Are You Sure Hank Done it This Way?

My phone started playing “Where the Streets Have No Name” at 4:15 this morning, my signal it was time to get up as I was supposed to be at the surgery center at 5:30. I’d put the surgery off a month so I could go to Hawaii with my lady bugs and their long suffering mom (still the finest woman I know).  I also needed to go to Kansas City on business last week, so I was able to move my surgery to this one. 

A couple months ago I noted my genitals seemed to be growing. I wished my dad were still around so I could brag. I didn’t even have a brother I could call. I mean I could have called my step brothers John and Steve, but we didn’t grow up together so it would have been weird. I would have texted my dad a picture and told him his wish came true. I’d finally grown a pair. 

At first I wasn’t terribly concerned. It wasn’t painful. Seemed regular in shape, and there was no pain on urination. But it didn’t go away and  the scrotal swelling got larger and became more clearly unilateral. I finally decided I needed to do something. So I decided I would ignore it. I was like the Republican Party: I *knew* something was wrong. I just wasn’t going to admit it publicly. 

I went along my merry way for a month or so. Out of sight out of mind. I wear shorts all summer so it wasn’t like wearing jeans was an issue. But finally the summer heat coupled with two space occupying masses led to rashes in places you can’t easily scratch, unless you play Major League Baseball. That’s one thing you don’t see football players doing. Scratching their balls. They may kneel for the Anthem, but they don’t scratch their balls. 

My primary care clinic is usually staffed by a nurse practitioner and, frankly, she’s not very good. In fairness, most physicians these days are lousy at physical exams. It’s like they’re afraid they’ll catch cooties. The last good physical I had was 20 years ago in New Hampshire. That sonofabitch checked your ass out from head to toe, including, ahem, your ass. These days they will take your TPR, ask you what hurts then prescribe an appropriate drug. 

Now the NP who staffs my primary care clinic is nice enough and I am sure she’s a Fine American, but I wasn’t going to see her for my jewels. 

Luckily, the same clinic has an office in Anthem, AZ that is generally staffed by two physicians. Male physicians. I generally have no trouble disrobing in front of women and since my youngest is pre med in college it would be hypocritical of me to prefer to see a male provider. 

I’m a hypocrite. 

I got to Anthem to be the first patient in the door when they opened only to find that the male MD was not seeing walk ins.  Only the decidedly female NP. Diana – I’m not making this up – Bone. 

Shit. Serves me right. 

I saw Diana who was and IS delightful and professional. She listened to my history, my heart, and lungs. And promptly referred Waylon and Willie for an ultrasound. Stat. I never even disrobed, but at least she was taking it seriously. Luckily, there was a SimonMed radiology right next door so I walked over with my orders. My luck ran out quickly, however, as they couldn’t see them until 2:30 that afternoon. I now had the day to contemplate cold lube being slathered all over The Boys. I envisioned them keeping it in the fridge next to the gynecological equipment. 

As it happened SimonMed was very civilized. They kept the jelly in a warmer. I could have kissed her. Meaning the ultrasound tech. I’m going to send her fudge at Christmas. 

The tech was not only a great humanitarian, she also was kind enough to tell me it just looked like fluid. No mass. I already had self diagnosed a hydrocele and I was right. 

Diana Bone (I just have to keep saying her name. I’m twelve) referred me to a urologist who saw me the following week. He confirmed the hydrocele and told me I would need surgery to remove the fluid and the tissue from whence it originated. Thankfully this would not involve removing Waylon. He would remain to sing “Are You Sure Hank Done it This Way?”  We scheduled the surgery for this morning, four weeks from that date. 

Which brings us up to “Where the Streets Have No Name”, which in my opinion is U2’s best work. Sandy picked me up at 5 and had me down to the surgery center at 5:30. I checked in and after an appropriately long wait- this was a hospital after all- I was taken back to prep. Now came the time to put on those gowns that tie in the back. The ones where you might as well be naked. I mean for once I felt like Arnold Schwarzenegger: Hallo lahdy nuhrses. I ahm going to break through thiss wahll… but first I am going to show you mhy really lahrge testicles and flex my nipples…” 

Lisa was my prep nurse and got my IV in on one stick. My BP was elevated, befitting considering what I was having done. The anesthesiologist came in and discussed all the good party drugs I was going to have. She asked me a shitload of questions about drugs and alcohol and such. Some of which I even answered truthfully. 

