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Caution: Rough Road Ahead

Michael 9 Comments

I don’t think I’ve ever started a post apologizing for not posting. As much as I find myself an interesting fellow I can’t imagine any of you (if there are any of you still reading) working yourself into a lather because I’ve deprived you of my drivel these many days. But that’s just it. It’s been many days. Many more than I’ve ever gone without posting unless I was unconscious in a hospital bed. That’s just plain rude so for that I apologize.

Technically though, I have been unconscious in a hospital bed but just for a couple of hours. And I’ve been awake on a hospital bed a few days but not any of them in a row. Let me start in the middle for you and maybe that will clear things up.

When we last left our kidney transplant journey there were potential donors being poked and prodded, tested and vetted. They still are but all are nearing their finish lines. Will any be found as able as they are willing? The best I can say is we’ll see.

Until then, dialysis continues to be the means by which my own, slightly overworked and underappreciated kidneys are given a hand doing what they used to do best. Smoothly is generally not a term used to describe how dialysis goes. And it isn’t. Three weeks ago at an anything but routine dialysis session (routine also not descriptive of the dialysis procedure) my fistula imploded. You remember my fistula. It’s a pair of blood vessels surgically connected then anchored just below the skin so the dialysis nurse can shove two needles about the size of ball point pen cartridges into the arm to get the blood to and from the dialysis machine. Repeated stabbings cause scarring and plaque to build up inside the fistula and about every six months the surgeon runs a catheter through my arm by which he can clean things up in there. There is a fairly descriptive description (which is truly the best kind of description you can have) along with a couple truly disgusting pictures (and when describing a fistula, disgusting is truly the best description you can make) in a post from earlier this year.

Even with careful maintenance, sometimes the fistula just fails. That’s what happened to mine on November 6 which just happened to be the day after the last day I posted anything. Coincidence? Umm, not really. After repeated attempts to get a needle seated properly in the fistula with nothing but resistance to show for it, the nurse declared my arm a no dialysis zone. Unfortunately that did not give me carte blanche to swap the dialysis recliner with a seat at the Chinese restaurant down the road although lunch would have been welcome since I rushed through breakfast in order to participate in the American election process. Instead I was able to swap that chair for a bed at the hospital outpatient surgery area and await an emergency clearing of the fistula.

To make a long story short (I realize I’ve already exceeded that marker but it sounds good and I rarely get to use that as an opening line), after two more attempts with equally poor results, everyone admitted that the fistula was no longer a viable and a temporary catheter was tunneled into the right external jugular vein. It was during that procedure I had my previously noted period of unconsciousness in a hospital bed. (I get to be awake during the cleaning procedure, known as a fistulagram, and can actually watch the progress. It’s fascinating stuff but I’d still rather see a Bond, James Bond movie any day of the week.)

CVCThe unfortunate thing about dialysis catheters is that unlike say administration ports one might receive chemo through, they terminate outside the body and do so on a pair of tails. I’m posting a drawing so you can better see what I am trying to describe. (I could take a picture of my actual catheter but it’s not a selfie I’m anxious to snap and if you just type “dialysis catheter” into your favorite search engine you’ll get no end of new disgusting pictures to peruse at your leisure.) The part of the catheter inside floats and can actually be felt depending in where the tip resides at any particular moment. Reaching for anything higher than one’s shoulder, which given my modest height is anything off the counter, means moving the catheter around in there, also rather obviously noted. And because there is really no good way to anchor the outside tails, any movement or position change comes with a reminder that there is a part of you that isn’t really a part of you.

Fortunately I have the opportunity to be unconscious in a hospital bed again next Thursday when a new fistula will be fashioned into my other arm and I’ll get to have the catheter removed as soon as the new fistula completely heals and toughens enough for dialysis use. That shouldn’t be much after Ground Hog Day.

Just because I was having so much fun at the hospital, last Thursday when I was preparing to return to the world of blogging, I received a call from the dialysis center. The labs drawn earlier returned with a critically low calcium level endangering my health on any number of levels and I was instructed to return again to the hospital, this time to the emergency room where orders would be waiting to repeat the test and administer IV calcium if still returning a lower than normal level. It was, they did, and I got to recline on the sixth hospital bed (but conscious for five of them!) in 11 days.

