Kari Neumeyer

Detour in Florence

We slept late our first morning in Florence, and weren’t particularly hungry, even though the last time we ate was crepes in Amsterdam. We’re staying with a friend of Rob’s who’s teaching at NYU here, and lives in a sweet penthouse in Piazza Pitti. The area is crawling with tourists, even though Florence’s main sights are across the River Arno.

First thing we did was cross Ponte Vecchio and grab a table at the nearest patio restaurant that looked cute, complete with a view of the David replica in Piazza Vecchio. After we ordered, I looked the place up on my Trip Advisor app, and read reviews calling it an overpriced tourist trap. True enough, they brought Rob the most enormous 7 Up of all time and charged him €8.80 ($11. At least he got value for the price.) Our spaghetti was OK, and I don’t even know if I would have found it disappointing if I hadn’t read the reviews. Still, at €45 for the meal, we spent more than we meant to, wanted to, or needed to.

Next we visited the impressive Duomo, where the low lighting inside prevented me from taking a decent photo.

We didn’t book advance tickets to see the David in the Galleria della Accademia, but I assured Rob it was a must-see, and worth whatever the wait. We spent about an hour in line (I passed the time reading on my Nook, Rob played Angry Birds.) Within a minute of being in the museum, having seen the first of Michelangelo’s Slaves, but with David still down the hall, Rob said, “Oh yeah, this was worth it.”

No photos! (surreptitious iPad photography)

We met our host, Brendan, for dinner at a less touristy place, Natalino, where he ordered pear and gorgonzola ravioli (acclaimed on Trip Advisor, as it turns out), Rob had fresh pasta with meat sauce, and I had melanzane alla parmesana. Dessert was a rich chocolate cake.

We drank Chianti and wandered the streets of Florence until I got a grip on taking photos at night.

Day two: Several Trip Advisor reviews said the Bardini Gardens were better than Boboli, and I have to agree. You get admission to both with a ticket purchased at Palazzo Pitti. The Palatina Gallery is a separate admission. We went there first and admired the ceilings painted with frescoes of Roman myths. I enjoyed these more than the dark-hued Renaissance paintings on the wall. Almost too many really to look carefully at any of them.

Afterward we wandered Boboli Gardens, which is known more for its fountains than for its flora. Neptune was my favorite, spearing the green pond so murky you couldn’t see the fish, as water spurted up his crack.

By then we were hot and thirsty, so we tried to follow the signs to a coffee shop, which got us confused and almost lost as we switchbacked down to the entrance from whence we came.

We found our way back to the pizza place our host recommended: Gusta Pizza, allegedly the best pizza in Florence. Rob was disappointed, but I scarfed the pizza margherita, with a slightly creamy tomato sauce and hunks of mozzarella. It may actually be the best pizza here, as I explained to Rob, pizza is different in Italy.

We took a little rest, then walked to the Bardini Museum to see some sculpture. None of my guide books told me it wasn’t open on Thursday. So we hit the Bardini Gardens, which features as steep a climb as Boboli, has sculptures as intriguing (including stone canines I snuggled up to), and flowers! (Which Boboli lacks.)

We strolled to the spectacular view at the top where, unlike Boboli, there’s a beer garden. Nice place to blog, too.

Note: I won’t be able to upload my own photos until I get home, so these blog posts feature Rob’s pics from his iPad.

Note2: While I’ve enjoyed Trip Advisor’s reviews, its Florence map is insufficient. The Amsterdam map is better. Sadly, there’s no Trip Advisor app for Russia.

Pot jokes in Amsterdam

I’m waiting for my second hit of herb at a cafe in Amsterdam. Note I said cafe, not coffeeshop. That’s because my kind of herb is mint tea. Basically, they steep whole mint leaves in hot water and charge €2.50.

We just finished visiting the Anne Frank House. I bought tickets online in advance so we avoided the queue. Our reservation was for, get this, 4:20.

Enough silliness.

We’re only here for 7 hours, and the first thing I did was shake Rob’s faith in my travel skills by putting us in the wrong train. No, no, it’s cool, I told him, we’re seeing more of the city this way.

Once we got to the city center, the fun began. We stopped at a few places for beers and tea. Our favorite was La Grotte, where Rob befriended and interrogated the owner and a server who moved here from Ireland “for the weed.”

