As my parents age, I find myself in a heightened state of denial. Even though the time will eventually come, I hate to think about being on this planet without Mom and Dad alive and kicking.
The night we returned from Disney World, my father took an unexpected ride in an ambulance after he developed chest pains. Thankfully, it was just his gall bladder.
Whenever Mom or Dad has a health scare, I double my efforts on my memoir – and reflect on who my parents are and the memories we share.
The youngest of seven children born to Italian immigrants in 1931, Dad was the only member of his family to graduate high school. His linear career path led him from a stint in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean Conflict to the police academy. He served our hometown as a police officer for 38 years – even though he was eligible to retire after 25 years – and he adamantly refused to advance through the ranks because it would be “too political.”
The men of Dad’s generation knew how to waltz and jitterbug. They helped women with their coats, held doors open for them and walked closest to the street when escorting a lady on the sidewalk. In their world, there were no shades of gray – just black and white. They never warmed to rock music, voted Republican and hated the sight of boys with hair past their ears.
Being a police officer was central to Dad’s identity. He was of average build, but could summon up an aggressive intimidation that served him well on the job, spurring our town’s “little darlings” to sputter, “Yes, Mr. M.” and “No, sir, Mr. M.” when he questioned them.
However, when he was off-duty and could lower the cynical shield he wielded against the darker element of society, Dad was an amenable sort and well-liked – unless you broke one of his cardinal rules, like not reciprocating a dinner invitation or (God help you!) going against a member of his family. Then, forget-about-it. He’d cut you off – permanently.
Anthony and I grew up hearing Dad tell us three things: 1) “you’re 100% Italian;” 2) “don’t ever touch my gun,” and 3) “what’s said in the house, stays in the house.”
At home, Dad was quick to tease and play with us, and we lived for his invitation to “take a ride.” He introduced us to fishing, Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom and Abbott and Costello. Dad was the first person to nickname me “Ri.” He taught me how to ride a bike and drive a car, how to protect myself by being aware of my surroundings, and how to love without actually saying the words.
This time it was just Dad’s gall bladder, and that’s good because we’re not done yet, making memories.
I’ve just returned from a Disney trip/cruise. My parents took my family and my brother’s along with them to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. It was great! We couldn’t have asked for nicer weather and everyone had a wonderful time.
Being in the Magic Kingdom stirred memories of the 1970s when my parents first took my brother, Anthony, and me there.
My memoir takes place during the ‘70s. And, when I mapped out the dates of my childhood Disney visits, there’s a coincidental parallel.
The first trip was in July 1973. It was a halcyon time for Disney, as well as for me. I was 11 and Anthony was nine, and the Magic Kingdom had only been open a couple of years when my family drove down to Florida from New Jersey in the new Chevy Impala.
In 1974, we took the Auto Train -- in August! Space Mountain was under construction, and Epcot had yet to become a Disney imagineer’s aha! moment. There was no such thing as a park hopper pass, because there was just one park, and your vacation package included a limited number of tickets entitling you to visit rides that were categorized “A” (i.e., Cinderella’s Carousel) through “E” (i.e., It’s a Small World and Pirates of the Caribbean).
Then, in 1975, Disney’s first thrill ride -- Space Mountain -- opened, and I received my spondylolisthesis diagnosis. Things would never be the same.
We returned to Disney in April 1977. The golfball icon of Epcot was under construction, and I was wearing the Milwaukee Brace, unaware I’d be having a second spinal fusion the following year. More than anything, I wanted to ride Space Mountain. Dr. Keim had said I could, but my mother had other plans, as detailed in this excerpt from my memoir:
“Maria… If there’s a sign at Space Mountain that says people with back problems shouldn’t ride, you’re not going on it.” I flushed with angry disappointment. Dr. Keim said I could go on Space Mountain. Mom knew that, but she also knew I wouldn’t argue the point in front of everyone. Well played. Mom thought she was doing what was best for me, so arguing was pointless. Which is why my first Space Mountain ride was years later with my own daughter.
During this latest trip to Disney World it was hard not to be nostalgic about how much things have changed. Now, my children and Anthony’s have the same level of excitement for Space Mountain, Test Track and Tower of Terror that we had for the Haunted Mansion and Pirates of the Caribbean. But, this time, I rode them all.
Now that I’m on the wrong side of 40, it’s difficult to discern which aches and pains are a consequence of my spinal fusions, and which just “are.”
I credit my friend, Mary, for ending my blissful ignorance about flatback syndrome. She also helped me realize the burning sensation I sometimes have mid-thoracic is caused by disc degeneration. You can read more about it at this link from the National Scoliosis Foundation’s site: http://www.scoliosis.org/resources/medicalupdates/pain.php.
I’m a big fan of endorphins. You know. Those wonderful, pain-blocking neurotransmitters that pump through your body when you work up a good sweat. It’s another reason why I’m such an exercise advocate. Many a morning, when I’ve awakened with stiff joints, I press on knowing that relief is just a brief treadmill walk away.
But brisk walking doesn’t alleviate every pain.
Disc degeneration is very common in scoliosis patients, often occurring above and below the fusion site. A few years ago, mine was occurring too often and I went from panic, to misery, to annoyance and, finally, anger. This is a cycle that occurs every few years, prompting me to visit my orthopedist. He’s just a stepping stone, though; my true goal is a prescription for physical therapy to review my daily exercises.
I don’t want to sound like the proverbial “broken record” [and if you’re under 30, you may not even know what a “record” is!], but exercise (of the isometric variety) is an effective means to minimize -- and even eliminate – much of my pain.
Often, it’s just a matter of tweaking what I’m already doing to accommodate the changing needs of my body. Here’s some good info about exercise and maintaining a healthy back: http://www.spine-health.com/treatment/physical-therapy/rehabilitation-and-exercise-a-healthy-back. But my best advice – if you’re in pain -- is to visit your doctor to rule out more serious causes. Then, ask about exercise and request a referral to a reputable physical therapist for an exercise strategy that is designed specifically for you.