And you thought getting on a transplant list was going to be boring between the listing and the planting.

Related Posts:

Transplant Journey Posts

First Steps (Feb. 15, 2018)
The Next Step (March 15, 2018)
The Journey Continues (April 16, 2018)
More Steps (May 31, 2018)
Step 4: The List (July 12, 2018)
Step 1 Again…The Donor Perspective (Sept 6, 2018)
And The Wait Goes On (Oct. 18, 2018)

Other Related Posts

Walk This Way…or That (March 9, 2017)
Looking Good (May 18, 2017)
Technical Resistance (May 25, 2017)
Those Who Should Know Better (July 24, 2017)
Cramming for Finals (May 3, 2018)

 

 

Memorably Forgettable

Michael Leave a comment

Enquiring minds want to know. You know that’s the actual what – quote, slogan, motto? Slogan. I think most people would say “Inquiring minds want to know” and it really doesn’t matter much what those minds want because both mean essentially the same thing. Typically people inquire on this side of the Atlantic and enquire on that, assuming you’re on the same side as I am and you’re not prone to paving your speech with Anglicisms. I’m not sure exactly what they do in Canada even though they would be with me on this side.

fingersI’ve used the inquiring minds line quite often over the years although I couldn’t tell you where it came from. My first thought was E. F. Hutton but at the same time I knew that wasn’t right. If wasn’t E. F. Hutton or the recently resurrected EF Hutton. That was “When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen.” They came up with that slogan about a year before they were forced to admit to an elaborated check chaining scheme (the corporate version of passing bad checks ) right before being bought up and disappearing into the investment miasma and setting the stage for an eventual rebirth without the periods.

But I digress. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. Enquiring minds was the brainchild of the National Enquirer, the American tabloid with the British name. I suppose regular readers of the Enquirer know that but they probably don’t know that tabloid was originally a trademarked layered tablet developed by the Burroughs Welcome drug company who sued for copyright infringement but lost for a reason I was never able to discover.

Often copyrighted names get sucked into the public domain because of a lack of attention to protecting them by their respective owners. Kleenex and Tylenol are two biggies that rarely get seen with their (r) or (c) or whatever it’s supposed to be to project the fact that there are particular brands of facial tissue and acetaminophen. Dumpster, aspirin, and thermos are just three of many that have already lost their letters. Maybe that’s what happened to tabloid although I don’t see the relationship between a gossip rag and a drug delivery system. I guess some things aren’t supposed to be understood.

Like who can understand how or why certain numbers are so memorable. Some things make sense in context – four horsemen, seven seas, twelve days of Christmas. But what about 8003253535. Let me put that another way.
8-0-0    3-2-5    3-5-3-5
Add a catchy little tune and you have the first toll free 800 phone number ever featured in an advertising campaign. And it still gets you the Sheraton reservation system fifty years later even though Sheraton is now part of a more diverse corporate family.

747100While Sheraton was revealing a new way to reserve a hotel room, Boeing was introducing a new way to get there. It might not have a catchy slogan or memorable phone number (at least I don’t know that it does) but what Boeing revealed that fall in 1968 has a memorable number of its own and quite an unmistakable profile, the 747.

So thanks to Boeing more people can get from here to there without walking. For generations, people have let their fingers do the walking. That famous symbol on the cover of so many yellow pages was never trademarked, nor was the term “yellow pages” so I can print them here with impunity. As far as I’m concerned, yellow pages have it all over enquiring minds even if you don’t need them look up the number to reserve a room at the Sheraton. I wonder why nobody ever got around to protecting it.

I guess they forgot.

Let’s All Fall Back a Bit

Michael 5 Comments

This weekend Americans (and some others) go through that twice yearly madness of figuring out exactly how to open the back of the antique mantel clock or adjust the electronic version in the middle of the dash of your mid-nineties jalopy while reciting (mentally, hopefully) “spring forward, fall back” as the debate over the necessity for Daylight Saving Time and/or Standard Time plays out on the nation’s talk radio shows.