Next stop, Florence.

P.S. I’m blogging from the WordPress app on my Nook.

Home security system

Three fingers and counting

You wouldn’t think it possible to doze off with a man’s hand in your mouth, would you? And yet, during my most recent craniosacral session, I’m pretty sure I snored while my therapist’s gloved fingers were massaging my temporomandibular joint from the inside.

In 2011, when I tried to treat my TMJ with acupuncture for the third time, my acupuncturist asked me how many fingers I could put in mouth. I could barely get my teeth around two. Go ahead, stick your fingers between your upper and lower teeth to see just how limiting that is. I had trouble biting into a sandwich.

When I participated in a TMJ followup study in June, I needed to hold my mouth open during a portion of the MRI, but the little spacer device wouldn’t fit between my teeth, so they had to make a special one by rubberbanding a stack of tongue depressors together.

So it is with great pride I tell you that after nine craniosacral treatments, I can now fit THREE fingers in my mouth, with a little room to spare.

My craniosacral guy said not many people can fit four fingers, so to let him know if I get there.

I might be up for the challenge. To give some perspective, this photo was taken when I was around 21. That’s got to be at least four, if not five or six fingers wide.

Please keep your inappropriate comments to yourself. This is for science.

I’d heard of craniosacral therapy for a number of years, as I investigated every single other thing I could think of to alleviate the pain in my jaw. I would have tried it sooner if anyone had said to me, “Of all things, this will make a difference. I promise.” No one told me that, and quite frankly, it seemed a little woo-woo. (Fluctuations in cerebrospinal fluid?) Also, I’ve had a few massage therapists tell me they “know a little craniosacral,” then hold my head very still for a few minutes. Didn’t seem like much.

Several months ago, a massage therapist referred me to a real craniosacral therapist. She told me he was licensed to stick his hand in my mouth and to make sure to tell him I wanted him to, because he doesn’t necessarily bust out that trick on the first appointment. Not everyone is into that.

Unlike other forms of massage, craniosacral is performed fully clothed. During my first session, he had me lie on the table and he touched my head and my shoulders, very gently. Too gently. Like he wasn’t really doing anything. Maybe he was analyzing my cranial rhythm? Taking my cerebrospinal pulse? I couldn’t tell if he was performing an initial exam or whether the treatment had started.

After a bit, he slapped on a latex glove and stuck his fingers in my mouth. (My chiropractor did this once, but for a much shorter period of time. He showed me how to press on my jaw from inside my mouth, which hurt the way a massage does when it’s too intense for comfort. When the finger was removed, I felt a release in my jaw, but only momentarily.) The craniosacral mouthwork was very thorough. He even replaced the glove a number of times. Too much saliva, I guess.

During my first couple of appointments, I didn’t feel as much discomfort as I did when the chiropractor put his finger in my mouth, although he did ask me several times if I was okay and to let him know if anything hurt.

I couldn’t tell a difference after the first few sessions, but my therapist said he was able to get deeper in there as we progressed, and the treatment became more intense. I liked that, because I felt like something was happening, and I never felt pain afterward as a result. Of course, my jaw still “hurt,” but it always hurt. I couldn’t tell you if it hurt more or less, or even if it bothered me every day. Maybe I should have kept a jaw pain journal.

It’s funny when you become so used to pain that you almost aren’t able to tell if it’s there. Does my jaw hurt right now? I don’t know. Let’s see. (Opens mouth, moves lower jaw.) No, I guess it does not.

I haven’t been pain-free because a few things have happened since I started the craniosacral. I had some dental work that involved holding my mouth open for a long period of time. (The dentist said, “Open…. Open wider,” and I felt stupid because that was as far as I could open.) I had a crazy migraine. Followed by a crazy stiff neck.

But after my last appointment, I noticed that I could fit three fingers in my mouth. Call craniosacral therapy what you want, but that’s measurable progress, people. That’s freaking science.

My take on the Dog Whisperer vs. Food Aggressive Dog

I’m not a dog behaviorist. I’m not even a very good trainer of my own dogs, but I’ve read a lot about different methods and over the past six years, I’ve learned a lot about dog behavior and body language.

