Pathology report

Just a short note for now:

Of the three polyps removed from my gut two were benign, everything is cool for another year. The gastroenterologist mentioned that I have a propensity for growing these things, some people are good at one thing, some at another.

The question is do I take the day off work to celebrate, or do I just get on with life, another milestone passed, many more ahead.

Cooking for one: salmon steaks

I had intended to write about how I cook fish, but I have changed my mind.

It is Friday, the pathologist’s report on my polyps is due today; the previous two annual reports said that the majority of the polyps removed were either precancerous or malignant, today I have difficulty thinking of anything but this.

I’ll wait until 11, I’ll call him then.

What I am having difficulty getting my head around is that these people are good, have been on top of the problem from the beginning; everyone is going to have something happen, it is good to have people who will take care of it as soon as possible. So I am in good hands-right? It is just the way that I handle anticipation that makes me anxious this morning.

I was without health insurance for about a dozen years, when I turned 65 I was eligible for Medicare and also bought the Blue Cross Supplement; after badgering my then internist he finally ordered a gut exam, that began with a barium enema, then a cat scan and then a colonoscopy, that is when they found the 2 cm. polyps, big ones, and cut all the bad shit out. Good. I promptly fired my internist, asked around to come up with the deputy chief of internal medicine at a teaching hospital, very good.

To get back to the beginning: I was going to write about salmon steaks with baby spinach, fingerling potatoes in olive oil with parsley and fresh garlic; that is what I was going to describe in case someone would like to hear how an ex-cook makes dinner. I have become a fan of fingerling potatoes, their shape and size means that they are cooked quickly and evenly, and they have great flavor. I put the salmon and spinach on a pool of Chipotle sauce, a nice smoky flavor.

A big bird has just landed, all sparrows are gone. Its back is brown with white dime-size spots. A long black blade like tail. The bill is short and stubby, I think. This is one strange bird, the size of a crow. The colors are what gives it the unusual look, I see now that the wings are covered with the white spots as well. I suppose it could be a large pigeon, but it has an erect posture different from a pigeon, it sits tall, swiveling its neck around it is now looking at me through the window, their is a white ring around the collar. A white belly, with long shaggy feathers–am I looking at a hawk? Now I wish that I had taken the window screen off, and maybe even washed the windows, the oblique angle of the sun brings up all the dust and screens my view.

The sparrows are not waiting in the bushes for this guy to leave, they exited the area completely.

He has taken my mind off what it was; those long white breast feathers can be seen in profile, waving in the wind.

When he or she flies I’ll know more from the shape of the wings and spread tail, for now it is the spooky bird on the branch of the apple tree. He went— went fast, couldn’t see much.

Now I understand what it is that gets into bird watchers, that was a special sight.

Its an hour and twenty minutes before eleven, maybe I’ll call early, they gave me no time when results would be ready. I have put on the Brandenburg Concertos with Yehudi Menuhin, Bach is good medicine for whatever is wrong.

The experience

Yesterday I had a colonoscopy: The event started the day before that with the “emptying and washing of the bowels”, somewhere in the literature it says just that perfect explanation of what it is about. I could write the details of it but I think that I won’t.

Everything was early yesterday; I awoke at about four, the alarm had been set for half past seven, after laying there and fidgeting for an hour I got up to a morning where I couldn’t do anything; no coffee, no cereal, no fruit, and lots of time to do none of those things in. I needed some cash and was going to walk about half a mile to my bank, save the service charge and get a little exercise, but it wasn’t long before I realized that I had better not stray too far from the porcelain, there was some residual rinse water that needed to come out. Eventually I went to the ATM at the corner supermarket, paid the two dollar service charge, and in the process realized that it was a cold morning, my ears were tingling and I felt chilly, I hadn’t had solid food in about forty hours and I felt the absence .

There was no sense hanging around home, dithering is the right word here; I was going to treat myself to a taxi even though the bus would have taken me right to the hospital door, sometimes a treat is appropriate. The driver was a Romanian with dyed hair, sometime I should write about guys dying their hair, he talked all the way down, talked at me not with me, he reminded me of the sparrows who chatter and bicker in order to have the full feeding experience.

