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(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
Ultraswoopy: adj Very fast: a down-sized, hitech, ultraswoopy model next year (1970s+) (See pg. 535 of paperback edition.)
However, I’m not talking about models of anything—I’m talking about people and their walking styles.
Before I got injured last year, I didn’t really amble much. Oh sure, if I walked dogs, I didn’t keep a consistently brisk pace, but when I knew where I wanted to go in my house, outside, or in other places, I was one brisk walker. I walked purposefully—sometimes so much so that I almost walked into automatic doors before they opened.
Guess what? I’ve had to stop myself lately so that I am not that idiot who walks into a closed door. And, it’s more because I am walking faster than the door is programmed to open than because I am not paying attention.
For almost a year now I’ve had to ask people to slow down when we are walking together. In fact, for a couple months, if I strode out more than six inches or so at time, then I would cry out involuntarily as the pain shooting down to my left foot literally stopped me in my tracks. It’s hard to walk in an ultraswoopy manner when your stride is barely longer than one of your feet!
Although I moved past being that hobbled long ago, I was still struck with annoying numbness that moved down to my right foot, even quicker when I did amble than when I walked briskly. Either way, though, eventually my stride got shorter and shorter despite being able to start walking using my regular stride-length.
The numbness is becoming less and less obvious which is why I can pick up the pace. Sometimes I almost forget there is anything hard about walking around while doing my daily business—whether that means running up and down the stairs in my house, shopping for groceries, or walking through that automatic door to get to my exercise classes.
If that’s so, can it be long before these ultraswoopy feet start running again? True, I haven’t been an ultraswoopy runner for years, but if I am just able to jog slowly again, that will mean I am more ultraswoopy than much of the population of my, ahem, age group.
Even then, I don’t think I will be as fast on my feet as one of my clients who is a 70-something, former college baseball player. From my window I see him park across the street from my house and before I can make it to my door—even pre-injury—he is ringing my doorbell. Now there’s an ultraswoopy walker—imagine just how ultraswoopy he was at 2nd base during his glory days.
My glory days have passed, too, but that doesn’t mean I can’t return to challenging automatic doors with my ultraswoopy walking pace.
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
I’ve been doing extra home exercises off and on since August and Sherman began his exercises earlier this month. Good thing I have an old worn-out yoga mat we can just use at home because the dogs, especially Furgus, think it is really a doggy mat, whether or not we are on it, too.
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
The truth is sometimes I might not finish my exercises if didn’t get a little respite from petting a dog or two. I’m tired of the exercises and they often hurt. Sherman is brand new at doing his so right now he doubts they’ll ever feel better. However, lucky for him, he gets the therapy dogs to help him, too.
Furgus is better than Sam at expecting me to switch sides as I do my work. Yes, I want to be stronger on both sides, but all Sam seems to care about is that I don’t stop petting him. Could he look more resentful when I switch? Some therapy dog . . .
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
No, I think the only thing our dogs are certified to do is pester us while we’re working hard. In its own way, that alone really is therapeutic.
(c) 2012 Sherman Lambert
Christiana came home so we could get in one more day on skis together. We knew better than to expect great snow, though, so we just slept in, ate a good breakfast, and took our time getting up and onto the hill.
Sometimes it’s also just nice to soak up the sun on the chairlift and take your time getting down the slope. Oh wait, I’m the one who takes my time because I’m not such a great skier, of which the deep slush reminds me. I’m still trying to live up to the promise of my slightly sarcastic physical therapist who quipped that all my exercises and treatments would make me a stronger mediocre skier! In all fairness to the man, he’s never seen me ski so he’s just basing his prediction on my reports.
My husband, on the other hand, might actually regain some of his skiing prowess with his physical therapy. After all the years and his recent back pain, he’s still an incredibly graceful skier. You can tell that skiing is an activity that makes him feel free, enough so that it’s worth the physical strain, money, and hassle. On the ski slope, I feel a little badly that he is paired up with this mediocre skier, but I remind myself that he only skis four to eight times a year. The rest of the time we’re a pretty good match, right?
(c) 2012 Christiana Lambert
Our kids are Colorado natives like their dad, so they’ve been skiing since before they knew much fear. They wait for me relatively patiently. My son recently marveled at how I ski with the same speed, whether on steep, difficult slopes or on easier slopes—which is really more of a commentary about how I don’t really adapt, I think. Nonetheless, today he informed me that I really do ski much slower in slush after all. Humph.