It was time. 

I had been worried whether they were going to shave me in the prep room. I have a friend who had a vasectomy and he had a 23 year old nursing assistant shave his junk before surgery. Oh, hell no. I have a daughter that age. I may be many things. Creepy isn’t one of them.  

As it happened, I needn’t have worried. We wheeled back to OR #4. A few puffs of sevoflurane later and I was out.  I suppose that’s when they gave me the porn star manscaping. Not for all the good it’ll do. I have a penrose drain sticking out of me. Not sexy, not to mention uncomfortable. 

In any event, next thing I know I’m in recovery wearing a jock strap stuffed with gauze. I have my naked robe on and I’m in bed drinking water. How I went from general surgical anesthesia to wide awake drinking and what happened in between I’ll never know. Or really care. I’ve always dreamed of being naked in a room full of women, my genitalia the center of attention. This was *not* what I had in mind. Shows God has a sense of humor. 

Thanks to Livia, I’m home now. Sitting on my balcony enjoying some liquid and inhaled analgesic. The doctor prescribed some Narco, but I poorly tolerate opiates (I puke like a college freshman on dollar beer night) so I am using my doctorly training and have initiated my own patient controlled analgesic plan. I hope to be back on my feet in a couple days. Right now, so long as I sit like John Wayne on a horse, I’m not too painful. If I move at all, however, I feel like my nuts were hit by a baseball. 

So there’s my story, all of it twue. For a while I was “gifted”, like Clevon Little in Blazing Saddles. Now I’m back to being your average middle aged white guy. It’s ok. I gotta be me. 

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Easter

On a Mesa overlooking the town of Sedona stands a cross erected some years ago by the Knights of Columbus. It’s where my family and I, along with my mother in law, would gather every Easter morning at sunrise; one year standing in 4” of snow, for the ecumenical service.

Religious rituals, especially in places of natural beauty, connect us to another place, traveling there at least in our minds. Easter in Sedona was always a deeply spiritual experience, as the natural beauty pointed to an intelligent and creative designer and the holiday pointed to that Being’s desire to be in fellowship with us.

A lifetime of education and experience haven’t dimmed my faith in the truth of Easter although it perhaps has changed my interpretation thereof. If anything, knowing the Earth is billions of years old and the universe is even older and expanding increases the wonder of it all.

The idea that God touched humanity in the person of Jesus resonates with me. Not because I worry God will send me to hell without a swamp cooler, but because I think Jesus is what God looks like, only maybe a little dustier. Jesus spent his time with the lonely, the sick, the poor and depressed. Common people. People like me.

I don’t think God attends too many rich churches, unless maybe there’s a really good band. Jesus said it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for the rich to enter the kingdom of heaven. I finally think I have figured out what that means. It’s not that God doesn’t like rich people. In fact wealth can be used for great good. But when it comes to knowing God too many rich don’t think they need Him. They are self-sufficient, at best paying lip service to religion.

Easter tells us the way of Love is to empty ourselves freely and to store up treasures in heaven. In giving we receive the greater gift. Easter teaches us that in the midst of despair there is hope, out of death comes life. Out of law comes grace. It’s a good thing too, because I need lots of grace. We all do, but I am richer for knowing it.

Easter is the bookend to Christmas. It is what gives Christmas its meaning. Without Easter, Christmas is just trees and presents. With Easter, Christmas becomes a celebration of one kingdom touching another.

Jesus shows us how to live. He never taught a magic incantation to protect us from hell. He never taught eternal torment or that God says, “love me or else”. He did say, “follow me”.

This Easter I contemplate what it means to follow Jesus in a world that’s broken and clearly needs his example. I see how I fall short again and again but also, I can see the grace extended to me and how I can extend it to others. This is the message of Easter: grace extended to us that we are to extend to others.

