A Kick in the Head, Part 4 - Conclusion

...Continued...

To be honest, though I’d already told Michelle to stay at the office, I was dying for some company in the emergency room. I'd been through it once before all by myself, and I didn't want to have to soldier through it again all alone. Besides, I didn't have a strong enough cell signal to take any of the calls that were coming in from close friends and family on the East Coast, and having lived on the West Coast for only six months, I couldn't think of anyone local to ask to come visit.

Even when my boss texted me that she was coming, I told her not to. Why did I feel compelled to martyr myself, when I so desperately needed help? Was it the embarrassment of what Michelle had already witnessed? The guilt over having to be taken care of by people who really don't know me that well yet?

Or just the resignation that set in a long time ago, in childhood, that I was the only one who could help myself? Ever since I can remember, I always insisted on taking care of my own problems. I dug splinters out of my own leg. I rocked myself to sleep. I wiped my own tears. I spent weeks alone in bed, recuperating from some illness or another, my germophobic mother terrified of getting infected.

But when my boss - who'd been spared the spectacle of my convulsions by being out of the office during my attack - asked me if I wanted her to bring me some lunch, and my stomach growled, I relented, and reticently typed out the words "yes pls."

When she arrived, she proceeded to beg me to come home with her so I wouldn't have to be alone. She knew I didn't have anybody, that I lived alone, and that if I did have a concussion, I needed to be monitored. But I let my humiliation get the better of me, and I once again refused help, insisting that I go home to my own apartment where I could sleep in my own bed. I wanted to lie under the ceiling fan, not worrying whether the strap of my nightgown fell down, or a boob popped out, or a nipple hardened under the breeze. I wanted to feel sorry for myself, and cry. I wanted to writhe in pain and crawl up into a ball. I didn't want to pretend I was OK, and I knew if I was in a house full of people, I'd never admit to how badly I felt.

As it was, I hadn't been able to call out to Michelle for help, when I knew I was going to faint. I paused too long, considering it, until it was too late and I was already gone.

I don't remember much of the rest of that afternoon and night. I took Advil. I took a shower. I ate. I loitered on the internet.

I woke up at the usual time the next morning, and bravely planned to go into the office in the afternoon for a half day. But after falling back asleep and waking up again a couple of hours later, I started coming to my senses and took a sick day in bed. I waited for my doctor to call after his shift started at 5, as he promised to do. He never did. I waited for text messages or emails from friends who must've seen my outpouring of social media updates about my concussion. They didn't come.

Back to work on Wednesday. I bought myself miniature yellow roses which I placed in a vase on my desk. I fared relatively well until the end of the day, when I completely lost my senses and could not process any information. I tried to reward mysef with an after-work happy hour snack at SimonLA at the Sofitel hotel around the corner, but when I realized there was no bar to sit at, and they tried to seat me at a table alone, I declared, "This isn't going to work out," marched out onto Beverly Boulevard, and burst into tears.

I sobbed for the rest of the evening.

Text messages trickled in, most expressing surprise at how poorly I was doing. I complained of tingling limbs, short term memory loss, agitation, persistent headaches, disrupted sleeping, light sensitivity - all typical (and non-emergency) symptoms of a concussion. They don't go away quickly. They linger. My brain needs time to heal.

Back to work on Thursday, hopelessly dependent on emails and note-taking to keep track of my to-do's and already-done's. I found myself alarmingly susceptible to the power of suggestion. If someone had asked me, "We're getting married, right?" I would have replied, "Yep, uh huh."

Asleep early Thursday night, and then wide awake by 3:30 a.m. Up for two hours, desperate for sleep, head hurting, heart saddening.

Back to work on Friday, despite lack of sleep, pain fatigue, confusion, disorientation, and even a bit of slurred speech, a surprising lack of articulation. I found myself speaking very slowly and deliberately just to make sure I was saying the right thing. I'm still not sure if I did. I don't really remember.

And so a week after first concussing myself, I feel worse than I did right after the incident. What have I said? What have I done? What have I written? What have I promised?

What haven't I?

What help should I be receiving?

Who should be checking in on me? Do I cease to exist to the hospital staff until I return to the ER with a recurrence of emergency symptoms, or a worsening condition?

When will I feel better? Does my head always hurt this much? Has it just gone unnoticed because I haven't been paying attention to it as I am now?

When will I get better?

Related Reading:
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A Kick in the Head
A Kick in the Head, Part 2
A Kick in the Head, Part 3

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A Kick in the Head, Part 3

...Continued.

Luckily for my pride, my EMTs wheeled me into the ER on the gurney sitting upright, chair-style. I felt like a woman in labor, and then laughed when the admitting nurse asked me if there was any chance I could be pregnant.

Sitting in the entryway, I was poked and prodded, strung up and squeezed by a blood pressure cuff. I listened for screams and moans, but I only heard beeps and murmurs. This was nothing like New York.

In fact, it was almost exactly like what I'd seen on TV and in movies. For a moment, I felt like a member of the elite, admitted to Cedars Sinai Hospital, where so many celebrities had been brought after collapse, overdose, accident and exhaustion.

Even the staff looked like actors: stereotypically curmudgeonly redhaired nurses with gold-wire glasses falling down their noses, blond-banged orderlies brushing their swoops of hair out of their eyes, tiptoeing retiree volunteers walking patients by the arm and offering candy and tissues and water. It wasn't long before I was assigned to #34 - not a room number, but a bed number, thankfully for me in a room with only two other beds and two whole nurses all to ourselves.

My bed was already made, but apparently recently used, or somehow soiled, because my EMT stripped it of its bedding, and swiped it with an alcohol pad, fitting new sheets over it. "Don't they have somebody to do that for you?" I asked. "How'd you get stuck with that job?" He didn't answer.

My nurse - I forget her name - handed me a hospital gown and instructed me to put it on.

"Open in the back, right?" I asked.

"Yeah, sorry..." she said.

"Underwear on?" I asked.

"Sure. Are you OK with that one? Do you want another one?" she asked, as she pulled the curtain along its ball-bearing track for privacy.

"Eh, I've got nothing to hide," I said, thankful that I wore nice underwear that day, but wishing it matched.

I crawled into bed, and my nurse placed a too-small, too-thin blanket over me as I sunk in, and collapsed into myself. Feeling sorry for me, she handed me another one, saying, "I know, it gets cold in here..."

And then I waited.

I'd seen a too-thin, scraggly man next to me in bed #35 earlier, and could hear him getting lunch. My stomach growled, though I was still nauseous. I looked at the clock and realized I'd missed lunch, though I'd brought it to work with me that day. I hadn't made it long enough through work to eat it.

A tattooed woman with turquoise highlights in her hair shuffled by my bed into the shared bathroom next to my bed, holding an empty plastic cup. I tried to avert my eyes when she reemerged with the cup filled and a satisfied look on her face, but I couldn't help it. My reflexes were slow. My limbs were numb. The blanket felt like a weight on top of my legs, and then I realized that someone had foolishly put a very heavy, tethered TV remote on me.

I reached for my Blackberries - one for personal, one for work - and sent text messages and emails I don't remember. I felt it necessary to announce to the world where I was, though I was without diagnosis or prognosis. I wanted sympathy, even though I'd already refused help.

Calls came in but my signal was too weak to take them, though I tried.

