Thanks for following in 2014.

A “Talent” for Writing

^“6 being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”

- Philippians 1:6 New International Version

I‘ve been told I write more often and in greater quantity than average.  It extends to talking as well, regulated only by medication metabolism.  Occasionally comes affirming feedback and, on even rarer occasions (maybe once), suggestions to write for wider audiences.  Any & all encouragement is cool, but the light of penning more publicly quickly dims when I’m humbled, reading truly gifted authors with such command of language combined with cleverness, creativity and the ability to see the end of a story from the beginning.  So what’s my story?  Many sense they have a novel inside; mine began as a really rough draft.

I struggled greatly with college English.  As my worst subject, I was filled with trepidation of even surviving English 101.  I attributed some of the struggle to a poor high school foundation, notwithstanding the football coach teaching senior-year English.   He often gave me a pass sometimes not even insisting that assignments be completed or turned in.

Early business life was also a crucible of conjugational conflict.  One boss returned memos marked up like an essay proof.  But his high standards did improve the clarity of my written communications.  However, any real progress was only attributable to whether or not Karen proofread final drafts, a practice that continues to this day.   But then things changed.

In the late 80s/early 90s I sensed a leading to write for Christian readers.  The first inspirations materialized as scripts for musicals.   The musicals were pretty well received and led to requests for devotions, skits, and a variety of other Christian related writings.  At the last large church we attended I wrote a number of children’s messages, scripts for thematic services such as Memorial Day, etc. and drafted a half dozen or so plays and cantatas, which were never performed.  At the end, I even wrote for funerals.

I was not born with a latent talent for writing.  Nor did I receive instruction that would have added enough raw ingredients to cook up wonderful writings worthy of Reader’s Digest.  Therefore, if my writing style resonates with anyone (at all) then only God could have given this “talent” as a gift of grace.  I can’t boast about anything save Christ and His promise to equip the Church for His purposes and for all “good works.”  See Ephesians 4:12.  

This eye-opener for me is analogous to the two-edged sword of Hebrews 4:12 (five year-old grandson says the “w” in sword is silent).  The personal edge bolstered my faith knowing I was given a heretofore completely non-existent skill.  The public sword edge means no pride of authorship, which is liberating.  Therefore, if you’ve ever gotten annoyed by anything I’ve written, send complaints to either the “Author and Finisher” of my faith – or – to Karen, my editor-in-chief.   Please use concision when so doing.

I earnestly await a companion talent, the gift of grammar.   Until further enlightened, I’ll make use of my aptitude for sensing people roll their eyes over the Internet.

Sugar Mountain - Growing Up On a Hop Ranch

     Sugar Mountain

“Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
with the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you're thinking that
you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon.”

Growing Up “Hoppy”

An Essay About Growing Up on a Hop Ranch

I’ve wanted to write for a very long time about the period in my life when Grandfather Wattenbarger worked as a machinist on the E. Clemens Horst hop ranch in Sacramento.  Big people called it “The Horst Ranch.”  But for years I thought they were saying “The Horse Ranch”, even though I never saw a horse of any color.   In my mind’s eye I was much older then than I actually was when you do the math.  I was born in 1951 and my grandparents moved off the ranch in 1960.  If you figure that permanent memories start from around age five then what I remember happened between ages five to nine.  Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

It was just such a marvelous time of life there.   They say every child remembers a time in their young lives when the stars were aligned and all was right with the world.  I loved being there.  It was my peaceful kingdom, moated from the sieges of life.  The ranch was huge, as it ran for miles along the American River all they way from where it crossed Watt Avenue through an area of Sacramento now known as Campus Commons, until it ended where Fair Oaks Boulevard crosses near California State University at Sacramento.

As large as the ranch was, (I’ve never figured out why it was called a ranch and not a farm), there were only two houses and the Horst Company owned both.  The ranch foreman, who also oversaw the larger of two hop processing sheds, occupied the larger house.  My grandparents occupied the other house, as Grandpa ran the smaller shed.  Neither house quartered children, so when the royal flag was flying over our tower indicating my brothers and I were in residence, we ruled hundreds of acres of rich river flood plain planted with a bountiful crop of hops.  I became a benevolent dictator, David the Munificent, the friend of all.

I was the friend of the mess hall head cook who allowed me unrestricted access to his commercial kitchen where he prepared vast meals for the staff and seasonal workers.  I sampled his work product regularly for quality, even without a royal cupbearer (especially the sheet cakes).  I observed from a distance the on-site slaughter of cattle, providing my subjects fresh meat, even though I abstained for a brief time after each butchering. 

I was friends with Mexican migrant workers and visited them regularly to inspect the suitability of their quarters in each of the two large two-story bunkhouses.  They shared with me the fruits of their gardens planted to supplement the company chow.   They took me fishing at night for catfish on the American River that seen through today’s lens would seem impossible.  We walked out and over the river using the water pumping structures.  It may be where I got my affection for Spanish and tried to become fluent from junior high school all through college.

I often patrolled the many roads crisscrossing the hop fields using the royal (used) bicycle, following the water trucks dusting down the dirt.  The expansive concrete pads underneath the giant hop processing machines were a great obstacle course as I laced around the massive supporting timbers. 

 In the early evenings, I sat with my grandparents in the shade on the east side of the castle two stories up on one of the staircase landings.  I taught them how to drop a rabbit from 100 yards away with a .22 rifle as the rabbits leaped the tops of irrigation mounds underneath the hop poles.  My grandfather was a quick learner and became a good shot.  Catching a rabbit mid-air in full momentum led to a tumbling death throe of Olympic quality.

Some days I went to work with Grandpa.  We had to rise early, pack a lunch and walk a short distance to the shed.  I held his hand in case a rabbit, wounded the evening before, tried to exact revenge.  His enclosed work area in the shed was suspended between the first and second levels amidst a labyrinth of wooden stairs, landings and catwalks.  He tried to make me feel needed by giving me a safe repetitive job I could do relatively unsupervised. 

One day he had me straighten a pile of bent washers.  The sequence was; vise, washer, sledgehammer, hand, and then “bang”.  But in my zealousness to impress him, I got the sequence wrong.  I went vise, washer, hand, sledgehammer, and bang – off came an entire fingernail.  The wound was nothing that a full bottle of Merthiolate, a compound that contained mercury, alcohol and salt, couldn’t cure.  After a few laps running around the large workbench screaming, I finally regained what little dignity I had left.

I can still describe the layout of the castle in great detail, room by room, feature by feature.  A favorite area was outside beneath one of the staircases where we instructed the groundskeepers to leave the area natural so we could practice engineering skills in the malleable sandy loam soil.  The soil was not only rich in nutrients for farming but also rich in nutrients for the imagination of youngsters training for their royal role in future service to the infrastructure of the throne.  