While that is going on I’d like to ask everybody to fall back just a little more than the proscribed one hour. Let’s shoot for, oh how about 60 years. That would make it 1958. The legendary ’57 Chevy Bell Air would be just a used car (and it’s Nomad counterpart a regular old (eww) station wagon, Jack Paar was hosting the Tonight Show, “It’s All in the Game” was in its 6th and final week as the Billboard #1 Single, and I was not yet allowed to cross the street by myself.

Ok, I’m not a nostalgia freak. I could really care less that Conway Twitty would wrest the top spot in the charts from Tommy Edwards next week with “It’s Only Make Believe.” (But I was pretty tickled that later on in the year The Chipmunks with David Seville would have the top selling record with their iconic Christmas song.) And 1958 had a lot going against it also. Unrest was escalating in Vietnam, the U.S. and Russia (then the USSR) were both putting the finishing touches on the first intercontinental ballistic missiles while they and Great Britain began conducting atmospheric nuclear tests, and a three year famine would begin in China ultimately taking 30 million lives.

Something that happened in 1958 that could be good or bad actually went on a little earlier than early November. September 12 actually. That’s when Jack Kilby discovered (developed? perfected? made usable?) the microchip, the heart of integrated circuitry. Because of him we have cars that can let you know when you wander out of your lane, phones we can carry around with us, computer assisted tomography that allow doctors to see inside us (that’s the CAT in CAT scan in case you – yeah, you knew, sorry), and (drum roll please) the Internet.

Most days I’m OK with the cars and the phones and even with the CAT scans. But lately I’ve been really ambivalent about this Internet thing. Of course if it wasn’t for it you’d not be able to read these ramblings, and for that you might be more grateful than I’ll ever know. But without it I’d not be able to see firsthand just how two faced, insincere, hurtful, and to be blunt, disgusting people have become. To not be exposed to such constant streams of hatred I’d gladly give up everything new from these 60 years.

It’s not been a week since eleven congregants were gunned down in a Pittsburgh synagogue. A day after that horrific occurrence a vigil was held to remember the victims and speaker after speaker including local politicians stood before the community and said hate cannot win, everybody should be and is welcome here. A day after that momentous event those same politicians were denouncing members of the opposing party, urging other politicians to stay away, and continuing to air the most vile political ads to date  while jockeying for position ahead of next Tuesday’s general election. It only took two days for politicians to revert to being their typical unsavory selves, to letting the public know how unsuitable, untrustworthy, and dishonest their opponent is and oddly saying little about themselves (or perhaps much about themselves) at the same time. With the help of the Internet and news sites’ comments areas, the followers of this party or that have marched in line spewing the insults that they’ve taken the last two years to perfect.

It’s in everybody’s best interest to live kindly and peacefully. Yes, you get to pick and choose who you are going up like just as others can decide to like to you or not. But nobody – NOBODY – has the right to hate. Lies are hate. Saying what you think people want to hear then doing the opposite is hate. Being a sheep isn’t hate but it is stupid. If we can’t rely on those we look to for leadership and guidance to take the time to demonstrate their commitment to not letting hate win, then we’re going to have to do it ourselves.

Maybe a starting point would be to spend some time face to face with your neighbor. Of course you’ll have to put down your phone to do that. Fortunately because of the efforts of Mr. Kilby, you can fit it into your pocket while taking that time.

Fall back this weekend. However far you’re comfortable going.

No Exceptions

Michael 10 Comments

NoExceptions“Love thy neighbor, no exceptions.” That’s the message in front of a church on Pittsburgh’s Mt. Washington neighborhood overlooking the downtown area. Last Saturday, in the Pittsburgh Squirrel Hill neighborhood, just a handful of miles from downtown, a man full of hate (whose name does not deserve mentioning) showed the ultimate disregard for that advice by shooting down thirteen people, eleven fatally, while they were attending services among three congregations at the Tree of Life synagogue there.

Hundreds of reports, perhaps thousands, have been filed in papers across the country and around the world and with the power of the Internet available to anyone who is reading this. I don’t need to expound on the actions of a madman. You can read all about it at your favorite news outlet. But I do want to expound on the actions of the neighbors.

