Encore Post of 'The Hair Brush'

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My mother stood in front of her mirror like a flamingo, one foot perched up on her thigh that pressed against the lip of her sink. This was her stance each morning as she 'put on her face'. I'd enter her bedroom, a sweet aroma of Aqua Net hung in the air. Sounds of preparation echoed from her bathroom. It was my father's bathroom too, but only to him. Mothers have a way of marking things. By being mothers. Her bed. Her kitchen. Her hairbrush. One of the most defining elements of my childhood, is my mother's hairbrush. I say is, because it's still around. It's over forty years old. Its yellow. Its handle is gone due to an unfortunate wrestling match with a Bobby Pin which launched it to a tiled floor. It was fractured into two sections for years, the handle barely hanging on by a ligament of plastic. Until one day, it broke completely. Just the hairy belly of a bristled face remained to stroke and tease my mother's hair into its masterpiece.

It was yellow in my childhood. The kind of yellow they discontinued due to marketing tests in the eighties. It could be valuable just for the color. Or museum worthy as an example of pop culture's influence on the hairbrush of the seventies.

I was not to touch the hairbrush. It was a sacred item procured from Queen Tut's womb. It was perfect for teasing my mother's hair and any usage by children to brush the hair of the dog or a doll would result in the loss of its powers. Or worse yet. It might get lost itself. So it sat by her sink. Next to the Aqua Net.

I used to sneak into her bathroom when she was busy. Her teasing comb next to her teasing brush. A thin layer of cosmetic powder on the counter taunted my finger to make a line in it. But I didn't. It was Mom's counter. But I couldn't resist her brush. It was the gateway drug.

I reached for it remembering exactly how it was positioned before I picked it up so she'd never know I was there. My hand nestled around its broken body, the bristles facing up. I tried to stand like her. Her left leg bent and foot perched flatly to the inside of her right thigh. Her toes always flexed and then grabbing gently her snow white skin. I wanted her snow white skin and her pretty painted toes. And her brush. But I had to be a grown-up to have such things. Like having a couch. A bed. Only grown-ups knew how to get those things. A house. A car. A brush.

One day, her brush went missing. It wasn't me. But Mom knew by the remnants of long locks left in its bristles that I was there. Her tone was sharp. Like its bristles.

The hunt began. To find the brush. That I didn't lose. But I was recruited as Suspect A and the brush was lost.

Tears welled in my eyes making the search difficult. Forms of furnishings swept past my trojected mission. I collapsed on the sofa defeated with the frustration of my innocence.

I felt the cushion next to me sink and a body slipped into its fold. An arm wrapped around my shoulders to calm their bobbing swells. It was then I heard the first apology of my life. The first time anyone ever said Im sorry. My mother cupped my cheeks in her hands, looked into my eyes and apologized. She had found her brush. Someplace she had set it down. It wasn't me. She overreacted. I was a good girl.

Throughout my life I have remembered that moment as sacred. It laid a foundation for my life of the concept forgiveness. Because at that moment, in the last few stuttered breaths of a child's cry, I understood what it meant to be human. To feel another's remorse. To accept an apology and go right back to loving them. Completely.

As the years have worn on, the bristles on her brush have depleted, a virtual graveyard of teasing. The yellow has faded to a muted shade of mustard.

I visit her home now with my own children. When I hear they are all busy, in her kitchen, I sneak into her bathroom. And stare at her sink. The Aqua Net is gone, but the rest is the same. A thin layer of dusting on the counter. And her brush. Positioned just so. So when I leave she'll never even know I was there.

Those Five Minutes

Things don't always go as planned. A few months ago I took my first steps with my toes tied to my shins. Slowly, my mobility returned and the paralysis subsided as my CRPS flares crept into remission. I was so excited I couldn't contain myself. I saw myself running down the block. Until I tried walking on my own. Something I evidently forgot to consult my spine on prior to my steps.

Five minutes. That's my limit. I can stand or make my way with a pronounced limp for up to five minutes. Then it all gives way. My lower spine fills with bricks, my left leg locks and fills with lead. The neck aches for forgiveness and I am done. But those five minutes are the best minutes of my life. Because I never thought they would be mine.

My treatments have changed my life. I can make my way around the house and be independent again. I must use the chair outside of the house or I'll never get anywhere. I've had to relearn many things over the year, but the greatest feat I've made is acceptance of where I am at. It's not an easy thing to do, accepting a life that you never thought would be.

