Category: Life Lessons


Lies We Believe

The two days post-Parkinson’s diagnosis was spent reflecting. Admittedly, I accomplished little. Yeah, 2019 taxes remain partially complete, but there’s laundry, mail, and several medical bills. Prima facially, I accomplished little, but inwardly, I accomplished much. 

Much like my tumor, I’ve told no one of my Parkinson’s diagnosis. If revealed, one would probably curse my doctors, tell me to sue or at least write a well-thought nasty letter. Sure, I could spit in my original neuro’s face. Yeah. That doctor who blatantly told me in April 2015 told me to see a psychiatrist. I could have done that. I didn’t.

I could have attempted an angle. As a former rescueman who risked his, I effectively calculated all aspects. I was known for quickly summarizing the best outcome, and often, beat back the face of death. Doing such was a lie I told myself and others.

Such lies bring comfort. If you’re dying, you want comfort God will dispatch angels to comfort and carry you. A young mother wants to believe doctors will heal their child or husband. If you lost your medical insurance, you’ll gladly listen to and swallow a politicians’ lure’ of free health care.

I could blame my neuro for all my ills. I could. I won’t. Why? Because I was the lie, I told myself. I’ve known for years my back was stiff, stiff leg muscles and pain, a left stiff arm, bad dreams, the nights I couldn’t sleep, and the ever so slight internal and left-hand tremor. I dropped more coffee cups and glasses than I could count. I just lied.

You need to see a neurologist,” She urged.

Ah, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. They’ll tell me nothing’s wrong.”

I don’t know,” she frowned. “There’s something about your symptoms that don’t make sense.

I relied on my ability to elude danger. Like forty years prior, Celecoxib, Gabapentine, Tizanidine, Tylenol 1, and Tylenol 3 were my lies. Arthritis drugs killed the pain but didn’t treat the disease. The tumor forced me to address the pain. 

I didn’t have much choice. The surgeon who removed my tumor stated I required a neuro eval. And coming full-circle, I returned to the very clinic that ignored me years prior. In less than an hour, I went from viewing doctors’ confusion to hear, “We believe you have Parkinson’s.;” to hearing, “You have Parkinson’s;” to “I’m sorry.”

William Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.What Shakespeare is referencing is the drama everyone lives throughout their lives. He reduces life to performance or acting. To which, oftentimes looks ridiculous.

Is there some connection between truthfulness and personal integrity? Possibly. Spiritual men and women often had a disdain for lies. In fact, “not lying” one of the fundamental training practices of his path of self-transformation. “Not lying” might raise some ethical issues. For instance, what if a Nazi guard asked if Anne Frank was in our attic? Would I have lied? Of course.

The practice of deceiving with myself of true inner healing via false medication was like a sailboat anchored to the shore. I had a role in my own lie. I lived to the act, and my decision making was ridiculous. All of us need to focus on good days – living as many good ones as possible. Tomorrow, I promise to have a good day. 

Promise me you’ll live only good days.

 

“It is in the nature of medicine that you are gonna screw up. You are gonna kill someone. If you can’t handle that reality, pick another profession. Or finish medical school and teach.”

~ Gregory House ~

Dr. House’s comment while substituting as a guest lecturer. Unfortunately, Dr. House’s statement to the interns occurs all too often. It happened to me this past Friday. I likened it to something out of Charles Dickinson’s Tale of Two Cities.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair . . .”

I returned for my post-operation evaluation. Good News. The operation was successful. Bad News. The symptoms remained relatively the same. My neuro was positive that removing the tumor would make some positive impact.

Studying the medical history, a sharp, bright, neurological nurse looked at my medical history, then she squinted and studied further. Her first poke went unacknowledged. With careful forethought, she grabbed a piece of the neuro’s flesh, twisted slightly. Turning to look where she pointed, the neuro read. He read again. And again. He pulled up the MRI from 2015. And he read. Read again. And again.

They excused themselves.

