Ageless Passions by Karen Putz

Category: The Gift Of Adversity

  • What I Learned from Physical Torture

    I heard horror stories about physical therapy so I was kind of dreading the whole process after my ACL reconstruction surgery. The first visit went pleasantly enough.  “Oh, it’s not too bad,” I told my family and friends after the initial knee manipulation.

    The second visit was a different story. I nearly jumped off the table when the therapist began massaging my incisions. One in particular was a bit swollen and extremely painful. “You shouldn’t be feeling this much pain,” the therapist said as she continued to press down on the incision. “Looks like you’re building up scar tissue. We have to work that out.” More pain. I held back a scream.

    Then there was the famous “bending of the knee.”  Despite repeated icing of the knee, mine remained swollen, making it even more difficult (and painful) to bend it. I was pretty darn proud of my 93 degree bend on the first visit.

    And then I was introduced to the bike. You know that contraption– it requires more than a 90 degree bend to get those pedals going ’round and ’round. I pushed the first pedal down and tried to bend the knee to bring it back up.

    Holy freaking moly! Pain! Worse than childbirth! (And I gave birth at home.)

    I looked at the therapist and whimpered.  “I don’t think I can do this.”

    “Just pedal slowly.”  She set a timer on the bike stand. “Nine minutes.”

    She stood there, watching me grimace in pain as I brought the pedal up. I felt like someone was taking a sledgehammer to the knee every time I reached the top. I made it up and over, but not without shifting my hip up and riding on my other foot.

    “Good!  Do it again!”

    There was no way out. I just closed my eyes and tried to get into that zone– the same zone that comes from hypnotherapy. The breathing. The visualization. The knee screamed with every pedal rotation.  There was no way out of the pain– only through it.

    Just two minutes into the physical torture on the bike, I noticed a big shift in the pain level. By the end of the nine minutes, the knee was moving ’round and ’round at a much more manageable pain level.

    On the next visit, I had a friendly little competition going with the teenager on the table next to me. She had the same surgery a day before mine. So we gripped our green straps and pulled our knees back, trying not to grimace as our therapists measured our progress. I managed to reach 112 degrees, but the young one hit 115 degrees of bend.

    After spending the entire weekend icing the knee, I figured I would hit those numbers easy at the next therapy session.  “107 degrees,” the therapist announced.

    “You gotta be kidding me!” I said. “What number should I be at by now?”

    “I’d like to see 120.”

    “Fine, you want 120? I’ll give you 120.”  It took several tries and a lot swearing inside my head, but I hit that magical number.

    The body’s first instinct with pain is to react and withdraw. To get far away as possible from pain. To not have to feel it. But ironically, to heal from anything, to give birth to something new, pain is a necessary component to growth.  This applies to just about anything in life.

    Physical therapy is like life. The only way to heal, to rebirth, to move on– is by working through the pain that’s holding you back.

    “We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.”   –Kenji Miyazawa

  • When Your Only Option is a Thong

    It was one of those weeks.  Dishes piled high in the sink. Couch cushions skewed all over, with one of them on the floor.  Paperwork in a heap in the corner of the kitchen counter. Somewhere in the middle of the paperwork pile sat three envelopes.  School registrations, I reminded myself.  Gotta get those school registrations sent in.

    But first, I needed to jump in the shower and get myself dressed.  The oldest kid had to be at football camp in 40 minutes. It was a 25 minute drive to his school.  I quickly showered and headed off to the closet to grab some clothes. One look into the underwear drawer and I knew I was in trouble.  All I could find were a large pile of bras, a misplaced sock and a bathing suit.  My eyes turned to the laundry basket–it was over flowing. I was clearly out of underwear.

    Scrounging through the drawer, I discovered bras that were past their prime. I kept them around for those painting projects that never seemed to materialize.  You know, for those days where you don’t want to have a painting accident and mess up the pretty lace bras.

    Digging through the underwires, my hand struck paydirt.

    A thong.

    Yes, a thong.  A tiny scrap of material from my college days. I don’t think the hubby even remembered that I had one.  Heck, I didn’t even remember that I had one.