Early on in my education, I watched The Dog Whisperer and tried to follow his technique to get Isis to stop barking at bicycles and joggers and other dogs on leash. It didn’t work. She got worse. What finally did work was clicker training and positive reinforcement. That’s when I learned that there are lots of dog trainers who think Cesar Millan is the worst thing to happen to dog training since shock collars.

Victoria Stilwell is where it’s at. Not only does she use dog-friendly techniques, she wears tight black pants and has pretty hair.

Last week, a video circulated decrying Cesar’s methods when working with a food aggressive dog who wound up biting him on the hand. The first version I watched featured slow-motion and captions describing the dog’s behavior.

Then I read this blog post and the comments. One dissenter blamed the owners for nurturing food aggression and creating a monster. He/she wrote:

Watch the ENTIRE episode to find out what happens to Holly. I don’t know of many trainers, including Victoria Stilwell (whom I respect and appreciate very much as a trainer), that would make this offer to save a dog’s life. Holly is now a balanced dog and will most likely be placed with dog savvy people who can keep her that way.

Actually, I know quite a few trainers who would try to save this dog’s life rather than have her euthanized.

And I just so happened to catch the whole episode over the weekend, because “find out what happens to Holly” was just too enticing. Turns out, Holly got left at Cesar’s rehab center. I didn’t hear anything about her being placed in a better home. It looked to me like Holly might live out the rest of her life at Cesar’s. (I also didn’t see anything that showed that the owners “nurtured” food aggressive behavior. They consulted other trainers before Cesar.)

Earlier in the week, I read this blog about the hazards of rehoming an aggressive dog, and I recognize that Holly’s family simply could not keep her. They had a small child, and not everyone has a lifestyle like mine, where it is possible to keep my dogs from ever interacting with small children.

So I completely understand the decision that Holly’s family made, and think moving out to Cesar’s center is probably preferable to being killed, but I disagree that those were the only two options.

A positive reinforcement trainer could have trained Holly to be less food aggressive without putting her through so much stress that she bit someone in the process. Cesar’s method involved leering over the dog while she ate, advancing ever closer. Of course she bit him! She already was visibly anxious, and he deliberately escalated the situation.

I know I’m guilty of personifying dogs, but I felt sad for Holly at the end of the episode, watching her family leave her behind at Cesar’s. I hope she’s happy living with a pack of her own kind, but I couldn’t help thinking that his rehab center resembled a cruel Oliver Twist-style orphanage.

Neighborhood nemesis

I’ve written before about the golden retriever who sometimes sits sentry in front of her house on our block. This house is smack in the middle of the most convenient dog-walking route. To avoid her, we’d have to cut through a community garden and some weeds that this time of year would soak through my pants and shoes with morning dew.

I think it’s pretty irresponsible for a dog owner to leave a dog in the front yard unattended anyway, but this dog especially pisses me off because she rushes her picket fence and barks when we pass. I know her real name, but I always think of her as Isis’s nemesis because we simply could not pass when this dog was out front. Usually, the dogs barked at each other so loudly that the owner opened the front door and let Isis’s nemesis back in the house. I learned to just stand there and let Isis bark until that happened.

Eventually, I used the golden as a training partner. See how close we could get without Isis reacting. I clicked and treated her for not barking. By the time I learned these handling skills, the golden was almost never out when I wanted her to be, but a few times Isis succeeded in sitting on the sidewalk on the other side of the street and looking at the nemesis, then back to me for the treat. She was so stressed out by the presence of this other dog that she scraped her enormous teeth against my fingers as I tried to reward her for being calm. By taking the treats hard, she was signaling to me that she was not feeling very calm on the inside, so I’d turn her around and walk the other direction.

This method backfired on me when the golden wasn’t out at the beginning of our walk, but was there on our return. When I say we couldn’t pass this house, I mean that it was not physically possible for me to hold onto Isis’s leash and get from one side of this yard to the other, even on the opposite side of the street, because Isis lunged and barked so violently. We had to go back around the block and take a narrow wooded trail, which was a million times riskier because joggers with and without dogs could sneak up on us without warning. Guaranteed bark and lunge fest.

I’m sure this golden is a perfectly friendly dog, and I wonder if she barks like this at every dog who passes, or just at reactive German shepherds. I don’t want to blame the other dog and owner, because yes, Isis was the instigator in most situations. What I found peculiar was that Isis could pass other dogs in their yards and not react at all. Even when those dogs yipped at her. The chemistry was volatile between Isis and this particular golden retriever.

