogurt from a yogurt cup? Hells bells, she’d take anything but none of her routines seemed to work on these people. I mean, how could she look any cuter? Even her high-comedy rolling around routine produced nothing but a pat on the head. A girl could freaking starve on pats on the head. Pat, schmat. How about some quality sirloin, people? 

But she digressed.

Any barking she did was a necessity to keep the other dogs in line. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more that prison should actually put her on the payroll for all the additional work she did there. No money, no food, no cigarette breaks. She had half a mind to turn that place in to the B.H.O. (Buddies of the Highest Order, membership 2 - her and Dad) for violating every dog labor law in the universe. Talk about a sweat shop. If anything negative was written on the paper, well, hell hath no fury like an Alice scorned. Or something like that. She was too nervous to be quoting poetry or Shakespeare or Old Yeller. Screw Lassie. Lassie never had anything good to say. Lassie was always out saving lives and making other dogs look lazy. Why, if she got ahold of Lassie, she’d … she’d … again with the digression. Time to focus because whatever was on the report card should not be viewed by Dad. Nope. The president of the esteemed B.H.O. did not need to see any libelous or slanderous allegations against her.

 They pulled into the driveway and Mom put the car in park. Dad was sitting in the backyard, waiting.

“Bark,” Alice said to Macy. “Bark your ass off!”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Macy started barking her puppy bark, the one that surely broke through sound barriers and did some major damage to the planet.

“Sheesh! Wait a minute,” Mom said as she got out of the car. She called to Dad that “The Girls must be happy to see you.”

Mom opened the door and Macy leaped out with Alice following, head down, eyes on the concrete.

Dad greeted them at the gate. “How was daycare? Were you the best girls ever?”

“Oh,” Mom said, turning back to the car. “Wait until you see this. They got report cards. Apparently, Alice wanted extra attention all day and talked too much.”

“Report cards? You’re kidding, right?” Dad patted Alice on the head and gave Macy a scratch while Mom walked back to the car. She looked in the front seat, then under the front seat, then in the back seat.

“What’s the matter?” Dad asked.

“I can’t find their report cards. They were right here on the front seat. I swear I’m not making this up.”

Dad shrugged his shoulders and looked at Alice. She seemed to be chewing something. Something white like paper.

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… you come home from a slow 12-mile run and take a bath with epsom salts. I have officially turned into Old Mother Hubbard or Mother Superior or some other old person with craggedy knees and aching feet. At this point, I’ll do anything to get rid of this nagging plantar fascitis before the marathon on May 18 and many runner pals of mine recommend the old remedy of soaking in magnesium sulfate to ease muscle pain. So I went to Walgreens and got a box of salts - along with some salty potato chips for Dave (and…um…me). The epsom variety of salt was also infused with lavendar so the bathroom smelled extra nice during my bath. The chip variety of salt was greasy and fattening and tasted extra nice with dinner.

Of course, I had to read up on epsom salts and because there has to be a council, committee, or organization for everything on the planet, wouldn’t you know there’s actually an Epsom Salt Industry Council? Can you imagine the board meetings and the fundraisers? “Hey there, George, we really need to focus our marketing efforts on all of these idiots running marathons these days. Stock in Epsom Salts will skyrocket. How about if we sponsor a marathon or two and offer free baths at the finish line?” And then Harry responds to George with a long monologue on how magnesium is the underdog of all the elements and truly deserves a higher ranking than, say, oxygen or carbon dioxide, or that fun element everyone loves - helium.

I mean what beats helium really? Mercury might come close because there’s always the temptation to break open a thermometer and watch the silver balls careen across the bathroom counter. But helium makes balloons float in the air, and you can suck it up and make yourself sound like Mickey Mouse. Hours of free entertainment come from one single tank of helium. But magnesium? It’s just one small step away from milk of magnesia which then brings on unpleasant thoughts of … well … you know.

