I spent this past weekend being human at the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Healing. That is, I spent this past weekend letting go and not giving a fuck with Jennifer Pastiloff. Yoga instructor, author, and founder of the online magazine The Manifest-Station, Jennifer is known for her workshop, On Being Human, where women from all over come together to dance, to sing out loud, to write whatever comes to the page, and to share their deepest pains and enduring dreams. If someone were to ask me to choose a single word to describe Jennifer, that word would be lovable. But she’s more than one thing. She is energy, a safe zone, a kick-ass hugger and hand-holder, a super-fun dance partner, a really good listener, an empath. The list could fill my bookshelf.

A friend of mine, who has attended Jennifer’s On Being Human workshop year after year at Kripalu, had told me all about her. I  had also read Jennifer’s posts on The Manifest-Station, followed her on social media, and devoured her book, On Being Human, A Memoir of Waking Up, Living Real, and Listening Hard. Much of what she had to share – her sense of shame and guilt, not feeling good enough, the need to be heard and told “I’ve got you” –  made me think she had written the book just for me. Which is why, after months of inventing one lame reason after the other for why I couldn’t go, I finally decided it was time to get off my scared ass and drive the three-and-a-half hours to Kripalu this past weekend. Why I was so afraid to take Jennifer’s On Being Human workshop I can’t explain. Wait, that’s a lie. The truth is this: The unknown scares the crap out of me sometimes. I had no idea what my experience would be like in Jennifer’s workshop. But we only know when we do, right? So I did. Yes, I thought I’d shit my pants on my way to Kripalu, wondering if I really had it in me to let go and be vulnerable in front of dozens of women I had never met.

I did not shit my pants, but I did sweat, a lot. If anything, the 95-degree heat made it easier to say, “Fuck you fear.” It took too much energy to think, I don’t belong here … I can’t dance … I can’t sing … I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. And the heat melted my body into a let-go puddle. So I had no choice but to dance like a dork, sing “Landslide” and “Don’t Stop Believin'” out of tune while doing Downward-Facing Dog, sing into an orange crayon-turned-microphone, play the air drums with a crayon, cry, and, as Jennifer says, “let snot fly.” It felt good, damn good.

At the end of the weekend, I left with a backpack full of what I call “Pastiloff Vitamins.” I take them everyday, with a large glass of “I am good enough, and don’t fucking forget that.”

I even have some samples of her vitamins for you:

“Ask. Don’t let ‘no’ stop you.”

“Daydream for five minutes every day.”

“Go ‘beauty hunting’. Make something beautiful.”

“Shoulds are assholes.”

“Everything has to be moment to moment, because that’s all we have.”

“Be a human thank you.”

“Say ‘yes’ to yourself.”

“Trust in the timing of your life.”

“Invite ease into your life.”

“Find joy for no reason.”

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I unabashedly admit that I have an anxiety disorder, two actually: generalized anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder. While I’m not always a good student of self-care for anxiety, I do try my best each day to find little things to slow my mind’s engine from revving too high. If you’re among the anxiety disordered, you probably get it – the overthinking; the fretting over this and that; the what if, what if, what if; and the hyper-vigilance, if you have PTSD. The upside to all this is: You’re among good company.

Anxiety disorders affect 40 million adults in the United States each year. These disorders are the number one mental health issue among women, and the second among men. No worries if it so happens that you haven’t had the fortune of being DSM coded with one of these disorders; if you’re among the countless numbers of us who are unsure about the future of our nation, that’s enough to make you go bonkers. And with the holiday season fast approaching, ugh! Talk about an anxiety disordered person’s nightmare – crowed stores, traffic, “Jingle Bells” following you everywhere, pressure to spend just the right amount on a yankee swamp gift. Having an anxiety disorder is sometimes all consuming, mentally exhausting, predatory-like. There are days when I think of my anxiety disorders as the worst roommates I’ve ever had. If you get what I’m saying here, are you wondering how to kick your roommates (or roommate) out of your head and body for good? I wish I could say I had the one-size-fits all answer, but, alas, I do not. However, I do have a self-care for anxiety practice that might help during those most difficult, wonky-crazy moments when you can’t seem to get out of your own way.

