This will be my last post for the Unite 2 Fight Paralysis blog.

As any vgrafen reader will know, I comment on any and all subjects that come into my world; I hold back very little. Unfortunately, however, U2FP, because it is a non-profit entity, has limitations on what can be said politically, or they’ll be in jeopardy of losing their tax-exempt status, I’m told.

Not one to sit still while my metaphysical wings are clipped, I’ve decided to move on to other projects.

I want to thank the directors of U2FP for providing me this space for as long as they have, and I wish them good luck down the road with the fight we’re all committed to winning: curing paralysis.

My health is still of prime concern, and in truth, I am still struggling with my illness, though that has had no bearing on my decision to leave U2FP. Rest assured ‘ol v is not quietly idling off to the sidelines, not in this, one of the most important political years in memory.

Those of you wishing to stay abreast of what and where I’m off to next can reach me at: vgrafen@hotmail.com.

At any rate, and again, thanks to U2FP for putting up with me, and for all those who’ve enjoyed my Hot Electric Quicksand scribblings.

Until then, onward…

vgrafen

I will be out of commission starting this Wednesday, when I begin an in-home wound vac treatment with IV Vancomycin for however long it may take.

I’m not gonna blame her too greatly, but my Nurse Practitioner, against the advice of a surgeon and the docs at UC Davis, felt I’d be ok with a return to Augmentin, which I have undertaken, and wouldn’t need wound vac. Seemed odd to me and my wife; Pia talked to several other docs since then and determined I needed better care; I was able to get checked at UC Davis and it was confirmed I have MRSA; they set up the in-home treatment to begin this week. One-two-three, no screwing around.

I’d been taking Augmentin till last week and was actually feeling better; perhaps it was just the flu ending and leaving me with just the infection, for Augmentin isn’t supposed to work against MRSA, but I am not in the chill/fever/sweat phase I was in, and the wound looks better. Still, I am grateful I will be on an aggressive treatment which I pray will put an end to this endlessness. I’ll be essentially bed-ridden for however long, but I am committed to ending this wound/infection and getting back to living.

I deeply empathize with anyone struggling with this infection. It is insidious; just when you think you’re doing better, bam! you ain’t.

I got a phone call on Saturday from the mother of a girl in one of the SCI peer groups up here; the girl, 15 years old and t-8, has had MRSA since July and just can’t beat it. Unlike myself, with a wound below my injury site, she has to deal abscesses on her back and neck, where she can feel, along with several on her ass. Excruciating pain, constantly infected, close to suicide; I gave what little support I could, mentioned turmeric and a few other alternates but really couldn’t give much more. As we both noted, it’s the endlessness of the condition, never seeing progress, that is exhausting, along with the physical misery. Terrible shit.

But the weather is beautiful today in Butte Valley, so I’m gonna head outside and smoke a cigar after a short bowl of the kind, try to stand up for awhile, eat some dinner and get ready for Christmas. Usually this is a wonderful time of year for my wife and I, but this year it’s almost an after-thought, due in large part to my health. Thankfully I have not been hospitalized, and hopefully this next treatment will kill the bug and close the wound. I will be a patient patient, believe me! I look forward to taking some of the burden off my wife’s shoulders, and returning to a state of activity.

Until I am allowed computer time again, I am signing off. Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy -and healthy- New Year!
~

(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

Looks like the infection is abating. Awaiting word on whether or not I’ll have flap surgery or wound vac or just let it heal. Feeling better on some fronts, weighed down on others, and sickened by several more…

Doesn’t feel like Christmas, whatever that means, but being sick for months on end doesn’t lend itself to holiday cheer. Oh, I’ll kick it in, I’m sure, but the season has been filled with a lot of tension since Thanksgiving. Yeah, my sister-in-law can’t let it go, and my accusation that the feminists are doing nothing in the face of Islamic/hip hop ‘feminine terrorism’ has unsettled her. At the risk of offending female readers, she is typical of many women I encounter today: fiercely concerned with defending whatever position she holds dear, fighting tooth and nail until the ‘enemy’ is vanquished, and unable/unwilling to admit when she’s wrong/mistaken. It’s almost as if it’s a crime to challenge a woman’s views, or at the very least, it’s offensive. The first instinct is to attack, and once the fighting begins, not much else can happen.

This is a decidedly American female thing.  In my view, another failure of feminism: unleashing women to explore the world without giving them, or demanding they acquire, adequate survival tools. I didn’t say ‘critical thinking skills,’ a fraudulent discipline in my view for its aim of weeding out all contradiction and putting thought in a linear order. I said ‘adequate survival skills,’ and I mean: the ability to laugh at oneself;  the ability to pull away from a fight/engagement; the ability to look past one’s opinion and consider the thoughts of another person who may not share the same opinion. Feminism has given women the sense that they can compete in the workplace with any man, and should be accorded the same rights as men have long enjoyed. No fight from me on that, but it seems feminism hasn’t been able to rest of its victories, yet can’t sort out its priorities.

I’m more concerned lately with the creation of a nation of free-sex, no-consequence sluts. My youngest son is overwhelmed by girls throwing themselves at him, expecting sex and right now! He’s effing 14, for G’s sake, but young girls have been trained to go get what they want, and that sex without consequence  is something they’re entitled to. Funny but my son prefers Latin girls now, and seems disgusted by American girls who are so ‘available’. Self-respect has been omitted, and don’t wear a condom if you don’t want.

“Latin girls know how to play, Pops,” he said the other day, “they have more fun but you have to chase them, and I like that. You don’t have to chase the girls at school, they chase you.”

Rome burns and the only people that can save us, the women, are out shaking their asses. Fuck it, it’s the white man’s fault anyway…

And the political world is absurd! Hillary is being seen for the vindictive, sleaze-bitch she is, and her poll numbers show it. Obama is hiding something, I can smell it. Edwards appears like he cares, but sincerity is a sold commodity these days, performed rather than lived. Besides, he’s a damn trial lawyer, the worst scum of the worst. All ya got left then is Biden and Richardson; not bad choices actually, but unelectable.

On the Repub end, Romney is so slick he makes Edwards appear like a yokel. I fear politicians tied to their religions, so that eliminates a hoard of those phonies. McCain is irrelevant, and his immigration work is dangerous. All you got left is Guliani and Thompson; Thompson at least has some fire, but none of these guys inspire.

We’ve had our fill of the Bush and Clinton regimes, and it’s time for fresh blood, say the public. Bush is a failure and a fraud; sad because I voted for him in ‘00 and felt he might inject a spirit of change into politics; not quite, eh? Yeah I was wrong on that one, though my mantra, ‘anyone but Al Gore’ still rings true, at least to me. Thank G he didn’t get in…

But there’s nobody who inspires me on either side, no leaders ready and willing to break the mold. We don’t need any more Washington insiders, which only spell more of the same. I’ve watched every debate, Dem and Repub, and have been disheartened during/after each; the Hillary plants at the CNN ‘debate’, my G, how much does CNN owe the Clintons? Disgusting, yet I hear many plegics whine, ‘Hillary is our best chance at stem cell research’. Not true, Edwards looks to be that steward, if we can trust him. Guliani is a businessman, and he’ll support the research simply because he knows we’re potentially losing billions; I don’t see any other Repub -save Allen Keyes- willing to go there, so if we vote today, it’s Edwards and Guliani for no other reason than that I’m sick of this condition and want somebody, anybody to dump some funds into Pandora’s stem cell box.

It’s an old world election system that is fraught with holes, 19th century BS. Iowa and New Hampshire tell us what America wants? You don’t win either and you’re done?

It’s funny, if the Dems nominate Hillary, the Repubs take it in a landslide; if they go Obama or Edwards, they have a chance, but the media machinery is so behind/extorted by the Clintons, it’ll never happen. No criticism of Hillary or her past is allowed; she gets soft lens treatment from every media outlet, the de-facto candidate. Watch her numbers plummet, though, the more exposure she gets.

Yet come spring, I’ll be out there railing against this and supporting that. It’s in my blood.
~
(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

It has been a terrible November, and December …ain’t takin’ off too well, either!

