It's been two years since I've posted on my blog! I'll spare you my list of reasons and just say, Hafa Adai! I'll get re-started with a few scribbles from 2010...so far.

JANUARY-FEBRUARY

This year began on January 7 when I headed back to the States for my twice-yearly visit with family and friends. The photos and personal narrative below might give you a feel for that trip.

Maui--I took a boat trip to hunt for whales and sea turtles. Saw them both!

Durham--Mother (87) & Dad (85) are still going strong!

Phoenix--The 2004 Cruise Reunion: Carrie, Jorie, me, Vaughn

Kuaui—The Resort Experience

Travel Musings

A Wheelchair at the Airport? You Bet!*

Katherine Shaw is like most of us—she doesn’t want to focus on her MS all the time. So when a friend offered to get her a wheelchair at the airport, her immediate reaction was anger. (“The Funny Page: Would You Just Shut Up?” Momentum, Spring 2010). Of course beneath her anger was fear of the future, a future when she might need a wheelchair. I can still walk, so understand that fear. Still, I think she’s wrong about a wheelchair at the airport. You see, I discovered I had MS in the Phoenix airport.

No, there’s not a neurologist’s office or an MRI machine there, but an experience in that airport pushed me to find out what was wrong with my right leg. It was March 2007. My daughter’s wedding was planned for July. I was living in Colorado, she in Arizona, so I made three air trips that spring. Needless to say, I got pretty familiar with the Denver International Airport and Sky Harbor in Phoenix. I was at Sky Harbor when it happened.

I sitting at my gate when the announcement came over the intercom: our flight had been changed to a different terminal. I was tired, but I’m an experienced hiker with seven trips into the Grand Canyon on my outdoor vitae, so that little walk didn’t sound like much. The problem? When I stood up, I realized just how tired I really was: I felt like I was midpoint of the Bright Angel Trail—climbing out of the Canyon. But I had to get home. Hefting my tote bag, I pulled out the handle on my carry-on bag and started the trek.

By that time I’d been limping for a couple of years. The first time I reported the trouble, I’d just returned from a two-week driving and hiking trip to New Mexico. My doctor said, “Give it time. You overused your right leg. It’ll be fine.” The next year when I complained again, she examined it and said, “Sciatica. Give it time.” Time, however, didn’t help. My limp got worse.

As I walked through the airport, I found myself moving more and more slowly, and not only because I was tired. No matter how hard I pushed myself, I couldn’t pick up the pace. As I became increasingly frustrated, I realized I wasn’t limping at all: my right leg was dragging. My left leg was doing all the work, and only the bag rolling on my right was keeping me from falling over. I made that flight—just before the gate agent closed the door. As soon as I got home, I went to see my doctor a third time. As calmly as I could, I explained what had happened in the airport. Then I insisted she find out what was going on with my leg. Two more doctors, a physical therapist, and an MRI later, I had my diagnosis: secondary progressive MS.

I’m still walking. These days I use two hiking poles to keep my balance and compensate for the right leg that still drags. I don’t own a wheelchair (yet), and I resist using them in stores. Airports, however, are an entirely different matter. These days air travel depends on physical stamina, excellent balance, and the ability to walk quickly. Ironically, then, riding in a wheelchair actually allows me to focus less on my MS in an airport. Then there are the perks: meeting the interesting, courageous folks who push those wheelchairs, getting through security more easily, and being seated first on the airplane.

After three years and eight more airplane trips, I’m truly grateful for a wheelchair at the airport. Whenever I make an air reservation, I request one. I ask for the chair at curbside check-in, and I make sure the gate agent knows I need one when I reach my destination. So why not use a wheelchair at the airport? For my money, it’s the only way to fly!