Although I’ve never publicized it, you may have guessed from some posts that I am a Pittsburgher.  My torturous bend on some basic grammatical constructs might have given you a clue even though I try to be cognizant of my natural tends toward Pittsburghese. From the home of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood to “Love thy neighbors, no exceptions,” to every neighborhood in Pittsburgh being commonly referred to as a “neighborhood” (the Squirrel Hill Neighborhood, the Point Breeze Neighborhood, The Brighton Heights Neighborhood, and the other dozen or so geographic areas where clumps of people clump about their daily routines), neighborliness is second nature…no, first nature to the city, the county, in fact to the entire Greater Pittsburgh area.

Although out of town reporters referred to the shooting having taken place in the “predominantly Jewish community of Squirrel Hill,” the Squirrel Hill neighborhood is home to families of many backgrounds and many religions. Squirrel Hill is home to Jews, Catholics, Methodists, Muslims, Irish, Indian, African, Italian, Arab, rich, poor, comfortable, and just getting by. To the outside world. To themselves they are Pittsburghers. They celebrate their family holidays, they worship with their own congregations, the cook from their own heritage, but few if any take the time or use the energy to differentiate themselves from their streetmates or fellow city residents, except perhaps during high school football playoff time. The Squirrel Hill neighborhood, in fact most all local city and county and area neighborhoods are microcosms of what America wants to be. Not just the proverbial “melting pot,” but a pot where the ingredients have been stirred together and allowed their flavors to meld, like a hearty stew. That’s not local pride. That’s the truth.

A vigil was held Sunday night to remember the eleven victims of this crime of hate. A recurring theme was heard from all the speakers. Hate won’t win. But only one speaker took it an extra step. Rabbi Jeffrey Myers said, “My cup overflows with love. That’s how you defeat hate.” He told the assembled crowd and the television and radio audiences, you cannot let hate fester and grow, you must actively live love in order to defeat hate. He challenged everyone, singling out the politicians in attendance to lead the way, to avoid hateful rhetoric. “If you can’t say something nice, zip it!”

Last year after the shooting in Charlottesville, “Don’t let hate win” was the battle cry. Apparently we didn’t get it then that Rabbi Myers had to remind us now that you have to work to defeat hate. It doesn’t just happen, you have to actively love. After the Charlottesville shooting I posted:

Facebook profile pictures are sporting “We will not let hate win” banners above posts that call those who don’t agree with them “bat shit crazy.”

Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be expressing any love lately. You can’t say hate won’t win if you’re doing some of the hating.

“Let The Better Love Win” August 21, 2017

Unfortunately hate is nothing new. It goes back to Cain and Abel, mankind’s most extreme sibling rivalry. The 19th century philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said, “If a man sets out to hate all the miserable creatures he meets he will not have much energy left for anything else; whereas he can despise them one and all, with the greatest of ease.” Gee. That starts out seemingly positive. If you hate everyone you meet you’ll never get around to doing anything else. But then it takes a dark turn, just go ahead and hate everybody, it’s easier that way. Maybe it’s easiest to stick with the twentieth century philosophy of “all you need is love.”

Facebook profile pictures now sport frames spouting “Stronger Than Hate.” Maybe this time we can spout a little love to go with that. Just remember – no exceptions.

TOLSTH.png

 

Point Blank

Michael 3 Comments

Monday I picked up my daughter at the airport and I thought to myself, “Self,” I thought, “I miss traveling.” Well, really who doesn’t like exploring new places and different cultures, food from around the world, or a chance to wade out into an ocean? Travelling is right up there with food and drink on the list of necessities. And I miss those things too. But I also miss the actual work of getting from place to place. Travelling.

I know, everybody else is like, “Oh, I love to travel and if I just didn’t have to deal with the rigamarole of flying I’d love it even more.” True, most people wouldn’t say rigamarole. Or “It is so great to be able to see the country but can’t somebody else do the driving?” Cars, trains, and busses can’t escape the ardent traveler’s “what can we do to improve the experience” list. Even cruise ships can be bettered with more dinner seating or inclusive alcohol or faster port transfers. Every good time story has a “but..”

But I never minded getting from Point A to Point B even while complaining I would prefer not having to stop at Point A1 to do it. Although when I flew somewhere that required a stopover I was usually selective in choosing a way point not known for being the world’s largest airport knowing it probably did not double as the world’s greatest airport.