(c) 2012 Trina Lambert
Today we skied at Loveland, one of the few ski hills still open. The place is notorious for cold and windy weather, but it was in the upper 50s today so mostly we were sweating. That is until 3:00 when, in typical Loveland fashion, snow started falling just as we took the slowest chairlift to the higher slopes. The new snow hitting the slopes was welcome, although for that last run we all wished we had dressed for winter. Then as soon as we made it down to the puddles that used to be snow at the bottom, the sun came out again and it was spring once more.
(c) 2012 Sherman Lambert
Loveland, you are such a heartbreaker, but we are glad you gave us one more slushy, spring skiing day together before we put our gear away to wait for next season and another chance for us to fall in love again.
But first, I, at least am soaking in Epsom salts in a hot bathtub—I don’t even care that the thermometer outside here hit the high 70s and that the thermostat remains firmly stuck on that same temperature. Spring slush does not appear to be my friend . . .
I am a woman who dances to live.
I wonder when my body will heal enough to jump back onto the stage.
I hear pulsating Latin rhythms.
I see women of all ages dancing with me.
I want to teach joy.
I am a woman who dances to live.
I pretend I am a sultry Salsa dancer.
I feel as if my feet have no choice but to dance.
I touch my toes to the floor in time to each beat.
I worry too much that my dancing days have been hobbled.
I cry when pain limits my steps.
I am a woman who dances to live.
I understand I grow stronger each day.
I say this year of injury has almost passed.
I dream of dancing through my last days.
I try to swing back into health through work and desire.
I hope this dancing intermission has ended and my beat will go on and on and on.
I am a woman who dances to live.
Note: Today’s post=an “I Am” poem.
Olé!
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
What you ask is dry needling and why would a person pay to have someone do this to them? It’s been just under a year since I set off on a road trip to pick up my darling dog and returned unable to do many everyday activities, let alone the vigorous physical ones I enjoy. Dry needling is just the latest step in my quest to become healthy enough once more to run off all this crazy energy I tend to have—and it seems to be worth the short term pain in exchange for the long term gain.
I tried reduced activities, massage therapy, acupuncture, electro-stimulation, chiropractic, and exercise therapy, all of which reduced the pain, but none of which returned me to anywhere near the condition I was in before I set off on my journey. I wasn’t prepared to submit to cortisone injections in my spine nor give up yet on my way of living.
So after six months, I began physical therapy with a practioner licensed and trained to perform the dry needling—which is another way to try to get the painful trigger points in muscles to relax enough for all these focused exercises I’m doing to have a chance at helping them operating more normally. No medicine is involved, but the needles go in deeper than with acupuncture. If you want to understand dry needling from a more technical angle, read what my physical therapy practice has to say. Apparently if you are already pain-free in an area, dry needling won’t hurt; however, I don’t really know anything about that because why would you let someone do something like that if you weren’t in pain??!!
My main pain and mobility difficulties had been in the L-4 area, radiating down through my left hip, hamstring, calf, and foot. Not only couldn’t I run anymore, but even walking the dogs could be painful just after walking a block or two. After seven sessions and great improvements in my energy levels, mobility, and pain reduction, I was set “free” just to do my exercises.
But walking (and my attempts at running) never really improved as much as I’d hoped. In fact, now my right side began experiencing a different type of numbing pain, all the way down to my foot. In fact, my hardest activities continued to be those where I ambled: shopping in stores, milling around while waiting to sing in church, talking to people while standing, etc. I’d finally had enough a few weeks ago when I forgot something while shopping in Target and didn’t want to backtrack the extra 100 yards to get it. Something wasn’t working if I, a runner not so long ago, thought I couldn’t walk 100 yards more.
So now I’m back for more torture, this time in both my calves. Kind of makes that spinal dry needling seem pleasant. But because my back is so much more flexible and pain-free, I am willing to work to get my calves loosened up, too. I’ve got dogs to walk, dance moves to step, miles to run, and—apparently—supplies to buy in Target before I sleep.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, but I have to go rub Arnica cream on my calves. Sorry if that doesn’t start with a “D” but I think that’s a healthier activity for me than drinking.
(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert
I bet most of us have a workout spot in our fitness classes. Where’s yours? Front, middle, or back?
If I can I always end up on the left side of the room—I think that’s because I am “left-legged” for whatever that’s worth. My yoga teacher thinks I should switch it up—after all, haven’t I been in physical therapy for one-sideness? Maybe, but I’m not changing that up so far in this new year.