The wooden castle was two stories tall with two large staircase entrances.  The entire first level was an unfinished cellar with a dirt floor.  The castle was built to survive the yearly flooding before the large river levee system was constructed.  My grandparents used to store food in this area they had canned, mainly fruit.  All year long we had pears, apricots, peaches, and cherries, which I often decreed to be transformed into pies and cobblers. 

The only task I kept personally was to go down to the basement at night and turn on the one bare light bulb hanging in the middle of the room where the jars were shelved and retrieve the canned fruit (why the shelves couldn’t have been closer to the door I’ll never know).  All of the other subjects in the kingdom were too terrified to cross the shadowed dirt, grab a jar and get out before fear consumed them. 

In the Midwest where my grandparents were from originally, growing up during dust bowl times, canning was not just a handed down family tradition, it was a needed vehicle for survival.  Without its discipline many families would go hungry during the winter or when epic dust storms ruined crops and killed livestock.  My grandparents canned all life long and must have found the plentiful harvests of fruit and vegetables found in California a blessing they never took for granted.  But I digress.

Like Spanish, the ranch was the genesis of many enduring loves.  I have always loved tractors.  On the ranch, tractors were everywhere.  I issued a proclamation that all the tractors be nightly housed and maintained in a large barn adjacent to the castle.  I can still smell the oil and grease soaked dust.  This proximity opened the possibility of after hours inspections of any tractor left outside.  There were so many levers, pedals and gauges.  To this day, the only real tractor to me is still a 1950s gray Ford with a red engine.   

Outside the barn was a scrap pile where pieces of engine overhauls remained temporarily.  My favorite find was the voltage relays.  They had unlimited imaginary purposes, from powering spacecraft to receiving signals from deep space.  Most young men had pinup calendars.  Mine contained twelve tractors, completely exposed with close-ups of big relays.  I still love rummaging through junks piles looking for treasures.  I know if I keep looking I’ll find a relay that may inspire my grandchildren.

To this day I love wandering through aged fractal-patterned oxidized industrial buildings and complexes.  Old factories, assembly warehouses, chemical plants and production buildings all interest me greatly.  These facilities all have their own story and represent what was high technology of their times.  They were the center of livelihoods, were creative in their efficiency and thought to be permanent.  They remind me that nothing is permanent and aging cannot be avoided.  It is enough to know that once you were vigorous, productive, and useful. You thought you’d remain that way forever with regular oil changes and proper tire inflation.

Sometimes a serf would come to the door and advise us to remain inside.  A fire-breathing dragon had been spotted scorching the land with his breath.   A tractor-mounted knight dressed in HAZMAT armor was dispatched to dispatch the dragon.  Soon a horrific noise could be heard in the distance.  As the noise got closer you could just begin to make out the figure of the knight with a dragon attached to and trailing from the tractor.  The dragon’s jet engine-like scream was deafening as its fire flung stomach acid all over the hops.  It had the foul smell of an insecticide.  The dragon didn’t finally behave until its belly was empty.  Strangely, the stomach acid drenching the hops had an amazing protective effect.  The hops, free from pestilence, thrived.   Dragon’s acid is now heavily regulated but my love for tractors still knows no bounds, further heightened by their rightful reputation as dragon slayers. 

Then it happened.  Sometime while nine years old, I was vacationing at my parent’s castle and awoke one morning to learn that the hop realm was no more.  My grandparents had retired and somehow managed to move completely off the ranch in the middle of night.  There was no warning, no discussion, no request for help, not even to transport the crown jewels, (aka voltage relays), to a safe location.  Most importantly, no one asked my opinion, let alone my permission.  The dream ended, the castle gone.  I never saw it again.  The land became too commercially valuable to remain as a ranch of any kind.  It was sold along with almost all other hop producing lands in Northern California. 

All jesting aside, I was emotionally unprepared for its sudden loss.  There was nothing that could be done about it and I knew that.  But just because you know something intellectually doesn’t necessarily help dispel the raw emotions.  I didn’t know that I was actually mourning my loss.  I felt sad and internalized my deep disappointment.  I dreamt about it for years but never told anyone how I felt.  After all, I just finished being a strong and responsible foreman.  Without giving in to psychobabble, internalizing my feelings became standard practice.  OK, back to the story.

Hop production flourished in Northern California from the late 1800s to the mid 1900s.  In 1894 Sacramento County was the largest producer of hops in the United States, all thanks mainly to Emil Clemens Horst.   Mr. Horst was born in 1867 in Germany and died in 1940 in San Francisco.  He revolutionized hop growing and processing with his patented mechanical separator that harvested the hops while discarding the vines and leaves.

At one time, Mr. Horst had the largest number of acres under hop cultivation in the world.  His first property purchase anywhere was just outside Wheatland California, along the Bear River.  The small unincorporated area of Horstville between Wheatland and Camp Far West Lake still bears his name obviously.  In addition, Horst owned ranches in Sloughhouse along the Cosumnes River and in Hopland in addition to vast holdings in Oregon and Europe.  

Hops, as most know, is a plant used in brewing beer.  The hop cones contain different oils that add flavor to the beer and make it foamy.  The cones grow high on the vine and had to be picked by hand.  Horst’s patented separator made the harvest easier.  Hop plants are planted in rows about six to eight feet apart.  Each spring the roots send forth new vines that are started up strings attached from the ground to a high overhead trellis.  Harvest came near the end of summer when the vines were processed to send just the cones for drying in vast kilns.

The monetary importance of hop production to not only Sacramento but also to Northern California for decades cannot be underestimated.  It was huge and I got to rule over one of its largest estates.  I may have been one of the youngest royals charged with such responsibility.  Today the only impression of E. Clemens Horst’s footprint on Northern California is on private land near the Consumnes River.  There, the sagging remains of a hop kiln, a water tower where the rusted name “Horst” can just be made out, and a wheel-less pickup with his name on the door, all ironically bound by vines he once yoked for a century.

Hops are still produced in the United States.  The rich soil bordering the Willamette River in Oregon produces abundant crops, as does Yakima Washington and areas of Idaho.  Yes, Idaho.  It turns out the soil loved by potatoes is just perfect for growing hops.  Maybe I’ll visit one of these places at some point, my Trip to Bountiful so to speak.  But until then, I will dream of my “Sugar Mountain” experience.  A time when no one dare tell a royal child to “not touch this”, “not go there”, “be careful”, or “don’t get hurt”, such silly warnings for someone that oversees hundreds of acres. 

My last attempt to remain connected in some way to the hop industry came as a teenager.  One small shed remained in our region and it was the August harvest.  I tried to get hired on to do anything from sweeping floors to picking sticks out of the hops before drying.  But I was not picked out of a shouting crowd of college students looking for work.  Technically I was too young anyway, but I would have lied.  I didn’t want to believe this chapter of my life had truly ended, but it finally did.

Even though I love hops, I don’t drink beer.  Even though I love tractors, I’ve never owned one.  I can experience owning one vicariously by roaming the Texas countryside and seeing them everywhere (or buying a few shares of John Deere).  There’s still hope that by retelling this story over and over to my grandchildren they might someday be motivated by my experience to become successful enough to actually own the John Deere Company outright. 

