The Pilgrim by David Molina

                                            

                                                        The Pilgrim

I was dog tired, the end not only of a long day but also of a long “vacation.” It is hard for me to call it one because it was a whirlwind of activity racing from museum to point of interest to historical monument to everything possible during my ten days in Europe. I slumped into a window seat of my 17-hour transatlantic flight in the last row of the plane, hoping there would be vacant seats to be able to sprawl out and get some sleep. 

I soon learned that it was a full flight when two gentlemen piled in next to me. They were solo travelers like me. I feigned sleeping already before the plane was to take off, cradling my head in my sweater in the corner of the bulwark and window.  I tried my best to tune out their conversation, but could not help hearing them exchange names and destinations - all of which I immediately forgot figuring there was nothing in it for me.

Once airborne, I perceived two different voices talking together. The voice closest to me was soft and slow. The farthest was louder and spoke more animatedly and loudly. 

Before I could doze off the loud one was rattling off all the sights he had seen.

The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, Latin Quarter, Notre Dame, Versailles. He sounded like me. In fact, his list of a dozen matched mine to a one. Then he ranted about the expensive restaurants, the stuffy waiters, the crowded metro, and the rude shopkeepers. In fact, this list matched mine as well. As much as we matched, I began to hate him. Just shut up so I can get some sleep.

Before I could doze off I heard the softer voice next to me say something that pricked my ear. “I spent two months bicycling.” The louder voice cut in and cursed the annoyingly rude bicyclists who got in his path and slowed the traffic. That was the last I heard before I fell fast asleep.

Midway between Europe and North America I stirred, stiff with a kink in my neck. That’s just great.  I sat up and noticed the loudmouth was snoring, but the passenger right next to me, the bicyclist, was wide awake. I groaned loudly as I sat up, turning by neck side to side.

“Sternocleidomastoid,” he proffered, then he added, “Put pressure like this…” demonstrating two fingers on his own neck…” and turn your head up and to the right, like this.”

Still groggy and aching, I did what he said.  “Keep it up for a minute or two, then stretch like this.”

I did as instructed and in a short time, I was feeling much better. “Thanks, Doc,” I offered my hand, and he shook it. “How much do I owe you?” He laughed. “Not a Doc. But you can tell me about your trip.” He leaned forward in anticipation.

I was ashamed to tell him that I ran from every same old boring tourist attraction that everyone and his brother-in-law did, like the boring piece of shit snoring next to me. I was certain I didn’t want to drone on about it any more than he already had.

“Did I hear you spent two months bicycling?”

“Yes.”

“Tour du France?”

He chuckled. “Not the kind of tour you’re thinking of. But yes, I toured France. Slowly.”

“Why would you want to do that? Riding a bike for two months… slowly. Sounds boring.”

He looked up at me, with a bemused, quizzical look…as if to say ‘What planet did you come from?’

I looked up at him with my similarly disposed mug. I felt the disconnect, but at the same time one that felt much better than the hellish one-upmanship with my boorish bore on my right.

“Why?” I asked. 

“A bike connects me to the ground. Also to the sky, and to the weather, and to the movement of the sun. It slows time, and gives me space.”

“Space for what?”

“The cycle path makes space for everything. Space for meaning, space for purpose.”

“Did I hear you say cyclo-path… as in ‘whack-a-doodle?”

“Yes,” he chuckled, “that’s me, I suppose.”

“No disrespect, Doc.”

“None intended, I am sure. Monsieur Whack-a-Doodle has a real ring to it, and I am privileged to be held in such high regard.”

I was not certain whether or not he was mocking me. I probably deserved it. I could have just let it go, turned away, and pretended to go back to sleep. But something was bugging me. I was not so sure it was him.

“You know, Doc, that I did Europe in 10 days.”

“And…?”

“C’est tout.”

“Well…yes then you are done.”

I got poked, wondering whether he meant to say what I knew I felt …or not. Before I could decide, he spoke.

“Riding a bike is slow, but a good kind of slow—for me at least. It gives me time instead takes my time. People react very differently to a person on a bike than a person on a tourist bus. Particularly in Europe, especially in France.”

“I found them a nuisance.”

