How my distrust of modern western medicine changed

Lately, I’ve been hearing about and reading a lot of personal stories as to why folks refuse to get a COVID-19 vaccine. They have a distrust of western medicine, the government and the pharmaceutical industry. They feel like the vaccine was rushed through to get it on the “market.” They don’t trust the the truth of what the side effects are. They think that western medicine is just a bunch of untested or poisonous chemicals that someone has whipped up to placate the masses. Maybe they think the vaccines are just another way that the government has control over our bodies. So many reasons…I’m sure you’ve heard even more.

I understand the mistrust. Being born in 1960 and diagnosed as a toddler with “Vitamin D-resistant Rickets,” I was basically a guinea pig for doctors who really didn’t understand this rare genetic disease and know how to treat it. I wore leg braces as a way to force my legs into a straighter shape while taking massive doses of Vitamin D and maybe some kind of “preparation” (as my mother called it) that might have contained phosphorus. The orthopedist used x-rays of my legs to “prove” that the meds were working and I was growing properly. I was encouraged (read: expected) to practice walking so that I could “walk properly, like a young lady is supposed to walk.” I never reached a “normal” height. My legs never did “straighten up.”

The truth is, none of these doctors had the slightest clue as to what caused my rare phosphorus-wasting bone disease. But they did the best they could with the knowledge they had at the time to help me “overcome” it, not really understanding that there is no cure for it and it’s a disease that lasts a lifetime.

Fast forward several decades and we now know the cause and even which gene the mutation is on that causes this disease. We don’t have a cure, but we have a treatment that is especially effective for children, so that they (hopefully, if properly diagnosed early enough) can grow to a more “normal” height, with straighter legs, fewer dental problems, less bone pain, fewer insufficiency fractures, fewer surgeries, hopefully less hearing loss and overall, less damage to the bones and joints as they age. (The enthesopathy is real!) Another side benefit? Less emotional trauma when you’re growing up, less depression and higher self esteem because let’s face it…a child who “walks funny” or has trouble in PE classes and is much shorter than their classmates faces almost daily rejection, stares from others and sometimes outright discrimination.

Frankly, my feelings about Western medicine have changed from “great distrust and disappointment“ to “amazement.”

Why? I was part of the clinical drug trial, Phase 3, for Crysvita/Burosumab, the current best treatment for children and adults with X-linked Hypophosphatemia. This drug received approval from the FDA in 2018, two years into the trial I was in. I continued a third year and now I’m in the 10-year follow up trial to monitor its effects on me. Approximately 120 people WORLDWIDE were in this phase 3 trial. There was a phase 1 and a phase 2 for the trial, with similar numbers of people in those.

You know, you can only test rats for so long before you have to find out if a drug works on people. People have to volunteer* to be “guinea pigs” to find out if the drug is effective. I can say without a doubt that this drug IS helping children significantly and it is also helping adults (less significantly, in my opinion, due to the fact that by the time we get to adulthood, this disease has already done a lot of irreparable damage.) The Phase 3 drug trial I did for burosumab was the second drug trial I had participated in for XLH. The other drug trial was at Yale and with a smaller group of people, I think. Phase 3 is the final phase which can lead to approval by the FDA.

Basically, several dozen people WORLDWIDE helped to get Crysvita approved and available, which took several years. That’s not very many people but again, in the U.S. alone, there are only somewhere between 13,332 and 16,665 people who have XLH.** The pharmaceutical company had to rely on the testing of relatively few people to get this drug approved for a small group of rare individuals. But believe me, their testing was very rigorous!

So, what about these COVID-19 vaccines? According to my research on the Pfizer, Moderna and Johnson & Johnson websites, a total of 114,990 people participated in the Phase 3 trials for their vaccines. (Compare that with 120 people worldwide in my phase 3 trial for Crysvita.) Let that sink in. There were 114,990 who decided it was worth the risk of unknown side effects to find a vaccine for COVID-19 to help YOU, to help ME, survive this highly transmissible and potentially deadly disease. Those participants took the risk of being a “guinea pig” of the vaccine so that we could basically stay out of the hospital, should we contract COVID-19.

I’d like to give a shout out to those 114,990 people. 👏🏼👏🏾👏🏻👏🏿👏🏽 THANK YOU!

In the U. S. A., “we the people” (from our constitution) means “WE are the government.” 

Well, “WE” are also the pharmaceutical “industry” and the FDA and the medical “industry.” We who volunteer* to be in drug trials so that we can help our community are the ones that you insult or disparage when you refuse to take the vaccine because “the government put a tracking device in it” or “we don’t really know the true side effects” or “if I take it, that means I have no faith in God.” Really? You think that little of us? You question our faith, question our ability to report side effects, question our common sense and think we’re gullible?

That hurts. We who participate in clinical drug trials thought we were helping people, our families, our communities, our friends when we put our safety on the line for OUR COLLECTIVE HEALTH.

It’s sad that there is such a distrust in not only the government and the medical and pharmaceutical “industries” but also in WE THE PEOPLE (your neighbors, your friends, your family) who help get all sorts of drugs approved for you. I was in drug trials because I hoped beyond hope that my test drug, if approved, would help children not to have the same experience I had and have as a person with XLH. I like to think that the 114,990 people who participated in the drug trials for the COVID-19 vaccine also did it for others…the elderly, the people with chronic diseases, the people with poor immune systems, the people who can’t afford to miss work, the healthy people who thought they were invulnerable, the children, the medical people who are overwhelmed with caring for COVID-19 patients. 

Modern western medicine isn’t perfect. Neither is my immune system, which has failed me many times. We do have to be proactive in caring for ourselves, not taxing our immune system, but building it up so that we have the best tools for combating disease. The vaccine is another tool to help with that. It’s not 100% effective in keeping you well, but it’s over 90% effective in keeping you out of the hospital. I’m all for that. I have enough medical bills as it is and don’t need more. I’ll continue to eat well, exercise, take some supplements, wear a mask, wash my hands but also with the added tool in my arsenal of COVID-19 fighting tools…

The COVID-19 vaccine.

*Volunteering in clinical drug trials often includes some types of monetary compensation for your transportation, possible overnight stays and some of your time. It’s no way to make a living but there is usually some financial compensation so that you don’t personally incur any expenses that aren’t reimbursed.

**It is estimated that one in 20,000 to 25,000 births are people with XLH. As of today, the U.S. population is 333,294,290. That is how I arrived at the approximate number of people with XLH in the U.S.