My life was supposed to be someone else's. Like when there's a shooting at a mall and the witnesses say they never thought it could happen to them. It begins with a sense of shock and awe then denial. After that anger and depression. That was fun. Then ultimately, acceptance.

The important thing is not to confuse acceptance with surrender. I am not waving a white flag by any means.

In accepting the imperfection of my journey I am learning to love the ugly baby. It may not be pretty, but it's mine. I may not walk normally, but I can walk enough that life is better than it was. I may still use a wheelchair, but can lift my legs to shave.

Believe me, it's not that I don't get frustrated. One night I actually made it out to a special dinner. I was so excited to still be awake at eight at night in Hollywood at a busy restaurant called Osteria Mezzo. Don wheeled me up to the front door. I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the blue handicapped sticker in the window. Upon squeezing through the crowded front door area, I noticed the hostess station blocked the entrance to the dining area except for a thin slit on each side. For skinny models. Not a titanium wheelchair barely wider than my bum. Which then made me question the width of my bum. They told us that our party was in the back dining room. They then, to my embarrassment, began trying to shove the hostess station to make the passage wider for me. But to no avail. The hostess announced we would have to get there through a side entrance.

My moment of excitement, of being in a beautiful environment and passing through the dining area was swiftly replaced by a bumping of people back through the main entry, around a crumbled sidewalk where my wheel got stuck and briefly threw my body forward, around a corner of smokers and to an entrance barely wide enough for my chair that scraped my knuckle as I pushed my way up and over the lip on the floor.

We still had a wonderful evening, but it took time for me to reboot - to feel human, like a lady again.

So no, it's not easy. But is life ever really easy? I used to get stuck in traffic. Now I get stuck in sidewalks.

I wish things were different. I wish everywhere I went fit me to a tee. Maybe someday they will. My story isn't over yet. There is still a life to be rebuilt.

I just try to remain grateful I am not still stuck in bed. When friends would come to feed me and I could not lift my head. I live for those five minutes when I look down instead of up. When I breathe for those precious moments when living simply, is enough.

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When The News Makes You Reflect

I got ornery today. It started out as any ordinary day. My eyelids frosted into slits. I creaked and needed coffee to rise. I tipped the creamer into my nectar of the bod and it splashed down the front of my chest, to my leg, and the floor. I sat there and wondered if the day was going to be more of the same once I was out the door.

The freeway was slammed. It took two hours to get to my doctor's office. The parking structure was full and I parked far away. The scooter lift got stuck and had to reset. A woman with a handicap placard gave the rest of us a bad name by parking her car in the pedestrian walkway and blocking it so my scooter could not access its safety zone. This forced me to make my way around the structure into oncoming traffic. Like creamer filtering its way down my chest then my leg. Then she gave me stink-eye. After I gave her stink-eye. An eye for a bloodshot eye.

I arrived at my doctor's office to a waiting room packed with other disheveleds like me with the word LATE etched into their foreheads. All were abuzz with the Sigalert on the 405. The same one I crept through amidst lipsticks in rear views and closeted texters on wheels that couldn't spin. Then a man said, "It was a bad wreck. A motorcyclist died." It would be hours before it flowed freely again. Until his stain could be removed.

I paused.

Suddenly my day did not seem so daunting. A reminder of the brevity of our time.

I arrived home defeated. My spine a wreck from hours in the car and a spinal stimulator that's malfunctioned and causing more surgery. This clouded the pause I took earlier in the day. When I remembered what I should never forget. To be grateful for each day no matter what has spilled, because we don't know how much time is left.

I filleted my limbs on the couch - waiting for my husband to ask, "Hi Honey, how was your day?'

Ding!

A voicemail chimes in from my mother.

"Honey, what is wrong? I heard something happened on Camden in Beverly Hills today and a friend posted a prayer for everyone in that area. Is everything okay? I know you went into town today. How did the doctor go? Give me a call and fill me in and I'll watch the 4 o'clock news to see what happened."

So I googled Camden, Beverly Hills, News.

There it was. 'Woman jumps from 15 story building on Camden Drive in Beverly Hills. Onlookers were distressed and horrified at the event and the sound of her body hitting the pavement. She later died from her wounds at the hospital.'