    Now keep in mind, I was zillions of pounds lighter in my college days. But here’s the thing, a thong is very forgiving of the flesh.  Since there’s barely anything to cover, anyone of any size can get away with wearing them. Sure enough, I was able to slip the thing on and quickly got dressed.

    By the time I dropped the kid off at school, I remembered why the tiny scrap of material went unused. It’s like having a permenant wedgie when you’re wearing it.

    I went home and did laundry. The underwear drawer was quickly filled.

    The thong went in the garbage.

     

    This post originally appeared on the Chicago Moms Blog.

  • Missing My Dad

    The tears were streaming down my face when I finally banged the clamp off of the old battery.  The boat wouldn’t start and the old battery had somehow overheated last summer and needed to be replaced.  I had a feeling that the problem wasn’t the battery– I suspected it was the starter– but I wasn’t sure.  And the one person that I always counted on to help me, was no longer here.

    The kids looked at me in surprise.  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

    “I’m just thinking about Dad,” I explained.  “Every time there was something wrong with the boat, he was the one to fix it or to tell me what was wrong with it. I’m just missing him.”

    This week, there’s been one thing after another wrong with the boat.  The battery clamp broke off and I had to run to town to buy a new one.  The starter was indeed the problem, and I ended up writing a check to the mechanic for that one.   “Oh by the way, Mom, the gas gauge doesn’t work,” David informed me just before pulling me for a run earlier in the week.   I fixed that.   “Mom, the water pump isn’t working and the boat has some water in it,” he told me tonight after another barefoot run.  Joe fixed the broken wire and got the pump running again.

    Lately, I’ve been missing Dad a lot.  The house seems empty without him.  If you recall my earlier post about seeing a red-winged blackbird, then you know the story of that connection with my Dad.   Last week Friday, I was doing a clinic up at the Blue Moo Lake and I was feeling a little bit anxious about being able to put together a trick run.  I had struggled on the water earlier in the week at Cedar Lake and had not yet even practiced a trick run.  I was floating in the water, waiting for the boat to return and a lone bird landed on the bank.  I turned to take a closer look and saw that it was a…

    Red-winged blackbird.

    I threw my head back and laughed.

    My First Barefoot Tournament

  • Grief Out of Nowhere

    It has been a long, cold, drawn-out spring in Chicago, so when  a beautiful, warm day arrived, I decided to run walk on the prairie path in Naperville.  I didn’t get very far with running– there was a heaviness inside that I couldn’t shake.  I slowed to a walk and soaked in the beauty around me.  I tried to figure out why I was feeling so weighed down.  I recognized that heaviness– it was the familiar feeling of stress.  So many changes had occurred in such a short time.  The countless trips to Michigan and the loss of my dad.  The change from full time employment to part time.  The additional projects I had taken on.

    Out of nowhere, I started to cry.  At first, I didn’t even know why I was crying.  I was thankful for sunglasses and the mostly deserted path.  I struggled to sort out the jumble of thoughts that were racing through my mind.  The one that stood out was this:  I missed my dad.  I hadn’t slowed down enough in the last several weeks to allow myself to feel the loss.

    A bird landed right in front of the path I was walking.  When I saw the bird, I started to laugh.  It was a red-winged blackbird.  Because you see, up in Michigan, we had a red-winged blackbird that used to dive toward Dad’s head whenever he was out in the yard near the shore.  And in all of my years in Illinois, I had never noticed a red-winged blackbird around me.

    I dried the tears and started to run again.

  • The Final Goodbye

    My brother Kenny spent his last morning with Dad a week ago and he captured this sunrise at the lake and showed it to Dad:

    I was fortunate to be able to spend the last two weeks with Dad and grab some precious time. I jokingly asked him to send me some glass calm water this summer so I could barefoot. He laughed. On the morning of his memorial, this is what we woke up to:

    Dad’s Memorial service:

    After the memorial, we went inside the VFW hall for a luncheon and I shared a few words:

    I would like to thank all of you for joining us today.  It means a lot to us to have each and every one of you here.

    You’ve probably heard the saying it takes a village to raise a child.  Well it took a village to get through this cancer journey with my dad.  I want to extend a big thank you to everyone who visited and lent a helping hand.  We could not have gotten through the last two years without you.