Copyright 2021 S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries

One Thing Leads to Another

For two nights in a row, about 3 weeks ago, I heard a familiar, although relatively rare, sound. It woke me up out of a dead sleep. I have a friend who has suggested that I’m “aurally defended.” I tried to google that but didn’t find that term on the internet. Basically, though, little sounds like a faucet dripping or a clock ticking, can keep me awake or drive me nuts. In this particular case, it led to a series of events.

In 2007, my dear, beloved cat, Hallie, died at the ripe old age of 17. Since that time, I’ve had, about every other year, a mouse (I prefer tiny rodent, since “mouse” sounds too endearing) to attempt occupation of my home. This does not go over well with me. I do not like rodents. They’re nasty and, unfortunately, they’re usually smart. Well, except this one pictured below who thought he’d found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow when he discovered the dog food bin in the laundry room two years ago.  Unfortunately, his occupation plan did not provide a way for him to exit the pot of gold, since it was very tall and only about a third full. I won’t say how I disposed of him, just in case someone from PETA reads this. I will say, though, one should NEVER reach down into a dog food bin at 6 AM in the semi-dark without looking into the bin first. Feeling a creature try to “scamper” up your arm is not a good start to the day!

“Okay, I’ve found my way in. Now, how do I get back out of here???”

One thing led to another, and I purchased a dog food bin with a screw-on lid. There has never been another rodent take-over of the dog food container since then.

Anyway, the two nights of lost sleep led me to take matters into my own hands, since this new rodent was not scared off by my stomping and hitting the walls. And, now that my Jack Russell Terrier is hard of hearing, he’s not scaring off the rodent either. So, the next day, I tracked the tiny rodent to my bedroom closet. (They do leave calling cards, so to speak.) I pulled everything, and I mean everything, out of my closet, which, thankfully, is very small. It’s about 10” deep and 7’ long. Someone walled in a fireplace and chimney and created this closet a few decades ago. Back when the house was built, in 1904, people didn’t really need closets, because people didn’t collect junk and amass a fortune in clothes and shoes like we Americans tend to do now. So,the closet is about the depth of a chimney.

The closet, looking to the left.

The closet, looking to the right towards chimney.

The emptying of my closet lead to the discovery of several large rodent size holes that had never been filled in. I had never done anything to this closet, including painting it, so, this led to my conviction that a complete renovation was in order. And it really needed it. I even had to do some light construction in there, because whoever did the work before did a half-uh, a half-mouse job. I filled in all the holes with caulk, after discovering that someone many years ago had tried stuffing a few of these holes with tinfoil and even this thing I found in there:

I’m not sure what this is. Perhaps it is a stove valve regulator, as one friend suggested.

 I sawed off some old nails that were poking through the walls. I primed the walls, the shelves and the chimney with some very toxic primer. But I was prepared.

Wearing my mask and Sponge Bob hat. Poor Sponge Bob. He has dental issues, too.

It actually came in handy that I am a little person. I could squeeze into this tiny space and reach in there to paint those end walls and shelves fairly easily. I don’t think a tall or big person could have done this job. Well, they would have griped about it, probably. So, one coat of primer and two coats of leftover “Moroccan Moon” paint from another paint job and the closet was well on its way to completion.

“Moroccan Moon” paint on a brush. If I could do it all over again, I’d become a namer of paint colors.

The next thing to deal with was the floor. As you can see in an earlier photo, it needed work. I was not about to refinish it, either. But being from a long line of borderline hoarders, I did happen to have some leftover “ipe” wood flooring that had been used when I had the front porch rebuilt several years ago. It was perfect for the job, doesn’t need refinishing, and I didn’t have to go buy something else. My kind of project! So, the tiny rodent led to another thing…not just the restoration of my closet, but using up stuff like paint and wood that I already had.

How many closets have exotic hardwood floors?

Oftentimes when we use that phrase, “one thing leads to another” it is used in a negative sense. There’s a pop song out with this idiom as the title, and when I read the lyrics, it looked pretty bleak to me. When you google “one thing leads to another idiom” then you can see several examples in the free dictionary reference that are pretty negative, too. Although the tiny rodent in the house was clearly a negative experience in my mind, the outcome has been positive I think. And this one thing leads me to mention another thing—

There have been some exciting developments in the world of XLH research. A hormone called “FGF23” has been found to be partly responsible for our phosphate wasting disorder, and there has been a “discovery” of a compound (name “KRN23”) that is being tested to be used to reduce the amount of FGF23 hormone that is wreaking havoc on us. The Phase 3 trials will hopefully begin soon. This will not likely be of a lot of help to adults with XLH, from what I have read, because it cannot undo the damage that has already been done, such as the excessive calcifications. But, what GREAT news for children and the parents of those children! We have mice (I’m okay with referring to these laboratory rodents as “mice” since they’re being helpful) to thank for this development, since they have been used in the research, but we mostly have some wonderful research scientists who have spent their lives looking for cures and treatments for human diseases. I have a friend who is a research scientist in medicine and God bless him, because it takes a very long time in many cases, to have a breakthrough in your research. But one thing can lead to another, and in this case, many tests and trials, and many mice and humans willing to be in drug trials, have led to possibly a huge breakthrough in a rare disease. I am honestly amazed that some people have spent their lives researching something so rare, too, because they will not likely be mentioned in any textbook, unless they also find the cure for the common cold. My hat’s off to them.

Yep, one thing leads to another. And that can be a really positive thing. And as for my tiny rodent—well, he is going to lead me to have to empty out another closet because in my zeal to caulk all the holes in my closet, I apparently caulked them while he was in instead of out of the house, and he’s found another closet, a bigger one, that he likes!

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaires, 2013-2018.

Spring Genes

I love spring in the South.

Well, let me re-phrase that.

With the help of a lot of allergy medication, I love spring in the South.

The neighborhood has burst with color, and there are days when I think, “Have the colors ever been as bright as they are this year? Has that tree or that neighbor’s yard ever been as beautiful?”

The flowers in the front yard have gone crazy this year. In fact, I think I’m going to have to transplant some of them that are taking over like they own the place. I can’t just throw them away like some people do, though. It feels murderous. So, I’ll find some little patch of dirt that needs something in it.

I always think of genetics when spring rolls around. When I first moved here, I knew that I wanted to plant a lot of perennials. It’s fun to watch them re-bloom and spread year after year. I bought some columbine seeds my first spring here, sort of a medium pink color, and now I have several variations of pink columbines blooming all over the yard. (I’m a seed-saver, so they’re all over the place now.) I don’t remember buying several shades of pink, but there sure are several shades now.