Ten minutes later, several doctors, en mass, poked and prodded. They left, leaving the neurological nurse and me to kill time quietly. After eons of seconds, she sympathetically smiled me. “We believe you have Parkinson’s.”

Pause . . . Long pause. 

I must have had this WTF expression, but just as she was about to follow-up, the flock of physicians returned.

“In 2015, the MRI we performed indicated over seven supratentorial FLAIR hyperintense lesions or plaques. We should have noted these. We misread the MRI. While there is no one single test that can verify Parkinson’s, this finding and your symptoms demonstrate the diagnosis. Unfortunately, your Parkinson’s has been untreated for at least five years.”

“All this time I was told, ‘nothing to be done,’ we recommend a psychiatrist…”

“Was awful,” he interrupted. Soulfully searching for the right words, “I am sorry.”

The tumor still had to come out. The remaining portion of the tumor still residing in my neck still remains. All the while, physicians had either denied my symptoms or attributed to the tumor was wrong. All those years of pain and suffering. All it took was for a twenty-year veteran neurological nurse to read the chart and connect the dots. 

I am still processing, but I left in peace. “Why?” one would wonder. Well, I found some level of peace in the doctor’s words.

“Better than a thousand hollow words is one word that brings peace.”

~ Buddha ~

Serving as a Honda District Service Manager in the early eighties, I often whizzed through Madison, Wisconsin. Occasionally, I would stop at Zimbrick Honda.

John Zimbrick was legendary. In 1973, Zimbrick introduced Honda’s to its dealerships and established one of the most successful customer service departments in the country. If the customer didn’t have a ride for service, he would pay a local cab company to ferry his service customers. What the customers didn’t know was that Zimbrick would pay the drivers to report feedback, whether positive or negative. I once asked Zimbrick why he did that.

Of course, I want our dealership to provide excellent value,” Zimbrick noted. “But, if my customers are going to talk, I want them talking about me.”

Therein lay the first reason Trump commuted Blagojevich. In essence, whether good or bad, Trump wants people talking about him. And only him. Trump is, above all, a marketer. He understands the power of repetition. He knows if you say it over and over and over, people eventually succumb to stupid.

Secondly, Trump is hell-bent on revenge. In the late 1990’s I attended a Karrass negotiation course. Midway through the second day, Dr. Chester L. Karrass mentioned something I remember to this day.

When someone has got you by the balls, it’s a good time to piss on em.’”

When Democrats believed they had Trump by the balls only meant he was going to piss on them. It’s vintage Trump. He mimics Russian win-lose tactics. Like most autocrats, Trump is short-term (tactically) oriented, whereas Congressman and bureaucracies are long-term (strategically oriented). By overcoming impeachment, Trump wins once, and by commuting Blagojevich, he wins twice.

Lastly, once bitten, Trump is determined to revoke and overwrite any part of his predecessor’s legacy. In the television series Crime Story, Lt. Mike Torello, says to a bad guy:

“Hey, you. You hurt anybody else, when this is over, I’m gonna find what you love the most and I’m gonna kill it. Your mother, your father, your dog… don’t matter what it is, it’s dead.”

On prima facia value, there are subtle connections between Blagojevich and Trump. Blagojevich was an Apprentice contestant and was convicted by a ‘rule of law’ over Obama’s vacated Senate seat. Democrats believed in Obama. Obama believed in the rule of law. Yet, Lt. Mike Torello’s quote is like Trump’s way of saying he will kill anything you love, including the rule of law…and your dog.

Earth is filled with strong men pummeling democracy and fulfilling self-interest. Trump is just another autocrat.

From a spiritual perspective, our next president must end our current culture of corruption. Exclusively exercising decisions because one can doesn’t bode well for the everyday family living on Main Street. The Dali Lama noted that when Tibet was still free, Tibetans cultivated isolation, mistakenly thinking they could prolong peace and security. Consequently, they paid little attention to the changes taking place in the world around. Later, they learned the hard way that freedom is something to be shared and enjoyed in the company of others, not kept solely for oneself.

