Part 105 Clean scopes, ducks and sea monkeys
After a surgery, there is a tendency to be lazy the following day, so I indulge in that tendency by laying off work and finishing the book “1969”, a reflection of what the author considers to be a pivotal and exciting year in U.S. history. Becah spends the next day in a downtown Houston hotel complex for a getaway with lady friends. While there she receives calls from Drs. Ly- and Bl-s’ offices with good news about scans and biopsies – everything looks clean. The kids and I celebrate with yoghurt out followed by watching “Suite Life of Zack and Cody: the Movie” on TV.
On Saturday I wake up on the couch at 2:30 a.m. Brett had awakened me with his growling earlier and I had finally got back to sleep, only to be awakened now. I get up to go sleep in my bed. The kids are sleeping there and it is too crowded for me, so eventually I return to the couch. Sometimes you just accept this is what must be done.
This morning Bree’s softball team plays the Ducks. One of the girl’s dads wants to try his hand pitching the first inning. After having little luck eliciting hits, he asks me to throw in the second. I encourage him to try again, but before he can, another dad steps in to try. The results are similarly uninspiring. The head coach asked me to pitch the third inning. Trailing 3-0, we get three runs to tie. Before the fourth inning, one of Bree’s teammates comes up to me and pleads for me to pitch. We get four more runs, and even after the Ducks’ late rally, the final score is 7-6, Sea Monkeys. The victory insures my status as the pitcher of every game and each inning of those games thereafter. I am excited too because Bree hit safely two times and drove in two runs; she also caught the ball twice (a major feat in this league).
Now Dr. Co- calls her scope of my throat as being “perfect”. Not only is it aesthetically pleasing, but the whole system is functioning better since my visit with Dr. Bl-, who widened my esophagus as a bonus when she did the biopsy. With the assistance of a few glasses of chocolate milk, my dinner tonight of scrambled eggs, spinach, corn, and veggie sausage slides down easily.
The next day I drive to the medical center to discuss my next step of surgical options with Dr. Bl-. The front runner plan is to cut out the withered portion of my esophagus (saving the remainder), lifting up a section of my stomach, and attaching it to the good part of the esophagus. Dr. Bl- refers to herself as being a “mad scientist”, willing to experiment and take risks when needed. I don’t know if I should admire her bravery or wince at the prospect of reckless behavior going on in my insides. I think about this over a Mexican dinner at Ninfa’s where I fail at enjoying the margarita but succeed in downing a cheese enchilada, rice, and beans (it takes two large glasses of milk, however, for me to accomplish this).
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Part 100 Trains and metaphors
Bree’s first softball game is rained out (a disappointment as great for me as it is for her) on Saturday. The Sea Monkeys will have to wait a week until they can show what they have learned. I have finished a book called “The Traveler’s Gift” and start “Wherever You Go, There You Are”, back on my nonfiction, philosophy readings.
Becah struggles the next morning with bad allergies, a factor that probably contributes to another of our verbal uproars. A beautiful day evolves outside, though, one so glorious that it will quell even our bad behavior. After watching everyone eat lunch at a restaurant and a quick stop at the bookstore, we go to enjoy some moments at nearby Cypress Creek park. Leaving, we stop at a railroad crossing as a train whizzes by. This is a first for the kids. Bree is excited, but Brooke is fearful. A rolling metaphor for how one can react to the uncontrollable forces in life. After a long wait, we continue to the store and buy some softballs, which we throw and hit at the school park after we get home.
I come home from work next day for lunch, but am unsuccessful with the yoghurt. My food selection choices are now whittled down to milk and smooth ice cream. I try to cope with this. In the evening I nonetheless have a mellow feeling as I turn to a book for distraction (probably the pain pill I took for my hernia, again acting up, doesn’t hurt either). I am reading Thoreau’s “Walden”, which everyone in college read but I have never opened. Worthwhile sentiments but rather dry reading. I am still listening to Yes music and related bands, like Chris Squire’s “Conspiracy” CD. I have discovered the joys of downloading iTunes when Amazon occasionally lets me down.
The following evening I am reading to Bree before bedtime. She introduces me to a library book about Harriet Tubman, a female slave from Civil War times who escaped and rescued many people via the Underground Railroad. She made a new home in Philadelphia but returned multiple times, risking her life on each occasion, to the dangerous South to free others who were enslaved. After finishing the book a later night I conclude that she was a true hero that should probably have her own holiday. Undoubtedly fearful, she jumped on the train anyway.
Another train metaphor and another life lesson.
Part 101 Lost gems and tsunamis
One morning for the first time I cannot get hot chocolate down. I regret instantly the mornings I took for granted that it would always be on hand, tasty and helping warm me from the early chill. It is a gorgeous day, bracing initially, warming by noon. I drive to the south end school to work. Coming back I enjoy listening to Eric Clapton’s “Layla” CD, and realize that I have never really listened to the entire album. I have been an avid fan of music all my life and find that it is easy to put aside one album as you listen to another that has just been released. If the progression of tunes is rapid enough, over time some pieces get overlooked or forgotten.
For that matter, this is true of other life events. Gems abound, present but not attended to. Life is too abundant to capture and hold it all.
On the eleventh of March a huge tsunami - 8.9 on the scale – strikes Japan. Thirty feet tall waves blast the shoreline, which will gradually taper to six feet high off the beaches in California, upon which surfers will ride. An abundance of destruction, the devastation is hard to comprehend, even with the photos spread across TV screens.