After treating myself to a massage/reiki treatment a last month, the therapist asked if I had ever had any surgeries to my pelvic and abdominal area. I almost choked on my tongue. Yes, I had had surgeries: three abdominal and two pelvic. “I felt an outpouring, like hemorrhaging from those areas,” she said.  This could not be good, I thought,  but I had to ask anyway, because that’s what anxious people do, ask and ask again, just to be sure. “No,” she affirmed. “It is not good. You need that energy coming out of you for balance, to ground you.” Yikes, I thought. How much had I bled? What blood type matches imbalance negative? How many pints of blood do I need to bring my balance count back within the normal range?

Of course, she didn’t leave me bleeding all over the place. She looked at me with kind eyes and said I needed to give myself  some love and attention, a bit of self-care for anxiety. Because physical touch alone helps to reduce stress and anxiety, she encouraged me to place a hand over my pelvic/belly area each night while lying in bed. Then, with my eyes closed, tell myself that I am good. I am good enough. I am okay.

And so that’s what I’ve been doing. Sometimes I do forget, but I make up for it during my ten or fifteen minute periods of meditation. During those self-care for anxiety moments, I fill my head with not only good enough, I open myself up to all kinds of friendly  words: smile, joy, yellow, puppy, sunshine, laughter, starlight, full moon, beach, ocean, green, breath, bare feet, grass, warm bath, love, hugs, candle, art, cozy, blue, hope. Certain words often circle around again, which is just fine with me – there’s no such thing as too many smiles, full moons, hugs, or puppies, especially puppies.

I now leave you to fill your head with a lavender bath, soak for as long as you need to with your hand over the part of your body that is bleeding the most, and give yourself the transfusion you deserve: maybe it’s a  field of purple Calla Lilies or a walk in the woods, a warm cup of chamomile tea, or a love note to yourself.

Be well my dear friends.

Oh, one more thing: Don’t fret over the lumps in the gravy this Thanksgiving, because, as my mother likes to say, “It will only get worse.”

Just when you think you might know all there is to know about how to heal your brain after a traumatic head injury (or how to prevent your brain from a dementia downslide), there’s more. Last week, during Vermont’s 30^th Brain Injury Association Conference, I sat in awe of how much I didn’t know when Chiropractor, Wellness Expert, and Clinical Director of  Vizuri Health Center Dr. Bill Schenck  spoke about the relationship between the gut and the brain. In his presentation, “Fix Your Gut, Fix Your Brain,” he could not have underscored more the three fundamental things that can been done to fix your brain. Exercise. Sleep. Healthy foods. While the first two do not directly relate to the gut, they do impact the functioning of the brain.

So, where to start?

Move. Exercise helps the body heal itself. It increases nerve growth in the brain, makes new connections between neurons, and forms new arteries. The more we move, “burn, pant, and sweat,” as Dr. Schenck says, the more human growth hormone we produce, which promotes cell replication stabilizes blood sugar, and maintains testosterone (good for male and females). Moving the spine alone is responsible for 90% of stimulation to the spine, he says. If you’re like me, and are inclined at times to choose the computer over the elliptical, remember, sitting is the new smoking.

Sleep: Damage to neurons do not recover from loss of sleep, meaning less than seven hours a night. Most of us need between 7-9 hours. And the last two hours are the most crucial: that’s when toxins  are cleared from the brain, namely tau proteins, proteins associated with Alzheimer’s. So, as much as you you say you’re all good with five, six, hours of sleep, your brain is not as happy as you might think.

Healthy Foods:

Because there’s no harm in repetition (right?), I’ll start with what Dr. Schneck told us, which we’ve all heard a million times over: Eat a rainbow of veggies and fruits. Everyday. If the name of the fruit ends in berry, it’s good for you (thank you Dr. Schenck for that one!) I know, this makes me sound like an advertisement, but, hey, so what: “Eat More Kale.” And don’t forget avocado. (Is avocado a fruit or a vegetable? I can never remember.)

If possible, eat foods that are fresh, organic, local, and non-GMO. Again, what we’ve heard a million times over: Avoid foods with a high glycemic index (a ranking of carbohydrates in foods and how they affect glucose levels), like all things white (white bread, white rice, white potatoes, white pasta, you get the idea). But certain white foods are okay. Cauliflower, coconut, and one I never would have thought of: Daikon radish – Dr. Schenck says it’s alkalizing, and from what I learned in nursing school light-years ago, our bodies are happiest when in the middle, not too acidic, not too alkaline. An acidic environment is a recipe for illness and chronic disease. If you can’t bear to give up potatoes, the good news is this: sweet potatoes are on the good list, so too are Yukon gold.