Democratization must reach to others across the world, where future generations will consider humanity as the most important achievement. And how can we ensure such democratization? By voting. We can only make a difference if each of us chooses to be the difference.

Humor

I’ve read that fear of cancer returning represents one of the most common concerns. This fear can last years. I have no such illusions and presume the consequences of my lime will return – just a matter of when. I wonder how I survived until sixty.

I have a funnier fear. Back in 1996, a car dealer general manager in Minneapolis said he was going shove a golf club up my ass. And that’s my fear – that in fact – he snuck into my home last weekend, took my prized Calloway nine iron, shoved it up my ass right up to my neck, and left. “Damn,” I said to a friend. “Someone has to clean that club for the upcoming best shot tourney.”

My doctor stated not to bend over. No worries. My neck is so stiff I can barely bend over. And therein lies my greatest fear: I can sit on a toilet and be unable to raise my underwear. Yeah. Yeah. I know. Some people fear about cancer’s return, I worry about wiping my behind.

A friend inquired, via text, about the latest?

“I am still old, bald, and fat.”

“Yeah. Knew that already. Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I drop my cane and can’t bend over, and I text you. Will you come and pick it up for me?”

“What if you drop your phone?”

“F•••.”

I hope I am humorous until the end. I do not fear death. I fear not being able to laugh. For instance, if I have to die in 2020, I hope it’s just before the election, “Tell Trump I’m not voting for him.” Or may something like, “Hey? Anyone want to see a dead body?” Being a computer forensic geek, I could claim, “S•••. Forgot the browser history.

You know, maybe it’s crucial to be like Tig Notaro. In 2014, on Late Night With Conan O’Brien, Ms. Notaro commented:

“Before I had a double mastectomy, I was already pretty flat-chested, and I made so many jokes over the years about how small my chest was that I started to think that maybe my boobs overheard me…and were just like, ‘You know what: We’re sick of this. Let’s kill her.’”

In 2012, I wrote that by shining light on a dark road to guide others also lightens yours. The very nature of which is both Christian and Buddhist. Yeah, some days suck, but some do not. Like everyone else, I get up and continue forward. Ultimately, when I’m at my lowest, God becomes His greatest.

When a coworker asked how I dealt with the pain, I quoted a Buddhist I had read.

Well, I simply reflect upon the moment and remember I am not having a bad day. My body is, but I am not.

Yes, I have ups and downs. Moments of pain get intermixed with moments of relief. I forgive and continue on. By injecting humor, and using humor as an essential support tool, I’ve found pain lessens. Sure making fun can ruffle feathers, but for those like me, it’s about survival. Humor can be dark. But it can be fun. And it can be healing.

Eating a Slim Jim, I reflected. Nearly ten days post-operation, I can confirm recovery has been pretty damn dull. Learning to change bandages on the back of your neck was a steep learning curve. Reaching backward, removing, and reapplying is a feat, even for one who had extensive medical training.

When you have a tumor, life is measured by units of centimeters or millimeters. Tumor sizes are then transferred to patients via a common language: pencil point (1 mm), a crayon point (2 mm), a pencil eraser (5 mm), a pea (10 mm), a peanut (20 mm), and a lime (50 mm), etc. I will never look at limes as merely pieces of fruit – ever.

The biopsy returned Thursday with a measurement of 50x30x13 millimeters. That’s equivalent to a medium-large lime. The cells weren’t cancerous but weren’t normal. As such, my ‘lime’ received a similar rating like Stage 0: no cancer, only abnormal cells with the potential to become cancer.

The portion of the tumor in my spine remains there – waiting.

Overall, I felt emotionally good. Physically? Meh. I experienced a massive headache the night of surgery and felt good the following day. This past week was not particularly good. I downed some pain medication a week ago Sunday and dealt with weird off and on fatigue of the neck and head from Monday onward. At some points, it seemed like my head could not be held upright.

Tactically speaking, I have a little trouble moving my neck sideways and cannot lift anything over 10 – 15 pounds for a month. Internal neck muscles will require seven months to heal. Therefore, the surgeon kindly requested refraining from rock climbing, parachuting, hiking the Pacific Coast Trail, or swimming the English Channel.