Here in Houston it is another cool morning followed by warm afternoon. I am able to drink the hot chocolate today and eat ice cream tonight. I am trying to hold on to these simple pleasures and not let them escape.
Part 102 Peace is every step
March 12, Saturday begins the first day of spring break holidays, and the weather has the pleasant variety of temperatures as have most of the days this month. Bree’s first softball outing results in an 11-7 loss, but they play well and everyone has fun. I pitch the entire game. Bree hit the ball twice when at bat, getting tagged out once and being safe at first another time. Our games are at the high school girls’ softball field, but after our practices on the bumpy elementary grounds, we might as well be at a manicured major league stadium.
After the game, Becah drives everyone but me for a few days in Nederland to visit the relatives. I watch the “Yes: Live at the House of Blues” DVD, as usual overwhelmed at their greatness. After this, I wash the pollen off my car that builds in layers daily. I manage to eat with no problems several Hershey kisses and two bowls of cream of mushroom soup. I am amazed, and celebrate with my dog Brett as we go on a walk to the school.
Monday I go for another periodic PET scan, driving through this morning’s drizzle. In the afternoon I must drive to the medical center to meet with Dr. Bl-’s staff to sign consent for the scope and biopsy that she requires before any surgery is done. Her office is in a hospital, but across the way from the hospital where I have been previously treated. I meet with Allison, the physician’s assistant, after sitting longer than I care to in the waiting room, then get annoyed at having to go to another floor and meet with a nurse to review anesthesiology requirements, have yet again more vital signs taken, and mostly just fill out forms. I wait an additional hour for the honor of doing this. I decide to practice the words of “Thich” (taken from his book that I hold in my hands, “Peace Is Every Step”) and not be upset at any of life’s moments. The nurse who finally arrives is a pleasant Oriental lady who discusses yoga with me, and assures me that she is very qualified and the hospital is an excellent facility.
After I am finished, I drive home at 5:20, usually a guaranteed recipe for a grueling time in a downtown Houston traffic jam. But on this day, where the weather has changed, cooler now and with blue skies overhead, there is no traffic jam. My positive attitude and peaceful demeanor must have worked!
I weigh myself at home, and I am up to 162. This is light for my typical weight, but I am satisfied, especially in light of my eating struggles. I try some cream of mushroom soup again (even with some chunks in it). Everything goes well until I reach the end of the bowl, when I start coughing it back up.
Part 103 Taxes, dentists and more pirates
We must finally complete the annual taxes that loom over our heads, and we drop the papers with good riddance to the CPA’s office. Mind you, if I were expecting a refund they would have been cheerfully handed off as soon as I could dash through the forms.
We take a family drive to the dentist for spring teeth cleaning. Bree has been a motor mouth all the way, enough to prompt Becah to offer her five dollars if Bree can remain quiet for the remainder of the drive. She struggles admirably but is unable to collect the money. After the dentist, I am inundated with questions and comments from the kids related to “Pirates of the Caribbean” (like, “who is Johnny Depp’s real father? Is it Keith Richards?”). Brooke remarks that she would like to meet Jack Sparrow if he were a real person.
Bree and I return to the lumpy practice field for softball the following day. She is not batting as well today, probably fatigued from going swimming earlier in the day. We watch “Pirates” (number three) that night until late in the evening.
Brooke awakes the next morning instantly asking to watch “Pirates” again. I indulge her for a while before we head to the movie theater for “Mars Needs Moms”, a mediocre movie and one of the few we have gone to lately that was less than exciting. After the movie we head to the school park before returning home to watch the only movie anyone seems interested in these days. I sip on chocolate milk while watching, with some success, and raise my cup. “Aye, matey!”
Part 104 Meet the new hospital, and “here’s a cocktail on us”
March 23 begins with a mass of cars crawling on the Beltway as Becah and I try to reach the medical center for my esophageal scope and biopsy. We arrive at the hospital (my first procedure at this facility) at 9:15 as directed. I am quickly admitted, in my gown, seated on the bed, and pricked for a blood specimen. Then we wait. And wait. And wait. A television program is highlighting the life of Elizabeth Taylor, who died this morning. The surgery was set for 11:00, but they are running late. Friends Francis and Izzy drop in – Izzy has been battling medical demons for a few years now and is a regular at hospitals. A lady from church also comes by to offer a prayer.
Between three and four in the afternoon they wheel me into the operating room, where I wait some more in a row of beds with men and women also anticipating operations. A man nearby is given a “margarita cocktail” to relax and prepare him. I ask his doctor for one also as he passes by my bed. He pauses, scribbles in my chart, and walks on. A nurse comes by and injects a little Versed in my tube. I feel a slight buzz. A bit later they flush my tube and inject some more of the drug. By 6:00, when the procedure finally takes place, I am already out.
We come home around 9:00. The kids are entertaining the sitters (CC and GG) with stories and songs. Bree received a gold sticker from school that day for her excellent behavior. This doesn’t surprise me, since she shines in conduct at school while she would have extreme difficulty receiving stickers for home behavior.
Despite the ridiculous wait time at the hospital, I am pleased. The procedure went well, and every staff member, from the first aide Lynn, who wheeled me in, to the last man Mike, who personally guided me to my car, was great.