    Tom Pursley has been a friend since he built my parent’s home almost twenty years ago.  Tom and his crew built a roll in shower and a ramp and this enabled Dad to live his last months at home.   Without that, we wouldn’t have been able to have Dad at home.  Thank you Tom, for all you’ve done.

    Roger and Mabel thank you, for being great neighbors and  for all the projects you did around the house, especially the generator.  Mom didn’t have to worry about the oxygen machine if the power would have gone out.  Thank you for taking care of the house when we were gone.  Mabel came down every day at the end and provided great support.

    When Dad first began treatments two years ago, Mom was worried about keeping up with the yard at the house and the shed.  Dick jumped right in and said,  don’t worry about it– I will take care of it.  And he did.    Dick and Lorraine, thank you for all the help you have given us.

    We could have done it without all if you who pitched in and supported us.  Thank you.

    Thw first night that Dad was gone, my sisters and I sat with Mom and we started sharing some memories about Dad.  Soon we found ourselves laughing, because my Dad had a wry sense of humor.  So I wanted to share some of that with you today.

    Every now and then, Dad liked to play with the telemarketers that called in the evenings.  After a long day at work, the phone would ring and it would be someone trying to sell something.  On one particular call, a guy tried to sell him some siding.  Dad listened to his sales pitch and asked him questions… What color … payment plans and so on. Just as the guy thought he had a sale,  Dad said, “I’d really like to buy what you’re selling,  but I don’t own this house.  I’m just renting.”  And then he’d hang up.

    Another story involves Mike Radtkovich who owned the cottage that the Bires now own.  Mike was an insurance agent. The first time Dad called him, he didn’t recognize his voice.  He wanted to insure a hang glider, for towing behind a boat.  Mike explained that he couldn’t draw up a policy just for a hang glider. How about the boat– Mike tried to sell him a policy for the boat. “Oh, I don’t have insurance on the boat,” Dad told him.  “I just want insurance on the hang glider.”  On and on they went.   Mike wanted to hang up on this difficult customer who just wouldn’t take no for an answer.  “Mike, this is Norm,” said Dad.  “You know sure as hell that I don’t own a hang glider!”

    My cousin Marilyn received a call one day out of the blue.   It was the electric company, threatening to shut off the electric because they were behind on payments. Marilyn insisted that she paid her bill, and they went back and forth.   She had two days to pay her entire bill or they would shut off the electric.  “How could this happen?” Marilyn wanted to know– and then she heard,  “This is Norrrrrm!”   Marilyn fell for it again, in another call, where Dad attempted to sell her new windows. But she quickly turned the tables and said that she had new windows put in.  Before she could hang up, she heard it again, “This is Norrrrm!”

    Marilyn finally got new windows… A few years ago.

    For the last two years, cancer took away the one thing that my dad loved, and that’s food.  During the first visit to the doctor, he was asked what he hoped to achieve from treatment.  Dad said, “Well, my wife is a good cook. I just want to be able to enjoy her food again.” Mom nearly fell off the chair, as dad mostly took her cooking for granted all these years!

    Well, after two years of being on the feeding tube, a miracle occured for a few weeks. Dad could eat again.  And I mean, he could eat! So whatever he asked for, Mom cooked it or baked it.  Pies, cakes, cookies, fish, you name it.

    A month ago, Dad joined us at the table for what would be one of his last full meals with us.  Lauren, my daughter, suggested that we say grace. We all began to join hands and Dad gruffly declined to join us. None of that touchy-feely stuff for this tough Marine.  In the middle of grace, I felt a hand reach for mine. In the corner of my eye, I saw him reach for mom’s hand , and Dad joined us for the rest of the grace.

    Thank you Dad. I will always cherish that memory.

    Please join me in saying grace.