So it’s no wonder that the mighty Epsom Salt Council wants us to know that the majority of Americans are magnesium-deficient. Horrors. Seriously, it is sort of horrible because magnesium deficiency can lead to heart disease, stroke, osteoporosis, arthritis, and digestive maladies (which, in my opinion, is one of those underrated words that should be used more often. Malady. It just sounds so much better than illness.).

And who knew that magnesium sulfate was discovered in Epsom, England back in Shakespeare’s day. So clearly these epsom salt baths will make me a better writer. All of that Shakespearean stuff osmosis-ing its way through my skin. (Note to my sister Chris: do not give me a lecture on all of the science-botching I’m doing in this post. Really I just wanted to use the word osmosis even if it’s an incorrect usage).

Anyhow, bully for me for reviving this old remedy. Not only does my skin feel soft, my muscles do feel a little relaxed and I admit to even feeling a little more relaxed than I did a few days ago. Now, if only it could cure cellulite, monthly bloating, and world peace, we’d be all set.

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So you’re getting ready to tell someone they don’t have a job anymore, and the soundtrack running through your mind is The Cult’s “Love Removal Machine“. 

“Look out here she comes, look out here she comes … you little soul shaker, love removal machine.”

Why does weird stuff enter your mind and exit through your mouth during stressful times? Why do we laugh at funerals or in the middle of a totally serious meeting? This past week, people at the company I still work for (thankfully) in Cincinnati went through some major stress in the form of a “restructure” that impacted 10% of the workforce in the building. Restructure is a nice way to say layoff, getting the ax, getting whacked, and being eliminated, which is the way folks who lost their jobs tended to describe the experience.

In the survivor camps, some made jokes, some cried, some looked ready to puke. If you were me, you cried, made jokes, cried, felt like you were going to puke and reverted back to the late 80s for songs like Love Removal Machine to soothe the corporate savagery. Maybe it was that soul-shaker bit in the lyrics that brought this song up from the memory cavern. Losing your job is definitely a soul-shaking moment. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve always loved a good Cult song and it reminds me of my easy, breezy, beautiful college days at Ohio University where I never once suspected I would have to tell someone they were no longer receiving a paycheck. Who doesn’t revert to a “happy place” when under stress?

But was the soundtrack I kept repeating an inappropriate reaction? I did a little Googling on the subject. According to a few psychology sites including Psychology Today magazine, it appears that my reaction was simply my way of avoiding neurological overload. The battle to maintain self-control in situations that are out of your control becomes too great. As one psychologist wrote, “All of the responsibilities, obligations, and risks conspire to push us from a state of stress past our internal tipping point into a state of distress, where our goal becomes finding relief. It is the seeking of that relief that drives our behavior.”

I also assumed there were some instinctual fight-or-flight reactions happening last Thursday when people got the news. Some fought over it, some wanted to exit as quickly as possible without so much as a word spoken. Neither reaction was wrong - who can say if there’s ever a right way to act to news that messes with your paycheck?

Throughout the rest of the building another interesting behavior patten was developing, one I’d never heard of but stumbled on during my Google search. It’s called tend-and-befriend. Many of us spent time tending to and protecting our friends while countless others sought out social contact - befriending - for joint protection. Humans, especially women, have a tendency to “affiliate”, to come together, during stressful times.

Scientists have discovered that our bodies release oxytocin in response to certain stressors, especially those that may trigger affiliative needs or the need to protect offspring. The research goes on to talk about a biological basis for different tend-and-befriend reactions in women versus men but I won’t get into that debate here because then we’d also have to address societal and structural factors and rituals at play in our lives which then turns this simple blog into a lengthy dissertation that I am undeniably unqualified to write. My role as amateur psychologist is limited to the conversations that take place in my cubicle and even then I don’t always get the diagnosis right!

