This week The Bark published a post I wrote for them about guide dog Roselle and her blind partner Michael Hingson. The pair were on the 78th floor of Tower One of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. They worked in tandem to get out safely, taking 1,463 steps one at a time. From my post on The Bark blog:

I met Michael Hingson five years after the September 11 tragedy. He and I were in Raleigh, N.C., with our guide dogs, both of us presenting at a 2006 conference for people who work in blind services. Michael’s speech about experiences with Roselle on 9/11 wowed the crowd.

“You have got to write a book!” I told him at the hotel bar after our presentations.

Michael was way ahead of me, of course. He was already working on a book. We kept up with each other via email after the conference, and Thunder Dog: The True Story of a Blind Man, His Guide Dog, and the Triumph of Trust at Ground Zero by Michael Hingson with Susy Flory was published by Thomas Nelson Publishers last month.

I interviewed Michael over the phone for The Bark story, and he said that Roselle’s guide work after 911 was fine, she did not seem traumatized. Not at first, at least.

Two years later, however, Roselle’s body started attacking her blood platelets. Michael’s beloved yellow Labrador Retriever was diagnosed with immune mediated thrombocytopenia. He was able to control the disease with medication, but after a while the medication and the stress of guide work got to be too much for Roselle. She retired from guide work in March of 2007.

While it would be absurdly presumptuous to compare Harper’s life here in Chicago with the unbelievable trauma of 911, Roselle’s story, along with my life with Harper the past ten months, tells me that dogs, like humans, can take a while to process trauma.

Here’s what happened to us: On a cold day back in January, Harper stopped at a busy Chicago intersection, I listened, heard the traffic going straight at our parallel, and commanded “forward!” The woman driving the van said later that she didn’t see us. Maybe she was on her cell phone as she made that right turn. Texting? I have no way of knowing, because I couldn’t see her, either. Thank goodness Harper was watching. He saved our lives, pulling us away from the van with such force that I fell backward, cracking the back of my head on the concrete. Later on, when Mike inspected Harper’s harness, he discovered it was bent.

Harper worked fine for weeks after the accident. It wasn’t until a month or two later that he started showing fear around traffic. A Seeing Eye trainer came out to help in April. A second trainer visited in August. A third trainer was here last week, and after observing Harper’s behavior on the street (tail between his legs, head down, panting, trembling) he doesn’t doubt that the near-miss last January is the cause.

So, can dogs suffer from something like post-traumatic stress disorder? Thanks to Roselle and Harper, Michael Hingson and I are alive to tell you. Yes. They can.

Over 50 is where it’s at, man. This excerpt from a Chicago Sun Times review of the Soul Train concert I went to Monday night explains why:

Slightly-more-than-middle-aged women swooned to Marshall Thompson and the Chi-Lites’ “Oh Girl” and “Have You Seen Her,” no doubt knocked out by the trio’s sartorial splendor of pumpkin-colored suits and white fedoras with pumpkin-colored brims.

The Sun Times Reported that nearly 15,000 fans were at Millennium Park for the extravaganza, and man, what a cool vibe. All those people, and the only time it got unruly was when Don Cornelius refused to deal his signature “I wish you love, peace and soooooooooul!” (The crowd begged and prodded, and of course he finally gave in.)

Those are Janet's kids Anita (center), Ray (left) and AnnMarie (right) in a photo Anita took, reflected off the Cloud Gate (aka The Bean) sculpture in Millennium Park.

Plenty of youngsters (iow, under age 50) were there to dance to the music, too. My niece Janet and three of her kids picked me up for the first part of the celebration. “I’ve gotta show these kids how it’s done!” she told me. For 90 minutes before the concert, legendary Chicago DJ Herb Kent spun classic dusties like “Fire” and “Funky Town” by The Bean in Millennium Park and organized the longest Soul Train dance line in history. From the Sun Times review:

Cliff Boone was at the front of the line.

You couldn’t miss him. He wore a silk, lime green suit with white cuffs dotted with $100 bill icons. He danced in skyscraper heels and wore a wide-brimmed hat over a puffy afro wig. About the headgear, “all I will say about that is that it is ‘Bootsy’ or ‘Sly,’ ” said Boone, slightly out of breath after the dance. That would be Bootsy Collins and Sly Stone.

Janet and the kids had to leave before the concert – it was a school night, after all – so Mike joined

Some came in full regalia.

me to hear the Chi-Lites, the Impressions and the Emotions, each group backed up by a 30-piece orchestra with a horn section that was out of this world. It was chilly outside, but my heart felt warm, and the tingle I felt on my skin was not goosebumps. What a privilege to be a slightly-older-than-middle-aged woman living in the city where this music, these musicians, and this larger-than-life TV show got their start. As the late great Curtis Mayfield used to sing in that beautiful Impressions ballad of his: I’m so proud.

Me with Gus at lunch in Wisconsin.

It’s our son’s birthday! Gus is, gasp, twenty-five years old today. Seems a fitting occasion to dust off one of the first essays I wrote and recorded for National Public Radio:

Commentator Beth Finke describes the struggle of placing her developmentally disabled son into a group home and the unexpected relief it’s brought both of them.

You can listen to the essay from the NPR site, but if you’d rather read it, hey, I’ll print the transcript here, too. First, though, some back story.

My producer/coach on this piece was Ari Shapiro. These days Ari reports on the White House for NPR, but back then he was a mere voice in my headphones, coaching me to sound more natural during the recording session. My speech was particularly stilted on the first line, “Our teenage son wears diapers.” I tried it over and over, and over and over again, until Ari came up with a brilliant solution. “Start out saying, ‘Okay, here’s how it is,’” he suggested. “Then say the first line.”

