Namaste
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
new post pending
Just a note. I know it has been a little while since the last publish. I am going to start working on one soon. Been having a little bit of a rough patch after finishing the radiation. But don't give up hope OR say God I am glad thats over but give me a few days to get another one up.
Namaste
Namaste
Monday, March 17, 2014
Five Time Worse
Last Monday was a wake up call. My radiation was late, 3 PM. My throat was already pretty rough feeling, but the treatment went OK. However, within 5 or 10 minutes I knew that the game had changed and Dr. Ying was not kidding about the five times worse. My whole head hurt. I had a terrible headache. My mucus, what I had, was think and stringy. My throat was on fire and every time I tried to swallow it felt like I was trying to swallow razor blades. Oh My God.
It's not serious until it's serious. Well, I think it is getting serious. With only 8 radiation treatments to go over a 10 day period, I have serious doubts I can do this. After treatment I lay moaning in bed with poor Jane wondering what she can do to help. Thoughts rushed in and out of my head. I thought about how I should handle this predicament. Should I man up and put on a tolerant face while my mind is screaming, "shit, shit, shit".....Or should I moan and groan, whine and wither, showing just how difficult this is. I need pity. It is so hard to even come up with a game plan when you're in that much discomfort. So hard to do the right thing.
Thank God for drugs. So far I have handled all this pain and discomfort with Tylenol #3's. That's some Tylenol with a little bit of codeine thrown in. Very mild narcotic. After telling Diane, (Dr. Ying's nurse practitioner) about my new symptoms she prescribed for me Oxycontin; one every 12 hours. I took one when I got home and within an hour things were tolerable again. Still uncomfortable ( still need a little pity) but much improved. I can think a little clearer as well. It was very interesting how confusing things were when I was in such misery. Don't ever let me make a decision in that state of mind.
The hardest thing about going through cancer treatment is the time it takes. It seems to go on forever. Slow motion. The days tick along slowly. Because of the fatigue, and my inability to do very much, other than sit or lay about, time goes even slower. I don't know how to make this better. I guess it is just part of cancer treatment. It takes awhile. I knew that going in and I did pretty well until this last segment as symptoms are changing for the worse, at least for now. For all the other people that have gone through cancer treatment, my respect for you is growing every day. You are all so strong. You are brave and a shinning example of how to go through this. Namaste
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Close Calls
We've all had close calls. I wonder what the average number of close calls someone has by the time they are 60? I don't know. But, I have had many. At least 6 to 8 really close calls. If I follow the lives of a cat, I had better be careful. I might not have that many left. I won't bore you with all my close calls but one stands out at being so weird and bizarre I feel the need to share it.
It was a beautiful day. Summer of 1979. I was driving my 1968 Datsun 5-10. I was heading east toward the University of Utah Special Events Center. There was no one around. I think I was going to summer school.
BAAM...Something hit my car, right at the driver's grill. Smoke and steam were coming out of the radiator. I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. No other cars around. Nobody around. Empty. I got out of the car and walked to the front and noticed a large dent in the grill and radiator about the size of a softball. What the frick? I looked around the car, under the car, and in the engine compartment. Nothing. As I walked around my car, I looked up the street where I noticed a city bus was pulled to the side of the road. It was about 100 yards up the road on the opposite side. Eventually, I notice the bus driver getting out of the bus and walking around. I walked up to see if something similar happened to him. "Hi," I said. "Whats going on?' "Oh," he says. "I was making this turn onto the road and clipped a fire hydrant." There was no water coming out but upon further inspection I noticed one of the valves was missing. Humm. Putting two and two together, I figured the bus knocked off a pressurized valve, which then flew down the street at mach speed right into my grill and radiator. If true, I should be able to find the valve somewhere. I told the driver what I thought happened and suggested we should report this and "call the cops". I walked back to my car and widened the search area and, sure enough, found the valve about 40 yards away in another parking lot.
Is that weird, or what? That valve hit at the exact time I was driving by. Aimed at an exact spot, hits my radiator and grill dead center below the driver's wheel. I guess if it would have been one foot higher it would have come off the hood or come right through my the windshield, into my chest or head. DEAD. Or badly wounded. I don't know why, but this close call was so random that it bothers me to this day. Killed by a flying fire hydrant valve that flies a 100 yards and through my windshield and takes my head off. I just don't get it. Most of my other/many close calls were explainable. Some were stupid mistakes, but all reasonable. This one was not explainable or reasonable. I have never heard of anyone dying like this. I have had a hard time comprehending this event. It's kinda like trying to understand the universe; another thing I just don't get.