The G. I. Department is on the fourth floor, signs directed me to the check-in area; I stood at the desk, beside another couple, looking around to see if I remembered anything about the place; “sir, please go back and stand between the two tapes, I will call you over when I have finished with my current patients”, chastened I retreated to the area between the two tapes. She did call me over precisely four seconds after dismissing the couple before me, she said her piece, pointed out where I was to sign, tut-tutted that the form sent to me did not actually have my name filled in by whoever sent it, I signed, initialed, listened, nodded, took my buzzer and sat down. The receptionists act was not unappreciated by my fellow waiters, there was a man smiling behind his paper, a woman rolling her eyes and nodding to another as yet another couple was chastened to “wait between the lines until I call you over”, it reminded me of Miss Coulter in the fourth grade, she gave me the strap twice that year. I had barely opened my paper when my buzzer went off, surely it was a mistake, I was forty minutes early.

It turned out that the patient before me didn’t show up, so I was to go directly in and be made ready; two hospital gowns that I never did manage to tie correctly, an I. V. valve put into the top of my hand, I was walked to the examination room. Right ahead of me, at the end of the bed was the closet holding the black snakes, they hung head down waiting to be chosen, I made some comment about “the black snakes” and the closet door was pulled down. Connecting me was the work of two women who worked quickly and courteously, this was some smooth operation they had going here. The doctor came in, looking that plucked chicken look that they have in their scrubs, he gave me his speech, statistics of perforation, and some other potential problem was mentioned that I don’t remember, he told the nurse to start me with, and he gave two numbers.

Next I was told to roll on my back so that they could disconnect the tubes, the wires, make me ready for recovery—the whole thing was over, the doctor was gone, I was to be recovered.

Juiced, graham-crackered, I recovered enough in an hour to be able to dress myself, sign more papers and be walked down to the transportation area in the main lobby, there a bus that would take me home.

I had had five polyps, small ones, “like pimples” the nurse said, and now they were gone and I was to call the doctor on Friday for the pathology report. Now I could continue with my life.

This morning I woke up and realized that I was pissed off, felt frustrated and angry, how come? At first there was nothing that I could come up with that could make me angry, the finding of a few tiny polyps was pretty good compared to the two previous years, whatever they found would be too young to be dangerous, the process was smooth and far quicker than ever, I had had no discomfort at all. I had walked out of there my morning paper still unread; why was I pissed off?

Is it childish to be angry that I wasn’t allowed the experience? Previously I had watched the real-time video of the journey up my back channel, had talked to the doctor about this and that, asked questions as I thought of them, watched everyone as they did their tasks. This time it was far more efficient, quick and yet courteous, nothing whatsoever overlooked, but I had been expecting the full ride, sights, sounds, commentary, stories to tell, that is what was missing. Is it childish to want the experience?

I fill the bird feeder for the experience of watching them, waiting for them, observing how they go about their bird life. I will walk up to the video store instead of going to the big chain place because I will hear how Dave’s new girlfriend is working out, what things are going on in the neighborhood, benefit by walking the mile. I drink very good, strongly brewed coffee because I like all that that is about.

A chauffeured Town Car or limousine is about eliminating experience, passengers are muffled in padded black leather, behind tinted windows, doors are opened and closed for them, they experience little, and they pay a lot of money to be denied experience. There is the paradox.

I have had the best medical care there is, done in a major teaching hospital, by people who have perfected what they do, there is absolutely nothing for me to complain about, nothing that should be done differently in future. And yet I was angry that I was denied the experience.

I volunteer to sit with people who are dying, I do this for the experience of it; I can and will in future describe this experience in its changing way, it is alway for the experience of it. Without experiencing what is there, what can I know, what can I learn, what can I transcend? I write this weblog for the experience of doing it, this is what I am about. Experiencing is the process of living, I want all of it, every fucking drop of it.

The new bird feeder

The new feeder has been up for about six days now, it is different in that there is a central feeding tube enclosed by a wire sphere, the idea of which is to keep the dreaded squirrels from eating. I have never understood the prejudice against squirrels by those of us who go out of our way to feed birds, I just know that I share that prejudice. It has taken until now for the sparrows to know that there is food for them if they would just go through the gaps, first there was one that they all watched, then there was flocking.