Spent all of November on my side, trying to heal the wound on my ass. It had tunneled to the bone, and then became re-infected. Finally convinced my docs to put me on 7 day Vancomycin, which they did. Pure hell, horrible drug, made me sicker than ever. In the days following the treatment, I didn’t seem to be ‘weller’; I put myself back on Augmentin, which had shown signs of being effective against the MRSA beast, along with a heavy regimen of turmeric and other alternative therapies. Right as I began this change, I came down with the flu; yep, fevers chills, the works, headaches…then several days of diarrhea. Geez, unreal.

Somehow, the wound actually appeared to be healing through it all, so I stayed in bed, did as little as possible upright, and by last week, began to begin feeling better. Right now I’m battling the lung aspect of the flu, another lovely manifestation, but the infection in the wound seems to be -wait, where’s some wood?- better. I met with a surgeon late last week who said, “Hey, it doesn’t look that bad, we’ll test for bone infection, and if it ain’t there, you may not need flap surgery, maybe just a wound vac treatment. Your wife did and excellent job with the wound, by the way.” Indeed, she’s been ill herself but has been keeping me from getting ‘iller’.

Today, I’m a shade better, more energetic, focused, and determined to heal. It’s getting harder to lay in bed during the day, but I have no choice, clearly. I have a long road to go before I can return to normal activity, and December is my duck hunting month, but I won’t be banging quacks anytime soon. There are…other priorities.

And through it all, controversy in my family continues. Of course, it had to erupt at Thanksgiving, and there I am, near-dead, wiped out, house filled with family and friends and everybody being sympathetic…except my sister-in-law. I’ve debated whether or not to relate the incident, but it’s stayed with me all this time so maybe a little expression will render a bit of catharsis:

Turkey day for our group is, like many, football, drinks and tons of chatter. This year, we’d volunteered to host the 35-40 people who gather annually, as we have our new home to show off and months ago, it seemed the right thing. As October sped along and I became sicker, we debated again but Pia finally said, “Dead or dying, let’s just do it here; at least you won’t have to move.” Fine, so we’re all gathered about, couple hours before we eat, everybody’s there, including my brother and wife and kids. Their’s is a most unusual relationship: they’ve been married 11 years, 2 kids, but his wife, Illiana, a Brasilian (Yep, Pia and I hooked ‘em up) declared several years ago, “I don’t love you anymore, I never did, I just wanted citizenship, but I am a lesbian. I will not break up the family or ask for a divorce, but I will continue doing what I want and taking care of the family.” Quite a shock to my soft, insecure little brother and, of course, the family; Illiana goes to every family event and is, in truth,  a good mother. The kids, 7 and 4, don’t know the score, and she’s pretty good about keeping her private life private.

Until this year. Illiana brought along Michelle, her ‘friend’, for the holidays. Little bro was ‘ho-hum’ and acted like it was nothing -guess he’s adjusted to it- but my dear old man was not. Moments after they’re arrival, Pops caught the two outside kissing. Holy shit, “I’m leaving,” he screams to my mom, “and I’ll never again…” Yeah, Pops blew his lid and caused quite a scene. I eventually convinced him to stay, but dinner was damn tense and the usual friendly banter around the table was anything but. Dinner over, Pops and Mom left for home.

I’m getting ready to go back and lay down , just not doing well but I’d done my thing and everybody was understanding and kind, except Illiana, who knew my situation but just didn’t give a shit, I guess, or had shown up looking for a fight with me, her pal a very political lesbian living in Berkeley, and very intelligent and articulate. Under any other circumstances, I’d have enjoyed the engagement; not that day, though.

Anyway, I’m trudging off to bed, when who is sitting in my bedroom with CNN going but the two girls and  a handful of guests. Geez, guess I‘ll entertain from bed, eh? CNN is reporting on a Saudi court essentially blaming a rape victim for getting raped. I’m getting into bed and say this as I do:

“Fucking whacko Muslims and that damn Sharia law, hey, Illiana, why aren’t you guys more outraged over this?”

“v, what  are you saying? Of course we’re upset, but there’s nothing we can do.”

I’m rather stunned. “What? That wasn’t the approach you took in the 60’s, you feminists went after the establishment and fought the system for equality. I’m surprised you aren’t doing that now, defending Islamic women. What the hell else is more important than that?”

Michelle launched at me. “Wage discrimination and sexual abuse in the workplace, v, are issues we’ve been hard at work at, and we’re quite proud/

“But you say nothing about Islamic treatment of women, or hip hop/the Black community’s oppression of women. The entire feminist movement is asleep on this and instead you’re focused on wage issues?” Yeah, I was getting heated up. “Where’s the great feminist outrage that changed the world in the 60’s? Don’t tell me you can’t stand up to Islam, or hip hop? Why aren’t you protesting in front of every mosque, and having huge cd burning sessions in front of record producers?”

Michelle just tore me up; out came a litany of, “We’re working subtly, behind the scenes, because you can’t just confront a foreign religion, we fully support our sisters in Islam,” and other blather. I was made to feel stupid, as if I didn’t understand the issues, while Michelle and Illiana waxed on and on about all the great work their ‘movement’ is accomplishing.

I’m laying there exhausted, and these gals are just goading me, I don’t really remember the exchanges, I know I wasn’t too crisp but I gave it all I had on this one:

“Your collective silence in the face of Islam and hip hop is the same as acceptance. You’re complicit, much like Chamberlain was facing Hitler (Michelle, “Who?” Read your fucking history!), your movement gives these men a free pass to do as they please, and I’ll be damned if I see any of you wearing burkas in support of your Islamic sisters. If you lived under Ilsamic law, you wouldn’t have any of the freedoms you now enjoy.”

Illiana started going off about changing the religion from within, but I was too tired to continue. I also knew that both gals and their friends, a very active group of feminist/lesbians in Berkeley, share a common interest: clubbing. They’re in love with clubbing, shaking it all hours and celebrating their sexual freedom. Fine, but…

“You’re too busy shaking your asses off to oppressive hip hop to give a damn about the message it sends to the world, especially the kids.”

“People should understand, “she replies, “that it’s juts art, that you have to be able to see through the hype and understand/

“It celebrates extreme individualism at the sake of women; women are whores, to be used and discarded, killed if you feel like it. That’s art? That’s expression?” I lost it then, sorry.  “You and your entire movement are frauds and hypocrites, you’re fucking cowards for concentrating on the easy targets, wages and the atrocities of the white male here at home, while the real atrocities go unchecked. You make me sick.”

With that, I turned my head, while the two girls just fucking ripped into me. I didn’t give a shit then, nor do I now. Pia finally heard the tumult and whisked everybody out of the room. Since the, nearly every day, I have been receiving emails from them and their friends about: 1) what an asshole I am; 2) the achievements of the feminist movement. Yet, with all their court victories here and changes to system there, not a word about protesting Islam and/or hip hop/the Black community.

“Yeah, v’s the villain, and since we can’t change Islam, and since we love hip hop, let’s just…go dancing!”

Dance all you want, but meanwhile, women in Islam, and women here at home, are targets for hatred and violence. Where’s the outrage?
~
(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

Folks, this will be short and…well, certainly not sweet:

I have had an health collapse. My infection exploded and I have been put on 7 day outpatient IV Vancomycin treatment; horrible, disgusting stuff, poisons the soul and nothing tastes remotely good.
I concluded the IVs yesterday, my arms a pin cushion of blown veins and yet another attempt to insert.

I came home to find my docs, and the wound care nurse, are recommending I see a surgeon, for skin flap surgery. Son of a bucktaldo, surgery. My fault, too,  I’d been cavalier and kept at my normal routines, Ironman as usual, and basically ignored the growing wound on my ischium, more concerned with the fucking MRSA. Well, now I’m fucked, I’m essentially bed-ridden and my thoughts of,  ‘well, it’ll heal by itself’ or ‘I’ll just do wound vac and be up and around’ are fantasies.  I await word on my visit with the surgeon, but my RN wife says, “It’s deep, ugly and bad; it may be surgery is needed. And it looks like you’re still infected.”

Shite…

And I now must shut everything down and concentrate and commit to my healing. I am no Ironman, I have been blasé and even arrogant, and now I’m paying for it.