Why does it take the misfortune of others to ease the burdens we bare? Perhaps it's because we hear of bad things happening all day long between the computer, radio, internet and television. But a specific guilt slips over the skin when another's misfortune is revealed.

There will be more mornings when the coffee will burn or the creamer will spill. The freeway will close and all will be late. But I hope the next time, I take a deeper breath, and first give God thanks for the time I have left. I hope I remember that each day I have, is one left behind by an unspoken breath.

I got ornery today. But by the grace of God I'm here tonight to tell my husband about my day.

Advocate For Life

I have been nominated for the Wego Health Activist award. But the funny thing is - I am probably the least healthy person I know.

I am also less a health activist than I am an advocate - for life. I'd be better suited for a Best Sick Person Award or Most Broken MILF Award. I'd like that. To be called a MILF.

A health challenge makes you aware of the detail of illness. How it can consume you in the beginning and become your identity. Then the longer you deal with it, the illness begins to lay itself like fabric over your life - always draping your breath - but with holes for air. And you learn to find the holes.

I am still learning to live my new normal. Last fall I took my first steps in a year. My toes tied to my shins. I walked like a toddler with walking poles. I was so proud. The ketamine treatments allow me to now lift my feet off the ground. But I can only take steps for five minutes at a time, which still leaves me in the wheelchair on any excursions outside our home.

I often get frustrated. But I am learning to manage - and celebrate - life. Life for what it is. For the fact I can write and create from home. That my children don't leave me alone. For my husband who does everything around the house as I cannot bend to do dishes or laundry or make a bed. I could feel self pity. I'm quite good at feeling sorry for myself. But I went down that road last year, and it didn't lead anywhere I wanted to be but to a darkness so deep I became lost.

So I choose life. I'm not perfect at it. I have days that are blue when skies are grey. But those moments pass and it is then I realize that without the darkness, I would not appreciate the light. If a flower sat under the sun its entire life its pedals would burn. So we need the night. So as I continue my journey and there are turns in the road and sheets of doubt cross my mind - I think of my blessings and am reminded each day of why I advocate for life.

Nomination: https://awards.wegohealth.com/nominees/micaela-626

What Is CRPS

Chances are you've heard of Parkinson's. Funding for this disease numbers around a hundred million each year. What if I told you there is a disease that affects about the same amount of individuals every year, but is barely on the radar of public awareness and support. The disease is Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) and it rates a on a pain scale higher than childbirth or cancer pain. The average patient sees up to twelve doctors before they are properly diagnosed. This is if they are lucky enough not to commit suicide before someone can offer them relief.

I have CRPS of the spine. A rare type of CRPS which has resulted in the loss of mobility, a year in a wheelchair, and what has resulted in a life of disability. Mine was instigated by a concussion when the electric tailgate of my car came down into my skull. Multiple surgeries and dozens of procedures later, it wasn't until I was properly diagnosed that my true healing could begin.

The process of diagnosis is traumatizing, as many of its symptoms mimic Multiple Sclerosis or the dreaded Lou Gherig's Disease. There is no one test for CRPS. It is diagnosed through a series of markers noted by your doctor who must be familiar with the disease.

CRPS is a disease of the nervous system that occurs due to a trauma or surgery. It could be as simple as a spider bite. According to the National Institute of Neurological Disorders, Complex regional pain syndrome (CRPS) is a chronic pain condition most often affecting one of the limbs (arms, legs, hands, or feet), usually after an injury or trauma to that limb. CRPS is believed to be caused by damage to, or malfunction of, the peripheral and central nervous systems. The central nervous system is composed of the brain and spinal cord, and the peripheral nervous system involves nerve signaling from the brain and spinal cord to the rest of the body. CRPS is characterized by prolonged or excessive pain and mild or dramatic changes in skin color, temperature, and/or swelling in the affected area.

Diagnosis is made by seeing an expert in CRPS who will take your history and perform a physical exam.

According to the Mayo Clinic the symptoms are as follows.