*(submitted for publication to Momentum, the magazine of the National MS Society; no word yet)

MARCH

March is “Chamorro Month” on Guam, a month of celebrations of Chamorro history and culture. Much of Chamorro history predates European contact; nevertheless Ferdinand Magellan’s visit to Guam (March 6, 1521) is a date worth remembering. Consequently one of the first activities of Chamorro month every year is a traditional enactment of that event. As the story around here goes (and is played out by actors) Magellan sailed into Umatac Bay, engaged the Chamorros in battle, and was killed here. Results: Chamorros 1; Europeans 0. That’s the folklore.

The journal of Pigafetta, a Venetian scholar who accompanied Magellan on his history attempt at circumnavigating the globe for the sole purpose of keeping accurate records tells a different story, however. As he tells the story, on March 6, 1521 Magellan sailed not into Umatac Bay (SE end of the island), but into Tumon Bay (NE end of the island). There was a fight of sorts, though not exactly a battle. In any case, Magellan left Guam alive. From here he sailed to the Philippines, where he was, in fact, killed in the Battle of Mactan on April 27, 1521. Results: Filippinos 1; Europeans 0. That’s the history.

It’s interesting to note here that Pigafetta’s journal first came to light in English translation in 1906, so the history’s been around more than 100 years ago. In 1969, another flurry of scholarly activity led to an even more accessible translation of the journal. Beginning then educators have made a serious attempt to set the record straight here on Guam. Every year in Chamorro month teachers teach the history. Forty-one years later,however, most folks on Guam believe Magellan sailed in Umatac Bay and was killed there.

Folklore 1; History 0.

Lest we get too comfortable in our superiority over the locals, I have another example for you:

St. Patrick’s Day also happens in March. Think for a moment what you believe about St. Patrick, Ireland, and his day. Then read on.

True or False? St. Patrick taught about the trinity using the shamrock.

Unknown: Bishop Patrick was a missionary in Ireland in the late 300s. Only two of his letters have survived, neither of which say anything about his teaching methods.

True or False? The traditional color for St. Patrick is green.

False: The color for St. Patrick was blue for 1300 years. Only in the last 200 years as green became associated with Irish nationalism did the color for St. Patrick’s Day change—primarily in the U.S.

True or False? Corned beef and cabbage is a traditional Irish meal.

True for cabbage; False for corned beef: The Irish ate bacon with cabbage. They exported corned beef to England from about 1600-1800. They didn’t eat the stuff (and still don’t).

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True or False? St. Patrick’s most famous miracle was driving the snakes out of Ireland.

False: Snakes are not native to Ireland. However, snakes were used symbolically in Druidic religion; the story began as a metaphor.

Folkore 4; History 1

If you think about it, the line separating folklore from history is pretty thin sometimes. From our very informal survey, it seems that folklore tends to triumph over history. For one thing, it’s more fun. For another, it keeps us comfortable. In this time of such loud certainty on both sides of the aisle, then, it’s probably important to hold our most basic assumptions lightly. Who knows if those “facts” are folklore or history?

APRIL

I offer you an Easter poem I wrote a few years back but still like...

THE THIRD DAY

When it was time for Christ

(so wholly human) to battle

his way out of God-forsaken hell back

to sunshine-blue middle earth, did Archangel

Michael lower Jacob's ladder again from

somewhere beneath David's star that shone

so brightly just thirty-three years before?

As the Good Shepherd

(who calls his sheep by name) climbed

with labored determination through layers of

man-made darkness, were the rungs of that splintered

ladder so slippery with blood that he had to

cling with both shredded hands whenever one

shredded foot missed its mark?

When it was time for Jesus

(so wholly divine) to come out

of his borrowed tomb, did he get up from

that cold slab and fold his linen shroud

neatly, precisely the way his mother Mary

taught him, leaving it ready for the next

visitor who would happen by?

As the Logos

(who is and was and will be) pushed

and shoved the stone until it finally

rolled away, did he have to put his raw

carpenter's back into it so he could step

out into birdsong morning and wait

for us to remember the plan?

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace,

Emmanuel,

welcome back

to our lives.