Thus, I am sidelining myself from activity. I will report next…when things are better.
~
(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

Just got an Ease Cushion to use on my wound, along with a Trucker’s Seat; both employ alternating air cells, which add and release pressure in constant patterns. The makers claim it really helps with pressure sores, and I was convinced to buy the system after talking to a guy here locally who uses one and cured himself of a stage 4 in only a few months. I’m stage 3, deep as hell, but have got to get this wound healed. Ease Cushion, coincidentally, is right up the road in Paradise.

This is not (yet) an endorsement (anyone with any experience with this cushion, please feel free to comment); if things heal up, you damn well better believe I’ll sing their praises, but for now, at least I’m getting some circulation into the area.

Still not feeling well; feverish and achy, tired, not mentally crisp. MRSA is stalled for now, but it’s the wound that I think is really kicking me.
~
Despite being still sick and limp, I was in SF this weekend for the Niners game (don’t ask), some awesome North Beach Italian food, and to drop in on an SCI peer group in the east bay. They’d asked me to come down, and I was about to decline but Pia said, “I need to go to SF, and that group always was lively and fun; let’s go.”

Yes, ma’am, we go.

After my speech on recent stem cell advancements and what’s at stake next year politically, they opened up the floor for some a free forum/anything goes discussions. Nobody really gave a shit about future possibilities, everybody pretty bleak, but talk soon went to relationships, and it really hit the fan when a young couple stood up and described their problems (2 years post, he’s C-4/5 complete):

Heather’s vibrant, young, intelligent, ambitious, and beautiful; Steven’s dependent, frightened, and passive, and they weren’t really doing well before the injury (skydiving) and now she blames him for “destroying my future” (not theirs, but hers). She has struck him several times, left him in bed for hours without food, drink or his chair, and then 2 weeks ago, out of the blue, she brought over a male ‘friend’ for Steven to meet.

Yep, another man, and in this case (wow, it all spilled out in the meeting, every sordid detail, Steven just dying in front of us), a lover whom she’d been ‘seeing’ since July, but felt now was the time to reveal him.

You may all scream ‘abuser!’ but hold off for a moment.

She was unapologetic for hitting and neglecting Steven, “You should hear what he says to me,” and had finally had enough, she said; her bringing over her ‘friend’ was not cruel, she simply wanted Steven to meet, “the man I want to spend time with, a normal man who can walk with me in the park, hold my hand, and put a leg over me after making love.”

‘After making love’; you could see Steven just collapse after that one…

She asked for his permission to continue seeing the lover, and promised she would continue to be his caregiver, she wouldn’t divorce him (no kids, thankfully) but that she had come to realize that the only thing that would allow her to continue in her role as wife and caregiver was to “have relationships far from home.” She said, right in front of all of us, that “Steven agreed to come here and let our story out and then publicly agree or disagree to my proposal.”

Practical, but harsh. Poor slob; gorgeous wife, hungry to taste all she’s missing, and here’s this once-strong, good-looking guy dripping sideways in his chair, physically miserable, crying constantly, and forced to make a huge decision… right now, and in front of his friends.

I’m not sure we can judge her as cruel, or far-seeing; maybe just selfish. Certainly she isn’t willing to wait it out, but can she be judged for becoming pro-active and wanting to forge some solution that works for all? Was she cruel to just bam! introduce the dude with no warmup? Is Heather wrong to seek a continuance of her life, despite her suffering husband? Should she just pack away her dreams, desires and emotions and force herself to be content at Steven’s listless, quadriplegic side?

And what did Steve eventually say?

Once she’d finished with her speech, pretty well rehearsed it seemed, the room went silent, Steven just gushed tears, everybody waiting for his ‘answer’. Geez, did my heart -and imagination- ache for the guy; I knew that whatever he decided would end up being agonizing: chain her to him, “No, you can’t fuck other men, you’re my wife and you’d better honor our vows, forever!” or set her free, “You can see whomever, just be discreet and stay by my side through it all,” or maybe, “Get the fuck out, slut, I’ll fend for myself!”

Pia was with me through the event, and whispered as we waited for Steven to calm down, “Whatever he does, he will end up losing her; she’ll eventually break free if he can’t give her freedom, or when she meets the right guy, they’ll find a way to put him in a home then go off on their lives.”

Steven, who must have read my wife’s mind, finally said this:

“Either way, I lose the love of my life. I can’t make her stay with me and make her life terrible, but I can’t just say, ‘Go honey and start dating’. I’m so afraid she’ll leave me if I say ‘no’, but I just know it’ll kill me if I say ‘yes’.”

He sat there crying, then his wife cut in, “You said you’d decided!”

He kept crying but said, “Yeah, you can start dating, just don’t put in in my face,” and then turned away and left the room, his startled wife slowly following.

It was so intense, nobody was breathing, and then after the door closed, a psychologist running after them, the room erupted. Pia quickly said, “We’re outta here,” and we slipped out.

Friends, I am not saying Steven and his wife made the right decision; that’ll unfold over time, but she found a way to stay in the relationship and continue to caregive. Maybe separation and time to be by themselves for awhile is a better solution, so they learn the value of one another while knocking off the mutually-abusive behavior; maybe Steven placed in a different caregiving setting (he claims he can’t do this, but I don’t think he’s even trying); or, the 3rd option, allowing his wife to begin a life beyond their home, freeing her to explore all she’s missing.

This situation is one many SCI married and unmarried couples face, and in my view, it’s the hardest aspect of post-SCI life with a spouse. I do not believe in chaining someone to a plegic’s side, no matter the why’s and wherefores, if they are unwilling to be there. Yes, perhaps in time, Heather will realize he’s a good man and their love and life can continue, but for now, it appears her cup of frustration has run overboard, and she ain’t sitting still.

What’s my take?

“Free her up, Steven, then suck it up and find ways to become more independent. She needs to see you doing that, not sitting about whining about your plight. Yeah, it’s gonna crush you, knowing she’s with another man, but you’ll end up stronger…later, however, for right now, the suffering a man experiences when his woman has sex with another man… is suffocating, and endless…”
~
(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

Tough times lately, folks. Been bed-ridden for 2 weeks trying to close the wound on my ass and overcome the extreme fatigue of this latest abscess/MRSA round. I’m getting better, the abscess is dying out, hopefully, and the wound has no necrosis; whew!  I’m effing skinny, though; damn lousy way to drop weight, I’ll tell ya, ‘the vgrafen staph infection diet, guaranteed to strip all unwanted fat, plus some muscle mass, right off the body!’

They’re calling me ‘the Gaunt Man’ lately, that wan, sallow fellow…

Food is beginning to appeal to me, though, augmented by some fresh harvest Bubba Cush straight from the organic grow fields of —– at 2800 feet in the Sierras.

I’ll get there, gotta get into my hot tub soon and can’t with an open wound. And geez, duck season started this weekend; the kid’s gotta be healthy to get into the blind…
~
Many of you probably read about the MRSA scare in the news lately, and while that’s good in one sense to increase public exposure to the ravages of this illness, the media did a great dis-service by saying this is a new, super-bug we can’t stop. As I’ve been saying, it ain’t new, been around for decades and the docs and clinicians damn well have experience with it, and there are effective treatments. That said, it is, as an infectious disease doc told me earlier this year, potentially an epidemic, and it is sweeping locker rooms and public facilities. The community-based MRSA, which I have, is resistant to most antibiotics, though there are a handful that will kill it but require hospitalization (Vancomycin for one).

Personally, I’m hoping (what a foolish thing to cling to, eh? Hope; what a whore she is…) that I’m rid of the bug, as yesterday was my last antibiotic; they’d put me on a whopper of a regimen: Flaggyl for E. Coli, Augmentin, Septra and another oral I’d already tried before for MRSA but the doc seemed confident it would work this time. Hmmm. I’m back on my turmeric and baking soda/citrus-alkalizer mix. We’ll see, but my strength is coming back, and the brain fog diminishing… kinda.

