Walking on Water

 

Walking on Water

As a curious child, locked inside an insane adult woman, I've been known to take risks. What I call curiosity, you might call criminal. My “dare” gene is strong. Located close to my “avoid rules” gene, my peculiar DNA has afforded me spectacular adventures all over the world, one-off excursions into what the hell was I thinking? But I always look back on my escapades in wonderment with unqualified joy, because I did crazy things, and the memory of most of them makes me smile and that's probably a bit why I keep doing crazy things. That, and as a writer, I create my own stories, but thus far, they are all true. Fiction would be boring compared to my real life.

Like the early morning stroll along the ocean's edge in Cancun. Yes, let's look at that affair in Mexico.

I do my best unbalanced work in foreign countries, oblivious to the dangers of being a dumb American caught outside of America. Doing something stupid wasn't at all foreign to me, not in Russia, or Africa, Malta, Amsterdam … the list is long, because I worked with a British film crew or as an entertainer on cruise ship crew for a couple of decades and I've been blessed to see the world. I never considered myself a “tourist”, more a “traveler” or an “explorer”, and wherever possible, I got off on my own and, well, had a look-see around. That's where I managed to make problems, or occasionally amazing experiences I would've otherwise missed. I might be a gambler.

In Cancun, located on the southeastern edge of Mexico on a peninsula, the sun rises an hour earlier than in the States. It's a smaller strip of land along all the resorts by the sea and there's a point out yonder, an ending. You can see it when walking along the coastline, how it has a tip, and then vast open sea ahead. Endings often beckon me. I like to go right up to the very end, just to see what's beyond.

Outside my resort room right by the ocean were avocado and mango trees. A postcard scene of green and fruited trees, big boulders, then water. Right there, unimaginable beauty. The couple next door had had wild sex the night before with wide open patio doors and no curtains. They wanted people to see and hear them. It was weird when I went out to walk in the dark and saw them in the brightly lit room, going hard at it, the woman on top. Seeing porn in person is awkward, at least for me. I guess swingers or other people might find that exciting. I did not. But yes, I looked. It was hard to look away. This couple was doing kinky sex.

The next morning, at 5 a.m. when I went for my morning stroll, their curtains were closed and they were quiet. Everything was quiet. The sunrise glowed stunningly. I was all alone, had the whole peninsula ahead of me all to myself. I decided to walk the whole way and see what was down at the end, maybe a couple miles away. Bliss time for me, any early-morning ocean promenade, before breakfast, before the rest of the film crew got up and got busy.

See? There's nothing at all wrong with that program. I wasn't looking for trouble. It just ends up that way without my planning for perturbation. Or porn, as the case may be.

I wore a simple cotton red and white striped sundress with a T-back, a very comfortable little number, no underwear or anything else, bare feet and a happy face. The ocean is my happy place. All was well. I walked. The ocean was lapping to my left at my ankles. I'd step into the surf once and awhile to look at a shiny shell or wet my feet.

About a mile down the beach, I saw a sign to the right, an enormous wooden board sign posted on poles, in many languages: DO NOT PASS, essentially the message. Do not go beyond this point. It was in English too, so it's obvious what the sign meant. Besides, it was a very big sign, covering a wide swath of sand. Hard to miss. Actually, impossible not to see … IF you were looking that way....

That's when I formulated my excuse: I wasn't looking that way. So mesmerized by the beautiful azure waters, I'd only looked left, and somehow missed the giant building-sized sign. Why? Because the end point was in the near distance, close enough to see that I could make it, and far enough to not be stopped by a silly sign when not a single human was awake or around. I wanted to go there and look, that was the plan all along, and I thought all this out in my head ahead of time, just in case someone caught me past the point of this annoying sign. But I saw it. Of course I saw it. I'd never admit it, but I saw it. The theme of my life: I saw it. Then I ignored it.

There's a chill, a little thrill, when I dismiss authority. That might originate from a harsh upbringing, or it might be a factory-installed feature, I don't know. Maybe a bit of both. Also, there's an important part of me that makes a plan and means to carry it through. Why couldn't I just go look around at the end of the beach? Nothing was there.

I kept walking.

As I got closer to the end, the water color changed. It couldn't have been more beautiful. Caribbean waters are known for their colors, more stunning than anywhere in the world, except the Mediterranean Sea. What had been an astonishingly gorgeous turquoise/azure sea, now turning more verdant and clear, a green I've never seen. It took me a minute to realize that the sea bottom was crystal clear. No shells, no seaweed, nothing. Pure water and raked sand, and that's what changed the water color.

But that wasn't natural. Someone was sweeping or clearing the ocean floor there. It was charming to see and I couldn't imagine why anyone would do that, but I've never seen ocean shore look like that.

Eventually, I came to the tip … a point where there was only water all around me, my destination from way back at the resort. This was it. The end. But wait! Off to my right was something very interesting, extraordinary in size and beauty, a compound of some sort, no signage, no people, a gigantic place, so pretty and pristine. What was this? A monastery? A property belonging to who or what? There was water between me and this place, then a big ridge, like a dune, but built intentionally to hide and guard whatever this was. Wow! I got curious. The seawater on all sides was swept free from debris. That gorgeous color, greenish/blue hue was also surrounding this palace. My imagination ran wild.

I had to know. I'd come so far. I didn't see anybody, so maybe a few more steps the wrong way wouldn't be noticed. I started to walk up the sand towards this stunning place to look closer and see what it was.

Then I saw them. Sleeping guards, two of them, leaning back in chairs on a sweeping veranda, sound asleep, with guns across their chests. GUNS! They were holding guns. Rifles strapped around their chests, but they were asleep!

Every molecule of me woke the fuck up and screamed at me to get out of there. My curiosity killed in a millisecond. I didn't know what this place was, but obviously, I wasn't going to know either. Making it back to the beach edge and back to my resort room was more important in that moment. If these guards woke up and saw me, then what? I didn't want to think about it. Just GO!