Various staffers, patients and their visitors peeked at me from around my drawn curtain, smiling at me meekly as tears were streaming down my face. I was lonely and confused, already worried about my hospital bills, already worried that someone might get their hands on my mother's phone number and recklessly call her.

I still had a blood pressure cuff on my arm, but I'd removed a sensor from my forefinger to sign some paperwork, and never replaced it. The beeping had stopped. I didn't have any water. I didn't have any food. I didn't have any pain killers. And I had to go to the bathroom.

I was there in that bed, tapping away at my Blackberry devices, for a couple of hours, which passed quickly and unmemorably. My nurse would occasionally check on me, promising that the doctor would see me soon, and apologizing when he didn't.

Finally, Dr. Tony rounded the corner around the curtain, approached the bed and introduced himself, pen in hand, clipboard at attention, just like any good daytime drama doctor. He was handsome and young, simultaneously disaffected and caring, gently asking how I was feeling and how bad the pain was.

"Is it the worst headache you could ever have?"

"Well, no...."

I explained my history of fainting and resulting convulsions, and the bump I'd given myself a couple of days before, and that I'd been reading about concussions when the dizzy spell hit, and I could see the skepticism wash over his face, a healthy mix of doubt and amusement. "Don't tell me I did it to myself!" I exclaimed.

"I'm not blaming you..." he said. "But it would be very unusual for the symptoms to wait a day or two before they set in. I'm not saying it's impossible, but it's unusual."

"Uh huh."

"So what do you want to do?" he asked. "I'm 90% sure you don't need a CAT Scan, but I can give you one if you want one."

"Well, a CAT Scan would only determine if there's bleeding in the brain, right? Which you don't think I have, right?" I asked, and he nodded. "So the only way to tell if I actually have a concussion is just by my symptoms, right?"

He nodded again.

"Don't bother."

I was worried about the cost, but then again I was in no shape to make any decisions for myself at that time. But he jumped to agree with me, warning about the dangers of radiation exposure, and then said that I could go home.

"So that's it?" I asked. "I just get dressed and go home now?" Surely there was more poking and prodding to be done. Blood work? Neurological tests? Emotional counseling? An IV drip?

"Well, yes," he said. "I'll send you some Tylenol over, and someone will have you sign some discharge papers, and then you can go."

Defeated but relieved, I immediately got out of bed, slipped my legs into my skirt and started to zip it up under my hospital gown when an orderly came in to take my blood pressure again.

"Were you getting up to go to the bathroom?" he asked.

"Well, no, the doctor said I could go home, so I decided to get dressed..."

"Yeah but there's paperwork to sign..." he said.

"What, I have to wait until I sign it to get dressed? I'm not doing anything else over here..." By then I'd been there a little over two hours, but I was ready to go.

Alone again, briefly, I snapped my bra on and grabbed my top when I heard a nurse call out, "You want to see a friend? You have a visitor..."

...To be continued...

Related Reading:
A Kick in the Head
A Kick in the Head, Part 2

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Back to My Cage

I can never really enjoy things in the moment. I’ve always got my eyes on the next thing. On my way to a concert, I can’t wait to get there. When I get there, I can’t wait to get home. During nearly every trip I take, I can’t wait til I can get back to NYC and move on to the next thing.

I just spent a week in Washington D.C., though, and was living pretty in-the-moment. I didn’t pressure myself to see all the touristy sites, but rather enjoyed staying in Amanda’s nice house and keeping an eye out for her cat and dog, who woke me up with a lick-in-the-face in the morning and bid goodnight by jumping on my bed and rubbing her head into my comforter. Working from Amanda’s home seemed better than working from my cramped apartment, where the sound of animals usually comes from the mice in the walls.

As I recall, I’d only visited DC three times in my past:

1. for the NOW Women’s Rally in 1994 when I got terribly sunburned by walking around the mall in my bra with Liz Green and we stayed on a Colgate alumna’s floor in Virginia somewhere. We visited one of the Smithsonian Museums but we were more interested in goofing off than being cultured, so we pushed each other around in a wheelchair we’d absconded with
2. for the Billboard/BETJazz Awards when I worked at Atlantic, which is when I first met Amanda and when I realized Herbie Hancock is a pervert
3. for Amanda’s baby shower last summer, though I was only in town for a day

I had no real impression of it and didn’t have much desire to be a tourist, but since I was going to be alone rather than shown around by friends, I had to get a little proactive in terms of planning things to do. There would be no Rodeo Bar around the corner. No Marshall Stack a bus ride away. And I knew that even with the animals’ company, I would be stir crazy enough to have to go out, even if that meant spending the day in the center city, going back to Brookland (an hour away) to feed the munchkins, and then going back into the city for a couple of hours before catching the Metro before it stopped running or finding a cab that I could direct to the near northeast suburbs.

Fortunately, it doesn't take much to entertain me. A wine bar in Dupont Circle. A massage. Trying new beer at The Big Hunt with a new drinking buddy. On my way back from the Govinda Gallery’s Bob Marley photo exhibit in the rain, stopping and snapping a photo of the stairs featured in The Exorcist, which look less ominous now that they’ve added a railing to the precarious and fall-inducing non-walled side of it.

Although DC was unseasonably chilly and sometimes downright cold, I caught the cherry blossoms past peak but still in bloom, framing the Jefferson Memorial and catching the sunlight as they inevitably dropped from the low branches to the ground with each passerby. I’m not one much for monuments – obelisks and pyramids and giant statues of political figures – preferring instead historical usable spaces like train stations, cathedrals, and factories, so I didn’t bother to walk up to the Washington Monument, though I caught a good look at it from afar. I found out later that you can climb up into it. That’ll be something to do for the next trip.

All of these pit stops, though, were peripheral to the real reason I was in town: for Ziggy Marley’s headlining performances at the White House Easter Egg Roll, a popular event on the south lawn attended annually by 30k people. I missed Fergie’s performances, though I could hear the last one from outside the SE Gate. I caught the end of a kids’ cooking demo by Top Chef’s Spike, who apparently has a burger joint on the hill which I didn’t find out about until it was too late to go. I stood in front of actor James Cromwell, who holds a special place in my heart as the farmer in Babe. I even got a free commemorative wooden egg, only given out to children under 10 and available for sale on the White House website.

Once I got there, I realized I didn’t really need to be there for my consulting gig, but I was so happy to be welcomed by three generations of the Marley family and to witness first-hand how much a lot of people would love to be in my shoes. All ages and races reached over the fence that I was behind to get a photo with Ziggy, even just on their camera phones. They asked for photos with Ziggy’s mom Rita, who they recognized immediately (I did not). Even one of the PBS Kids costumed characters reached into a furry pocket to retrieve a camera, and leaned over and whispered into Ziggy’s wife’s ear, “That’s Ziggy’s kid, right? Can I have a picture?” Truly one of the most bizarre fan moments of my career.

By the time Tuesday morning came, I was ready to go back to NYC. I needed something to make me miss it. But give me a day or two back and I’m sure my wanderlust will kick in again….

Just Deserts.

I just got back from the desert less than a week ago and I'm already planning my next trip. I think next I'll check out Arizona - slightly harder to get to from a work-related trip, but within reach of a JetBlue destination so I can use one of the two free trips I've racked up.