-Continuous burning or throbbing pain, usually in your arm, leg, hand or foot
-Sensitivity to touch or cold
-Swelling of the painful area
-Changes in skin temperature — at times your skin may be sweaty; at other times it may be cold
-Changes in skin color, which can range from white and mottled to red or blue
-Changes in skin texture, which may become tender, thin or shiny in the affected area
-Changes in hair and nail growth
Joint stiffness, swelling and damage
-Muscle spasms, weakness and loss (atrophy)
-Decreased ability to move the affected body part
Symptoms may change over time and vary from person to person. Most commonly, pain, swelling, redness, noticeable changes in temperature and hypersensitivity (particularly to cold and touch) occur first. Over time, the affected limb can become cold and pale and undergo skin and nail changes as well as muscle spasms and tightening. Once these changes occur, the condition is often irreversible.

Complex regional pain syndrome occasionally may spread from its source to elsewhere in your body, such as the opposite limb. The pain may be worsened by emotional stress.

In some people, signs and symptoms of complex regional pain syndrome go away on their own. In others, signs and symptoms may persist for months to years. Treatment is likely to be most effective when started early in the course of the illness.

How does one manage CRPS? The key is beginning treatment ASAP. The focus will be on restoring function first, then pain relief will follow. This will result in "functional pain". The other key to managing CRPS, is treatment through a Multi-disciplinary approach. A group of doctors in various practices of pain psychology, physical therapy, pain management, and neuro-feedback that all work together on your case. This combined with ketamine infusions has proven extremely successful. My treatment has included all of the above and I am slowly regaining the use of my legs, and am no longer bed ridden.

One thing to understand is that this disease cannot be controlled by opioids alone. It will be a losing battle resulting in addiction, or even prescription overdose, as the pain levels are so high, the opioids will not manage it and in some cases may actually worsen the pain by activating certain cells responsible for exasperating the disease.

Ketamine is not officially approved for treatment of CRPS. However its results have been monumental in the treatment of CRPS. It is the safest anesthetic available. The downside is hallucinations and raising of blood pressure, but both of these are controlled by medications administered during the infusion. 85% of patients see improvement after ketamine infusions, but it's important to emphasize that these infusions alone are not a cure or treatment by itself. They must be incorporated into a treatment plan that includes the Multi-disciplinary approach under the guidance of an expert in CRPS/RSD.

The ketamine infusions I had were in a medical facility, four hours a day, five days a week for two weeks. I then entered a four week Multi-disciplinary program through Dr. Joshua Prager at UCLA, one of the leaders in this field. After two months I developed a "flare" and underwent ketamine booster infusions. Within days my system quieted and pain levels reduced by 30-40%. I also gained additional mobility in my left leg which has dragged for over a year.

There are other treatment options as well. Many people have a sympathetic nerve block. This blocks the nerves to the arms and legs. The problem with this is it is risky and pain relief is short.

I had a spinal cord stimulator implanted, or an SCS. This has electrodes (leads) that go up my spinal cord and are connected to a small generator in my flank that I operate with a remote control. It generates a tingling, vibrating sensation that replaces the severe pain signals. The risk is a slippage of the leads that can result in needing additional surgery. This is my current complication and I will be having corrective surgery in the next month. 25-50% of patients with an SCS will eventually need additional surgery. It has however greatly improved my quality of life.

Medicinally, neuropathic pain medicines are used such as Gabapentin, Neurontin, but these take weeks to work. Lyrica is popular and works faster, but each of these have side effects.

The bottom line though, is no medicine or treatment will be effective if physical therapy and movement aren't employed. Joint pain is a huge problem with this disease which causes muscles to weaken and joints to stiffen resulting in immobility which increases the pain of CRPS/RSD.

Ultimately, the pain becomes a disease by itself and is NOT a symptom. It's essential also to balance physical therapy so that you never push yourself beyond your pain threshold. This changes daily, so one has to constantly listen to their body when in treatment.

I am learning as I go. The above is simply information I have absorbed over months of research and living this disease that has taken over my life. If there is one wish I have, it is that more physicians are aware of the symptoms, diagnosis, and treatment of CRPS. So many of us feel dismissed and misunderstood by the medical community while fighting the battle of our life. I have had four children, and have never experienced the pain levels I have had during my health challenge with CRPS.

It is a disease. It needs attention please share with everyone you know. You never know who might be suffering in silence with this excruciating disease.