Until then, there’s always the annual tractor calendar and my harvest of memories.  It was truly a great adventure at a time when children were once free and safe to explore far and wide, a time when I was supremely hoppy.

Sugar Mountain Video

“Twenty Years a Slave”

My Struggle with Chronic Pain

From 1994-2014

With love, devotion and dedication to my wife Karen

From “The Princess Bride.”

Count Rugen: [admiring his torture contraption] Beautiful isn't it? It took me half a lifetime to invent it. I'm sure you've discovered my deep and abiding interest in pain. Presently I'm writing the definitive work on the subject, so I want you to be totally honest with me on how the machine makes you feel. This being our first try, I'll use the lowest setting.
[Count Rugen activates the water powered torture machine. Wesley writhes in great pain]
Count Rugen: [calmly] As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. Really that's all this is except that instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life. I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five, but I really don't know what that would do to you. So, let's just start with what we have. What did this do to you? Tell me. And remember, this is for posterity so be honest. How do you feel?
[Wesley cries and moans in pain]
Count Rugen: Interesting.

* * *

Buttercup: You mock my pain.
Man in Black: Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

Now, to the pain…

“No matter what precautions we take, no matter how well we have put together a good life, no matter how hard we have worked to be healthy, wealthy, comfortable with friends and family, and successful with our career — something will inevitably ruin it.”

Timothy Keller, 

“Walking with God through Pain and Suffering” 

I wouldn’t necessarily say, “inevitably ruin it” but April 2014 has the dubious distinction of marking two decades of living with significant pain every day.  It was April of 1994 when I fell mowing the lawn, starting a twenty-year odyssey of trying to diagnose, treat, and ultimately having to concede to unrelenting pain.

The lesson here is simple – don’t have a lawn.  The environmentalists were right – landscaping can be injurious to health.

I am writing about my experience for many reasons; to help put what has happened in perspective, to help others with similar experiences, to help explain to friends and family why I have acted abnormally at times over the past several years, to help caregivers and health care professionals understand how to treat pain sufferers better, and to record what happened before I completely forget!  On occasion opiates obscure observations.

I am not writing for sympathy, but for empathy.  Those close to me already feel bad enough knowing they can’t do anything for me.  Therefore, the last thing I want to do is make anyone feel worse, except for maybe Dan Callnon and a spinal surgeon who once thought I was little more than a drug addict.

If honest, I’m writing because I don’t want to travel this unwelcome journey alone.  Being in pain is lonely.  I’m thankful most of you have continued to walk along beside me, especially my primary caregiver and wife of forty years.  She has seen me as no one else has - at my very worst as a human being - and still decided to stay the course.   Those who have to observe the suffering of loved ones suffer differently but suffer nonetheless.

I should explain a little more why just falling on the lawn could trigger nuclear fusion.  Actually I fell twice within minutes, landing on the same tree stump cut level with the lawn.  It was wet with dew and my feet slipped and went sailing forward.  I landed square on my butt thus confirming one law of physics that the force of gravity is related to the mass of the attracting objects - and I have significant mass.

I wasn’t injured at the time of the fall other than embarrassment if neighbors saw me fall twice at the exact same spot while only navigating the perimeter of the lawn but once.  There was no way to pretend I meant to do it, but no need for theatrics either as nobody was watching.

Within a few weeks I began to feel a burning in my butt that nothing would soothe.  In fact, it was months before I connected the burning to the fall in an “ah-ha” moment.  Before then, the diagnosis was confusing and speculated to be everything from Asian flu to untreated childhood disease.   No doctor had experienced the symptoms of isolated burning related to a fall.

Unknown to me, the fall accelerated the arrival of congenital degenerative disc disease in my lower spine.  My lower spine was already weakened by injury experienced ten years earlier trying to watch a large screen TV while holding it in my arms.  The fall also brought to the surface progressive degenerative sensory nerve disease from butt to feet, characterized by the most awful sensation of burning from the inside out.

Stay with me on this, but assessing pain is like appraising wealth.   That is, no matter what your economic situation, they’re always those better off and worse off.  What one possesses never seems like enough.  Conversely, no matter how much pain you have it’s always too much.  Therefore, we should never minimize anyone’s pain experience.  For them, it is extreme.

We experience pain all of our lives but it usually resolves.  Pain is necessary to alert us to take action to prevent further injury.  Leprosy for example involves losing the ability to sense pain before permanent damage.  But no matter how necessary the body’s ability to sense and to interpret pain, pain can become debilitating when it doesn’t go away or significantly diminish in time.

“Who breaks the Law -’ said Moreau, taking his eyes off his victim and turning towards us. It seemed to me there was a touch of exultation in his voice. ‘- goes back to the House of Pain,’ they all clamored; ‘goes back to the House of Pain, O Master!”

― H.G. Wells, “The Island of Dr. Moreau”

1994-1996 inside my house of pain proved quite difficult.  The pain in my backside became concentrated on the left and it became increasingly difficult to sit at a desk or to drive.  I can’t do either twenty years later.  The burning engulfed my feet and made it impossible to wear shoes for a time.  I wore sandals (hard to find the right tie) and, on occasion, had to resort to slippers.  The looks I got in the hallway were interesting but polite.  

I tried every combination of chair, kneeling chair, cushion, wheelchair cushion, kneeling pad etc. without success or relief.   I used devices to raise and lower my computer, raise and lower my chair and raise and lower my ability to cope with the workplace environment (medications).  Meetings and travel became especially grueling marathons of sitting, standing and kneeling.

I eventually gave up on office chairs all together and leaned at a drafting table (years before standing desks were popular e.g. Don Rumsfeld) until I ruined my feet (I currently wear orthotics).  I finally looked into a ceiling track system used to lift immobile patients.  I envisioned being suspended on my stomach over a keyboard.  But I just couldn’t visualize the system’s propriety in a professional workplace setting.

I was also running out of diagnostics.  In 1996 we travelled to the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale with high hopes of at least some insight coming out of their reputation for diagnosing difficult illnesses.   After a week spent redoing every test I already had done, they were not able to help.  It was the first time I broke down and wept.

In 1997 I gave up private flying.  I couldn’t sit well enough to fly safely.  The medications I was taking actually made it illegal to fly.  Interestingly a few years later the Federal Government crossed-checked their disability database with their pilot database - a lot of folks got grounded.  I’ve never found another avocation - unless you count grandchildren.

The rest of the 90’s were spent continuing to try and find some diagnosis and treatment.  At the same time I was trying to find a combination of medications to provide a modicum of relief with tolerable side effects.  Both efforts proved exhausting and fruitless.

