David Letterman, a public man

DAVID LETTERMAN

Last night I watched a very public man do what men should do when they go along the wrong way, he did what so few public people ever do; he had made errors, he admitted them without excuse, he stopped someone else from taking advantage of his mistakes, and is now focusing on what he can to protect all that he loves in life.

The list of public people who give in to the knee-jerk reaction of denying and lying is a long one, one that has grown continually for decades; the actions of people who ignore the truth that they are responsible. We are all responsible, we all occasionally go down a regrettable path; and then we are similarly responsible for doing what we can to make amends. Letterman has done all that, he has not asked for pity or special favor; he is paying a price now and will to pay more in the future, perhaps a long future.

That some people will feel the need to throw ashes on his head makes me ask how they have responded when they did something wrong; remember that no one has never made a misstep or two, that is how we learn, that is what we are about, it is how a man responds that shows how real qualities of character.

How do you and I respond when we do something wrong? The answer is what is relevant and important here.

A cause of fibromyalgia

FIBROMYALGIA, HOW COME?

My fibromyalgia has returned with the vengeance that only those who have known this beast can appreciate. For about a year I had about forgotten that I had been under the control of this fiend for three decades; the Cymbalta was working like a charm, I assumed that there is a silver bullet, I had found it. I wrote several posts about how peace had finally come to my universe, I stopped writing because it was repetitive, there was nothing new to say.

Recently the nasty one has slunk out of the woods and sank his fangs into all the parts of my body; the wounds seemed slight, reaction to a new exercise program, a hamstring that I must have overstretched or somehow damaged. As the pain grew worse I checked with the people at the Chronic Pain Clinic who couldn’t think of anything different to do other than perhaps increasing the amount of Cymbalta. The pain led to fatigue that led to excessive worry about my recent heart situation; and so I began a series of tests which showed almost nothing except for apnea, which is now being managed pretty well thank you. The future was to either crawl into my hole and feel sorry for myself, a procedure that is not unfamiliar; or make a different noise about what is going on with this attack. Messages were sent to various people in white coats over at the Great Hospital by The Lake, allusions to the Baron Münchhausen were included, dramatic appeals to look at this differently than before were made.

There will be a gap here because testing, hearing results, passing to the next specialist, retelling the old story—that part doesn’t need repeating to those of you who have learned it well.

I finally braced my internist to examine what is going on right now with an eye to a million dollars worth of testing or to go home and live with it. Out of the conversation was his observation that there can be a cyclical nature to bouts of FM, had I noticed that, had anything big happened just about the time of this latest flare? There didn’t seem to be anything until I threw out my last comment about a family situation that had made the holidays the most painful of my life, but that it wasn’t a new situation and certainly had no physical aspect. When did the latest bout of FM begin? When did it become severe? The answer to both coincided with another family anniversary that also connected to the Christmas situation.

That was a day ago, in the time since I have been able to remember other instances and other flaring of the FM. The instances where I never had the courage to admit the pain caused by the rejection of almost everything I hold important, these things were too big to be expressed and just had to be endured, my cross to bear.

Needless to say I think we are on to something here, I can feel that release of tension and return of the easiness of understanding that comes at times like this. It certainly isn’t over yet but the beast has a vulnerable area and my knife is pushing deeply.

The internist suggested that on this blog I ask others if they had circumstances that might be coincidental, trauma of various kinds, patterns of recurrences such as anniversaries or reaction to events; any difficult situations that were too painful to express fully.

If you respond to this know that I don’t want to know personal details that might embarrass or identify you, you can send me private responses if you wish. I will merely pass the information along to the white coated guy who sparked this, to see if we can find some way to help others. If I have missed any comments about confidential matters or professional guides please let me know; I ain’t in the medical profession, I am not interested in passing along or even knowing your private events, just if you had them and could they have preceded a flaring of fibromyalgia?