A good friend of mine, as a housewarming gift, planted Lenten roses in the front yard shortly after I arrived. After a couple of years, I noticed that some of them were not pink colored at all, but were white, and they stayed white. The pink ones will fade during their few weeks of blooming, but the white ones never changed colors. They were resolutely white, with no shades of pink. Genetics did that.

The other day I found a lucky clover patch in the backyard with one four-leaf clover in it. A spontaneous mutation, I’m sure. Then, about 20 feet away, I found a super-lucky clover patch that had three four-leaf clovers and three five-leaf clovers in it. I guess those were inherited mutations. Then, several days after being mowed, the super-lucky clover patch yielded no four-leaf clovers. I couldn’t even find a two-leaf clover in it, it was so unlucky. But the regular lucky clover patch, several days after being mowed, had two four-leaf clovers and one six-leaf clover in it. It became super-lucky in one week’s time. Those crazy genes. Go figure.

The six-leaf clover is on the left and the four-leaf clover is on the right. Both are from the clover patch that was originally just a lucky patch, but this week is a super-lucky patch. Notice that the six-leaf clover has a very thick stem. It looks to me like it was two twin three-leaf clovers that were supposed to separate, but never did. I guess that would make it a Siamese stem, eh?

Sometimes, that whole genetic thing, when thinking about XLH, really kind of aggravates me and makes me feel very unlucky. Losing teeth is annoying, and sometimes embarrassing, to say the least. Having to go to the doctor to have my Vitamin D and parathyroid hormone checked every three months is a pain in the hiney. A trip to the doctor’s office to get the blood drawn, then a trip back a week later to consult with the doctor about the results takes me away from work and other fun activities. (Hey, I love my job, what can I say?) Last week, the Vitamin D was finally above 30 (now 34, woo-hoo!) but now my parathyroid hormone is above normal and “trending” upwards towards secondary hyperparathyroidism, which is not good, because that could lead to kidney stones, bone fractures, bone and joint pain (Hah! Are you kidding me? More?) and depression and something else…oh yeah, forgetfulness. It leads to an overall bad mood, if you ask me. I can’t believe that a little gland in the neck that regulates calcium, and is the size of a GRAIN OF RICE, can cause such trouble. Some XLH-er’s have to have them removed, and I am not really wanting to have to do that, because that’s just a little scary to think about.

But, as aggravating as having my genes has been at times, spring comes around and I notice that if it weren’t for genes, what would my yard look like? The same old thing every year, I guess. Pretty boring, obviously. Humans would be boring, too. My doctor would have a very boring career, I’m sure, because all she’d have to deal with is cranky people coming in with colds and flu. Now she gets to see ME, and draw pictures of the parathyroid glands to show its location near the thyroid gland, which gives them their name, because they have nothing to do with the thyroid gland; they just live next door to it, and she gets to talk about things other than antibiotics and eating a healthy diet. Surely, I must make her day? I bet she went home and told her husband that she saw 20 people with colds and sinus infections, and the most interesting part of her day was when the little short lady with the genetic disorder called XLH came in to discuss her blood test results and she got to explain to the intern who was with her about this rare disorder that he had never heard of, because he had just started med school and looked like he was about 14 years old. If it wasn’t for me, her day would be spent prescribing antibiotics or blood pressure meds and telling patients to lay off the red meat and salt. Boring.

One more thing that has been special about this spring. Last year, a friend of my sister gave me an iris to plant that was a color I had never seen before in irises. Sort of a peachy, salmon color. This year, it bloomed for the first time. Now, I love my tall, gangly yellow and purple irises that have taken over the front yard. They have been with me from the beginning, and are very tall (about chest high for me) and they get so tall that they flop over from being top heavy.

Purple irises with yellow irises in the background. The purple ones smell like grape soda.

But this new and different color is just breathtakingly beautiful to me. AND, I am happy to report, they are the shortest irises in the yard! Hah! How about THAT!?! The shortest and the prettiest!

My new iris. My mother’s first name is Iris. She is also beautiful, like the flower.

Since it’s the new flower on the block, I take a lot of pictures of it! We’ve had quite a lot of rain, as you can tell by the droplets of rain water still clinging to it when the sun came out. I think it looks like it’s sticking its tongue out at me, which makes me smile.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you who are  mothers and mothering women out there, and especially to mine, who’ll be the lucky beneficiary of some of those irises this weekend!

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries, 2013-2018.

People first

The first week of January, someone told me that another hammered dulcimer player had moved to town. When I heard this news, I think I felt like some John Wayne-like cowboy– “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us. There’s only one paying St. Paddy’s Day gig in this town, and I don’t aim to let you have it…uh, yep.” Okay, that’s an exaggeration. Actually, what I realized was that I have gotten very lazy about learning new music. If you were to pull out an old Baptist hymnal, and name any familiar hymn from it, I could probably sit down and within a few minutes, work out an arrangement of that song on my hammered dulcimer and play it for you, even improvise a little bit too. When it comes to playing familiar tunes by ear, it is very easy for me to do. However, when it comes to sitting down and learning an unfamiliar tune written out in standard notation, it takes me much longer and my patience wears thin. Also, since the hammered dulcimer is an instrument that you have to play while looking at your hands and not a piece of music, then I feel like a bobble-head doll when attempting to learn written music. Look up at the music, look down at the hammered dulcimer to find the notes, look back up to the music, back down at the hammered dulcimer. It can be dizzying.

There has been one particular piece of music that I have wanted to learn for a long time, but I haven’t because I knew that I would have to sit down and WORK on it by reading and memorizing the music note for note. I have heard this piece several times over the years and every time I have heard it I have thought, “What IS that song? It’s so beautiful.” And every time I would check my CD to find the name of the song, I would see that it’s “Carolan’s Concerto.” The song is, to me, very beautiful, but not very memorable. Or maybe I should say it’s not very memorize-able. I have tried listening to it over and over before, to try and memorize the tune but it just did not stick in my head. Not like a Baptist hymn, anyway. So, I never bothered to attempt to learn it by the notes on the page. I just assumed that I would never be able to learn it because it didn’t make very much musical sense, in the same way that a song with words might.

“Carolan’s Concerto” is one of many songs written by Turlough O’Carolan in the late 1600’s and early 1700’s. So, now I’m going to take a detour here and tell you about him and something that does relate to the purpose of this blog. Several places that I have found with descriptions of Turlough O’Carolan, or Carolan, as he and his friends referred to him, describe him as a blind, Irish harpist. The noticeable thing about these descriptions is that he is labeled first as “blind.”  Actually, the most memorable thing about Carolan was that he was an outstanding and prolific composer. He was a better composer than a harpist, apparently. But, some of these descriptions that I have read put “blind” first.