~
Shit news from Poway, San Diego: my brother, Richard, and his wife and 3 kids had to evacuate their home this weekend due to massive fires sweeping the area. Luckily, they were able to get out with clothes, necessities, several boxes and a couple trunks of personal effects and important papers, and Nancy had a trunk ready with heirlooms, so they were able to save that, but the home…

Yep, toasted. They’re staying with friends in Del Mar and haven’t been back up to see the place, but news footage has shown their hilltop… is just cooked.

Dick was my mechanic/pal for my early years in the 80’s; when I was on the east coast/south doing the enduro circuit, he would search out small town pawnshops and buy up old guitars, mostly Fenders, and built up a hell of a collection at one point, then sold many of them off for top dollar. He took some of his money and bought 12 acres in the hills above Poway, view of the Pacific, really nice. Spanish-style home, now gone. He only lost a few guitars, most were in storage in town, and is heavily insured. Oh and a 1943 DKW 100cc two-stroke dirt bike, totally under-powered but one of the very first two-strokes, built at Hitler’s request, who wanted light, fast machines for his blitzkrieg. I was ‘offered’ the bike when I was in Europe (can’t tell ya how, whom or what, but it was definitely not a legal transaction) and managed to get it and a twin back to the States; my dad has the other, but the one Dick got was absolutely clean and worth a mint. Maybe something’s left, who knows?

Yeah, they’re in shock, as anyone would be, and the flames are not even close to being done. They even increased the cleared space around their house this year but that wasn’t enough to stop 60 mph winds. My mom and dad are in Del Mar now and Mom called to say the fires were set by arsonists. Geez, a little fun at everybody’s expense, huh? Fry those bastards when they catch ‘em. No mercy.
~
Political winds are beginning to pick up, and it’s good news for the CDRPA, the paralysis bill that finally has cleared the House. Reports suggest it will pass the Senate and that Bush will sign. HOWEVER, PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO CONTACT YOUR LEGISLATORS AND URGE THEIR SUPPORT! It wouldn’t hurt to call George W and let him know this one HAS TO PASS, and isn’t stem cell-related.

We need this one signed into law, plegics, bad.

As for which and whom to choose for president, man, we got a conundrum at our fingers. Sir Hillary the Vengeful, Obama the Slick, Edwards the Slimy, Richardson the Oaf?  All of ‘em sing the Stem Cell song, but will they  be there when the bill needs a signature? As for the Repubs, Guliani, Romney, Thompson, McCain? Nobody’s talkin’ stem cells from that group, so I’m still leanin’ Richardson, as the other three Demos do not inspire and I trust them less than the Repubs, but this is a weak set of candidates no matter how you slice it; meanwhile, George W is draining the cashbox of any reserves, and now needs another 50 billion to kill bad guys, with no end in sight!
~
Finally, of modest interest is that I have odd and new feelings up and down my legs lately, especially the skinny, jumpy, dead little left leg. Got some thigh muscle twitching and awareness, a lot more sensitivity, and the bladder now almost always lets me know when I have to do a catheter. All good; don’t know what it’s all attributed to, perhaps last year’s stem cell gig in Baku, but here’s to hoping it keeps goin’.

~    ~

(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

‘When one can taste good health, the world is sweet, one’s eyelids open; when the taste of living makes you vomit, life sours and the eyes are veiled…”
The poet, L. Robuis

Talk about veiled eyes, man, this last round of misery has been a doozie. Yep, got re-infected from the diarrhea, another abscess formed and sickened me and only when it burst and Pia began draining it did my desire to taste what is sweet in life return; until then, all was sickened in me, poisoned again.

I have pounded this putrid horse before, but MRSA abscesses and the resultant sepsis are nightmarish and about the worst experiences I have endured, save my actual injury. As the abscess reaches boiling point, the entire body is poisoned; one cannot eat, drink, even breathe without the threat of nausea, everything once beloved turns revolting, all smells disgust, you feel an agony without limit, coursing the entire sleepless, aching body, and it must be endured to survive, for survival again is at stake and there were moments last Wednesday when the flames of Hades nipped and leapt about me, threatening survival…

I have muscled through the antibiotics again, and I am improving now each day. I am not free of MRSA -perhaps I may have it to the end of my days- and in truth, I am doing all I can to keep its ravages at bay, but I feel better and the poisoned grip of the abating abscess is weakening. I am beginning to smell life’s sweetness again…
~
And yet…

This last Monday, after a session at wound care and as I was getting into my car, a man I’d seen a few times around town, Milton, a paraplegic, rolled up alongside me. “Hey, ain’t you the guy from the rehab meetings? I got a bone to pick with you.”

I wondered what crime I’d committed, but was gracious. “Yeah, I remember you,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand, which he refused. “Nope, I ain’t gonna get sick like you from that staph, and that’s my bitch with you: you been out runnin’ around and you got a staph infection and you probably been givin’ it to other people. You should be more responsible than that, there’s been 7 people died from staph in this county this year.”

Milton went on awhile, ragging wildly about staph and the rumors he’s heard and has bought into; all sorts of untruths that he’s accepted as fact, and now I’m the bad guy for not keeping myself in absolute quarantine until perfectly well. The woman helping me into my car clearly wanted to say something in my defense, but Milton was adamant, until he ran out of gas. I finally cut him off, “Let me get loaded up here first,” which we did and I freed the woman before turning to Milton. I was kind, slow, patient; man, I am just not into fighting lately, and especially with people who can’t…pardon me but can’t reason at a higher order of thought.

“Everybody has staph all about them, and the staph you’re referring to can only affect you if you’re weak or disabled. In my case, whenever I have been infectious, and that’s only when pus is coming from my abscesses,  I never go out in public. The meetings where you saw me were times when I wasn’t infectious.” I went on to talk about hand-washing and hygiene and to show my understanding of this near-epidemic. Did no good, I guess.

“Well I just think you should retire from bein’ in front of people. Till you’re cured, you ain’t got nothin’ to say.” He waited, had a glean in his eye like he was expecting a fight. I debated, then decided to let it go. “I’m sorry you think whatever advice and experience I offer is something I shouldn’t do, but/

“No, hell, I appreciate your advice, I learned a lot about this injury and research from you, but you shouldn’t be out publicly, is all.” He turned and left without another word.

He has a point, one I’ve mentioned here before: removing my carcass from the public and finding other means of being an effective advocate.  I have felt the pangs of hypocrisy on occasion, lecturing on the cure while remaining un-cured; pontificating towards the bright future while feeling miserable; buoying others with hopes while feeling hopeless.

Like many plegics, I rise and fall emotionally given the state of my health, both mental and physical. This past October 3rd, 2 days ago, was my 8th anniversary of this injury, and coupled with my decline in physical health came a dip in my spirits. Nevada had been rejuvenating, then slam! came another round of severe illness, and what really fucked with me was the understanding that I’ll probably get sick again, sooner or later. Oh, that’s a general fear we all share, I’m sure, but more, in my case, was the sense that, in year 8 with no curative procedure in the immediate view, I’m likely to continue to slowly succumb to the ravages of paralysis. I know, it doesn’t have to be the case, and my friend, Carolyn, was an example of a quad who kept herself in great health, never had pressure sores or staph, her skin was still smooth and she possessed a youthful, hopeful spirit until the end.

Change. There is cyclical change, the seasons folding one into the other, and evident change, the wooden chair with rotting legs that eventually crumbles; the broken limb that heals poorly if at all and troubles the sufferer to the end of his days; the crushed spinal column that can’t heal and/or be restored. Change, as Heraclitus posited, is fundamental to living, something one must accept. I understand, I accept…and I still don’t like it.

In May, I weighed 198 pounds. On Monday, I weighed 186. I’m gaunt, weak, my mind not crisp, wandering lately from loose thought to loose thought. I find only a small hit of Bubba Cush, and laying with my wife tight in my arms, are my only releases. I study the research worldwide and am both encouraged and depressed: clinical therapies still years away, only foreign procedures -such as I have already attempted-beckon but no longer hold my interest. I must wait then until we have real regenerative therapies available here.