The birds are sparrows, two or three weeks ago a male cardinal dropped by for a short visit; about ten are at the feeder now, perhaps twice that many sitting on branches and twigs nearby. The temperature is in the low 20’s, their feathers are fluffed, making shapes that resemble eggs than sleek racers, a couple of dozen brown eggs sitting in the bushes.

I have a mug of coffee, am sitting at the window, the computer is humming, there is no rush to go out this morning, no urgency. Usually I would eat an orange or squeeze juice, today it is apple juice and black coffee, for lunch and dinner I can choose between beef bouillon or chicken consommé, desert can be a hard candy if it is not colored. Nothing at all after 5 p. m., nothing but the gallon of laxative to be taken within that hour. My bowels are being emptied and washed, tomorrow will be another chapter of The Magnificent Voyage up my ass. The last two voyages were “interesting”, my hope is that this one will be uneventful to the extent of boredom. I do get to watch the trip on a video screen, except for the parts when I nap, when the periscope goes around a corner, the doctor dials me asleep for that maneuver, it is when the gadget is forced around a curve that it is better to be asleep.

If they find anything there will come the wait for pathology to look at the treasure, that is when I find it difficult to focus on anything but the waiting, usually 4 days.

The birds have all left the feeder, not flown away, just left the feeder and are sitting in the bushes, motionless, waiting; who knows why they occasionally do that, there is no question but that they will return and feed again.

This is the mid point of January, a couple or three weeks of real cold can be expected, and then there will be the change, notched jumps of rising temperatures , occasional blasts of zero, but the slope will be positive. The people who publish gardening catalogs have a mailing date in view, ready with promises of fat, red tomatoes for people in bulky sweaters and dripping noses.

It’d be a good day to visit Bert in the nursing home, it certainly diverts attention from my uncomfortable day, and that is all that my day is, Bert’s is different, Bert is at the edge of it all, I am having an uncomfortable day or two, nothing more.

The birds have returned, eating and squabbling.

Nothing big today

I ordinarily write this thing early in the morning, but there was nothing special today.

I bought a new bird feeder, am waiting for the birds to recognize it.

I knew what was in the newspaper, learned everything the  night before.

Had said everything I know to say so far about the spiritual experience.

Have the date for my annual colonoscopy, next Tuesday.

The combination of these things has stopped me in my tracks, there can’t be anything new to an existentialist until everything catches up. Let me try to phrase this another way.

There are all sorts of things going on in one’s life, from the most mundane first piss in the morning to that of letting the mind approach what is divine; in between are the housekeeping chores that need doing regularly, earning money to pay for ‘putting beans on the table’, having fun in order to ease the tensions; and then there is the upcoming periscope exploration of my gut, something that was just an annual event, until it became something different. Two years ago they found that the expectedly benign polyps were not, that the one in a thousand chance became one in one; and the next year they found the same, the polyps were cancerous, an aggressive cancer. Each time the area was cleared and declared safe for the processing of shit, but it has changed my expectations.

Now is a time to test how well my mindfulness exercises work, how secure I am in whatever spiritual knowledge I have gained, to add another thread of connection to Bert who is dying of colon cancer that has metastasized. It was at 4 a. m. this morning that all came together to scare me.

A couple of days ago I wrote that I was sad, today I am scared.  It isn’t easy to put the word ’scared’ down here and then prepare to push the ‘Publish’ button, it just isn’t done.  The major part of being an existentialist-guy is to fully experience every aspect of what is, to exhaust the sap of each moment, leave it dry so that the next can be tasted.  Just as the sadness came and went so will this fear go, not for about a week or more, but it will pass through, it will pass through completely because I won’t cause any of it to stick behind due to denial.  This whole business has a wonderful analogy when I watch the video screen of the colonoscopy procedure, do it completely and then go on to whatever is next.

My gastroenterologist  likes to tell me that there are more nerve endings in the gut than in the spinal column, that there is a great system that keeps everything moving through, and doing it completely and continually; I think that he must be writing a paper on the subject.

On another note I know the date of the next meeting for bereaving children and widowed; this will be the third time I attend, what my role will be, can be, for these people these situations isn’t yet defined, there will be something that I can bring to the party, something about having been through the process, something about not having support or guidance and so knowing the value of it for others–for the time being I am just present and waiting.

Being present and waiting is a good way to be.