Mind Body Mama: Updates and Shout Outs

On the injury front

This morning I had Mimi, the masochist's massage therapist, work on my shoulder. I recommend Mimi most highly; she is a crucial member of Team Lynne Marie, the various body-workers and healers who keep my dilapidated body viable. Her treatments are incredibly effective, if not entirely enjoyable.

To get a taste of what I went through, dig your index finger in above your collarbone and pinch with your thumb from underneath. Continue to pinch yourself as hard as you can for the next hour. Take a few breaks from the pinching to poke yourself in the throat.

As a result of this therapy, once again, I am a hurtin’ pup. I’ve worked with Mimi enough to know that this is a good sign, but in the short term I’m all tingly hands and aching chest again. So I’m going to keep this post brief and give a few updates and shout-outs.

With the exception of Mimi and Dr. Pat—the core members of Team Lynne Marie—and Dr. Henre—the emergency pinch hitter who kept me from going mad with pain before I could reach Dr. Pat— no one really understands or believes the cause of this injury. This is the incredible, true story:

Once upon a time, when I was pregnant, I ate a bowl of soup at the Greenfield Coop. While lifting a spoonful of cream-of-carrot to my lips, something in my right shoulder shifted. Suddenly, I could not turn my head. Subsequently, I have reinjured something on the right side every year or so: a pulled latissimus, an inability to turn my head, a rearrangement of my ribs.

I received brilliant physical therapy for this syndrome from the crazy geniuses at Advance Therapeutics (the final third of Team Lynne Marie.) And when the pain finally went away, I stopped doing my exercises. And even when the pain started threatening to return, I did not do my exercises. And when I noticed activities that exacerbated the pain, such as typing, I neither curtailed the activity nor did my exercises. And when my arm and chest began aching from a marathon weekend of typing, not only did I not do my exercises, I taught karate and did several hundred punches. And somewhere in those hundred punches one of my ribs decided that enough was enough, and it started stabbing me from the inside to get my attention.

There you have the recipe for pain and suffering: underlying cause, coupled with stupidity, denial and lack of self care. Voila!

I recently ran into my old training buddy Seamus and updated her on my benched status.

“How did you get this injury again?” she asked.

“Typing.” I said.

For this I got a long look of silent pity and deep skepticism. Finally,

“Typing? Aren’t you tougher than that? I mean, I’ve kicked you and you seemed a lot tougher than that.”

The women in my Wednesday muscle conditioning class say I need to make up a better story. Something that involves slaying bad guys and rescuing old ladies where I come off really heroic. Not like someone who is bested by keyboards and soup spoons.

Wish I thought of it first

I wish there was an award for the best use of fitness jargon so I could nominate Kara at Mama Sweat for the term she coined this week: kegel fartlek. Even—or maybe especially—if you don’t know what either of those words mean, you have to admit they sound fantastic together. Read them out loud: kegel fartlek. Say it three times fast. Say it to your sweet darling, just to make him or her giggle. Then read Kara’s post on kegel exercises and send it to all the postpartum mamas you know.


Excellence in teaching

I set a pretty high bar for teachers. I demand a lot more than knowledge of their subject matter—though I do expect that too. I want a teacher who walks with her students, who is present to their inquiry and discovery, who nurtures the teacher within each student and fosters a community of learners. I am thrilled to say that I am receiving this and so much more from my new writing teacher, the incomparable Kate Hopper. I expect every one of you to run out and buy her book when it comes out. (If you’re wondering how you’ll know when her book comes out, don’t worry—I’ll let you know.) Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll come out to our coast for a book tour.

Since my keyboard time is rationed tonight I want to close by sharing a character sketch of Charlie Dada—my father, otherwise known as Grampy. I wrote it for Kate’s class and it filled me with fondness for the old guy:

"My father reads at the picnic table on the porch after dinner. He sits on the bench, leaning against the plastic-coated tablecloth, in a pool of light from a cheap white overhead fixture. His ashtray rests to his right, cigarette smoke curling towards the light and pooling around him. Across the dark yard, behind the stand of evergreens, the highway speeds through. The constant roar is like the ocean in a shell, dull and unchanging. The cars’ tiny headlights fly through the night and flicker through his trees.

The New York Times is piled on the bench beside him. His book is open in his hands. He is too big for the table, the bench, but his body is at ease in its bulk. His head nearly reaches the light. His legs are stretched out, ankles folded under the table legs. He never really has enough room for them so he’s not uncomfortable here. His hands are enormous and dark and scarred, his fingernails permanently stained from engine grease and diesel oil. He is completely still but for turning the pages, lifting the cigarette to his mouth and laying it down again."