It wasn't quite dawn yet. The sun had only started peeking and the moon was still hanging high, when a motorboat decided to roar by. From out of nowhere, it came fast and loud, and was headed to where I was standing. I'd already looked “out yonder” at what I wanted to see, endless waves of wonderment, and now this boat ruined it for me.

The motor noise woke the sleeping guys with the guns.

They saw me. I saw them see me.

Pivoting back, I knew instinctively not to run or stare or do anything super stupid, since I'd already accomplished super stupid anyway when I passed that sign that said NO. Don't GO!

My pulse was racing, but my pacing stayed normal. I turned and walked and this time, using the same pretense that I'd imagined earlier, I looked only to the right, at the water, and dared not look back towards the mansion I'd seen. They wouldn't shoot me in the back, would they?

I'd done this in bars, I thought. I'd see a guy who I really didn't want to talk to, our eyes had met, I knew he knew that I saw him too, but I'd look away and not look back and pretend I never saw him. Yes, that's what ran through my dumb American brain. Don't look at them!

Many thoughts raced through my head, but primarily, I only wanted to get back past that Do Not Pass sign, so I could calm down.

I kept walking. But I could “feel” those guards nearby, an energy thing. I wouldn't look, I didn't need to look, I could really feel them and I couldn't have been more afraid. Just pretend, I kept telling myself … pretend you didn't see them or anything else and just walk without looking away from the water.

Balls of steel, I tell you. That, and a brain that checked out. I was all balls. Did I mention that these guys had GUNS?!!! Did I want to die on a beach in Cancun, Mexico? I did not.

Eventually, I saw the wooden board sign up ahead. It was getting closer. Maybe I would make it out alive from the tip of the peninsula where nobody was supposed to go.

Oddity got me again, I needed to know if I was safe. Dang curiosity could get me killed. I half-turned my head to the left to see the “energy” I kept feeling, and there they were … the two guards with guns … high on the sand ridge above me and not far behind me either. They had walked all this way a bit behind me, and followed me more than a mile. The looks on their faces were puzzling. They looked like they didn't know what to do. Quizzical. Perplexed as to what action to take. After all, they were caught sleeping and would have to answer as to how I sneaked by them. I believe that small fact, that they were asleep is the only thing that saved me. I really do. They didn't want to get in trouble anymore than I did.

Since I'd already turned to look at them, I instantly put on a superhero cloak of innocence and smiled wide, waved at them, and hollered Hola! A guiltless and happy “hello” in Spanish, should surely convince these men that I was some stupid girl on the beach and not a trespasser. Besides, I was near naked and a slender cute girl in a skimpy cotton dress and hadn't they enjoyed watching me walk all this way?

They looked surprised that I had greeted them, glanced at each other, and sort of waved back with an “hola”, relinquishing their need to arrest me or shoot me or acknowledge me any further. It was easy to see that they were confused by the whole situation and their faces were bewildered by what else to do.

Nothing. There was nothing else to do. They'd escorted me all the way to the big sign and once I went by it, I was legal and watched when they turned around and walked back. I kept walking, but could now breathe. I swear, I had held my breath for most of that mile. I was so scared. But I acted completely otherwise. Glad all the improvisation classes and acting skills finally paid off in a real-people situation, because none of those classes caught me any movie-starring roles, only a starring role on America's Most Wanted television show, as, you guessed it, a criminal!

By the time I made it back to the resort, all the guys were up and waiting for me. We went to breakfast and I shared my story. The director of our film crew called over a staff member and asked him what was at the end of the peninsula. “Why?” The attendant answered. “You cannot go there or film there.”

“Just curious,” the director said. “What's up there?”

“That is where the President of Mexico lives,” the man said. “Nobody has ever seen it. Nobody is allowed to go there.”

Everyone at the table laughed out loud. Except me. I turned pale and swallowed hard. Nearly fainted from the fright of what I had done.

“She did!” Someone said, and pointed at me. “Lori just walked up there, almost to the front door.”

Within minutes, most of the staff was at our table. They wanted to know everything. How did I do that? What did I see? What does the house look like? I was overwhelmed with questions from a group of people, overly impressed with my morning walk. How did the guards not see me or stop me?

I didn't tell them everything, just about the swept ocean bottom, how beautiful it all was, that the guards were sleeping, and that was enough.

I imagine it was like walking up to the front door of the White House or any palace of any president anywhere. We just cannot do that. But I did. I regretted not having a camera to be able to snap a quick shot. The remembering is nevertheless pristine for me. My daring leaves me astounded.

For days, people asked me about my adventure. Apparently, not having a camera was a saving grace. They would've had to arrest me. The guards could have shot me. That's what the resort owners said. Jail in Mexico is not a pleasant place. Nobody is allowed near the presidential palace and none of them had ever seen it. I got away with something big and everybody wanted to know about it.

I was in danger if I had known better, but fortunately I didn't know better and my innocence may have saved me.

I made a miracle in Mexico. Without sinking, I walked on water.

Just Another Lori Story

An Unauthorized Autobiography of a Heart

 

An Unauthorized Autobiography of a Heart

Its first beat was the strongest. That beginning thump thwacked powerful, a sign of existence. The heart pumped hard, modulating millions more measures to the rhythm of life in numbered beats.

It's a signal of God's Grace; that meter, the unmerited gift of Strength and Love and Life.

This heart may have been born broken. Pieces might have been missing. Other pieces were pierced inside an abusive upbringing or played with by punishing bullies before more heart parts bust or were brushed aside from any functioning worthy to a heart.

That it functions at all in present time is a Miracle.

Hearts need sustenance. Hearts meet many other hearts. No two are alike. No other heartstrings strum exactly the same way. The pumping organs need nourishment, nurturing, careful consideration, a gentle touch and truth. Hearts hear Truth. No heart survives lies.