Cancer is both explainable and reasonable. A lot of people die of cancer. But nobody dies from cancer being thrown from a spaceship hitting you in the back of the head. I just have never come to terms if I had died that way. I'd be dead, so it wouldn't matter, but I would feel ripped off. Glad it didn't happen. Dying at 62 from cancer, sure a bummer, but expected for a certain number of people. I could face and handle that. Of course, I would be sad, and really sad for my family. But if I went tomorrow, I can say I have lived a great and glorious life. I've had more love, mystery, and adventure
than any man deserves. And now, as I have a chance to reflect, I know that one of the most important things I ever learned (I think from Howard Kadish) is to enjoy the journey. Enjoy the journey, my friend. This will guarantee a well-lived life. Namaste
+Petrel.jpg)
It was a beautiful day. Summer of 1979. I was driving my 1968 Datsun 5-10. I was heading east toward the University of Utah Special Events Center. There was no one around. I think I was going to summer school.
BAAM...Something hit my car, right at the driver's grill. Smoke and steam were coming out of the radiator. I pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. No other cars around. Nobody around. Empty. I got out of the car and walked to the front and noticed a large dent in the grill and radiator about the size of a softball. What the frick? I looked around the car, under the car, and in the engine compartment. Nothing. As I walked around my car, I looked up the street where I noticed a city bus was pulled to the side of the road. It was about 100 yards up the road on the opposite side. Eventually, I notice the bus driver getting out of the bus and walking around. I walked up to see if something similar happened to him. "Hi," I said. "Whats going on?' "Oh," he says. "I was making this turn onto the road and clipped a fire hydrant." There was no water coming out but upon further inspection I noticed one of the valves was missing. Humm. Putting two and two together, I figured the bus knocked off a pressurized valve, which then flew down the street at mach speed right into my grill and radiator. If true, I should be able to find the valve somewhere. I told the driver what I thought happened and suggested we should report this and "call the cops". I walked back to my car and widened the search area and, sure enough, found the valve about 40 yards away in another parking lot.
Is that weird, or what? That valve hit at the exact time I was driving by. Aimed at an exact spot, hits my radiator and grill dead center below the driver's wheel. I guess if it would have been one foot higher it would have come off the hood or come right through my the windshield, into my chest or head. DEAD. Or badly wounded. I don't know why, but this close call was so random that it bothers me to this day. Killed by a flying fire hydrant valve that flies a 100 yards and through my windshield and takes my head off. I just don't get it. Most of my other/many close calls were explainable. Some were stupid mistakes, but all reasonable. This one was not explainable or reasonable. I have never heard of anyone dying like this. I have had a hard time comprehending this event. It's kinda like trying to understand the universe; another thing I just don't get.
Cancer is both explainable and reasonable. A lot of people die of cancer. But nobody dies from cancer being thrown from a spaceship hitting you in the back of the head. I just have never come to terms if I had died that way. I'd be dead, so it wouldn't matter, but I would feel ripped off. Glad it didn't happen. Dying at 62 from cancer, sure a bummer, but expected for a certain number of people. I could face and handle that. Of course, I would be sad, and really sad for my family. But if I went tomorrow, I can say I have lived a great and glorious life. I've had more love, mystery, and adventure
than any man deserves. And now, as I have a chance to reflect, I know that one of the most important things I ever learned (I think from Howard Kadish) is to enjoy the journey. Enjoy the journey, my friend. This will guarantee a well-lived life. Namaste
+Petrel.jpg)
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Activity III Satan's Corner.
So, now you know Mike and Malcolm. One afternoon they asked me if I wanted to go rock climbing. "Sure," I said. "What do I need?" "Nothing, just wear some tennis shoes and we have everything else." I thought they were so cool; real rock climbers. I figured they would take me up something easy to introduce me into the sport, which in 1978 was on the fringes of even being called a sport. Rock shoes had just been developed, there were no harnesses, and all this fancy gear and camming devices were in its infancy.
As we drove out to Little Cottonwood Canyon, I asked what we were going to climb. "Oh, I think we should climb Satan's Corner." Satan's Corner, for those uninitiated with rock climbing, is a long-standing test piece for climbers in the area. It's hard. It was rated 5-8+ in the seventies. And if put up today, it may get a rating of 5-9+ or 5-10. It is steep and awkward with a very hard crux position and a very exposed feel while you are climbing. NOT a climb I would take someone on for their first climbing experience, especially in tennis shoes. What were they thinking? I still don't know if they just wanted to scare the shit out of me or were trying to impress me with how cool they were as they were able to get up this thing without dying.