“That is your choice. I started at Normandy and spent a week riding on the bluffs of Omaha Beach, and the surrounding countryside. I almost got stuck in Mont St. Michel as the tide began rolling in. I avoided the tourist buses and the large groups. The French were, to a one, gracious and welcoming. My guess is that upon seeing me pedaling with my panniers full of gear, although a stranger, I was no threat. They saw me as another human making his way, slowly, respectfully honoring the fallen. I remember a conversation in the Allied soldier’s cemetery with an older French gentleman, Jean Claude St. Marie. He was graciously patient with my broken French. Before we parted, he thanked me and the brave Americans who gave their lives to aid his country. I can’t tell you how many farmers offered to share a meal with me, or a camping place in their barn. My time in Normandy was a pilgrimage, not only a chance to honor the heroes, but a quiet, slow meditation.”

He paused as if to see if I was still tracking his story. He could see I was following what he said. He continued, as though he could read my mind.

“The difference between a tourist and a pilgrim, you may wonder? One is chasing sensations, which quickly disappear, only to require more sensations, and more again. It becomes the tourist’s dopamine hit, an addiction. The pilgrim is not searching for sensation. He is searching for meaning. Searching with respect…” 

He allowed the word to hang in the air for enough time for me to get the message. Then, after the pause, he finished. “It takes time. It goes slowly. But it can lead you to a better path.”

A year later, when vacation time came, it was a whole lot different.

The Soul Moves First by Mike Freeman

 The Soul Moves First

Your life is experiencing a wild and radical change entering the 21st floor of the Shirley Ryan Ability Lab (SRAL) in Chicago. You either were just shot, fell down a ladder or stairs, in a horrible car or motorcycle accident, or suffered a significant injury diving into a pool or body of water. Whatever the means, you have a significant spinal cord injury.

I fell down some stairs while hiking with my dogs crushing my C3 vertebrae. I am paralyzed from the shoulders down and breathing on a ventilator, celebrating being able to move a few toes on my left foot. Hopefully, this is the beginning of a long and complete healing process where I can learn to walk and function as a normal person again.

Some doctors from the intensive care unit I just arrived from opined there was little chance I would progress from where I currently exist. Others would not predict my future. Anxiety about my unknown future runs rampant as I look for hope and certainty of recovery.

Rolling into the Shirley Ryan Ability Lab front lobby I notice the words "The Soul Moves First" painted on the wall in bright colors.

"What does that mean?" I wonder.

The next day, I tell my new physical therapists (PT), Collen and Mollie, about my recovery goals of walking, being self-sufficient, playing the piano, traveling, etc.

I hear the words, "Those are reasonable." for the first time. 

My soul quickens.

I think, "I'll be back to normal by the time I leave this place."

Over time, I learn an important lesson in my soul-moving experience. Listen closely to what people say and to what they don't say. They never said I would be normal at the end of my visit. They said it was a reasonable expectation to achieve those goals but never provided a timeline.

I learn one facet of the soul moving first is that a soul keeps moving. It is more a process than an event. They move my soul with the energy and creativity they bring to my recovery effort every day.

One day, with too much joy, Collen and Mollie roll a tilt board into my room. I have never seen one of these contraptions and look suspiciously at it. They strap me to it in a perfectly horizontal position. Then their fun begins. They start tilting the board vertically more and more, measuring my blood pressure along the way.

"Are you dizzy yet?" They ask.

"Feeling strong!" I reply in a shaky voice.

They continue to move me towards a completely vertical position with the tilt board and straps holding me up. I am getting more excited as I approach a full-standing position for the first time in over 42 bed-ridden days.

I focus on the details of a skyscraper that is outside my window. The details are starting to get blurry as I get more vertical.

"Are you getting dizzy yet?" They ask.

"No." I lie.

I am too excited to stop now even though the chances of me throwing up are growing exponentially with each adjustment upwards. They are moving my soul.

"I am getting close to standing with help now," I think," but soon I'll be standing with no help."

Unfortunately, the blood pressure machine tells them the truth and so they begin to tilt me back to a more horizontal position. I am the only person in the room thinking I am fooling anybody.

The next few days, they help me achieve the goal of standing vertically on the tilt board. Their wisdom, energy, and enthusiasm for helping me progress are contagious. My soul is moving and now my body is beginning to follow it.