My trip to San Diego in March seems to have set the tone for most of my travels throughout the remainder of the year, following it with trips to Death Valley and Morocco, which reminded me very much of Southern California and Mexico. I've gone back to San Diego twice now since the spring, last month for work and then last week for a weekend vacation after working in LA the entire week. This time I convinced Edith, who accompanied me to my first San Diego trip, to once again join me in my desert adventure.

I wasn't really aware of the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, California's largest state park, until my friend Ken suggested I go there when he found out I was in San Diego last month. I figured I wouldn't have enough time to just daytrip it up there, so I was looking forward to giving it the full treatment in September, which, though still considered the "off-season," would be much more liveable temperature-wise.

I chose to drive up to Anza-Borrego from San Diego the same way most people do: up through the Cuyamaca Rancho State Park to an old goldmining town called Julian, whose famous apple harvest was just beginning and was sure to produce some amazing apple pies. I had tried to actually find a hotel in Julian, but everything was curiously sold out - though explained later by the apple harvest and the bluegrass festival which is one of the biggest events of the year there. We stopped in town for a quick lunch at Miner's Diner, an old school soda fountain where I had the Pioneer Pastrami sandwich, which was as fat and soft as I was eating it, on what tasted like freshly-baked rye bread with a pickle spear on the side. Edith chose a turkey sandwich called the "Banner Queen," named after a mine in a nearby ghost town that we drove through but didn't really see anything in. Sitting at their lunch counter (they don't serve dinner), it was great because we were surrounded by high school students and other locals, not tourists, though the town has retained the character of a historic, tourist-worthy town full of kid-friendly activities like panning for gold and cider-making.

Lucky for the locals who live there, Julian is a haven for locally-produced jams, jellies, butters, ciders, and of course pies, as well as cider doughnuts that kick the Greenmarket's ass - and not only because they're chocolate-frosted. It's also a burgeoning wine community, with several wineries converging near the orchards to make hard cider, apple wine, and a variety of other grape-based wines. Like Temecula to the north, the area isn't as European-influenced as Napa and Sonoma, and the wines can really only be described as...Southern Californian. Sometimes a bit rough, often complex, smacking you in the palate a bit before you find one you like. It's the tryingthat's the fun part, and although you enjoy the visit, you're not sure if you could experience it all the time. But we did find a Viognier at Orfila that we liked enough to buy and bring back to San Diego with us...and lots of free wine glasses from all the local tasting rooms we visited.

Once we drove into the desert and to the palm tree-lined oasis of Borrego Springs, I was glad we hadn't found a room in Julian and chose to stay inside the state park instead. The New York Times had recommended a recently-restored mid-century modern resort called The Palms at Indian Head, and once I read about the Hollywood elite visiting there - similarly as they visited Death Valley - I knew it would be the place to stay. Even better, Borrego Springs was once destined to become the next Palm Springs, but of course never did. And knowing me, always to root for the underdog, it was the perfect place for me to escape the Hollywood hustle as well.

The Palms was originally built in 1947 as the Hoberg Resort, but the 50+ cabins and bungalows that dotted the expansive property burned down in 1958, to be rebuilt that same year, but with fewer places to stay. Of course like anything else in a little-visited town whose weather requires properties to forcibly close in 125 degree summer heat, it fell into disrepair and was as forgotten as the oasis itself, with all eyes on Palm Springs instead. In the late 90s, a couple decided to restore the property to its original splendor, naming it "The Palms" after all the palm trees that rose up out of the desert in the spring-fed town, and "at Indian Head" after the mountain that rises up behind it, shaped somewhat like the head of a Native American chief.

We knew the place would be cool, but we had no idea we would stumble upon our own little ghost town, especially after our failed attempt at exploring nearby Banner. You can still see the ruins of much of the original property, and even walk right through them, despite how architecturally unstable they may be. Original shower stalls and even toilets are still standing, sheltered by salmon- and mint green-colored tile walls, with rusty spikes sticking out at every turn. The paint is peeling everywhere, yet there are few signs of trying to demolish the old remains. It was fascinating to try to piece together the plot of the old Hoberg Resort, walking on sidewalks that led to nowhere, standing behind walls with huge chunks missing out of them. As if our location weren't remote enough - especially with the staff of the hotel never around, us checking ourselves into the hotel and drinking hot coffee which mysteriously appeared on its own in the morning - we had the spooky feeling of walking through someone else's memory, piecing the bits together as the details crumbled around us.

One of the remarkable elements of the original property is the Olympic-sized pool, which we dove into both at twilight (despite the bats dive-bombing the water around us) and at sunrise. We discovered that it had been built with two plexiglass windows in the deep end of the pool, providing a kind of underground observation deck for spectators to surreptitiously watch swimmers through a deep blue, chlorine lens. I dragged my toe along the far wall of the pool until I felt a window, and once I'd verified that the windows in fact did exist, I had to find the underground passage to them.

It wasn't difficult, actually: I spotted a pile of cinder blocks with some construction materials around them and an old, faded yellow warning sign above a subterranean flight of stairs. In my wet bathing suit and slippery flip flops, camera in hand, I walked sideways down the dirt-piled steps, digging my toes into the dark sandy dirt for leverage as I grabbed the rough stone walls on either side of me. I expected some kind of cocktail lounge or something down there, but instead I found a dirt floor, a couple of lawn chairs, some plastic buckets, and two cruddy windows that could form the backdrop of a really terrifying slasher flick. It looked like this:



Of course, we were giddy at the discovery, laughing hysterically, causing all kinds of ruckus in the normally-quiet pool area visited only by a couple of other resort guests, all of whom were retirees, I think. Which makes sense since that's pretty much who I see wherever I go these days.

Unlike Death Valley, Borrego Springs itself is far from a ghost town. There are quite a few resorts and motels and even a strip mall. It actually seems quite liveable, though there's basically one singular, fantastic place to eat, The Red Ocotillo (also owned and operated by the same folks from The Palms). With so many plots of land for sale, and real estate signs everywhere, I started to dream about what it would be like to live in this place, whose center of town is a roundabout called "Christmas Circle." It just seemed like paradise to me.

Mornings were idyllic too. The first day we set our alarms to watch the sun rise from our terrace, but the next day we woke up on our own and got to see it again, with golden light pouring over our faces and kissing the palm trees. I can't imagine anywhere else that I would want to wake up at 6:30 in the morning.

I wanted to live while I was there. I couldn't wait to spot the bunnies that emerged by the pool as the sun set, or to hop in the car and find some canyons or scenic overlooks. Most of the other people staying at the resort seemed to just hang out by the pool all day, and that seemed nice too. And the thought of eating every meal at The Red Ocotillo - whether it was the bacon crumble benedict with garlic rosemary potatoes or the Peg Leg breakfast with too much butter on the cinnamon French toast - seemed just delightful.

For more photos, click here.

Down the Rabbit Hole

When I signed up for today's day-long tour of local theaters with the Theatrical Historical Society of America's annual "Conclave" conference, I had no idea I'd find myself convalescing at home later.

Usually the dangerous adventures are those I go on by myself. But I suppose that's when I'm the most careful.

I have a certain expectation, I guess, that when I've paid for a ticket—especially one that's as much as $175—part of what I get with my money is some sense of security.