It appears news of the surgery spread, as I received a ‘care package’ from my employer. There was a variety of accouterments: crackers, cheese, popcorn, etc. It’s the first time I ever ate a Slim Jim. Darn good. ‘5 Star’ rating from me. The Cajun Slim was wicked.

In the past few days, many have praised my outlook and how I’ve handled the process. That’s just the show I present. The truth is, there have been some awkward highs and lows. Some of it has been damn depressing. I recognize all of this as just a volley in a more massive war. The doctors won ten days ago, yet I must remain vigilant.

Who knows how much time is left? I could have years or months. No one says decades. I might have a long time, or death may show quickly. People live for years with these debilitating symptoms. I don’t want that.

Right now, life’s about this Slim Jim. And it’s damn good.

While the surgery was a breeze, I was surprised by some low-level anxiety. Anyone saying otherwise is more than likely in some form of denial. Mine deepened when surgery was pushed back several hours. Similar to ocean waves before a storm, light bouts of emotions rolled and rolled.

I didn’t experience tomophobia, the fear of surgery. I did not fear my surgeon would mess it up and hit the spinal cord. It was always the same two questions: Should I have proceeded alone and What if something goes wrong? What if? What if?

The good news, I’m not alone. 

I was reasonably jovial in the pre-surgery check-in.

“Any allergies?”

“Yes,” I deadpanned. “Parachutes that don’t open, lightning strikes and bullets.”

“Are you sure what to attempt this using only local anesthetic.”

“Yes.”

The MRI indicated the tumor was about the size of a walnut and led the surgeon and I discussing (during surgery) why food is ‘the comparable.’

“Oh,” she hypothesized. “Mr. Patient, the tumor was the size of a radish … an orange … a baby carrot.”

I know why. Patients can relate. Patients can digest the size of an orange but cannot understand 9 cm by 6 cm by 19.5 cm. I envision her saying to a friend, “I ate a 9 cm by 6 cm by 19.5 cm tumor for lunch.

The surgery revealed my tumor was not the size of a walnut; it was more significant. Mine also had several roots or offshoots not detected by the Lipoma. That explains why my symptoms were degrading, but the scans didn’t reveal it. These roots were hidden. Unfortunately, the tumor inside the spinal cord remains. Just have to wait and see if this surgery will lessen spinal pressure. (It’s a bid to buy time. I’ll take what I can get.)

Twenty-four hours later, I feel pretty good. I met the surgeon this afternoon.

“You have eighteen stitches. Since we left a gaping hole, had we had to sew it shut. Otherwise, it would go a cavity of blood or potential infection. The surgery entry point will close in a couple of weeks. The stitches on the inside won’t dissolve for months, and the healing time will be about seven months. You’re likely to experience side effects. A hand may not work as well before surgery. You may experience headaches. Some of these will diminish. The tumor will be biopsied, and that should help us confirm the initial diagnosis and future treatment of what’s left.

“You know that cane you came in with?”

I nodded.

“Take it everywhere you go. Go to work? Cane. Go to a movie? Cane. Use the bathroom? Cane. Got it?”

I nodded.

So…that’s it for now. Back to monitoring. Here’s to another day.

Lastly, I wish to thank ‘Cosmic Traveller7’ for her thoughts and best wishes – meant a lot.

I made it past another birthday. I commented to a friend of the irony: I never expected to live this long. Yet, here I am, though tired. My body feels the burden: both in neck pain and fatigue.

I awoke this past Saturday and had no desire to rise. Sunday felt better. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t spend my day-to-day life checking for lumps and bumps. Outside of the seven or so whom I’ve told, I don’t discuss it. Regardless of what inconsiderate amount of ‘pain in the a···’ thing my body tosses my way, most never see it. Just not my style.

I still haven’t told many people. I even lied about the date of surgery to those whom I have informed. Why? For the better part of life, my symptoms were dismissed by those around me. Therefore, secrecy became the rule.