While other people were napping at the gates after getting there two hours before boarding, or seeing how many airport bars they can get to before said boarding, I would sit and enjoy the local accents in the bars. I would sit at the edge of the gate area and marvel at the anticipation in the faces of the youngest travelers making their way to what might be their first flight and compare that the disgust on the faces of the “professional” traveler because all the charging stations were full. While others rushed from gate to gate I watched the show from my front row seat. And when I got onto the plane if I ended up being in a last row seat, that was okay too.

BeamMeUpI recall one of the regional directors for the company I worked for saying how much he liked his job and getting to see the different cities and experiencing the local foods and sights. He really enjoyed travelling, if only he didn’t have to spend so much time travelling to get there. Duh. It wouldn’t be that exciting going from Point A to Point A. Until Samsung or Apple perfects the Star Trek transporter going places, aka travelling, is going to involve getting from place to place – aka travelling.

Even with the long security lines, unreasonable baggage fees, and really bad in flight magazines, I miss travelling. It’s really more of an adventure like that anyway. I mean, what’s more fun, trying to pack a week’s worth of clothes in a carry on and fighting for the last overhead compartment space or standing perfectly still and saying “Beam me up, Scotty?” At least now when I stop at Point A1 all of my molecules get there at the same time.

Usually.

 

 

And The Wait Goes On

Michael 6 Comments

It’s been 6 months since I wrote the first post about the kidney transplant journey I’m on. Since then a lot of tests have been performed, a lot of blood and urine analyzed, a lot of x-rays and scans shot. Three months after that first post I reported I was officially placed in the list to await a transplant and if any willing and available volunteers could be evaluated for a potential live donor transplant.

Right now we’re still waiting for donor evaluations to be completed. It seems a long time but it really isn’t. Maybe to a chameleon but not to a human type person. Not even to a human type person waiting for a kidney transplant. With the possibility of waiting up to 5 years, 6 months is nothing, just 10% actually.

But it is long enough that now I’m thinking. Not good stuff all the time. Some of it is good. It’s amazing that of my 3 closest living relatives all three are willing to put themselves through this process. Then that gets me thinking would I for them? I’m sure. What about for a more distant relative…a cousin or cousin’s offspring,? How about a really, really close friend or child of a friend? What about a not so close friend? An acquaintance? A fellow church member or coworker? Stranger? Some people have said yes to all. Altruistically, I’d like to say sure I’d say yes to all. Realistically I know I wouldn’t. But where would the line be drawn? We know intentions are always better than actions but how close are the two when the reality is losing a major organ.

My driver’s license says “Yes I’m a donor. Feel free to use me. Um, but please wait till I’m gone and the only voice I have is this little plastic card.” Would I be willing to say “yes I’m a donor” while I can still speak those words? I suppose I already have. I mean, I’ve donated blood. Does that count? Does it count if I’m a true trypanophobe, which one has to get over if one is going to survive dialysis. (By the way, numbing creams and sprays really do help if you should be interested.) But donating blood isn’t like losing a body part. Blood grows back. Sort of. Kidneys don’t. No way.

Another thought that sporadically pops into my brain is a biblical question. God fearers learn that God not man determines life, thus the opposition to euthanasia and capital punishment. But the converse never seems to be debate. Churches are a main provider of support to transplant recipients even to the point of holding fundraisers to provide financial assistance. If God, not man determines life, is a transplant a means of man extending life? Or is it maintaining life to get the recipient to what would have been the natural ultimate endpoint?

I hope all these thoughts are just my mind doing its thing to fill the void left by the manic pace I underwent doing my evaluation and testing phase and it will quiet itself as it gets used to the waiting period. Maybe after it’s had its fill of playing ‘what if’ games it will settle down and think more productive thoughts like why shouldn’t Seattle get an NHL franchise.

—–

If you’d like to re-read all the posts in this thread as well as other related posts, I’ve put links to all of them on one page. Go here, to join the journey.

