Jump Start Brain and Body – Learn a New Sport

Feeling old, achy and foggy brained? Experts say learning a new skill is recommended for our rusty bodies and aging brains. For me, relearning old skills is equally valuable. It is never more important than after suffering a traumatic brain injury (TBI) which can effect spatial awareness, balance, proprioception, executive function, listening, speaking and emotional stability.

Like so many people after injury, illness and accidents, I was forced to reframe my life. Once I retired from playing pro ball, I dreamed would learn to scuba dive, alpine ski and surf. I’d run marathons and bike mountains.

Well, that hasn’t been an option for decades.

So when my chiropractor in Geneva (Switzerland) suggested that I try “rope flow” to help strengthen my core, align my back, retrain my brain to better coordinate both hemispheres and work my lazy left side, I was all ears.

In Dr. G’s office, I watched in awe as he demonstrated swinging a heavy rope around his body.

“Jump rope sans the jump for injured adults!” I said.

“Actually, a heavier marine rope like sailors use works better,” Dr. G explained. “The sailboat boutique across Lake Geneva in Nyon carries all different sizes.”

Then he went onto explain the history.

“David Weck, an American, created rope flow to help people recover rotational movement and to reinforce how we walk, run and move. Rope wave, quickly adopted by elite athletes and movement coaches, has become a valuable training tool for improving mobility symmetry, coordination and striking power.”

At first glance, rope wave looks easy. It’s not. It involves swinging a rope around your body in coordinated patterns like figure-eights, while shifting your weight and rotating your spine, shoulders, and hips with rhythm and control.

I was delighted to discover a game that I can play without getting hurt as long as I don’t whip myself on the back of my legs or lips.

If you perform rope flow properly, the rapid rhythm builds a smooth, effortless coordination across both sides of the body. Rope flow is symmetrical. You rotate both left and right, retraining your non-dominant side and this helps smooth out imbalances.

Rope flow is ingenious for its affordability, convenience, practicality and simplicity. This portable habit helps rewire the way I relate to my body. It is probably even more valuable for people like me who suffer from the effects of a stroke or TBI where message systems in the brain are damaged and to weakness on one side of the body.

After my time at the Functional Neurology Clinic in Minnesota, I learned how neuroplasticity allows the brain repair itself. After my brain surgery, messages did not get to my left side. Rope flow trains the brain and the body simultaneously and I would recommend it for anyone recovering from a TBI.

I am learning to accept my limitations, no more hooping, running, jumping. No kayaking, canoeing, golf, tennis, pickle ball or any asymmetric sport requiring lateral movement. For me, traveling in cars and planes or even sitting must be minimized.

So I was encouraged to finally find a sport I can perform with my broken body; it’s even good for me.

Granted I look a bit crazy, but who cares? I swing my rope, whistle like my dad used to, hang out with cows up in mountain meadows and admire the panoramic Alps.

It is highly unlikely that you can find an instructor in your area, but David Weck, Tim Shieff and other experts offer detailed videos breaking down movement into steps.

So pick up a rope, put on your favorite song and swivel those hips.

Yahoo! Clear the way! Look out! I’ll lasso you…my first dream was to be a cowgirl!

Celebrating the class of ’75 SHS Forever

This weekend at my alma mater, Sterling High School Class of 1975 celebrates its’ 50th reunion. Sadly, the Big Pond and 4000 miles that separate us makes it impossible for me to drop in, but pieces of my heart never left home.

Born by the Rock River in Illinois, I grew strong in my family (McKinzie) in my hood (19th street) and within the halls of Sterling High School.

The baby boomer names— Bob, Doug, Mike, Chris, Deb, Sue, Pat— of my classmates, no longer common, have gone out of style.

Over the past half century, names aren’t the only thing that has changed.

Back then, cell phones hadn’t been invented. Instead we dialed friends’ numbers on land lines and tied up the family phone for hours as we spread gossip and sorted out teen dramas.