And as it turns out, also the chemistry between this golden and Leo. I have never tried to pass the golden with Mia on her own, so I’m not sure how she’d do. But when I walk the dogs together, and Leo reacts to a dog or bicycle or deer, he redirects his barrier frustration toward Mia, and there’s some snarling and chewing of each other’s faces. Nothing serious, though. They’ve never redirected on me when this happens, but it is the reason I walk Leo separately in the morning.

I think the golden gets let out between 8:30 and 9, so I try to get started on our walk by 8 a.m., but I’m not always successful, and who even knows if the golden’s owners have a set schedule when they let her out. I have thought of leaving a note saying, “Please do not leave your dog unattended in the front yard,” but don’t think that would be received well.

As Leo and I approach this house, I peer around their neighbors bushes to see if the nemesis is on the front steps. When the bushes are thick, it’s hard to tell, and a few times, we’ve crept around the bushes to see a golden behind waving at us from elsewhere in the front yard. At this, I chirp “This way,” and whirl around back toward home.

Lately, I have seen a little boy waiting for the school bus in front of our nemesis’s house. The first time, I meant to ask, “Is there a dog in the front yard?” but what came out was, “Is your dog out front?” He turned to look, then shook his head, and Leo and I passed perfectly peacefully by walking in an arc on the golden’s lawn to create plenty of space between us and the child.

This morning, the boy was there, and I said, “Is the dog out?” The kid said, “I don’t even live there.”

So? You could still tell me if a dog’s there.

“Oh, do you live across the street?” (Those people have a German shepherd.) The boy shook his head and pointed down the block.

I said, “Their dog barks at my dog, so we have to sneak by.” Oh sure, blame the other guy.

The nemesis was not out, so we passed peacefully and I told Leo what a good boy he was.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of rubber soles slapping the pavement and realized the boy was rapidly approaching us from behind. Is he chasing us? Trying to catch up to tell me something? Who chases a German shepherd?

I sing-songed “This way,” and moved Leo quickly across the street. No cars were coming, but a bicycle approached. Fortunately, this happened to be a part of the street with an inclined grassy patch, so I was able to get Leo down the small hill where he wouldn’t be startled by the approaching bike.

The boy scrambled all the way down the block and up the driveway to what I assume was his house. Guess he forgot something.

But the important thing is that both Leo and I remained calm.

Leo and Keva — Unlike Isis, Leo gets along with most dogs when he’s off leash. Here he is with a different golden retriever (not the nemesis), and trust me, she’s loving it.

Bongiorno & Do Svidaniya

Sorry if I seem to be getting ahead of myself. We don’t leave for our next international adventure for a couple of weeks. But honestly, I’m not ahead of myself at all. I’m way behind.

Usually, I have my trips itineraried out to the day, if not the meal. Not this time. Maybe because we’re going to cities where I already have been, or maybe because my travel books are on an eReader, not in an actual book I can hold. Or maybe because we’re staying places more than two nights, so we can wing it.

Pretty sure that last one is a factor, because we will be in Amsterdam for only seven hours, and I plan to print out directions and a map to take us from the airport to the Anne Frank House and back. With our other destinations, we have more time and can play it by ear.

We’ll be in Florence, Italy, for a few nights, then fly to St. Petersburg, Russia. After a few days there, we will take an overnight train to Moscow.

I’m excited to explore these cities with Rob, look at people, take pictures, and eat different food. Also! I’ll be celebrating my 37th birthday in St. Petersburg. Last time I spent my birthday in a foreign country was 10 years ago in Austria.

27bday — 27-year-old me and my sachertorte in Salzburg

All rooms and transport are booked. I’m refreshing my knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet and the Russian words for bread, milk, and fish.

Is there something else I should be doing to prepare?

Another aggressive dog memoir

When pitching a memoir, authors are advised to name competitive titles. Easy enough to do with a dog memoir; there are so many. I thought Smiley Bird was unique because it’s a love letter to an aggressive dog.

Until recently, the most similar memoir I had read was Part Wild: One Woman’s Journey with a Creature Caught Between the Worlds of Wolves and Dogs, but that was about a wolf-dog, so not entirely the same situation.