I am drifting, my thoughts still vague and clouded by the stench of diarrhea and abscess pus; my wound healing my desire to get back into the fight flagging. In my journeys and visits with fellow plegics, I have encountered much despair and depression, and have dealt with my own when it occurs. There is no set of words that heals, no trite phrases that soothe; for me, only the passage of time and the collection of good experiences lifts me again. I understand everything, I know all truths associated with paralysis and survival thereafter, there is nothing you can say to me I haven’t heard or expressed myself, and that too contributes to the funk.

Yet I go on, I have my son’s football game tonight, another book I’m crafting, projects around my new home, love to enjoy with my wife; I have much, have lost much, and will soon, knowing myself, look forward again to much…

Just not sure when, is all.
~
But I am Stoic, after all, I employ ataraxia to survive the agony and despair. Last week, when we debated going back to ER and admitting me or toughing it out and remaining at home (enough of the hospitals; I seem to get sicker there, and there’s nothing like my own bed, dying or not), it was the principal of ataraxia that weathered me through the peak of misery, and is the principal I operate from nearly always. Ataraxia: feeling the entire spectrum of life’s menu, allowing All to pass through me but never losing my center to the suffering, never yielding fully to the agony, knowing it would pass in its own time; faith in knowing everything passes. And not celebrating the highs to wildly, for this can weaken one’s center as well; balance, proportion, the awareness that I am aware, this is ataraxia.

Read Marcus Aurelius the emperor, and Epictetus the slave for an understanding of true Stoicism. Toss your German version, ‘I refuse to feel, I am stone’ BS crap, for life is meant to be felt in all its glory, yet our centers, our balance must be retained. Feel everything, as Aurelius states, just don’t get carried away.

And thus I feel, my vision clearing, and I continue…

(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

Out of the number of maladies I’ve dealt with in my 8 years of chair-dom, I must attest that diarrhea, going on now 9 days, with an ugly, feverish buildup all the previous week, has been one of the most challenging.

I haven’t had to deal with the big D in those years save mild one-day things, but this one, and coupled with ongoing MRSA, and an open wound where the diarrhea, once several showers have been taken and the bandage has come off exposing the wound, now 3 months and counting, to the…flow of effluence emanating 5, 6, 7 times daily…

This one…is trying.

Gut extended like a Biafran, appetite then none, cold, effing cold, and it’s only 70’s. The wound, only days ago looking good, ain’t so lately. A parasite I picked up on the road and should be tested for and probably drugged? A gastrointestinal virus of some sort that just does it thing then moves on, drugs and treatments be damned? A spirit that doesn’t like me and has decided to make my autumn miserable?

It may be, and I’m going to the doc in about an hour, that the MRSA has gathered renewed strength due to my weakened GI tract, and is assailing me big-time. Seems a dormant boil exploded yesterday, and the misery I’m experiencing may be due to its return. Or, MRSA got into my GI tract and that’s what’s been taking me out of the game. Yesterday was one of the worst days I’ve experienced all year, and I slept poorly and am exhausted -and worthless- today.

I’m sharing this with you again with that sense of urgency Fall brings, a clutching of the chest in melancholic reflection remembering -and watching- Time, and its Seasons, pass; and from the idea that this misery I’m living is shared and in many cases oh, so more worse than my own state of decay, but bear with me, the description of the misery, the sitting in rank diarrhea and being unable to immediately clean oneself, like a baby in diapers yet plagued by the very adult awareness of knowing I’m sitting in shit, the agony of humiliation, perhaps not shared by all plegics, but felt deeply in this one, this description must be heard, and felt, too, by our nation, and our nation must respond.

Our nation must invest in curing its crippled. I’m sick of this condition, that’s why I’ve traveled about looking for any sort of relief, and probably will again. The condition is intolerable, yet it must be tolerated, accepted, dealt with; the condition eventually must return you to the world, or you rot.

In my travels now, I have seen much rot; now, my own. An end to this nightmarish shit, geez! Enough!

~
I thought I’d relate the story I mentioned about my lone meeting with Sen. Larry Craig. Not that it’s anything relevant to what’s going on recently, but he played a role and the story itself, one I’d almost forgotten, is really something…

If my memory serves, it was around this time of year back in1990 (or ‘89?). I’d gone up to the Sawtooth range in Idaho for a hare scrambles (cross country) race. Usually, we’d arrive a few days in advance of Sunday’s race to give us a chance to sort out carburetion and suspension and, if possible, to pre-run the course. Most races back then were anywhere from 10-50 mile loops run as many times as you could handle (usually, if 50 miles, 4, maybe 5 loops would be about it), and in this case, the organizers were allowing teams to pre-run a portion of the course on National Forest land; the remainder of the course, some 30 miles or so, was on private property but, given the chance to work out our suspension and figure out hot lines, we said, “Hell yeah!”

Figuring we’d get a leg up on everybody, we arrived a day earlier than the other teams, a Tuesday night, and decided we’d not only pre-run what we could, but spear off and make it a loop by taking some nearby single-track which would bring us back to the trucks/start area. I, along with teammates Mike and Russ, were joined by our guide, whose name I can’t recall (oh yeah, up in Idaho, and several other states out West, if you’re going trail-riding in unfamiliar areas, you have to have a guide, somebody who knows the systems). As we geared up that morning, a couple of journalists wanted to come along with us, and then, shit, look who’s here: one of the Suzuki pretty boys and his support-guy, “We’re gonna go, too!” making up a group of eight (thanks for inviting yourselves along, guys!). I’d ridden with one of the journalists, Tom, a decent rider, and was given the ‘OK’ on the other, and they knew it’d be race-pace then ‘stop-and-take-notes’ time on suspension, etc. We’d do 1, maybe 2 loops, then stop for the day.

If you’ve never seen them, the Sawtooths are absolutely awe-inspiring. Jutting, rocky crags of mountains, steep and angled, technical and rugged, with dense forests and springs and streams everywhere. Unreal riding, and back then, still widely open for racing and trail riding. We hit the race-portion first, which proved to be fast, dusty and hard to dial in suspension-wise due to all sorts of terrain changes: stiffen it up for the sand, or soften it up for rocks? The entire section was only 20 miles long, but we stopped 4, 5 times when we’d hit some nasty terrain and each of the racers would get several runs at that section -a 1st gear uphill, a section of switch-back, or one terrible downhill with bowling balls all over it- before we’d head up the trail. Not a lot of fun for the onlookers, but for guys dialing in bikes and figuring out lines, that sort of practice is invaluable.

As we’d left at first light and hadn’t spoken yet to anybody, we had no idea that, the night before, lightning strikes had plastered the Sawtooths, and wildfires had broken out. That early in the day, we couldn’t detect any smoke, and were focused anyway on the ride before us.

I trust you can see what’s coming.

We stopped for a break, where the race course entered private property, and to assess our gas tanks; low-ish on fuel (in those days, everybody carried a quart or more as a reserve on trail rides; you just never know), we decided we’d take the short loop back to the trucks, 25 miles or less, so the guide led the way up and around a section of simply breath-taking trail which rimmed the mountains and took us through some amazing vistas, deep wooded areas then suddenly you come upon a rise and into gentle, expansive aspen-lined bowls atop the ridges. Some damn tough technical riding blended with let-off-the-throttle coasting. You couldn’t ask for better riding.

It’s early afternoon, maybe 15 miles to go to the trucks, we’d zig-zagged our way up a nasty section of 1st gear switch-backs and had stopped along a spring to take a break. Everybody was in good spirits, no breakdowns or ‘failures of nerve’. I was playing with suspension, as usual, when several of us heard a thundering, not-of-this-world noise ahead and above us. It was like a huge, wide airplane descending on us. What the hell? I got on my bike and took off up the trail; within 100 yards, as I came around a bend, I saw a monstrous wall of flame coming right at me, moving! To my left and up the mountain I could see more flame in weird patterns coming down at me through the trees, fast. The wind had been whipping all day and had sent that fire line right into our faces. Son of a buck, we got trouble now…

I blazed it back to where everybody was sitting; by then, they’d figured out what was happening. Now what: we couldn’t back-trail it, as that would take us only closer to the line of flame; couldn’t go forward into the flame, so what do we do?

The guide jumped in. “We got no good trail, but if we ride this spring, it opens up about 100 yards down and then we can drop right into the river.”  Man, no choice; the guide gassed it into the center of the spring and started down, Mike and I at his heels and everybody following; even with screaming 2-strokes, you could hear that fire roaring down upon us.