Regardless, I’m still recovering from the week so I’ll just leave you with a few things to check out whether you are fighting or flighting or tending or befriending around your daily stressors:

• R.E.M.’s latest effort, Accelerate, is worth a listen. It’s been in constant rotation at the Purcell house for several weeks now and harkens back to the good old days when REM was less about experimenting and more about rocking out the way they do it best.
• Speaking of rocking out, summer is almost upon us which means it’s time for good summer music. I have a theory that some music just sounds better in the summer. It’s like beer - Corona is a summer beer just like Goose Island Honker’s Ale is a winter beer. Anyhow, The Jayhawks, Blue Mountain, Van Morrison, Bob Marley, The Rave-Ups and the new one byAugustana will all be on my list of summer listens.
• Dave pointed me to an article in The Akron Beacon Journal about Art Pearson, an 89-year-old salesman for Fuller brushes. I had a Fuller brush as a kid. I think it was pink. Articles like this warm my heart - read and be warmed. 
• Just finished listening to Devil In The White City by Erik Larson. It’s set in the 1890s during the Chicago World’s Fair. Lots of mystery and intrigue for mystery lovers, lots of history for history lovers, and lots of downright fantastic writing for the literary set. If you haven’t read it, check it out. If you have a long commute, it’s super on audio.
• National Geographicjust put out a special issue on China. It’s equal parts fascinating and frightening, sort of like watching a trainwreck.
• I love my new Kenneth Cole strappy sandals in cheery chartreuse. For those unfamiliar with chartreuse, Merriam Webster defines it as a variable color averaging a brilliant yellow green. Once my tootsies are tan and I spend some upcoming birthday moments shopping at Anthropologie for an outfit to match, the sandals will look even better.
• But first, I have to get rid of this case of plantar fasciitis on my untanned left tootsie. Sounds like a fungus but it’s actually strained tendons running from your heel along the bottom of your foot. Apparently my left foot is tired of long runs and has decided to revolt a mere couple of weeks before the marathon. So, I’ll be resting more than running in these last weeks. The good news is, any running I do now will have absolutely no effect on how I do in the marathon so I’ll be doing my best to tend and befriend with my foot.

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(Dave was the inspiration for this Girl Talk. He recently taught about music as a form of cultural resistance in his race class and decided that if Alice were a hip-hop star, she’d be like Chuck D and Macy would be Flavor Flav. Here’s the real version of “Bring the Noise“. In class, Dave talked about how important Public Enemy was in the development of political rap. Chuck D used to describe Public Enemy as the “Black CNN.” If nothing else, it provided some hilarious conversation around which rock stars our dogs would be if they could be rock stars. Let me know which rock star your dog or cat would be.)

Macy sniffed around Alice’s head. She was wearing a baseball cap backwards and looked rather stern and serious, more than usual. The whole serious girl, baseball cap look was so 90s but Macy didn’t know how to tell Alice it was time to update her look.

Alice put her paws over the piece of paper she had in front of her and gave a low growl like she did when she was protecting a rawhide. It had been a quiet few weeks, almost boring, Macy thought. Alice had been extra silent, and seemed to be up to no good, hatching some sort of secret plot. Possibly a plan to eradicate squirrels from the planet. Or maybe figuring out how to lift the lid off the plastic tub where Mom kept their food. But plotting about those things was a daily activity for Alice. This time, it seemed different.

“Can I see what you’ve been working on?” Macy asked. “Are you keeping a diary about how much you love, love, l-o-v-e Bernie? Alice and Bernie sitting in a tree, s-n-i-f-f-i-n-g. La la la.”

Alice rolled her eyes and scribbled something illegible on the paper.

“I wasn’t going to let you in on this but I’ve decided the time is right,” Alice said seriously. “Are you ready for the revolution?”

Macy cocked her head. It was warm outside and Macy didn’t think it seemed like the right time for a revolution what with the tulips blooming and the grass sprouting up tasty green shoots that made a healthy mid-morning snack. A revolution seemed so … so … angry for springtime. Really what she wanted was to lie in a sun patch and work on her tan.