A ripped heart expects the gentlest of regard. It requires extraordinary kindness. Compassion. Sincerity. A salve brought by the gentlest soul to envelop the wounded heart's soft scar tissue so as not to damage the tiny intact piece that made it through Hell.

A heart is supposed to have discernment. A whole healthy heart has enough room in its four chambers for Judgment and Love, Freedom and Pleasure, while still beating gallons of blood through its wide open arteries. There is extra room available for friends or foes, unqualified joy, unknown woes.

A heart knows. It knows things that the brain hasn't thought of yet. When in close intimate range with another heart, a heart always knows what that other heart is thinking, what it's aiming for. But if a heart is tattered, first by design, then by damnation, there is not much room for margin of error. There is no room for a targeted attack.

At a young age, this heart lost the love of its life. Maybe that's when a hole happened. The heart's beloved went to the hospital with a massive headache and his head exploded while there in the emergency room. He never came home.

His death brought an acute awareness into the heart that it knew no name for. It simply knew. It imagined its own ending in a similar way. The heart never knew it had a hole, never knew it was defective.

It always knew that it belonged to a highly sensitive person. It sensed her father's heart when it faded to full stop and he died; felt it from 750 miles away. There is no explanation for that. The heart knew when it won a major competition before the winner was announced. It knew many friends from across crowds before ever meeting them. It knew good things and bad things and in-between things throughout an extraordinary life.

Music or playing piano made the heart swell. It sang while sailing the seven seas for decades, watching the world and sleeping under stars on a balcony outside a fancy stateroom. Ice skating, horses, dance, romance, writing – many endeavors encouraged Heart's spirit to fly so free. Warmhearted memories shuffle full gratefulness. Despite being broken, the heart beats for those Blessings.

Many people with holes in their hearts, and I do mean real leakage, don't live long – if at all. A heart is the ignitable engine in a body. If it's broken, no movement, no forward momentum. The machine won't go. The human vehicle is heart controlled.

This heart often hurt. It believed it was overly sensitive, too soft. Nobody discovered the little hole in it until a little over a year ago, when in the hospital with an unrelated complaint, the soul stayed a week and doctors looked under the hood where the derelict heart hid behind other broken bits.

A heart that had been crushed, pummeled, beat down, torn apart, punished, trampled, and humiliated thousands of times. It still beat, with a hole in it, that could someday blow apart and end a life.

The heart thinks about that sometimes. Will it be today? How about when fired up in anger? Or the next “I don't care” cold human heart harms it. Will it be sudden? Will it know? Anthony Bourdain said, “The essence of Cool is not giving a fuck,” so the pump pushes forward, acting normal, knowing it's got a hole. It feels surges of forced flow, a skipped beat, a different cadence.

This is not a poetic hole of the heart. No metrical ticker talk. This loving heart is not a lyrical laugh. It's not functioning at full capacity. There is evidence of an “event” – doctor lingo for an earlier attack, maybe as long as 20 years ago, that left significant scar tissue covering that very dead part of this heart. There's a small hole. It leaks a little. It may have always been there or may have resulted from whatever happened that heart never knew about. Nobody knows. The heart doesn't want medicine. It doesn't want a monitor or any number of mechanical medicinal maybes.

It's come so far. A heart that's taken the biggest beatings life has to offer, again and again, because the piece that works is the trusting piece. Isn't that the gigantic joke? The only part of this heart that works accurately is the tiny right side sliver that sieves everybody's bullshit through and slots what's true.

It's meant as protection. That's God's Grace. If a manipulative touch slides by, it could kill the heart. It's not strong enough for debris that would hurt me. Recently, the heart took a risk, a leap of faith, breaking free to touch another heart that it crucially wanted to heal.

Heart was scared. Heart did its part. It stepped out, followed the script, relied on another to represent in return. He did not. Then the heart thumped, petrified with no pretense. Preemptively afraid. The heart had been set up for failure. Then came panic. What was it thinking? A gift? A dream? A curse? It was thinking the best things, the happiest things, and also the loneliest things in the world.

The other heart was frightened too. All of a sudden incoherent heart with what abruptly felt like a golfball sized hole didn't know why, being a benevolent heart with a tiny hole in it, incapable of wounding anyone. But his internal organ was beating furiously. Why? The hurt heart knew what his heart was thinking and it made the bosom beat differently. The brave pumping hole puffed open. It was out of its league and really, really scared.

It's a gift. Anticipatory anxiety. A dream. Focus on the heartbeats. Breathe. Close your eyes and listen within. Try not to think about it. Heart whispered wildly.

The heart conceives it failed. Though right there together, two terrified hearts clinging close, the distance between them broke its Spirit.

His arms surrounded and protected the heart. The hole diminished, its jagged edges sealing shut. It's the most beautiful feeling, that hug of healing. When his arms fell away, the hole opened again, exposing itself for incoming cruelty that could come.

It is so humbling ... that hard-working heart, the unconditional Love that it gives away.

It's a heart that remembers arms that held and protected it. It's a heart that remembers and appeals for the other startled heart that held it close, which temporarily sealed tight a hole of unstoppable loss. It's a heart that remembers his warmth and want and laughs, and being accidentally afraid.

Fantasies are only fantastic in their imaginings. Only in the planning. Once realized, the dream is over. There is no measuring up to a false fantasy. The heart fell short of his illusion and expectations and a heart took a hard hit.

The whisper. It hears it. A heart that knows it's been blessed. It also knows that being so fragile has cost it a toll that it cannot afford to fund.

A whole heart has only so long before it stops. A half heart still beats for a whole life. A heart with a leaking hole spills out its life-force and falls asleep into the arms of God.

Only a hardened heart goes on and on and on – without looking back, without a care in the world about who it crashes into, about how its hardness, haphazard humor, humiliation, and sharp practice hurts other hearts.