It worked. Sound engineers edited out those first five words, and when I start talking about Gus in the finished piece it sounds like I’m talking to you from across the kitchen table. Here’s the transcript of that essay:

Our teenage son wears diapers. He can’t talk or walk. If his food isn’t cut into bite-sized pieces, we have to feed him. Gus’ genetic condition doesn’t have a name like Downs or Asperger’s. It’s known by its clinical description: Trisomy 12p.

Mike loved his son from the day Gus was born. It took me a lot longer. Truth is, I was angry at Gus. He wasn’t the baby I expected. A baby was supposed to bring us joy. The way I saw it, Gus brought nothing but trouble.

I did therapeutic exercises with Gus. I cuddled him, played the piano for him. But none of it was heartfelt.
Until one night, when I was singing Gus to sleep. Suddenly understanding washed over me: None of this was Gus’ fault.

“You didn’t want it to be like this,” I said, starting to cry now. “It’s not your fault, is it?” Over and over I repeated it. “It’s not your fault, Gus.” I kissed and hugged him, finally able to love him and to tell him so.

Sixteen years later, Gus communicates by crawling to whatever it is he needs. When he wants to hear music, for example, he scoots to the piano. Gus laughs and sings with the tunes, and claps with delight whenever he hears live music. He loves to hold hands, especially while swinging on a porch swing.

But as Gus has grown bigger, Mike and I have grown older. Shortly after Gus’s sixteenth birthday, we realized it was time for him to move away. We HAD HOPED to have Gus live near enough to drop by, TO take him out for ice cream, have him for an occasional weekend. Like so many other states, however, ours is in a budget crisis. IT’S ALREADY SHUT a residential facility that was home to hundreds of people with developmental disabilities.

Realizing the waiting time for Gus would grow even longer, Mike and I placed him on waiting Lists all over the country. A facility four hours away contacted us last summer. They had an opening.

Gus cried his entire first weekend away. So did we. “It’ll take some time for us to all get used to each other,” the social worker assured us over the phone. On our first visit, we found Gus happy and smiling, yet not quite sure what to make of these visitors on his new turf. I sang to him. He felt my face. Suddenly he burst out in laughter, realizing it really was me. When I stood him up to transfer him from the wheelchair to the car so he could join us for lunch, I realized how much he’d grown. He was up to my chin!

As I leaned down to kiss Gus goodbye, he took off. Couldn’t wait to wheel himself back to his friends in the activity center. Now, when we visit Gus, it’s all fun. No hoisting him onto the toilet, no muscling him into the shower, no changing his diapers. No drudgery.
He seems relieved, too, finally allowed to do things independently of his parents. Hmmm…maybe Gus has more in common with other teenagers than I thought.

Today, nine years after Gus left home and that piece aired on NPR, I raise my cup of java to our 25-year-old and the dedicated staff at Bethesda Lutheran Communities who make his life — and ours — so wonderful. Happy birthday, dear Gus. Happy birthday to you.

My metatarsals are whole again--the body's an amazing thing.

Sound the trumpets! The doc says I can retire the clodhoppers!! No restrictions! I can walk long distances, swim, ride the tandem, even hop on the train to Elmhurst to visit Flo.

How to celebrate my healing? That’s easy. I’m gonna strap on my dancin’ shoes, strut down to Millennium Park and shake my groove thang:

Monday, September 5 (Labor Day) at 6:30 PM

Jay Pritzker Pavilion

Groove to the beat of Soul Train with a concert in honor of the 40th anniversary of the Chicago-based, longest-running, nationally syndicated program in television history. The concert will pay tribute to Soul Train and its legendary founder and host, Southside native Don Cornelius, who will be on hand to participate in the program. Artists scheduled to perform include Jerry “The Iceman” Butler, The Impressions, The Chi-Lites, The Emotions, and Gene Chandler. They will be backed by a full orchestra of veteran musicians who have played and/or recorded with the artists listed above and will be led by conductor/arranger Tom Tom Washington.

Pre-Concert Dance Party

4-5:30 PM

Cloud Gate

Hosted by Chicago radio pioneer, V103 Radio’s Herb Kent, known as the “King of the Dusties” and the “Cool Gent”, hit records from the 60s, 70s and 80s will be spun prior to Chicago’s 40th Anniversary Soul Train Concert at 6:30 PM. Admission to both the concert and the dance party is FREE.

Thanks to all of you for your blog comments, your encouragement and your good wishes during my healing process – I might have lost my mental health completely without you. I’m serious.

I’d write more now, but hey, I’ve spent a summer in front of this computer keyboard already. Time for Harper and me to practice our dance moves.

In my last post I told you I’d written a story for National Geographic School Publishing. What I didn’t mention is that they sent a photographer and staff out to take pictures! And as much as I’d love to tell you that they asked to take shots of me topless in a grass skirt, well, the orthopedic shoes didn’t work with that outfit. I wore jeans.

Here's one pose I know they didn't get. (Photo by Mike Knezovich>

The National Geographic photographer took photos of me working on my computer with Harper at my side, feeding Harper, playing with Harper, grooming Harper outside, him leading me around. Good thing I like attention so much! Harper didn’t seem to mind, either.

I have my orthopedic shoes on in every shot, and since most shots feature Harper at my feet, you wont’ be able to miss the clodhoppers. The book will not be published until sometime next year, and I am hoping, hoping, hoping that by then my little experiment with platform shoes will be such a distant memory that I’ll have to rack my brain when anyone asks what’s up with the funky shoes in the photos. “Oh, I forgot all about that,” I’ll say, running out the door to head downtown with Harper. “That must have been the summer I broke my foot.”