Patterns In The Ivy II

Without you I cannot confide in anything
The hope is pale designed in light of dreams you bring
Summer’s gone, the day is done soon comes the night
Biding time, leaving the line and out of sight

One moonlit shadow on the wall
Disrupted in its own creation
Veiled in the darkness of this fall
Is this the end – manifestation

It runs in me, your poison seething in my veins
This skin is old and stained by late September rains
A final word from me would be the first for you
The rest is long but I’ll go on inside and through

One moonlit shadow on the wall
Disrupted in its own creation
Veiled in the darkness of this fall
Is this the end – manifestation

Patterns in the ivy
Patterns in the ivy

-Opeth

The Girl Who Feels No Pain

(Update: the family has set up a webpage at www.gift-of-pain.org)

(Originally appeared online at KARE TV online)

Gabby Gingras has a disease so rare she’s the only person her parents and doctors can find in the U.S. suffering from it. Like any other three-year-old, Gabby takes her share of slips and falls. Her reaction to each is predictable – at least for her family.

For no matter how hard Gabby hits the ground, she will not shed a single tear. Hard as it is to fathom Gabby Gingras feels no pain. There is no cure, nor will she outgrow it.

“She fell down the stairs the other day in the garage,” her dad says. “She just picked herself up and started climbing up the stairs again like nothing had happened.”

“She never cried,” her mother adds.

Gabby was born with a genetic defect called “Hereditary Sensory and Autonomic Neuropathy Type-5. It is so rare her doctors don’t know of another person with it in this country. Research done for her parents turned up a dozen known cases in the world.

“A dozen in the world,” Trish Gingras says. “There are no support groups, there are no Web sites, there are not parents who can tell us what we might expect. Nothing.”

It was the last thing Trish and Steve Gingras expected when Gabby became a little sister to their daughter Katie three years ago.

“Oh, she was the sweetest little baby,” Trish says.

But something didn’t seem right when their little baby kept scratching her face. Things got worse when Gabby started teething.

“She (was) severely gnawing on her hands, when the teeth come through even a little bit – biting, biting, biting, so they looked like raw hamburger,” Trish says.

They were the first puzzling symptoms of Gabby’s disorder later diagnosed by neurologist Steven Smith of Gillette Children’s Specialty Healthcare.

“Little tiny nerve fibers, the smallest of the nerve fibers, that are supposed to record pain, send that signal to the brain, so you can interpret what it is. Those fibers are not working,” Smith says.

So often we think of pain in a negative way. But it is pain, that protects us.

Because Gabby feels no pain, she no longer has any teeth.

“Didn’t hurt her at all getting a tooth ripped out,” Steve Gingras says.

The teeth she didn’t break off while biting toys were removed by an oral surgeon after Gabby chewed up her mouth and tongue so badly she had to be hospitalized.

“Pain is the protective mechanism, and she doesn’t have that,” Dr. Smith says.

Gabby didn’t have pain to save her eyes either. She scratched them so severely, that at one point doctors sewed them shut to keep her fingers out. But, the damage was already done.

Last week Gabby’s family was at Fairview University Medical Center to discuss the removal of her left eye, now swollen and blind from glaucoma brought on by the scratching.

The vision in Gabby’s scratched right eye, her good eye, has been measured at 20-300.

“There are days where you look at (baby) pictures and you see those bright eyes … and you wish you knew then what you know now. We wish we’d have thought of the idea a little bit sooner for the goggles,” Trish says.

The swim goggles she wears around the clock were her dad’s idea. They provide a layer of protection that is quite possibly the only reason Gabby can see her beloved princesses – her dolls and the characters in movies – at all anymore.

“She is awesome about wearing them. They’re just part of her,” Trish says.

The goggles are part of Gabby’s wardrobe wherever she goes, including pre-school in Monticello where Gabby has been assigned a paraprofessional who makes sure she doesn’t get hurt.

Caution seems justified. Gabby broke her jaw a year ago and no one knew it for more than a month. Last fall, she snuck out of bed, stood in front of a hot steam humidifier and suffered second-degree burns.