There has been a movement for at least the last two decades in the world of disabilities to move away from adjective-first language (i.e., disabled person, handicapped person, blind person, deaf person, autistic person, learning-disabled person, etc.) and move toward people-first language (person with disabilities, person with visual or hearing impairment, person with autism, etc.) Apparently, this shift to people-first language has been controversial in some communities, because for some of these communities, what others may call their “disability” is for them a source of culture and pride (for example, in the deaf and visually-impaired communities.) However, the shift has been welcomed in some other communities, for example, those people who have mobility-related disabilities. Not everyone wants to be defined, for example, by what they cannot do. I can understand that. I don’t want to be defined as that “short, bowlegged limping woman.” However, if I were a criminal, that description would be very handy to the police who might be looking for me. I mean, after all, that is the first thing you might notice about me if you saw me out on the street. I guess the more polite thing to say about me if you were describing me would be “the woman with bowlegs, a limp and short stature,” to use people-first language. Hmm…actually, that’s not so great either, I suppose. If you see me out on the street, just ask me my name and strike up a conversation. Then you can describe me as “that woman who is nice and whose name I can’t remember.”

Anyway, there has been a lot written on people-first language. Just Google that phrase and you’ll find many articles. The ones that I read were all very interesting. I understand the reasoning behind it all. People should be people first and their “otherness” should be secondary to the obvious fact that they’re human beings created in the image of God first. I also understand that there are some communities whose “otherness” defines who they are as people. I had a good friend many years ago who was deaf and was thrilled to invite me into her world and her culture of deafness and even more thrilled when I asked her to tutor me in her language. Her identity as a deaf person was very important to her. And while I do have an identity as a person with XLH, it is certainly not the defining thing about me, and it probably isn’t for many folks in that particular community. We are people with many talents and gifts and many characteristics. Yes, we have all those physical traits that come with the territory of having XLH, and it has probably influenced who we’ve become as far as personality is concerned (compassionate comes to mind) but who we are certainly is not limited to our medical diagnosis. That goes for all people, too. We are not solely defined by our professions, our race, gender, age, etc. We do love categories in the U.S.A., but hopefully each of us is way more multi-faceted than some box we check on a survey or census form.

So, back to the hammered dulcimer and Carolan’s Concerto. I found an arrangement of the song that I like, started learning it and within three days, I was playing the song. I discovered something new about myself in the process. The song turned out, for me, to be very memorize-able as long as I didn’t just limit myself to learning it solely by ear. I realized that there was a kind of three-legged stool necessary for me to learn this song, each leg being equally important. In addition to listening, I had to read the written music and also pay extra close attention to the visual patterns of the piece as I played it on the dulcimer. Now I am working on getting the piece up to speed. I needed to take a multi-faceted approach to learn this song, rather than limit myself to trying to learn it solely by ear. I found it sort of ironic that I really had to rely so heavily on the visual aspects of learning it on my instrument rather than my usual aural approach, when it was a song written by a composer who was blind. I’m rather pleased to discover that I am not nearly as impatient as I had judged myself, either. So, now I’m thinking I need to learn one song each month this way. I need to not be so lazy, and push myself to learn something that may require more brain power (and discipline) than normal. I guess I had sort of subconsciously self-labeled myself as music-reading challenged or rather, a person with music-reading challenges. Thank you, Turlough O’Carolan for a beautiful song that is worth the extra work to learn it. Now, I will be ready for that St. Paddy’s day gig. Uh, yep.

Copyright 2013-2018, S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries

Numbers

Tucker thinks this blog is about him. He is bowlegged like me, but I am not a beagle. He, however, sometimes thinks he’s a human, with all the rights and privileges that accompany that. He is wrong.

I had the opportunity to spend some unexpected extra time with my brother and his family in late December. I spent the night at their house…he is married and has two teenage children. I also learned something new about my niece, his daughter, who is 16 years old. We were talking about math, of all things, and more specifically, calculus. She is taking a calculus class at the local state university and when we got into a discussion of how school was going, she said, “That class is killing me!” Now, not to brag or anything, but this kid is SMART. I remarked to my brother once that I thought it should be the goal of every parent to make sure that their kids turn out smarter than their parents. I commended him for his success in that! He agreed but wasn’t exactly sure if it was also a rather backhanded compliment.

Anyway, my niece said that she had really enjoyed algebra, but that calculus was a bit of a mystery to her. I’ll call her Algebragrrl. I told her that I had taken calculus in high school and did not do well in it at all, but I had always attributed that to the fact that I moved to another city right in the middle of high school (11^th grade) and the math classes at the new school didn’t really match up to the classes I was in at the old school, and I never really got back on track with math, although I had also loved algebra. My math chat with my niece was a very nice moment for me…realizing that we both had a love of algebra. When she was a young kid, I didn’t really feel a connection to her and so, making this connection with her a few days before Christmas was a really nice feeling. It was an early Christmas present. Then she surprised me even more.

Algebragrrl: I like to count things, too. Do you?

Me: Why YES, I DO! I count steps. How interesting. We must be related. (Snicker.)

Algebragrrl: (Grin.) I also like to put things in alphabetical order. All of our DVD’s are in alphabetical order.

Me: ME TOO! All of my DVD’s are in alphabetical order. I used to want to be a librarian. You would like my coin collection.  I have coins from all over the world, organized in notebooks, in alphabetical order, and also in order of ascending value within each country. I’ll have to show you sometime. I started this collection when I was about 8 years old.

Algebragrrl: (Eyes wide.) Okay!

What a cute kid. I can’t believe she’s 16 years old either! And I was just thrilled to make this new connection with her. (I also found out recently that she likes photography, too.) And what a strange, quirky connection…math, algebra and counting things.

After all the Christmas travels were over, and the calendar flipped over to January, I received an email report from WordPress with my first annual blog summary report. It was chock full of numbers…I loved it. Apparently, WordPress likes to count things, too.

Here’s what I learned: People from 64 countries have viewed my blog, which I began last May. (Gosh, I wonder if I have coins from all of those countries? Better check that out…) The report said I had over 2,300 views of my posts in 2012. My busiest day was last September 18, 2012 when I had 63 views of my blog. My most popular posts were the ones on the leg braces. It must have been the photos of the cute bird feeder that I made with the braces that made it so popular.

I just read all that stuff in the report and thought, “Why?” Then I laughed. Why in the world would someone from clear across the world want to read this? I really have no idea. It could have been accidental. One of the tags is “XLH” which is also some kind of motorcycle.