A Few Health Comments

A FEW HEALTH COMMENTS

A few minutes ago I searched this site for sleep apnea & cpap with few results; a couple of people complaining about having apnea, a technician explaining how sleep trials are done, a few people peddling whatever they can and are allowed. I am surprised by how few posts there are on this subject; I read this morning that 60% of diabetes sufferers probably have apnea as well; personal experience taught me that a good night’s sleep is essential in managing fibromyalgia; depression is influenced by fatigue from lack of sleep; most recently I found that heart failure, mine, probably is associated with apnea. Those are four big areas of health, I don’t know what these ailments cost but it has to be in the billions every year. There is the always present quality of life which cannot be measured so clearly.

This is what started me writing this post: I have had depression for the first sixty years of life; I had fibromyalgia for the last three decades; I am borderline diabetic; I was recently surprised by the onset of heart failure and a. fib.; recently came severe apnea.

My previous posts tell more than anyone would want to know about my depression and what I do to manage it. There are a few posts that describe how fibromyalgia is controlled with the help of the Chronic Pain Clinic at RIC; there are more posts on the heart business than can be of interest to anyone but myself; and now the apnea has been diagnosed and is being managed, 40 awakenings per hour are coming under control.

That all of these ailments and all of the managing methods are connected is obvious; that the sleep problems are common to all of them is known. In my happiness over the management of sleep problems I imagined that everyone in the world should be tested; a fantasy because not everyone wants to explore the ways that may make them feel better. It isn’t just men who avoid feeling right, there are a fair number of self-absorbed neurotic women who won’t search beyond their prejudices (herbals &c.).

I don’t expect anyone will change the way they handle their life because of my haranguing, and yet I do continue to nag every now and again. So many people might have better lives than they have if they had the courage to go at what is hurting them, spiritually, physically and psychologically.

I have known more than a few who have died through avoidance, died unnecessarily, and there will be so many more in the future. But damn it, I am not going to live a miserable life if I can help it.

A NEW ATTITUDE

A NEW ATTITUDE

I had thought for quite a while now that there is nothing new in the area of feelings and attitudes, now I am not so sure that what I knew to be true is so. Here is what has happened so far:

Until about two weeks ago it looked as if I could expect to live another three or four years; this is from the statistics for people who have what I have, and is a number not too far from the average expectancy for all men in this country. I am well aware that these statistics imply and I intend to do anything that I can to come out on the far side of that bell-curve; I also found the study that found people with heart failure often over estimate how long they have to go. I had asked a few medical people, found more than a few articles online that all said about the same thing. My chore had been to get my head around that notion, to accept what was and then to get on with my life.

As I wrote a week or so ago I had an appointment with someone who discovered that I have severe apnea, but that with treatment I can expect to add perhaps four years to this cruise that I am on. And one other thing, he now has probable cause for something that I had been told many times was idiopathic. Treatable and redeeming–quantity and quality.

In effect I have just have just been offered a doubling of my expectancy; this idea is taking a while to root in my cranium and germinate, but it will. There are events and situations all through life that cause feelings and attitudes; except that this business is different, what I am feeling and how I am seeing the world is not quite like any I have ever experienced. I am not ready to say that this is unique, it might just be a variation on one or more, I just can’t say yet.

Obviously I am happy with the news, I have long ago discarded any wish to be dead notions; have reached the conclusion that whatever pains and discomfort come along, no matter how intense, they cannot overwhelm that of being, of becoming. This new thing is a testimony to perseverance, to scratching at the tunnel face until the gold vein is completely discovered; and for that I am relieved, perhaps more than a bit smug. This that I have just received is a gift, more to God than from; but it is such an overwhelming gift that no words are appropriate. Perhaps it would be as if someone gave me a new car–then I see that it is a brand-new Rolls convertible; what the hell do you do with such a thing! A great problem to work at as I go on.