Related posts

First Steps (Feb. 15, 2018)
The Next Step (March 15, 2018)
The Journey Continues (April 16, 2018)
More Steps (May 31, 2018)
Step 4: The List (July 12, 2018)
Step 1 Again…The Donor Perspective

A Clear Failure

Michael Leave a comment

I have to buy a new car. I don’t want to. Well, that’s not really true. I always want to buy a new car. Actually I always want to buy something. I get great comfort from buying things. Fortunately I have a dollar store within walking distance so I can satisfy the buying urge fairly economically but this particular buying urge isn’t just a plain, old fashioned, garden variety shopping binge. This urge, the “I want to buy a new car urge,” is strictly due to windshield streaks. I tried to clean the inside of my windshield yesterday. That was when I decided it would be easier to just buy a new car than to de-streak (un-streak?) the inside of the car windshield.

I don’t understand it. I have the patience, skill, or both to clean almost anything else from the car side windows to the refrigerator door shelves. If it’s dirty I’ll clean it. I know it’s not the most fun activity, it’s not the first thing I think of when I’m deciding what to do for a day, but cleaning is a necessary evil and is a chore I generally manage to accomplish successfully and with a minimum of drama. Except for that miserable, no good, filthy, — um, except for the inside of the car windshield. As a result, it becomes a chore I usually put off for months. Not days. Not weeks. Months.

TheSneezeI don’t understand how it gets so dirty anyway. It’s not like I walk across it. I don’t sneeze my latte foam on it like in that commercial for allergy medicine. Where does windshield grime come from? No, that’s not the question. Dirt just happens. Ask Charlie Brown’s friend Pig-Pen. The real question is what do they put on windshields that prevent the grime from being wiped off.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve used ammonia based window cleaner, vinegar based window cleaner, plain vinegar, diluted vinegar, plain water, soapy water, foamy window cleaner, even pre-soaked cleaning towelettes. I’ve wiped with cotton rags, paper towels, rubber squeegees, microfiber towels, old newspaper, blank newsprint paper, even tissue paper. Nothing works. Everything works on ever other window in the car, just not on the windshield. But why would you want that window clean anyway. It’s much more challenging to drive through bright sun or oncoming lights while looking through streaks and blotches of yuck.

Sigh. I need a new car.

Worth The Squeeze?

Michael 4 Comments

Last week had me scratching my head a bit and not due to dandruff or tiny livestock. Maybe you can help explain this.

Full pulp, some pulp, no pulp. Typically I drink Florida orange juice, not from concentrate, because I like the taste. I really mean Florida orange juice or at least juices labeled as a product of the USA and hopefully that doesn’t include California. (But that’s a different post.)

Many orange juice products also include juice from Mexico and Argentina and although I like am not anti-immigrant, I prefer those immigrants not show up in my breakfast juice glass. Really, I can pick up a difference in taste. It might not be the juice. It could other things added to it because we all know that anything that says it’s 100% of something really means “all of it give or take a little.” Anyway, my go to OJ is with the Florida labeled variety with added calcium because I can use all the help I can get and no pulp because … why. Well, what I grabbed was a carton of juice with added calcium and some pulp. Oops!

OJ.pngWhat’s the deal with pulp? Is it to make you believe you are actually sitting on a patio in Florida under the orange trees with the juicer nearby on the table still wet from a fresh squeezing? And why the different levels of pulp in the juice. Full? Some? Extra? How much is some? How much more is full? Is extra more than full? What about just “with pulp” not further specified? Is full really full if it still pours? Can I get a carton of just pulp and eat my juice in the morning? Or would that involve a trip to the produce section? Help!!!

Only orange juice puts the consumer through this selection process. Apple juice is apple juice and there’s a lot more pulp involved with those little orbs. Cranberry juice bottlers don’t ask if you want it skin or skinless. Pineapple juicers don’t give you the option of with or without core. Grapefruits are pretty much like big, tart oranges and that juice is offered as just grapefruit juice options not available.

Maybe orange juice has something to hide behind those strands of what I guess are supposed to be the stuff left over from the pressing. I’d think if there is a ounce of pulp to every glass of juice then my glass just shrunk to 7 ounces. Not cool.  How about the bottlers of my favorite breakfast juice just stick to putting juice in those bottles before I start to question whether that juice is worth that squeeze.

Thank you reading. I needed to get that off my chest. And my back teeth, too. Yuck!