Anyway, all those numbers do fascinate me. (And, who, by the way, is counting all of those views? Hmmm…)

Here are some more fascinating numbers that I have been thinking about lately, unrelated to the report:

There are over 7 billion people in the world (and this information comes from http://www.worldometers.info). I have something in common with over 7 billion people…I am a human just like they are humans.

There are over 315,000,000 people living in the U.S.A., which is where I live. I share something in common with over 315,000,000 other people…I reside in the U.S.A.

Approximately 51% of those people living in the U.S.A. are women. So, I share something in common with 160,650,000 other people here in the U.S.A. I am a woman. You won’t see that same percentage in Congress or in the prison system, but overall, we are the majority, slightly.

Okay, and now for my fellow XLH-ers, which is the whole reason I started this blog last May: According to http://www.xlhnetwork.org, which is our online support group, 1 in 20,000 people (and I am assuming they mean worldwide) have XLH. That’s 350,000 people in the WORLD and 15,750 people in the U.S.A.  with whom I have something very unique in common. Very unique, indeed! I find that to be a little miraculous, actually…that I share the same quirky, weird genetic mutation as 11 other people in my city, 462 other people in my state, and 15,750 other people in my country, and 350,000 other people in the world. How’d we all do that very same thing…mutate on the X chromosome and end up with this thing called XLH? What a mystery!

I also find it odd that I have all these genetic “relatives” and I’ve never met a single one of you in person. (We’re still not sure about my mother…) I’ve “met” some of you through this blog (ah, the internet, another miracle!) but I’ve never stood face to face with another XLH-er, even though there are several of you out there, 11 of whom reside in my city. (Wanna meet for lunch?)

I have enjoyed the mystery, though. I know you’re out there…I’ve been thrilled to connect with some of you through this blog. It’s been a comfort to think there are some folks out there who might read a post and think, “Yep, I know what she’s talking about!” I’ve enjoyed the connection with my mystery readers and the readers with whom I was already friends and who are only reading this blog because they love me, which may be another disorder altogether. I even have a relative who read my blog and he says it inspired him to start his own blog.

So, here’s to 2012. Thank you, readers and subscribers, for reading my ramblings, making comments, and hitting the “like” button. I feel very honored that you have taken the time to read some of my posts. And, being a little partial to the XLH-ers, sometimes I say an extra little prayer for your well-being. I know you’re out there. I have numbers to prove it.

Yes, 2012 was a good year. And when I woke up on January 1^st, 2013, and my feet hit the floor and my butt did NOT hit the floor, I thought, “Yep. This is starting out to be a good year, too!” I wish you all a good year in 2013!

Most of these coins are from my childhood collection, as you can see the childish handwriting on some of the holders.  My dad started me out by giving me Canadian coins that he had found in his change. Then, as I got older, friends would bring back some from their travels. The one from Pakistan was the first coin I ever purchased. I bought it already in a cardboard holder, at a flea market for 10 cents, when I was about 10 years old. The memory is worth way more than 10 cents.

Copyright 2013-2018, Banjogrrldiaries and S.G. Hunter

The Truth about Santa Claus

I clearly remember the day that I discovered the truth about Santa Claus.

Obviously I had my suspicions about the whole thing, or I wouldn’t have known that I needed to sneak behind my parents’ backs and get to the bottom of this question. So, one afternoon, I went down to the back of the house and pushed open a vent that opened up into the basement and saw two blue bicycles (one for me and one for my sister) each with a banana seat and a sissy bar, and the awesome world globe that I wanted. WOW! Just what I had asked Santa for and he had stored them at my house…hey, wait a minute! Santa Claus is not some fat man with a white beard and red clothes but Santa Claus is (are?) my parents!!!

Most of the time when I hear folks’ stories about how they discovered “there is no Santa,” it is coupled with a lot of disappointment. Or even anger. They are angry that their parents had tricked them, sad that their fantasy world was shattered.

I never felt that way. I was THRILLED. I now knew a secret that only my parents and I were privy to in our household. I was now a keeper of the secret that my younger sister and brother still believed. I loved knowing something and being on that end of the surprise. This was great news to me. It was almost as if I was now part of Santa Claus’ team.

I recently told this story to Professorgrrl who said this about my discovery: “You discovered that the secret is that WE are the ones who bring the gifts, who offer the care, who share the love.”

At the age of 7 or 8, I am sure I wouldn’t have been able to put my feelings into those words, but I think she hit the nail on the head. Giving gifts and showing love is not about “magic Christmas dust” as Professorgrrl put it, but it is where the rubber hits the road. We get to BE the Santa, no matter our size or shape, whether or not we are abled or less-abled. We show love to others and we share our gifts as a response to the Love that has been shone to us.

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries, 2012-2017

Mobility

I have been inspired to write about physical disabilities today. Unfortunately, the inspiration came from a neighbor who recently had a fall…in front of my house!

The day after Thanksgiving, my neighbor informed Professorgrrl that a couple weeks prior, she had tripped over an uneven section of the sidewalk in front of our house, late at night when she was walking her dog. Her fall landed her in the emergency room with cuts on her face and knees and a sprain in her ankle. She wanted Professorgrrl to know about this in case we wanted to call the city and let them know of the accident and that she had “taken photos” of the sidewalk where she fell. She said that in her hometown up north, if two people fell in a particular section of sidewalk, the city would take action to repair the sidewalk. But, two people have to get hurt before they will do anything…

Professorgrrl is VERY passionate when it comes to the subject of access for people with physical disabilities. She recently bought a car specifically because it would hold her, me, her mother and her mother’s walker at the same time, so that we could all go to church together. One of the reasons that she chose this particular church to attend is because the handicapped access was so easy…there is parking in front right at the door, a ramp, a place to park the walker and wide aisles in the sanctuary. She is also considering getting a new hair stylist for her mother because the handicapped entrance at the current beauty shop is through a narrow back door that leads into the break room where the hairstylists are hanging out between appointments and not real interested in moving their butts out of the way when “Mama” comes through with her walker. We’ve found another place that has a very nice ramp into the front of the building, and so we’re going to check it out. If this new stylist doesn’t cut “Mama’s” hair as well the stylist at the other shop, though, then we’ll keep taking her to the place with poor access, since for “Mama” beauty trumps convenience.