I know for a fact I did shit I would never have normally done getting down off that slope, leaping logs and boulders with no idea what was coming, adrenaline pumping, my throttle wide open and the rear brake baking under the strain. I’m not sure, maybe a thousand foot descent, maybe more; the first few yards were all dense woods, with fallen trees across the stream, the guide having trouble in places with the slick logs, everybody stacking up behind him at one point.  Mike got off to help him bulldog the bike but he yelled at us, “Don’t wait for me, I’ll make it!“ Right ahead of us, though, the stream opened up and there was a bit of a deer trail you could kinda/sorta follow, so, with Mike in the lead, everybody wheel-to-wheel, we took the little trail, 2nd gear, then ripped it when there was open ground, keeping the stream in sight the whole way. Looked good for awhile, pretty open riding, then we hit another deep section of woods but by then you could see the river, so with a few more throttle blips over the tough stuff, we literally landed on the rocks and debris besides one of the forks of the Salmon River. The guide came sliding in behind us after about a minute while we stood taking in this beautiful place, gigantic rocks and outcroppings, crystal-clear, deep pools, waterfalls; gorgeous, but no time for sight-seeing!

With no real plan, as I was bucking my way downhill, I figured we’d hit the river, find a place to cross and ride out the fire; we’d be OK. Once down, though, things were not OK, as we’d come into a section of river with high outcroppings below us, and nowhere to go or cross upstream. Shit. As everybody piled up behind me and started shouting at each other, my mind raced: what to do? I dropped the bike and ran out to a rock in the river; downstream I saw, maybe a 50 yards or so, a long gravel bar. Hell, if we can get there, we can make it, maybe even cross over, but that would  mean having to ride our bikes either through the river -not happening- or up and over a loose, steep section of dirt alongside the rock outcrop, maybe 30 yards up, with no trail.

No choice. I yelled at everybody, “There’s a gravel bar downstream, let’s get up over that rock, I’ll cut the trail!”

Not waiting for discourse -that fire was moving, man, I can still feel the thunder of it, the noise of trees exploding- I put it in gear and  rode like a trials expert up that embankment, standing on the front wheel to keep it from pulling over. I wasn’t thinking, I was surviving; I knew and trusted my bike and my abilities, and I made it to the top of that rock, flipped the back wheel in the air and dove down the other side, angling straight at the river! The embankment was all loose dirt and I plowed down that hill towards the rocks below. Mike made it up behind me in one go, but Russ had to back down and try again -by then, my ‘trail’ was too loose, no traction left- and the guide took a couple attempts to get over; by the time he made it, you could see that flame bearing down on us, maybe 200 yards above.

There was no time for anything now; the other four guys, even the Suzie Q pretty boy, didn’t even try our route; I couldn’t see ‘em but Russ said, “They’re just standing in the river, looking up at the fire and yelling at each other.”

What a scene: I run to a rock and start shouting at the other four guys, “Get down here with us, forget the bikes, come on!“ and Mike’s yelling at Russ and the guide, “Get the bikes onto the gravel bar!” Water wasn’t too deep and we crossed over and ran those bikes out as far as we could into the river and buried the front wheels in the water; maybe we were far enough away, maybe 20 yards into the river, so the heat wouldn’t melt everything, including us. I look up and there’s the journalists rolling down the rapids towards us. And in one of the funniest-odd scenes I’ve encountered, behind them and hoisting a yellow bike on their arms, were the Suzuki guys carrying a bike into the center of the river, where a flat-ish rock sat. Yep, in water up to their necks, they brought that bike to the rock and then stood it up. I’ll never forget that scene: yellow race Suzuki bare inches above the water line in a breath-taking canyon all by itself. Looked like it was sitting on water. Great shot for the ad department.

Suzuki guys had no time for the other bike, that fire was coming and they knew it, so they swam downstream to us. Our guide had brought rope and several back-country survival pieces, thankfully, including a thin canvas tarp which we soaked and dropped over the back of the bikes to keep them from melting, the rope we strung off a bike frame and had everybody get into the water as deep as they could, ‘cause here comes that fire!

“Get into the water, hang onto that rope and keep your helmets on!”

And here it came, geez! It was the noise I’d say that was most frightening, a roar that was unearthly, almost demonic. Even with my head in helmet totally submerged, I could hear that thundering beast. We hung onto that rope and lay there floating in a pool, partially-defended by a rock that kept some of the intense heat off us and the bikes. I’d say we lay there in the water maybe two hours, hell, maybe more; the fire came blasting down at us, in places right up to the river bank, the wind whipping it to fury. Coming up for air, I’d take longer peeks every now and then, fire engulfing the hillside, logs and trees on fire and rolling down all around us.

The leading edge passed by us quickly, the wind beginning to die down, but those huge trees, and all that underbrush, just burned forever. Geez, it was hot, you poke your head up for a breath and nearly scorch yourself, even at water’s edge. Throughout the ordeal, Mike got out and sank that canvas in the water and tossed it on the bikes; it helped, too, for when the flames and heat had died enough to stand, Mike and I exhorting everybody it was OK to get up (one of the journalists just would not move, though; thought maybe he’d drowned but nope, just spooked), first thing Mike does is check on the bikes, “Hey, only the fenders melted!” Man, did we get lucky; lost some of our seats and a lot of the backside plastic we just cut off, couple grips melted, but the heat didn’t get to the vitals; whew, major victory!

It was an odd moment then; as each of us came out of our daze and recovered our senses, the feeling of relief was intense, people just laid on their backs in the river and splashed, couple guys stripped off their gear, Mike’s shouting, his middle finger extended, “You tried, motherfucker, but you didn’t beat us!” Weird fortune, too: the fire hadn’t crossed the river where we were at, but you could see it way upstream, heading fast, smoke and ash falling everywhere. It was late afternoon, sun was behind the mountains but obviously still hot out; guys were stripped of their gear, Russ is swimming, ducking under floating trees, having fun, “I love this river!” and as usual, Mr. What‘s Next, I’m trying to figure out what the hell we’re going to do now. Suzuki guys made a journey up to the bikes and came back with the news: melt-ation city, even the bike in the river was cooked, and the three on the shore hadn’t made it (they should’ve dumped them in the water but, hell, who’s thinking clearly when a forest fire’s on your ass?).

We’re all standing on the gravel bar, coming to our senses, when the wind really picks up, just blows through that canyon. Everything changed; the air got clearer, you could see the charred hills and the embers everywhere, the river’s full of floating, burning debris, logs, trees, and it’s suddenly cold. Went from hot to cold like that!

In one of the funniest scenes I can remember in my riding career, we’re all standing there looking about, when I turn to one of the journalists and notice he’s shaking like a leaf, fully clothed and dripping wet. I say, “You’re freezing your ass off!” and he goes, “Yeah, maybe we should make a fire,” and right then, as if all our heads were joined together, we all turned to the river to see a smoking, still-burning tree floating by us, feet away. Maybe it was having just escaped death, maybe it was actually funny, but everybody burst out in the most side-splitting laughter I have ever experienced, we just let loose, guys falling on the ground, crying from the comic relief. Mike just died, he laughed and kept coughing, “Maybe we should make a fire!”

So we did, Mike’s laughing but with his soaking gloves, he grabbed a tree branch and pulled that burning tree in to shore, couple guys grabbed debris and started piling it on and, soon, we had one hell of a fire going, my word! Darkness began to set and guys started drying clothes and taking inventory; we laid the canvas down so you had some place to stand while the clothes dried (another funny scene: a bunch of guys standing around on a little square of canvas in jockstraps and riding boots, all huddled together) and I told everybody to get out all their food and water and whatever else they had, we were going to wait it out and try our luck in the morning.

Oh no, not the Suzuki guys, though. “Lemme take a bike and I’ll ride outta here now!” Mr. Hotshot goes, a statement met with much disagreement, I’ll tell ya! Not only was it near-dark, but it would mean having to get the bike across the river then conducting a mad attempt to climb that hill in the dark; not happening, but we argued for a long time, back and forth. I won the day in the end; we’d have two guys go out at first light, not at night.