“Why do we need a revolution?” Macy asked.

“I’ll tell you why. There’s a war going down – against stupidity and bigotry and insanity and all the other ity’s of the world. And I’m starting it right here. To help Dad fight the Man. The bad Man, the one that keeps us down. His name is Cesar Milan and he is the tyrant of all dogs. And the best way to fight the Man is through music. That’s what Dad said the other night. He’s teaching all this cool shit to his students about racialized social structures and the like through music. Music is like the panacea for some of our social ills, you know, the remedy.”

“Sort of like cheese and tennis balls?”

Alice spit a little drool out of the side of her jowls, and pulled her hat a little more to the left.

“Since when did you become Ms. Smartypants?” Macy scooted to the other side of the bed. Sometimes it wasn’t easy sharing The Annex with your big sister when she was in one of her fight-the-power moods.

“As I was saying, Senorita Crazypants, I’m thinking it’s high time I start my own band, spread the gospel of Alice Palace – that’s my rap name, Alice P for short. I’m gonna right the wrongs of this Cesar-dominated world, and bring harmony to our fractured dog society through my super intelligent lyrics.”

“OH, A BAND!!! Hurray! Can I play tambourine? I always wanted to play tambourine like Laurie on The Patridge Family!”

“The revolution will not begin with that kind of band. We are going to be hardcore and honest. No singing about sunshine and love and happiness.”

“Oh,” Macy said, disappointed. “You mean like Siouxsie and the Banshees or The Cure or Bauhaus? I love Goth! Can we wear lots of black eyeliner and black fishnet hose and black everything? It goes so well with my coloring already. But I won’t be able to tan over the summer. I’ll need to have pale skin if we’re going to be Goth. We’ll have to stay in the shade a lot and smoke cigarettes and look very sad in our black lipstick.”

“That’s not how we roll in this, Princess Happypants. We are all about strength and fighting the good fight. We need more attitude. We’re gonna be like my hero Chuck D. I am Alice P and you can be Flava Flav. You know, the guy with the clock and the tv show now. We are gonna be like Public Enemy Number One, dammit.”

Macy looked confused. “I thought were were already Public Enemy Number One. Isn’t that why mom calls us a Menace To Society when we bark at anything within a fifty-mile radius?”

Alice nipped Macy on the neck. “You talk too much. Just shut up, wear your damn clock, and follow my lead, Flavah. Check out these lyrics I came up with. It’s all about barking which Cesar hates. The Aussies will be silenced no more! When other dogs hear this it will knock the merle right out of their fur. The Aussie nation will never be the same.”

“If we’re going to do rap, can I be Sistah Souljah instead?” Macy whispered, looking at the giant clock around her neck. The clock wasn’t very fashionable, it was so 80s. But Alice didn’t hear her. She was too busy scratching her paws on the carpet to get the beat going.

Macy! how low can you go?
Fence row. what a sistah knows.
Once again, red merle is the Incredible
The fine animal
The incredible Alice P, Public Enemy Number One
 Now Cesar’s got me in The Annex ‘cause my barking is too loud
But a sistah like me says, hell…
…Aussie Alice P is a prophet and I think you ought to listen to
What I’m barking at you, and what you ought to do.
Follow me now, power of the canine, say,
Make a miracle, Flava, bark the lyrical
Merle is back, all in, we’re gonna win
Check it out, yeah y’all, here we go again

Suddenly Macy was moonwalking across the floor barking out the chorus:

Turn it up! Bring the noise!
 
We got to demonstrate and riot,
Come on now,
Cesar’s gonna have to be silenced
We got it right
We’re gonna bark and be a menace
Make Cesar do his penance
We call ourselves merle
We are the barking girls

Macy shouted as the clock swung around her neck.

Turn it up! Bring the noise!

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