Professorgrrl is also sensitive about this because she knows that I have been known to stumble or fall when my legs or knees aren’t cooperating. And just as an aside, last year on one of our early morning dog-walks, I tripped over some uneven section of the sidewalk about this time of the year. I remember that because I was wearing a hoodie. I clearly remember the sidewalk rapidly advancing towards my face as I was falling forward when all of a sudden, I felt a hard pull on the neck of my hoodie and I stopped in mid-air, my face inches from the sidewalk. Professorgrrl had caught me by the hoodie mid-fall and stopped the fall before its potentially painful conclusion. That was the strangest feeling I have ever had. It was as if some angel had reached down from the heavens and rescued me from a LOT of pain. I am pretty sure I would have broken a knee or two or something, but fortunately, I did not.

Unfortunately for my neighbor, though, there was no one to catch her before she hit the ground one night a couple of weeks ago when she tripped on the sidewalk. And this has really made me think about how I am very unaware of some of these dangers for others who are unsuspecting because I am usually so extra careful, that I often pay excessive attention to every step I take, including those in front of the house. It had never really occurred to me to call the city to repair those sections, because I know they are there and know to be very careful. Another neighbor, who was curious as to why the city was spending so much time in front of my house, was not surprised when I told her they were replacing two sections of the sidewalk. She said she always warned her granddaughter to be careful and not run on the sidewalks on our block because they are so uneven.

So, I realized that because I now scrutinize every place where I’m about to place my feet, I have assumed that others do the same. That’s just not the case. They’ve not needed to think about whether or not they’ve lifted their feet high enough or if they can catch themselves and keep themselves from falling.

I wonder if, perhaps, most people, like my neighbor who fell, go along in life for 60 years or so and one day find out that they are not as sure-footed as they used to be. They may trip and almost fall, or they might actually fall and all of a sudden, they might think, “Oh. I didn’t see that thing that tripped me up.” Or, “Oh, I’m a little stiff today and I guess I didn’t step up high enough.” We all probably do it. One day you’re going along and can read size 8 font and then all of a sudden, one day you realize you need a size 18 font to read comfortably or, worse, reading glasses, a magnifier and a flashlight.

I have never been extremely sure-footed, and am getting less sure-footed with age, and as a result, it never occurred to me that perhaps I ought to look around and notice the sidewalks in my neighborhood that might trip SOMEONE ELSE up…someone who doesn’t realize how treacherous old sidewalks in an old neighborhood can be and hasn’t constantly monitored their every step before they take it, because they didn’t need to.

The GOOD news is, Professorgrrl called the city last Monday, and on Tuesday morning, they were out there at 9 AM pulling up five bad sections of sidewalk…two in front of my house and three in front of the church next door. On Wednesday, they had poured concrete into the forms they had made for the sections in front of the church. On Thursday, they came and poured black asphalt in the sections in front of my house. I was informed that this was something new the city was trying…where the sidewalk sections are crumbling and being raised up by tree roots (planted in the median by the city) they are pouring asphalt (which has more “give” to it than concrete, and won’t crack as much as concrete will as those tree roots continue to grow). This Monday morning, one week after the phone call, they sealed the asphalt sections and painted those sections to look like concrete. They also filled in dirt, planted grass seed and spread hay where they had dug around to replace the sections in front of the church building.

Sidewalk repairs- asphalt with sealant

I have to say I was impressed with the speed in which they made this repair. I guess nothing says “fix this ASAP” like “emergency room” and “took photos of the sidewalk.” The new sections look great. In fact, they look so good, I wish they had gone ahead and replaced the entire length of our property so it would all match. But, that’s the Martha Stewart side of me coming out. I thanked the guys last week for coming out so quickly but now I even feel inspired to call the city transportation department and thank them for making our little section of the block safer. In fact, I’m thinking that I may also encourage them to take a look around the neighborhood at several other spots that I have now noticed are actually as bad or worse than those sections they repaired in front of my house. I hate the thought of more neighbors having to take a fall before the city does something about this. I thought about all the neighbors on my block…the youngest one is 50 years old. We’re not getting any younger on this street and changes in our mobility will likely occur…hopefully we won’t become disabled, but likely we will become “less-abled” or “differently-abled.” We XLH-ers have perhaps gotten an early start in that department, but we’re certainly not alone. And there are many folks out there who have it much worse.

Looks like concrete…but it’s not. It’s painted asphalt. Martha Stewart would not approve.

So, I am now reminded that I need to look around and think more of those around me who might not be aging so gracefully. Professorgrrl’s mom often complains of back pain, something new that she has acquired in her senior years, and is convinced, to hear her tell it, that no one has suffered like she is suffering with her back pain. For her, this may be true, because SHE has never suffered like she is now suffering. It’s new to her, and it has come as a shock to her system. It’s not just the pain she feels…it’s the shock and sense that her body has now betrayed her in painful ways that she never imagined.

That’s just not the case for me. I have always imagined it. Something about wearing braces as a child gets into your psyche, I guess. I have always imagined that I would end up as physically challenged as I was when I wore those stiff metal and leather leg braces when I was four years old. That thought was reinforced to me when I was 22 years old, a recent college graduate, and my parents presented me with a life insurance policy after I had gotten my first job and said, “Sign these papers for this insurance policy. We think you should have it, because it has a disability clause should you ever become unable to work and support yourself.” The thought occurred to me that maybe they knew something I didn’t know. So, it has not especially been that huge of a deal to have some new pain or physical challenge, because I have always assumed that I had it coming.

But for Professorgrrl’s mom…it’s all new and a huge slap in the face! She is not aging very gracefully and it took a lot of convincing just to get her to start using a walker. Of course her dad also had a unique perspective on physical pain, which I have always found to be somewhat amusing. It was pretty much this: “When the doctor asks you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, always choose a nine or a ten. That way, you’ll get the most medication you can get for your money. Maybe even some free samples.” He loved a good bargain.

So, I have a new resolution for myself. When I take my morning walks, I need to pay attention and view the sidewalks from others’ points of view. Are they wheelchair accessible? (I have seen two neighbors over the years who used the sidewalks for a daily outing in their wheelchairs, one of them even walking her dog as she drove her electric wheelchair. Accessibility not only includes safe sidewalks, but there should not be any tree branches that would impede a person in a wheelchair.) Are they accessible for someone with a walker? (I’ve seen one elderly neighbor who used to take walks with his walker on our sidewalks.) Are they baby-stroller accessible? (One huge bump might send a baby flying out of there!) Can you walk on them at night safely? (That might include making sure all the street lamps have working bulbs. Seeing an uneven section of sidewalk before you walk over it may prevent an accidental fall.) These are all things I need to think about…things that will make my neighborhood “walking-friendly” and safe for my neighbors, most of whom I like.

Tucker the Beagle and Deacon the Jack Russell Terrier, would also add: “Is our path free of all things that might otherwise prevent my humans from safely walking me every single morning without fail, through rain, sleet or snow?”