However, for most classes I do prefer to be toward the front. After all, I like to see. Once I feel confident about what I’m doing, I don’t mind if other people can see me better—I just want to see the instructor. I’m both a kinesthetic learner and a visual learner. (And, perhaps my already weak auditory skills are getting weaker with my hearing diminishing a bit—got to be close to hear the instructor!)
Just about seven years ago I began taking yoga for both my body and my mind. I was recovering from a hysterectomy as well as having trouble getting out of my chair easily due to back problems. At the same time I struggled with both my son’s AD/HD and my own ADD.
A totally inflexible and distractible person, yoga did not come easily to me. At first I was happy to be in the middle or even the back, as long as I had good access to vision through the mirrors.
However, at some point I moved to the front row. I was losing weight, gaining flexibility, and working on becoming more mindful. First of all, being in the front row helped a lot with that mindfulness thing. Not only could I see the teacher well, but also I wasn’t so tempted to lose concentration because she could see me way too well also!
Yoga made me feel like a whole new person—rather like my old formerly fit self yet so much better, even as I was aging.
Back to that exercise position in class. There really are no assigned spots in these classes and sometimes people start to fight for position. It’s rather unyoga-like, but if you’ve been in a class, you know many of us do it. Well, as I began to need yoga desperately to deal with my mother’s Alzheimer’s and my daughter’s depression, I had to miss some classes for their appointments. You guessed it . . . people started claiming my spot.
I remember having a stress dream about a woman being really nasty about “my” spot—and in my dream this woman was one of the nicest people in my class! I laughed with her about that, but found that I was too emotionally fragile to deal with the additional stress in my life of jockeying for position. After all the struggles in life, I just wanted to walk into a class, drop my mat, and get down to being in the moment of yoga.
So I moved to the back row with my gentle friend. I don’t even like the back row—after all, I don’t worry if the instructor or other students can see me—I just worry if I can see them.
After three years in this spot, for the most part I still don’t feel ready to return to being a front row person in yoga, even though my old spot is strangely vacant. Truth is I just want to be left alone—I don’t want to be that person who has to answer the instructor’s questions constantly or who gets adjusted more than others. It’s not really about yoga—it’s about me.
I am not a front row person these days. Yet, I’m not going to be a back row person forever. During yesterday’s class I realized how frustrated I was because I could not see the instructor at all—not even in the mirrors. The more men we have in class, the more taller people there are in my sight line. In the end I had to choose which front row student to watch for direction.
Still, I don’t want to leave my friend’s company yet. We share tight hips, locked down shoulders, and the overwhelming sadness of losing our mothers to Alzheimer’s. But . . . she never wanted to be anywhere but in the back and I did.
For right now I’m just moving one pose at a time in my Bob-Uecker-style front row, but one day I’ll be back behind home plate again. Well, assuming someone else doesn’t want that spot . . .
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
Not here to debate the best way to treat my type of lower back/hip injury. In fact, one of the more frustrating aspects of this injury has been deciding which school of thought and/or type of professional I should choose for healing. Anyone who has gotten better has an opinion as do people who work in the fields, but so often the reasoning and treatments differ.
All I know is that I don’t just want to reduce my activity levels permanently and focus on pain management—I want to heal what’s ailing me. Yeah, I know, just another Baby Boomer who can’t read the calendar, right? Maybe, but the truth is not only have I had to give up my fitness goals, but also I have had to live with reduced energy levels that are nowhere near what is normal for me.
This week—for the first time since those fateful April car trips that led to this more sedentary lifestyle—I have sustained energy all through my days. In fact, I would say I am finally feeling like myself again.
Yes, I have been like a stranger living in a strange body. Sometimes a person’s body changes permanently, but I wasn’t yet ready to accept that was the case with my body. I mean, the source of my injury was sitting down too much for a week? Really?
The real me walks very briskly. She may not accomplish nearly as much as she’d like, but it’s more for lack of focus than for lack of doing. It’s about going in too many directions at the same time.
Without my usual energy levels, dealing with life’s challenges has also been much harder. So much of my successful “therapy” has been movement-related. Despite keeping moving, I have had to proceed with caution, always thinking about whether what I’m doing will make the injury flare-up stronger. That kind of reduced activity level does not calm my restless mind in the same ways that moving without constant over-thinking does.
To be sure, I am putting more effort into relearning simple things such as getting into and out of chairs, cars, and beds, how to reach for or pick up items, and ways to better capitalize on the exercises I already do. For now I do have to over-think these types of daily activities in order to get back to moving more effortlessly.
