Wednesday, August 21, 2019

orientation

I was going a bit stir crazy in the house. I had completed my morning walk and it was time for my afternoon walk.  My route has been to go around a path in the park adjacent to my house. It is a nice enough park--nothing to ooh and aahh over, but not bad.  But I was tiring of the route. I decided to try my luck walking up to Brandeis.

Yesterday I had considered this as well. But Brandeis sits on a hill, a not insignificant hill. And yesterday it was hotter and sunnier than it is today.  So, when I set off for Brandeis a day ago I got as far as the ballfields which are at the base of the campus and parked myself in the shaded bleachers. Today I figured it was time to try the hill.

I brought my bag.  There is a proscription against picking up anything greater than 10 pounds for 10 weeks.  I found two five pound weights that one can employ when walking. They were purchased with the intent of increasing the rigor of walks.  For the most part they have sat near the cat food in a cabinet in an anteroom to the kitchen.  But today they had a value: to test the weight of my bag.  It was less than the two five pound weights, so off I went to conquer the hill with my bag.

I've done this walk probably 100 times since I moved to the area.  I've occasionally gone around the campus two and sometimes three times.  Today, I got about half way up the hill and I had to sit down on a step.  I'm getting there, but I am not there.  Eventually I got up from the step and made it the rest of the way to the library.

It's pre-week here at Brandeis. Classes will start next week, but there is a buzz on campus and activity that, while not robust like it will be next week, suggests that the fall is upon us.  I found a seat in a section of the library that had easy chairs and ottomans.  Took out my laptop from my less than ten pound bag, negotiated the wifi of the library, and began to check the sites.

It was around 2 pm when I got settled, and I noticed a moving line of folks walking just behind a screen to another section of the library. Someone was tinkering with a microphone beyond a wall.  I saw official looking folks with name tags and plastered on smiles greeting those entering the space I cannot see.

At about ten past the hour I could hear, whether I wanted to or not, a speaker welcoming a group of incoming students and their parents. My best guess given the content of the introduction and the ensuing agenda was that this was an orientation for international students.  Attendees were asked to introduce themselves and say where they were from.

There then was a procession of speakers. Head of advising. Associate dean of this. Associate dean of that. Director of Housing.

I have been working or studying at universities for 51 of the last 52 years.  I have attended or participated in so many orientations where I heard speeches of this ilk.  In the old days we would distribute or receive pounds of literature about this group or that. Now, we may distribute a single sheet with the urls to all information needed.  The goal is to get oriented.

Do we ever get oriented?  No matter how many orientation sessions we attend.  Must we become immersed in anything before we truly get oriented. And can that immersion create a counterproductive orientation; an orientation to something that is unhealthy to become oriented to?

I feel very disoriented these past weeks.  Everything seems surreal.  I should be preparing for classes and my annual jaunt to New York and the USOPEN.  I should be heading to the Cape for the last summer excursion into Minister's Pond and any of the various haunts I like to visit when I go to the Cape.  I might be finishing a writing project or starting another one.  Maybe I would take a drive to visit my buddy in Hyde Park and hang out drinking beer on the Hudson.  Last year, one year ago exactly tomorrow, I sent in the manuscript I had been toiling over all summer long. I remember going down to Quincy Market, treating myself to a cold one, and congratulating myself on getting it done. Felt very oriented.

Instead I am disoriented.  I heard the speech from the surgeon, nurse's, PAs.  I read the documents in the discharge manual.  I know how many walks I am supposed to take a day, what not to eat, and what soap to use, to clean this otherworldly scar that reminds me that I am mortal after all.  I know it will take 10-16 weeks before I am myself (whoever that will be in 10-16 weeks) and I can't drive a car until my surgeon says kosher.  I know this, but I am not oriented to this new reality.

But how oriented was I when I thought I was oriented. And how oriented is anyone when we think we are.  Oriented to what. 

The orientation session near me is in its final moments. Some people have had it with the orienting and are dribbling out. Others who got the time wrong or who are not the most punctual of sorts, are dribbling in.  Are those that are just arriving any less likely to become oriented to the university than those who arrived at the start.  Are those of us who never get oriented to where we are any worse off than those who are oriented to their lives, got their coordinates down pat, know where to go to get the drugs and groceries, and know who to eat dinner with and the designated person to kiss goodnight?

Monday, August 19, 2019

what if

This week I am supposed to walk 15 minutes, twice a day. It was very hot today so I got out there at about 7 am this morning.  A storm threatened late this afternoon, so at around 515 I did my second 15 minute stint.  I checked my cell phone as I departed to make sure I had completed the requisite quarter hour.