Bree’s first softball game is rained out (a disappointment as great for me as it is for her) on Saturday. The Sea Monkeys will have to wait a week until they can show what they have learned. I have finished a book called “The Traveler’s Gift” and start “Wherever You Go, There You Are”, back on my nonfiction, philosophy readings.
Becah struggles the next morning with bad allergies, a factor that probably contributes to another of our verbal uproars. A beautiful day evolves outside, though, one so glorious that it will quell even our bad behavior. After watching everyone eat lunch at a restaurant and a quick stop at the bookstore, we go to enjoy some moments at nearby Cypress Creek park. Leaving, we stop at a railroad crossing as a train whizzes by. This is a first for the kids. Bree is excited, but Brooke is fearful. A rolling metaphor for how one can react to the uncontrollable forces in life. After a long wait, we continue to the store and buy some softballs, which we throw and hit at the school park after we get home.
I come home from work next day for lunch, but am unsuccessful with the yoghurt. My food selection choices are now whittled down to milk and smooth ice cream. I try to cope with this. In the evening I nonetheless have a mellow feeling as I turn to a book for distraction (probably the pain pill I took for my hernia, again acting up, doesn’t hurt either). I am reading Thoreau’s “Walden”, which everyone in college read but I have never opened. Worthwhile sentiments but rather dry reading. I am still listening to Yes music and related bands, like Chris Squire’s “Conspiracy” CD. I have discovered the joys of downloading iTunes when Amazon occasionally lets me down.
The following evening I am reading to Bree before bedtime. She introduces me to a library book about Harriet Tubman, a female slave from Civil War times who escaped and rescued many people via the Underground Railroad. She made a new home in Philadelphia but returned multiple times, risking her life on each occasion, to the dangerous South to free others who were enslaved. After finishing the book a later night I conclude that she was a true hero that should probably have her own holiday. Undoubtedly fearful, she jumped on the train anyway.
Another train metaphor and another life lesson.
Part 101 Lost gems and tsunamis
One morning for the first time I cannot get hot chocolate down. I regret instantly the mornings I took for granted that it would always be on hand, tasty and helping warm me from the early chill. It is a gorgeous day, bracing initially, warming by noon. I drive to the south end school to work. Coming back I enjoy listening to Eric Clapton’s “Layla” CD, and realize that I have never really listened to the entire album. I have been an avid fan of music all my life and find that it is easy to put aside one album as you listen to another that has just been released. If the progression of tunes is rapid enough, over time some pieces get overlooked or forgotten.
For that matter, this is true of other life events. Gems abound, present but not attended to. Life is too abundant to capture and hold it all.
On the eleventh of March a huge tsunami - 8.9 on the scale – strikes Japan. Thirty feet tall waves blast the shoreline, which will gradually taper to six feet high off the beaches in California, upon which surfers will ride. An abundance of destruction, the devastation is hard to comprehend, even with the photos spread across TV screens.
Here in Houston it is another cool morning followed by warm afternoon. I am able to drink the hot chocolate today and eat ice cream tonight. I am trying to hold on to these simple pleasures and not let them escape.
Part 102 Peace is every step
March 12, Saturday begins the first day of spring break holidays, and the weather has the pleasant variety of temperatures as have most of the days this month. Bree’s first softball outing results in an 11-7 loss, but they play well and everyone has fun. I pitch the entire game. Bree hit the ball twice when at bat, getting tagged out once and being safe at first another time. Our games are at the high school girls’ softball field, but after our practices on the bumpy elementary grounds, we might as well be at a manicured major league stadium.
After the game, Becah drives everyone but me for a few days in Nederland to visit the relatives. I watch the “Yes: Live at the House of Blues” DVD, as usual overwhelmed at their greatness. After this, I wash the pollen off my car that builds in layers daily. I manage to eat with no problems several Hershey kisses and two bowls of cream of mushroom soup. I am amazed, and celebrate with my dog Brett as we go on a walk to the school.
Monday I go for another periodic PET scan, driving through this morning’s drizzle. In the afternoon I must drive to the medical center to meet with Dr. Bl-’s staff to sign consent for the scope and biopsy that she requires before any surgery is done. Her office is in a hospital, but across the way from the hospital where I have been previously treated. I meet with Allison, the physician’s assistant, after sitting longer than I care to in the waiting room, then get annoyed at having to go to another floor and meet with a nurse to review anesthesiology requirements, have yet again more vital signs taken, and mostly just fill out forms. I wait an additional hour for the honor of doing this. I decide to practice the words of “Thich” (taken from his book that I hold in my hands, “Peace Is Every Step”) and not be upset at any of life’s moments. The nurse who finally arrives is a pleasant Oriental lady who discusses yoga with me, and assures me that she is very qualified and the hospital is an excellent facility.
After I am finished, I drive home at 5:20, usually a guaranteed recipe for a grueling time in a downtown Houston traffic jam. But on this day, where the weather has changed, cooler now and with blue skies overhead, there is no traffic jam. My positive attitude and peaceful demeanor must have worked!
I weigh myself at home, and I am up to 162. This is light for my typical weight, but I am satisfied, especially in light of my eating struggles. I try some cream of mushroom soup again (even with some chunks in it). Everything goes well until I reach the end of the bowl, when I start coughing it back up.
Part 103 Taxes, dentists and more pirates
We must finally complete the annual taxes that loom over our heads, and we drop the papers with good riddance to the CPA’s office. Mind you, if I were expecting a refund they would have been cheerfully handed off as soon as I could dash through the forms.
