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Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Nathan's Private E-Journal, April 12th, 2014 : "Fathers and Sons" Part - II


The words "You don't look like your sick or like or in any pain..." echo inside my head as I draw nearer to Ted's father.  

How many times had I heard those words?  And how many times did I want to lash out at the person who spoke them to me?  Of course back then I hadn't changed and didn't have the strength to strike back.  But these days I'm a different man.  The pain and limitations Fibromyalgia caused me are but distant memories, but I never forget anything these days.  

Oh it might take me a moment or two to sort through a century and a half of accumulated memories, but it's all there.  There's not a name, a face, or an event I've been part of or witness to that I cannot recall in vivid detail.  I can even recall things from before I was changed that were locked away in the deepest recesses of my brain, including the looks or hints of disappointment from my father for my apparent weaknesses.  They still sting as much now as they did back then, but I loved him nonetheless.  And now I remind myself that Ted loves his father, so I restrain my impulse to grab the man by one hand and shake some sense into him. 

Instead I stop just before the man and say politely, "Please, come inside with me.  Both of you.  There's some things I'd like to show you."


Without waiting for a response I walk towards the end of the building we're in front of that happens to house my private club "The Crypt".  Behind me I hear Ted's tired footsteps follow.  A second later, his father joins us.

In a few minutes the three of us are safely ensconced around one of the table inside the empty club.  It's a weekday which means the place is not open to the public.  Which makes it the perfect setting for a difficult but heartfelt talk.  Or at least, that's what I hope to keep things.  A part of me is still sorely tempted to unleash a portion of my mist form so I can enter Ted's father and let him experience my memories of what Fibromyalgia feels like.  The old saying about walking in another's shoes may be just what the fellow needs.  Yet, I restrain my impulse.  Ted is not aware of what I am and it wouldn't be right to risk revealing my 'unusual' nature to him by doing something to his father.  Still, if things don't go the way I think they should...
"So what do you want to show me?" Ted's father asks gruffly.  

Staring at the man I quietly take his measure.  Like my own father, he's tall and well-built.  His solid figure tells me he's a man who's enjoyed many sports and strives to keep in shape.  But now I'm sensing something else, deep below the surface... physical discomfort. 

Suddenly, everything becomes much clearer to me.  I begin by saying, "As I said earlier, Fibromyalgia is quite real.  And is it not just a condition suffered by women.  Men have it as well."

"Yeah, you mentioned you have it," the man snaps, but there's a trace of unease in his voice.  "Besides yourself, name one other man who has it."





"Morgan Freeman, the golden actor himself," I reply and wait.  The effect of my words has on him is clearly visible.  Before he can respond I continue by adding, "Michael James Hastings, another actor  who retired because of his struggle with the condition."


Ted's father looks stunned, "He played Captain Mike on 'The West Wing'.  I loved that show."

"Many people have it," I continue, "To differing degrees.  Some can be crippled by the pain, others find different ways of coping through exercise, nutrition, medicines to help them sleep better.  But the bottom line is that its a musculo-skeletal condition with no 'magic bullet' cure.  It's a condition where pain is your constant companion.  Many days you can get through the day, but others are harder.  And some are just so bad you can barely get out of bed."

The man looks at his son for a moment and then asks, "Is that true?  Those days you complain about getting up aren't just because you don't feel like going to school?"

Ted has the good sense to not be sarcastic and simply nods.

His father turns back to look at me.  "How do I know you're telling the truth?"  

"You can look it up online," I tell him.  "It's all there.  There's even sites by these men and others who can attest to how difficult it is to live with the condition."  With that I get up and retrieve my laptop and set it up for him.  As I do so, I give Ted an encouraging nod towards the piano.  Obediently, he gets up and takes the guitar case with him.

Meanwhile I sit back down and watch as his father starts Googling the men I mentioned along with others.  For twenty minutes he says nothing, and I do not break the silence.  I merely wish that I'd had such resources to show my own father, back in the day.   Would it have made things better?  I don't know.  Maybe, maybe not.  As I said before, he did love me.  He just couldn't always understand why I was the way I was sometimes.  

Finally, Ted's father looks up at me with a pained expression.  "Okay, you convinced me.  It's real and men can get it.  But why do you believe my boy has it?"

I answer quietly, "Why can't you believe it?  You mentioned football earlier.  Was that your sport?  Were you simply hoping he'd follow in your footsteps?"

"NO!" the man thunders as his face turns crimson.  Then his expression softens as he explains, "I just want my son to have a chance at a good school."

Now things suddenly become clear to me. "Things are tight, I take it?" I say in a voice so low only he can hear me.