“She never felt the pain of the burn,” Trish says.

But if Gabby was cursed by genetics, she was blessed with some wonderful tools for coping. Witness a conversation between Gabby and her mom when the child is caught on the family couch with a beverage.

“I’ll have to take your milk, because we’re not supposed to have chocolate milk in the living room right?”

“Too late now,” Gabby teases.

“She’s got attitude and I think that will serve her well,” Trish says. “She needs a little bit of attitude,”

Gabby’s attitude and spirit win over everyone she meets. Earlier this month she was crowned Princess for a Day at a royalty brunch in Becker.

Gabby’s parents have no idea what’s ahead for their daughter – but they are determined the girl who can’t feel pain will know what it feels like to be happy.

The Key to Genius

Wired Magazine: “Matt is a musical savant. The term savant dates from the late 19th century, when a small number of people in European asylums classified as feebleminded ‘idiots’ were discovered to have extraordinary, even uncanny skills. One had memorized The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire after reading it a single time. Others were able to multiply long columns of numbers instantly and factor cube roots in seconds, though they could barely speak.

When Matt was 3, he was diagnosed with a form of autism called pervasive developmental disorder. Autism and savant syndrome overlap, but they are not the same thing. Nine out of ten autistic people have no savant abilities, and many savants suffer from some form of neurological impairment other than autism. Savant syndrome itself is rare. The rarest of the rare is the prodigious savant, like Rain Man’s Raymond Babbitt, who could memorize phone books, count 246 toothpicks at a glance, and trump the house in Vegas. Darold Treffert, the leading researcher in the study of savant syndrome, estimates that Matt is one of fewer than 50 prodigious savants alive today.

But Matt is even rarer than that. While the IQs of most savants are below 70, he is highly intelligent. And while the musical prowess of savants is often confined to playing thousands of songs from memory in a stiff and mechanical way, Matt is a prolific composer and skilled improviser. With the precocious abilities of a savant and the melodic imagination of a seasoned musician, he has dual citizenship in two countries of the mind.”

Sometimes, you give in…

I’ve tried desperately to avoid sentimental posts, but there are a few moments that feel like they need to be remembered, no matter how cryptically. And why not through music?

Catherine Wheel: For Dreaming
Here come the good times
I have some good times you know
Bring on the good times
I have some good times you know
All we knew was happiness
All we knew and all we witnessed
It’s only there for dreaming
It’s only there for dreaming
I won’t sentimentalise
The bonus loss of appetite
And skinniness that followed
The new taste of open lips
The last hope in trembling hips
And we swallowed
For dreaming for dreaming
I still can touch the ceiling with the feeling
That we swallowed
For dreaming for dreaming
I still can touch the screaming heights
I’m pleading can I follow you home
Bring on the good times
Bring on the good times once more
Bring on the good times
On the other side of your green door
It’s only there for dreaming
I knew you’d find your way home
But you know I loved you
For dreaming for dreaming
I still can touch the ceiling with the feeling
That we swallowed
For dreaming for dreaming
I still can touch the screaming heights
I’m pleading can I follow you home

km

Salon.com Sex | Emotional artists

Emotional artists: “It’s not surprising that you’re tired. If you were building a house, you’d get tired, too. But if you quit, the unfinished house would stand on the road like a reproachful monument to your fickleness. You’d pass it every day on the way to work and it would mock you and remind you how you gave up because you were tired and you couldn’t take the pain, and it would cause you to question whether you’re truly an artist, because if you were truly an artist you’d swallow the pain and finish the building.

You might wish you’d never started on the house. But you did start on the house. Likewise with this relationship. You can debate the merits of having begun. But, having begun, it’s almost certain that you will gain more from seeing it through than you will from leaving. Don’t you want to see how it turns out in the end? Isn’t that what separates art from chaos, a well-lived life from a wasted life? If you leave, think of all the work you’re throwing away; think of the floorless rooms, the wires that power no lights, the roughed-in holes for windows and doors. Art is completed work. A well-lived life is a life of completed stories. You have to stick around for the ending. “

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Dying is easy; it’s living that’s the challenge.