    After the memorial, we went back to the house and everyone remarked at what a beautiful day it was and how rare for the lake to be so calm the entire day. All I could think was, “Gee, thanks, Dad. I meant ‘glass calm water’ when I have a boat to ski behind, not today.” Gotta laugh at Dad, the joker:

    To finish off the day, Jen and I went for a walk and came across one of the most brilliant sunsets that I can ever remember seeing in all the years of being up in Michigan:

    On my Facebook page, Claude St. Onge shared this thought, a fitting end to this post:

    Dear Karen, You are so lucky, lucky to have an Angel of light that was with you to touch on this earth plane. Now you still have his Angelic memoires to hold you over till you meet again. Release comes when the heart opens. The word heart is really HE ART. He is. You Dad still is. Remember this always. Love CSTO

    Dad’s Memorial Video:

  • Dad’s Cancer Journey

    Cancer is a crappy disease.  Just saying.

    My latest TribLocal article is a story about meeting Pat Becker this summer.  Pat is the sister of Joann O’Connor, the gal that I barefooted with in Wisconsin this summer.  Pat and Joann are tough gals.  Joann can tear up the water on her bare feet and she has me in awe every time I watch her footin’. 

    Pat was diagnosed with cancer and given a few months to live.  Her family prepared for the day that they thought they were going to lose her.  That was sixteen years ago.  Pat endured 132 chemotherapy treatments and she managed to kick the cancer on its rear end.   Pat inspires my Dad to keep going every day.  Everyone needs a “Pat” on their cancer journey.   Thanks, Pat, for reaching out to my Dad.

    Read more:  Finding Support for Cancer

  • Losing Weight — A Work in Progress

    At the beginning of this year, I joined Loser Moms in an attempt to lose weight for barefoot water skiing.  I was heading down to the World Barefoot Center in March and I wanted to lose a few pounds before getting on the water.   Part of the requirement to join was to post a picture on a personal blog.  So with a heavy (yeah, pun intended!) heart, I went searching for a picture to post.   I had to close my eyes when I hit the “publish” button.

    The thing is, by the time that picture was snapped, I had already lost a few pounds.  I’m estimating at my heaviest, I was probably 215 pounds.   I wouldn’t know– I avoided the scale, the mirror and the camera every chance I could.    The only exercise that I got around to doing was playing a weekly volleyball game in a league.  A local bar sponsored our team, so we were obligated to head over there after the game and hang out.   I filled up on appetizers, sometimes late at night.

    I grew up waterskiing and barefooting and I really missed those activities.  My niece convinced me to try water skiing again on July 4 in 2008.  I got up on two skis and kicked off one.   I went back and forth across the wake a few times and called it a day.  I was out of breath and had no strength to continue.  It was one very short ride on the water.   I was in a size 16 jeans and wearing 2x tops.  No, it wasn’t pretty.   You would think after seeing this photo on my niece’s Facebook page– that I would be motivated to lose weight.  I wasn’t.

    Ever hear the saying by Buddha:   “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”   Well, that’s pretty much what happened.  The teacher turned out to be Keith St. Onge, from the World Barefoot Center.  Keith went through a metamorphosis of his own several years ago.   He was packing on too many pounds as a professional athlete and wasn’t feeling healthy.   He became serious about his health, made some changes in his lifestyle and eating habits and went on to win two World Championships.    At the end of May, Keith sent me some eating guidelines to improve my health.  I was ready, finally ready, to make some lifestyle changes.

    “You have to cut out pop,” he told me.

    I loved my Coke and Pepsi.  I lived each day for the moment I could sip the soda.   Every time we went out to eat, I ordered soda.  And now it was time to kiss it goodbye.  My friend Sue had kicked the pop habit and she was trying to get me to kick it a year ago.   But now, I was ready.

    I wanted a lifestyle change, not a diet.  Keith’s guidelines fit right into that.  I made healthier choices, but I enjoyed the food.  Instead of boneless chicken wings, I went for grilled chicken on a salad when eating out.  Salmon with asparagus.   I went for more fruits and vegetables and less of the processed stuff.  I found ways to cut out white flour– but I have a weakness for Panera Bread’s sourdough rolls, so eliminating that completely felt like death.   So I saved it as a very rare treat.   And I got hooked on quinoa.  “Keen-wa”– the whole grain with funny name.   I introduced my book club to it one day and they liked it.  I brought in almond and coconut milk and the kids went crazy for the almond milk.

    I also had two other barefooters who provided support and encouragement, Joann O’Connor and Judy Myers.  Both of them had wonderful weight loss stories of their own.  I joined Donna Cutting’s weight loss group on Facebook, and it helped tremendously to be surrounded by others walking the same journey.