I may write more about this as I figure it out and believe it would be of interest to someone, anyone else. Let me add one more thing: To say that this is more a gift to God than from God is because I know that without man God is irrelevant; He is what we are about, that makes us what we are.

Navigation instructions

Looking over the rows and rows of newspaper headlines that are available on-line every morning I listen to what the voice inside of me is whispering because it sees faster, analyzes quicker, connects what is going on with the appropriate emotional hues; all combine as my attitude of reality.

This morning I pick the glimmers that rise above dark and deep seas, I search the thousand shades of darkest grays to spot the hint of light coming through the clouds. Carefully watching the surface to see the cat’s paws generated by slight indications of welcome wind that will drive me forward.

It is not that I ignore the dark, deny the doldrums, and overlook the shoals that run under my keel; it is important to note each and every danger, but I choose the positive signs because they give me measure of my way forward. We can only sail on the sea that surrounds and supports us, we can only sit still or move forward; there is no way that going backward over a route already finished will happen–no way.

So as the lookout reports a possible deepening channel ahead, a fresh puff of air, and sighting a guide star I can plan the day’s course and predict the length of this run.

Another gray day

A gray morning following the gray day of Thursday, the forecast for today is gray; does this morning reflect a mood or does it cause it?

If the day was bright and warm, if birds were singing and people were out and around, doing spring things in the warm sunlight; if that was the day would a mood be different?

Both of the above are examples of my superficial mood, one that has no more substance than the underwear I put on today and the underwear I put on yesterday, or that I will put on tomorrow. I have automatically put on the mood of this gray, cold morning, I have let what is there determine what is here. I have forgotten earlier comments about the depth and layers of our being, that I am more than the superficial and shallow; when perhaps I am not so much.

There is nothing going on right now that is bright, nothing that will bring excitement or surprise; isn’t that the definition of a ‘gray day’?

I know that what I have just written is wrong. We are in a gray time, the only brightness in the sky comes from fireworks that last ten seconds before becoming a wisp of dirty smoke. The forecast doesn’t have promise, and that’s the way it is. Perhaps here is an opportunity to see the difference between a series of gray days and the defeat of depression; a chance to realize again that we are more than bright days and sunny beaches, that we have always been more than that.

I hope that beautiful weather will come soon, no one will enjoy being out in it more than I will; but if it doesn’t come soon or at all we will not be changed, the only difference will be putting on long winter underwear or light and roomy boxer shorts. Nothing more important than that.

Optimism or Hope

I had hoped for an early release from work yesterday, one order inbound from O’Hare was all they had for me. The weather was just right; a temperature just above freezing the snow melts gradually, the sewers handle the runoff without flooding, in a couple of day it would all be gone. I’d do this one run and then be home early, perhaps Masterpiece Theater had something good, and I heard rumor that there was a ball game that would keep many at home.

To make the everything easier, there would be a greeter on the order, Tariq would meet the passengers and assist with their luggage. The flight was two hours late. There was eight pieces of luggage, including one of those fold-em-up strollers, three bags that took two of us to lift; as I started down to the lower level of the terminal a few flakes of snow were falling. It took three adults to figure out how to put the luggage in the car, I could barely see the right rear view mirror for the monster bag that sat in the front seat, the stroller carrier bag sat in front of the grandmother in the backseat, the infant seat was one of those rear-facing type that was somehow set in front of the rear seat (I never did figure that one out.) All the time the women were going on about why I wasn’t in a bigger vehicle; why hadn’t someone met them at the gate, she was an actress don’t you know? was I a safe driver? would I keep the baby from being killed? would the trip take long?

And so we set off; as we exited the terminal it was obvious that we were in the midst of a snow shower, it was coming down pretty good, the four lane highway was a wide band of white with the brown streaks of previous tires. There was a wailing from the back seat: What was going on? Why was this happening to me? Are you really a safe driver? Would the trip take long? (and as was to be apparent shortly, the baby had just loaded its diaper). It seemed to take forever, one would croon to the by now cranky baby, one would be on the cell phone describing the worst snowstorm imaginable, and why isn’t she shooting in Hawaii instead?