Text messages, huh? We communicated by flicking hand written notes across the class room on paper folded into tiny footballs.

In spring of ’75, Bill Gates and Paul Allen founded Microsoft computer software, but my peers and I practiced the hunt and peck method on type writers. Anybody remember those antique machines?

Boys jostled in the halls and teased the girls, but dangerous bullies back then did not exist. Today’s 21st century bullies lurk on social media spewing hatred and vitriol. Predators hide online; deviants use AI to create fake photos and identities and blackmail innocent victims. Cyber bullying destroys teenagers’ lives.

In the 70’s, our streets were safer; outside threats smaller. We lined up on the playgrounds during fire drills and hid under our desks in tornado warnings. But no one could ever imagine a school shooting.

No one died at school.

Nobody owned guns except deer hunters.

Back then, we walked through the open school gates freely. Now security guards check backpacks at the door and roam the halls sweeping lockers for guns. Active shooting drills have become the norm.

As high schoolers in the ‘70s, we did stupid stuff. We hung out in cars, but nobody owned their own wheels. We cruised in our parents’ vehicles, spinning grease laps around McD’s, running Chinese fire drills at stop lights, pitching toilet paper out windows to TP trees.

My class was notorious for the “Moon Mobile!” Bare butts hanging in the wind became a common sighting!

Our shenanigans were annoying, but innocent.

Our greatest transgression — streaking (running buck naked) across the football field under the Friday night lights. We had slumber parties and seances and summer jobs.

“What’s happenin?” 70s gave way to the shake your bootie disco days of the 80’s. We grew up to the background beat of Motown and Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” during the Vietnam War Era, moon landings and Watergate.

At the time, we never appreciated the opportunities Sterling provided, giving us the chance to pursue our interests and hone skills in outstanding facilities. Drama club, robed choir, marching band, dance, pom poms, cheerleaders, chess, debate and sports a go go.

Not for girls.

Not right away. But when Title IX started rolling, we were one of the first schools in Illinois to provide girls’ competitive sport programs.

Back then, I probably had a chip on my shoulder because I wanted to play ALL sports like my male peers. But I was lucky to come of age at the tip of Title IX and be there at the beginning—first girls’ teams, first female Roscoe Eades recipient, first women’s athletic college scholarship recipient, first women’s pro basketball league (WBL) draftee.

I will always have a special affinity for the class of 75, but after graduation, age differences blur. Once we tossed that blue cap to wind, we all became proud alumni. In retrospect, boomers raised in big families had so many siblings at SHS at the same time, class distinctions never mattered.

I recall my older brother’s talented class of 73, with his brainy bunch of friends headed to the Ivies, and equally exceptional athletes off to the Big Ten. I’ll always remember the Sweet Sixteen boy’s basketball team that let me play in pick-up games, long before girl’s hooping was a thing. And who could ever forget my lil sister’s winning Illinois’ 1st girls’ state basketball championship in 1977.

Did we appreciate our fortune surmounting those challenging rights of passage on our campus, as impressive as any university? For a blink in history, we shared a common bond. We grew up in the same place, at the same a time, when graduation to adulthood was simpler, safer, saner.

We were basically good kids.

If we ever failed to toe the line at SHS, we had great character-building role models, teachers, coaches and administrators who held us accountable and made us own our mistakes.

We learned lifelong lessons of dependability, honesty and integrity through team participation and performances in the arts and sports.

Sadly, since those carefree times, we have lost family members and loved ones, including friends from our graduating class, like Mouse, Bob, Jay, Laurie and others.

Many classmates attending our 50th reunion will have replaced worn out body parts, survived heart attacks, endured cancer, COVID and other chronic diseases.

My old friends will gather to celebrate, to watch a football game, tour the SHS campus and reminisce about the good ol’days!

Somewhere across the globe, a tall, slender gal will raise a glass in their honor.

Thanks for those magical 70’s memories.