You'd think I was paying for safety and guidance, if nothing else.

But it turns out that I may be safest at all when I'm alone. Although I've fallen on the trail more than once, it seems that my biggest injuries—both emotional and physical—have come at the hands of another.

And taking one not-so-little fall today has sent me down the rabbit hole of distrust and misanthropy and fatalism.

But somehow, I managed to dodge any twinge of regret—despite the pain I'm in right now, despite the injuries I've sustained, and despite the tears I've cried.



I've taken quite a few tours of theaters around Southern California, but instead of that making me feel accomplished, it shines a spotlight on the ones I haven't yet been able to get into.



And one of those was the Westlake Theatre, built in 1926.



Some Art Deco touches—like the ticket booth—were added by S. Charles Lee as part of a "modernization" in 1935.



But mostly, the former first-run movie theater (which also staged vaudeville productions) explodes with Churrigueresque details, both inside and out.



It was grossly converted into a swap meet in the 1990s, keeping many of the original details (besides filling in the orchestra rake with a flat poured concrete floor)...



...although not maintaining them very nicely.



The swap meet closed in 2011 and, with the building now designated a Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Monument and listed on the National Register of Historic Places, there's been some hope to revitalize it as a performance space.



Less interested in the vestiges of the retail flea below, I headed up to the balcony to see what ornamentation remained.



Whether it was plaster molds or peeling paint...



...I had my eyes cast upwards.



And that was my mistake.



When I proceeded into the balcony seating area, I could tell that our group had no business being up there.



Seats had been replaced by Santas, which, in the absence of railings, were the sturdiest things to hold onto up there.



It was dark, but I've gotten better about being in the dark. I've been less afraid.



And not only was I not alone—but the others in my group had flashlights that helped me see.

Photo: Public domain

So, when I got to the projection booth, I just walked in. I didn't feel my way with my foot before stepping. I didn't pull out my cell phone for light. I just put one foot in front of the other.

And one foot went straight through a hole in the floor.

I barely knew what had happened to me. I noticed my camera in my right hand hitting the floor before I noticed that I was crotch-deep in a hole, my left leg dangling, and my right ankle, foot, and toes twisted.

"Are you OK?" someone kept asking me. But he was standing outside of the projection booth, and didn't advance closer. I had a sense of more people standing behind me, but no one came over to help. No one pulled me out of the hole.

I might as well have been alone.

The man persisted in asking me if I was OK. Finally, I said, "I'm OK. I'm not good, but I'm OK."

But the truth is, I was only conscious. Nothing was broken. But I wasn't OK.

And I'd just wasted precious time by falling into a hole in the floor. So, what could I do? I got up, brushed myself off (not realizing my face was also covered in dirt or that I was bleeding), and took more photos.

When I realized that the rest of the itinerary for the day had changed from what I'd originally signed up for—with the next three theaters being those I've already been to before—I just wanted to go home.

So, I left, in tears.

Maybe I'd already been thrown off-kilter first thing that morning, because the organizers had given me the wrong meeting time, and the bus had already left without me. After having already paid for all-day parking Downtown, I'd rushed to the Westlake Theatre in my car, and I'd scrambled to find an organizer to give me my badge and a quick orientation.

But I'd arrived late, so I'd marched on to get my photos and see as much as I could before we all got ushered back out all too soon. I wasn't as careful as I should've been. But I didn't really know how careful I needed to be in there.

No one had given me a waiver to sign. No one had told me to wear sneakers. No one said, "Watch out for the hole in the floor."

In the hours that followed, I felt grateful that the hole had been big enough to fit my entire thigh, and that my rear end had been plentiful enough to cushion my fall.

I was relieved that my car was right there, so I could drive myself home instead of being stranded on that bus.

I was even somewhat satisfied to have crossed the Westlake Theatre off my list—though now I have no love for that place, given what happened to me there.

It could've been a lot worse. But it reminded me how easily I can fall down the rabbit hole when something bad happens—both physically and mentally.

I have an autoimmune disease, so, as it is, my body is constantly attacking itself. But when I catch a sniffle or, God forbid, eat something bad like I did last week, it sends me into a disabling flare-up. A tummy ache turns into a migraine. And a stubbed toe can throw out my back.

That's why it was so hard on me when someone rear-ended me three years ago, giving me whiplash and head trauma. I'm still dyslexic from it. I'm not sure that will ever go away.

I guess this is what my parents—particularly my mother—tried to protect me from when I was a child, forbidding me from riding my bike past a certain perimeter or going to the movies or the mall or staying after school for much of anything.

Bad things happen.

Worse things happen.

And I was so easily devastated by the lack of care and concern, the disorganization, and the negligence that I faced today. The THS organizers refunded my money and sent flowers to my apartment this afternoon with a note that apologized for the "inconvenience" I'd encountered.

That's nice, but it wasn't merely inconvenient. It was thoughtless and heartless.

But when it comes down to it, I just can't stay home and hide from the world. The fear of what might happen is just as bad (if not worse) than what actually happens.

It's almost better to get stung than to keep running from the bees.

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It Got Worse
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A Kick in the Head

While I was exploring Bodie ghost town this weekend up in the Eastern Sierra region of California, I walked through a disembodied doorway, whose surrounding building crumbled to the ground around it. I took a photo from "inside" the building, and then walked back through the doorway.

Or, shall I say, I walked into the doorway. (The culprit is pictured above.)

I've clocked myself in the forehead more times than I can count. As a three year old, I famously cracked my head open in my parents' basement, thanks to a new pair of glasses that distorted my depth perception so severely, staircases were deathly and sidewalks always appeared to run uphill or downhill even when they were completely flat. Later in life, I've fallen on hikes, been dragged by a moving car, burned by battery acid, punched, pushed down, smacked in the head, bruised, battered and molested.

But I've always recovered quickly.

So when I gave myself a goose-egg on Saturday, I rubbed the area of impact a couple of times, winced at the pain, and then moved on. I joked that I might have a concussion, but I didn't really believe that I had one. I cautiously anticipated the onset of headaches or dizziness that would send me to some mountain hospital far from home, with no one to comfort me (and no insurance, to boot). But as the day wore on, I felt ok, my brain a bit jarred and jostled, but not really any worse for the wear. I slept great Saturday night, and triumphantly returned to LA on Sunday evening, unscathed after an eight-hour drive.

On Monday morning, I woke up cranky and sleep-deprived, as usual. I left for work at the time I was supposed to be there, as usual. I walked to work, headphones plugged in ears, lunch slung over shoulder, lips mouthing the words to every song in my mile-long walk, as usual.

When I arrived, I headed straight for the teakettle, as usual. I spooned instant decaf into a mug, as usual. I started up my computer, as usual. I opened the curtains, put my bags on the floor, added milk and Equal to my coffee, and sat down, as usual.

But something was off.

I'd had a bit of a headache the night before, which wasn't so unusual considering the long drive home, the hours spent in the sun, the hikes I'd done across snowy lake shores and volcanic glacial falls. But the headache was getting worse, and I was having a hard time concentrating.

I was grumpier than usual too, but I wrote it off as sleep deprivation, or the Monday, Mondays.

As I sipped my decaf instant coffee, which has become somewhat of a daily ritual for me, I felt a little nauseous. My delicate stomach always feels a bit sick with coffee. But I really did not feel so good.