There might be a “throwdown”, a contest, a conquest, uncomfortable unrest, but we cannot dictate consequences to the nucleus of another person. A heart that doesn't trust isn't trustworthy. A heart that chicaneries will hammer any heart it encounters. It will chisel away pieces. A lonely heart will steal heartbeats from other hearts.

The heart said YES. That little tiny piece that still works well wanted to be touched. The piece that leaks wanted a Fix-it. An impossibility, that's what the weakened heart wanted.

I stood by and watched and said nothing. I allowed it to happen, even as I knew. I wish I didn't know. My heart wishes I wouldn't watch so hard.

Some hearts are hardened, cold and cruel and collect other hearts to hold hostage. They take them for a collection – like hearts on a shelf, non-beating anymore – just stone souvenirs of conquests. Maybe their own hearts were once broken too, now it's all they can do. Maybe they're bored. Maybe their hearts habitually function in false promises. Maybe that's how they have fun.

I trust because I am trustworthy. He mistrusted me and I ignored that blinding glimpse of obvious. Heart took a leap of faith for reasons indiscernible to me. It screamed: Please Stop! I did not.

The best part is always the beginning, before the beginnings ... when hearts meet, aflutter, a bit afraid, in full communion and friendship after a long wait in wonderment, wild with anticipation, and wrapping strapping arms that provide ageless protection.

The heart rests. It listens for his heartbeat. It misses hearing him … from before the beginning, until the very end.

The heart temporarily forgot a favorite passage from Proverbs 4.23: Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.

This unauthorized autobiography of a heart, my heart, is not a lament – rather a tribute to another particular and very uncommon heart. I hold His heart inside mine, and as promised, will cherish it.

Just Another Lori Story

BEST SUPER BOWL

 

Best Super Bowl

It's Super Bowl time again. My annual “I don't care” day. Unless the Steelers are playing. Even then, it's not what it used to be. For one thing, a ticket costs as much as a tiny home. When did a major sports event become so unattainable to regular people? It's more than offensive, it's a wider reflection of what we have become as a nation and what we value. It isn't good. It sets an example to our children and to the world about greed, inequity, and multimillion dollar advertising as more important than the actual game. It doesn't imply fairness. In fact, football may have cheating involved, according to recent news reports. We won't know. There's enough money to cover up that story too. It will fade away and any offenders will be free to keep offending.

Then there are the parties. Maybe that's what it's really about. I buy that. That's the good part, the tailgating, the cooking contests, the get-togethers, the raucous celebrating primarily for the reason of celebrating something. After all, Christmas came and went weeks ago.

My best Super Bowl was Super Bowl 1994. Dallas Cowboys vs Buffalo Bills. Atlanta, Georgia. The Dome.

January 30. Before the Olympics in 1996, Atlanta was still a nice town. You could actually get from place to place without swearing or swerving. And Ted Turner was still a phenomenon, a father of the growing metropolis and a revered philanthropist. Ted threw the best parties. At the World Congress Center, he hosted the 1994 Super Bowl party the night before the big game.

I was a casting director at the time, and I'd worked for Ted before, mostly commercials for Cartoon Network and some TBS movies. He called and asked for special servers for his Super Bowl party. Tall, pretty, trustworthy, unobtrusive ladies who could be counted on to serve food, help guests, and never break the code of confidentiality or bother the large crowd of celebrities, football players, and special guests. The roster of attendees, mind boggling and extensive. It included politicians, players, executives, anyone famous who was coming to the Big Game. I remember the term: “car show babes” being tossed about. That was the look. The Vanna White, no talk, just be pretty and turn the tiles kind of look he wanted. It was a huge party and a huge job and I was flattered to be part of it. I hired the talent and went to the party to supervise the service.

Everyone did a wonderful job, so I didn't have much to do except enjoy the party. Not a bad gig! There were hundreds of guests. Each team had their own table. Plus thousands of people in the distance, trying to get close enough to see anything. Police and guard dogs patrolled past large barriers, set up to keep people away. Charlie Daniels' large hat blocked the view from one angle. He sat with the Judd's, who were performing at half-time.

I spent time at the bar with Mike Ditka, who looked familiar, but I didn't know it was Mike at the time. We had a few cocktails together and amiably chatted, and I was too embarrassed to ask who he was, so when I found out later that I had been drinking with Mike Ditka, I was floored! It's good I didn't recognize him, because I know I would have made a dang fool of myself.

I shook hands with Muhammad Ali, a highlight for me. He was very gentle, but at the beginnings of his mental decline. He shook and shook hands all around and handed out pamphlets and his wife was there to end each interaction. It was very sweet to see him.

The food was outstanding. Glorious. Caviar, fancy main courses, cakes, big bowls of fresh strawberries, and more. Endless food. The kitchen was set up in a grid pattern, so servers could whisk each plate out, then circle back after serving and grab another. A sit-down dinner for hundreds isn't easy to coordinate. It flowed exceptionally well. At the center of each table was a large chocolate train, a very detailed and decorated centerpiece in thick chocolate. There were boxes in the back room and I placed a coin under one plate on each table. The person who sat there would win that train. Then I'd box it up for them to take it with them.

Joe Namath came late. I think he wanted to make an entrance with that near-naked girl. He was already older, a bit shriveled, dark tanned, as usual, and she looked like a child. They drifted across the floor, she, in a dress so sheer and skimpy, one wondered whether it was even there. The room fell sort of silent and heads swiveled to see the spectacle. At the game, Joe would do the coin toss. At the party, he tossed the air with sexuality.

A Dallas Cowboy player asked me to get Michael Jordan's autograph for his wife. Sure! No problem. I went over to Michael, tapped him on his shoulder, introduced myself, chatted a brief moment, asked for his autograph. His wife, unamused, broke up that little private soiree, but I was sorry that I didn't know how VALUABLE that little piece of paper would be! I only learned later on that Michael doesn't sign autographs. Apparently, that's a “get”. And I got it. But I gave it away. The Dallas player gave me a $50 bill as a tip. He insisted, so I said “thank you” and took the money. There's no telling how much money that tiny slip of paper would be worth today. A lot more than $50, I'm certain, but the story is now worth a lot to me too. It's true. It's exciting to think about.