Of course, we also need protein. The best source comes from wild caught salmon. Not the farm-raised stuff that’s injected with dye and makes the salmon look like a pink Crayola crayon. East coast salmon is most likely farm-raised, so its’ best to go with Alaskan. It just so happens to be the season for Alaskan salmon, so now’s the time to stock up. Make sure you avoid fish high up on the food chain: the higher up, the more mercury – not at all good for the brain. If you’re an uncompromising carnivore, make sure what you put in your gut is local and grass fed. The same goes for eggs. Grain fed meats, eggs, grain fed anything, cause chronic inflammation in the body.

When Dr. Schenck talked about oils, I sat up a bit straighter in my chair (I thought I was doing such a good job using only good oils.) I’ve been smearing Earth Balance on my toast for years, and when he mentioned safflower and canola oils as being toxic, I thought, yikes, both are among the first ingredients in the  yummy, buttery spread I’ve come to love. Soy, which is 95% GMO, is a no-no too (also in some Earth Balance products). And corn, as in Mazola. These toxic oils, which have too much omega 6, also cause inflammation in the body. Corn alone can lead to “leaky gut.” So what oils are on the yes list?  Fish oil ranks at the top. For a healthy brain, we need DHA, so the more DHA from fish oils the better. The best source comes from squid. (Sorry, fried calamari doesn’t count. All fried food is on the no-no list; yes, even french fries, unless they’re baked, and made from sweet potatoes, or Yukon Gold.) Added sugar too is a no-no, so is alcohol (Though, I’m thinking one glass of red wine in the evening has to be okay. Doesn’t it count as a fruit? It’s made from grapes. Yes, that’s a fruit.)

Probiotics:

Try Kombucha, the fermented drink that’s gluten-free, vegan, helps with digestion, boosts your immune system, and wards off high blood pressure and heart disease.  (Who knows, it might even heal your stubbed toe or mosquito bite or lazy eye – I’m a hard-core Kombucha drinker, and I’ve seen no results for the latter.)

Kimchee (my palate is still struggling with this), sauerkraut, tempeh, too are all good sources of probiotics.

Oh, one more thing on the no-no list I almost forgot to share from Dr. Schenck:  Avoid toxic people.

* Remember: I am not a nutritionist, dietician, medical doctor, exercise physiologist, sleep specialist, or wellness expert. I am a nurse turned writer who is living as whole a life as possible with a brain injury, and is interested in helping others struggling with a TBI.

(For information about how certain vitamins, such as vitamin D and omega 3, help heal a TBI, please see earlier postings on my website.)

Happy Healing!

Chang and Eng Bunker. Born 1811. Thailand.

One might wonder how conjoined twins manage to survive – physiologically, mentally, and emotionally – after surgical separation. While some sets of conjoined twins, for medical reasons, cannot be separated, as in the somewhat famous case of Brittany and Abby Hensel, since 1987 several have been successfully separated. In some cases, conjoined twins, who are old enough to make thoughtful choices, have refused to be separated. Lupita and Carmen Andrade, who were expected to live only three days after they were born, not only defied the odds, but are now living together, literally. Both refused the option to be separated. According to the Deccan Chronicle, the twins say “it would be like cutting them in half.”

The decision to surgically separate conjoined twins is not one to be taken lightly. Inevitably, ethics comes into play. The most urgent question of all: What if one twin must be sacrificed? Do we allow one twin to die to save the other? Which twin’s life matters more? The questions are endless, questions I can’t imagine having to face if I were the parent of conjoined twins.

You might be wondering why I’m writing about conjoined twins, why I’m sharing with you this extremely rare and mind-blowing phenomenon. I’m sharing all this with you because I cared for a set of conjoined twins as a neonatal intensive care nurse. Though decades have passed since I held all *fourteen pounds of sweetness in my arms, fed them, changed their diapers, and held my breath as I waited for the then eight-month-old twins to come out of the hours-long surgery, I’m still awestruck. So what does a writer do with all that awe? Naturally, she writes about it. Which is exactly what I have done in my essay, “After,” published today at Intima, a literary Journal dedicated to promoting the theory and practice of Narrative Medicine. Created in 2010 by graduate students in the Master of Science program in Narrative Medicine at Columbia University, Intima has featured writers in the literary and medical fields from around the world.

Thank you for reading “After,” and feel free to follow-up with thoughts, questions, and, of course, your own awestruck moments.