We all know that they are only thinking of me and Professorgrrl and not themselves, of course.

Safety patrol

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries, 2012-2017

Happy Thanksgiving!

I’ve been thinking a lot about birds this week. I don’t think it’s tomorrow’s turkey-fest that has inspired me, either.

I live in an urban neighborhood. Even with all the traffic, the houses, the noise, the pollution, the cats, it’s quite a bird sanctuary. In the 14 years that I have lived in this neighborhood, I have seen crows, woodpeckers, hawks, finches, canaries, cardinals, blue jays, flickers, mockingbirds, doves, chickadees, wrens, owls, and, of course, the many different varieties of sparrows. There’s even a blue heron that hangs out at the creek in our park sometimes. I have always been amazed at the number of birds who are city-dwellers like me. City living has its challenges for our feathered friends, especially with the number of cats around here, but it also has many benefits. Many folks keep birdfeeders stocked up to encourage these many varieties of beautiful birds to stop by for food. I have quite a collection of  bird feathers that I have found on my walks over the years. If you remember my first blog post, then you already know that I like feathers and why I like them. I prefer to see them on the birds, of course, but hey, occasionally my hair falls out, too.

Found Feathers on a Drum

When I arrive home from work each day, I pull my car into the driveway which is next to a large wandering wild rose bush that is next to the front porch. Almost everyday, there is a flock of several varieties of sparrows hanging out in that tangled mess of a bush, chattering away, hopping around, doing the bird thing. They seem to be a happy bunch. Sometimes in the summer, they are wallowing in the dirt of the garden on the other side of the driveway, taking a dirt bath, flying from the garden, to and from the rose bush, which is their safe haven, I guess. I like to sit in my car and watch them sometimes. On Monday, when I pulled into the driveway, there was a beautiful hawk standing by the rose bush. I’ve seen a hawk in the front yard and on the porch before. I always assumed she was catching mice, for which I have been very grateful, since that cat next door is a lazy slacker, not doing the job she was meant to do on this earth.

But Monday, the beautiful hawk was obliterating a sparrow (or maybe more than one sparrow, given the number of feathers remaining) by the rose bush. The hawk was undeterred by my arrival, too. I didn’t notice what she was doing at first. Then, when I saw the pile of feathers all around her, I watched in both horror and fascination as she devoured her lunch. Many thoughts came to my mind including, “Today’s a really bad day to be a sparrow.”

Then I thought of a song that I heard many times growing up. “His Eye is On the Sparrow.” The song says, referring to God, “His eye is on the sparrow so I know He [God] watches me.”

One needs to be really careful before one uses nature as a metaphor to illustrate the presence of God, because the second thought I had was, “God wasn’t watching THAT sparrow today.”

And then, my mind rambling on, I thought of a friend of mine who is having a rough time right now with family illness and job changes. She might even feel like God is nowhere around and the hawks have gotten to her as a result of God’s absence. I know I certainly would if I were in her shoes.

So, that’s where we, those who love her and care about her step in. I really believe we are to be the presence of God in other people’s lives, especially during those times when they feel completely abandoned by God. I certainly am not God, and can do nothing to change her circumstances right now, but I can be with her, listen to her, think about her, pray for her, and support her in the best way I know how (which usually means going out to a nearby Mexican restaurant for dinner.) I can watch out for her, keep my eye on her. I am pretty sure she knows that she is loved by her friends, and that we’re paying attention and watching out for her.

That’s a lot of what I have to be thankful for this year. Friends. I have some really great ones. I hope I can be a really good friend, too. I also have some new friends, which makes me happy and reassures me that I have not become a sour-puss as I have gotten older. I worry about that, because I’ve seen it happen!

And I am really grateful for my XLH “friends” who are out there. I have never met another XLH-er in person. (Since it occurs in 1 in 20,000 people, I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised by that.) But thanks to the internet, I have “met” some people through this blog and through the XLH Network that share this odd condition with me, and it makes me feel like I have found my “flock” of fellow birds out there. They have been very supportive the past several years through their conversations on the network, and they probably don’t even realize it, since I have mostly just read the conversations rather than participated. The one or two times I asked for some advice, though, many willingly jumped in to offer their wisdom and concern.

So, this year, I raise a glass of cider to my flocks of friends, of many varieties, for whom I am very grateful! Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries, 2012-2017

Tucker the Beagle and Tuna from a Can

Shown above is a picture of my dog, Tucker the Beagle. He’s the one who is in mid-air, jumping up because it’s “suppertime” and professorgrrl (who is quite tall) is carrying his plate of food back to his room. Deacon, the brown and white Jack Russell Terrier, is excited for him. He doesn’t get nearly as excited about food. But Tucker’s excitement is rather contagious. Some folks say that there are dogs and there are Beagles, a unique species of animal. I am inclined to agree with them.

I have never in my life seen an animal get so excited about food. He’s a “rescue” dog. He showed up on Sept. 25, 2009 when I was out in my front yard talking to a colleague of mine who had dropped by. The Beagle came bounding into the yard, obviously a puppy, and straight over to me like we were old friends. We tried for two weeks to find his owner, with no luck. He was skinny, but happy. (Think back…have you EVER seen a skinny Beagle? That should tell you that he was neglected, at the very least.) I grew up with beagles, so I figured this non-agressive breed would be a good addition to the family, with two Jack Russell terriers already living here. One week after Tucker showed up, my very beloved dog-soulmate, Pogo The Jack Russell Terrier, was diagnosed with cancer. Folks started telling me that the arrival of Tucker the Beagle meant that God was watching out for me. I told them their statement was either an insult to God or that God must be mad at me, because Tucker was the biggest pain in the hiney I had ever known. I won’t bore my readers with details on what constitutes “pain in the hiney” but you can be sure that if you have ever had a dog that brought total chaos into a home, then you might know a little of what I’m talking about. Pogo died 2 ½ months later on Dec. 9, 2009, and then I was SURE that God was mad at me, because now we were stuck with these two dogs that were oil and water, and Pogo, their fearless leader, was gone and no one could keep Tucker the Beagle and Deacon The Other Jack Russell, in check. Sometimes I would look down at the end of my arm and see this dog on a leash attached to me and wonder how in the world my life had come to this…no Pogo, but instead a challenge that I was losing.

Well, life has changed a LOT since then. Deacon has decided (just last month, actually) that he could tolerate Tucker and even like him occasionally, and Tucker has calmed down quite a bit and become more manageable after three 8-week dog training classes (professorgrrl’s idea). There are some things about Tucker that have not changed, however.