We take a family drive to the dentist for spring teeth cleaning. Bree has been a motor mouth all the way, enough to prompt Becah to offer her five dollars if Bree can remain quiet for the remainder of the drive. She struggles admirably but is unable to collect the money. After the dentist, I am inundated with questions and comments from the kids related to “Pirates of the Caribbean” (like, “who is Johnny Depp’s real father? Is it Keith Richards?”). Brooke remarks that she would like to meet Jack Sparrow if he were a real person.
Bree and I return to the lumpy practice field for softball the following day. She is not batting as well today, probably fatigued from going swimming earlier in the day. We watch “Pirates” (number three) that night until late in the evening.
Brooke awakes the next morning instantly asking to watch “Pirates” again. I indulge her for a while before we head to the movie theater for “Mars Needs Moms”, a mediocre movie and one of the few we have gone to lately that was less than exciting. After the movie we head to the school park before returning home to watch the only movie anyone seems interested in these days. I sip on chocolate milk while watching, with some success, and raise my cup. “Aye, matey!”
Part 104 Meet the new hospital, and “here’s a cocktail on us”
March 23 begins with a mass of cars crawling on the Beltway as Becah and I try to reach the medical center for my esophageal scope and biopsy. We arrive at the hospital (my first procedure at this facility) at 9:15 as directed. I am quickly admitted, in my gown, seated on the bed, and pricked for a blood specimen. Then we wait. And wait. And wait. A television program is highlighting the life of Elizabeth Taylor, who died this morning. The surgery was set for 11:00, but they are running late. Friends Francis and Izzy drop in – Izzy has been battling medical demons for a few years now and is a regular at hospitals. A lady from church also comes by to offer a prayer.
Between three and four in the afternoon they wheel me into the operating room, where I wait some more in a row of beds with men and women also anticipating operations. A man nearby is given a “margarita cocktail” to relax and prepare him. I ask his doctor for one also as he passes by my bed. He pauses, scribbles in my chart, and walks on. A nurse comes by and injects a little Versed in my tube. I feel a slight buzz. A bit later they flush my tube and inject some more of the drug. By 6:00, when the procedure finally takes place, I am already out.
We come home around 9:00. The kids are entertaining the sitters (CC and GG) with stories and songs. Bree received a gold sticker from school that day for her excellent behavior. This doesn’t surprise me, since she shines in conduct at school while she would have extreme difficulty receiving stickers for home behavior.
Despite the ridiculous wait time at the hospital, I am pleased. The procedure went well, and every staff member, from the first aide Lynn, who wheeled me in, to the last man Mike, who personally guided me to my car, was great.
Part 98 Winter eases its bite
Bree has started playing softball. I played a lot of sports as a kid, so I am delighted that she is interested. The league is dads’ pitch, so I volunteer. The only problem is that I have discovered another physical limitation – I am unable to get my glove over my left hand. We I finally succeed, I cannot close the glove to catch a thrown ball. So I must pitch and then catch the returned ball right handed. Fortunately, the kids don’t throw hard at this age, and the dads backing up the catcher observe my predicament and learn not to fire it back to me. The girls hit fairly well in general (I have practiced with Bree in our front yard), they can throw nicely at times (with varying accuracy), and occasionally they will catch the balls hit or thrown to them (although frequently the balls go through their legs or sail over their heads). No one else challenges me for the pitching position, so I continue.
I am on a musical biography kick, so I read Pattie Boyd’s entertaining book about George Harrison and Eric Clapton “Wonderful Tonight”, followed by “You Never Give Me Your Money”, a tale about the Beatles. I also watch a French film called “Girl on the Bridge”, about a suicidal woman who becomes a knife thrower’s assistant, which I find to be well made and interesting, if a bit warped.
Winter is drawing to a close, as it should be if we are starting baseball season. The days have been brisk and cold, although it may just be my continued perception of them as such since I have still not regained all my weight and strength. This winter has at least not been as oppressive as last year’s was, when I was battered by disease and treatments.
I still turn my collar up against the chill, but with a little less desperation these days.
Part 99 Redbuds
If not officially Spring, March 1 certainly is doing a remarkable impersonation. The day is cool and beautiful. Trees are filled with color, typified by the red buds in our back yard. I work a half day, then drive to the medical center for blood work, a CAT scan, and a meeting with the plastic surgeon who will work side by side with Dr. Bl- should I opt for surgery. He is congenial and talks for an hour about a surgical technique that he will use which I find fascinating if only it would be attempted on someone else. Despite the intensity of the procedure, I leave feeling more comfortable.
At choir practice we practice Haydn’s “Creation”, made more difficult since I’ve misplaced my glasses. Driving home, I shift to different musical pieces (Paul McCartney’s “Red Rose Speedway”) to relax. Reading classical music is a mental trip to the gym, and I need a break after the workout.
The following morning I reluctantly drive several miles to a school in the far south end of our district. I have been asked to fill in one day a week due to staff turnover which I am guessing has been in part a result of conflicts with the building principal. I and others have previously met with the principal to discuss services needed and have seen her in action. Her reputation was accurate. The day here is uneventful, though, and I have no subsequent problems with the lady. I practice softball later with Bree’s team, enjoying being active outside in the cool air. At home, I find that Brooke is in trouble for talking rudely to CC and GG. We are suspicious that the sassy dialogue comes straight from the mouths of certain characters from Disney and Nickelodeon teen shows that both kids have been drawn to lately.