I Googled "concussion."

I clicked through to the National Institute of Health's page on concussions, reading about the "normal" symptoms and then examining the "emergency" symptoms. I got worried. A huge wave of nausea set in. And then a huge wave of dizziness set in.

I opened my mouth to call out to my coworker, Michelle, to tell her that I felt faint, or that I might pass out, or something, but no words came out.

That's the last thing I remember...

...To be continued...

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A Blow to the Brain: These Eggs That Scramble

I keep talking about the aftermath of my car accident, but I haven't really written about what's going on.

I'm not talking about the whiplash, or even the inconvenience of my car being in the shop for a month or the financial hardship of paying my $500 dddic deductible (which, thankfully, has been reimbursed).

I'm talking about the brain injury – the "post-traumatic head syndrome" – that has been driving me batty for the last two months, and, if it's anything like the last concussion I had, will probably persist for a few more.

I'm going to write about that now.

You might think someone's who's never had any brain trauma might not understand, but if anyone who's has ever been even just a little bit buzzed on alcohol – or taken pain killers or muscle relaxants that are a bit too strong, or have even been woken up a bit too suddenly, a bit too early in the day – will understand what I mean.

There's a gauze cast over every experience – a stocking thrown over the lens, rendering the world in soft focus. It's not necessarily in the visuals of the scene per se (though blurred vision did come immediately following the impact), but in the experience of it. It's like listening to music underwater: you can hear that something is playing, but it's not very clear. You can't distinguish the details, but maybe you could hum along.

It's the feeling you have when you think you're sober enough to drive yourself home, and the next day realizing you don't remember much about the ride.

Your long-term memory hasn't been touched, but the loading dock for short-term rent retention is just...full...or closed...out or out of business completely. You can't even really remember your own accident.

When your eggs have been scrambled inside your own skull, swished back and force forth from the blunt force trauma to both the back and front of your car, your senses are not only dulled: you're functioning on autopilot. And your control panel isn't receiving accurate information about the world around you, so it's making decisions based purely on memories and habits. Rehearsed speeches in front of large groups are easy. Off the cuff answers during one-on-one conversations are nightmarish.

Pauses, sometimes long ones, are necessary to conjure the right words, and now you speak deliberately and slowly, choosing each word carefully, somtei sometimes settling on the wrong wrod word just to keep the conversation moving. Eventually you decide it's better not to talk at all, and you make your escape to the bar or the restroom or some other group of people talking, where you can just listen and not really understand what they're saying.

When you must speak, you get frustrated when you say the wrong thing, if you even notice it. You might tell someone the year 2001 when you mean 2011, and even when you're corrected (a mistake you don't realize, but you believe to be possible), you do it again and again.

You apologize for your lack of social skills, bad jokes and misunderstandings, but people who don't know you well just smile and say, "You seem fine to me!" Maybe they're being kind. Maybe they just don't know what a good talker you usually can be.

So rather than exhaustingly trying to explain your situation to people who seem to care but not really understand, you avoid social situations, the phone, and anything beyond key English phrases like "How much do I owe you?" and "Where's the restroom?"

When you're alone, you lose things. You're not sure where you are. You look for your cell phone while it's in your hand, again and again. You must occasionally stop to reconnoiter and assess the situation, realizing you've driven past your destination. You read and reread directions, instructions, ingredients, and other commonplace tetx text, but you barely get the gist of it. You rarely really get what is ever going on around you.

In the absence of p speaking, there is no solace in writing. This is where the brain injury manifests in front of your own face. You might not notice if you say the wrong thing (though you always suspect that you have), but when you have had the chance to think about it, look up definitions and synonyms, and you've finally got the right words in your head, there's some disconnect with your fingers, and they can't get them out right.

You type out words that sound like the words you're thinking, but have a totally different meaning.

You type words that kind of look like the words you mean, but aren't.

You combine successive words together into a new word, sharing and swapping syllables like chromosomes recombining with each other's genetic material, creating some new, unique beast.

Dyslexia manifests in numbers and letters. You see it happening, but you can't stop it. All you can do it is hit backspace. Over and over again.

At first, you think your brain just needs to rest. You take naps, and you don't dream  – a welcome relief. You don't go out in public much, for fear of forgetting well-known acquaintances' names, and being unable to recall your favorite bits of trivia and bar talk.

Drinking alcohol doesn't help, because your brain is already drunk. A single sip of wine surpris suppresses your conversational skills even more, and brain brings on the waterworks to irrational proporatio proportions. No one wants to talk to someone whose eyes are constantly welling up.

When I was 2-3 years old, I had terrible temper tantrums – screaming, wailing, writhing fits on the floor that my parents could not explain. Thinking I was emotionally disturbed, they sent me to a child psychiatrist, who reported that I had "a lot of anger." Shortly thereafter, my parents discovered my progressive near-blindness, and the tantrums could suddenly be explained as my way of expressing frustration over it, since I didn't really have the words to articulate it at that young age.

But back then, I never knew what it was like to see. I thought the world was blurry.

Now, I know that it's just my bruised brain that's making everything blurry. I know how sharp I can be when everything is clear. And I'm afraid I'll never get back to that point.

My whole life – despite crisis, abuse, assault, poverty, line lonli loneliness, and abandonment – I always hat had my wits. I was street smart and world-wise despite my overprotection. I was intellectual without having to study. I was an A++ student in my sleep. My brain was the shiniest on the shelf.

And now I'm struggling.

Fortunately, the head syndrome hasn't affected my more sophisticated intellectual processes: I'm still a smarty-pants, but now I have this stronger desire to prove myself, do to do better than even before, to show that I still got it. But for all of my overcompensation, posturing, and bravado, I'm more sensitive than ever before. I have to work harder at maninting maintaining normalcy than anybody else does. It takes an enormous amount of effort just to reach baseline functional, and so I can't understand the frustrated honking drivers, the cranky elderly waiting at the ATM, the defensive peers who choose to pick a fight with me rather than giving me a freaking break. I take it personally, and so I recoil further.

I shouldn't have to explain this, but I will – for those who can't explain it themselves, for those who understand, and for those who don't.

Related Posts:
A Kick in the Head, Part 4 - Conclusion
It Got Worse

It Got Worse

My recent post, "It Just Gets Worse," created a fair amount of alarm amongst my friends and readers.

Then again, it provoked a surprisingly large outpouring of "me too"s.

Because the truth is, it does get worse. It can always get worse.

Sure, sometimes the pain subsides. You come into some money. You start a new romance.

But most of these things are fleeting. You can be sure that things will always get worse.

Some may argue that the glass is half full, that the worse things are fleeting, and that everything will get better.

To those optimists, I say: things will get better, or they won't. Is this, right now, the worst it can get? No? Then things will probably get worse.

I think the assumption amongst those alarmed is that I wrote that post in a time of crisis, on the verge of doing something about it, but in truth, it had been percolating in my brain – and in my heart – for a long time. I just chose to write about it – to announce it publicly – in a time when things actually did get worse, and I abruptly and unexpectedly found myself with no source of income.

It wasn't a jump-off-a-bridge crisis. I mean, I've been down in the dumps before. I've been broke before. I've been brokenhearted before. I get it. I know how bad it can get.

