The eight of swords is a card about an inner struggle to choose. The struggle lives in the indecision and feeling of "you're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't." Situations, events and exchanges are likely overanalyzed because we're in a funk and that negativity and aloofness have festered into a supersized bowl of indecision. Yet, thinkity thoughts evolve thinkity thunks after the crying spells won't stop, the meds don't feel like they're helping at all, and loneliness creeps in. I personally was going through such a funk which contaminated every facet of my life. My one year relationship and engagement was over. He was out of the picture, and from the looks of things he had also scammed me out of one-half my insurance money. I felt lonely and spent. Winter somersaulted its way into December, bringing with it a season's worth of cold and snowy days with temperatures and wind chills in the negatives, one day as low as -37 (thankfully that was on the morning I left Denver International Airport (DIA). I packed up my apartment by myself because I thought I could do it. I really wanted to believe that I could do it. And I could have done it all, hands down, in less than 24 hours, but that was more than 365 days ago, before the motorcycle accident that forever changed my life. So at this point, with the full effect of the eight of swords, some methadone and gabapentin to ease-up the nerve pain, a glass or two here and there of Malbec, and friends and family far away who offered their support and encouragement, I could not wait to leave behind this apartment where I resided for five-and-one-half months. My ex Johnnie did an astounding job of "Go on take the money and run." Steve Miller must have met the Johnnie Fortune type at some point. It's funny to realize that I can describe most of the last 12 months after my SCI with lyrics from The Steve Miller Band.
"Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'
Into the future
I want to fly like an eagle
To the sea
Fly like an eagle
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like an eagle
Till I'm free
Oh, Lord, through the revolution...."
But I digress a bit as the jukebox in my head takes over, and momentarily releases my mind from the nerve pain and deposits my brain into a late 70s VW radio.... In my current state, I was at my whit's end. I creatively determined and calculated how I could spend the last few months of my life before I checked out and died. My doctor, I felt, was just as frustrated and numb to my harassing pain as was I. "What do you want me to tell you, Margarita?" I felt like I kept hearing the same words over and again. I did not want additional surgery. I did not want a referral to see a pain management clinic. I want to walk; I want to feel good again and pain free.
Instead I got, "Well you're one year post-injury, and you've come a long way! You've been through a lot this year: five surgeries, a two-month hospital stay in a third-world country, battling and beating a parasitic relationship with Johnnie, beating MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus - aka "skin-eating disease")..... Margarita, give yourself a break. You're a sweetheart and we're gonna get you through this, okay? It hurts me to see you down on yourself like this." Angry sigh. Somehow - duh - I knew all this, but it didn't make my current depression and apathy any better. I just needed to leave Denver. Now. Possibly for a little while. Possibly forever. I desired sun and warmer weather. I wanted to see familiar faces. I wanted to shake my tailfeather with friends. I wanted to sun myself at the beach. I wanted Steve's Pizza. I wanted to journey home.
And so with a heavy heart, and two very heavy suitcases (110# each), me and Montana boarded nonstop flight 284 from Denver to Miami on my favorite auntie's 69th birthday. Coming home to Miami, I expected warmer weather, sunshine, and feel-good reunions with family, friends, and former colleagues. Before I left Denver, I told myself I would follow my path, whatever it may look like as long as it felt right and stars aligned, opening up paths, and making those openings sparkle with synchronicity.
My aunt Selma is my second mother. She was my mother's favorite sister, my Confirmation godmother, and a constant presence in my household growing up. After my mom died, we became closer, and she very graciously offered help. I knew that staying in her Aventura condo, I would be well-fed, doted over, and loved. I knew I would probably get sick of it at some point, but until then I needed it. When she picked me up from the airport, she was dressed to the nines in a pretty linen lime skirt and white eyelet shirt. "Oh it's cold, mi amor, but I wanted to look good when you got here. What do you think?" I gave her the biggest birthday hug I could muster after 40 hours of no sleep. "Te vez muy bonita, toda una quinceañera." It's true. She could have easily passed for a younger woman.... Perhaps "15" was a stretch, but women in my family are blessed with strong beautiful age-defying genes. Tia looked like a cuter version of Shirley Temple as a girl. She still looked good with her stylish hair, delicate features, and fairy like figure.