The man nods.  "Like my son mentioned earlier, his mother has Fibromyalgia and can't work.  So it's mainly down to me to bring in money, but she does try.  She does art and sells stuff on the internet.  And she's brings in some good money and we're doing all right..."

"But, the prospects for sending Ted to college aren't so bright," I supply quietly.

"Exactly.  We make too much to get him a Board of Governor's waiver, but not enough to really be able to pay for the classes over at the community college, much less a university."

Just then the strands of a guitar playing fills the air.  It's a sweet gentle melody, played with great tenderness and skill. 


The tune has an effect on my companion who closes his eyes and becomes lost in the tune until the song ends.  

"He's very good," I remark as the final strums fade away.

"I don't question that," my companion replies.  "But, is that going to be enough to get him anywhere?"

Smiling I turn to Ted, who is tuning the guitar ever so slightly.  "Are you up to a little 'Classical Gas'?"

The boy's face lights up as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder.  Meanwhile, his father is staring in shock.  "I love that song!  Can he really play it?"

Before I can answer, the familiar tune starts up with all the speed and skill it is known for.  Ted's father's eyes widen as his son's fingers fly over the strings with precision and dexterity that makes the instrument sing.  

Neither of us says a word until the song is finished, at which point Ted stretches his fingers and massages them slightly.  It obviously took some out of him, but he's grinning from ear to ear. 

His father begins to applaud and goes over to his son.  The two begin having a talk.  A real talk.  And although I try not to listen, I of course hear everything.  It lasts for several hours.  The results I'm pleased to say are better than I'd hoped. Ted doesn't have to give up the guitar.  However, his father does confess his concerns to help pay for his son's future education.  


At this point, I see the first rays of sunlight seeping through the window that peers out into the alley.  Although I'm quite safe here in the club, I'm certain Ted's mother is quite worried about what has become of her husband and son.  

Standing up, I wander over to the pair and casually mention some connections I have over in San Francisco with a certain music conservatory which has a wonderful guitar ensemble.  "I'm certain that if Ted keeps this up, he'd qualify for 'assistance'.  Plus, there's the money he can earn here at the club helping out at the turntables."

Father and son look at me questioningly.  

Smiling I explain, "Your son has helped out as a stand in DJ here at the club on a number of occasions.  I've been thinking about asking him to come on board regularly, provided it doesn't interfere with his schoolwork.  And before you ask, YES, he's as good at that as he is on the guitar."

Ted looks at his father questioningly, while the older man replies, "Let me think on it.  I appreciate what you're offering him, but I've had a lot to take in already tonight.  I'd like a little time to talk things over with my son and my wife."

I nod.  "That's fine.  It's a standing offer.  Take however long you all need."

"Thank you," the big man says and holds out a hand which I accept with feeling.  "By the way, I'm George."

"Nathan," I tell him, "And I'm very glad we had a chance to talk."

"Me too," he smiles and then says, "I think we've taken up enough of your time and we need to get home.  Ted, let's go grab your guitar.  I'm sure your mother will be worried sick about us."

Ted smiles and the two of them head over to the piano where the guitar and its case await.

As I watch them, a part of me wonders what it would've been like to have such a moment of acceptance from my own father.  Then as if in answer I feel a hand on my shoulder.  Turning I see no one's there.  But that's all right.  I know it was real, and who's hand it was.  Some things you never forget, and as I said before I never forget anything.  Especially not my father's way of letting me know when he was proud of me...

Friday, August 12, 2016

Nathan's Private E-Journal, April 12th, 2014 - "Fathers and Sons"


I was making my way back to "The Crypt", after having visited my family's plot tonight.  Everything was just as I'd left it a few months ago.  Except for the weeds which I made short work of.  And of course the flowers needed a little freshening up, so I circled the graves and released some of my green mist, which brought them back into a healthy bloom.  

Went inside the mansion briefly because I thought I saw a figure at one of the windows.  A small figure... holding a... never mind.  I didn't find anyone inside, so I headed back towards town.

Naturally, my thoughts drifted to the days of my youth, before I left for the war.  Unfortunately, not all my memories were happy ones.  Mind you I have a lot of good memories, but there are a few involving my father that still sting from time to time.  He loved me, of that I have no doubts.  Heaven knows he told me and showed me enough times, but there were some days when I could see and sense his disappointment in me.  I wasn't always the son he really wanted me to be, but I had limitations that he couldn't understand at the time.  Of course, I no longer suffer those problems these days, but it would've been nice to let him see how far I'd come.


I had just reached the downtown area of Pointer, when I spotted a figure carrying a guitar case I knew only too well.  It was young Teddy and he was looking pretty down as he walked.  Concerned I started to quicken my pace, only to be passed by a car which pulled up next to my young friend.  Immediately, a man got out of the car and started scolding my young friend rather vociferously. 