As I neared what I thought was the 15 minute mark, I took out my phone to check the time. Somehow, while in my pocket, I'd hit something that set off an update. On the screen I was informed that the update was in progress.

No big deal. I knew it was about 15 minutes and went into the house.   I glanced at the phone and saw it was still doing its updating thing.  A few moments later I saw that the Verizon logo was coming on as it does when I power on.  I grabbed the phone and went upstairs.

I glanced at it when I got to the top of the staircase and was thrown for a moment when, at 545 pm eastern time, the clock read 1:15 am.  Great, I thought, now I am going to have to figure out how to reset the time.  Before I went ahead and attempted to do that, I was really thrown when I saw the date. January 1971.

January 1971. I know just where I was in January 1971.  I was a senior at what is now called the University at Albany.  In January 1971 I was a resident assistant on campus ahead of the students helping to get the dorms ready for the beginning of what was, laughingly, called Spring semester in a climate where Spring did not arrive until late April or early May.

Here I sit nearly fifty years and how many right and wrong steps later.  I've got a scar from my collar bone to my gut indicating that my heart has been repaired.  Scar or not, all of us with fifty years around the track since college, have had some bruises to our hearts or we're kidding ourselves. That comes with the territory.

Aside from being disoriented when I saw that it was 1971, my second reaction was "I'll take it".  Sure three years of Nixon again would be tough on the stomach, but I'd like another shot at getting things right and fifty more years on this wonderful planet.

Not maudlin here.  Even with a tomahawk's mark on my chest and my current recuperation which will, for the first time in decades, deprive me of going to the US OPEN with my high school pals, I know that every day, every minute, we have a great shot at enjoying time. 

Also, who knows if some of the right steps I have taken would be taken correctly if I turned back the clock.  But still, there is something attractive about having another shot at doing those things I did not, and not doing those things I wish I had not.

It is just a mind game.  My phone figured it out before I needed to mess with it. 8/19/19 at 6:10

Saturday, August 17, 2019

fortnight

On Monday it will be two weeks since I had open heart surgery. When I am not immersed in thinking about the ongoing rehabilitation, taking the meds, doing the walking exercise, and in general contemplating front and center necessities--I am very grateful that the condition was detected so that it could be addressed.  Otherwise there would have been few blog posts in my future. 

Some observations about the experience.


  • One loses all modesty in a hospital. I was exposed at various times and so frequently that I stopped caring who saw what. So what, who sees what. Purging fluids is key post surgery so nurse's assistants were encouraged to encourage me to so purge, congratulating me for the liquid I was able to deposit in a plastic container while they propped me up in the middle of the night.  "Good job" they would say after such a curious victory. And then they had to help me get back in bed.
  • I could not sleep in the hospital. It was not primarily dealing with the rhythmic bells and periodic testing of my blood pressure and temperature. That would have been a challenge had I been able to fall asleep in the first place.  I was speeding every night. I'd gone into the hospital with some tricks to use to help me fall asleep, but they were no contest for the commingling of drugs I was consuming or just my individual brain activity.
  • When I ran road races I would like it when bystanders would accurately tell me how many miles it was to the finish line. Those who thought they were encouraging and said "only 100 yards" when it was five hundred, did me no favors.  To date every doctor and nurse who has looked at my scar after removing the bandage, has said words to the same effect.  "It looks beautiful" they say.  They all need new eye doctors. My scar begins a bit below my collar bone and goes to my solar plexus.  The truth is that it is not beautiful.  
  • It is amazing what they did.  Cracked me open. Stopped my heart. Put in a pacemaker. Removed an artery from my arm. Bypassed, three times, blockages in my arteries. Closed me up. Connected the two separate pieces together with something that amounts to scotch tape for the skin.  And I did not feel a thing....
  • Until later.  Not a whole lot of fun the first three days in the hospital, moving any old way. Burping, for example, hurt. Coughing very painful. Thank God I did not have to sneeze. After a while the pain dissipated, but even now nearly two weeks later I have to take some tylenol or else I will be reminded of what transpired. Feeling good today I skipped the tylenol and then at midnight had to take some.
  • The nurses in the hospital were so positive, and so helpful.  What they were called upon to do at all hours of the day and night was significant. They worked 12 hour shifts, three days a week.  The nurse's assistants were often college students. My university has an experiential education requirement for many majors. Students are required to work during portions of their academic program in lieu of taking classes so that they leave with actual experience in the field. We have a Health Science College. One of the nurse's assistants one day was a Northeastern student. Others were students at other universities. I was taken by their dedication in what had to be a difficult job.  I am an easy patient I believe, but I can imagine some of the grousing they get from people in pain or people just grouchy by nature.
  • Before they knocked me out, I had to be prepped. Several people were in that cubicle getting me ready. One guy was just shaving me clean. Another spoke to me about the anesthesia process, a third had me listen to what they were going to do and sign documents, a fourth came in and wanted to know if I would be willing to participate in a study related to anesthesia. (I declined).  I was also supposed to meet the surgeons, but whatever they gave me knocked me out before we could shake hands.
  • I had read the documentation ahead of time about restrictions after surgery, but still found it difficult to internalize them. Four weeks before driving a car, okay that makes sense. But ten weeks before you can lift anything heavier than 10 pounds.  Ten pounds is not much. A gallon of milk is close.  Laundry detergent jugs can be over 10 pounds.  In the hospital a bunch of blankets were on the floor. I went to pick them up. Not wise. You would be surprised at what you pick up that weighs more than 10 pounds.
  • Not for the first time I have been taken by the power of love and good wishes from friends and family. I received phone calls and e-mails and texts that were, in a real way, therapeutic. The surgeon touched my heart literally, but others did so as well.
The bottom line, however, is that it is a miracle. I'm typing this now.  It may take two and a half months of doing not a whole lot, but by November I ought to have essentially a new heart.  I can go back to this wonderful horn of plenty called life.