A few days later, I am slumping over on the edge of a mat in the large public workout area. Collen and Mollie share a crazed look, no words are spoken. I am learning this may not necessarily be a good thing. Mollie grabs a walker and they use it to see if I can stand! This is lunacy. A week ago, I could barely wiggle a few toes on my left foot.

"Are you getting dizzy?" They ask.

"No!" I lie in my excitement.

Once again, I am the only person in the room that thinks I'm fooling anybody. Even with their help, I fail at the attempt. But the seeds of success are being sown. Hope is instilled, and progress is being made!

The severity of my injury and the complexity of recovering from it begin to settle in. Hope is a struggle. Collen sees this and begins a crazy conspiracy. She enlists a few other PTs, a nurse, and Karen, one of my respiratory therapists (RT). Their goal is the impossible. They want me to walk on the two-month anniversary of my fall.

I am only able to breathe with the aid of a ventilator. No one can walk harnessed on a treadmill breathing this way. It's never been done.

This is not a problem for Karen. Somehow she finds a tube that fits my ventilator equipment perfectly extending its range so I can stand a short distance from it and breathe. On that special day that I don't think is worth celebrating, this crowd of volunteers surrounds me lifting me from my bed into a wheelchair.

I roll into the main gym area breathing through my ventilator amongst a parade of people helping me. Several of them assist me out of the wheelchair and into the harness of a treadmill machine. I connect to my ventilator using Karen's ingenious modification. The treadmill starts.

Two months to the day of my original fall, I am walking on a treadmill assisted by a PT on each leg while being encouraged by several others. This is doing the impossible…walking in an upright position… against all odds… while on a ventilator… never been done before! Let some of those nay-saying intensive care doctors see me now. My soul is soaring! Andrew and Lucy video this incredible moment for my future use to inspire myself and others.

I struggle sleeping at night while on the ventilator due to congestion gathering in my throat causing a growing gurgling with each breath. This requires me to be suctioned with a small plastic tube to clear phlegm out so that I can breathe easily again. Mike, one of my respiratory therapists, visits me at night to help me out.

We talk about old TV shows and before we know it we are singing the "Gilligan's Island" tune amongst many other golden oldies. We finish with a rousing rendition of "Hey, Hey, We Are The Monkeys." I go back to sleep but my wife in the adjacent room is now awake wondering what is happening. She has a much harder time falling back to sleep than I do.

Another night a young nurse wakes me up taking a blood sample. She is quietly humming and singing and is pleasant to listen to so I do not mind being awake. I am not sure my exhausted sleeping wife in the adjacent room agrees. I ask her about her singing talent and she shares that she is a member of a Church choir. She asks me if she can sing a song she feels God is leading her to sing.

"Absolutely!" I say.

Her stunning voice fills our room with a soft, rich melodious song of love. I fill up for another day of adventure and struggle. This one time my wife goes back to sleep soundly.

I quickly became strong friends with my evening nurses as they came into my room to turn me every two hours to prevent bedsores. They also assist with other activities as needed. During their visits, we talk about our lives, future dreams, various sports teams, whatever, much to the delight of my exhausted, sleepless wife who is becoming more grumpy in the adjacent room.

On one middle-of-the-night visit, two male nurses and I were talking while I needed help with a certain "biological process." Noises erupt from my body. Noise typically not shared in public or elevators. Being an all-male audience, the adult conversation quickly degenerated into an early grade school mentality. We started dedicating various eruptions to people in our lives. We find this hilarious! My exhausted, sleepless wife who is becoming more grumpy in her desperate search for rest in the adjacent room isn't laughing.

Kelly, one of my occupational therapists (OT), diligently works with me to regain my arm and hand function. I am becoming frustrated as they refuse to progress like the rest of my body. Hope regarding their recovery is evaporating with each passing day.

I sense Kelley becoming frustrated. In one session I am fumbling with a fork trying to stab some fruit without success. I cannot even hold the fork without her assistance. I start going down a doom loop of despair. She does not.

She stands up and quickly disappears around the corner for a few minutes. I see her coming back rolling an odd contraption labeled Saebo. She quickly moves it up next to me and attaches my left arm. She begins making adjustments so that it helps balance my arm and assists with movement. What the hell is she up to I wonder?

She places a fork in my left hand, calmly looks directly into my eyes, and says "Eat."