Given that, I was terrified (and terribly curious) of what was yet to come.

And then it got even worse.

The worsening arrived in the form of a driver following me too fast, too close, perhaps too distractedly, ramming into me when I'd stopped abruptly to avoid hitting the car in front of me, who'd also stopped abruptly.

So, in saving the car in front of me, I bore the brunt of the impact, which was so ferocious, my assailant's hood popped up, front end shattered, innards smoking. In hitting me, he pushed my stopped car into the stopped car in front of me, ping-ponging me back and forth enough to warrant two medical diagnoses of whiplash and post-traumatic brain syndrome.

I don't really remember the impact itself, only the sound. The next things I remember were bringing my arms down from over my head, where they'd apparently popped up to help me duck for cover, and bringing my foot back down on the brake, with which it had lost contact at some point. A bruise that emerged on my shoulder indicated that the seat belt must've snapped my body back into place.

As the other two drivers pulled over to safety and got out of their cars, I was behind the wheel, unable to move, unable to process what had happened to me. I heard the passing cars crunching on the debris that had shattered across their path at the point of impact behind me.

I thought, "Oh my God, not this." I was already maxed out in my life. I couldn't deal with one more thing. A car accident was one of the worst things that could happen when I wasn't working.

The two other drivers peered at me through my windshield, asking me if I was OK. After all, I hadn't moved my car yet. I'd just burst into tears.

"I don't know," I sobbed.

All I knew was that I'd survived. And I wasn't relieved about it.

Having called the police, I finally pulled my car over out of traffic, and I wondered if I'd finally hit bottom. I'd declined paramedics for lack of medical coverage, but I knew I wasn't well. I was probably in shock. I was definitely dazed. I didn't feel so good, and I was pretty sure the physical pain was going to get worse.

And then I realized: I'd looked Death in the eye, and Death had laughed at me.

Even Death didn't want me.

Not yet, anyway.

In the aftermath of the accident, it's clear that that particular incident could've been a lot worse. I could've been a lot more hurt. My car could've been a lot more damaged.

And as I now deal with car insurance and repairs and medical examinations and physical therapy and prescriptions to ease the pain, as I try to unscramble my brains, undizzy my head, unhurt my neck and  unblur my eyes, as exhausted and confused as I am, I know this is not the worst it can get.

How many more hits can I take?

To that, I say: We shall see.

Related Posts:
It Just Gets Worse
The Forever Now
A Kick in the Head (Parts 1-4)

A Kick in the Head, Part 2

A continuation of a prior blog post, "A Kick in the Head."

I had no sense of what was happening around me. I was dreaming about...something. But someone was yelling the numbers "4-5-8!" and the word "Breathe!"

What was going on?

I opened my eyes and saw someone standing really closely over me. I didn't know who it was. I didn't know where I was.

I closed them again.

And then I heard my name - "Sandi! Breathe!" I might've heard it before. I might not have known it was my name.

I opened my eyes again but all I could see was the pair of glasses on Michelle's face. Had I fallen asleep? Was I drunk? Where was I? Where was I supposed to be?

And then it hit me: I'd passed out.

And then I started moaning.

I think I'd been moaning before; I think hearing my own moaning was part of what woke me up. (As a sick child, my own sickness-induced whimpering would often wake me up in the middle of the night.) I placed my hands on each side of my face, pressed into my temples, and tried to stop moaning, but I couldn't.

"Oh God," I said. "What happened?" I don't know why I asked. I was pretty sure I knew.

Michelle was still yelling, at me or on the phone I'm not sure, because I couldn't understand anything she was saying.

"Don't call an ambulance," I begged.

"I already did!" she exclaimed.

"Oh God I don't have insurance, oh God...I passed out?" Michelle nodded. "Was I shaking?"

"Not at first but then, yeah." I expected it: I'd also had convulsions a lot as a kid, worrisome enough to send me in for two EEGs to diagnose epilepsy or some other neurological malfunction. They didn't find one, but the convulsions continued, for some reason.

Michelle then explained that she'd heard me moaning, called out for me, and when I didn't answer, came into my office to check on me. She found me turned around in my chair, slumped over the heater behind me. When she sat me up, I wasn't breathing, my face reddening. That's when the shaking began.

Listening to her description of me, watching her imitation of me, I was confused. I was terrified. And I was sweating.

The EMTs arrived quickly, asked for my ID and insurance card first, then checked my vitals, pricked my thumb to test my blood sugar, asked me some questions, and then offered to take me to the hospital. I told them to go away, that I would just go home and recuperate, that Michelle would drive me and that I would be fine.  I might've seemed coherent, but I was in no shape to make any decisions about anything. But they took me at my word, and left my office to complete their paperwork. Michelle left to retrieve her car keys, and I was alone in front of the computer, trying to shut it down.

I still couldn't really see anything. I couldn't process what had just happened. I couldn't remember Michelle grabbing me or shaking me. I couldn't remember screaming or gasping for air when I came to.

"Michelle?" I called out, successfully this time.

"She went outside," one of the EMTs said.

"Oh, um, can I change my mind? Can I come with you guys?"

A pause. "Sure."

So I collected my purse, my phone, my tote bag, and rose to my feet. "Don't get the gurney. I can walk," I proclaimed.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Michelle asked, when the EMTs told her I was coming with them after all.

"No, I'm fine, you can stay here," I said. I was in no shape to make decisions, and for some reason I refused to accept any help.

I walked outside into the sun, stepped up into the side of the fire department ambulance, its air conditioning vent blowing onto my forehead too hard and too cold, and lay down on the gurney, to be securely strapped in.

I'd been here, in the back of an ambulance, once before: three weeks into my first job in the music industry at Atlantic Records. I'd eaten my lunch outside, and suffered an onset of abdominal pain that was all to familiar to me, attacks of which I'd survived throughout high school and college, all undiagnosed. I crawled up on a bench in the public plaza across the street, hoping it would subside, and when it didn't, returned to the office. My boss was at lunch, so I went to the receptionist and asked if there was someplace I could go lie down. I explained my symptoms, and after she unsuccessfully tried to reach the company nurse and company doctor (the perks of working for Time Warner), called Fastcare, the ambulance company.

"Don't call an ambulance..." I begged, out of embarrassment and fear, but she looked at me and said, "You're pale, and you're sweating. I'm calling an ambulance."

So the new girl at work got carted away on a gurney, down the elevator, out the front door, in front of all her new coworkers returning from lunch, gawking curiously at the spectacle.

In the back of that ambulance, it felt like we were careening through Manhattan traffic, stopping and starting with a jolt, every bump and jostle making my pain worse. Those EMTs murmured something about my appendix, but assured me I would be all right, and that we would be there soon. It felt like it took forever to get to St. Luke's Roosevelt, but it took even longer for me to actually get a bed and be seen by a doctor in their emergency room, full of gunshot victims, drug addicts, screaming patients, and overwhelmed nurses and orderlies.

I spent 10 hours in that ER that day in 1997, with no diagnosis to show for it, and still an aching belly.

On Monday, once again being transported by ambulance, I was prepared for the worst, but Cedars is only about a half mile from work, so we arrived quickly and without incident.

But once we arrived, I was prepared to spend the next 10 hours there, like I had last time...

...To be continued...

To read Part 1, click here.