In my last post, I spoiled the ending of A Good Dog: The Story of Orson, Who Changed My Life.

Like Isis, Orson had behavior problems that author Jon Katz spent years trying to rehabilitate. Fairly early on in this memoir, he writes:

Sometimes — when is a fine and debatable point — you just have to accept and love the dog you have, even if he’s not necessarily the dog you want him to be.

Essentially, that’s the takeaway from my memoir. We should have accepted that Isis was not a dog you could take anywhere. If I had known we’d only have her for four and a half years, I would have spent more time snuggling and less time trying to desensitize her to bicycles.

But of course, I didn’t know that, and I relate to Katz’s desperation:

I was nearly weeping with frustration, torn by my growing love for this dog and my growing realization that communicating with, understanding, training, and controlling him was, so far, beyond me, and was leading both of us toward trouble.

Fortunately, in my story, I finally do get help communicating with and understanding Isis. But not before (spoiler alert) she bites someone. Had I missed the warning signs? Like Katz, I struggled to interpret her earliest transgressions:

There is a big difference between nipping and biting, but it’s a distinction that’s often (understandably) meaningless to the recipient.

Yes! As the owner/trainer, we try so hard to understand why our precious pets would do such a thing. They aren’t vicious dogs; they’re loving and sweet, to us anyway. If I could just understand why she did these things, I could make sure she doesn’t do them again.

I’ve said before if there’s one thing to be grateful about regarding Isis’s untimely death, it’s that Rob and I didn’t have to make any difficult decisions. I know Katz didn’t take his decision to euthanize Orson lightly, and it’s a shame there’s been some internet blowback from people who think he didn’t try hard enough to find another solution. I myself thought, “He lived on a farm, surely he could have found a way to keep Orson.” But in reading the book, I understand Katz’s choice.

Interestingly, The Story of Orson doesn’t end there. We’re introduced to a Labrador named Pearl who helps Katz move on, much like Mia did for us.

My other dogs could not replace Orson, nor fill the void he left, yet in a curious way his departure had given me the life with dogs I’d always dreamed of. Be careful what you wish for.

I know exactly what he means. Mia is a completely reliable dog I can take anywhere, and now I have two dogs who are besties, like I always wanted. I just thought one of them would be Isis.

A prolific writer of dog books

I have a fantasy that after my memoir about Isis is published and hugely successful — or even just a modest success — that I will write Rescuing Mia. Maybe Leo will get his own book. I will write memoirs about every dog I ever have for the rest of my life. I also will publish fiction, starting with the novel I started in 2009 about mixed martial arts, which somehow has evolved to be as much about rescued fighting pit bulls as it is about MMA.

Turns out, another journalist turned author has made a career of writing about dogs. Jon Katz‘s breeds of choice appear to be border collies and Labradors. He has drawn the ire of some breeders/owners/experts for various opinions espoused in his books, but I don’t want to get too deep into that controversy. I just want to talk about two of his books in relation to my own experiences.

I was drawn to Going Home: Finding Peace when Pets Die for obvious reasons. Like Pack of Two, the books shares a variety of stories from a variety of animal lovers, this time about the experience of losing a pet. I had a similar response to both books: These are all very interesting, insightful and relatable stories, but after immersing myself in dog stories for several years now, I’ve heard most of this stuff before.

Going Home has another role, though. It reminds us that we are not alone. More than a year after Isis’s death, I found myself soothed by Katz’s words, even when I didn’t completely agree with him.

One of the criticisms of Katz is that he purports to be an animal expert. One claim from Going Home that I don’t necessarily agree with is:

Philosophers note that humans and animals differ in lots of ways. One of the most elemental differences is that we can make moral choices. We have consciences. We can discern right and wrong. We know we will die. We are afraid of pain and loss.

Animals do none of these things.

They are instinctive creatures who live in the moment. They experience emotions and pain but are not aware of them as concepts to think about and ponder. They die but don’t know they will die.

How does he know?

Guilt is ours alone. It is one of the many things that plagues the complicated human psyche but does not infect the life of an animal. Dogs do not feel guilty for eating the last piece of food or for hogging the bed. They do not reproach themselves for making mistakes. They do not blame themselves when we suffer, struggle, or die.