 

 

Next One Up

Michael Leave a comment

Sometime last week a friend mentioned she was going to pick up a copy of the new book by the the author of her favorite book. She was pretty sure of this favorite book because the memory cells in my brain perked up at the title and recognized it as one she has previously named as her favorite book. Of course in the conversation she had to ask what is my favorite book. Umm.

For as many books as I’ve read I couldn’t come up with a favorite then. I said I’d have to think about that. I’m still thinking about that. Can I single out a favorite or are books like children? All are my favorites. My own of course. Which is easy because I have only one. Children, that is. Err, child, that is. I really have given this some thought. Every time I think of one book that I like more than another, another comes to mind that I like more than that one.

I thought some more. Some books have a personal connection. I love Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods maybe because I’ve been on the Appalachian Trail. Not all if it though so maybe that’s why I like it because I can see the parts I’ve part and the parts I haven’t. Yet it doesn’t resonate with me as much as his Neither Here Nor There and I’ve never been to Europe. Any parts of it. I just finished Larry’s Kidney: Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China With my Black Sheep Cousin and His Mail-Order Bride, Skirting the Law to Get Him a Transplant … and Save His Life by Daniel Asa Rose, a topic clearly near my heart (but lower and more toward the back and sides) and thought it was the most enjoyable memoir I ever read until I thought about Neil Simon’s Rewrites, and Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom, and Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup, and Ernest Hemingway’s  A Move able Feast, and … you get the idea.

Then I said to myself I don’t know why I’m going nonfiction. Maybe because I just finished Larry’s Kidney I had life on my mind (in more ways than one), but I’m more apt to read fiction than anything else. That’s such a broad category. Not a category really. More a phylum. Maybe even a kingdom. And that shifted my thinking so fast I almost got mental whiplash. I’m not a liberal arts guy, I’m a scientist! Shouldn’t my favorite book be scientific? Can a scientific book even be read like a book or aren’t they all just references. I checked out my bookcase and found indeed lots of references. And among them a slim volume, Laughter: The Drug of Choice by Nicholas Hoesl, given and inscribed to me by the author. I hadn’t thought of that book in years and although seeing on the shelf didn’t jog many memories of the content it did of sitting with the author and trading manic medical memories. Does that make a favorite book, a personal copy being a very personal copy?

I thought of another slim volume, recently directly received from and inscribed by the author, The Woman in the Window by W D Fyfe. If that name is familiar you may have read his blog. You should also read his book. It’s a wonderful collection of short stories, none that end like you thought they would. And that set me off in another direction. Modern fiction.

LibraryTruth be told my most enjoyable reading comes from modern fiction. Not “literature.” Mystery, murder, intrigue, spying. My favorites authors are people like Sue Grafton, Lawrence Block, Lawrence Sanders, and Jonathan Kellerman who write books that never ended like you first (and sometimes second and third) thought they would. Could I find my favorite book amount those? Or do I go back a generation and consider a book famous for not ending as even the author thought, The Big Sleep? True. While working on the screenplay for the movie version, William Faulkner and Leigh Brackett couldn’t figure who murdered a particular character. They phoned Raymond Chandler, who said the answer was right there in his book. Later he returned their call to say he couldn’t figure out who killed that character either. Now there’s a whodunit!

Speaking of Faulkner, the Nobel, Pulitzer, and National Book Awards winner who I better know for his screenplays than his novels although his short story “A Rose for Emily” is a favorite. But is it the favorite?

Since we’re into more classics what about some of the classical classics? I have actually read the Divine Comedy (probably taking longer than Dante took to write it) and Don Quixote (definitely taking longer than Cervantes took to write it). I am glad I did but I wouldn’t go back and reread them. Still… Closer to our time I also can put Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in my “have read and enjoyed” list although I more enjoyed Alexander Dumas’ The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo. I suppose even in the 19th century my tastes run more to adventure. How adventurous does a favorite book have to be?

What about the works too long to be a short story but too short to be a novel. When I was working these were often my go to readers. A full shelf is devoted to the novella from Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s to Grisham’s Playing for Pizza. So is there a favorite among these? I really just don’t know.

What about the books I didn’t read but we’re read to me before I even knew that if enough words are put together in a particular order, they can hold such a power over me as to make me wonder some day what particular set of them might be my favorite. I’m sure I once counted Pat the Bunny by Dorothy Kunhardt as my favorite book, way back before I could count. Should it not be at least a favorite now?