Once I started working in Napa in 1996, it opened up the Bay Area medical community as a practical resource.  I wound up at the “Pacific Center for Pelvic Pain.”  This clinic was renowned for treatment of women who developed terribly complicated pain in the pelvic region as a result of childbirth.  The director of the facility was certain they could help me by aggressive stretching of the piriformis muscle.  The catch was they wanted access to the muscle group inter-anally.  Every week I jumped up in the stirrups and, well, you get the picture.

 From there I spent a lot of time at the “Spinal Diagnostics Clinic” in Daly City (South San Francisco).  The treatment was mainly steroid injections guided by a form of active x-ray called fluoroscopy.  When shots failed they called in a consulting physician to try prolotherapy.   Prolotherapy is a process where a needle is inserted in the problem area, deep enough to scratch a nearby bone and cause bleeding.  The bleeding triggers the body’s natural healing processes mainly by increasing blood flow in areas that don’t have a lot of blood flow normally.  Whereas the piriformis stretching was an invasive indignity, the prolotherapy was very painful, especially in my feet.

When the prolotherapy proved “pointless”, they got me set up with “The Bonati Institute” a supposedly groundbreaking clinic in Florida that was the first to use special arthroscopic tools for minimally invasive spinal surgery.  Two trips in 2000 and two surgeries later demonstrated they were nothing more than a sophisticated scam preying on the pain stricken and the elderly as long as they had medical insurance, much like my opinion of the Scottsdale Mayo Clinic.  Ask yourself, why Tampa Bay Florida and Scottsdale Arizona?

However, the referring clinic, Spinal Diagnostics, was then and remains a widely accepted vetted facility for the successful treatment of chronic spinal pain.  And I’m sure the Mayo Clinic, especially the original in Rochester, has helped thousands.  Things were getting ridiculous and the pain was getting worse – now, fun with chemistry.

During my journey I’ve met two classes of medical professionals, those who treat pain aggressively and those who hold the keys to the medicine chest very tightly.  I don’t suppose I blame the latter too much as the government has hammered many physicians for a being a little too loose with the juice or doctors may have relied on a patient not to abuse their trust and lost.

My primary caregiver, an osteopath, had a deeply personal experience that colored her prescribing practice.  She had a former patient commit suicide when he couldn’t get access to pain relief.  She wasn’t going to let it happen to me.  However, I never once contemplated suicide.  I did, erroneously, think I was going to die more than once, and often thought of strangling a few truly arrogant and indifferent doctors.  I stopped short of causing physical harm because I wasn’t sure what medical care I could get in prison.  Besides, in Texas I’d be on a fast track for permanent pain relief.

Drugs affect people very differently.  Why one drug will work for some but not for others spawned a pharmaceutical marketplace full of concoctions.  I quickly transitioned into either synthetic or actual narcotics.  The treatment plan was also complex.  Something slow acting or timed-released is needed to get a “maintenance” dose for regular relief.  Then a “break-through” med is needed for those times when you feel your body is having its own solar flare. Most of the effective medications for these two tasks don’t just slow down the pain, they also slow down many other functions that are needed to work at normal speed such as digestion (called constipation), urination (called sleep problems), sexual function, mental function and on and on.  Therefore remedies for the side effects are added to the treatment cocktail.

For many of the pain medications, the more you take the more you need to get the same relief.  And, at no time are you free of pain.  But with every drug taken you must read the fine print just as they say and we all ignore, thinking if some side effect or instruction was really important your doctor would surely say something.  But I learned we have the primary responsibility for our treatment as I experienced with a Fentanyl patch.

Fentanyl transdermal patches are used in chronic pain management. They work by releasing a powerful synthetic opioid into body fats, which then slowly release the drug into the bloodstream over 48 to 72 hours, allowing for long-lasting pain relief. Dosage is based on the size of the patch, as the absorption rate is constant at a constant skin temperature.

But, if you inadvertently raise the skin temperature, such as immersing in a hot tub or using an electric blanket, you can release a large quantity of a narcotic 50-100 times stronger on a dose-by-dose basis than morphine, very rapidly.  This happened one night as I slept snug in my e-blanket and woke up (thankfully) in the middle of the night with the room spinning and was unable to get up for a long time.  Read the insert. The warning is clear.

At one point the combination of medications lowered my blood pressure such that when I stood up I immediately passed out and fell (called a vasovagal syncope) striking my head on a metal chair, requiring a Frankenstein set of stitches on the side of my forehead.  I also struck my arm and when I awoke, the pain was such we thought I’d had a heart attack.  The 911 dispatcher sent several paramedics, firemen, and sheriffs (they have to rule out a possible assault).  The upside was we learned from one of the responders that hydrogen peroxide would clean up the blood if used quickly.

For our final chemistry experiment let’s get out the methadone.  Methadone is a synthetic opioid used mainly to assist with withdrawal from drugs such as heroin.  It has few side effects and contraindications and is very long lasting.  It worked great for me except for a few things.  First, the longer the use the greater the dose needed.  Second, insurance companies consider it the drug of last resort (indicating a desperate and declining condition) and deny coverage until you are off it for at least two years.  My withdrawal was unforgettable.  The first time I tried to stop, I couldn’t do it.  When forced, I repeatedly experienced the most profound sense of sadness and despair.  I cried profusely about everything and nothing.  I’ve never been to such a dark faraway place.  Once off, the urge to go back is only abated by the indelible memory of its truly dark side.

The early 2000’s were a distraction, dealing with body wear and tear unrelated to back pain.  Both rotator cuffs were operated on, one in 2000, one in 2004.  In between my gallbladder came galling (another congenital blessing).  As of this writing, I’ve been cut on a dozen times.  Hard to believe many people go through life never having anyone pull a knife on them.  The worst surgery was in 2008 and hopefully you’ll be patient and not read ahead.

When your primary pain medication prescriber starts saying, “you’ll never be entirely pain free”, you know that life has changed for you and for you in all alternate universes.  When I finally stabilized the level of pain enough to continue working, my bladder quit working.  This is a common side effect of long-term use of pain relievers (watch “House” Season 3, Episode 16 titled “Top Secret” when his Vicodin use became a urological emergency).

Doctors inserted a stimulator under the skin of my butt cheek to aid the bladder.  It tingled and tickled but I didn’t tinkle.  Out came the stimulator and in went a urinary catheter, a miserable process.  Very depressing to think of doing this for the rest of my life.  The doctor was so matter-of-fact in barking out, “the nurse will teach you all you need to know about self-catheterization.”  I opted for a second opinion.  Same result.  After another round of weeping I opted for less drugs and therefore more pain as a compromise to jump-start my plumbing.   The reamers sit under the sink.

2004 was a year of life-changing transition.  The back pain was increasing, the burning was out of control, business travel was nearly impossible, meetings were nightmarish and driving in pain while under significant medication was irresponsible.  I was also in a serious state of nausea that lasted through 2005, losing 20 pounds along the way.  Then I began to have mental lapses presumably from all the meds.  As a finance officer, these lapses became mistakes with many decimal places.  I couldn’t continue working so I gave up and went home in September 2004 at age 53, ten years after I first fell.