My grandmother died tonight, around 11 PM. 94 years old, she finally succumbed to the strokes that left her unable to communicate for the past four years. As I understand, she slipped quietly away, from sick to coma to dead. She went peacefully, and hopefully without pain.

Her husband died in 1968 or 1969, and she never remarried. I wonder why… Was she okay alone? Was she unable to love again, afraid to lose or maybe satisfied that she had loved enough for a life?

I don’t want to be lonely — I just want to be alone.

km

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Later . . . I’m sort of hollow inside now, from longing, but it’s okay. There’s so much space now, in a place that was clenched tight as a fist before . . . if it echoes a little, I don’t mind. The echoes are what tell me how large I am, how much more I can contain than I’d remembered . . . including a small, not too obtrusive hope, that things will work out.

Shira McClain

A letter to Stacy

I’m looking out of my seventh floor office window, out over Southside, gray cotton piles billowing from the horizon. It looks the same out there as it did yesterday, and six months ago (before this all started), and as it will in a year, when all this is forgotten. The world goes on, no matter what.

But I’m listening to a disc of soundtrack music I made for myself last autumn, slow moody pieces that tend to dredge up nostalgia. It’s the perfect soundtrack for today, a day that floods with memories of beautiful moments, not just with Jessica, but Melissa and you and Maria and a million others. I can’t stop thinking, remembering, feeling — and that’s what I want the most right now, I think, is just a little quiet time for my heart.

I know that I did the right thing, a move that was necessary for me, and for her, too. And I’m bitter, and sad, and somewhat cynical right now, and I know that will pass. And I want to scream at the top of my lungs, to throw anything within reach, to find whoever’s responsible and in charge of this stupid world and pummel him until everything is right and fair and just.

But I know that the world doesn’t work that way. But that doesn’t stop me from being really pissed off about it.

If this were a movie, there’d be a really great third act coming up, where the people that don’t appreciate what they have lose it all and realize the error of their ways, where the people who have been mistreated all their lives find the strength to let people care about them and love them the way they deserve; where the hero gets the girl, the villain has to live with the consequences of his action, and the credits roll over a kiss — a real one, where your heart breaks at the emotion in that moment.

But it’s not a movie. This is life, where heroes and villains hang the same, victims stay victims, and love is just another word to get what you want from people.

The traffic is flowing smoothly today outside my window. The sun’s out now and then, and the trees shift in the wind. And it’s all the same, never changing, completely unaffected by petty bullshit like this.

I just have to remind myself over and over again that this, too, shall pass.

In my dreams, there’s a beautiful place for people like us.

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COLLIDE (by Avery Ellis Exhibit(s), for whom I am now the new bassist):
pt. I
—–
hello.
is this what they mean
by ‘losing control’?
it’s gone away,
all i’ve to say
is
� hip
���� hip
������� hip
hooray!
i never needed it anyway.
i go up; you come down
we’re a happy merry-go-round
side by side; along for the ride
…and the instant before we
collide…. i catch your eyes
and i face
…eternity…
with an open smile…

pt. II
——
even as the birds leave the trees
and the leaves change the weather
they come together and sing
the cold brings them apart
with the hope of meeting
new time, same place
next spring
spring forth a new day
we’re free from the old way
it’s better, can’t you tell?
oh well, it seems
the spring has brought a new lover
to the nest…
listen to me: don’t listen to me
even birds of a feather
fly apart

=========================

So now I wait for the inevitable car wreck, only now we both have to look two ways, wondering not just how bad it will be but also which of the two cars will hit first. But I’ve also decided that it’s not so important, because I’ve survived many a wreck before, and the pain goes away — what doesn’t kill you makes for big hospital bills, but I’m a thrill seeker — always have been, always will be — and I may as well enjoy the rush that comes before any hit.

Your loss of control over your life and the things and people in it is not as total as you’d like to believe.

km