I have another training Friday morning, presenting with my friends Brian and Jason. Brian and I have been doing this for a few years now, training teachers and other school staff on how to effectively interact with and, as a last result and when they are a danger to self or others, how to physically restrain out-of-control youths, and we are the proverbial well-oiled machine as co-presenters. Brian is from a small East Texas town, the youngest of 11 children. He drawls his words, has been observed more than once pinching dip under his tongue, and at first glance has redneck written all over. But he is sharp as can be and is a terrific speaker. He is surprisingly sensitive, and once drew tears from everyone seated in the pin-drop silent and largely female audience when he related his tale of how he was once a bad boy before he was redirected down the path of salvation by a teacher who refused to give up on him (at its closing, I rolled my eyes and characterized it as truly an “Oprah moment”). We have been described as being the “Blue Collar” team, a name derived from the former TV Show featuring the more sophisticated (now there’s an oxymoron) Jeff Foxworthy and the card-carrying redneck Larry the Cable Guy (Brian asked me once which one he was, my response being to simply stare at him).
Jason is a much younger, fresh-out-of-college looking blonde haired, stocky person that Brian describes as being a “man mountain”. He is a P.E. coach and former football player who would be intimidating if not for his perpetual grin and good-natured personality. He has recently been added to our small group of trainers, and it is always nice when he is around. In a profession lopsided with females it is a pleasure to be able to hang out with guys and talk sports and other manly things, which we do in asides or during breaks in the presentations.
I drive home listening to a favorite eighties band, Duran Duran and rest a little before my occupational therapy session. I am still attending these, but feel as if I am on a plateau in my left hand fine motor development, and the sessions are feeling more perfunctory. Brookie greets me when I arrive back home with a big hug. Spontaneous hugs from my children continue to be some of the great joys in my life. Becah pulls me aside later and tells me she talked to her teacher earlier today about Brooke’s acting out behavior at home lately. Her teacher described Brooke as being very smart. She has also observed some “drama” going on among some of her preschool class girls, including Brooke. She has no real concerns about her behavior, though.
I eat cheddar soup for dinner, excluding the usual broccoli, since the basil in last night’s tomato soup got stuck. The no-filler smooth soup goes down, but I experience my first ice cream failure later when the rocky road doesn’t work.
Bree has started playing softball. I played a lot of sports as a kid, so I am delighted that she is interested. The league is dads’ pitch, so I volunteer. The only problem is that I have discovered another physical limitation – I am unable to get my glove over my left hand. We I finally succeed, I cannot close the glove to catch a thrown ball. So I must pitch and then catch the returned ball right handed. Fortunately, the kids don’t throw hard at this age, and the dads backing up the catcher observe my predicament and learn not to fire it back to me. The girls hit fairly well in general (I have practiced with Bree in our front yard), they can throw nicely at times (with varying accuracy), and occasionally they will catch the balls hit or thrown to them (although frequently the balls go through their legs or sail over their heads). No one else challenges me for the pitching position, so I continue.
I am on a musical biography kick, so I read Pattie Boyd’s entertaining book about George Harrison and Eric Clapton “Wonderful Tonight”, followed by “You Never Give Me Your Money”, a tale about the Beatles. I also watch a French film called “Girl on the Bridge”, about a suicidal woman who becomes a knife thrower’s assistant, which I find to be well made and interesting, if a bit warped.
Winter is drawing to a close, as it should be if we are starting baseball season. The days have been brisk and cold, although it may just be my continued perception of them as such since I have still not regained all my weight and strength. This winter has at least not been as oppressive as last year’s was, when I was battered by disease and treatments.
I still turn my collar up against the chill, but with a little less desperation these days.
Part 99 Redbuds
If not officially Spring, March 1 certainly is doing a remarkable impersonation. The day is cool and beautiful. Trees are filled with color, typified by the red buds in our back yard. I work a half day, then drive to the medical center for blood work, a CAT scan, and a meeting with the plastic surgeon who will work side by side with Dr. Bl- should I opt for surgery. He is congenial and talks for an hour about a surgical technique that he will use which I find fascinating if only it would be attempted on someone else. Despite the intensity of the procedure, I leave feeling more comfortable.
At choir practice we practice Haydn’s “Creation”, made more difficult since I’ve misplaced my glasses. Driving home, I shift to different musical pieces (Paul McCartney’s “Red Rose Speedway”) to relax. Reading classical music is a mental trip to the gym, and I need a break after the workout.
The following morning I reluctantly drive several miles to a school in the far south end of our district. I have been asked to fill in one day a week due to staff turnover which I am guessing has been in part a result of conflicts with the building principal. I and others have previously met with the principal to discuss services needed and have seen her in action. Her reputation was accurate. The day here is uneventful, though, and I have no subsequent problems with the lady. I practice softball later with Bree’s team, enjoying being active outside in the cool air. At home, I find that Brooke is in trouble for talking rudely to CC and GG. We are suspicious that the sassy dialogue comes straight from the mouths of certain characters from Disney and Nickelodeon teen shows that both kids have been drawn to lately.
