It was easy to lose focus and dither the time away, getting lost in e-mail or reports, working through the day without a break. I decided to prioritize finding time to physically leave the office at least once a day.
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Sciatica

Altho I’ve borne a child I can’t say I’ve experienced the pain of childbirth.   Early in my labor the doctor discovered the baby was in breech position and I’d need  a Cesarean,  and so I was put out and felt no pain.  (See My Brown-Eyed Girl)

And once I had a really bad compound ankle fracture from a fall.  I lay on the ground obviously in shock and felt no pain,  and then in the ambulance I was hooked up to a morphine drip,  and so no pain.  (See Broken Ankle)

But let me tell you about my really painful bout with sciatica,  and my Me Too moment with the creepy doctor who treated me.

If you’ve suffered with sciatica yourself you can feel my pain,  at times I felt something was inside my left leg gnawing at my bones,  especially at night when I was lying in bed.  I went from orthopedist to pain doctor to acupuncturist,  to no avail.   I even tried a supposed cure for sciatica I found on the internet altho there was no medical science to support it,  and my husband rolled his eyes when I told him that putting a bar of soap between the bedsheets would help.   It didn’t.

And so my suffering continued,  especially at night when my moaning and groaning kept us both awake.

Then a friend recommended I see his chiropractor, who he said worked wonders.  Altho I’d always been a little wary of chiropractors,  I was desperate and made an appointment with Dr B.

Dr B was a handsome man,  seemingly quite charming,  and had a very impressive,  well-appointed office.   He came out to the waiting room to greet me and ushered me into a darkened exam room,  gave me a hospital gown,  and told me to undress completely.    I thought that was strange as the pain was only in my left leg,  but he was the doctor and I just the suffering patient,  and so I undressed and lay down on the table.   He told me to relax and began turning and manipulating my leg,  then after awhile his hands began moving up my legs,  startling and then alarming me.  I froze but am ashamed to say I was too confused and embarrassed to question him or call him out – after all he was the doctor.

Minutes later he said the exam was over,  I should make a follow-up appointment,  and he left the room.   Shaken,  I dressed and hurried out,  and then I started second-guessing myself,   wondering if I had imagined something that was too awful to have actually happened.  But when I got to the outer office Dr B was waiting for me,  asked if my leg felt better,  and then invited me to meet him later for a drink.

Needless to say I didn’t make that follow-up appointment,  nor did I meet him for that drink.   Rather I left his office as fast as I could.

But altho I’d never say the affront and the indignity were worth it,  I must admit Dr B did cure my sciatica!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Migraine

I must have been 11 or 12 the first time it hit me. I was sitting in the back seat with my friend Paula as her father drove us to a friend’s birthday party when I suddenly had a horrible nauseous headache.  I don’t remember what happened after that but I assume Paula’s dad took me home.

That was my first migraine attack which I later learned is often tied to hormonal changes.  Thus mine began with puberty,  and periodically for decades I suffered those debilitating nauseous headaches when it felt as if a tight rubber band was pressing on my temples.  And altho I don’t remember broadcasting my ills,  among friends it seems my headaches were legendary.  (See Carving Mr Pumpkin)

Today there are many migraine medicines on the market,   but back then there was no sure fire treatment,  so I’d lie in a darkened bedroom,  a cold compress on my forehead,  and wait to throw up – the one thing that eventually brought relief.

Once I was so sick at work my husband had to come and get me,  and once I was so distraught he brought me to a hospital emergency room.

I did consult a neurologist who questioned how often I suffered,  and for how long.  When I told her it happened 3 or 4 times a year with the attacks lasting an hour or so until I felt sick enough to throw up,  she said I should thank my lucky stars I wasn’t suffering monthly as some women do.   And she advised I try Ipecac,  an over-the-counter syrup that hastens antiperistalsis – in other words makes you throw up.   And so I always kept a bottle on hand –  until people with eating disorders began to abuse it to empty their stomachs,  and then Ipecac became a prescription med.

One day at work the subject of migraine came up over lunch.  My colleague Alex said his wife Beth suffered migraines monthly,  and often so badly he’d have to take her to the emergency room for relief.   Once,  he told us,  as Beth lay moaning on a hospital gurney,  a doctor told them that migraine  headaches can be alleviated by sexual intercourse.

Alex leaned over the gurney.  “Did you hear that?”  he asked his wife.  “Do you wanna try?”

Beth looked up at her husband.  “Fuhgeddaboudit.”   she said thru clenched teeth.

Postscript

The neurologist had also told me that dark chocolate and red wine can be migraine triggers,  and so for years I abstained from both.   But thankfully since the hormonal changes that came with menopause my migraines have ceased.

And so now I eat the chocolate,  and I drink the wine,  but first I raise my glass to everyone’s good health!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

And like magic, the water didn’t crash over us and tumble us around, it just lifted us up and then down, our toes touching the sand again.  It was wonderful.
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Swimming

Ah, swimming. That timeless activity – unless, of course, you consider the few unfortunate souls who haven’t yet grasped its aquatic glory. Evidence suggests most humans have been splashing around since the Stone Age, which, let’s be honest, is basically yesterday compared to the grand scheme of things. Here’s the kicker: even those toga-clad fellows in ancient Greece and Rome considered swimming a martial art. Can you imagine the intimidation factor? “Prepare to meet your doom, barbarian horde! I, Leonidas, shall vanquish you with a devastating… freestyle!”