But those types of everyday movements have stressed my body for almost half a century—I need quicker relief than simple retraining can bring about. So today I celebrated this injury anniversary by continuing the trigger point dry needle therapy I began a week and a half ago. In that short time I have begun to remember who I am and what I still dream of doing.
Besides miles to go before I sleep, I’ve got steps to dance—with a little bit more work, I am about to get stepping back into the time I still have.
(c) 2011 Sherman Lambert
Last week my exercise specialist and I had a big conversation about how little progress I was seeing from all their prescribed exercises—an hour a day!—as well as my usual classes and runs. I was tired as well as a little bit bored from all that work.
This time when she suggested a week off I did not protest. She thought that maybe the muscles we were trying to strengthen were in fact being overused at the same time.
All I know is that for all my effort, I wasn’t gaining enough.
After she conferred with the chiropractor, the two of them agreed that for this week I should walk or hike—while wearing my trochanter belt again—and stretch only.
Those instructions worked well with my travel plans anyway—as long as I could start after one more pre-road trip yoga class. While it’s good to have focused stretching the day before you set out, the day you spend six and a half hours in a car is a great day for light stretching without any extra exercise.
The exercise reduction was especially good timing since we had mini-road trips planned to get and return Christiana so she could go see her brother’s performance in Durango also, as well as visit with friends.
(c) 2011 Sherman Lambert
Despite using the stretching tools I’d brought—the foam roller, exercise bands, and tennis ball—I felt no different than usual. Then again, I felt no worse even though I’d sat in a car for way too long.
Another long car ride and a night of sleep, off we drove to take Christiana back to her new home. First, however, we went on another hike, this time outside of where she lives now.
Several hours later, Sherman and I returned, exhausted from our travels. Wasn’t until it got closer to bedtime that I realized I wasn’t really hurting. Not from hiking, not from riding in a car, not from just living.
Hmm. Maybe we’re on to something.
So I here I sit—will see what happens next week when I get back to work. A week’s break is nice, but two? I don’t think so!
It’s too easy for me to describe the good and then diminish it by following with a “but.” Often those “buts” are so true; however, by adding them, I am decreasing the power of those things that are working.
I’ve admitted before that I am an operations person—you decide from where! The funny part is that sometimes I forget that what can be applied to organizations can often be applied to personal life. I, of all people, should remember that.
When I was taking the “Quality and Productivity” course in CU-Denver’s MBA program, my whole life was a productivity—and hopefully quality—experience. My twins were 15 months old, so taking care of them required a lot of plain old manual labor. My major project, “Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap,” focused on diaper changing efficiency. The stunning revelation from the data was that diaper changes took less time when I had all the supplies ready! Yes, I was a little sleep-deprived and overwhelmed in those days. Still, my project results demonstrate how using quality tools can sometimes clarify issues in times of too little time and/or too much stress.
My life today doesn’t involve nearly so much manual labor, but planning for a household inhabited by one husband, two teenagers, two dogs, and two guinea pigs, and—don’t forget—me, as well as administering many details surrounding one aging mother, requires a lot of time management and decision-making. I may need to use quality tools more now than back in those early mothering days. Although we are knee-deep in therapy tools and techniques, often I find it easier to think about change and improvement from an operations viewpoint.
In my “Quality and Productivity” class I also learned about the Malcolm Baldrige National Quality Award and Baldrige tools. Years later, the superintendent in our local school district attempted to implement the Baldrige program into the organization. When the leader who introduced the program left, most Baldrige tools disappeared. But one tool that remained was the use of the +/∆, or Plus/Delta, process. Instead of discussing strengths and weaknesses of various programs or situations, we filled out columns of plusses (what was working) versus deltas (what could/should be improved.)
For me, using the term delta seems like a more objective way of talking about things I would like to change or see changed, than using terms like weakness or what is not working. I need to do more +/∆ analysis in my own life. Yesterday I had a hard time seeing the deltas as anything but failures—as if they couldn’t change or be changed.
So today it was good to see a delta that is becoming closer to being a plus. During Christiana’s tenth physical therapy session on Monday, she had several places in her spine and both hips manipulated. The hip pops were particularly loud. Today, session eleven, everything remained in alignment and the pain was gone. She walks much differently. Oh, I’m tempted to say, but she’s missed the whole track season, yet I’m going to try to focus on the possibility of the future. This should be a lifetime change—yes, that delta that becomes a plus.