Finally agreed (you’re wondering how Sen. Craig fits into the story, eh? Hang on), and with night falling and little fires burning all around, we settled in to our ‘feast’. And hey, for an impromptu pre-race/trail ride, we had quite a kitchen along with us: granola and fruit bars, water, jerky, candy, couple sandwiches, 2 cans of sardines and 2 packs of crackers, plus Russ’s flask of whiskey and a few other tidbits. The sardines and crackers were my contribution; usually when I went for a pre-run, and always when I raced, I’d use my butt bag with tools-only plus a couple edibles but, for whatever reasons, Pia had given me my trail bag in the morning and I hadn’t thought twice; good thing she did, ‘cause I always had food in there, pint of water, plus several cigars and yes, a small amount of herb, along with flashlight and some survival gear (and her picture; couldn’t survive without that!). You ask why I carried so much stuff? Well, when trail riding in the places I used to go, things happen, you or somebody breaks down and I’ve spent hours -and on a couple occasions, an entire night-  out there on the trail.

We had a feast, let me tell you; everybody did a shot of ‘ceremonial forest fire survival whiskey’, we all had enough to eat actually, and for several hours afterward, those of us not in shock sat around and rather enjoyed ourselves; sure, the cigars were a bit dry, but the food was edible and the smoke…divine! (One of the journalists, and both Suzuki guys, soon excluded themselves from our ‘party’, the journalist just exhausted, and the Suzuki guys…I guess we just weren’t ‘refined enough’ for them or whatever, they made a small camp away from ours, where they sat by themselves).  Sitting before a monstrous fire of our making, we told stories/lies, dissed each other, and smoked away our fears.

(Later, I heard the S guys were really critical of our ‘smoking weed during a crisis’; ah, eff off! And let me make this point: I have never smoked during a ride, much less a race. Oh, afterwards, of course, that’s another story, or when broken down and having to wait it out, sure. But it’s suicide to ride stoned, and I never did. Not once.)

Mike, Russ and I took some time to fit the bikes for the morning, check the spark plugs and drain off water, dump in whatever gas we had, all that, and the guide went off several times to assess the fire and look for a route out. None of us thought there’d be anybody coming for us; oh, they’d surely know we were near or even in the fire, especially when we didn’t return (geez, my heart bled for my worried wife), but we all knew we’d be getting out ourselves, unaided. Still, spirits were high, we’d survived and now it was just a matter of waiting it out.

…Maybe 3 in the morning, Russ and I are still up bullshitting, when we hear a roar, similar to what we heard earlier, coming upstream and at us. What the…? The fire, again? We got to our feet, the sound drawing nearer…only to see a helicopter with lights on coming at us, 100 yards above the water. Below it swung a water basket for forest fires, and yes, wouldn’t you just know it but as it nears us -guys are getting to their feet, “Hey, they’ve found us!”- my elation and relief turns to horror. I say to Mike, “They don’t even know we’re in here, that copter/

Yep, came over us and dropped its 500 gallons on our gravel bar with blazing fire!

No shit, Sherlock, we could see that guy bearing down on the fire and then whiiiish! down came the water. Now, in typical government-style, the guy completely missed our fire, the water landing out in the river harmlessly, the copter going right up river. Guys are shouting as it passes, but Mike was head’s up: he gets on his bike, no helmet, no gloves, no shirt, and starts exploding that gravel bar, I mean he tore it to pieces, headlight bouncing around the canyon, rock and sand flying everywhere, guys screaming at him, “Mike, what the eff are you doin’?” Mike’s doing mad circles so the pilot can figure out it’s US down here, leaping off that rock and generally creating quite a scene; mind you, he’s doing this on river rocks, all of ‘em rounded and smooth. You simply can’t ride on marbles, you’re constantly falling over, no balance, but there’s Mike, oblivious to what he can’t do, and riding like a god.

Downriver comes the copter, the guy finally figuring out it was PEOPLE down there; he hovers over the gravel bar, Mike’s still spinning circles, and without a wave or any expression -you could see the guy’s face in the firelight- he just takes off and leaves us.

That was it, everybody’s awake now and shouting, Suzuki guys are adamant, “Give us the bikes and we’ll leave now!” and we’re goin’, “You guys are idiots, they know we’re here and they’ll be here in the morning!” “No, it’ll take  a day or more, we’ll find a way out and then bring back help!” and back and forth it went. Finally Russ and the guide agree to give up their bikes, and the S guys, with some help, manage to bull-dog the bikes across the river and begin their idiotic assault. Yeah, idiotic; with the firelight, you could see uphill at best 100 yards, after that it was pitch-black and the lights on our bikes little more than cosmetic. But these guys were determined, so up they go…only to stall, kick, go 5 yards, stall, kick, 10 yards, oops, fall back 20…

For the next two or three hours, all you could hear was Russ’s race-prepped, lovingly-babied bike, and a decent if ancient Husky the guide had, being shredded by those two hacks. Nobody got any sleep, all you could hear was the start-go-stop of 2-strokes trying to get up a hill they had no business attempting, especially in the dark. Oh, they eventually found the trail and were able to get back to the trucks, but they ran out of gas and had to push the bikes uphill then coast the downhills; took ‘em all morning. Ah, hell, the exercise was good for ‘em; mighta cooled their egos, too…

…I’m drowsing, it’s almost light, shadows beginning to form, when I hear another roar: more fire? No, another helicopter, this one coming right at us then hovering, drop lines falling and 2 guys in dark uniforms descending. Geez, we’re getting rescued. Not before or since have I been in a harness like that, an odd experience as I was hoisted skyward. It was a strange, surreal feeling getting plucked to safety, then Mike yelling, “What about the bikes?” and one of the rescue guys going, “Leave ‘em for the next fire.”

On the ride out, we learned the extent of the fire, and who had decided to send rescue when they did: Senator Larry Craig, when he first learned we’d been found. Craig himself was at the staging area, had been since the previous day (he owned some remote vacation property/ranch in the area, which we learned got mowed down by the blaze)when we’d gone missing, and was one of the first to greet us as we came off the copter. And here’s the deal: this was not some publicity-garnishing event for his re-election, some staged moment to make him look good. There were no media at all at the staging area. Craig shook hands with each of us, patted me on the back and brought us into a large tent, where medical people checked us out and we began the return to normalization. Craig wanted to hear about what we’d experienced, all the details of our survival. He was sincere and we learned that, the fire still raging, the Forest Service wanted to wait before things died down, but Craig was insistent we be rescued the moment he got word of us.

I will never forget what was said, when it was time for the senator to head on out to wherever he was going. We were saying goodbyes and thank you’s, when Mike asked, “Senator, why the hell did you send a chopper into a fire area to rescue a bunch of dirt bikers?”

“Dirt bikers are some of our best citizens,” he smiled, shaking Mike’s hand, “too valuable to lose.”

Damn right, Senator, and thank you…

There’s a few more interesting details to the story, like my wife kicking my ass for days afterward (mixed with some sweet reunion lovemaking, to be sure) and our company sending a helicopter crew back into the river gorge with fires still smoking to retrieve our bikes, leaving the melted remains of the others, where I imagine they rest to this day. Race got canceled, obviously…

Russ was able to talk to the helicopter pilot who’d found us, and get this, the guy claimed he wasn’t dumping the water on us, he was signaling that he’d seen us! Uh, I think he was so locked in on dropping baskets on flames, and after however many hours of doing it, there was no way he knew it was us down there. Still, he claimed he saw us, so what the hell…

At any rate, that was my lone encounter with the senator. I will always carry fond memories of what he did for us, and will do my best to remember him as he was then, a man’s man, and not the character he has been portrayed of late.