Refusing to do so does not seem like an option at this moment. With the apparatus's help, I stab a piece of fruit, lift it to my mouth, and enjoy its sweet delicious taste. Wow! I have not been able to feed myself since my fall a few months ago. Now at the dinner table, I will not only give thanks for the food we are about to eat but also for the ability to feed it to myself.

As our session ends, I get ready to go to my room to share this breakthrough with my wife, DeeAnn. Kelly is supposed to take her break now but refuses. She rolls me and the Saebo device back to my room, reconnects me to it, puts the food in front of me, and says "Eat."

I am not sure which I enjoy more, the taste of the sumptuous fruit or the look of sheer shock and joy on DeeAnn's face. With one unselfish act Kelly has moved two souls in one day!

One day, I notice Edie, a woman with curly hair pushing a cart full of art supplies down the hall. We start talking and she asks me if I am interested in art therapy. I have no idea what that is.

I agree to do it anyway. We set an appointment for the next day.

"Are you ready to paint?" She asks me the next day.

I'm not sure if she's noticed I'm a quadriplegic barely able to get around in a power wheelchair yet and have no idea where this is going.

"How do you propose I do that?" I ask with a mixture of sincerity and sarcasm.

I try to wiggle my paralyzed arms in support of my question.

"You paint holding the brush with your mouth." She says.

Well, that's one way to shut me up I think.

She wraps a nurse's glove around her brush using a rubber band and sticks it in my mouth. Clinching the brush in my teeth I tip my head forward putting the brush into some color paint she is holding on a pallet for me and start to brush a few strokes on some paper in front of me.

After several minutes and colors, my Rembrandt is finished. She asks me what I was thinking while I created the painting. I make up a magnificent story about how there is a bright light in my heart-fighting darkness around it. I was rather impressed with it and she received my story positively. We set another appointment.

The next time we meet she asks, "Have you ever drawn a picture mouth-sticking a pencil?"

I haven't chewed on a pencil since early grade school I think.

"No," I reply.

"What are you going to draw?" She asks me as she sticks a glove-wrapped charcoal pencil into my mouth.

I contemplate a reply to mumble back to her.

A square, I think. Very boring. How about a tree? That could get complex pretty quickly I guess. I am getting desperate for inspiration on what to draw.

I think of my next-door neighbor Ryan. He has a unique curly cue mustache, serious eyebrows, and a distinct look. I will draw a cartoon caricature of my neighbor Ryan, I decide.

This will be the dumbest thing I've ever attempted I think. Anticipating failure, I decide I have to make up another incredulous story about whatever it is when completed.

Pencil to the paper I begin—first, the mustache. Several jerky curly cue strokes later I start to work on the eyes, then the hair, and finally the rest of his unique face. I roll back from my masterpiece.

"That is incredible," She says." What is it?"

The proper question I think is "Who is it?"

"It is my neighbor, Ryan," I say, ready to make up my story if necessary.

The carefully crafted mustache I created does not lead to the immediate identity of the subject.

"Let's show it to him," she says.

We do and Ryan loves it. He will frame it and keep it on his desk at work when he returns. Others asked me to draw their caricatures. As I do, my soul soars as I enjoy the fun and recognition of discovering a new talent.

One night I meet Sonia, a crazy Brazilian from Rio de Janeiro. She is an RT who is going to help me get off the ventilator. She is well respected, even the doctors confer with her about how to best proceed. My doctor describes his plan for going forward and leaves the room. Sonia then proceeds with her different plan.

I have tried to get off the ventilator once before and it was a trying experience. I later caught pneumonia and had to return to the ventilator for a season. I share some of my concerns from my last experience transitioning from a ventilator to Sonia and she smiles and tells me not to worry about a thing. We are going to do it her way. We will be successful!

Sonia and I begin this great new adventure. As she starts to do things her way, I find being mischievous with her, so to speak, is fun and makes it easier. The doctor wants me to take it slow meaning we add one additional hour off the ventilator after a few days at one particular level. I am having great success and Sonya says we are accelerating her plan. We go for two hours the next day. Three hours a day after that. Four hours the following day. Six hours a day after that.