1. He is coprophagous. I won’t explain that one. You can look it up, but rest assured, it’s disgusting.
2. He is cold-natured. However, we can’t leave him during the day with a blanket, because he will eat that too. Ask me how I know…
3. There has possibly never been another dog on the planet who loves to eat more than Tucker the Beagle loves to eat. The dog trainer even noticed this, since he jumped up to knock the treat pouch off her belt one night during class. As you could see in the photo above, he expresses his excitement about mealtime by jumping up and down from the pantry on one side of the house to his “room” (a bathroom) on the other side of the house. He does this every single day at breakfast and at supper.  This happens twice a day, without fail, leaping, jumping about 12 times from one side of the house to the other. And get this…it’s the exact same meal every time! But for him, it’s as if he has never been fed this particular thing before. His jump is almost to the top of my head, not that my head is that far up from ground level, but still. He is THAT excited about his dog food. And it’s commercial dog food too, not anything homemade. I am amazed by this.

But then again, I am not. Whenever professorgrrl says she’s going to cook, which is regularly, and almost every Friday night, I am jumping, leaping, bounding on the inside. Even if it’s something that comes out of a can, like today’s recipe, I am very excited. Usually she cooks with all fresh ingredients but last night she made tuna patties, with tuna from a CAN. Commercial, canned tuna, 3 for a $1 or something like that. And why would I post her recipe for patties made from canned tuna on my blog? Because, tuna is one of those fish that are high in Vitamin D. Makes no sense to me, since tuna live in deep waters, far away from the sunshine. If you don’t believe me, read the nutritional content on the canned tuna. With her recipe, you basically get two patties out of each can of tuna, which provides 30% of the RDA of Vitamin D. And we all need that. I get very excited about this now that my Vitamin D has risen from 9 ng/mL to 31 ng/mL since last spring. Granted, 31 ng/mL is just barely above the minimum of the range that doctors want women to have (the minimum is 30 ng/mL) but hey, I’ll take it. I happen to know that one of my subscribers lives in the boonies of the mountains, probably very far away from a fresh fish market, but she could probably find canned tuna within 15 miles of her house.

So here’s the recipe, which is quick and simple. I could even make them…that’s how simple they are. I’ll leave it up to you as to the side items you want to add. If it were me, I’d be happy with potato chips, but of course professorgrrl was way more creative and the side dishes were also delicious.

Professorgrrl’s tuna patties

*Two 5-oz. cans chunk white albacore tuna in water
*1/4 to 1/3 c. Vegannaise (You’ll find this in the vegetarian section of the grocery store, near the tofu.)
*1/4 of large onion chopped
*2 tsp. Dijon mustard
*1 to 2 tsp. lemon juice
*2/3 c. Panko bread crumbs
*Salt and pepper to taste

Mix all ingredients and form 4 patties.
Put additional Panko crumbs on a plate and cover patties with crumbs before cooking.
Preheat frying pan with small amount olive oil, just enough to brown patties.
Cook 2-3 minutes on each side or until browned.

Jump up and down because you’re so happy to eat canned tuna prepared this way and then sit down and eat them. Belch loudly when finished. (That’s Tucker’s addition to the recipe.)

Ingesting Vitamin D this way is so much more exciting than those little pills. Tucker would agree.

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries, 2012-2017

Blemishes

Today, I had the opportunity to take a day off work. Professorgrrl had a meeting about 80 miles away in a town with a major university. We decided to meet my parents for lunch, to celebrate my mother’s birthday, which is tomorrow, and then afterwards, while professorgrrl had her meeting, I would walk around the campus with my camera and take photos if I came upon something interesting.

I debated which camera lens to take with me on my walk…the short one, which is good for architectural shots (which I like to take) or the long zoom lens, good for close-up shots. I took the short lens and began my trek. I was in a city, after all, with lots of buildings and I felt sure I would find some interesting angle of some old building to shoot. When I am in “shooting” mode, my senses, especially visual, are on high alert.

I walked about two blocks and noticed this large, old oak tree. Though gnarly, and very halloweeny-looking at night, I’m sure, it still bore the leaves of the passing season. What really caught my eye, though, was a large knot hole way up in the tree which had another knot hole inside of it. “Wow,” I thought, “I have never seen anything like this.” I think it’s amazing that I have lived 52 years and I can still see something new. Of course, I had my short lens, so I knew it would be a waste of time to photograph it, because the knot hole would be so small in the picture. I continued walking and decided I would go back to the car and get the zoom lens later after I had walked around a block or two.

While walking, I pondered this “blemish” of the oak tree. I wondered how many people had walked by this very tree and had never noticed the blemish inside. There are many of us who walk around with obvious physical blemishes. I think, perhaps, because they’re so obvious, we are forced to reckon with them on some level. I know I have…both as a child and as an adult, whether I wanted to or not. My “abnormal” gait has always been so visibly obvious, that I had to deal with the questions and stares and even negative comments from an early age. My childhood doctors were constantly encouraging me to practice walking like a young lady. My mother had me to balance books on my head and practice walking with them down our hallway.  It was very apparent to me that there was a right way to walk and a wrong way to walk. I am sure the doctors and my parents all had my best interests at heart. However, one time I practiced making myself walk “ladylike” in front of my sister and I asked her to tell me what she thought. She said it looked funny when I tried to do that because it didn’t look like ME. That was the last time I ever tried to fix my gait. It was too hard anyway.

Then I began to think of the folks who walk around with a hidden blemish…like the knot on the inside of the larger knot of that oak tree. Perhaps others don’t know what is happening inside of them, and so no one knows that the person with the “inner blemish” might need help or encouragement. I wondered today, as I walked past people on the street, if someone I passed might suffer from depression or anxiety or learning disabilities, but they keep that part of themselves hidden because it is just easier to hide than to risk being singled out or feeling like an outsider. Sadly, they might also miss out on getting support from others because no one knows their pain. I had no choice but to deal with my blemish…it could not be hidden. In some ways, I feel very fortunate, if for nothing else but to hear my sister imply that I should just be ME, which includes walking the way I naturally walk. You can spot me a mile away…

So, these were my thoughts as I ambled around this afternoon. I did return to the car, exchanged the short lens for the zoom lens and returned to the old oak tree with the “blemish within a blemish.” I sat down on a stone wall, and lifted the camera to take aim at the knot hole and got a big surprise!

I laughed out loud. “Banjogrrl,” I thought, “maybe sometimes you can overthink a thing…”

Copyright S.G. Hunter and Banjogrrldiaries, 2012-2017