Martina Navratilova tapped me on the shoulder. She asked me how she could get a whole bowl of those delicious strawberries to take with her? I held up a finger and told her to wait a minute, then went and got a chocolate train box, took it to the kitchen, and quietly sneaked one of those big bowls of berries into the box, came back, handed it to her, and said, “you just did!” She winked at me and I smiled at her and she turned and left with the strawberries. I laughed. She was fun.

Most importantly, Ted Turner was happy. His party, an enormous success. Everyone had a good time. I only had to send home one server for inappropriate behavior. Nothing crazy happened. (Unless you think about Joe and the naked girl.) Wynonna Judd is a hoot. Football players in suits smell nice. They are gorgeous. I had to hold in my swoons. Big hunks of handsome men filled the hall. I halfway floated through the evening, because if I let “real Lori” out, she would have also ended up half naked, just from the vapors of infatuation enveloping her at every turn. I paid special attention to all the Steelers, because, well, they're my hometown boys.

But the best part of all from my best Super Bowl ever, was that chocolate train. My father loved trains and chocolate all of his life and he couldn't be at this party with me and I know he would have loved it so much. Before the Dallas guys got up from their table, they called me over and gave me their train. That was even better than $50.

I boxed it up and the next day, I gave it to my father.

The teary twinkle in his eye was worth far more than a Michael Jordan autograph.

Just Another Lori Story.

HEALER

 HEALER

I remember my first day working in a hospital-based physical therapy clinic. I was so excited. After working in three other departments, I finally scored the job I was after all along.

I'd worked very hard to get the job rehabilitating patients. After spending two years in physical therapy myself as a patient, then studying, shadowing other therapists, reading every Frank Netter anatomy book, devouring all things anatomy related, and teaching schoolchildren through the hospital community outreach department about our bones, it became part of me, our anatomy.

Then I got certified as a personal trainer, though it did take repeating the course two times, because remembering all the exercises and modifications and how to do them correctly proved overwhelming even for an anatomy geek. I knew every bone and muscle, but strengthening them is different than healing them from injury.

Officially a geek about the subject, they finally let me near real patients. I'd been through a rigorous hiring routine and had to prove my knowledge to multiple people at multiple interviews.

I bounded into the clinic with excitement and a wide smile that first day, bringing chocolate for my new boss and co-workers. Always show up with sweets your first day on the job. People like that.

After getting a tour and learning where they kept everything it was time to go to work. Sure I was a little nervous. These were real patients who were really hurting or seriously injured and they expected me to know what to do. I did, but hadn't had my own patients ever and the chatter around the clinic suggested that even the patients knew that I was new.

Mostly knee replacements, that first day were in there. One shoulder replacement lady, one bad back guy, a lady with a stuck neck, an old man that couldn't walk right, and a child who was annoying and I never figured out what was wrong with her.

Taking a deep breath, I jumped in. Adjusting machines for patients, getting and returning equipment, modifying exercises when they couldn't quite do them, and watching everything around me. Then I observed my supervising therapist wrapping kinesiotape intricately around a leg, cutting each strip in a certain pattern and interlacing the strips for support.

She assigned my first knee replacement patient, Patricia, who meekly allowed me to guide her through her flow sheet of rehab protocol. It felt easy for me. Second nature after all my worry. She was kind and had a nice nature and we chatted away while I watched her struggle to get everything right. Only two weeks out of surgery, her scar was huge and swollen and it wasn't easy for her to do things, but she tried and that's all we expect in therapy.

Assigned permanently to me, I worked with Patricia twice a week for several months. Because she was my first patient, we developed a close connection. It felt like I did when I was in therapy myself. That connection between provider and patient is tender and close, especially when real healing is involved.

Meanwhile, my favorite patient was Jaime, who was a prisoner brought over from jail twice a week for a wrist injury. The sheriff escorted him in handcuffed, in front of everybody, removed his cuffs, then sat nearby the whole time while I worked with Jaime, who wore the signature orange jumpsuit prisoner garb. A young man, I felt sorry for Jaime who'd made a bad mistake with drugs and driving. He confided his whole story to me in whispers and was truly sorry for what he'd done, but in Georgia the law is extremely strict and he had to serve his full time for his youthful indiscretions. Meanwhile the sheriff regaled me with the craziest stories about the latest criminals, amazing details that they never report on the news for the gory and salacious nature of those details.

I still looked forward to seeing Patricia. I don't think one ever forgets their first patient. Or their worst, or favorite, or most difficult, etc.

After four long months, she was ready to be discharged. She'd done well and luckily had no issues, because there was and still is a high failure rate for knee replacements. (Remember that before agreeing to one, no matter what a surgeon tells you, and DO try to avoid one as long as possible, because it brutalizes a body.)

Patricia brought me a cake to say thank you. And she filled out the evaluation form about her treatment and about me. It was glowing. She said such nice things, I nearly cried reading it.

But it was what she told me before she left that mattered most of all. She confided that she was scared of me that first day. She heard that I was new, watched me come into the clinic, and admitted that she prayed, PRAYED: please, please, don't let that person treat me. Patricia told me that. She didn't mind admitting to me that she fervently, privately prayed that I didn't come near her, because she wanted an expert, someone with loads of experience.

That's smart, by the way. I wouldn't want a new therapist either, and coach my friends not to accept one.

But Patricia had gone along and she was telling me this now because she wanted me to hear her and to know that she had been afraid of me. She also wanted me to know that she'd never met anyone like me. That she was so glad she'd accepted me and having been there for months and watching everyone around there, she was sure nobody else would've healed her knee better.

"I think you're going to have great success with whatever you choose to do in life," Patricia said. "I can't thank you enough for all you did for me." I smiled and thanked her for saying that.