I have another training Friday morning, presenting with my friends Brian and Jason. Brian and I have been doing this for a few years now, training teachers and other school staff on how to effectively interact with and, as a last result and when they are a danger to self or others, how to physically restrain out-of-control youths, and we are the proverbial well-oiled machine as co-presenters. Brian is from a small East Texas town, the youngest of 11 children. He drawls his words, has been observed more than once pinching dip under his tongue, and at first glance has redneck written all over. But he is sharp as can be and is a terrific speaker. He is surprisingly sensitive, and once drew tears from everyone seated in the pin-drop silent and largely female audience when he related his tale of how he was once a bad boy before he was redirected down the path of salvation by a teacher who refused to give up on him (at its closing, I rolled my eyes and characterized it as truly an “Oprah moment”). We have been described as being the “Blue Collar” team, a name derived from the former TV Show featuring the more sophisticated (now there’s an oxymoron) Jeff Foxworthy and the card-carrying redneck Larry the Cable Guy (Brian asked me once which one he was, my response being to simply stare at him).
Jason is a much younger, fresh-out-of-college looking blonde haired, stocky person that Brian describes as being a “man mountain”. He is a P.E. coach and former football player who would be intimidating if not for his perpetual grin and good-natured personality. He has recently been added to our small group of trainers, and it is always nice when he is around. In a profession lopsided with females it is a pleasure to be able to hang out with guys and talk sports and other manly things, which we do in asides or during breaks in the presentations.
I drive home listening to a favorite eighties band, Duran Duran and rest a little before my occupational therapy session. I am still attending these, but feel as if I am on a plateau in my left hand fine motor development, and the sessions are feeling more perfunctory. Brookie greets me when I arrive back home with a big hug. Spontaneous hugs from my children continue to be some of the great joys in my life. Becah pulls me aside later and tells me she talked to her teacher earlier today about Brooke’s acting out behavior at home lately. Her teacher described Brooke as being very smart. She has also observed some “drama” going on among some of her preschool class girls, including Brooke. She has no real concerns about her behavior, though.
I eat cheddar soup for dinner, excluding the usual broccoli, since the basil in last night’s tomato soup got stuck. The no-filler smooth soup goes down, but I experience my first ice cream failure later when the rocky road doesn’t work.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Part 96 Responsibilities, write-offs, and Captain Jack Sparrow
I am reflecting on my meeting with Dr. Bl-. I also think about the barium swallow test that I took at the center after I met with her. The physician present at that study observed that the barium solution was going down poorly (despite that fact, the yoghurt and chocolate milk for lunch slid down fine). I also reflect on the separate test required to assess the strength of my neck arteries and to determine if they would withstand the stress of surgery. I think of these as I review some of the medical costs I have accrued. The occupational therapy charges alone run over an appalling $600 per session. I know that I will be responsible for only a portion of these, and that a good bit will be written off by the hospital, but still…
This time of year is unsettling to me because I am now financially responsible for more of these medical bills that will be arriving in my mailbox. At the end of the previous year, I could at least be assured that no matter how many doctor meetings and tests and procedures I incurred, I had maxed out of my out-of-pocket costs. But, as they say, that was then, and this is now.
Brookie, my movie watching pal, sits on the couch with me as we again watch “Pirates of the Caribbean” (we alternate between the first and third installments). She is fascinated with the Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner characters, but is totally enthralled by Captain Jack Sparrow. Johnny Depp is her new hero. The next day, while playing upstairs in the game room (probably “pirates”) she falls and hurts her wrist. She is tearful, but there does not appear to be any swelling, and she rebounds. Only after three days do we realize that she has continued to feel periodic discomfort, and a doctor visit confirms that it is broken.
So we spend less time playing recklessly, and more time being responsible, watching Captain Jack Sparrow.
Part 97 Leftovers
I occasionally these days walk over and pick up my guitar from its stand, hoping this time the fingers on my left hand will magically bend in place to form the chords and I can again play the instrument. I recently had a dream in which I could, just like before. But this time, as always now, I can’t make them bend right.
I play around on and compose on the keyboard too. I am able to very deliberately form some simple chords, but transitioning from chord to chord is laborious, and I am frustrated in this endeavor also.
My rhythmic abilities using the left hand have also been compromised. I played drums before any other instrument. I have a habit of continuing to play them, on podiums when I am speaking, on kitchen tables, and (my favorite) on steering wheels (I have joked that I buy a car based on the tone of its steering wheel). The latter is a particularly disturbing habit if you are a passenger in my car or a driver on the road when I am “performing”!
Other limitations face me as a result of the anesthesia mishap. Despite the occupational therapy sessions and the renewed arm and hand strength on my left side, I find my dexterity in that hand to be quite lacking. I am unable to tie a necktie (some would call this a blessing). I have made adjustments with my work attire, and there appear to be no problems with that. Of more concern, though, is my ability to use only my right hand to type on the computer. The high school typing class that I took has paid off enormously over the years – I have always been fast and accurate on the computer. But now I plod along, reaching my right hand fingers far across the board as I hit the shift key to capitalize letters. I can assist on some operations with my left hand, but try as I may I cannot make the left hand fingers line up with the correct keys.
Opening jars can be problematic. As well as other cooking requirements, like scraping carrots or pealing other vegetables. I like to cook, so these tasks are necessary to complete if I am to feed the family. I find that I call to Becah for assistance in doing these simple things, much to my dismay. Or I attempt them myself, with resulting drops and spills and inappropriate language.
Sometimes I try hard to rise above these limitations. Other times I simply give up.