I won’t be in Sedona this Easter morning. I’ll be in a church with my kids renewing a faith that’s tried and tested and evolving. I’ll be renewed and strengthened by the familiar refrains and a story I know by heart. I’ll hold onto my faith amidst my doubts and recall that even Jesus was weary and weak and required restoration at times. In that truth I will be restored once again.

Wishing you a happy Easter.

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Lessons from a hummingbird

The male Anna’s hummingbird flitted about the delicate branches of the creosote bush outside my office window, eating all-but-invisible insects as it went. The iridescent purple of its chin and cap gave my eyes a target to follow as it darted this way and that, its movement reminding me of how eyewitnesses describe UFOs; hovering then taking off at an amazing rate of speed then stopping and starting at will in all three dimensions. The diminutive bird would occasionally light on a branch, sometimes grooming itself. At rest it’s possible to appreciate their beauty. In motion you appreciate their athleticism. It’s hard to believe that a bird whose weight is measured in grams is phylogenetically related to dinosaurs.

Contemplating the hummingbird reminded me that life is so much darting about, punctuated with periods of rest. Yet only at rest can we appreciate the beauty, even in ourselves, much less the world around us. We flit from one thing to another, often moving in three dimensions at concussive speeds. We live our lives on the interstate, occasionally stopping at a rest area to pee or at a fast food joint, because to relax and savor good food would take too much time.

In contrast, the ancients named the constellations and stars and developed elaborate myths surrounding them because, let’s face it, there wasn’t anything else to do. They had no place else to be. They couldn’t be in a hurry, there was no place to go and the only reason to rush was if something was chasing you. Like a sabretooth tiger, for instance. This gave them time to develop philosophy, religion, and mathematics, to name a few. When the ancients decided it was time to go someplace, odds were that someone was already there, which led them to develop weapons and war. The ancients weren’t perfect. We’ve only perfected what our ancestors began.

Modern life is best lived on the back roads, where rut, curve, and cliff require slow speed and attention to detail. It’s best lived holding the hand of the one riding shotgun. It’s best lived in the slow lane and enjoyed away from the freeway. Even in the city, walking is often the best mode of travel and, yet again, walking hand in hand with one’s love is the preferred method. At least for me.

Sometimes speed is a necessary evil. That’s a fact of modern life and I am not ready to trade Southwest Airlines for a Wells Fargo Stage. But life cannot be lived at speed. It cannot be savored, it can only be tolerated and then for only so long. If we don’t rest, we burn out. We die. That is true emotionally and physically. And also, I believe, spiritually.

The gospels tell us that Jesus regularly went away alone to “pray”. Sometimes all night. I’m not certain, but I doubt our Western mentality captures ancient Eastern “prayer” very well. It was likely a time of spiritual rest and meditation for Jesus and I think we should follow his example and make prayer a time of rest and restoration, not of making requests and trying to figure out how to manipulate God into changing His mind. I no longer believe that prayer changes God, but I fervently believe it changes us.

Living life to its fullest means taking the time to slow down. It means being able to rest on our own branch to appreciate and savor the time we are given, none of which is promised to us.  It means making time to stop and watch the hummingbird and listen to it speak.

 

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Death and Teens

A friend of mine asked me yesterday whether I worried about Lindsey being safe in her high school. I said, “no”. Truth be told, I am much more worried about her safety driving to and from school where several hundred hormone-impaired teens drive weapons of mass destruction. They also listen to some really shitty music. Loudly.

Not that a lot of our music was much better. I’m a big fan of Jimi Hendrix, but if you listen to his music through some good headphones (I have a pair of Bose), you’ll note that he flubs a pretty high percentage of his lyrics, mostly because he was high AF when he recorded them.

But back to teen safety.

Yesterday – Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s Day – occurred another mass shooting at a public school. By all accounts the shooter, a 19 year old male who had been expelled from the school, was a troubled young man. Both of his adopted parents were deceased. He had a history of violence against animals and people. In retrospect, acquaintances say they aren’t surprised he perpetrated this heinous act.

The post-shooting cacophony of partisan rhetoric was as predictable as it was loud. Progressives clamored for more gun control. Conservatives became very religious and offered thoughts and prayers for the victims and their families. Little was said about mental healthcare reform. If anything.