*fourteen pounds is a guesstimate.

Though I’ve already written a blog post about pain, I’m here writing about it again. Why? Because I’ve been thinking a lot about pain after recent emergency surgery to have my appendix removed. During the first week of my recovery, I spent a lot of time hanging out on the couch, either sleeping or reading. You’d think I would have treated myself to a few light reads, but, like I said, pain was (and is) very much on my mind. So the first book I picked up from the pile next to me was Pain Woman Takes Your Keys and Other Essays from A Nervous System by Sonya Huber.

In lyrical wit-filled prose, Huber writes about living with rheumatoid arthritis. She invites us into her pain, and all that goes with it: the anger, fatigue, and frustrations; the slump into poor self-image and self-critical talk, as in “Sometimes I berate myself for not being up to the level of other bodies … Sometimes I feel that in writing and revealing pain I am revealing wrongness (33, 85).” Though she writes to understand her own pain, she also writes for all of us. I mean, who has not suffered pain? More so, she writes for women in chronic pain. It is Huber’s sense of “wrongness” with which women in chronic pain are marked. Sadly, even centuries after women were labeled “hysterical” for expressing pain, not much has changed. When it comes to pain, women are still misunderstood.

Because chronic pain is not like a missing limb or a gaping wound, it’s what Huber calls “invisible suffering (25).” Thus, women are often forced to explain their pain to others, as she openly attests to in her letter to a feminist scholar (Yes, a woman!): “Thank you for making me articulate exactly what it means to live with a disease that is both painful and energy sapping … Thank you for making me detail the obstacles, which include the fact that any lengthy travel … will make me sick and thus destroy weeks of lucid work and family time. (117).”

As much as Huber’s book is about pain, she does bring relief to the page at just the right moments. For example, she shares with us how she reaches out to Facebook friends for stickers to decorate her cane, creating a “joyful explosion of adhesives that … brings more joy than an anonymous metal pole (96).”

Sometimes I wonder if pain ever gets tired of its role – always making us cranky and unpleasant to be around. Maybe the pain we experience is not always an indicator of illness or injury, and instead sometimes it’s trying to tell us, “I’m hurting too, and want you to have fun with me so we can both feel better.” Who knows?

What I know is how I feel about the pain scale. I dread it. Because I’m not good at making decisions, asking me to assign a number to my pain only creates additional pain. Instead of numbers, I prefer using real life language, the language of what it means to be a human being in pain. That’s why I’m on Huber’s side when she tells it to us straight: in place of a seven on the pain scale, she says, “Don’t fucking touch me (156).”

What about you? What “real life” language describes your pain?

“Like many Mexican children, I cleaned the piedritas out of the uncooked beans before they went into the pot – my meal-prep duty to help my overwhelmed mother as she spun around in the kitchen. The process was simple, but time-consuming: a pile of beans was placed at the edge of the table. I’d hold a bowl just below the edge to drop in the clean pieces, and I’d pick off the debris – dried-up seeds, miniature twigs, tiny stones – all the undesirable, inedible stowaways. These would be set aside in a pile of their own, to be tossed at the conclusion of the cleaning.

“I refused to dispense with my pile of detritus too soon since these were the fruits of my labor, the nuggets minded out of the sack. They were much more interesting than the beans which huddled in the bowl, boring as clones.”

Award winning author, poet, fiction writer, memoirist, editor, professor of English, and more, Rigoberto González, who identifies himself as a gay Chicano, delivers that compelling narrative in the opening chapter of his book, autobiography of my hungers. The chapter, “allegory,” could not be better titled, for it’s the peidritas, or stones, that are emblematic of Rigoberto: He sees himself as the “debris,” the “undesirable,” “the dried-up seed.” But he refuses to “dispense” with himself, to give in, to give up. Through breath-halting poetry and affecting prose, each vignette in this slim yet lasting memoir portrays Rigoberto’s tumultuous journey through his childhood and beyond. His literal hunger growing up poor morphs into other kinds of hungers – hunger for love, and a lover, for acceptance and recognition, for an attractive body, and a healthy body, for quiet comfort, and for sustained empathy and understanding. Along the way, though, Rigoberto fills the “uninhabited rooms” of his existence with refreshing self-awareness and enduring vision.

Autobiography of my hungers will leave you sated, yet craving more – more of Rigoberto’s “gallery of tiny gems, colorful and edible as gumdrops.”