I am reflecting on my meeting with Dr. Bl-. I also think about the barium swallow test that I took at the center after I met with her. The physician present at that study observed that the barium solution was going down poorly (despite that fact, the yoghurt and chocolate milk for lunch slid down fine). I also reflect on the separate test required to assess the strength of my neck arteries and to determine if they would withstand the stress of surgery. I think of these as I review some of the medical costs I have accrued. The occupational therapy charges alone run over an appalling $600 per session. I know that I will be responsible for only a portion of these, and that a good bit will be written off by the hospital, but still…
This time of year is unsettling to me because I am now financially responsible for more of these medical bills that will be arriving in my mailbox. At the end of the previous year, I could at least be assured that no matter how many doctor meetings and tests and procedures I incurred, I had maxed out of my out-of-pocket costs. But, as they say, that was then, and this is now.
Brookie, my movie watching pal, sits on the couch with me as we again watch “Pirates of the Caribbean” (we alternate between the first and third installments). She is fascinated with the Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner characters, but is totally enthralled by Captain Jack Sparrow. Johnny Depp is her new hero. The next day, while playing upstairs in the game room (probably “pirates”) she falls and hurts her wrist. She is tearful, but there does not appear to be any swelling, and she rebounds. Only after three days do we realize that she has continued to feel periodic discomfort, and a doctor visit confirms that it is broken.
So we spend less time playing recklessly, and more time being responsible, watching Captain Jack Sparrow.
Part 97 Leftovers
I occasionally these days walk over and pick up my guitar from its stand, hoping this time the fingers on my left hand will magically bend in place to form the chords and I can again play the instrument. I recently had a dream in which I could, just like before. But this time, as always now, I can’t make them bend right.
I play around on and compose on the keyboard too. I am able to very deliberately form some simple chords, but transitioning from chord to chord is laborious, and I am frustrated in this endeavor also.
My rhythmic abilities using the left hand have also been compromised. I played drums before any other instrument. I have a habit of continuing to play them, on podiums when I am speaking, on kitchen tables, and (my favorite) on steering wheels (I have joked that I buy a car based on the tone of its steering wheel). The latter is a particularly disturbing habit if you are a passenger in my car or a driver on the road when I am “performing”!
Other limitations face me as a result of the anesthesia mishap. Despite the occupational therapy sessions and the renewed arm and hand strength on my left side, I find my dexterity in that hand to be quite lacking. I am unable to tie a necktie (some would call this a blessing). I have made adjustments with my work attire, and there appear to be no problems with that. Of more concern, though, is my ability to use only my right hand to type on the computer. The high school typing class that I took has paid off enormously over the years – I have always been fast and accurate on the computer. But now I plod along, reaching my right hand fingers far across the board as I hit the shift key to capitalize letters. I can assist on some operations with my left hand, but try as I may I cannot make the left hand fingers line up with the correct keys.
Opening jars can be problematic. As well as other cooking requirements, like scraping carrots or pealing other vegetables. I like to cook, so these tasks are necessary to complete if I am to feed the family. I find that I call to Becah for assistance in doing these simple things, much to my dismay. Or I attempt them myself, with resulting drops and spills and inappropriate language.
Sometimes I try hard to rise above these limitations. Other times I simply give up.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Part 95 The young specialist and the desperate man
Valentine’s Day has a special poignancy this year due to all we have been through, and continue to experience. I give Becah sleep shirts and lotions from Victoria’s Secret and we have lunch out. The family enjoys the afternoon down the street at the park. These idyllic moments precede a big meeting tomorrow with Dr. Bl-, the esophageal specialist who will discuss surgical options with me. She comes with a glowing endorsement from Dr. Ra-, who it seems has come to the end of the line in his efforts to pull my esophagus wider. What I will require is something more dramatic.
She is surprisingly young looking, and attractive, with shoulder length auburn hair and pearls around her neck. Dr. Bl- enters the room well after her assistant, Allison, an even younger looking lady, has met with us an obtained the usual facts of the case. Where are all the old, crusty-looking, chiseled veterans when you need them! How can I take these people seriously? Dr. Bl- quickly dispenses with such thoughts with her sharp, witty, and egghead-like banter. She professionally cuts to the chase, spinning my head with unsettling descriptions of esophageal reconstruction possibilities. Unfortunately for me, none of them are pleasant. They require some form of carving on at least the now shriveled up section of my esophagus. One involves pulling up part of my intestine high up into my chest to form a new place through which food can flow. Dr. Bl- meets my borderline pessimistic and sarcastic observations and unreasonable requests with smiles, ignoring some of what I say and raising me with some of her own wry comments. (“Can’t we wait until the stricture just heals?”. “Yes, if you don’t want to eat again.”).
One option sounds pretty experimental to me, involving strange foldings of skin and organs in ways that I’m fairly sure were never intended to be. The procedure would be done using laser equipment monitored on a video screen. The most frightening aspect of all is the requirement that one of my lungs be deflated to make room for the probing inside me. Regardless of what she says after this, it never quite registers. Collapsed lung?! It all sounds desperate. It is. She assures me that she has experience in all of the proposed methods, and is confident we will be successful. A surgery could take six to seven hours to complete, with numerous risks. I am already uneasy about the prospect of being under anesthesia for that long. But possible pneumonia? I blank out from hearing about the many other possible malfunctions. Fortunately Becah is with me to take notes and ask about the particulars. Brooke has also come along, squirming in her seat. But she is calmed and entertained when Dr. Bl- suddenly whips out a pen and paper and sketches, then hands to her a picture of the cartoon character Garfield. After this interlude, the discussion continues. After about 30 minutes we walk out of the office, and I find I am in no hurry to make any decisions or pick any one of these undesirable paths to walk.