Thank heavens for my angelic aunt because I was trying my best to keep myself looking put together, and the delicate veil of a smile was starting to tear. I found out one of my colossal suitcases was in Delta suitcase limbo land. Broken rule #1: do not check your medical equipment! This was my new blue suitcase, the one with my meds, extra catheters, and most favorite pair of comfortable leggings all of which were calling me. Now that we landed in the tropics, the temperature soared more than 100 degrees higher than Denver's arctic blast just six hours ago. My body began to ache, and the acrylic tights and legwarmers that kept my lower body toasty warm in Denver felt claustrophobic and itchy in this warm winter climate. It was time to learn from my mistakes. I tried justifying it out loud and blamed the lost luggage and my lack of detail to this particular problem on my lack of sleep, but I became more upset with myself, and so I stopped. Hunger, pain, and about 327 emoticons flashed through my head as I reviewed my feelings over the last 60 hours. Right now it was time to settle in, and relax.
On our ride home Tia told me about a neighbor who offered to carry me up the stairs to her second-story apartment. Normally I would have declined it, or fought tooth and nail to receive any kind of help. (I can't help it, my Aries moon kicks me in the butt all the time.) During my last trip to Miami I was 10 pounds heavier, and had more energy. This time I felt TIRED, worn out after packing and moving, stress, arguing, and that unavoidable unnerving nerve pain that was taking away my desire to live. Recalcitrant is what comes to mind when I think about my approach to receiving an innocent lift, despite my need, and despite the source. This time around, as we pulled into her gated community I could barely keep my eyes open, and actually welcomed this stranger's help open-arms.
The neighbor, David, seemed friendly, fun and funny. His presence was a distraction, and he impressed me with his openness to help. We bonded after hours of conversation the first night as I told him about my depression and anguish due to my physical pain and feeling of restriction. Perhaps to help ease my duress, he recommended a highly unconventional doctor, a Dr. A who worked with a combination of Chinese herbal medicine, acupuncture, and energy healing in North Miami Beach. After several conversations with both him and his wife who was also a patient, I felt convinced seeing this doc was worth a try. I called his office that afternoon, and made an appointment for the following Tuesday. David offered to give me a ride.
Dr. A was friendly and more social than most practitioners I have met. He sat in the waiting area with us, while I gave him background on the accident. He seemed to listen well. When I described my recent, very unpleasant acupuncture visit with another acupuncturist that resulted in temporary paralysis of my left arm, he appeared to understand the event very well, and he explained it to me using words like “energy blockages,” “chi” and “meridians.” Immediately I felt comfortable with this very unorthodox practitioner. His working space exuded peace, serenity and comfort with its Oriental decorations, mood lighting, and soothing music.
Dr. A assisted me to his table from my wheelchair. My heart raced as I realized I would likely be pricked with at least a couple dozen needles. I wanted and needed a good experience, so I trusted my gut which was telling me I would be okay.
He spoke with confidence. He appeared well-versed in what he was doing, and I consistently felt comfortable with each needle pack he opened, and each stick I felt in my body. I liked and felt comfort in the fact that he actively spoke and described what he was doing before he did it. He also discussed the possible side effects, including increase or decrease in movement, sensation and pain. Dr. A thought my energy was blocked at my right quadriceps, in the area where I felt my nerve pain. It made sense to me, so I didn’t think twice when he said he was going to perform a blood-letting procedure. Honestly, one year ago, I would have likely said no, or tried the procedure with a good chance of passing out. However, after five surgeries, seven blood transfusions, and seven-and-one-half months of hospitalization at two different hospitals, one of which was in a third-world country, I instinctively knew I was in good healing hands.
The blood-letting procedure involved him poking the affected area, which was my outer right quadricepts, four or five times, then positioning a clear glass cup over the area, and tightening the grip of the glass onto skin. I watched in awe, somewhat emotionally numb.