When you first start climbing, the natural tendency is to use your arms to pull yourself up the rock. Wrong. How many pull ups can you do? Not many, right. Well, imagine trying to do pull-ups all the way up a 100 foot cliff. Impossible. As you learn and get better technique, almost all of the climbing is done with the legs. I didn't know that. Within about 10 feet of getting off the ground I was wiped. Arms tired. Hands couldn't even make a fist. I think Mike and Malcolm hauled me up most of the first fifty feet where we had a little ledge to sit on before we did the final pitch (the hard part) to the top. I was thinking, I am a dead man.
Malcolm led off on the second pitch, and when he got about 15 feet up, he began to struggle. In an instant he was falling. Out into space. He was hanging almost level with us. Mike had caught him on a hip belay. He scrambled back to the ledge eyes wide and visibly shaken. I think he went back up and finished the lead but it could have been Mike. All the while I am thinking there is no way I am going to make it past the crux (hard part) in my Stan Smith tennis shoes. After Mike and Mal got to the top, it was my turn. I felt all alone down there, with a thin piece of rope tied around some one inch webbing tied like a belt around my waist. Slowly, I began. Each time I moved forward an inch, both Malcolm and Mike hauled on the rope to move me a couple more inches. I was literally being lifted up this climb. My mind wondering if the knot on the rope would hold. What if the rope breaks? What if I get stuck up here? Not thinking at all about climbing. Which is what you should be thinking about. You climb better if you concentrate on the action. Very much like gymnastics but 100 feet off the ground. That takes some practice. Practice I did not have. We got to the last move which was a dynamic reach to a TGH (thank God hold). They could not help me with this because they were off to my left and the hold was straight up. I had to do this on my own. It seemed like forever to get the nerve up and I was sure I could not do it. I was exhausted tired and scared. I think I made a few attempts before I let one good effort fly and grabbed the hold. I scurried left like a rat on a sinking ship and clipped into the final anchor. Whew. Survived Satan Corner in tennis shoes. That was 1978 and I've been climbing ever since. I have probably climbed Satan's more than 20 times over the years. It is still a spicy climb. I climb 5-10 to 5-11 now but I still wouldn't climb Satan's Corner in tennis shoes, that's for sure.
Getting through this cancer treatment is a lot like climbing Satan's Corner for the first time. You have no idea what you're in for. You don't have the skills to master the treatment. There is a lot of anxiety, worry and despair. Sometimes you feel like you are going to get stuck and never come out the other side. But then days go by, you learn a little here and little there. Your support system rally's your spirits a bit and you are ready for a bit more. I think it is somewhat true that cancer treatment takes you to the brink of death and despair and then brings you back to life again. At least I hope that's true.
Namaste'
As we drove out to Little Cottonwood Canyon, I asked what we were going to climb. "Oh, I think we should climb Satan's Corner." Satan's Corner, for those uninitiated with rock climbing, is a long-standing test piece for climbers in the area. It's hard. It was rated 5-8+ in the seventies. And if put up today, it may get a rating of 5-9+ or 5-10. It is steep and awkward with a very hard crux position and a very exposed feel while you are climbing. NOT a climb I would take someone on for their first climbing experience, especially in tennis shoes. What were they thinking? I still don't know if they just wanted to scare the shit out of me or were trying to impress me with how cool they were as they were able to get up this thing without dying.
When you first start climbing, the natural tendency is to use your arms to pull yourself up the rock. Wrong. How many pull ups can you do? Not many, right. Well, imagine trying to do pull-ups all the way up a 100 foot cliff. Impossible. As you learn and get better technique, almost all of the climbing is done with the legs. I didn't know that. Within about 10 feet of getting off the ground I was wiped. Arms tired. Hands couldn't even make a fist. I think Mike and Malcolm hauled me up most of the first fifty feet where we had a little ledge to sit on before we did the final pitch (the hard part) to the top. I was thinking, I am a dead man.