Note:  Leaving work finally gave me the time to finish my first screenplay regarding life after falling.  The anecdotes coalesced to become “The Legends of the Fall.”

In reality the balance of 2004 and 2005 were spent on the couch trying to shake the nausea.  I also didn’t realize all the mental toll trying to cope with chronic pain had taken over the last decade.  I was emotionally spent, physically exhausted and at a spiritual crossroads.  This became abundantly clear when the insurance road began to unfold in front of us.

I haven’t written yet about my spiritual condition during this time.  Being a Christian has been so integral to all of my adult life, I find it hard to look at it separate from myself.  I never lost faith in Christ during this time but I have changed much of my personal theology.  Many people think of God like an uber-rich relative.  If we have a financial need, they’re certainly able to meet that need.  But what do we think of them if the money doesn’t come?  I believe in healing miracles but admittedly don’t understand God’s distribution system of grace.

I feel compelled to confess I’ve not been a good example demonstrating Christian virtues while suffering.  The New Testament talks of sharing in Christ’s sufferings that we may also share in His glory.

Romans 8:17  “Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”

The Bible also talks of the circumstance where as a believer we are blessed to be comforted by Him in our sufferings.

2 Corinthians 1:5  “For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ.”

But I am not like the Apostle Paul who prayed to suffer as Christ suffered:

Philippians 3:10  “I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death,”

I have not yet rejoiced as the Apostle Peter exhorts us:

1 Peter 4:13  “But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed.”

Yes I have felt Christ’s comfort at times.  But I have found no value in pain.  Pain has not made me a better person in any way that I can tell.  I’m certainly not more Christ-like.  I hate being in pain.  Pain has taken from me most of what Karen and I enjoyed together in life.  I have not experienced any particular insights, found meaning or understand pain better.  Pain has exorcised us from church life so central to our married life all these years.

“Pain is beyond reason, an obliterating giant stupidity to which all your history of jokes and nuance and ideas and caresses is nothing, simply nothing.”

GLEN DUNCAN, A Day and a Night and a Day

I never met anyone that can’t sit at all unless wheelchair bound.  I never met anyone who knew of anyone that couldn’t sit.  As such, most people can’t relate well or have a hard time understanding.  It’s always been interesting to me that even doctors’ waiting and treatment rooms do not accommodate people that can’t sit.

It’s hard to turn down social invites and family functions such as graduations etc. when you can tell folks just don’t believe you’re truly disabled.  For years I tried to go and stand in the back until that was no longer an option.  I had to get used to being the missing uncle or church backslider.

I do know of two blessings.  Forced retirement while still relatively young has given me the joy of being with my grandchildren nearly all the time.  I love being a grandparent and desire to be a good one.  However, pain prevents me from holding, carrying or wrestling with them.  And yes, Grampa gets grouchy at times.

The other “blessing” for lack of a better word is that I have a daughter who, with terrible irony, also fell and snapped her tailbone.  A different injury, but a life of pain none the less.  The result has been awful for her at such a young age.  But I do understand some of her struggles and have tried with limited success to comfort her from my experience.

2 Corinthians 1:3,4  “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort;
Who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”

Basically, added to my pain is the guilt that I have not suffered nobly.

“Fatigue (pain) makes cowards of us all.” – Vince Lombardi

I have not kissed my chains nor been able to model scripture’s instruction for those who suffer.   Sometimes I feel as if I have refused God’s comfort at times because I have not accepted that, in this life, I will spend each day in some degree of most unwelcome pain.

Psalm 77:2  “In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord: my sore ran in the night, and ceased not: my soul refused to be comforted.”

Even Christ prayed that He wouldn’t have to suffer the cross yet ultimately accepted God’s will.  My sufferings in no way compare to the horror of Christ’s experience.  But I also don’t believe that my pain is/was God’s plan.  It was caused by an accident, an accident that God allowed, but an accident just the same.  The miracles that we have seen are the way He has subsequently provided for our needs when I no longer could.

Now for the real suffering – applying for disability insurance.

Because I was so sick and emotionally fragile right after I left work, the bureaucratic process of applying for Social Security disability fell almost entirely upon Karen.  When I left work I never believed or counted on being accepted for any kind of disability, public or private.  I struggled with how hard it would be to convince the authorities that my pain was truly disabling.  We did have reasonable savings but we didn’t have enough yet to retire completely.  In addition to income, we needed medical coverage. The only place available to me was Medicare if I was judged disabled.

The gauntlet that is SS disability will, by itself, leave you disabled when run completely.  The paperwork, medical records, examinations, regular rejections, resubmissions, hearings, attorneys and so on can’t be successfully negotiated if you’re sick.  You must have someone that is bright, steeled for the absurd and a true believer in your cause in your corner as Karen was.  You must have the support and commitment of your primary care doctor because they will be assailed, questioned and given their own paperwork mountain.  And finally, you must have patience.  What seemed to help in my case was interesting.  Even with the mountain of medical records, it seemed to mean more to the judge that presided over the final hearing that:

I was a veteran and had served my country for several years,
I left my career at the height of my earnings potential,
I gave up flying and sold my airplane,
He would never continue working if it meant he had to kneel all day.

The only person who would do such things was either truly disabled or insane.  Since Government psychiatrists found me to be sane, then logic dictated that I was disabled.   After two years I now had health insurance and a very modest but welcomed stipend.

When I was a young man I met a deaf insurance salesman.  He became a friend, confidant and Christian brother.  He convinced me in my early 30s that I was overwhelmingly more likely to become disabled than to die prematurely.  So I bought a small yet expensive personal disability policy from Standard.  They are a quality company and after reasonable due diligence they came through.

The last piece of our pre-65 income possibilities was an employer disability policy from UNUM.  First of all, I’ve worked in the construction industry since 1979.  I never worked for a company with disability coverage until my last employer.  I never even thought about this policy for several reasons.  First, the fine print was amazingly obtuse.  Second, UNUM had a terrible reputation of litigation, delay and obstruction in considering coverage.

However, several things worked in our favor.  UNUM had just settled a massive lawsuit with the Government and agreed to revamp its underwriting and claims procedures.  They were still a bit raw from having a few financial fingernails pulled out.  Add to that the SSA had made a “fully favorable” disability determination.  How, in good faith, was UNUM going to find differently?  Even Standard Insurance early on came along side.  In the construction industry it is unheard of to offer disability.  In the insurance industry it was unheard of for UNUM to not go to court.

I now had Medicare and a sufficient level of income, at least until I reached 65.  In spite of how I might have felt about Christ’s purpose for my life, the following was undeniable.

1 Timothy 6:17 “Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment.”

A modern miracle and Karen did all the paperwork.  The irony is that we now had to find health insurance for her as my employer’s insurance was expiring after being extended twice by my benevolent former boss.

This epistle is beginning to read like a sermon that’s running long.  So I’ll not tarry much longer.  Karen, please play “Something Softly” as I hurry.