Me? Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly born with flippers for feet. Unlike Michael Phelps, I didn’t emerge from the womb with a built-in breaststroke. My childhood consisted more of building elaborate sandcastle empires than conquering the high seas (or, more accurately, the kiddie pool). It wasn’t until junior high school, fueled by a potent combination of youthful bravado and the desperate need to escape a particularly soul-crushing philosophy lecture, that I decided to tackle this aquatic Everest.

The local indoor pool, bless its chlorinated heart, became my training ground. Picture this: an almost grown-up, flailing about like a particularly ungraceful sea lion, desperately trying to master the backstroke. It wasn’t pretty. But hey, perseverance is a virtue, right? Eventually, I graduated from the shallow end to venturing into the “deep end,” which, let’s be honest, was still only about chest-high. But progress is progress, folks!

Now, the question remains: where’s the best place to flaunt my (somewhat questionable) swimming prowess? The ocean? Absolutely breathtaking, but let’s be real, the constant threat of rogue waves and jellyfish stings isn’t exactly conducive to a relaxing dip. Lakes? Sure, if you enjoy the thrill of potentially encountering nature’s mystery meat – a submerged log, a discarded tire, and remember that fish piss in ponds and lakes (and the ocean.) For me, the good ol’ fashioned indoor swimming pool reigns supreme. Predictable (in the best way possible), clean (most of the time), and with a steady supply of chlorine-scented towels – what more could a swimmer ask for?

Of course, I wouldn’t be living the full human experience without acknowledging the many water-averse peoples. Look, I get it. The vast unknown can be intimidating. But let me tell you, friends, overcoming that fear is an achievement of epic proportions. Plus, think of the bragging rights! “Yeah, I used to be terrified of a little H2O, but now I can conquer swimming with the best of them.” See? Instant legend status.

So, the next time you find yourself poolside or shore-side, don’t be afraid to take the plunge. You might just discover a hidden aquatic talent, or at least manage a halfway decent doggy paddle. And who knows, maybe you’ll even inspire some poor younger souls to conquer their fear of swimming. Just remember, when it comes to swimming, the only true failure is remaining on dry land. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with the freestyle lane or a questionable outdoor tan line.

–30–

I learned to swim in Long Island Sound by New London, CT, probably when I was four or so. I like swimming in pools and the ocean. Don’t especially like lakes and their usually slimy bottoms. Concrete and sand are OK on the feet, for some reason.

I started snorkeling as an adult and love it. Most memorable snorkeling trips were in Tahiti and Fiji, where we saw three HUGE giant clams on one small reef, all with different colored lips waving in the current.

Very bad experience while on a sailing charter to the British Virgin Islands, where my wife’s best friend since their teens drowned while snorkeling on Anegada. It was a primitive beach, so my wife performed CPR for over 45 minutes until an NP arrived and pronounced our friend dead. Extremely traumatic event, as you may imagine. One thing that came from that was we always snorkel with inflatable snorkel vests now, which would have saved our friend.

To keep up with my wife, I got certified in scuba diving about 15 years ago, and have had some nice experiences. Most interesting was coming upon eight big lemon sharks at Bora Bora.

Reader Advisory.  Iron Butterfly’s“In-A-Gada-Da-Vida,” and Simon and Garfunkel are referenced in this piece. If an earworm ensues, counteract it by singing “Bingo” (you know, “there was a boy who had a little dog and Bingo was his name-o…”)

Snow days

During grade school snow days, Chicky Ross, Danny Corsi, Tommy DiPetro and I used to sled until we were frozen stiff.  We didn’t know our clothes were soaked and frozen until we got next to the coal furnace in the basement, started steaming, our pants came off as a slab of ice and our legs were maraschino red.  We flashed down Beech Street’s steep quarter mile hill.  For an easy stop, we’d make a  sharp left at the bottom slow gliding to a stop on Maple Street, or make a sharp right onto Elm for one last lazy dip.  OR, for the sledding Samurai, we’d fly straight off the bottom of Beech ten feet into the air, then Slam! onto Ray Lakavich’s yard and plunge to a brush bordered creek. The Lakavich option’s mystique was enhanced by the likelihood of pursuit by irate Ray who didn’t want “goddamn kids diggin’ up” his “fucking yard.” Today’s salacious film scripts are drafted on the lawns of America.

High school snow days were spent lounging around the electric heater in Bill Menda’s attic reading Agatha Christie and listening to “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” (baby) or Eric Burden and the Animals wail “We gotta get out of this place.” (NYT, Jan 29, 2024, “Today’s Teenagers: Anxious About Their Futures and Disillusioned by Politicians”. Really.) Or, if I was yearning from a surfeit of Simon and Garfunkel, I took long walks through snowy woods with my dog, Ginger, dreaming (me, not Ginger) of Henry Mancini’s second cousin (see my reply to Jim’s comment on my DMV post) and planning to be the next JD Salinger.

Okay I’m gonna pull up, now, before I (as a friend warns) “drive into a ditch on Memory Lane,” because, the real point of this essay is now, as a retired Boomer, to my delight, every day is a snow day.

These days, when people ask me what I have scheduled, I reply, “nothing,” that magic word, which makes time not only relative, but optional.

Look, daffodils blooming.  A perfect snow day.