Malcolm led off on the second pitch, and when he got about 15 feet up, he began to struggle. In an instant he was falling. Out into space. He was hanging almost level with us. Mike had caught him on a hip belay. He scrambled back to the ledge eyes wide and visibly shaken. I think he went back up and finished the lead but it could have been Mike. All the while I am thinking there is no way I am going to make it past the crux (hard part) in my Stan Smith tennis shoes. After Mike and Mal got to the top, it was my turn. I felt all alone down there, with a thin piece of rope tied around some one inch webbing tied like a belt around my waist. Slowly, I began. Each time I moved forward an inch, both Malcolm and Mike hauled on the rope to move me a couple more inches. I was literally being lifted up this climb. My mind wondering if the knot on the rope would hold. What if the rope breaks? What if I get stuck up here? Not thinking at all about climbing. Which is what you should be thinking about. You climb better if you concentrate on the action. Very much like gymnastics but 100 feet off the ground. That takes some practice. Practice I did not have. We got to the last move which was a dynamic reach to a TGH (thank God hold). They could not help me with this because they were off to my left and the hold was straight up. I had to do this on my own. It seemed like forever to get the nerve up and I was sure I could not do it. I was exhausted tired and scared. I think I made a few attempts before I let one good effort fly and grabbed the hold. I scurried left like a rat on a sinking ship and clipped into the final anchor. Whew. Survived Satan Corner in tennis shoes. That was 1978 and I've been climbing ever since. I have probably climbed Satan's more than 20 times over the years. It is still a spicy climb. I climb 5-10 to 5-11 now but I still wouldn't climb Satan's Corner in tennis shoes, that's for sure.
Getting through this cancer treatment is a lot like climbing Satan's Corner for the first time. You have no idea what you're in for. You don't have the skills to master the treatment. There is a lot of anxiety, worry and despair. Sometimes you feel like you are going to get stuck and never come out the other side. But then days go by, you learn a little here and little there. Your support system rally's your spirits a bit and you are ready for a bit more. I think it is somewhat true that cancer treatment takes you to the brink of death and despair and then brings you back to life again. At least I hope that's true.
Namaste'
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Activity II and a life saved
So, I had to move back to SLC after I was accepted into the U of U Physical Therapy program in 1978. By this time, I was old for a junior; I think I was 24 turning 25. Moving into my folks' house was NOT an option. Humm, what to do? I really didn't know anyone in SLC. Remember, I left for three years during the draft in 1970, spending most of the time in Germany. When I got back I moved to Logan, Utah to continue school. I had not lived in SLC for 6 years or so. I also didn't want to find old friends, as most were not the people to associate with if you want to move up the ladder. (Although, thinking about it, I'm sure the same old friends thought that about me.) You know what I mean, eh? I remember it being a very lonely period for me. No one to hang with, no one to ski with, no one, no one. During this lonely time that was sprinkled with depressional moments, I began faltering.
" Hi, I'm Malcolm Draper. I know you." "Hi, Malcolm." Malcolm and I went to Skyline High School together. Now, there were 900 in my graduating class, so it was a big place. I don't know how we knew each other, but we did. We didn't run in the same circles. Hell, we didn't even run in the same stratosphere. I can't remember how we met after high school but, I want to think it was at a Ward house, but I can't remember why I was there. Or maybe we met before that and he eventually invited me to a Sunday service. I just can't remember. Very quickly, I think within days, Malcolm said I could move into a basement room in a house he owned in the Sugarhouse area of Salt Lake. Malcolm lived in the basement with Mike Anderson. There was a wonderful, young school teacher living in the upstairs area. Yea, I'd love to move in, I needed a place to live, but even more, I needed support and love. Malcolm and Mike gave me that. Its one thing I may never be able to repay.
Did Malcolm help save my life? YES. Not from death, I wasn't suicidal, but I was very lonely and moderately depressed. A simple act of kindness is all it took. But I am sure it wasn't easy for Malcolm. Mike and Malcolm took a risk. They we Priesthood members of the LDS church and I think they even held some other office in the Church as well. Take a chance on a lonely, divorced, drinking ex-hippy? Don't know if I would. Shows how much these two guys had to teach me in the coming years. And teach they did. Not in a missionary kind of way but in a how to live your life kind of way. They never pushed the LDS religion on me. I remember going to a few Sunday meetings but never went through the missionary lessons, at least not with them. They were just good, good friends. They were the best roommates I ever had (except for Jane, of course). They were kind. When I lived my life in a non-sort-of LDS way, they never made me feel uncomfortable, never made me feel odd, or like I was doing something wrong. They treated me like a brother, and still do to this day. If only one good thing comes from this cancer or this blog, it would be to say thank you to these two wonderful human beings. Thank you So much, Malcolm Draper and Mike Anderson. Namaste
" Hi, I'm Malcolm Draper. I know you." "Hi, Malcolm." Malcolm and I went to Skyline High School together. Now, there were 900 in my graduating class, so it was a big place. I don't know how we knew each other, but we did. We didn't run in the same circles. Hell, we didn't even run in the same stratosphere. I can't remember how we met after high school but, I want to think it was at a Ward house, but I can't remember why I was there. Or maybe we met before that and he eventually invited me to a Sunday service. I just can't remember. Very quickly, I think within days, Malcolm said I could move into a basement room in a house he owned in the Sugarhouse area of Salt Lake. Malcolm lived in the basement with Mike Anderson. There was a wonderful, young school teacher living in the upstairs area. Yea, I'd love to move in, I needed a place to live, but even more, I needed support and love. Malcolm and Mike gave me that. Its one thing I may never be able to repay.