Let’s put this in perspective. According to the US Centers for Disease Control, the leading cause of teen death is motor vehicle collision, which accounts for more than 1/3 of all teen deaths. The next leading causes of death, however, are homicide (13%) and suicide (11%). Buried in the homicide statistics are startling racial disparities. Black teens are FIFTEEN TIMES as likely to be murdered than white teens; Hispanic teens more than six times. Factors such as gang violence and easy access to hand guns likely play a role in these statistics, but that’s not the main issue at hand.

To be clear, mass school shootings are a crazy small percentage of teen death. One is too many, but if we’re talking about resources to save lives then we should go where the bodies are: automobiles and, yes, guns, and finally mental healthcare.

Any kid can get a driver’s license and the required competence to gain it is quite minimal. All of our girls took a private driving course and the younger two an advanced defensive driving course. Half of new drivers will be involved in a collision within their first two years behind the wheel. Half. Graduates of the defensive driving course at Driving MBA in Scottsdale, AZ see that drop to 10%. Want to save lives? Strengthen the required competence to get a license to drive.

It’s indisputable that we have a problem with gun violence and the national convulsions we experience every time there’s a mass shooting merely reinforces that the run-of-the-mill shootings are so commonplace as to barely merit a mention on the six o’clock news.

Banning so-called assault style weapons is a start. So is limiting the number of rounds a gun can accommodate. As to whether such actions will help in any meaningful way, I remain skeptical, but I would be perfectly happy to see them implemented. They certainly won’t make matters worse.

The mental health piece, is probably the place where we can have the most impact. As someone who admins a 15,000 member mental health and support group, I can tell you that access to mental health treatment in the USA is limited at best and non-existent at worst. The level of care is variable and the type of care required for a given situation is non-obvious to most lay people.

How about we arm teachers, not with guns, but with mental health training so they can better distinguish between normal teen angst and real depression or mental illness. They need not all be PhDs or have the ability to make a diagnosis, in fact that would be quite inadvisable, but teachers shouldn’t feel overwhelmed and unprepared when their students exhibit signs consistent with depression or mental illness.

Could any of the above have prevented the Florida tragedy? We will never know. But common sense suggests they might prevent some tragedies, or even only one. And that would make these changes well worthwhile.

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Self Love

Given my sense of humor you are forgiven if you think this is about masturbation. I may indeed write about that someday; an illustrated guide. Maybe a desk calendar. It’s a worthy subject, to be sure, but not today.

I have struggled with loving myself as long as I can remember. I am not a psychologist, but I assume it has something to so with an unstable childhood. We know that in our early years we learn how to form bonds with family and friends. How others perceive and treat us helps form our self perception and this seems to stick with us, at least it has with me.

I was raised largely by a sometime single mother who was married three times. I have written about her depression and anxiety and whether my depression is the result of nature or a lack of nurture, I cannot say. My mom did the best she could using the tools at her disposal and while she loved me unconditionally, she was imprisoned by her own demons and unable to give me the attention every boy craves.

I therefore spent a lot of time with my maternal grandmother, who gave me plenty of attention but not the unconditional love part. She could be harsh and even mean, likely the result of being sexually abused as a child, a fact I did not learn until long after her death at age 100. One time I told my grandmother (I must have been nine or ten) that I thought it would be fun to learn how to drive a truck. She told me, “that’s right, David. Drive a truck. You’ll never amount to anything.” I have never forgotten that statement and it’s always been a paradox to me, as she believed in me and my academic ability and paid for my college. She had a lot of anger engendered from a tough life of her own. I don’t blame her. Like my mother, she did the best she could with what she had and I am alive and a doctor in large measure because of her. But there is no question in my mind at all that her anger and inability to love unconditionally contribute to my own lack of self love.

My father and mother divorced when I was five. My dad remarried a couple years later, but his second wife was ill for much of their marriage and ultimately passed away during my senior year of high school. While I saw my dad periodically and he was always on time with his child support payments, we did not have a close relationship. In some respects, I still worship my dad, even though I am well aware of his flaws. As we both got older we became adult friends and when he married his third wife, Connie, the woman I now call “mom”, he finally had a stable and normal home life.