I just don’t think I can come up with a favorite book. If I did I’d just be in danger of having it replaced by a new favorite whenever I read, reread, or remember something at a newer given time. I think instead my favorite book might be whatever one I’m reading now. Or maybe the one I just finished. Or better still, the next one up.

 

 

Learning Life, Again

Michael Leave a comment

It will be hockey nights in just a couple more. NHL hockey returns October 3. In recognition of this momentous occasion I’m repeating one of my favorite posts, “Everything I Know About Being a Gentleman I Learned From Hockey.” Why? Because everything I learned about being a gentleman I learned from hockey, that’s why. If only politicians watched more hockey.

So, from November 2016, I give you…

When I was at the hockey game this weekend I got to thinking how much as a society we can learn from hockey. Yes, the sport that is the butt of the joke “I went to a fight last night and a hockey game broke out,” is the same sport that can be our pattern for good behavior.

Stay with me for a minute or two and think about this. It started at the singing of the national anthem. I’ve been to many hockey, baseball, football, and soccer games. Only at the hockey games have I ever been in an arena filled with people actually singing along. Only at the hockey games are all of the players reverent to the tradition of honoring the country where they just happen to be playing even though they come from around the world – Canada, Russia, Germany, Sweden, Finland, even a few Americans.

A decent dose of nationalism notwithstanding, hockey has much to offer the gentility. Even those fights. Or rather any infraction. If a player breaks the rules he is personally penalized for it. Ground isn’t given or relinquished like on a battlefield, free throws or kicks aren’t awarded to the aggrieved party like victors in a tort battle. Nope, if you do something wrong you pay the consequences and are removed from play for a specified period in segregation from the rest of your teammates. No challenges, no arguments, no time off for good behavior. Do the crime. Pay the time. In the penalty box. Try doing that to a school child who bullies and you’ll have some civil liberty group claiming you’re hurting the bully by singling him out.

Hockey is good at singling out people but in a good way. At last Saturday’s game the opposing team has two members who had previously played for the home team. During a short break in the action a short montage of those two players was shown on the scoreboard screens and they were welcomed back by the PA announcer. And were cheered and applauded by the fans in attendance. There weren’t seen as “the enemy.” Rather they were friends who had moved away to take another job and were greeted as friends back for a day.

While play is going on in a hockey game play goes on in a hockey game. Only if the puck is shot outside the playing ice, at a rules infraction, or after a goal is scored does play stop. Otherwise, the clock keeps moving and play continues. Much like life. If you’re lucky you might get to ask for one time out but mostly you’re at the mercy of the march of time. Play begins. After a while play ends. If you play well between them, you’ll be ok.

The point of hockey is to score goals. Sometimes goals are scored ridiculously easily, sometimes goals seem to be scored only because of divine intervention. Most times, goals are a result of working together, paying attention to details, and wanting to score more than the opposing team wants to stop you from scoring. There is no rule that says after one team scores the other team gets to try. It all goes back to center ice and starts out with a random drop of the puck. If the team that just scored controls the puck and immediately scores again, oh well.

Since we’re talking about scoring, the rules of hockey recognize that it takes more than an individual to score goals. Hockey is the only sport where players are equally recognized not just for scoring goals but for assisting others who score goals. Maybe you should remember that the next time someone at work says you’ve done a good job.

handshakeThe ultimate good job is winning the championship. The NHL hockey championship tournament is a grueling event. After an 82 game regular season, the top 16 teams (8 from each conference) play a four round best of seven elimination tournament. It takes twenty winning games to win the championship. That’s nearly 25% as long as the regular season. It could take as long as 28 games to play to the finish. That’s like playing another third of a season. After each round only one team moves on. And for each round, every year, for as many years as the tournament has ever been played, and for as many years as the tournament will ever be played, when that one team wins that fourth game and is ready to move on, they and the team whose season has ended meet at center ice and every player on each team shakes the hand of his opponent player and coach, wishing them well as they move on and thanking them for a game well played. No gloating. No whining. No whimpering. Only accepting.

So you go to a fight and a hockey game breaks out. It could be a lot worse.