From 2005 to 2006 we began to look for places to live where our grown children could find better opportunities than in a collapsing California economy.  It was their idea, but because of being at home disabled, we had the time to devote to the pursuit that wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

We found Austin Texas, or it found us.  On the eve of moving my doctors concluded that I would need the gold standard of potential lumbar pain relief, spinal decompression and fusion.  But it would have to wait.

After an arduous move I finally was scheduled for surgery in October of 2008.  I was desperate and it was a desperate measure.  Yet the promise held that post surgery I would be able to hold my soon to be born grandchildren.  On the eve of surgery one of the doctors told me when I woke up, I would know that I’d had major surgery.  Another doctor told me that since I was on strong narcotics that when I woke up I would also be experiencing pain as never before.   Okay, so I was a little apprehensive.

The operation is done is two stages.  First lying on your back, one surgeon makes an incision starting at the belly button slicing upwards a distance determined by how many discs will be decompressed and fused.  At the last minute they decided to work on only one disc instead of two.  So he made a pretty good size stab, big enough for him to be able to move several internal organs to the side, allowing the spinal surgeon good access to the degenerative discs to clean them out and implant synthetic material in the space to eventually graft or fuse.

Then, once you’re medium rare, they flip you over and open up the back so they can put in metal scaffolding to keep the area decompressed.  When you wake, you have incisions both front and back so you sort of lay on your side in somewhat of a fetal position.  You find one tube coming out of the middle of your back to improve drainage and to help prevent infection.  You have another tube coming out of the front that also improves drainage and helps prevent infection since you can’t get up and use the bathroom yet.

Two IVs are also at work.  One is filled with an antibiotic to guard against systemic infection and the other is filled with a pain reliever to guard against climbing the walls.  Soon after waking I broke out in a whole body rash, a clear allergic reaction to something.  Since they weren’t sure what I was allergic to they pulled both IVs.  No more intravenous pain relief so out came the morphine injections.  It turned out that in spite of an operating table test, I was allergic to the antibiotic Ancef from the Penicillin family.  My records plainly showed that I have always been allergic to Penicillin.

It was a hellish week in the hospital, incredible pain and burning, whole body rash, no food but crackers, and I lost control of my bowels.  The pathetic prophetic doctor was right; I knew I’d had major surgery.  But I was still hopeful from all the testimonies I’d heard about the success of this surgery returning people to normal lives.  So they yanked all the catheters, rolled me to the door in a gurney, I crawled to lie down on the floor of our van and we rambled home to await the outcome.

In spite of angelic care and following the post-surgery protocol to the letter, the burning never subsided and I wound up in the emergency room one month later unable to cope with the pain.  It happened to be Thanksgiving 2008.  Boy, was the on-call spinal surgeon mad!  But they finally pumped enough stuff in me to go to sleep and we eventually went home where I slept for a week.  Sleep then and now is the only true escape from pain.

The burning brought me to Capitol Pain Institute and Dr. Sanford Matthew Shocket.  He convinced me to try a spinal stimulator to give my brain something new to be distracted by than the burning.  I was very skeptical not only because of the earlier failure of the bladder stimulator but also because my daughter had a trial spinal stimulator for pain relief without success.  But out came the “trust” word.  He said, trust me, turn it on for one month at as high a setting as you can stand and leave it.  I was desperate and had no other options so I did what he asked.  Eventually, it started to work and I continue to use it to this day.

Dr. Schocket also got my medications under control and trusted me to use them wisely.  Hmm, I trusted him and he trusts me?  How novel.  I also get scheduled bi-lateral lumbar nerve root blocks to keep the inflammation knocked down and the pain better under control.

My neurologist confirmed my nerve degeneration is continuing so I don’t know what the future holds.   For now the disease has only involved sensory nerves, so other than the burning and numbness the only other symptom is all hair has fallen out of my legs.  What a blessing to only shave my armpits.

My pain is mostly controllable as long as I don’t try any stupid pet tricks.  I still can’t drive or sit, meaning no church and no travel.  When we moved to Texas we planned for regular trips back to California to see family.  We did try going by train once.  But that romantic notion is DOA; what a miserable experience.

Presently, Karen chauffeurs me while I lie on a mattress in the back of the van.  I can’t lift or hold my grandchildren.   I use kneepads to play at their level in spite of the congenital arthritis that has now beset head and shoulders knees and toes.  The psoriasis on my knees is not painful but the kneepads do pull off the excess skin produced by the autoimmune condition.

Then finally there’s the escape of sleep.  For much of the last twenty years, good sleep has been elusive.  The reasons are manifold, too much pain, too little urination, drug interactions, lack of exercise or maybe just growing older.  Many days have been spent exhausted, needing to nap at least twice a day.  Good sleep is paramount to coping with chronic pain.  Yes there are and I’ve tried many sleep aids but it’s a two-edged sword.  One, sleep meds have their own side effects; two, many folks have died from a lethal cocktail of pain relievers, anti-depressants and sleep medications.  It’s called respiratory failure.  Turns out I had an unknown and long undiagnosed condition called sleep apnea, my final congenital complication.

It appears that my uvula hangs too far back in my throat.  At night when the neck muscles relax, it slips further back, blocking my airway decreasing breathing and therefore blood flow to the brain.  At its worse, you stop breathing for extended periods until the brain figures it out and wakes you up.  If you’re further sedated, you might never wake up.

This condition was self-diagnosed using the internet after experiencing debilitating headaches for months even though the internet is often a terrible place for reliable medical information.  I still had to go through the medical communities’ gauntlet of other causes of the headaches including brain cancer until I begged for a sleep study that proved determinative.  

The study showed that I regularly stop breathing dozens of times an hour all night.  It remains unclear how long this had been going on and what part it played in my health and well-being.  I now sleep with a CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) machine.  I use what is called a nasal pillow augmented with a chinstrap to keep my mouth closed (I know what you’re thinking).   The actual air handler sits on my nightstand.  It’s a medical necessity.

As my story comes to a close, I cope with my pain in a multi-faceted way.  To illustrate this let me describe my day.  When I awake, I turn on the spinal stimulator, rub some steroid cream on my psoriatic knees, put on my knee brace or knee pads for the arthritis, take my first daily dose of back pain reliever, nerve pain reliever and anti-depressant.  Then I slip on my back brace so it can hold ice on my back while Karen and I have coffee on the couch, read our devotions and pray for those we love.

I no longer have to add methadone to my routine or take any laxatives to move things along.  During the day I continue my back and nerve pain meds, add over the counter anti-inflammatory meds as needed, wear a back brace as needed and apply ice as needed.  Texas law requires me to see my doctor once a month to evaluate the use of narcotics and to take random drug tests to screen for abuse or use of unauthorized meds or dosages.  I get quarterly steroid injections and regular monitoring of my nerve and back degeneration to mitigate my worsening condition as much as possible.