Even though they're a fair distance from where I'm standing, my hearing is exceptionally keen and I hear everything as if I was standing right there with them.

"I told you it could wait until tomorrow," the older man says in a very annoyed voice.  "But, no, you have to make a scene."

"You were already making a scene by yelling at me in front of everyone, Dad!" Ted shot back.

I wince at that.  Family arguments have never been my favorite thing to walk in on, much less be a part of.  I consider taking a different route home at that point but then Ted's father says, "I told you not bother with getting a guitar months ago.  It's not going to win you any scholarships for college.  Now if you'd get into football like I keep telling you..."

"Dad I've got Fibromyalgia, I don't have the..."

"That's a made up thing, and even if it was real, only girls and women get it," his father yells, cutting him off.


That tore it for me.  Suddenly, the scenery on either side of me blurs and in the blink of an eye I find myself standing next Ted and his father.  

Luckily the two are so focused on each other neither even notice that I've suddenly appeared on the scene.  "Good evening, gentlemen," I say clearing my throat meaningfully to get their attention.

Ted reacts first.  "Oh, hello, Mr. Backman.  I was just coming to return the guitar you loaned me," he says in a quiet voice.

"Whatever for?  Don't tell me you've given up playing?  You're really good," I tell him, mainly because it's true.  But I also know what playing music does for him.  It gives him a way of forgetting about his Fibromyalgia for a while.  Everyone who fights a daily battle like his needs a coping mechanism and I don't want to see him lose this particular one.

"He's not going to have time to be playing music," his father replies, before Ted can speak.  "I appreciate the fact that you let him practice with that thing, but it's not helping."
"Not helping?" I repeat curiously.  "From what Ted has told me in the past, it helps him deal with his condition..."

"He doesn't have a condition, he's just too lazy and delicate," his father cuts in again.

I nod and reply, "It's my understanding he has Fibromyalgia.  Is that not the case?"

"Fibromyalgia, if it exists at all..."

"For crying out loud, Dad.  Mom has it, you said so yourself," Ted exclaims.  

"Of course she has, but it's a condition women get, not men!" his father explodes. 

"I have it," I say quietly. "In fact I've had it all my life, even when I was little.  Growing pains they called it.  Told me I'd grow out of it, but I never did.  It's been my constant companion every day of my life."

Ted's father studies me for a moment and then says, "You don't look like your sick or in any pain."

"Looks can be deceiving," I reply cryptically and take a step towards him.



****TO BE CONTINUED****






Thursday, February 5, 2015

Nathaniel's E-Journal, Feb. 5th, 20-- "Memories of Music and Fibromyalgia"


I had just gotten back to Pointer after doing some book signings up in Allentown Pennsylvania.  The night was still young, but I didn't feel like dropping in on Brian and his family.  After spending hours talking and signing books I felt like having some alone time.  So I headed downtown to where my club awaited.  

Being a Thursday night, I knew it wouldn't be open to the public so it was a safe bet I'd have the place to myself.  After quietly leaving my car near Doctor Jack's office, I walked the streets for a while in order to stretch my legs.  It felt good.


I never knew being an author could be so tiring at times.  Oh the late nights writing suit me fine, but ever since I signed a few deals with Hollywood, my presence has been in demand.  Meetings, lectures, book signings, and personal appearances have kept me busy lately.  So not having to be anywhere in particular and being able to wander a bit is very relaxing.

But as I drew close to the alleyway that led to my club, I spotted a familiar figure lingering nearby.


It was Teddy, one of my regular customers.  He's a nice kid who I helped out a few weeks ago when one of the jocks tried to bully him for asking a cheerleader to dance.  I put a stop to things rather quickly, especially when I realized he suffered from Fibromyalgia.  Ever since that night I've felt a kind of kinship towards him.  

Although I never got a diagnosis, I know I shared his affliction when I was even younger than him.  The constant pain left me tired and unsteady at times.  But I was labeled 'lazy' and 'clumsy' by many, including my father.  So I had to learn to hide my constant discomfort and fight my body's tendency to not want to cooperate at times.  I don't think my father ever realized how much work I put in to just trying to appear to be normal.  My mother on on the other hand knew better as did my little sister Isabella who often asked that I accompany her places to read to her.  Being so young and blessed with eyes like an angel's, Father barely ever refused her requests thus getting me out from under his watchful eye.

It wasn't that he was cruel, I think he simply believed that being firm with me would lead to my becoming a 'real' man down the road.  The idea of disappointing him always haunted me, which was part of the reason why I joined the Which is part of the reason I joined the 7th West Virginia Volunteer Regiment when the Civil War started.  The day I appeared before him and mother in uniform for the first time I could see the pride in his eyes. 