Additionally, the surgeon is attempting to extricate only the portion of the tumor outside the spinal cord. “Fairly simple,” the surgeon noted. Therefore, I expect to get up from the surgery and walk out. I don’t want to borrow others’ time and energy. They need to remain in the present.

Having worked in healthcare all these years, I know surgeons poke people with sharp objects. And surgeons can make technical errors. One might slip, have a lapse, require a microscope, or inadvertently damage something. Yet, I have an innate knowing that the surgery will turn out ok.

Therefore, I am not in a dark place. I know I will survive tomorrow’s surgery. Maybe having as much of the tumor removed will assist with pain and cramps, improve ‘the quality of life.‘ So I’m told. As Buddha would say, it’s all illusion. Maybe. Maybe not.

Even though I did create an auto-generated post 30 days post-surgery should the s··· the fan, I am not ready to wrap this life. Should it all go south, maybe I will agree with this body: “Time to call it a day. Get some sleep.

Still, I fully expect post-surgery life will find me focusing on important things.

  • Forgive people who will never be sorry;
  • Love those I can;
  • Find peace with those who will never forgive me; and
  • Let go of grudges

I will extract whatever lesson(s) and move on.

See you on the other side.

Internet misinformation has been a robust debate for the last decade. The 2016 U.S. Election demonstrated how foreign governments, political parties, and pundits weaponized hatred, bigotry, and speculation. In all the ensuing discussions, we’ve neglected one component – us. 

Information and disinformation alike rely upon us. For instance, prominent conspiracy theories in contemporary American politics is dependent upon us to reflect unique pathologies of the party in control. Donald Trump is a well-known conspiracy theorist. His supporters often embraced ridiculous ideas lurking in the darkest recesses of the internet. And by embracing such ideology, they influence national policy.

Experts implore us to think more. Yet we reside in a 140-character world. The vestibule of truth is dependent upon the reader willing partaking in any proposed content as truth. 

Need examples? There are plenty. 

Justin Trudeau received harsh criticism for picking up donuts for his cabinet meetings. Social media users went brain-dead bananas from cost (approximately $45) to why not Tim Horton’s. 

Pizzagate splashed across our television screens before the 2016 U.S. presidential election. A Reddit user posted “evidence” (i use that term loosely) that alleged a pizza owner in Washington, D.C. generated both child sex and pizza. As Pizzagate spread, Comet Ping Pong received hundreds of threats, and on December 4, 2016, Edgar Maddison Welch arrived and fired several shots from a semi-automatic rifle. Welch later informed police he planned to “self-investigate” the conspiracy theory.

I canceled my LinkedIn account last month after receiving an online diatribe of how wonderful Trump was versus the ‘do nothing Democrats.’ The viral post went to a hell of a lot of users. And the rant forced me to assess the value of service I was receiving. My assessment led me to believe that this service was neither valuable nor offered anything that enhanced my daily business life.

Again, my cancellation was not about the validity or integrity of Trump’s policies. Instead, it was about the personal value received from LinkedIn. LinkedIn positions itself to be a digital resume, a source of news, and inspiration. At that moment, LinkedIn lost its compass, and its value to be both newsworthy or inspirational diminished significantly. 

In canceling LinkedIn, I, in effect, terminated my last social media account. Outside of any social media accounts linked to this blog, I have no other social media vices. I deleted Facebook in 2010. I never used Twitter, Reddit, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, or any other social media venue. It’s liberating.

Social media’s problem lay in its inability to transform. From Black Lives Matter to the Arab Spring, protests spurred by social media have failed to materialize meaningful movement. The Arab Spring started via Facebook. Ten years later, it’s dead. The #Metoo movement has resulted in only six convictions and falters as a top priority for most Americans. When a massive fire broke out on June 14, 2017 at the 24-story Grenfell Tower public housing in West London, causing 71 deaths and over 70 injuries, public outrage was swift. Within days, #Justice4Grenfell trended on social media. Eight months later, little has changed for those who lost their lives, for those who survived, the bereaved families, or the wider community. 