    It’s a work in progress– as I still eat emotionally and I deal with that all the time.  It’s a work in progress, I remind myself again and again– as I still have a ways to go to get healthy and lean.  In a weak moment this fall, I texted Keith after I had scarfed down two rolls at a fundraiser.   “Always bring healthy snacks with you for moments like that,” he said.  Then he shot me a modified Dave Ramsey quote:   “If you want to live like no one else, make decisions like no one else!”

    I put my fork down when the dessert came.

    I had two incredible highlights this year:  the day that I learned to go backwards on the water… and the day that I slipped on size eight jeans.   Thanks, Keith, for both of those highlights.

  • Decide That You Want It More Than You Fear It

    How many times have you held back because you feared something?

    I’ve been pondering “fears” lately.  Recently, I received a comment from a reader who is hard of hearing and struggling with anxiety– “Social groups are almost impossible at times,” she relates.   She has agreed to teach a weaving class in her community and is scared that she will have trouble getting through it with the communication challenges ahead of her.

    Boy, oh boy, can I relate.  Social situations, parties, group discussions– they used to strike fear inside of me and sometimes, they still do.   Communication in those situations becomes a rapid-fire ping-pong game– sometimes so fast that the ball is just a blur and you get nothing out of the game.

    I emailed the reader and this is what I shared with her:

    I can understand being scared about teaching the weaving class but let me tell you– you can do this!  At the beginning of the first class, be honest about your hearing loss and explain to the class what you need to make communication happen– that everyone has to face you when talking, to speak a bit slower and that if they need to get your attention– to raise their hand before they speak, etc.  It takes a tremendous amount of courage to do this but the rewards are great– students will adjust and you’ll have better access to communication and be able to share your skills with less anxiety about trying to follow everyone.  Communication is a two-way street but you have to teach others what you need to make that happen.

    In another email I shared:

    It’s ok to be nervous, just don’t let it prevent you from moving forward.  Face your fear head on.  My daughter sent me this picture at a time when I was dealing with some fears so I’m passing it on to you:

    Lauren sent me that photo during Women’s Barefoot Week at the World Barefoot Center.  She had no idea how timely that photo was.  I’ll have to back up a bit to explain.  In March, when I first went down to Lake Conine to learn how to barefoot again, one of the questions that I asked Keith St. Onge was, “Are there alligators in this lake?”

    Yup, that’s right.  I’m not too fond of alligators.  In fact, they downright scare the daylights out of me.  As long as they’re far away with a fence between me and their sharp teeth, I’m good.  When Lauren was in Girl Scouts, she came home with a picture of her holding a baby alligator.  I was very glad that I wasn’t there, or I would have had visions of the taped mouth coming undone and my little girl devored on the spot.   One year, Joe and I took the kids to an alligator attraction and I was happy when we finally left.

    Keith’s response to my question was simply, “Yes, but they don’t bother us.  The boat engine scares them away.”  I wanted to barefoot more than I was scared of the marine life, so off I went into the water.

    Then in the middle of Women’s week, I was sitting in the water after a barefoot run, waiting for the boat to come back and pick me up.   The boat was taking forever to idle back to me.  I turned around and stared into the open jaws of an alligator coming to attack me in the water…

    And then I woke up.

    That’s right, I had a nice little alligator nightmare.  I couldn’t fall back asleep for a long time after that.  The next morning, we did a photo shoot on the water.  I was sitting in the second boat, waiting for my turn on the water.  One of the gals pointed out an alligator swimming by.   The other boat began coming closer and the alligator disappeared.   I tried to put the image out of my mind, because I knew I had to get in the water.

    Come on, Karen, nothing’s going to happen.

    Well, what if I’m the first person to get attacked on this lake?

    Don’t be silly, the alligators are scared of boats, they’ll stay away.

    All too soon, it was my turn to get in the water and my legs were shaky.   I fell on my first attempt to get up and I tried to tumble around to get back up and finally let go.   David Small was driving and he asked me if I was nervous about the photo shoot.  I could only shrug– I wasn’t about to explain my silly alligator fears at that moment.