Even so, the instability of my pre-teen years was great, as I shuttled back and forth between my mom’s and my grandmother’s. I had few close friends. I was painfully shy and often bullied. I was brainy, too tall, too thin, and having a haircut that looked like the Little Dutch Boy on the paint cans didn’t help a bit. I never wore the cool sneakers, Converse All Stars. My mom couldn’t afford them and my grandmother refused to buy them. When you’re a boy growing up in a working class neighborhood, if you don’t have the right shoes you’re fucked.

By the time I found my tiny parochial high school, I craved a place of safety and acceptance. While I found it there, making life-long friends and mentors in the process, much of the internal damage was done. The wounds healed, scarred over really, and my high school years were generally the most stable and enjoyable times of my childhood. I buried my early years, not knowing they would always affect me, running in the background like a computer program. They had affected my wiring or my DNA and I have spent the rest of my life looking for self acceptance in the acceptance of others, often inappropriately, even tragically.

Telling someone to love himself is great advice, not easily followed. To some extent, it’s well meaning, but silly. It’s like telling the depressed person “don’t be depressed”. Of course, I want to love myself. I want nothing more than to be well adjusted with a healthy self image and respect. But internally, I’m a Calvinist, believing in my own total depravity. I don’t want to be this way and I would do anything to be different. I minimize my successes and maximize my failures, believing I haven’t amounted to enough.

I don’t have any solid answers to the matter. This is a journey and, while I almost chose to end it prematurely, I have vowed to continue. There are no trite or easy answers. No magic prayer or incantation. No drink or drug. So far, the only thing that I have found that helps for any period of time is the loving and patient acceptance of those around me, near and far, who love me for me. Who know my secrets and love me anyway. Who know where the bodies are buried and who aren’t afraid to wrestle my demons with me. People who accept your flaws and still pronounce you “good” are as rare as hen’s teeth, but infinitely more useful.

The journey to self love continues.

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Shared Tears

Depression has many guises and, PT Barnam not withstanding, is the true greatest showman. Sometimes it allows us to dress up for Mardi Gras and appear to be someone totally different from whom we are on the inside. At others it pulls the mask away and strips us naked for all to see, usually when we least want it to. At work, for example. My youngest daughter deals with depression like her dad and is also very empathetic. She’s been helping me greatly, telling me to do whatever I need to be happy (even if it means moving for a job or a relationship), while at the same time taking on my own pain and internalizing it. Last night she had to leave work early because she just couldn’t keep it together. She was just sad about life and I am convinced she took on my depression like a contagion.

Unless you’re a televangelist caught in bed with a male prostitute or hoofed livestock, crying in front of a bunch of other people is often not advisable. For TV preachers, crying is beneficial because crocodile tears help hoodwink the gullible into believing that it was really just massage therapy and the goat wasn’t yours. But for the rest of us, real cleansing tears may be shed at any moment and the ability to stifle them is inversely proportional to the appropriateness of the venue.

None of this is to imply that real tears shed with others is counterproductive. Far from it. If I’ve learned anything it’s that shared tears make a good diluent. (Also, never order “medium” spicy from a Thai restaurant). Having a close friend with whom to cry is critical. He or she just needs to listen, maybe touch or hold you. Cleaning your kitchen is also nice.

The modern First World problem with which we need to deal, however, is isolation. We live increasingly isolated lives and often have no one with whom to cry in person. This is a huge issue and I believe (without any data whatsoever) contributes to depression and the need for medications. While I have, for example a very robust support network across the country and the globe, by virtue of my position in my veterinary peer-to-peer support group, Not One More VetTM; I have limited to non-existent local support, outside my daughters and my ex-wife. Crying with your ex, the divorce from whom is the source of many of the tears, seems somewhat counter-productive. We haven’t yet gotten to the place where we can share our grief. When we try, it dissolves into anger and a chorus of “leave me the fuck alones”, which leaves both of us feeling worse than before. Like everything, it takes time, I suppose.