"I want to tell you something else," she added. "You're really good with people. Really really good. That's why I say that. Whatever you decide to do, you're going to do it well, because you have such a delightful spirit. Thank you again and I left you a very good review. Five stars."

I nearly wept again, hearing her say that to me. What I didn't let her know is that I was scared of her that first day too. I wasn't confident enough yet and I really appreciated her trusting me to treat her knee.

We walked out together, she gave me her phone number and asked me to keep in touch with her and let her know how I was doing. I did that until she died.

We stayed in touch and it's true. We never do forget our first patient and I'll never forget her last words that day in the clinic. Patricia gave me confidence.

I am a healer.

Just Another Lori Story

Shopping With a Ship Captain

 

Shopping With a Ship Captain

I once went shopping with a ship captain. On his ship, where I was working. As an enrichment speaker, I'd traveled aboard cruise ships for more than 20 years, my best dream job ever. I saw the world up close and from the sea, and there is no better way that I can think of to experience everything there is to experience, while not worrying about hotels and cars, or extra travel plans, touring, food, and more.

Life on a cruise ship is so easy. It's all there. A gym, bars, restaurants, reading rooms, a salon, a spa, multiple pools, special events, coffee shops, a promenade with fancy stores, art galleries, so many things to see and do.

I was one of those things “to do”. When at sea, between ports, passengers can pick from a daily newsletter of scheduled events around the ship. Or they can do nothing, which is another glorious reason to sail away. How about a movie? First-run films were always available in the theater or privately streamed to a stateroom upon request. How about origami napkin folding? Carving a watermelon six different ways? Maybe a port shopping review with the guide who will get money from stores you buy from. Or ME! How about me? Interesting “edu-tainment” in the large auditorium, about a multitude of subjects, mostly fun, interesting, comedic presentations about all sorts of subjects picked by the cruise company to present. A favorite is etymology (word origins), probably because our language evolved from sailors at sea long ago. Another area of my expertise is gemology. Passengers like to learn about gems and jewelry and wherever we were headed to determined which stones I'd talk about. Emeralds in South America, opals for Australia, peridot in the Canary Islands, Canada has ammolite, and so on. Jewelry is one of the most popular purchases when cruising. Luxury items to remember a luxurious holiday.

My lectures were very popular and I was pleased to be in high demand from many cruise lines. I started aboard British ships for many years, then finally migrated to American ships too. (But always preferred the smaller British boats to the behemoths that America insists on making even bigger every year.)

One year, I celebrated a BIG birthday aboard a Norwegian ship. My favorite captain at the helm. Weather issues meant missing a couple ports and staying at sea and he asked me to offer some special lectures for high rollers, people that stayed in big suites or those that had spent a lot of money already. Several of us stayed up one night and personally addressed envelopes to these select passengers and they were posted on the doors of these privileged passengers. It was a wonderful presentation. Special because it was intimate, only a couple hundred people instead of the usual huge crowd, with loads of questions and participation, followed by a raffle for a fancy ring that someone gleefully won.

Then the captain rewarded me with a special birthday present, a strand of fine pearls and earrings that matched. Maybe my reaction wasn't the best, because I already owned pearls and earrings and though appreciative and grateful, I think my reaction registered as, well, not really.

He asked and I was delicately honest.

"What would you like that you see here?” He waved his hand over the jewelry cases. I pointed to a gold with diamonds cuff bracelet that I had tried on one evening and really loved, but it was a high-ticket item and we both laughed.

Then the captain said, “let's go shopping.” I had no idea what he meant, but I followed him out into the promenade and he laced my arm inside his. OK, I thought, FUN! We went from store to store; everybody moving aside when we came in, excited to see the captain in their store. It was a game. He wanted to do something lovely for me, but also wanted to test his own security system. There was a nervous feel to the shopkeepers, unused to this unusual situation.

The captain would ask me, “what do you like in here?” and I'd point and he'd lift it off the display and I'd try it on, or he'd just take something and give it to me. Then he would wave up at the security cameras and we'd leave and go to the next store. No money was exchanged. No shop workers stopped us. They laughed and let him do whatever he wanted.

A $250 bottle of Chanel No. 5? Mmmmmm, it smelled nice. “I like that,” he said. And it was mine. Swarovski crystal pen? “Beautiful,” he exclaimed and asked for the box to go with it. Then he saw a matching necklace and said, “how about this to match?” I tried it on and Yes! In each shop, he'd reach for the pretty or expensive and as he “lifted” each thing to take, he'd again wave to his security team. The attendants would wrap each thing and hand it over and that was what we did in every single shop. Such fun! My favorite champagne, a bauble here or there, fancy scarf, arms full of birthday gifts and glorious personal time with my favorite ship man at sea.

I had the best time and it was such a surprise that it didn't register until much later what it all meant to me.
Afterward, we went for fancy birthday dinner at the French restaurant and it was my best birthday meal ever. (Except the staff singing to me. I always get embarrassed by that singing stuff, memories of being made to wear a lobster hat at Red Lobster, long ago.)

For days, I admired and sorted through all my goodies. So much better than a single strand of pearls. Real treasure, both the things and the experience.

But it wasn't until a week later that the biggest blessing of all was bestowed on me. Asked yet again to do a presentment for crew and staff only, something special for my shipmates, I set up in the piano lounge and gave a fine performance, first with facts, followed up with comedy, and then played piano for the stunned group. I'd never done anything like that before on a ship and it was nice for me too.

After everyone left, the captain called me over to walk with him. We went through the art gallery and over to the jewelry store and he opened a drawer and pulled out a felt pouch and handed it to me with a “thank you, this is for you. Happy Birthday.”

No wave to the security guys this time. Everyone already knew about it. I opened the red velveteen bag and inside was the gold with diamonds bracelet that I wanted from the beginning.

What a moment. What a cruise. What a birthday.