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A Shot Towards Ending the Pandemic

I'd marked the date "March 15" on my calendar—that was the date that I would become eligible for the COVID-19 vaccine. 

I'd signed up for all the notifications, but I didn't trust that they would actually notify me in any timely manner. 

And I'd already completely lost trust in my primary care physician in LA, who's lost my test results before and forgotten that I'd been in for a physical—likely distracted by her stint on reality TV. (But that's a story for another day.) 

So, I knew it would be up to me to sign up to get the jab the moment the spots opened up online. 

I tried to book an appointment a few days before just to see what would happen. I reached the equivalent of an internet brick wall. 

But on the night of Sunday, March 14, I saw a message online that indicated that spots for the new eligibility tier had opened up early—and in the hour before midnight, I began clicking around to find a place to get the shot. 

Patience isn't one of my virtues. After trying two of the local hospitals and one of the local pharmacies, I gave up and typed in "Valencia, CA" as my location.

 

Getting It Over With

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! - "Ode to the West Wind" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Image by Claudia from Pixabay

I've lived with both physical and emotional pain for most if not all of my life. So I don't shy away from things that might hurt me—maybe to a fault.

I've just always assumed that life is pain and that if I want to live fully, it's gonna hurt. 

But there is an exception: I have an unreasonable fear of getting stung by a bee. 

I've chronicled here some instances where I've literally turned around and aborted mission when I've encountered a swarm of bees, or when I was trapped and did the heebie-jeebie dance just to get away from bees trying to drink droplets of sweat off my shirt in the desert.

And I made it nearly 48 years without getting stung by anything—until yesterday. 

Halloweentime Jaunt to the Midwest

Spent the weekend in Minneapolis - again - this weekend. I actually don't mind it so much. I tell everybody it's a surprisingly cosmopolitan place.

This time I stayed at the Hilton, which was a mistake because it was a prime convention spot crawling with badge-toting midwesterners and gigantic football players (North Dakota State U, to be exact). I was pressed up against the back of the elevator during each trip to and from the 21st floor, praying for oxygen.

The stress of the throngs needed desperately to be relieved, so I ordered an in-room massage from the former LiteSpa (now an Aveda salon called Sanctuary). Spa services outside of a beach cabana or New York City can be a bit dodgy, but this ended up being really good - in fact, I think, better than the massages I get from Deborah at Crunch. This one included a great head/scalp massage, and also uncovered some real pain I'm having...drum roll...behind my knees. In the lymph area. Apparently I'm clogged.

So the massage was a great release in more ways than one, and for the first time in weeks (maybe months), I woke up the next morning and could walk without hobbling. Score!

Besides the access to in-room massages, the one good thing about the hotel was its proximity to a great restaurant called Hell's Kitchen, a new discovery. Aptly named, the wait there is hellish, as is the attitude of the people taking reservations and names for the waitlist. Saturday I tried to go there three times, and finally ordered a ham and pear toasted sandwich to go and ate it on the stairwell in the building. But this morning I planned ahead and didn't have to wait too long to brunch with Sebouh, who shared the delicious sausage bread (made with bison meat!), topped with butter, homemade peanut butter and preserves. It's practically a meal on its own but I managed to make some room for the catfish breakfast special, with poached eggs and a sauce with a real kick to it.

Minneapolis always brings the good food and drink, if you know where to go. (DON'T go to the NewsRoom.) We tried the bar in the new swank Graves 601 hotel, where I had the deliciously unsweet Mojito "8" cocktail and some sweet grilled cheese sandwiches topped with truffle honey. The scene was weirdly New York, and we were surrounded by Emmy winners of the Upper Midwest Chapter of the National Television Academy. Bizarre.

Even more bizarre was our trip to the sticks for the Trail of Terror, supposedly the Midwest's best Halloween attraction. It paled in comparison to some of the New York area ones I've visited over the last couple of years, but the haunted house-slash-maze had some neat tricks of its own that kept me on my toes (and grabbing for Vic). They kept it really dark, and with my night vision pretty bad as it is, I was blind the whole time. Then we hit the hallway with the big horn sound and a bright light that bleached our retinas and really blinded us.

I can't say it was worth the long drive, the muddy school bus ride from the parking lot, and the long wait in line, but I was spooked and startled and we laughed a lot. Mission accomplished.

It also gave us the excuse to have dinner at Bennigan's, which we spotted from the highway. We were hungry for fun, and thanks to Vic, now I can say I've tasted the deep fat fried and battered Monte Cristo sandwich with raspberry jam. It's so wrong. And so good.

Thankfully, considering everything I ate while away, I got the chance to swim a little at my hotel. I also spent a fair amount of time on my feet walking back and forth between hotel and Target Center, where I was wrangling some children for the KIDZ BOP WORLD TOUR. Rock!

If I have to go back to Minneapolis again, I hope it's during better weather, so I can visit De Smet, SD and complete my Laura Ingalls Wilder Historic Highway journey.

This 40 Year-Old Princess Has Found Her Kingdom

I grew up watching football players declaring "I'm going to Disneyland!" after winning the Super Bowl. It didn't occur to me at the time that it was an advertisement. It just seemed like Disneyland must be that good.

So when I was looking down the barrel of my 40th birthday, wondering how I would outdo the skydiving adventure of my 30th, the one thing I couldn't get out of my head was The Happiest Place on Earth. I didn't really want to do anything other than go to Disneyland—finally.

I may have had opportunities to go in the last four and a half years since moving to LA, but it's pricey, and I haven't wanted to go alone. I thought flying solo there would be really sad...and maybe just a little bit creepy. But when Edith and Michelle were up for doing whatever during their visit for my birthday, it just seemed like the perfect time to go.



Besides, I've always enjoyed my birthday at the end of September as the official kick-off of the Halloween season. And we managed to get tickets to "Mickey's Halloween Party," when Disneyland is all decked out, and taken over by the villains of their movies.



I don't know what better way to celebrate getting old(er) than visiting The Happiest Place on Earth during The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.



I didn't have lofty goals for my visit. I just wanted to be there. It's a slice of history and American culture that I had not yet experienced, and it's probably the closest thing I'll ever get to the '64/'65 World's Fair without time travel.



First stop: Space Mountain. We both came into this world in 1975, although the first one is actually at Walt Disney World in Orlando. This one in California opened two years later. Others have popped up around the world since.



I actually had no idea what I was in for, but because we were at an event that required a special ticket, we didn't have to wait in line for very long in order to find out.



Oh my God. Everywhere I turned, oh my God.



It was like I walked into a video game of my youth. Or a sci-fi movie I couldn't quite remember.



And then it got very dark, and we embarked on our wild ride through the Ghost Galaxy.



With a crick in my neck and a lurching stomach, we decided to take it easy in the Fantasyland section of the resort park and visit the King Arthur Carousel, built by Dentzel Carousel Company in 1922. Walt Disney bought it and moved it from Toronto to California, removing giraffes, deer, and other animals and replacing them all with horses. It's one of the few original rides from Disneyland's 1955 opening, 60 years ago, and it's very much a centerpiece of the park.



The story goes that Walt was inspired to create Disneyland while watching his daughters ride the Griffith Park Merry-Go-Round. He wanted to give more people a chance to experience that kind of magic. Now, everyone from preschoolers to adults clamor to ride Jingles, the lead horse, though they'll settle for any of the other white horses. Too bad they don't gallop off like they do in Mary Poppins.