But I also saw something else, fear.  This is probably what led to his pulling me close, something he rarely did with me and said, "I know how much you hurt sometimes and that your body can betray you.  They say this'll be over before Christmas, so don't be foolhardy.  Come back in one piece and know I'm always going to be proud of you, my son."

Oh how I would've loved to have heard those words so much sooner, but just hearing them once was more than enough.  

Looking at Teddy I knew he could use some words of comfort as well.  His shoulders were slumped and in his face was a trace of tiredness I knew only too well.  

After a brief greeting I invited him inside the club.  He seemed surprised but was more than willing to accept my invitation.  We both knew the seats were comfortable and that the place would be nice and quiet.  

Soon we were sitting quietly near my piano, chatting away.  He was now dating Tina, a member of the cheerleading squad.  She wasn't the one he'd been asking to dance when the trouble started, but she had been on hand and had helped him up after I intervened.  Like him, she too suffers from Fibromyalgia, but that was not the reason he was alone tonight.  She had gone out of town to visit relatives, leaving him with time on his hands.

"So what brought you out this way?" I asked him. "You knew the club wouldn't be open tonight."

"Nothing," he replied, a little too quickly.  "I was just in the neighborhood and needed to take a moment to rest when you saw me."

He was hurting.  That much I was sure of.  But he also wasn't telling me everything.  I decided to dig a little deeper.  "You know, when my Fibro was acting up I didn't always feel like taking long walks."

Teddy gives me an odd look, but says nothing.

"And I know you live all the way over on the other side of town," I continued. 

This time I saw realization sink in and his shoulders sagged.  "Okay, I came all the way over here to try and get to the music store before it closed, but I didn't make it."

By this time my curiosity was aroused.  "What were you going to get there?  Sheet music?"

"No a guitar," he tells me.  "I've been getting lessons from one of my cousins for years now and I've gotten really good.  But I only really get to practice when I can borrow his or at school.  But I can't take the ones from school home with me.  So I saved my money and was going to finally get my own, but my Fibro slowed me down and... well, you know the rest."

I was both impressed and a little confused by his determination to get the instrument.  "You came all this way, even though you were hurting like hell to buy that guitar?  How come?  Why was it so important to you?"

He looked away from me and stared down at his hands.  "When I play, I lose myself in the music and I can forget the pain for a while.  I don't feel like a loser or a lame-o," he replied quietly.

"I know what you mean," I told him and stood up.  Wandering over to my piano I continued, "I cannot tell you how many times I've sat here and just cut loose so I could become lost in the music.  The same thing happens when I'm dancing as well.  I can forget whatever's bothering me and with that respite my mind can clear itself for a time.  Then, when I've finished, I feel recharged.  Invigorated and ready to face whatever's coming."



My fingers brushed the white keys ever so gently.  This piano and I were old friends.  It had been given to me by Jimmy Durante, the great Schnozzola himself, as a gift some years ago and I treasured it.  His charitable nature extended way beyond his friends.  I remembered all the work he did for boys, girls and teens all over.  

Just then I heard his voice as if it was coming from behind me saying those immortal words, "Do it for the kids." 

Without a second thought, I asked Teddy to stay put while I went down into the storage area.  After a brief search I found what I was looking for and came back with a guitar cases.  It had belonged to one of my many nephews who had given up playing after less than a year and had gone onto working on cars instead.

Opening the case I pulled the instrument out.  It looked as new as I remembered.  

Teddy gasped and came over to take a closer look.  "Oh man, it's a Gibson!  And it's in mint condition."

Smiling, I handed it to him and said, "See if it's still in tune."

It wasn't, but my companion quickly fixed rectified the problem.  He had a good ear and definitely knew his stuff.  Soon he was treating me to a display of his skills that held me in awe.  I've learned to play a number of instruments over the decades, but I'd never mastered the guitar.  Harps, keyboards, violin and a couple of wind instruments were my limit.  



But Teddy knew exactly what he was doing.  Watching his fingers flying up and down the guitar's neck and picking those strings was a marvel to behold.  He played for an hour and then we talked until it was time for him to go home.  I sent the guitar with him on 'permanent' loan.  To say he was grateful would be an understatement.  But I knew it would do better in his hands than just sitting in the storage room. Especially since I knew it would help him through those difficult times when the Fibro was getting too much.

I don't feel those pains anymore of course.  My condition freed me from the shackles of Fibromyalgia and a great many other infirmities.  But I never forgot what it felt like, or how even a small respite of any kind could mean so much.