Karen and I both need and add time with our grandchildren for morale, joy, encouragement, sense of contribution and being needed, fun and laughter.  They are our salvation, small s.

My evenings include more steroid cream for the knees, removal of braces, turning off my spinal stimulator, getting my pain level down as much as possible so I can get to sleep, although a sleep aid is needed.  Then the chinstrap goes on, earplugs in, CPAP on, noise machine on, optional sleep mask, lights out.

In closing, since April of 1994 I have been on a quest to escape pain.  This quest began after a couple of falls in my backyard that initiated a burning pain in my left buttock.  Twenty years later I still have unrelenting pain.

My quest has taken me all throughout the medical system and has crisscrossed the United States.   I have endured every manner of diagnostics, both invasive and non-invasive; I have seen both compassionate and indifferent doctors.  I have lain awake enduring arthroscopic back surgeries and subsequent recoveries.  I’ve spent years getting injections in my back, butt and feet and hoped painful prolotherapy might prove helpful.  I’ve had dozens of nerve root blocks as well as an epidural block.

I have lain in stirrups enduring inter-anal piriformis stretching.  I have been the holistic route ingesting seaweed, grape seed, silver drops, wearing magnets and many other well-intentioned remedies.  I have worn feet stretching boots and shoe inserts, taken acupuncture, and have had ultrasound and infrasound treatments.  I spent a week in the Mayo Clinic given every test imaginable.  I have tried to use every chair and pad conceivable.  I’ve ingested every manner of pain relievers to include methadone with every side effect including urinary, digestive and sexual.  I’ve taken anti-depressants, mood elevators, laxatives and on and on.

I have seen osteopaths, orthopedic surgeons, neurologists, rheumatologists, cardiologists, and brain surgeons.  I have had numerous MRIs, CT Scans, X-Rays, Spinal Taps, EMGs, EEGs, and EKGs.  I have attended countless physical therapy sessions.  I could go on and on.  Actually I have.

The point is I’ve done everything to escape pain but it’s still here like Paul’s thorn in the flesh.  For Paul, God’s grace was sufficient for comfort.  For Job, God’s sovereignty was all the answer he ever got.

For me, my wife has been my anchor and my coping mechanism.  She’s held it together although sometimes by a thread when she had every right to break down.  Her health did break down at one very low point as she suffered terribly from Graves thyroid disease and Graves’ eye disease, we think brought on by the stress of our situation and watching me suffer and worry.  Ever had your eyeballs removed during surgery then put back?  What sorrow and guilt to think my reactions to pain contributed to her suffering!

Karen is the only person that has watched me completely break down emotionally more than once.  I’ve wept so hard and so out of control over the pain, especially the burning, and the hopelessness of relief that I wasn’t sure I’d regain control.  Pain stripped away the veneer of diplomacy and social acceptability and she witnessed, at times, a very different man than she married - but she still cares for me and I for her.

The English “philosopher” Manfred Mann put it this way:

Now we're together nearly every single day

Singin', "Do wah diddy diddy, dum diddy do"

We're so happy and that's how we're gonna stay

Singin', "Do wah diddy diddy, dum diddy do"

We’ve spent nearly every day together since 2004 and we haven’t grown tired of each other.  We do everything, go everywhere, share everything and talk about everything and everyone together (without ever gossiping).  If my story contains a God-given miracle, then this is it.

1 Corinthians 13:7-8a (Love) bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never fails…

One last thought,

“When we are suddenly released from an acute absorbing bodily pain, our heart and senses leap out in new freedom; we think even the noise of streets harmonious, and are ready to hug the tradesman who is wrapping up our change.”

- GEORGE ELIOT, Janet's Repentance

When therefore do Karen and I get to experience this release?

Revelation 21:4

4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

Revelation 22:20

20 He who testifies to these things says, “Yes, I am coming soon.”
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

Our final blessing is to be fulfilled with Jesus returning soon.

Amen and Amen.

Epilogue

“That's the thing about pain.... It demands to be felt.”

- JOHN GREEN, The Fault in Our Stars

I wonder what would’ve happened these last twenty years if I’d not tried to aggressively treat my pain, just dealt with it like an amputation?  Early on a well-known sports medicine physician that treated Olympic athletes saw me.  After waiting in a dark miniscule room for over an hour for his holiness, he pronounced, “ischial bursitis and it’s not treatable – goodbye.”  It wasn’t ischial bursitis, but no one would ever know for sure what it was.

I do know my pain is worse from overly aggressive treatment such as overuse of TENS units, ultrasound and invasive questionable procedures such as prolotherapy.  It’s challenging even for the most well-intentioned physician to “first do no harm” when you don’t know for sure what you’re treating.  I’ve had unnecessary surgeries and unavoidable surgeries that left me with different pain even harder to treat.

Yet, I am thankful for access to medical care in the U.S.  We are impatient with even modest delays when across the ocean many wait weeks for office visits, months for procedures and years for surgeries.  It’s sad for all when a doctor realizes they can’t help when help is why they went into debt.  But the system has limitations.  We’ve miraculous medicines and machines and devoted medical professionals, but they’re not miracle workers.  Treatment requires trust, mutual respect and open dialog to have a chance.  It doesn’t help when a physician glances at you and declares you’re a drug addict.

I am relieved for the safety net of Medicare.  Even more so for those few physicians that still accept Medicare given the absurdly small payments, even though Medicare does keep the cost of miracles down to earth.

Finally, I’m once again grateful for my support system - without it the pain would’ve already won.  Glad for my wife, for the quality of her care and depth of sacrifice.  My pain has also defined her life.  I’m thankful for my children and their spouses insuring I don’t travel pain’s path alone.  After all, that’s why I wrote this story and invited you along.  How I wish I could stand in your shoes for even one day and for you to never stand in mine.

Loretta “Lorrie” Mae (Foster) (Barber) Rhodes

1933-2000

Our mother was born Patricia Ann Baber on June 12, 1933 (the same day of June as my wife Karen) in Omaha Nebraska.  She was the daughter of Delbert Baber, a barber by trade, and the fifth child of Elva Ford, a housewife.  Elva’s first three children were Mom’s half siblings, the fourth, and her full brother, our Uncle Jack.   As Delbert and Elva remarried, Mom would ultimately be related to ten siblings.

Mom was adopted shortly after birth as the only child of Carl Foster, a farmer, and Jennie Hazel (Rayborn) Foster, a housewife and our grandmother, and given the name Loretta Mae Foster.  Carl and Hazel had been married for over 16 years without children before the adoption (Grandma married at age 16).  Uncle Jack was adopted out as well by the Shinn family and named Benjamin Jack Shinn Jr.

Mom and Uncle Jack never knew each other or their siblings growing up, even though they all lived and farmed relatively close by.  Mom’s search for all her siblings and her birth parents defined a lot of her adult life.  In my view, adopted children act like toggle switches, either longing to connect with their past or having only a passing interest in what went before.