It was one of those trips where, if everyone drives slowly and carefully, with plenty of space between vehicles, all will go well, and in actuality it did go safely; there were a few cowboys out there displaying their ability to go fast under these conditions, faster than everyone else, displaying their ability to change lanes even though the lanes couldn’t be distinguished; the temperature was just at freezing, when there is that mixture of ice, snow and water, that most dangerous combination; the car kept wanting to go broadways down the JFK, the anti-skid light was on for much of the trip.

About two-thirds of the way in it was obvious that the baby had made a deposit, there was a phone call to the home state regarding this, a suggestion that I pull over to let someone change the Pampers, I breathed through my mouth and kept going, no one was going to interrupt this trip now. And then my dispatcher wanted to talk: as a rule I do not talk on the radio when there is a passenger in the car, last night that rule was gold plated and mounted in granite; after the third attempt to find out if I could finish the trip quickly and be back at the airport within an hour I hung up on him….. (The image of us pulling over to the side of this highway in order that someone can dig a diaper out of the luggage, change the baby; and then I would try to get back into traffic—all without anyone being killed; that image scared the hell out of me, no we were not stopping, nor answering an ignorant dispatcher.)

There was no doorman, no bellman, no hotel, this was an apartment building that the company was using for their stay. This morning my back is sore from having to wrestle the bags out of the car, through the door, on and off of a cart alone; it is going to be one of those days when one lays down carefully, sits in chairs with stiff backs, and relives the adventure that came without notice. I have not mentioned the actress’ name, if I did you wouldn’t know it, nobody in the office did, there is a something about her on Google, yet she wanted to know why she couldn’t have special treatment at O’Hare.

The major airlines have offices of special-services, that can take people from an airplane to the curb through a devious underground route; my last passenger that used the service was Lily Tomlin, my passenger was no Ms. Lily Tomlin, in any respect.)

I hoped for an early night on my first day back to work; I expected dry pavement, an easy trip, perhaps an interesting conversation with an actress; instead, I had a tough one:– tension , poop, entitlement; but that’s the way the trip goes sometimes.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to write this morning, couldn’t see why my little saga would be of interest to anyone else, and it might not be interesting to anyone but me; the thing is over except for the sore back and the chance to write this story.

I hoped for a smooth passage, instead had a difficult one; isn’t that the way of all of our voyages?

The car needed special interior treatment back at the garage, the car-washer, Donald, knew just what to do to overcome the special odor of baby-shit; I went home and had a beer.

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I want to pass along something good that I saw television late last night: PBS has a a series of foreign mystery films, it was on one of the sub-channels available on HDTV; the one on Thomas Mann is worth watching, even with subtitles; the mix of actors and still-living family members, the exploration of seduction, ambiguous sexuality, avant-garde clubs in Berlin, the smothering by the Nazis. The whole thing kept me riveted to the end, a completely unexpected treat.

And that’s the way it goes.

It is 0° and breezy

I recently remembered that I know how to make ° £ € ¿ on this keyboard, the upside down question mark is one that I’d like to find occasion to use, but this may be the only occasion.

Our focus was on the possibility that it would get to 50°, which it did, and to ignore the next paragraph of the prediction; it decreased 50° from late afternoon to about midnight yesterday, and dropped about an inch of fresh snow. So what’s the big deal, it is the last week in January in Chicago? (I was looking for an appropriate character to end that sentence, maybe I should have used ð) I hadn’t put away my heavy Irish sweater, the big leather coat sits where it did, there is nothing of concern other than I liked the warmer weather, didn’t want winter to return. But it is here.

Yesterday I wrote a first explanation of something that has been bugging me for longer than I knew, has been at the back of my mind from the start; that first attempt is awful, I want to erase it, never bring up the subject again. And I didn’t want winter to return.