Did Malcolm help save my life? YES. Not from death, I wasn't suicidal, but I was very lonely and moderately depressed. A simple act of kindness is all it took. But I am sure it wasn't easy for Malcolm. Mike and Malcolm took a risk. They we Priesthood members of the LDS church and I think they even held some other office in the Church as well. Take a chance on a lonely, divorced, drinking ex-hippy? Don't know if I would. Shows how much these two guys had to teach me in the coming years. And teach they did. Not in a missionary kind of way but in a how to live your life kind of way. They never pushed the LDS religion on me. I remember going to a few Sunday meetings but never went through the missionary lessons, at least not with them. They were just good, good friends. They were the best roommates I ever had (except for Jane, of course). They were kind. When I lived my life in a non-sort-of LDS way, they never made me feel uncomfortable, never made me feel odd, or like I was doing something wrong. They treated me like a brother, and still do to this day. If only one good thing comes from this cancer or this blog, it would be to say thank you to these two wonderful human beings. Thank you So much, Malcolm Draper and Mike Anderson. Namaste
Monday, March 3, 2014
Activity 1
Athletic activity has always been part of my mantel. Ever since I can remember, Little League football and baseball were the first sports I took to. Before that, I was running and chasing arrows. Ha. I have been hooked on doing some kind of sport or activity ever since. After 60 plus years of different sports, I have realized that activity is one of the most necessary aspects of my life. Now, that's just me. I am not saying everyone has this desire or should have this desire for constant activity. But whatever makes up the part of my brain that likes to run, twist, crawl, jump and spin, it is very strong. Not unlike a golden retriever to a tennis ball.
After the drug-crazed years of the late 60's and a short stint in the military (where I skied on the AFRC Garmish ski patrol, and, yes it was an activity but I didn't take it too seriously) I returned home at age 22, determined to change my habits and some of my unproductive ways. First thing I did when I pulled into my folks' garage was quit smoking. Best thing I ever did. I remember crumpling up a pack of Marlboro's and throwing them in the garbage. Like everyone, I had tried to quit many, many times before, but this time felt different, and it was.
I was a thin, wiry kind of kid, with a predisposition towards gymnastics. At 22, with the help of my mom, I applied to Utah State University in Logan Utah under the GI Bill. I was accepted under probation (my first quarter at the UofU right out of high school did not go well). I needed to maintain a "C" average to stay in. Picking a major didn't seem difficult at first. I liked the outdoors, I was active and Utah State had a great forestry program. Forestry it was. However, after a few biology classes and finding out what forest rangers made and how many people at that time wanted to be forest rangers, I began to have second thoughts. After taking a friend to physical therapy to rehabilitate an injury I thought that would be a good profession. Meeting with the counselor was not very encouraging. "No one from Utah State has ever been accepted into the PT program at the University of Utah. If you want to try go ahead. Take these classes and get straight A's." I did.
I don't know what drew me to the USU gym, but I found myself there most afternoons in the men's gymnastic area, playing on the floor or the high bar. I got to know a couple of regular attendees. There were only a couple of us. John Reid, who looked and dressed just like the lead in, "Here comes Bronson", a 70's TV show about a cat and his motorcycle. He always wore a beeny and solved people's problems. I started calling John " Jacques" cause I couldn't remember his real name and he looked rather French with his beeny on. He has always been Jacques to me. The other cat was Fernando Oberdink, the son of a rich Guatemalan, studying for his PhD in Psychology. Smart, talented and strong in the gym. He spent many many days and evenings teaching us, all the while laughing and learning new tricks on the apparatus. This was the first sport I took rather seriously. We never missed a session and we tried and tried until the blisters on our hands were ripped clean by the roughness of the high bar.