Thursday, August 1, 2019

M is for Mortality

I ran a marathon a few weeks before my thirtieth birthday.  At that time I ran 10 miles a day and fifteen on weekends. Then I cut back to five a day.  Until I was past 60 I ran five miles five days a week. In my late forties, I would run five miles on the day of a tennis match to get the nerves out.  And then play tennis.

In the year I turned 50 I won five consecutive tennis tournaments on five consecutive weekends and 6 tournaments out of 7.  On most of those weekends I played two back to back matches on a Saturday, and then two back to back matches on a Sunday.  I have been able to go, up until very recently, 90 minutes consecutively on the elliptical at a decent clip.

Whenever I have had my annual physical, the numbers all come back so glowing that the doctors have been, or have pretended to be, surprised at the kind of shape I have been in.  The only medicine I've ever had to take is for blood pressure which I started after I was eligible to receive full social security benefits.

So it was surprising when a few months ago, call it February, maybe March or even April, I started to feel tension on the elliptical machine after only 10 minutes. I'd have to stop, get some water, and start again.  It got so bad that I had to reduce the resistance on the machine.  When I had my annual physical I reported this and the doc felt I should have an EKG. As usual, no problem. Then a stress test, some ambivalent results that suggested I should take another one with a sonogram.  The second stress test made the cardiologist say, hmm, let's do an angiogram.  There looks like a blockage that will require a stent.

This was not great news. It was in some ways good news because I had been scheduled for a hip replacement and, if there was even a little bit of blockage, clearing that would have been a good idea before I went under.

I started thinking about mortality. The doc described the mortality rates as minimal for the procedure, but 2 out of 1000 is still something.

They did the test and while they were poking around and I was feeling fine on the bed as they, an army it seemed like, were looking at a screen I tried to glance at the screen myself.  I felt pretty good so I figured they would come by and say, "guess what, there's not much in there, we can clean this up with a minor procedure."

Did not happen. Head doc comes up to my head and says, "It does not make sense to put a stent in. You are completely blocked in one artery, and nearly completely blocked in another, and 75 % blocked in a third.  We'll need to schedule you for a bypass in a week or so."

They wheel me out. I see a procession of doctors and nurses.  I schedule the bypass for 8/5.  I meet the surgeon. A nurse draws blood and then, to test for some infection, sticks a cue tip up my nostrils in an attempt, it appears, to see if it will come out of my eyeball. Then she comes back forty minutes later to tell me that she used the wrong type of cue tip and has to do it again. The surgeon seems nice. I looked him up and he gets rave reviews.

It seemed surreal, and still does. 

All day Wednesday through today the following Thursday, I think that this is not real. I feel pretty good.  I have lost some weight by design and now weigh what I did ten years ago.  I have not gone back on the elliptical, but gee before I had the angiogram I had been able to go for 45 minutes, having to stop every 9 minutes or so. I'd go for 9, then another 9, then another 9, and then do 18 minutes without a problem. Apparently one's body builds its own routes when everything is stopped up, so I guess I had built my own routes. Otherwise this blog would require some very fancy software to be distributed from my perch in the sky--putting new meaning, I suppose, to content being stored in the cloud.