There are a few other Fantasyland rides that are original to the park, including "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride," a reference to The Wind in the Willows...



...and "Snow White's Scary Ride," another "dark ride" that uses black light to illuminate various Disney characters and familiar backdrops.



Fantasyland reopened after a renovation in 1983, so most of the current iterations of the rides are from that.



The whole place is kind of spooky and weird at night. At my age, I remember Alice in Wonderland and Pinnochio and Sleeping Beauty, but the Disney movies of today are very different than what I grew up with. I was glad to see the park not totally taken over by Frozen, Tangled, or Brave...yet.



Instead, Disneyland will be closing some rides—some temporarily, some permanently—to make way for the new Star Wars Land. The Big Thunder Ranch area of Frontierland is pretty much being wiped out. Disney considers it the most underutilized and least-visited area in the park, but maybe because if you want an olde tyme Western experience, you'd just go to Knott's Berry Farm.

The only other park attraction I knew I had to hit (since Adventureland and its animatronic bird show at the Enchanted Tiki Room were closed) was The Haunted Mansion. At this point, the batteries on both my camera and phone had died, so instead of spending time trying to document everything, I just absorbed it.

This time of year, The Haunted Mansion features the extra layer of The Nightmare Before Christmas in its "holiday" iteration, which runs through Halloween and Christmas. There is so much going on in this dark ride, between the voices and the ghostly paintings and the dancing apparitions and the room that stretches and the "Doombuggies" that spin you around as you make your way through.

And just when I couldn't imagine any better way to celebrate my birthday, then came the fireworks, and the tiki drinks that followed at Trader Sam's at the Disneyland Hotel.

I'm going to try and let this experience linger with me for a while—the feeling of wonder and disbelief and, above all, belief. I'm going to try and not think about my 41st birthday, or worse yet, my 50th birthday.

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The Persistence of Violence

I wouldn't characterize my father as a violent man. But one of my first memories is being spanked by him.

It wasn't just a little tap on the bottom to startle me, like you'd whack a puppy on the behind with a rolled-up newspaper.

It was brutal. And it was ritualistic.

His weapon wasn't his bare hand, but a bare plank—raw, splintery wood that he'd carved my name into. It hung from the beams of the basement ceiling near his work bench, where he kept all his tools, next to the table where my mother kept all her extra cleaning supplies.

And when I got spanked with the monogrammed board, I didn't benefit from the protection of pants or underpants. I had to strip down to my bare bottom and let my father lean me over his knee.

That seems to be the bit that alarms most people who hear the story—maybe because they thought there was something sexual about making me strip from the waist-down. It's impossible for me to know now what was going through my father's head back then, but I always assumed the no-pants rule was just to make the punishment as effective as possible.

I can't remember one thing I did to serve "the board." But I got it several times in my youngest years.

Only one incident really stands out to me—only once of actually being spanked with the board, and not just standing under it, looking up at it, knowing what it was for, and hearing my sister joke about it.

My dad got so violent while spanking me that time that my mother—the chief physical and mental abuser throughout my childhood—had to intervene and tell him it was enough. He'd lost control, his face straining and sweating, his black hair falling against his forehead where it was normally slicked back.

I hadn't thought about that one time until just recently, when depictions of person-on-person violence began to dominate the news cycle—one video of murder on repeat (the first time I think I've ever actually seen anyone killed close up) coupled with videos and images of brutality against those who protest it.

If you've been on the receiving end of violence, it really sticks with you.

It may go into hiding for awhile—even lay dormant so long you think it's finally gone for good. But like desert deadwood or the summer cicadas, it always comes back in one form or another.

Always.

It's worse when that violence doesn't just happen "in the heat of the moment" or in a fit of "temporary insanity." Authority figures often justify their tactics—as though you "deserved" it or it's for the "greater good." And my parents were no different.

My mother said repeatedly throughout our childhood, "Your father and I believe in corporal punishment." It was surprising to me and my sister, given my mother's own history of being abused by her father, often without provocation. But it turns out my grandfather trained her well—to exert an "absolute authority" over her two daughters.

She spanked us with wooden spoons, the vacuum cleaner, and her bare hands. She slapped me across the face so hard once, my eyeglasses bruised my nose. Otherwise, she was careful not to leave any marks that might be visible to teachers or guidance counselors at school, who thought she was such a good mother because we happened to excel in our classes.

She always insisted that she never struck us out of anger. The obscenities she'd spit out—and the tears that would stream down her face as she called us names—told a different story.

When we were a little older, we tried to argue against our parents' tactics. But you can't reason with authoritarian rule.

My one victory was that I came out of that nightmare scenario understanding how wrong it was. And that it wasn't my fault.

But somehow in my 20s, I fell into other violent situations, mostly with strangers. I got punched on the New York City subway, on my way to my first job after college. A person was blocking the exit door, and all I'd done is tap him with my umbrella after he didn't respond to my "Excuse me."

He knocked the wind out of me with his fist, but I went to work anyway. What else was I supposed to do?

I also got molested on the subway more than once on my way to that same job. All my boss could offer in comfort was the advice to choose a less-crowded car on the train the next time.

I spent years subjecting myself to the dangers of NYC nightlife—men who were rough with me when they reached into my panties and left me bleeding, men who secretly removed condoms before entering me, a male friend who crashed at my apartment and started having sex with me while I was asleep.

I may not have gotten beaten up—but every single one of those situations was an act of violence. And I blamed myself for letting it happen. I wondered why I didn't kick and scream then—and why, a decade or more before, I never found a way to escape my parents and their hatred for who I was as a person (or, I suppose, my mere presence).



So, in times like this—when riots and looting and police brutality is happening within earshot, a mile or two away—I'll admit I get triggered. My PTSD is raging, right alongside my anxiety.

I'm in full-on fight-or-flight mode, even though I'm not being directly attacked.

It feels like I could be. It feels like I will be.

For the last three months, the resounding message has been "Stay safe." I've even said it myself (usually adding on "and sane").

But how do you "stay" safe when you never felt safe in the first place?

None of what's happening in the streets of Los Angeles right now is about me or my childhood. And I don't want to make any of it about me.

But I know what it feels like to be targeted. And I know what it's like to feel trapped—and to witness the same horrible things happen over and over again while the perpetrators and their enablers deny, excuse, rationalize, and shift blame.

Most of all, I know all too well how the violence of the past persists, encircles, and comes roaring back with a vengeance. It never becomes "ancient history."

We still feel its repercussions after a lifetime has passed. Some viscerally experience the brutality of the past generations later.

And that was something I had to share—particularly with those lucky enough to have had the luxury of living a life free of violence.

Related Posts:
Standing With Those Who Choose To Not Stand
The Anxiety of Anxiety

Photo Essay: May Gray at UCR Botanic Garden, Riverside

May Gray has been the bane of my existence since I first discovered it on a business trip to LA in 2006, while I was still living in New York City and still thought that California was all sunshine and palm trees.

 

 

It was hard adjusting to the gloomy months of late spring and early summer when I first moved to LA in 2011—but now, after more than 12 years, I'm not just getting used to it. 

I'm embracing it.