Even though Mom was an only child she was not lonely.  She grew up with 35 cousins, eight in California alone and three stepbrothers from Oregon.  Mom was very close to cousins Margaret and Betty Chapman (Leora’s children), and Robert and Barbara Rayborn (Earl’s kids), all of whom are now deceased.

Grandma and husband Carl, along with Grandma’s siblings Leora and Earl, settled in California, having travelled back and forth to Nebraska at least twice prior.  The rest of her extended family remained in the Midwest, mainly Nebraska.  We all knew Aunt Leora and Uncle Earl pretty well.  If you want incredible insight into their lives in Nebraska and California at that time in history, watch the PBS production of Ken Burns’ “The Dust Bowl.”  It’s available on Netflix and other platforms.  It left a marked impression on me as they were at the epicenter.

The Fosters were living in Wheatland California working on the huge Horst hop ranch along the Bear River when Carl died in 1947.  Mom loved her father Carl deeply and never fully got over his death.  There on the hop ranch, Grandma met long time widower Skip Wattenbarger and they were married in 1948.  Grandpa had three sons from his first marriage not living at home.  Mom didn’t get along very well with Grandpa Wattenbarger, largely due to her ache for Carl.  She quickly fled her new home environment now living on the Sacramento Horst hop ranch along the American river at 17 to marry the young and dashing Navy reservist, Leland Frank Barber on May 9, 1950.

I’m somewhat rushing to write this bio before I forget much more of Mom’s life.  All of us remember many extended conversations with Mom about everything, sometimes well into the wee hours.  I’m sure many of those talks had to do with her growing up but I no longer recall many details.

The few pictures we have clearly reveal she was a beautiful child and young lady.  She loved and was good in school, attending classes in both Wheatland and Marysville.  She had a beautiful voice and loved to sing lifelong.  She really enjoyed following celebrities and had stacks of Hollywood gossip magazines sitting around long before those publications became so salacious.

I must report that Mom had the most beautiful penmanship I have honestly ever seen.  It was artistic and flowing, yet very precise, consistent and always legible.  I’m fully in the camp of eliminating teaching cursive.  A sample of her handwriting may be the only vote needed to retain such instruction, perhaps no longer as penmanship but as an art form such as calligraphy.

Her marriage to Lee produced a child in July 1951.  He was stationed at Mare Island and they lived in a trailer at the base entrance.  Mom felt lost as a new mother and often cried openly that she couldn’t get me to stop crying.  I still cry for long periods for no reason.  July 1952 brought forth their second child while now living in Sacramento, whom Lee said was the most beautiful baby he’d ever seen.  What happened?  Still in Sacto, Rich came in December 1953 and carried the namesake “Harvey” which had been passed down in the Barber family over generations.  Dennis still affectionately calls him by the same handle.

We all know the story of their last child Robert who died shortly after birth, so we never saw him.   We were all too young to process the loss very well except to say that Mom came home from the hospital without any anger or bitterness just more love and affection for us all.  Robert died of a birth defect involving a hole in his heart.  Mom was left with a hole in her heart that would be repaired in a brief time with the birth of two more very healthy children.  So back to names beginning with, well, can I have a “D” Pat?

Her marriage to Lee was clouded over with debt and lack of stability.  Sadly and ironically her second and final marriage to “Ray-Dad” was spent under the same stressful lifestyle.  For all her positive attributes she was deeply flawed in judging character.  She gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, believed without reason that people improve and mature.   Maybe she was trying to find another Carl?  In the end and in my sole opinion, these blind spots would prove emotionally injurious, brought on strong irrational fears such as being alone and weakened her immune system until premature Alzheimers and cancer overwhelmed her, taking her from us way too soon.  I will editorialize no further and stick to facts – well, maybe.

She was extremely well liked, loved and respected by our extended families, friends and work associates.  I was really amazed by how many people attended her funeral service, some that hadn’t seen her in a very long time and others that travelled from as far away as Chicago.  I was really convicted when Uncle Jack turned around sitting just in front of me in the family seating area and asked who had written her obituary.  I guess we were all to blame in some way for its omission.  Maybe this summary can serve late but better than not at all.

Her second marriage to Raymond Rhodes in August of 1960 brought forth a 60s love child with flowers in his hair.  Doug proved to be a bridge for the blended families (both then and now) and became the positive focus of all.  A beautiful daughter finally arrived in 1963, a daughter that embodies Mom’s same style of compassion, care and lack of judging others.  She serves as a constant reminder of Mom’s beauty and grace, a visual legacy.   It was right around this time Mom started going by “Lorrie” instead of Loretta, except to Grandma.

The 1960s were a watershed period for Mom.  She finally grafted firmly to her brother after a near miss in the late 50s that even enraged Lee.  The importance of this to her can’t be understated and I have written about it in detail before.  It would be another decade or more before her search found half-brothers so loving and accepting that a massive family “union” was in planning when unrecoverable ill health began to shadow all.   Their letters to each other were filled with such unabashed expressions of love and affection that vividly spells out their joy in getting a second chance.

The 60s and 70s saw one child go to college, one join the Navy and one excel in music to such an extent that he would stay with it to this day.   All of these exploits saw her motivational fingerprints.  With the oldest children on solid tracks, this left time and energy to devote to the younger and to create many memories from sports to camping and boating.  During this time, she developed a real love of fishing (as does Jack).  Her love of the quiet avocation of fishing was in stark contrast to her very animated, easily excitable and loud personality at times.

I was never sure if she had to or wanted to but she often worked outside the home and was good at it.  Most memorably was her time with Aeroject, a NASA contractor building re-entry rockets during the heart of race to the moon, to longer term stints in the medical industry.  She sacrificed greatly for Grandma by caring for her in her home longer than my mother lived at home herself.  And she loved to grow roses.

She was feisty, fearless and funny in her outbursts of joy, especially when observing her children’s successes, however small, in public.  I was often concerned I’d see her running out on the playing field to slap a referee or argue a call.   She was a firm disciplinarian, a fastidious housekeeper and a queen of good intentions.

She had so many wonderful intentions it was easy to lose track.   The most confusing were often repeated unfulfilled plans for her quiver full of grandchildren.  Maybe she burnt out early by investing too much in her children that little room was left for the grandkids.  Dad who was inexhaustibly needy and insecure, having once declared that she gave her children clear priority over his needs, easily could have taken what room there might have been.   She really loved him and was deeply committed to him, overlooking unfathomable hurt.  Well, there I go again but how do you write a biography and leave out both sides?  Maybe I should call this her “unauthorized” biography.

In spite of her struggles, good intentions and premature death, I can honestly say she enjoyed life, was generally happy, loved deeply and was deeply loved, and had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  At her passing, she was survived by her husband, five children, 14 grandchildren and her brother in Idaho.

P.s.  The above was written mostly from memory.  Additions and corrections are welcome.  Well, mostly welcome.  – Love Dave