I have been told by animate objects (as opposed to the internet) that this is a routine procedure and most people do fine. The doctors also said that I am in very good shape and am a prime candidate for doing well. My pulse rate, from all the exercise, is around 50 and often less.

But still, they told me the procedure. They crack open my chest. They stop your heart. They create a detour for your arteries.  And you feel good as new,. Except for the cracked chest. And the fact that you cant resume stressful activities for 12 weeks.

Sobering for someone who thought he would live forever.

I find that I am irascible.  Could be the new medicine. Could be the anticipation of being cracked open with something probably like an axe. On Sunday we had a spat. It comes with the territory of sharing space.  (I was right of course) I became very tense. For about two hours I sat stiff and felt angry.  (Did not help that the Red Sox played lousy that evening--vu den)  Cant be good for someone who is blocked up to stew. I'm making light of it, but I really did tense up. Nothing went shooting down my arm, but I knew this was not good. Not good to feel this way, and not a good sign that something minor could--I hope because of the blockage--make me so upset.  I'm usually a sweet fellow.  Not a mollusk by any means but, I've been told, fun to be around. Not lately.

They said this buildup has happened over several years and I try to think about manifestations.  I read on the internet (good to scan the internet if you want to, repeatedly, get punched in the stomach) that one manifestation of clogged arteries is high blood pressure. Well, it is possible then that the blood pressure meds giveth and taketh away. Yes, they reduced my blood pressure, but they masked the reason for the elevation.

The good news is that this is 2019 and not 1965 or 1945.

Monday, July 15, 2019

For the Ages

During the post match commentary a broadcaster remarked that in thirty and forty years from now people will still be speaking about the contest.

In thirty to forty years I am likely to have used up all my tickets at the ultimate amusement park we call life.  However, as long as I am here, and capable of remembering much of anything, I will remember this match.

I was thinking yesterday afternoon that there are few such sport events that rival what those who watched saw yesterday. There was the Miami-Nebraska 35-34 Orange Bowl in the mid 80s.  The Rangers 2-1 overtime victory over the Devils in 94. I was fortunate to attend two college basketball games that my alma mater played in that were similarly riveting and thrilling.  And then there was the Patriots-Carolina Super bowl game in 2004 at the conclusion of the 2003 season.

Yet I think yesterday's tennis match for sheer excellence beats them all.  I am not a big fan of the personality of Novak Djokovic, but he has a backbone of steel.  I am a big fan of Roger Federer and he too is other worldly.  These two warriors took it to the cliched next level in a five setter that was remarkable.

Sports transcend sports. This was about will, and personality, and play within the rules sans gamesmanship--particularly Federer--that it is to be admired.  Federer caught a bad break in the final tiebreaker when a Djokovic ball he could have clocked was called out, then reversed on appeal, thus requiring a new point which, had the ball been called in, would have resulted in a Federer point.  Federer just went back to play the next point.  Neither player took bogus health breaks to unnerve their opponents. Just a remarkable match.

Both players "forced heart and nerve and sinew to serve their turn long after they were gone. And so held on when there was nothing in [them] except the will to say hold on."

A treat. And you did not even need to enjoy sports to enjoy it.






Wednesday, July 10, 2019

law and the law

I completed Kate Atkinson's Big Sky a few days ago, and am nearly finished with a non fiction book that deals with a similar issue.

Big Sky is the fifth Jackson Brodie novel.  Atkinson has written several books that do not involve Brodie, but the four that preceded Big Sky that did, were very well received and in my opinion, for good reason. Case Histories was the first and it is brilliant.  Then came One Good Turn, When Will There Be Good News, and Started Early, Took My Dog. Case Histories was the best with three cases cleverly related.  And When Will There Be Good News has a message that is so powerful that it, in and of itself, makes the book worth reading.  If you are interested I've blogged about the Brodie books before.

This one, Big Sky, is not as good as the others. To me, it reads like her publisher said, "They want Brodie, give us Brodie" and Atkinson after resisting for a spell said "Fine, you want Brodie I'll give you Brodie." But her heart wasn't in it.

However, it does bring up a point that is present in the other book I mentioned, Furious Hours. I've got about 40 pages to go in it, but the section that deals with the common question has already passed. I am not giving anything away with this following brief synopsis.

There is a man in Alabama, a reverend no less, who is killing off his kin. He is doing it for the insurance checks. He takes out insurance on his wife, and then kills his wife, and collects the insurance. Then he remarries, takes out insurance on his second wife, and kills his second wife and collects the insurance. And he does it to other family members as well. Remember this is NON fiction. This really happened.