Today I am contemplating moving this particular delta toward the plus column, which has recently included, among other things, refinancing our mortgage and being able to make repairs and improvements, emptying out and selling my mom’s condo, Mom’s receiving of the check from the sale, buying plane tickets for vacation, having a story published in an anthology, losing weight, being able to buy new computer equipment, and remaining close as a family.
Although I can’t get rid of the “buts,” I can call them deltas—and know that more than a few of them will move to the plus column one day.
As I have mentioned before, I have been very distracted this Lenten season. And now, we are in Holy Week, remembering Jesus’ walk to Golgotha.
Yesterday started out to be a very good day. Christiana went to physical therapy in pain, walking like an old woman. It seemed her knees were getting worse, but it turns out that her muscles are just grumpy about being realigned properly. John, the P.T., assessed the situation, then put her to work. Several painful minutes later, she was walking better, even if her muscles were still not happy with changing—not yet anyway.
After I dropped her off at school, I went home. A few minutes later I received the overnight package with the closing papers for the sale of Mom’s condo! They finally came after three delays! While signing papers in sexticate (is that a word?) is not fun, you cannot believe the burden that fell off my shoulders after I handed the finished overnight package to the woman at the UPS Store.
In yoga class, Dr. Dennie worked the very same muscles as Christiana’s P.T. did—I didn’t really get out of experiencing at least of some of the pain she did earlier. Instead of gritting my teeth, I smiled at the irony. I swear I could still feel the condo’s weight dropping off whenever we turned our focus to our shoulders.
So many things checked off my “To Do” list in the past few days: signing the paperwork on the sale, buying the airplane tickets for vacation, turning in our taxes, picking up my mother’s completed taxes, buying Jackson’s suit and tie for prom, finding “reasonable” but pretty shoes for Christiana for prom, setting up needed appointments, ordering my computer, paying off credit card debt, locating Barbershop Quartet music for Jackson, getting a new “in” for a math tutor, etc. Life felt good.
Then last night Sherman and I went to Maundy Thursday service. At our church, Bethany Lutheran, the third graders receive their first communion during that service. But first, they get their feet washed. It is both a very meaningful service—and oftentimes a too long service. However, last night I could rest into it and be renewed by watching those kids who were joyful and, at the same time, a little weirded out by the whole experience.
We always think about washing our hearts, but sometimes it really is our feet that need to be washed. We don’t live the same way as people did in ancient Jerusalem. We tend to wash our feet every day and don’t spend a lot of time walking in sandals on dusty trails. But, along with our hands, it’s our feet that move us through all the things we have to do. It’s no coincidence that Nike, which began as a shoe company, tells us to “Just Do It.”
Though I didn’t get my feet washed, I came back home feeling like I had shaken the sand from my sandals. I was ready for rest when I saw I had phone messages.
Out of the fire into the frying pan, it seems.
My brother Scott had left a message to say that he wanted to make sure we knew he and his family had been evacuated but were OK, in case we had seen the news. Of course, we hadn’t, so we didn’t know to worry. His neighborhood was in direct line of wildfires in Midwest City, Oklahoma and the fire had consumed buildings around Choctaw High School where Lori works and where nephews Chris and Cody had gone to school.
Another message said they had evacuated from his mother-in-law’s Choctaw neighborhood to his brother-in-law’s Edmond home. They would have no news on their homes until this morning.
As we rushed to call him, I brought up the news online. Wow. I guess we get used to seeing news about tornado devastation in his neighborhood, but this was like those prairie fires of old. Even modern day equipment and techniques were no match for the wind, especially after a long dry winter.
Scott, Lori, and Chris had left with their dogs, fire box, and cars. Thank God for that.
Suddenly I didn’t feel so ready for sleep. It was hard to pray and wait. After listening to all the local news videos that gave out location information, I had to check out things on Google satellite. I could find both his street and the place where the video had shown two homes burning. Close, but not next to one another. But with 60 mph winds . . .
Finally around 8:15 this morning, they called. Both their home and Lori’s mom’s home were spared. The flames had stopped about 300 yards from their home. But all around, there is devastation. Charred buildings, smoke-filled air, and smoldering hot spots—Oklahoma is definitely not OK.
So on this Good Friday, people in Oklahoma face the ashes. Good Fridays are like that. How do you believe when hope has been crucified on the cross? Sometimes all you can do is wait for the empty tomb.
Life is full of Good Fridays. I guess when they come, you just have to get your feet dirty again. Skip the sandals and jump into asbestos boots—and keep walking through whatever fires you face to reach Easter.
Life is full of Easters, too.
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