Again, how would anyone know? Katz himself turns to a pet psychic to communicate with his dogs. Doesn’t that imply that he believes animals have a more complex thought process?

As much as I humanize my dogs, I don’t believe in animal communicators. Or, I should say, I have not been convinced pet psychics are real. I don’t believe dogs think in complete English-language sentences, so when a communicator told me that Isis was thinking, “I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like there’s a weight on my chest,” that she actually had those thoughts. Then again, she died of a heart aneurysm a few months later, so maybe there was something to that.

I’m going to hear an animal communicator speak tonight, though, so maybe I’ll come around.

The most compelling part of Going Home was Katz’ description of Orson, his “lifetime dog.” The book opens with Orson’s burial. References are made to Orson’s aggression, and Katz doing all he could for him. From that point, I didn’t want to read short anecdotes from other people, I wanted to read Orson’s complete life story. And lucky for me, Katz also has written a book (a couple of books, actually) about Orson.

I will discuss A Good Dog: The Story of Orson, Who Changed my Life in an upcoming blog, but I will spoil the ending here, because Katz reveals it in Going Home. Katz had Orson euthanized after the dog bit three people.

I was astonished when I read that, because we never in a million years would have put Isis down. We would have arranged her life and ours so that she was safe and to keep her from being a threat to anyone else. But I didn’t know Orson’s whole story, and I knew I had to read it. Not just because I wanted to know exactly what led up to Katz’s decision, but also because A Good Dog sounded like my memoir about Isis.

The story of “lifetime dog” with behavior problems whose lifetime ended too soon.

High on life, no thanks to the walk-in clinic, Part 2

(Continued from Part 1)

I could barely walk up the sidewalk to the entrance when Alice and I arrived at the ER, my head was pounding so badly. Because I knew that emergency rooms didn’t take migraines all that seriously, I explained to the triage nurse that the Walk-In Clinic sent me there because I didn’t have a migraine. I had a worst headache ever that didn’t match the pattern of my one previous migraine.

She wrote down “migraine.”

We sat in the waiting room at least another hour, but at least the ER had wifi. I should have gone there first. I resisted the urge to tweet, “At the ER, probably have an aneurysm.” Or email my mom. No point worrying her when she probably wouldn’t be able to fly there before I had my CT scan. I watched all kinds of interesting cases get called ahead of me. A heavyset woman with a pink streak in her hair hobbled in and was offered a wheelchair because she was in so much pain after slipping in the shower. Another guy got rushed back when they discovered his pulse was 225 bpm.

I stopped thinking I was dying, and started getting pissed that this was wasting my whole day when I should be proofreading, and I’d promised to have the report finished by the next day. There was no way I could do that now. I should have brought the report with me, I could be proofreading right now.

I anticipated that the doctor would look at me and say, “Huh. I don’t know. You have a headache.” And give me something that might make it better for a short time, but wouldn’t really be a cure. That’s usually what happens to me.

I wished Alice and I had stopped for lunch on the way to the hospital. I considered asking her to get me something from the cafeteria, but there was a sign near the triage desk that said not to eat or drink until after a doctor has seen you. And if I did need brain surgery, better to do it on an empty stomach.

A strapping dude who resembled MMA ref Herb Dean got called and the nurse said the room was a little far away, could he make it? He said he was fine, but I worried that I wouldn’t be. When it was finally my turn and I stood up, I knew I couldn’t walk very far. The same nurse didn’t offer me a wheelchair, though, so I had to ask for one, feeling like a “difficult” patient.

I was put in a room with four beds, but was on the end, so I never saw any of my roommates. I heard them though. A nurse said they were bringing a guy in without going through triage because he was “pretty miserable.” He had kidney stones, he was pretty sure, because he’d had them before, twice, in the 90s. He hasn’t been to the doctor since, but last year he was in a lot of pain and then when he “took a leak” another stone came out. It looked pretty old, so he thought it might have been left over since the 90s. He brought it with him. (He told this story approximately 67 times.) When his son came in, he spoke highly of the EMTs, who didn’t want to over-treat him. “I don’t know what triage is,” he said. “But they decided not to give me that.”