This dedication to sport, school and friendship has held me in good stead through the rest of my life. I think it was during this time that I learned and incorporated many of life's lessons on success and perseverance into my character. Jacques and Fernando had a incredible affect on me as well. Their friendship and role-modeling were indispensable for me during this time of transition that I was going through.
Sports taught me dedication. Sports taught me patience. Sports taught me to believe in myself, and sports taught me that if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I don't know how long it took, but I was trying to learn a "giant" maneuver on the high bar. A very scary and difficult maneuver in those days. (I wish I could still do one.) With the help of my gym mates, I eventually mastered the giant maneuver. WOW, what a rush, and how many blisters ripping off my callouses did it take? Many.
Well long story short I was accepted into Physical Therapy school, The first from Utah State. Without Fernando and the access we enjoyed to the men's area of the gymnastic room at USU, my daily gymnastic workouts went by the wayside when I had to move to Salt Lake to continue my major. Something always seems to take the place of something you have to leave behind. But my memories of those special days in the gym, with my friends doing hard and difficult things, are some of the most special memories I have in my early twenties. The gym was a safe place, a nurturing place and a place of physical and mental growth that I hold dear in my heart. Namaste'
After the drug-crazed years of the late 60's and a short stint in the military (where I skied on the AFRC Garmish ski patrol, and, yes it was an activity but I didn't take it too seriously) I returned home at age 22, determined to change my habits and some of my unproductive ways. First thing I did when I pulled into my folks' garage was quit smoking. Best thing I ever did. I remember crumpling up a pack of Marlboro's and throwing them in the garbage. Like everyone, I had tried to quit many, many times before, but this time felt different, and it was.
I was a thin, wiry kind of kid, with a predisposition towards gymnastics. At 22, with the help of my mom, I applied to Utah State University in Logan Utah under the GI Bill. I was accepted under probation (my first quarter at the UofU right out of high school did not go well). I needed to maintain a "C" average to stay in. Picking a major didn't seem difficult at first. I liked the outdoors, I was active and Utah State had a great forestry program. Forestry it was. However, after a few biology classes and finding out what forest rangers made and how many people at that time wanted to be forest rangers, I began to have second thoughts. After taking a friend to physical therapy to rehabilitate an injury I thought that would be a good profession. Meeting with the counselor was not very encouraging. "No one from Utah State has ever been accepted into the PT program at the University of Utah. If you want to try go ahead. Take these classes and get straight A's." I did.
I don't know what drew me to the USU gym, but I found myself there most afternoons in the men's gymnastic area, playing on the floor or the high bar. I got to know a couple of regular attendees. There were only a couple of us. John Reid, who looked and dressed just like the lead in, "Here comes Bronson", a 70's TV show about a cat and his motorcycle. He always wore a beeny and solved people's problems. I started calling John " Jacques" cause I couldn't remember his real name and he looked rather French with his beeny on. He has always been Jacques to me. The other cat was Fernando Oberdink, the son of a rich Guatemalan, studying for his PhD in Psychology. Smart, talented and strong in the gym. He spent many many days and evenings teaching us, all the while laughing and learning new tricks on the apparatus. This was the first sport I took rather seriously. We never missed a session and we tried and tried until the blisters on our hands were ripped clean by the roughness of the high bar.
This dedication to sport, school and friendship has held me in good stead through the rest of my life. I think it was during this time that I learned and incorporated many of life's lessons on success and perseverance into my character. Jacques and Fernando had a incredible affect on me as well. Their friendship and role-modeling were indispensable for me during this time of transition that I was going through.
Sports taught me dedication. Sports taught me patience. Sports taught me to believe in myself, and sports taught me that if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I don't know how long it took, but I was trying to learn a "giant" maneuver on the high bar. A very scary and difficult maneuver in those days. (I wish I could still do one.) With the help of my gym mates, I eventually mastered the giant maneuver. WOW, what a rush, and how many blisters ripping off my callouses did it take? Many.
Well long story short I was accepted into Physical Therapy school, The first from Utah State. Without Fernando and the access we enjoyed to the men's area of the gymnastic room at USU, my daily gymnastic workouts went by the wayside when I had to move to Salt Lake to continue my major. Something always seems to take the place of something you have to leave behind. But my memories of those special days in the gym, with my friends doing hard and difficult things, are some of the most special memories I have in my early twenties. The gym was a safe place, a nurturing place and a place of physical and mental growth that I hold dear in my heart. Namaste'
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