I am so blessed. 

FIRED! In 45

 

Fired! In 45

Gibby's. Fort Lauderdale. FIRED! It was forever ago, but it is still funny to me. (It wasn't the least bit funny when it happened.)

Gibby's was a well-known, long-established restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I think it lasted something like 40 years or so before weather damage and interior weariness signaled The End.

But I was there in the beginning. Day One.

Never a drinker, I lived by the beach and was still a bar-going 21 year old. Partying and playing and searching for dates while shouting over disco music; these were typical twenties before payphones disappeared and everything electronic took over everything social.

I didn't drink because alcohol tastes terrible and it made me sick. Half a beer and I barf. Very lightweight date, me. A ginger ale and some interesting banter and we might ignite a small spark. Extra small, because I can't get drunk on ginger ale, even with two stemmed cherries.

But who doesn't like the bar atmosphere and I needed night work ( I was a bank teller by day), so I thought it would be fun to be in the bar ambiance where the excitement and laughter and noise made me feel comfortable, but not be obliged to drink. BARTENDER. That's the ticket. How hard could that be? Getting paid to party!

I read a bit about bartending and had certainly watched enough Tom Cruise wannabees behind a bar shaking up a cocktail. I could do it. Mostly, people tell you what they want. Rum and Coke. Gin and tonic. Vodka and orange. It would be easy. Fake it till I make it was my mentality. After a few weeks and having a chance to watch coworkers, I figured I'd learn on the job. After all, there's the trusty Mr. Boston's Bartender Guide hanging on a chain behind the bar. If somebody ordered something too fancy, I'd sneak a peek.

As the world's best interview, I always get the job. I make great first impressions. My last impressions are memorable too. It's the middle impressions that get me in trouble.

Gibby's was making a grand splash in papers and around town about opening. They interviewed new hires on TV and picked me! They had big interview events and getting a job there was pretty spectacular for loads of people. The restaurant defined luxury. During interviews, there were group tours, uniform and food samplings, all kinds of unusual excitement and corporate involvement that goes with these sorts of upcoming grand openings. I remember a super seminar we had with a wine company after I got hired and before we opened, where we sampled wines, learned all about them and how to recommend them and got gifts from the winery and a personal fancy corkscrew.

Anyway, The Interview. I applied to be a bartender. I'd had enough waitress jobs to last a lifetime and Bartender was my new goal. We didn't have resumes back then, we filled out applications. Remember those? I might have lied a little bit on mine. I had nearly been a career cocktail waitress and switched up a couple of those jobs to behind the bar experience. Employers didn't check back then. Especially if they liked you. I wouldn't be doing brain surgery … other than in liquid form, so hey, hire me! 

But I made my great first impression. We had a good interview and I knew that they would hire me and they did. I was going to work at Gibby's! I told all my friends. And I was going to BE A BARTENDER!

Oh to be 21 again and know everything there is to know. Considerably older now, I look back on that girl with warm affection and astonishment simultaneously.

Day One. Boy was I excited in my fancy Gibby's uniform with the black and white bartender's look and red bow tie. Very crisp and sharp. Oh yes, I felt that I'd made it. After a brief meeting with the whole staff and a scrumptious introductory meal on our bosses, we OPENED!

Customers poured in opening night. They were lined up waiting. The bar filled fast. The service bar cranked quickly too. Luckily, I wasn't on service bar, because those orders pop fast with no time to think and waitresses waiting impatiently.

A man ordered a Jack & 7. I knew what that was! See? Piece of cake. Somebody else ordered straight up bourbon, another asked for a house brand. A glass of wine. A shot. A beer. Nothing hard at all. This was fun! They were lining up. I got a TIP! Everyone was laughing and cutting up and I couldn't believe I would get paid to pour and party like this.

And. Then. It. Happened. A business man in a high thread count custom suit sat down and asked for a Brandy Alexander. 

A WHAT? Not even an hour on the job and somebody wants a drink I've never heard of. My heart raced. I was too embarrassed to ask him what was in it and I didn't want to get caught not knowing, so I sort of pivoted around a bit and bent down to sneak at look in my little book.

Mr. Boston's got me in trouble. My boss saw me look. Panic. I lost my fake it till you make it in my frantic search for an Alexander. Whew. I finally found it. Brandy, Creme de Cacao, and cream. I dropped the book, picked up a skipped heartbeat, and perspired in my new fancy uniform, but made the dang drink. It actually looked like the little picture from the book when I set it down. The man took a sip and nodded. 

But ... it was too late. My cover was broken. My “experience” listed on my application was a lie and my boss called me to his office and asked me what just happened at the bar and why did I not know how to make a basic drink?

Basic? How is it basic if I've never heard of it and I know I know everything? My mind was racing in an effort to bail me out of my brandy blunder.

Dejected and not yet savvy enough to spin his head with any fast stories, I mumbled something about having forgotten or just wanting to make sure. He wasn't buying it and he fired me. Just like that. 45 minutes on the job and I was well done. Fired.

Gibby's was there in that spot for 40 plus years, but I never went back. The only meal I ever ate there was that before opening employee meal. What happened there, completely my fault, nevertheless stung me hard. That I couldn't just fool my way into a skilled service job. 

Do you know what I did? Not taking kindly to not knowing everything about something I was interested in, I went to Bartender School and I became a Master Bartender. The International School of Bartending. International. That's right, Tom Cruise has nothing on me. Well, that's not exactly true... he has a lot on me. But can he curl napkins with a bar glass? Can Tom slice lemons and oranges into fancy curls? Bet he can't make a perfectly blended Long Island Iced Tea either.

Trading my bow tie for my famed Mai Tai, my favorite mixologist jobs were in comedy clubs, because nothing goes better with flavorful Spirits like funny comedians.

I never learned to like liquor myself and I never tasted a Brandy Alexander in my life just on purpose. I got fired in 45 minutes, but I learned a good lesson at Gibby's and humility is never served on ice. It is always served straight up.