I am therefore left to explore the boundaries of my sadness largely alone. Texts, instant messages, and phone calls help tremendously, especially from some of my more insightful friends who know how to ask questions and get me outside my own head. But I have no one with whom to simply sit and cry. I will go over to my ex’s house and play with the dogs sometimes. Puppy therapy is the best. And it’s free. They are good listeners and don’t care if I cry. They will lay with me and just “be”. Like a best friend should.

I have two upcoming veterinary conferences where I will see many friends and acquaintances. Depression doesn’t just disappear. It’s a loyal disease, so I don’t know how I will be feeling or whether I will be wearing a mask. But I’ll be there basking in the healing waters of friendship and hoping the demons are shouted down for at least a little while. And I’ll be able to share tears, if need be.

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One Million Squared

This begins my daily effort to write something worth reading.

<<<pauses while he thinks of something >>>.

I have been on meds for my depression for close to four years now. I never would have thought I needed them. Then I turned 50 and realized I probably needed them 30 years earlier. Life would have been so much different if I had realized I had depression. For one, I would still be married, because many of the events earlier in our marriage that contributed to its eventual demise would likely not have occurred. For another, I would have a much better (for you Spanish speakers that’s mucho bettero) relationship with my eldest offspring.

We tend to fuck up more with our first born. We should have temporary, trial sized children first, so we can make our mistakes on them. But we don’t get that opportunity, so we muddle along on the real ones and do the best we can, hoping we do no permanent damage. By the time we get to child number three we think we have them figured out. When #3 turned out to be my third daughter, I was quite pleased, as I had experience. Figured out? No.

Should I ever be blessed with another child, I would be ok with either sex and/or gender. A fourth girl would be awesome and hopefully look like her mother. My first son would be cool, as well, because, well, it would be a different experience. For one, I could teach him how to write his name in the snow, assuming I lived someplace that had it.

Lindsey, my current youngest, is already someone way too much like me. She’s quick witted, a total smart ass, somewhat shy, and has my emotional make up. She’s also tall and thin like I was at that age.

Raising children is the hardest thing I have ever done. I think it’s the hardest job there is. Puppies are much easier. Children have opinions and no filter. They’re like mini Donald Trumps, only smarter. The good news is, as my friend Abby told me today, “little people have little problems and big people have big problems”. Children’s problems generally don’t rise to the level of, say peace in the Middle East, even if they think they do. The exception to this rule is when your child is sick, especially seriously so. Then the world stops while you attend to that need. Courtney developed epilepsy at four and I still recall her first seizure and how at that moment my medical training kicked in. Once she was safely in the hospital and her status epilepticus finally stopped, it was then I fell completely apart. Until then I was Dr. Dad. Once she was someone else’s responsibility, I was just dad, a quivering mass of jello with a 70’s porn star mustache.

Whether I have more children isn’t exactly up to me. First, I’m not seeing anyone at this moment, much less recreating. Second, while I am not specifically fishing for a younger woman, I wouldn’t necessarily throw one back unless they were too small. Age is just a number and what matters more to me is maturity and compatibility. Companionship, intellectual stimulation, physical attraction, lots of laughter and tenderness. All of those are important, but intellectual stimulation and conversation are indispensable. She must be educated and erudite, even opinionated, so long as she is a good listener, too.

Such compatibility is rare. There are plenty of beautiful people, intelligent people, truly wonderful people. But finding one who is truly compatible with you is a needle in a haystack. When it happens, hold on as tightly or as loosely as appropriate for the personality, but don’t let go (with apologies to .38 Special and their hit song, Hold on Loosely).

I hope I find such a woman to be My Person. Maybe I already know her. I can’t say. I was married to one for two and a half decades until my own unhappiness did us in. If I have another shot at love, I will take it. Maybe that will include a child or step-children. Who knows? But, to quote Ann Lamott in Traveling Mercies, “even when we are most sure that love can’t conquer all, it seems to anyway”. Love alone isn’t sufficient, but with love you make the compromises and sacrifices to make a relationship work. You give. You take. The two are greater than the sum of 1+1. The odds of two 1-in-a-million people finding each other is 1,000,000 squared. When you do, you don’t let go.

 

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