The insurance companies are, go figure, reluctant to pay up.  The Reverend hires a lawyer who initially is able to get a not guilty verdict on a murder, and subsequently successfully defends the reverend's rights to collect on the insurance policies.  After the reverend knocks off a step daughter, at the funeral of the step daughter, a man stands up and, at the funeral home, shoots the Reverend.  The shooter then hires the same lawyer that defended the reverend to acquit the shooter for murdering the reverend.  And the lawyer is successful. Again remember this is non fiction. All this really happened.  The last part of the book, the part I have not fully completed is about Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird, who intended to write her second book about this case.

Question is this: is a person innocent of killing someone if the victim was a nogoodnik like the reverend? In Big Sky at the end there is a similar ethical challenge.  If a slime ball is killed by a decent person, is the killer someone who authorities should let go.  Readers of To Kill a Mockingbird with a long memory, may recall that the bad guy is killed by Boo Radley, an innocent, and the sheriff encourages those who witnessed the killing, to not press charges against Boo.

Are there laws and laws?  Is the reverend's killer a hero?  Are good guys responsible for killing bad guys?  And if so, how can we be sure that those who assess a bad guy to be a bad guy, have an accurate read on the character. What if the bad guys are the good guys, and the good guys are the bad guys.  Lynchings in the south were incomprehensibly regular in the early and middle 20th century. Probably a sheriff or two who felt that the killers were not bad guys at all. 

Wednesday, June 26, 2019

The Boys of Summer


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The Boys of Summer by Roger Kahn came out nearly fifty years ago. Since it was published many have recommended it to me. For who knows what reason, I just picked it up last week.

The Boys of Summer is a very good book that got more engaging the more I read.  It was one of those reads that I did not want to end.  I finished it in a library and looked around to see if there were newer editions which might have more inclusions. The edition I read had a late 1990s addendum so I thought that since the author is still alive, he may have included more stories. I discovered that I had read an edition that included all the subsequent additions.

The Boys of Summer can seem like two separate books. Initially I thought they were so distinct that it should have been two separate books, but later I thought the connection was less tenuous. The first part of the book describes how the author got his job covering the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1952 and 1953. There is a good deal about him growing up, his folks, the steps he took to become a journalist, and some stories about the 52 and 53 Dodgers.  

The second part is "where are they now?" That is, where are the Dodgers in 1971 that he covered in 1952 and 1953. Where is Preacher Roe, Andy Pafko, Jackie Robinson, Billy Cox, Pee Wee Reese, Carl Furillo, Gil Hodges, Joe Black, Duke Snider, Carl Erskine.  In 1971 he was able to meet up with these ex players and learn how they had fared once the summer ended.

Now most if not all the people he interviewed in '71 are dead.  Jackie Robinson And Gil Hodges died  very shortly after the book was published. Carl Erskine and the author are alive, but the rest are gone.  

Where are they now books may be more popular now than they had been when The Boys of Summer was published. One of the reasons for the book's enormous popularity could be that there were fewer such books at the time. Also, the book was about a team that was beloved among New Yorkers. Reading about the Dodgers to many was an opportunity to relive young years.

 But the book, to me, is more than about the Brooklyn Dodgers.  We all have our summers, and we are all boys and girls of summer at one point—but then there is fall and winter.  The people who come out the best in the book are Pee Wee Reese, clearly number one, and Jackie Robinson. Some others kept their heads up and were mensches. Others fell on hard times or took routes to hard times. 

Billy Cox went home to an area that was very racist,  Furillo retained anger that was debilitating.  The people who fared the best were those who, like Reese, dodged the inevitable toxins and did not "give way to hating."

There are several good stories in the book, but my favorite is how Reese, when Robinson was getting berated by racists, walked across the diamond from his shortstop position and put his arm around Robinson at first.  And Reese was from Kentucky.  When Robinson was promoted to the Dodgers, several players approached Reese and asked him to sign a petition refusing to play with Robinson. Reese, refused to sign.  

I had heard of nearly all the people Kahn interviewed, but did not really know the Dodgers of 52 and 53. My consciousness with baseball arrives when Don Larsen pitched his perfect game in 1956.   One could contend, I suppose, that I like the book because it was about baseball regardless of the era. Yet, I think anyone who is interested in what happens to people past their prime, will find the book engaging.

The title comes from the first line of a Dylan Thomas poem. "I see the boys of summer in their ruin."

We are all, as I wrote above, boys and girls of summer.  We have our moments in the sun.  What happens in the fall and how we decay is up to us and the choices we make..