This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. Why am I being punished so long? What did I do? Have I been such a bad person in this life? Or are the reincarnationists right, and I have committed crimes in a previous life. Will this ever end? Where is my relief? And so forth…
I do a background check on Dr. Bl- , to whom Becah has taken an instant liking. She graduated from prestigious universities, has trained extensively, and has practiced for years. She specializes in thoracic surgery, has taught, and does research, participating in experimental treatment trials. Dr. Bl- has even received a “Compassionate Doctor Award” from high ratings received in all areas related to her practice (from physician skills to bedside manner). I would certainly recommend her to anyone else but me.
I am still holding out for an alternative to going under the knife. .
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Part 94 Wonderland
My entire world can’t be built around food. I will read more books. I finish “King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table” and learn about bravery in the face of dragons and other dangers. I read a book that I vaguely remember from college – “Winesburg Ohio”, a fascinating study of alienation in a small town. This reminds me of how alienated I currently am from everyone else. Thich Nhat Hanh’s “Miracle of Mindfulness” calls me to focus on the present moment and not live in the past or ruminate about the future.
I also listen to music. Driving in my car through the icy days I listen to Yes’ “Magnification” CD, a great record that I somehow overlooked when it came out several years ago. I reach back further with a solo album by Yes bassist Chris Squire, and find that, along with most music in Yes’ repertoire, I am emotionally and spiritually elevated.
On a Friday night I accompany my oldest daughter Breanna to a father-daughter dance at a suburban country club. The theme is “Alice and Wonderland”, and we watch a parade of characters stroll by, including, of course, Alice, along with the Mad Hatter, the Red Queen, and a very tall flower (a man walking on stilts). I go to the party with mixed feelings. After all, a building filled with screaming little girls, lots of food I cannot eat, and no beer to drink to ease the situation…But it is an opportunity to get closer to my daughter and be a “present” dad. Besides, the theme represents my absolute favorite book. And to top it off, there is not a DJ but a live band! And they are good! Most of the time Bree is off running around, or on the dance floor with a group of friends. But I actually get her to almost dance with me on a special father-daughter number. Suddenly we realize she has lost her pearl necklace. (Every Christmas my mother gives each of my daughters pearls to add to a chain, so this necklace is special to Bree). She panics and sobs serious tears. We run around, checking the dance floor, the front desk, everywhere. We get the lead singer of the band to make an announcement. We try to make the best of this, while I worry that someone will go home with a special prize tonight. But the Mad Hatter announces that he found the necklace, and Alice herself clasps it around Breanna’s neck. I wonder if there is some symbolism to all this, but am unable to decipher it if there is.
Bree informs me the following evening that the night is her favorite time because it allows you to dream. I am reminded that as a child I often found solace in the evening for exactly the same reason, and that I was able to temporarily escape many an uncomfortable feeling, if only briefly, through dreams and the generosity of the night.
My entire world can’t be built around food. I will read more books. I finish “King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table” and learn about bravery in the face of dragons and other dangers. I read a book that I vaguely remember from college – “Winesburg Ohio”, a fascinating study of alienation in a small town. This reminds me of how alienated I currently am from everyone else. Thich Nhat Hanh’s “Miracle of Mindfulness” calls me to focus on the present moment and not live in the past or ruminate about the future.
I also listen to music. Driving in my car through the icy days I listen to Yes’ “Magnification” CD, a great record that I somehow overlooked when it came out several years ago. I reach back further with a solo album by Yes bassist Chris Squire, and find that, along with most music in Yes’ repertoire, I am emotionally and spiritually elevated.
On a Friday night I accompany my oldest daughter Breanna to a father-daughter dance at a suburban country club. The theme is “Alice and Wonderland”, and we watch a parade of characters stroll by, including, of course, Alice, along with the Mad Hatter, the Red Queen, and a very tall flower (a man walking on stilts). I go to the party with mixed feelings. After all, a building filled with screaming little girls, lots of food I cannot eat, and no beer to drink to ease the situation…But it is an opportunity to get closer to my daughter and be a “present” dad. Besides, the theme represents my absolute favorite book. And to top it off, there is not a DJ but a live band! And they are good! Most of the time Bree is off running around, or on the dance floor with a group of friends. But I actually get her to almost dance with me on a special father-daughter number. Suddenly we realize she has lost her pearl necklace. (Every Christmas my mother gives each of my daughters pearls to add to a chain, so this necklace is special to Bree). She panics and sobs serious tears. We run around, checking the dance floor, the front desk, everywhere. We get the lead singer of the band to make an announcement. We try to make the best of this, while I worry that someone will go home with a special prize tonight. But the Mad Hatter announces that he found the necklace, and Alice herself clasps it around Breanna’s neck. I wonder if there is some symbolism to all this, but am unable to decipher it if there is.
Bree informs me the following evening that the night is her favorite time because it allows you to dream. I am reminded that as a child I often found solace in the evening for exactly the same reason, and that I was able to temporarily escape many an uncomfortable feeling, if only briefly, through dreams and the generosity of the night.
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