Weeks before I had given up hope about my progress. I had a real heart-to-heart with myself, and at the age of 34, I was just tired of feeling sick, tired of going to medical visits, only to hear solutions phrased through pain management clinics, thus more medication, and eventually additional numerous painful surgeries. I refused all of it to the point my spinal cord injury doctor told me I was being “neglectful” of my health. So mote it be. From this point forward I was going to work myself through or out of this peril situation, whatever that took, and yes, I was considering dying. Before the accident, I lived a fabulous and fun 33 years. I enjoyed myself more than most, and lived with few regrets. It would be untrue for me to say I regretted surviving the accident, but it would be an understatement to say that I was tolerating the pain and enjoying this new lifestyle of using a wheelchair and having incomplete paralysis. Living with the nerve pain daily was debilitating and made me think about dying a lot. I refused to allow myself to become a sickly, ugly, dependent, angry, wheelchair-bound jerk. I was either going to get through this and overcome, or I would give up.
Honestly, I figured that if the number one center for spinal cord injury in the United States failed to inspire me, and depleted me entirely of hope, I had a chance of regaining a sense of hope through very unorthodox means, such as this one. As the blood-letting procedure provided pain relief, I focused on my intention which was to feel good. I swear that aside from Dr. A and I, there was a spirit of hope and enthusiasm in that quaint office, and that spirit took fire and spun around inside us both. He walked down the hall for a few seconds, and I could hear him tell a colleague, “Boy am I having fun. Woooooohooooo!” I relaxed further and smiled internally, as I realized Dr. A was enjoying the challenge of working with a T12-level incomplete paraplegic, one-year post injury.
I was no longer just another SCI (spinal cord injury) patient, but right here, right now, I knew his enthusiasm and happiness were transmuting themselves into positive healing energy and caring about my well-being. I lost count of the number of needles, but I recall the first time he said, “Ok, dear, now try picking up your right leg.” I lifted my right leg normally; however, this time instead of it doing its typical criss-cross to the left, I picked up my right leg, extending my knee and toes with confidence and added strength! For the first time since before the accident, my leg lifted straight up and down! My leg and foot raised about a foot off the medical bed, and then….. more. And there it was, I found hope. Hope, joy and pure unadulterated happiness knocked the numbness out of me, and I began to sob the happiest tears I felt since 01/27/10, the day of the motorcycle accident.
“Doctor, you changed my life today,” I told him. “Well that’s great,” he responded. “Quite possibly you’ll change mine as well.” I told him this was the first time I felt hope and joy in more than a year. By this point – about 15 minutes into treatment – my right leg swung openly up and over to the right. I was unable to contain my tears, and I felt tremendous gratitude. This eccentric doctor reciprocated the hope and faith I placed in him, into himself and my treatment. We manifested a miracle!
He placed several other needle and shook ‘em around, some of them “three inches deep” into my toes. Considering the fact that prior to this session, I felt numbness and a complete disconnect from my knees down on the both legs, I felt ecstatic that I was feeling something, my toes wiggling, the thin needles being pumped up and down into my toes, the soft plushness of the white towel underneath me.... All of this felt quite literally incredible! The tears continued to bounce off my cheekbones. Usually I would be concerned with my physical appearance, but on this day, I realized I was being given the best present I could possibly receive. And that is hope. He asked me to raise my left leg, which responded a bit slower than the right leg. My left knee pushed off the table upwards, achieving about six inches of height. The left ankle still wobbled and dragged behind, but I could feel my toes for the first time in more than a year! And my feet felt alive again. My soles were buzzing with wonderful circuitry. For the first time in more than a year, I felt whole again! The nerve pain which plagued me since the motorcycle accident dissipated, and I felt my left leg again. Dr. A asked me to raise each leg one at a time. I responded by first raising my right leg straight up in the air, over to my face, and past my right ear. Obviously my 17 years of active yoga practice had not gone awry, and I continued to be hyperflexible. My left leg also responded well, allowing me to raise my knees up to my chest, and I could touch my toes with my hands without having to try hard. Awesome!
I wasn’t the only one in the room smiling. Dr. A grinned ear-to-ear. He called in several colleagues, and showed them my new tricks and capacities. After the session, and for the first time since the accident, I could literally feel the textures underneath my calves, my feet, and my soles. The soles of my feet continued to buzz as I slipped on my silver Sketchers, and sat up.
Written in gratitude on February 10, 2011
Margarita Verano, M.A., M.S.