Follow my journey at www.MoanaVida.com

An Infusion, My Son & Me

Race cars zipped past my bedside. Blurred colors of my son's childhood bordered my site. My hospital bed hummed in the eye of the storm. I looked over to my son. My site staggered until it landed on his earphones. His head bobbing to a tune I could not hear. My headphones were playing the soundtrack of Frozen. But it was his energy that overrode the melodic symphony of princesses and ice castles in my head. He was as peaceful as could be. As though my Ketamine infusions were just another normal day in the life of a seventeen year old boy. Two years of this has taken a toll on his youth. But you would never know it. He would never let you know it. To him, all of this has almost been a gift. An opportunity to grow into a man that others see. And what they see is beautiful.

I try to change my music to George Winston, but double vision plagues the screen. I can do nothing on my own. Words warble through my lips. My tongue is plastered to the roof of my mouth. To wave my hand for help would do no good as I wouldn't be able to explain my request. So Frozen it was. Much like my intent.

Throughout my infusion, Joe would rise over me and question with his eyes. I smiled back as best I could muster. Sometimes I would point my thumb up at him miming "You're ok Kid." He understood. He smiled back.

The tables had turned. I depended on my son completely. Three hours after my infusions were done, it was time to take me home. I don't remember much of anything, or of the ride home. But I do remember feeling safe, and loved. My son was driving me home. He wheeled me into the house, brought me upstairs, and put me to bed. He brought me juice. Then dinner. And throughout the night I dreamed a million dreams for fifteen hours of my children and how they have grown into people I not only only love, but I trust - and admire.

A parent's health challenge affects everyone involved. But mostly the children. As we journey into year three, I hold them so high I can barely see their eyes that wonder how much longer this could last. And I hold them close within my chest so deeply only God could set then free.

A Journey Through A Ketamine Infusion

We drove up the 405. My eyes closed and head resting on the passenger window. We were driving home from a ketamine infusion. The infusion ended hours before, but I didn't come-to until three hours post-infusion.

Ketamine causes hallucinations. I was fortunate this time to have had enough counter-medication that kept them at bay. But it doesn't stop the dreaming.

When you first arrive for an infusion, it's similar to a pre-op protocol. They offer you a hospital gown. I preferred to stay in my cozy sweats. They take your blood pressure. Make sure you didn't eat past midnight. However they did allow me to take my pain meds with a few drops of water when I woke up. You fill out forms and sign paperwork. Then comes the IV. You can pretty much have them place the IV wherever it is most comfortable. But it also has to have an acceptable vein. I suggest staying away from the hand though as the hand is the most sensitive area for an IV.
Once the paperwork is done, and the nurse has cleared you with the Q&A, and your IV is in, the waiting game begins for your doctor to appear. Nothing much else can happen without their consent. So save any questions regarding your dosage until the doctor appears.

The nurses will call for your doctor once you are prepped and you have your injection of Zofran. Zofran is usually injected into your IV line to help stave off nausea due to the ketamine. Don't be surprised if the Zofran makes you a little bit sleepy.

When the doctor arrives, he will decide your dosage. If you are doing a series of infusions, they will start you out on a lower dose of about 300 mg of ketamine. Each day they will increase the dosage. The doctor will administer the Ketamine through the IV. You won't feel a thing and will swiftly drift into no man's land.

Ketamine can cause hallucinations. Versed is a medication administered that helps avoid hallucinations by creating an amnesiac effect.

The infusion process for me lasted four hours. This time I remembered absolutely nothing. Unlike last time, when the Versed was not quite strong enough and I clearly hallucinated about magnificent Indian fabrics swaying before my eyes. I always bring music and headphones. Soft, gentle music will help dictate the type of dreams or hallucinations you will have. Better to be safe than sorry. I listen to George Winston. The funny thing, is now that I have used that music during infusions, whenever I listen to the music now it immediately calms me down. A subliminal Calgon take me away!

After the Ketamine was administered, it took an additional three hours for me to come-to. You must have someone drive you home. Throughout our drive home, I was bombarded with dreams and double vision. Everything seemed so real, my mother said I was sleeping but I was also reaching out into the air in front of me for door handles that didn't exist. I murmured non-sensicals. And the songs I was listening to in my headphones were playing out as movies in my mind.

I don't remember getting home, making it up to my bed. And I slept until 10am the next day. It is now 4pm. I have showered and eaten a good meal. But have very little energy for anything other than Housewives reruns.