I won’t erase the question I wrote, I would not write it that way again, have felt my error for the day since I did, it was as if I had constipation, when getting anything at all out is a start. I have an idea now how to go on with my exploration, and where to do it: WordPress has a Pages area that I have used before for things that are not daily, I have some things over there, no one ever reads that stuff, I’ll be safe experimenting over there.

When I wrote that Google had only 3 hits from my query I knew I was in empty territory; all along I have been saying that inner exploration gives access to a complete library, it is true. Is there a better thing for a person to do than explore a really difficult problem, not give in to the trite that is offered? This continues to be a difficult notion to get across, people drift to magic, where pre-destination, outside spirits, the ability to see the future dwell, but that wishful thinking never brings up anything nutritious, it is cud chewing at best.

So that is what I will do about that, the special thing that makes us us is going to be examined over there.

There is sun in a clear blue sky, chimney steam is pushed to the east in the breeze that is predicted to gust to 30 mph; the sparrows are not as numerous as before, they come and go in waves, but they always come back for food. I haven’t seen my big bird in about a week, someone suggested that it might be a buzzard, they are common in the suburbs; I do remember that I saw the wingtip feathers spread in finger formation when it flew away, I think that buzzards are one of the birds who show spread finger wingtips at low speed. I’ll have to focus on the neck if it returns; but it has always been backlit, seen in contrast, never a clear, lighted sight.

I went to see Bert in the home yesterday, was surprised to see that it had been 2 weeks since my last visit, sometimes this is a tough thing to do. When I started visiting him in the autumn he was noisy, had idée fixe that was frustrating to be around; recently he is calm, has snippets of conversation that require little or no memory, his speech is clear and vocabulary seems alright. I gently probe the floor nurse about his condition, am given ‘oh, he’s doing fine, doing fine’ in the same studied way; perhaps there has been a problem with the confidentiality thing, I don’t push it beyond the gentle inquiry.

I really don’t care what his medical condition is: I am just there for that time, Bert is only in this time, what he accomplished or didn’t is irrelevant now, what is coming next week or month is irrelevant now, what is relevant is the big smile I get when I say ‘how are you doing old friend?’ That is all that any one human can do for another human being ‘how are you doing old friend?’

Bert can’t remember my first name, has never been told my last name, can’t remember if I had ever visited him, he does recall my face from somewhere; I have printed out the Auden poem The More Loving One and keep it pinned to the wall above my desk; there is a sentence that alway resonates:

If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.

I can’t say that my friendship with Bert is stronger than his for me, it really doesn’t matter which is which now.

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The feeder has about 2 inches of seed in it, about enough for today; I want that bottom seed to be eaten, don’t want it to get wet and moldy.

Winter storm in Chicago

This morning the temperature is a few degrees above freezing, the rain comes down instead of snow or sleet, the sidewalks have slush but not too much ice on them; not such a bad day for a long walk.  The bird feeder must be frozen or clogged again this morning, I can hear birds nearby, but none at the feeder.

The freezing rain and the anticipation of that iciness slows activities, makes one appreciate being inside and warm, more staring out the window than is usual.

I did make a trip out to the nursing home yesterday, it had been a week since I last saw Bert, at that time he was caught in a cycle of incoherency, it was impossible to reach him; yesterday was different, he was talking with another patient when I arrived, he recognized my face, no memory of my name, said that he remembered me from the past, and that this was the first time I had visited him in the home.  He was in a friendly mood. My visit was cut short when someone came to take him down to the dentist, his dentures need to be relined to fit his shrunken mouth.

I have no academic knowledge of dementia, what I know is from visits and the occasional comments of health care workers; with Bert there are cycles of clarity with no short term memory and then periods where he is fixed on an idea, locked in a circular effort of attention, when reaching him is impossible.  Instead of being alternatively frustrated or thankful when visiting I think that it is better to accept how he is, be friendly, listen to make sure that he isn’t trying to communicate, and know that I can return another time.