    Later that morning, I told Keith about the alligator nightmare and he grinned at me.  “Face your fears!” he told me.

    “I face my fears every time I get in the water,” I grumbled at him.  But he was right–when you face your fears, you move beyond them.

    But that night, I had another alligator nightmare.  This time, I was watching the alligator swimming closer to me and I tried to yell at everyone in the boat.  They were talking and laughing and too far away by the time the alligator chomped on me.   And then I woke up.

    Good grief.

    Lauren’s photo came that day.  “Decide That You Want It More Than You Fear It.”  I laughed when I saw the photo– laughed at how uncanny the universe is in delivering nuggets of wisdom into our lives.   She had no idea about the fears I was juggling that week– she simply saw the quote on someone’s Facebook status and decided to turn it into an inspirational picture.

    So the next time you face something that scares you or fears that hold you back from something you want to do, decide that you want it more than you fear it.   The next time I jump into Lake Conine, I’m not going to give alligators a second thought.

  • Life is Too Short to Pout All the Time

    Many years ago, I began writing for a website that produced product reviews and I had to come up with a personal tagline or quote to reflect something about me.   Mine was simply:  “Life is too short to pout all the time.”  That line came to me years ago, when my kids were four- and two-years old, and my youngest had just been born.

    As you can imagine, life back then with a four-year old, two-year old and a crying baby included days where the kids would pout and whine.   After juggling everyone’s needs, keeping track of who was fed and who needed to be fed, refereeing two fighting toddlers, all this on top of attempting to keep the house in some semblance of order–by the end of the day, I was pouting myself.  As soon as the hubby arrived home from work, I whined and unloaded on him.  Then one day, after a particularly trying day with the three kids, I said to them, “Come on, guys, life is too short to pout all the time.”  We took off for the kitchen and made brownies together.  Soon we were all happily chomping away on warm brownies.

    I learned a valuable lesson from those younger days with my kids:  life is meant to be enjoyed with your family and your friends.  The toys on the floor could wait to be picked up, after all, we were busy playing and learning.  So what if the house was in shambles– it was more important to connect with my neighbors over a pizza while the kids played together.

    There was another lesson to come.  One day out of the blue, (that’s usually how it happens, doesn’t it?) my husband learned that his close friend, Tod, was dying.  Diagnosed with cancer at Christmastime, he only had a few months to live.  We talked about taking a dream trip somewhere together with our families, but Tod was too sick to travel.  So we called up a bunch of his friends, piled them all in a van and drove down to see Tod.

    We spent a magical weekend together filled with laughter as well as tears. “Remember this? Remember that?”  We asked each other, as we relived memories and fun times together.

    That night, the snow fell, covering the trees in a glistening white.  We had a quiet moment gazing out into the backyard and seeing the moonlight bounce off the snow.  Tod’s wife came up to us and simply said, “Thank you for this weekend.”  We knew what she meant, because we were all feeling it:  happy, sad, connected, and at peace.   Just weeks later, Tod passed away.   He gave us a gift: a gift of appreciating life, of appreciating family and friends, and the gift of appreciating love.

    After Tod died, I reflected on what I wanted to do with my life.  How did I want to be remembered when it was my own time to go?  I had three deaf and hard of hearing kids that I was raising—what could I do with my knowledge, my skills and my journey?  I took on projects, volunteer work and paid work that brought meaning to my life.  I have to say that Tod’s death raised a lot of questions inside of me and drove me to appreciate life more.  Just weeks after he passed away we made some changes in our lives and did some things that we had been putting off.  We quit decorating the house and bought the used boat that we had been talking about for years.  We took cheap vacations with other friends.  We spent more time up in Michigan visiting my parents and the in-laws.

    Of course, I still have some days when things go wrong and I’m about to tear my hair out.  I had a day like that not too long ago, grumbling and venting to anyone who would listen.  My daughter took one look at me and said…

    “Mom, life is too short to pout about this.”