My doctor, an older fellow, came in with a stylish young woman he introduced but who said nothing, just took notes on laptop she set on the foot of my bed. He asked who this was with me and I said “My mother-in-law equivalent,” which he found highly amusing and a sign I still had most of my faculties. He was pretty sure I didn’t have an aneurysm (or encephalitis or meningitis). Not all headaches are the same. No reason to think that just because this wasn’t the same as my last migraine that it wasn’t still a migraine. Had I had any head trauma? Any dental problems?

No and no. I also hadn’t had any caffeine or alcohol to speak of. And barely any chocolate, if you can believe that. But he didn’t ask me any of those things. Just if I smoke, which I do not.

Have I ever had a CT scan?

“I had one a few months ago of my jaw, as part of a TMJ study, because I have TMJ. Guess I probably should have mentioned that.”

“That’s why I asked you.”

“Yeah, I’ve had really bad TMJ for years,” I said, straining through the throbbing behind my eyes to think what other details he might find helpful. “Did you ask me that? I don’t remember you asking me that.”

“Yes, I asked you about dental problems.”

“Oh. I don’t think of it as a dental problem.”

Anyway. It sounded like he was going to give me the CT scan and some drugs and I’d be on my merry way. Typical. Once again, I was in serious, debilitating pain as a side effect of my TMJ, for which there is no cure. All I wanted was a prescription, why did this have to take all day?

It was about 3 o’clock, maybe I’d still be able to pick Rob up from work.

A nurse came in and started telling me about the combination of drugs they were going to give me. Narcotics and Ativan. Uh, pretty sure that’s not what I got last time for my migraine, but whatever. And fluids. Ohhhh, you mean in an IV. This is all happening right now? OK, then. I gave them some urine; they took some blood. They started the IV.

The quality of my headache changed from throbby to lightheaded. Was that the drugs? Yes it was. OK, then.

I heard a nurse tell kidney stone guy what drugs he was getting. Same as mine. Guess it’s their standard cocktail.

Some dude started to wheel my bed out to take me to CT, but then got a phone call he had to take. He came back, and I went for a little magic hospital bed ride, had the CT, and was wheeled on back.

The throbbing was mostly gone. I felt pretty groovy.

The results came in. I was dehydrated. No shit. I hadn’t had anything to drink since that cup of water after my craniosacral at 11 a.m.

I did not have an aneurysm. He gave me a prescription for Midrin, a migraine medicine that also works on regular headaches, and a Vicodin/Tylenol combo. (I really appreciated that one after my tonsillectomy.) And he sent me on my way.

The fun blissed out feeling from the drugs was gone, but so was the throbbing. Alice dropped off my prescription and drove me through Wendy’s because for many years I have considered root beer floats to be headache comfort food. Rob picked up my prescription a short while later. Turned out both medicines had acetaminophen (Tylenol) in them. Was I supposed to take them together? The Midrin said to take 1-2 pills at 8-hour intervals. I took one, just in case, put the Vicodin in the medicine cabinet, and went back to my proofreading chair.

A very light pulse danced behind my forehead. Was that the headache coming back? Better take the other pill. And go to sleep.

The next day, I finished proofreading the report from home. I felt a lightness in my heart. Isn’t life wonderful? If this were my last day on earth, I would be totally fine having spent it curled up on a chair with a red pen in hand and my doggies at my feet.

What the hell? Where did this zest for life come from? My brush with death? It wasn’t even a real brush with death. I only thought I was dying for maybe 10 minutes. Mostly I was just cranky that I wasted my day.

But since then, I can’t explain it, I have felt better than I have in YEARS. Better physically and emotionally. Energetic. The music in my car affects me deeply. Nothing bad will ever happen to me again.

I went to a restorative yoga class yesterday morning, which was exactly what my body needed, but I found myself wanting to move faster, do more. Usually in yoga, I start crapping out, skipping plank pose and going straight to downward dog. Or child’s pose. But yesterday, in a class where there was no plank pose, I was thinking, “Come on, bring on the vinyasa!”

I don’t want to oversell it. I don’t think I could have handled Zumba yesterday. But I came out of forward folds without any lightheadedness, which I consider a very good sign. I haven’t taken any more of the meds, but I sure am glad I have them. If only I’d had them Monday night, I could have knocked that headache off its tracks before it interfered with my schedule.

Oh, and my jaw still hurts, so I’m not, like, cured or anything. But damn, am I high on life.