There are dozens of birds sitting in the yard, sitting and waiting like a scene from Hitchcock’s The Birds.

The lesson I get from experiencing Bert’s cycles is the reminder that everything is changing:

Women I loved fervently are now strangers to me.

My sailboat Seablade is now a series of wonderful memories.

A daughter who was always given unrestricted love now rejects me.

Flag-waving atheism was precursor to an epiphany.

Fine tools kept sharp now sit for years in boxes.

I haven’t fucked a woman in over a decade, haven’t met one that I wanted.

And this day is as good a day as I have ever experienced, and I had thought that of other days.

I have another fellow to visit, Ben, he is not a hospice patient, just a guy with a bad leg and dementia, getting old in a human warehouse.  That fact is something I have to learn to accept every time that I visit him, warehousing is a tough one to accept, a sad fact.

I continue to work on my piece about creation, was going to try and put it on here today, but a new quirk came to me, a question: Were we human before we had language?  The fundamentalists will freak out at that one, that is if they were ever to read something other than what was commanded of them.

It is time to go outside to clear the bird feeder.

 

An old guy named Ben

There is a 84 year old guy in a convalescent home a couple of miles from here, he is there because there doesn’t seem to be another place for a guy like him, he is warehoused.

I have never visited the airplane storage site in Arizona, you know the one where all those planes for which there is no use sit row on row in the dry air; this home is like that. There are countless people stored like this.

Ben doesn’t remember well, I suppose that he has some form of dementia, I am not privy to the diagnosis, he has a leg that was injured in an accident about thirty years ago and causes him to limp and find walking difficult; he is a tall guy with a wonderful attitude, about three teeth left in his mouth, but a couple of things that don’t work quite right, so he lays in this home, until.

As far as we can tell Ben has no relatives, everyone is either dead or disappeared from his knowledge. I have been going over to see Ben about once a week for the last year, he is beginning to remember my name, and it is my name that is on the chart as the one to call if and when Ben is taken someplace in an emergency. I am not his guardian, the state has that responsibility. I am just someone who visits him, and who will receive a call some day, and then what?

Last week Ben and I went for a walk down to the corner, it was one of those warm, clear autumn days we have been having this year; I picked up a few of the cyan and the yellow leaves, stuck them in his shirt pocket, told him to keep them as a souvenir. This was the first time that Ben has been outside in at least three years, no one seems to know for sure. It was slow going, he wanted to hang on to railings and such, and he just wanted to look around at the world: A mother went by with a child in a stroller, the effect on Ben was as if the biggest float in the parade had arrived. At first Ben kept repeating that he didn’t think that he could go, that it was too much for him; I had checked with his floor nurse to see if there was anything that I should be concerned about, she said no, nothing; I walked a few steps ahead, talking about what I saw, remembrances of past autumns, and for once Ben wasn’t chattering and joking, he was doing a new thing, an old thing reborn.

This week I took him for another walk, down to the other corner; the weather is a little bit colder, gray skies and a bit of a breeze, just about what you’d expect in Chicago in the middle of November. I picked up a bright yellow maple leaf, stuck it in his shirt button-hole, he wore it down to lunch. The walk went easier than previous.

Ben is one of so many that have forgotten what being is about, to a walk among the leaves of autumn, look at an infant and a proud mother, these things are still here, will always be here. The sadness of warehousing is contrasted in the delight offered by a colored leaf and a young child.

I don’t know why it took me almost a year of visits before I suggested a walk, I don’t know if my visits have any effect, and I think of all those others who are visited by no one, who are warehoused, until. What I do know is the look that Ben gives me when he shakes my hand and says thank you for coming, and I know the look he gives me when he wants to express more, but can’t anymore, that look that says please help me I am drowning.

It is strange that he and I are best friends notwithstanding all these gaps, it is good for me to be reminded that this is what friendship is about.