    Originally published on Chicago Mom’s Blog, April 2009

  • When Fear Holds You Back

    “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

    This quote by Eleanor Roosevelt is something that I remind myself of every now and then.  Fear is often the emotion behind the reason we hold back.  “What if…”

    One of the hardest things for me to do with my boys was to let them play football.  It wasn’t that I detested the sport (slamming others to the ground, ugh!), it was the idea that they could lose more hearing by butting their heads into someone else’s.  We have a family history of people losing their hearing from knocking around our heads:

    For many years, my family was unique when it came to stories about hearing loss. Everyone in my family, for five generations, was born with hearing in the normal range. My Mom started losing her hearing as a teen. She became deaf at the age of 27.

    “I was at a family BBQ and all of a sudden, I realized I couldn’t hear anything,” Mom shared. “I could see that lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.” Just like that, my Mom became deaf. Her five siblings also were deaf or hard of hearing.

    I have four older siblings. My sister, Linda, was almost three years old when she fell off of a chair and hit her head on the corner of a baseboard. Later that week, my Mom noticed that she wasn’t responding to people. She began to stop talking. She was diagnosed with a profound hearing loss. My brother, Dennis, grew up with normal hearing and at the age of 36, he was hit on the head by a wooden beam at work and woke up in the hospital with severe hearing loss. My sister, Jeanie, grew up with a unilateral hearing loss and around the same age as my mom, began losing more hearing. In her mid-forties, she slipped on a rug and became profoundly deaf. My brother, Kenny, developed a moderate hearing loss in his late 30’s.

    I became very sick with a high fever as a child and my parents believe it was that illness which triggered my hearing loss when I was in elementary school. My first hearing aid was given to me when I was nine– but I only wore when at school. I found that it caused headaches and tinnitus and I often took it off after school and never touched it during the summer. When I was 19, I was water skiing on my bare feet at a high speed and fell sideways into the water. For weeks, I thought I just couldn’t get the water out of my ear. I had become profoundly deaf. From that point on, hearing aids were a constant thing in my life. Years later, my brother Kenny also lost some hearing from barefooting.

    Whenever I would share my family’s story about how we all became deaf and hard of hearing, people would be incredulous at the events that lead to hearing loss. “Y’all need to stop banging your heads,” one person remarked.

    Joe and I had long, deep discussions about whether or not to let the boys play football.   We both agreed that we didn’t want this gene to hold our family back– after all, my Mom went deaf in the middle of a conversation–she had done nothing to provoke the hearing loss.   My sister did not agree with our decision, she felt we were taking too much of a risk in allowing the boys to play a contact sport.  The kids have always known they could lose more hearing at any time, but I didn’t want them tiptoeing through life.

    Last week, I found myself facing a little bit of fear that surprised the heck out of me.  I was up in Wisconsin spending three days barefooting with Joann O’Connor. We were kicking back after a great day of footin and had just finished dinner.  Joann casually suggested that I try some wake crossing the next day.  All of a sudden, I felt like the wind was knocked out of me.  “I don’t know about that,” I said.  “After all, that’s how I ended up falling and going deaf.”

    Like I said, it surprised the heck out of me.  I had long ago accepted the transition from hard of hearing to deaf and was quite comfortable with my life.  There was a little tiny piece inside of me that wanted to hang on to the little bit of hearing that I had left with hearing aids.  I already knew what it was like to be stone deaf once the hearing aids hit the nightstand.  Was I ok with being stone deaf if I whacked my head again and all of it went poof?

    Joann and I discussed it and I told her if I lost the bit of hearing that was left, I’d be ok with it.  I still wasn’t sure if I was going to tackle any wake crossing though.  Heck, I spent the entire summer trying to conquer a deep water start and I just wanted to learn to get back up on the water.  I had spent the afternoon trying one deep water start after another with no success.

    It was 6:30 a.m. when Joann and I reached for the wetsuits and headed for the boat.  “Here, try the shoe skis,” Joann suggested.   No sooner did I stand up on the shoe skis then my feet went off in two different directions and I face planted.

    “Hey, you stood up too fast!” Joann explained.  I gritted my teeth and leaned back in the water for a second try.  This time, I patiently planted my feet and got up slowly.  I could see Joann grinning from the boat.

    I looked at the wake and all of a sudden I said to myself, “What the heck!”  I went for it.  I crossed over once, crossed over twice and by the third time… I was grinning back at Joann.

    “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

    Good ole Eleanor was right.