Our Sterling years remain etched in gold forever.

Health Care Professionals Deserve Standing Ovation

I stopped blogging when overgrown connective tissue crippled my fingers from Dupuytren’s Contracture, a hereditary condition. A hand surgeon split my palm open, removed the diseased tissue and attempted to straighten my little finger. The dozens of ragged stitches across my hand healed, but on top of muscle memory, the tendons and ligaments pulled my finger back into a clawed position in a protective natural reaction.

If my pinky was the only problem, I could cope, but while addressing other ongoing health issues, doctors concluded my spine, damaged in too many areas, can’t be fixed. Nothing more can be done medically to alleviate my back problems. My knees are kaput too.

I limp along trying to remain upbeat.

And failing.

Never a candidate for back surgery, knee replacements loom ahead and my finger may be contracted forever. Un-huh. No way. No pity party for me. A hearty can-do cheer would be welcomed.

When my surgeon suggested I see an ergo-therapist,(occupational therapist, aka a hand specialist) for the first time, I thought, “oh no, another specialist!”

Then, I gave it a go.

After a half a dozen visits, the ergo-therapist put my hand in thin, plastic glove and dipped it in warm, melted wax. Then she kneaded my palm and finger to break up scar tissue, restore mobility and coax tendons to loosen their hold on the joint.

I fought back tears of frustration.

“Go ahead. Cry,” she said, patting my arm. “Progress is slow, so hard to see or measure.”

While I gathered my composure, she crafted splints to straighten my finger.

“Wear the hard, plastic orthotic at night; the velcro one in the day,” she instructed. “If it’s too uncomfortable, take it off. Wiggle your fingers. Go for a walk. Relax. Sometimes our bodies need to heal in their own time.”

My physical therapists and chiropractors, too, have always emphasized that mind/body connection. After my accidents, they partnered with me to help me recover and regain as much mobility as possible.

Modern medicine has evolved thousand-fold, but healing remains an ancient art. Those called to the profession — like my son, my daughter, my nieces — are gifted.

Lately, the medical field has been broadsided. Healthcare workers face endless scrutiny and skepticism under a tsunami of misinformation on social media and inaccurate directives from the authorities. That, along with major funding and resource cuts, make their job even harder.

Skilled surgeons helped spare my life, but it was auxiliary health care professionals — therapists, chiropractors, masseurs, counselors, nurses— that saved my broken heart when I wanted to give up.

Never underestimate the healing power of those dedicated people, whose soothing voice and gentle touch (like my “hand whisperer”) ease suffering and save souls.

They restored my faith in humanity.

Kindness matters.

More than ever.

Viking Disease Strikes Hands and Feet

My old friends and teammates will remember my notorious feet with toes so crooked I could hang upside down by them. Back in high school in Sterling, Illinois my podiatrist, Doctor Heffelfinger, gave me my first foot orthoses. He also showed me how to tape each toe to prevent blisters from forming between my phalanges when playing basketball.

Forty years later, I am still doctoring my crazy feet. Dr. Drevo, my podiatrist in Geneva Switzerland, hand crafted custom-made foot orthotics to help my balance, relieve back pain and slow the progression of Ledderhose Disease. Ledderhose disease (also known as Morbus Ledderhose or plantar fibromatosis) causes nodules to develop in the arches of my feet, which can become painful or grow to a size where they affect walking.

Not surprisingly, my foot doctor also diagnosed Dupuytren’s Contracture, which is similar, because the same type of cords and nodules formed in my hands.

Ledderhose and Dupuytren’s Contracture, known as the Viking Diseases, target the fascia. According to International Dupuytren Society.
"Dupuytren's Contracture is a chronic, progressive fibroproliferative disorder affecting the palmar fascia, leading to permanent flexion deformities of the fingers.”

Typically the ring and pinky finger become permanently locked in bent position.