Why? 

There’s a difference between ‘viral’ and ‘movement.’ A viral post is something shared, copied, and spread across multiple social platforms. Anyone can have a ‘viral’ post. Movements require action. And without work, they’re destined for death. Movements require ‘us’ to become involved. If you want change, you must vote. Want to change the educational system of your local city, you must get involved. Need to change the bias of a government, you must run for office, create ideas, and publish policies.

David Imel wrote an article titled, ‘I quit the internet for nine days.’ I paraphrase him in stating we need to stop scrolling Twitter endlessly. We have to restrain from searching CNN every time someone excuses themself for the restroom. Imel noted his habits.

Notifications have created a sense of urgency in my life. Everything feels important. Did someone like my twitter post? I have a new Instagram follower? Surely these things need to be addressed! And so, waking up to effectively nothing on my phone felt weird. I felt anxious.

From a Buddhist perspective, if you want to see how we’ve enslaved ourselves to the latest tweet, look no further than our government leadership or Presidental impeachment trial. The way people lie about each other is appalling. Saturate yourself in the ‘online world,’ you’ll likely acquire a warped perception of others, online or not. For Trump, Biden is Sleepy Joe, Low I.Q., Crazy; Bernie Sanders is Crazy; Elizabeth Warren is Pocahontas or Goofy; O’Rouke has ’hand movement’ (whatever that meant), Stone-Cold Phony, or a Flake; Klobuchar looked like a ‘Snowman,’ and Gillibrand ’… would do anything for donations (some interpreting sex or oral sex).’

Trump made it ok to demean and debase. That’s a reflection of us, all of us. We allowed it. In the process, we stopped considering others human (as in people) thinking instead they are mindless, easily seduced political enemies of whatever cause we’re either for or against. 

We must reverse the trend – even if it includes replacing our current leaders. We must regain our humanity.

I was asked how Republican GOP Senators could side with Trump and acquit him. It’s a thought-provoking question, given the fact that Trump’s defense team presented a radically different view of the events and the Constitution, seeking to turn the charges back on his accusers while simultaneously denouncing the whole process as illegitimate.

To answer the question, I went back to Nixon aide Egil Krogh.

“The premise of our action was the firmly held view within certain precincts of the White House that the president and those functioning on his behalf could carry out illegal acts with impunity if they were convinced that the nation’s security demanded it. When the president does it, that means it is not unlawful. To this day, the implications of this statement are staggering.

At no time did I or anyone else there question whether the operation was necessary, legal, or moral. Convinced that we were responding legitimately to a national security crisis, we focused instead on the operational details: who would do what, when, and where.”

Is this where we’re at? A January 26th, 2020, tweet, Trump emphasized his belief that Article 2 of the Constitution allows him to do anything.

“Shifty Adam Schiff is a CORRUPT POLITICIAN, and probably a very sick man. He has not paid the price, yet, for what he has done to our Country!”

And what’s the price, Mr. President?

Republicans willingly accept leadership from a morally bankrupt family who presides over a scandal-laced presidency. Many Trump advisers face significant prison time, and Donald Trump probably has to stay in office to avoid prosecution.

The pursuit and abuse of power—power is an end unto itself. GOP Senators weaponized religion. In doing so, religion is no longer personal and private; it’s a public freak show. In his appearance before the right-to-life movement on January 25th, Trump noted:

“Sadly, the far-left is actively working to erase our God-given rights, shut down faith-based charities, ban religious believers from the public square, and silence Americans who believe in the sanctity of life. They are coming after me because I am fighting for you, and we are fighting for those who have no voice.”

It’s the same message, twisted differently for each occasion: Anyone who opines is evil.

I often ponder anger’s value. Should we valorize it or avenge it. In prayer, I’ve was informed to abandon anger’s thirst, eliminate even the smallest seeds of violence, because the full-blown emotion can only cause harm. In life, I want to prevent similar events from occurring.