My doctor comes in for a visit to see how I am progressing. He is standing at the foot of my bed. While I'm talking to him the valve from my tracheotomy shoots out from my throat, flies across the entire length of the bed, and almost hits him in the chest. He is impressed! From now on we are doing things Sonya's way with the doctor's blessing and encouragement. Due to the encouragement of Sonya and so many others, I got off the ventilator faster than anyone expected. My soul soars higher!

Kate, one of my PTs, has a reputation for working with patients very hard and with success. She is all bark and all bite in her loving, caring, and sharing way. She is working to get me up out of the chair and walking.

Each training session I use a walker to navigate an indoor track supported by an overhead harness. As I improve my distance walking she adjusts the harness for me to carry more of my weight. After many training sessions, we are ready for my big test to show my progress. The only problem is that my test date is the first day of Kate's weeklong vacation. We are both brokenhearted that she cannot be with me to participate in my anticipated test success story.,

Kate turns to me and says," Don't worry about it."

I'm not sure what she means.

On my test date, Kate comes in on the way to the airport, and does the test with me! With her encouragement, I smashed my old personal record in distance walking.

We quickly celebrate together and she dases out the door to the airport. What kind of person does this? A soul mover does!

Matt and Kristin, two PTs, help me into an exoskeleton that allows me to walk without being attached to a harness or any other device. This allows me the freedom to roam the halls, ride the elevator, and visit my room where my exhausted, sleepless wife grows less grumpy as she rests during my workouts. Walking up to her in my exoskeleton and seeing the surprise, joy, and pure elation on her face stirs my heart as I burst into laughing. I am walking to my bride and the hope in us shines brightly. My wife becomes the cheerleader she always is, jumping up and down with glee!

I often wonder how we can change the world for the better. I do not know the complete answer but I find the beginning of it is using the example of all the people at Shirley Ryan Ability Lab.

They say God shows himself when we experience truth, beauty, and/or kindness. I continue to experience all three with these wonderful people. Let's join them in being soul movers by bringing truth, beauty, and kindness into the lives of those around us!

The comeback

The comeback

by Ricki T Thues 

Dick Desoto is walking through the woods behind his summer cabin in the mountains above Idyllwild. It is March, yet there is still an occasional crunch of icy snow under his military hiking boots.

The trail is narrow, edged with boulders and Manzanita. Dick enters a clearing and shuffles through a bed of leaves. A twig cracks a few feet away. He comes to a sudden stop. Disturbing the silence is a rustling sound. Dick’s hand reaches back to the handle of his police-issue Glock 22 and pulls it smoothly from the holster. A bush across the clearing moves as a doe leaps in front of him, followed by her fawn. Dick lets out a breath and relaxes, holstering his gun.

“A little twitchy?” he says aloud, reflecting on the murder case he had been investigating all last week. The case involved drug smugglers in Riverside. They were dangerous members of Casa Blanca Crips, CBCs. Dick and his team had busted a CB scheme to smuggle fentanyl into the Riverside County jail. The case had broken open when an internal beef between gang members had ended in the murder of one of their own. Dick and his partner investigated the murder and raided their hideout. The raid devolved into a shootout. When it was over, three gang members were dead on the floor. Some escaped out the back while others were being handcuffed.

Dick inhales deeply and continues down the path, back to his cabin.

He steps up to the porch taking in the bench swing, a firewood rack and his favorite rocker. He loves to sit and drink a cold one in that chair, watching for wildlife. Maybe he would see the doe tonight. He’d have a word or two for her. Then he notices the front door is ajar. Again he reaches for his gun. He leans toward the door and slowly eases it open. A much too loud creak comes from the hinges. Leading with his gun Dick yells, “Riverside PD!” The living room is clear. It is upended. Sofa pillows are on the floor. Drawers are emptied. Cabinet doors are open. He proceeds to the kitchen. Clear. Then on to the bedroom. Clear. The bedroom is trashed as well. Nothing is missing, but someone either was looking for something or sending Dick a message.

He flips open his phone and speed-dials his partner.

“Will? Desoto. My cabin has been tossed.”

“Who ya think did it?”

“Don’t know, but they didn’t take anything.”

“I’ll tell the captain. Be there in 40.”

“Get them to send CSI. I’ll get started looking for clues.”