The condition is more common in Northern European countries where the Vikings settled (hence its nickname.) Typically there, it afflicts about 30% of men over the age of 60 and seems to run in families.

As the daughter of a Norwegian mom and Scottish dad ancestry, I am genetically 89% Scandinavian and Northern European. Key genetic risk factors for Dupuytren's crippling hand disorder can be traced back to Neanderthals’ DNA.

Over the past few years, thanks to Dr. Drevo, my foot condition is under control, but the collagen overgrowth went wild, especially in my left hand.

Only 5% of patients with Dupuytren contractures have similar lesions in the medial plantar fascia of the feet. Lucky me!

At my podiatrist’s appointment in May, I showed Dr. Drevo my bent fingers and crippled hand. He recognized the cords of fibrous tissue puckering under the skin of the palm as Dupuytren’s Contracture and urged me to follow up with a hand specialist right away.

At the Hand Clinic of Geneva, I met Dr. Vakalopoulos who asked, “Would you prefer I speak French, English, Dutch or Greek?”

When he described the complex dissection required to prevent digital nerve injury, it helped that he spoke English. He drew lines across my left hand and explained that he would cut into my palm to remove the chords in my palm and pinky. Unfortunately, my disease had advance too far for him to perform a simpler needle aponevrotomy.

The day after surgery, he confirmed with relief that I retained the sensation in my fingertips.

“The surgery was more difficult than I anticipated,” he said. “You have an aggressive form of Dupuytren’s and the collagen had formed spirals around the nerves in the finger joint.”

Dr. V removed the fast growing collagen forming tough bands in the connective tissue of my hand. Two weeks later, in my follow up appointment, after the nurse removed my bandages, Dr. V inspected his delicate artwork. Fifty-eight stitches zig zagged across my palm and pinky.

“That scar would make a great jigsaw puzzle,” my brother-in-law kidded when he saw a photo of my hand.

On the bright side, I retain bragging rights in my extended Olson, McKinzie, Lechault, Carlson, Miles, Westphal, Zhang family. I hold the record for the most stitches. It will be hard to beat!

Never to be discouraged, I wear my scar like a badge of courage. I show off my left hand as a visual reminder of my proud heritage.

After all, I am a Golden Warrior Viking.

Another Birthday, A Promising Path.

Yeah! I made it. Another birthday. Another year.
But it is getting harder to hang in there.

I am falling behind in the race to survive. I want to walk as far as my feet will carry me, sing as loud as my voice will rise and write as fast as I can before I am gone.

From the top of my skull to the tip of my toes, my body has taken a beating. But, I keep waving the warrior flag and drawing on the strength of my ancestors. I could have, should have, would have died after a rabid skunk bite as a toddler, after a neck breaking fall off a bicycle in Germany, after flipping out of a car speeding down the freeway in France, after splitting my skull in a bad fall at home in Switzerland.

Yet, for some reason, I am still here for another spin around the sun!

Ever the great pretender, I fake my way forward — tackling Lyme’s disease, environmental illness and more accidents than I can count.

I endure physical ailments with self-discipline and endless rehabilitation - physical therapy, chiropractic treatment, massage, heat, ice and talk therapy.

I fought back from broken bones, but how do you recover from a busted brain?

How do I manage a mind that misfires from damage to the frontal lobe, the mastermind that pulls the strings in the back of the brain that fulfills all human functions?

For the past five years, unable to filter sounds, lights, voices, commotion and to curtail the cacophony of background noise that is the essence of life, I hide in a dark, quiet room. I avoid the masses and loud places - stores, arenas, theaters, restaurants, events and situations that create sensory overload.

Brain activity analysis

I wanted to give up. The Functional Neurology Center gave me hope. After their high- tech diagnosis, I attended an intensive week of therapy, a Boot Camp for the brain.