I got to keep the personal fancy corkscrew.

Just Another Lori Story

Confessions From a Colonoscopy

 

Confessions From a Colonoscopy

I was one of Those. Don't judge me. Yes, one of those. I was someone who was never going to get a colonoscopy. I'd thought about it. (They make you think about it.) Doctors had prescribed it. Friends had insisted too. I even went so far as to go see a friend who is “that kind” of doctor, because I knew I could trust him and he went so far as to offer his services for free, so I only had to pay for the facility fee; where they look up there to see what you've done down there.

That's as close as I came to a colonoscopy. He gave me the prep (you've all heard) and I went home, fully equipped to go forward, then promptly backed out. Canceled my colonoscopy.

It's not fear that makes me this way, rather, well, maybe there is a little fear in there. But mostly, I just didn't believe I needed a colonoscopy yet and that YET kept up year after year. Eventually, I needed a CT scan for something else and they had a look around and I decided (with my advanced Google medical degree) that the scan sufficed for the thus far avoided colonoscopy. They saw nothing out of the ordinary.

I skirted the issue at every medical appointment along with the weight scale, an unfortunate habit I picked up a decade ago. The numbers annoy me. It doesn't matter what they are, I don't like them, nor the cheery nurse announcement that comes with stepping off the scale – me, with all my clothes on, a coat, 2 pound pair of shoes, and the 4 pound neck scarf. Nobody ever deducts for the scarf. So I stopped doing that and I stopped discussing tests I didn't need or want, including anything related to my colon, which is my veritable insides. No, they're tender, leave them alone. Like any aging goddess, goodness knows there is enough real stuff falling apart to pay attention to.

Then I ended up in an ER. In the middle of a pandemic. I had put up with a few pains and unrelated issues for a long time, waiting for the dang Covid to give it a rest when I ran out of time. I dragged my sorry self to a doctor who said I had to go to the hospital right away. Not something I expected to hear and not feeling very compliant (that part is normal for me), I went home. But the next morning I put on the big-girl pants and drove myself to the ER for some answers. Whatever it was that kept hurting me had hurt me for a long time, so I wasn't overly worried about it. I worried more about the Virus and I already know that the best place to catch anything sickly is in a hospital. That's the part that scared me.

I don't know where everything went wrong, but I do know it started when they snatched my weight from the bed in the ER. They just WEIGH YOU. No stepping up on anything, no asking, no telling, and thank goodness, no scarf (since they'd already removed everything from me but the backless gown). No cheery announcement either, but I should have known from there that I had entered some kind of relinquish control cosmos. 

I also didn't plan to stay. I only came for a diagnosis and because the doctor said I needed to be seen. But too bad. They kept me.

Basically, the doctors decided I needed the “ultimate car wash”, you know, the one with the prewash, the bubbly scrubs, the fancy sprays, and the after kick, followed by the wind tunnel air dryer --- or is it fryer? ---- because I went through every test I've ever heard of for days on end and with no food. They starved me. Really. Oh sure, I got broth and juice and tea, and NO FOOD for days. Only IV for nutrients and test after test.

I got my first Covid test ever and since I hadn't been anywhere since March 2020, I knew it would be fine. No Covid found and they knew that in less than 5 minutes and I wondered why everyone couldn't get Covid tested without resorting to my ploy of an ER visit.

They were watching my heart, but I assured them that my heart is broken, not defective. My pleas fell flat and a stress test came next. Stress? Check. I have stress and I need food. Nope. No food. One good thing about Covid is that they didn't want me on a treadmill (heavy-breathing all my awful aerosols around), so they injected me with poison instead to make my heart more miserable than its starved self already was.

Eventually, the doctor nobody wants to see appeared at the foot of my bed. “Tomorrow, you're having a colonoscopy,” he said. “No, thanks,” I said. “I don't want one. I had a CT scan and they found nothing.” We discussed. He stated his reasons and I stated mine. Then this doctor mentioned the “Michael Jackson drug”, Propofol. Hmmmmm, I thought …. they'd already humiliated me and starved me and I do enjoy a waltz with Propofol (my old friend from my broken leg trauma surgeries) so I accepted the doctor's deal.

Furthermore, in a hospital, the nasty prep that everyone jokes about isn't nasty at all. It's Gatorade. Two tons of it, but it's still just Gatorade. No bad taste or consistency involved. Those of you who have had a colonoscopy know what my night-before was like. Those of you who have not had a colonoscopy, you don't need details. Your day is coming.

Suffice to say, although the Gatorade did not taste bad, I was still hooked up AND plugged in, and unplugging and wheeling an IV stand with you while you're prepping for a colonoscopy is not for the slow or the uninformed. Doing that every few minutes for hours makes one Olympic worthy for the Colonoscopy Relay. I wasn't even trying to unplug those machines nicely like I'd done the first few times. I was yanking cords fiercely from the walls exactly the way my mother taught me never to do. I didn't have time. How do people everywhere survive this?

The anesthesiologist had beautiful eyes. They were warm and conversational, with an edge of laughter, and I like comedians. Especially comics who knock me out. He was double masked and double shielded and covered all over so that only his eyes peered out at me in the operating room. Room number 4. They'd all just had lunch. I hadn't eaten for four days. They were jovial. I was weakened. He came over and huddled close and promised me he'd announce the Propofol and that it would be a breeze. He was so nice, or maybe my memory of him is oiled by the Propofol that I saw dripping into my hand and the lovely dream I had, which was so long and only 10 minutes. I remembered what I saw in my dream and they saw nothing but an exquisitely clean colon, which was my reward for running through the night with an IV pole and a flood of Gatorade.

All this to say:  Get Your Colonoscopy. Get it before it gets you. You don't want something like that creeping up on you the way that it stealthily crept up on me. 

And I hope that you get a really nice anesthesiologist.

Just Another Lori Story