Tomorrow it will begin again. My second ketamine-booster to help get my system back on track and quiet the CRPS flare that has me sidelined at the moment. I already feel a sense of peace coming over my body. We'll see how round two goes. I'm optimistic!

So if you happen to be nervous about ketamine infusions, let me tell you from my own experience (I've been through the ten day, four hours a day, five days a week for two weeks infusions) that there is very little to worry about. When done in a good facility with experienced doctors, the only thing you truly need to worry about is the logistics of having a loved one with you throughout the infusion and until the next day. This is mostly because the ketamine takes time to work its way through your system. I was "out" for twenty hours this last round.

The benefits far outweigh any risks. And the dreams have resulted in closure on many unresolved topics. Call it therapy if you'd like.
As I go through tomorrow's infusions, I promise to be careful as to what doors I open, at least one thing about ketamine is, it's never, ever boring.

Ketamine Boosters

Things have been a little bumpy of late. CRPS flares when it gets grumpy. The tremors and muscle twitches, pain along my spine and in my joints, and the fatigue are rearing their heads. The treatments I had this fall worked beautifully, creating miracles along the way. But there are detours on this journey, and I have taken one.

I have been confined once again to the sofa 80% of each day. Any attempt to venture out results in blinding spinal pain and a collapse into surrender.

To quell the simmering beast, I will begin ketamine boosters today. A short series of 2-3 infusions. I will be sedated with four hour blocks of ketamine, when my brain will be disconnected from my body, to give my central nervous system a break. It will allow my nervous system the opportunity to "reboot".

Much of this process is about acceptance when things don't go as planned. So I have also learned not to plan. I take each day, hour by hour. My friends have learned to have patience with my absence and graciously come to my home for visits. I read as much as I can and watch films I didn't appreciate years before, when cell phones didn't exist. I watch characters read maps and dial phones that are stuck to the wall and I remember a simpler time.

This too shall pass. It always morphs into something new. After infusions, I will be preparing for another surgery to replace my spinal cord stimulator as the leads have slipped, and they will be placing additional leads that run up into my neck.

It is 4am. Into the shower I go and off to the races. One I will win ever so slowly, placing one hope gently in front of the other.

What Makes Love Last?

What makes love last? I get this question quite a bit, because my husband and I seem to have found something unusual. What people don't know, is it was birthed from a sea of discord where nothing, and everything, made a mad kind of sense. I was a single mother of a two and four year old. He was thirty-six and had never been married. Or had a child. After dating six weeks, the lease was up on my apartment. He told me about a place two doors down from him that I should look in to.

Now that's love.

When a man tells you about a place two doors down, he's officially smitten. But I was too.

Love makes you do crazy things. Love makes life make sense. But what makes love grow, or last?

On many levels, falling in love can make every decision clear. It is the most exquisite of insanities. When nothing could be more magnificent than the way he holds the nape of your neck in his hand. Or the way his hair curls up from beneath his baseball hat.

We have been together fifteen years. With another fifty or so to go, it makes me reflect upon what it is we are doing right. Every year I fall more in love. But why? Life has only become more difficult. Health challenges have thrown us into a financial tailspin, medical bills sucked our retirement dry. We can no longer go out like we used to as pain wracks my every move. Needless to say I'm not exactly swinging on the chandelier in the bedroom either. That's if we had a chandelier. It's more of a ceiling fan. Although I have been known to dress up like a blow-up doll.

So how could it be that now, more than ever before, my heart skips a beat when he walks through the door? Why is it that even now, after four children, I cannot wait for him to walk past me just to feel the brush of his skin?

According to a recent study, 93% of married couples feel love was the reason to marry. But what makes love remain?

The only answer I can come up with, is respect.

With every passing year, and every challenge we have faced, the severe illness of a child included, the one quality that has fed the passion I feel for my spouse, is the respect I have for him. Respect is hot. Respect lays the foundation upon which love can thrive. Respect allows love to devour your soul only to leave it blooming twice as large. Without respect, love is oil on a Teflon pan. All the sizzle and pop, without the traction to allow it to warm all the way through. Respect is the seasoning in the meat, and the warmth that seals the glaze. A loveless marriage is one thing. But a marriage without respect is a sentence without structure. It is a commitment to an idea that changes with the wind. And who would ever want to be swinging from a chandelier in a hurricane - without something so very real, to hold you down.