Dick hangs up and surveys his ransacked cabin. Then he is struck by the quiet. Where is Bo? His long-time dog and faithful collie is missing. He runs to the back door. It is partly open. He almost trips over Bo’s outstretched body. He looks asleep, the lazy mutt. But Dick sees blood on Bo’s ear. The dog is shot. He’s dead. Dick kneels next to his dog and cries.

Two hours later Dick and Will are standing in the cabin talking to the medical examiner.

“Bo was shot with a .45, probably a Colt. I will get him down to the morgue and we will know more.”

Will says, “Isn’t that the caliber that killed the CB in our drug case?”

“You think this is a revenge hit?” asks Dick.

“Wouldn’t put it past the scum.”

The next day Dick is at CSI in the Riverside station. Chief investigator Henderson has a .45 slug in an evidence bag.

“Same gun that shot Jose last week. You’d better watch your ass Dick.”

Dick and Will are in the conference room reviewing the case file of last week’s drug bust. The investigation had uncovered a few hangouts for the CBs. The gang is CBC 7400, so the most likely place to find them is on the 7400 block of Lincoln Avenue in the City of Riverside. It is almost guaranteed to find CB members in the Lincoln Apartments in the 7500 block. Will has a confidential informant in that area. He calls him up.

In Spanish: “Yo, what’s up? Heard about the cop’s dog got shot at the pacheco cabin?

“The CBs done it for the comeback.”

“Who done it?”

“Creeper. Two floors, L for Lincoln.”

“Bueno.”

“Second floor, building L in the Lincoln Apartments,” Will says to Dick.

Dick bites his lip, narrows his eyes and grumbles angrily, “Let’s get the ass hole for Bo.”

They decide to bring Creeper in themselves. Will pulls the rap sheet on Creeper. It is a long list of charges, busts, convictions and jail time. The picture in the file shows a tall man who has seen very hard times. Scars crisscross his face. Creeper looks familiar. Dick thinks that he saw him last week at the shootout.

Both men dress for this undercover arrest. Dick looks in the mirror. He owes his dark skin to a Hispanic heritage. The fake mustache, black hair and San Francisco 49ers ball cap will allow him to fade into the CBC neighborhood. The “SF” logo on the cap labels him as Seven Four (7400 block).

Dick and Will check out a beat-up Chevy Impala from the motor pool. Lincoln Avenue is only 2.5 miles from the Magnolia Station. They will be in the Casa Blanca hood in a few minutes. They turn right onto Lincoln from Madison, passing the Lincoln Apartments on their left. Will turns left on Grace and parks on the street. The two men check their pistols under Levi’s jackets and walk across the street to the apartments.

There is a recreation building with a laundry room dead center in the apartment complex. Outside the laundry room is a concrete park bench with a view of building L. Dick and Will sit on the bench to stake out the building. There is little foot traffic in the complex. A few people hurry to the various buildings around the two cops after parking their cars.

Time passes. During the next 45 minutes only 6 people leave building L. Will nudges Dick and points toward the nearest door. A man about 6’4” is 10 yards away walking toward them. Even at this distance Dick can see his scarred face. It is Creeper.

Creeper sees Will pointing and steps sideways into the alcoved doorway. The policemen stand up.

“Riverside police Creeper. Come out with your hands up.”

Creeper swings out from the alcove, his ACP Colt pistol drawn. He fires a shot at Dick. Will and Dick leap over the bench and crouch behind the concrete pulling their guns. Creeper ducks back into the doorway firing rapidly around the wall of the building. Bullets ping on the bench sending chips of concrete flying. Dick returns fire with a vengeance. Will returns fire just enough to keep Creeper shooting. Dick counts the shots from the gangster. Ten shots, then silence.

“He’s reloading. Cover me.”

Dick sprints across to the building and corners Creeper in the doorway. The gun is in Creeper’s right hand, useless.

“Drop the gun. Hands on your head,” says Dick as Will closes in behind him.

Creeper drops his gun with a clatter on the concrete walk. In a second he pulls a long knife from behind his back and lunges at Dick. Dick pulls his trigger. Click. Out of ammo. He dives away from Creeper as Will fires. Creeper’s head jerks back, a red hole between his eyes.

Dick stands up and studies Creeper’s open, astonished, blank lifeless eyes.

“Dog dead,” says Dick smiling at Willy.