Onward…
~
(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)

Biggest news I can think of is the Kevin Everett spinal cord injury during the NFL’s first weekend of games. C-3 complete, though he had some sensation initially, yet his primary doc, guy named Cappuccino, immediately declared him ’likely never to walk again’. I heard that shit myself the day after my own injury (thanks for the upbeat prognosis). Yet only one day later, Cappuccino had reversed field, with the startling news that Everett was now moving upper and lower extremities! Talk about a turnaround. Seems within the first 20 minutes after his injury, and with Cappuccino in contact with Miami Project’s Barth Green, Everett was given ice-cold saline solution IVs, in the hope of inducing hypothermia which in turn would keep the ravages of inflammation to a minimum. Later, they used a different technique in administering even more cold saline, and wa-la! a day after he was proclaimed ‘paralyzed for life’, Everett’s moving, albeit modestly, but moving nonetheless.

What a beautiful, tortured can of worms this opens up. First off, I must offer condolences, congratulations and best wishes to Everett and his family; glad to see he MAY have significant return of function, which remains to be seen, of course, and clearly he isn’t going to walk out of the hospital in a few days nor will he be returning to the football field with a titanium plate in his neck (‘course you never know with athletes; that’s all we know, our playing fields).

Can of worms? Well, if this is an effective acute therapy, and as some have claimed, its benefits have been speculated about since the 70’s, every damn plegic still breathing has got to ask, ‘Wait a minute, why the eff wasn’t this done to me?’ OK, it wasn’t perfected back then or even lately; delivery was a hassle, they hadn’t really tested it, whatever the reasons but it hasn’t been widely applied.  Until now, and from this day forward, every acute injury SHOULD BE demanding similar treatment. Sure, methyl prednisone was used along with the saline, he was decompressed and stabilized, and all told, the entire effort probably meant little long-term loss of function, but if this method actually works, and his recovery is not simply due to his conditioning or the hated assertion, “I vowed I would overcome, and with God’s help, and my strong will…” (yeah, hated because those that ‘come back’ from the abyss known as acute paralysis evidently are more favored by God than those who don’t, or possess greater will and/or courage than the rest of us, assertions I flatly defy) then this method has got to be universally instituted, immediately.

Nah, while it’s great news for Everett and his family (and the Miami Project, who have advanced the therapy-), there’s untold and ongoing sadness, too, to balance and remind us, including the little boy we just learned about in rural Oregon who, injured in a car crash but not taken to the hospital (his parents are Christ Scientists, I believe, and don’t prescribe to traditional medical practices), died the other day from infection while laying in his bed with quadriplegia, his parents fervently praying for a cure. Could cold saline have helped? Probably, but we’ll never know; the therapy is just getting  heard about now, and yeah, if effective, every ER on the planet MUST have the means to administer it, hell, every ambulance, since time is the critical factor in acute injuries.

Everett was, in truth, fortunate to play in the NFL, with its vast resources, and to play for a team, the Bills, with an owner, Ralph Wilson, who had the vision to keep a spinal injury specialist on staff for just such an occasion. All NFL teams should soon follow this example, if, again, the therapy -and not God’s favor or the patient’s super-human will- proves to be effective.

And imagine the people recently injured, who learn about this therapy and yet weren’t given it. ‘You mean I could have been restored, I had a chance yet I wasn’t GIVEN the chance?’ Zounds…

In my travels speaking to plegics and families, I have long been saying the real cure will be in treating the acute injury immediately, to reverse the inflammation and its affects. This is no damn consolation to chronics, believe me, but I go on to talk about other procedures in the pipeline, etc. and note that there are committed researchers who believe they can help the chronically injured. Yet I know in my heart of hearts that I am among the last generation of the paralyzed; acute therapies, such as cold saline, are coming on line which will soon  render paralysis…well, treatable.

As for we chronics, our road remains…littered with stones.
~
Got an email the other day that really irked me: “…and I’ll bet you and your wife sit around and smoke dope all day, sounds like your (sic) a real stoner and so is she.”

Wrong. Oh, perhaps it’s all my mistake, in that I may be a bit too flippant with my smoking references, but I would like to set the record straight here and now: I smoke a small bit of herb usually once a day, at the end of the day before I hit the sack. Some days, as I did on my recent trip, I would smoke in the afternoon then again before bed, depending on pain (like many plegics, I deal with daily, ongoing and in some instances extreme back pain; usually by 3 o’clock or so, it hits but I’m normally able to hold off till bedtime, unless traveling).

For the record, however, my wife DOES NOT smoke marijuana, and has not since 1989. She never enjoyed it, did it a few times with me, and has not since. She has never done drugs (cocaine crank H ‘shrooms what have you), and has never been drunk in her life. Yet, after meeting her, many people chalk up her constant exuberance to being loaded; they do not understand she is LOADED ON LIFE!

My thing is a little weed, cigars, some strong coffee, and that’s it. When I mention herb, it’s just me, baby, tokin’ away…
~
I have a small, portable toilet I use when I go on the road, domestic and international, for my bowel care needs. You may not want to hear this but, too bad, it’s an interesting detail. After my injury, and when the travel bug hit again, I searched the available products and found them all entirely lacking: either way too flimsy, or simply ridiculously expensive, so I decided to make one myself. I went to my dad’s shop and stole a bunch of billet aluminum pieces and fashioned myself a strong, lightweight, 21st Century porto-commode. Of course, I decked it out with some racing touches, put a couple burnished aluminum things on it, and it looks pretty slick. It’s gone with me all around the world, and shows no wear.

Anyway, it went with me on my latest trip, and usually is the first thing we put into the luggage. Yet, out in eastern Nevada one morning, we were in a hurry to meet up with some people, Pia was on the phone and I simply forgot to pack it. Later that night, we realized we’d forgotten it; a problem, in that not only did I not have a commode, but I’d lost something quite unique and a pain in the ass to replace. We went about our trip, found a plastic one for the time being which worked OK, but Pia said, “On the way back, let’s see if it isn’t still there.”

“Pia, it’s gone, alright? Somebody found it and took it or used it for parts or sold it for scrap. I’ll just make a new one.”

“No,” she insisted, “It’s still there at the motel.”

“We’ll see.”

Several days later, on our return through Nevada and yielding to my wife’s demands, we drove back to that 50’s era, funky motel. What do you think we saw as we drove into the parking lot, sitting outside next to the manager’s open door, but my sparkling aluminum commode? We went inside and, after we registered our astonishment, the manager replied, “Hell, kids, this is Nevada, we still got honor out here. I figured it was probably something you needed, and whoever made it did a helluva job, so I just put it outside where it’d be easy for you to find.”

When I offered him a small reward for keeping it, he got offended. “Not everybody’s out for a buck, son, and not everybody needs a reward for doing the right thing.”

I shit like a king that evening, believe me; a grateful king…
~
And now that we’re home, there’s another major ‘mo-fo’ going on in our area: the Moonlight Fire up in Plumas county. Many thousands of acres torched, and no end in sight, the authorities claiming “16% contained,” a more vaporous and meaningless figure I have yet to hear.  You may say, “Ah hell, another Northern California wildfire, no big deal,” but this one IS a big deal. Let’s ignore the fact that Chuck Norris, Eddie Van Halen and Brad Pitt among others have vacation properties in the area (oh, no!), the real tragedy is in what will then unfold for that depressed, already-suffering region once the fire burns out. The economy is crippled due to years of environmental strangleholds on logging, many will be forced to find work elsewhere, and those that choose to stay or have no choice are faced with a very bleak future. Then, when the rains come, you’re talking rivers of mud, with all ground vegetation gone.

Logging policies and reclamation practices, along with forest thinning and a change in how the Forest Service deals with fires, have got to take place now, or these scenes and the ones you surely saw in Lake Tahoe earlier this year, will become common place. Then there won’t be any forests left to preserve, you hear that, enviros? How’s that for a big-time backfiring of your ideals, your years of ignoring what seasoned foresters have been saying? You cannot simply ‘leave Nature alone’, we must manage ALL of our resources wisely. The mantra must now become, “conservation instead of preservation.” No other choice…
~
And I’m paying for my travels this week with a nasty stomach virus. In my 8 years of paralysis, I have yet to deal with diarrhea…until this week, and man…

Yeah, I know, ‘Haven’t you had enough, v?’ I don’t have much to do with that, it seems, just gotta keep…surviving.
~
(Note: My book, ‘Scouring the globe for a cure: a disabled man’s experiences with stem cell treatment’
can be purchased at the following Web address:
www.booklocker.com/books/2857.html)