One problem with anger is the tendency to cling to it, to bear a grudge against any reasonable form of reconciliation. On the other hand, I want to exact (often disproportional) revenge. Yet failing to react to grievous wrongdoing runs the risk of acquiescing in evil.

In the end, as a Buddhist, both sides of our current political system prefer to segregate the ‘moral side’ of anger. Each promotes its version of the ‘dark side.’

The agents for change are documented in history. To avoid despair, we clarity – a clarity that only (“the truth”) can provide. Trump claims he is the ‘revolution.’ However, Trump himself doesn’t have a revolutionary character of ‘truth.’ If we don’t get that, I fear a hell of a lot of people will continue to suffer and die.

By acquitting Trump, we’ll unleash a political leader that wants only was power. And what he most obviously enjoys is smashing anything in its pursuit.

I’ve given a lot of thought to various things over the past couple of days. I’ve looked at my life realized there’s this innate knowing that I won’t be here that much longer. I came to this realization yesterday. After spending much of the weekend in pain and hardly being able to move, I dislocated the patella on my right knee (meaning the kneecap moved out of place). I performed a battlefield maneuver and popped it back into place. 

Although painful, a dislocated is not what I considered a significant injury for me (the absolute term, ‘for me’). That’s not to suggest that a dislocated kneecap isn’t a major medical issue. It’s just that for all I have been through, I more or less considered the event as just another indignity to accept.  

Patients like me suffer all kinds of indignities. One such indignity is the requirement to bare all in the presence of young athletic-looking clinicians, where gravity has pulled cellulite into waves of hills and valleys that any miniature skateboarder would drool. I am also told to record my weight and contact the clinician should we suffer excessive weight loss.

Have you recorded your weight?” my physician asks.

No,” I paused. “Well, sort of,” I state.

Meaning?” she asks.

I take my weight every morning, but I can’t bend my neck to record it. So, I base my weight loss upon how much flab I can grab.”

Another slight pause filled the room.

Ever see that ‘Special K’ cereal commercial ‘Pinch an inch?’

Yeah,” smirking.

Well, I modified it to ‘Grab a foot.’ If I can grab more than a foot, I let you know.”

Just once, while disrobing and having some perky young face stare, I just want to say, “Welcome to your future bitch.” But I never do.

Another indignity is realizing just how fast my body has aged. Theoretically, I should be years away from such aches and pains. Now I’m comparing over-the-counter body rubs with 80-year-olds. I’ve gotten into some heated arguments over the value of Aspercreme, Icy Hot, Ben Gay, BioFreeze, Myoflex, Capzasin, and the like. We often bet on results.

Hey, Mr. Rufus?” smiling.

What are you pawning today?” he responds in a crusty voice.

I got some Nurofen Gel. Straight from Europe.

Been there and done that kid,” he grovelingly responds. “You lose. So, fetch me another cup of coffee.”

Damn,” I muttered.

I cringe at the person I was yesterday. I know the wisdom that comes with age is hard-won, but I could do without the flash of wince-worthy moments from my past—like worrying I was old at 23 or 25. 

My life is littered with perceived indignities: first date, first real sexual experience, first presentation to a crowd, first proctology exam, first colonoscopy, and so on. Looking back, these seem so inconsequential. Real indignities are harder.

The fantasy of living until a ripe old age and dying in your sleep, while making love, scuba diving, or sailing is fiction. The real indignity is that many of us will die precisely like me–through an extended period of mental or physical decline. Nearly half of those my age will succumb to Alzheimer’s, not to mention diabetes or cancer.

The latest indignity occurred during the January 14, 2020, Democratic debate. For all the concern over healthcare, and the attempts by the current GOP led administration to repeal healthcare, the real indignity is that no candidate has neither proposed a plan nor discussed long term care for an aging population. The indignity of indignities is that no presidential candidate (Trump included) realistically discusses how to care or budget for generations to come. Thus, all candidates align on this common theme: They seductively offer hope without providing any hope.

And the infuriating indignity . . . is that we’re on our own.

Welcome to your future, B****.

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