I rode in my “space ship,” the GyroStim. It’s a state of the art, multi-axis rotating chair that works with balance, cognitive and sensory integration and affects proprioception. I underwent Virtual Reality training to rehabilitate balance dysfunction. I zapped pain with Accelerated Recovery and Performance (ARPWave) Neurotherapy and Cranial low level laser treatments. I repeated exercises, inhaled Molecular Hydrogen and completed therapies so bizarre, it felt like sci-fi.

I learned our brains are marvelous mysteries; specialists are understanding more about neuroplasticity every day. FNC is the way of the future.

“Neuroplasticity is the ability of the nervous system to change its activity in response to intrinsic or extrinsic stimuli by reorganizing its structure, functions, or connections after injuries, such as a stroke or traumatic brain injury (TBI)".

As I struggle to retrain my left side, jump start my cerebellum, and control my frontal lobe, I work just as hard to reset my attitude.

I am an athlete. I may be broken down, worn-out, defective, but I still “run.”

I accept that I may be in training forever in the only game that matters - life.

With age, injury and illness the body weakens, but the spirit grows strong. I get fed up living in this shit shell of a body, but by golly my soul shines on.

In my dance with death, I appreciate better than most that I am living on borrowed time - we all are.

I should be 6 feet under, instead when dawn breaks every morning, I take a deep breath and whisper, “I am strong. I am grateful. I am here.”

Another Accident? In a Doctor’s Office? You kidding?

Another day, another doc.

Another accident? At the doctor's office? You kidding?

What kind of a klutz am I? Was I born accident prone? Or does it go back to bad balance at my base, from toes, so crooked I could hang by them from a tree.

Who gets taken out by a treadmill in the doc office at the hospital?

At a routine checkup, I mentioned shortness of breath. My primary doctor heard a heart murmur. She insisted I follow up with a cardiologist. Pronto. Eight months later, (you know how long it takes to get an appointment with a specialist) I finally got in with the specialist.

After an EKG and a battery of tests, the cardiologists diagnosed arrhythmia in the upper and lower chambers of the heart. Then she wanted me to take a stress test and walk on a treadmill.

“I need to measure your heart beat under exertion,” she explained as she hooked me up. “Every three minutes, I will increase the speed and incline on the treadmill.”

The first six minutes, I was fine and feeling chuffed to bits. Then at the nine minute level, she cranked up thetempo.

“You still doing okay?” she asked.

“Un huh,” I grunted, huffing and puffing like a steam engine, feeling light-headed and wobbly and cursing myself. (Ever the damn athlete still competing for a better time, I continued gasping for oxygen.)

That’s enough!” the doc exclaimed, “we’ll stop here!”

I stopped.

The treadmill did not.

Before I had time to react, my feet splayed out from under me and my body pitched forward. I hit my chin, my forearms, my elbow and my knees on the rubber mat that kept rotating.

Nooooo, I’m going to be sucked up by the roller.

“Oh no, sorry madame, sorry,” the doctor said. “I am not sure how that happened."

“I’m okay,” I gasped feeling mortified. Who the heck face plants on a treadmill at the cardiologist’s?

After profuse apologies, the doctor sat me on her exam table and told me, “calm down and raise your arm.”

As she fitted the blood pressure cuff, she explained, “I need to record one more reading”.

Of course doc, my BP is too high right now, I wanted to tell her. I just survived a near death experience.

What? Am I hearing clearly. She wants further investigation.

“I am going to set you up for a heart CAT scan to check the valves and heart function and to rule out coronary artery disease,” the cardiologist said, “Don’t worry, this is routine procedure.”

Sure for someone who flunked the treadmill test.

Now once again, I have to squeeze into a white cylinder the size of a toilet paper roll.

Necessary? Really? After a life time of X-rays from accidents and injuries, I am pretty sure, I glow in dark.

“Seriously, doc, “ I lament. “I don’t need more tests. I know why I am short of breath. “You try keeping up with a sixty-nine-year-old Frenchman, who thinks he is 20!”

“Yep, typical,” the hubby says, “Throws her mate under the bus.”

Again!