Thursday, January 22, 2009

Preserve, Protect and Defend



Preserve, Protect and Defend



It wasn't a high priority for me on Tuesday. I had other things to do. For example, I was behind in answering my email and knew I had a few letters I had to reply to. I also had to run to the store for a few things – milk, orange juice, bread – stuff like that. So when I got around to turning on the TV it was already 10:30 or a little after. Sure, I remembered that Tuesday was Inauguration Day. Sure, I knew it was going to be historic. I'd have been deaf and blind to not know the significance of this particular Tuesday in January. The TV and the radio had also been reminding me about it for weeks. Most of the media that I saw or listened to were responding to the upcoming Inauguration with rabid anticipation. The liberal press, that is. The righties weren't all that enthusiastic. The event wasn't probably as anticipated as, say, the second coming of Christ would be, but I'll bet it wasn't too far behind, at least to my eyes. Breathless expectation was the byword on TV and radio.


Anyhow, there it was, a little past 10:30 on Tuesday morning and I'd finally clicked on the TV. The commentators, anchorpersons and media functionaries were there, all bundled up in their warm winter finery, their breath steaming in the frosty air, their eyes and their apple cheeks glowing in the clear light of a bright Washington morning. Their words described the activities that had already occurred and which would occur later this day. Very little that the incoming President's family would do on this Tuesday would go unscrutinized.


Then the picture changed and you saw a limo pull up under the portico of the White House. Barack and Michelle Obama got out and were greeted at the door by George and Laura Bush. After hugs, kisses and back slaps, the two couples made their way into the building. It was time for a cup of coffee and some conversation before they would ride to the capitol for the ceremonies. They looked like old and dear friends.


I'd venture to say they were not.


I took a sip of my own hot coffee and watched some more.


Here are some of the images that have stuck in my mind from that day:


The politicians and dignitaries wending their way through the Capitol, walking through areas that my family and I had also trod. Many of the faces were familiar. Some I could put names to, some not. Others were totally unknown to me but undoubtedly important people .


I watched the former presidents and their spouses as they walked by – number 39, Jimmie Carter and Rosalynn; number 41, George H. W. Bush and Barbara; number 42, Bill Clinton and Hillary; number 43, George W. Bush and Laura. I missed the smiling face of number 40, Ronald Regan and his Nancy. They would have liked to have been among that company, I'm sure.


How calm was the face of the man who would be number 44, Barack Obama. How he looked like a man who was sure of what he was doing and had gained comfort from that realization. I'm sure he could NOT have been as calm as he appeared, but he definitely gave the appearance of calm confident determination.


His charisma had never been more self evident.


Michelle Obama and the girls coming in and sitting down. How happy and proud they looked.


Watching all the people descend the stairs to the podium's seating area and how they ALL were schmoozing, laughing and playing at politics as they made their way to their seats. I realized then that the majority of the people I was seeing in that area WERE politicians and schmoozing, shaking hands, backslapping and kissing babies is, for a politician, like breathing for the rest of us.


It's the ocean in which those fish swim.


How the oath of office was botched by the Chief Justice of the United States, John Roberts. Thirty-five words. I guess it was nerves. I guess even a Chief Justice can feel the enormity of the moment. But Barack Obama, who's hand rested on Abraham Lincoln's Bible, knew exactly what the words were supposed to be and waited for the Justice to begin anew before repeating after him. There would be no mistakes from this man.


Not now.


(And to make sure, they did it all again the next day.)


The glory of the classical music from Itzhak Perlman, Yo-yo Ma, Anthony McGill and Gabriella Montero and how composed and comfortable they looked playing their marvelous music together on that frosty forenoon.


Aretha Franklin. Her sublime voice and her amazing hat.


Obama's stirring inaugural speech displaying his astonishing speech-giving prowess. How you felt your head nodding “yes, yes” as his powerful voice gave his words importance and weight. How he made you feel that anything was possible.


The sense of demarcation, of endings and beginnings. The old guard passing the torch to the new guy. A feeling of a pivot point being reached that divided that which was from that which is to be.


How quickly President Bush left the city after the ceremony – helicopter from the Capitol grounds, then the jet that used to be Air Force One to his old stomping grounds in Texas. And how abruptly the Bush era ended.


I wondered how many people across the world gave a sigh of relief at that moment.


I had promised myself that I wouldn't get too involved in the ceremonies, wouldn't get too involved in the solemnity of the occasion and then went ahead and got involved anyway. I felt the staggering weight of history as this young man raised his right hand and placed his left on the Bible – I saw the long hazy line of presidents before him who had gathered there to do the same, felt the spirits of those men looking down and lending their support to the man who was to continue their line, who was to shoulder the burdens they had carried, who was to walk in their footprints for a while. I saw a man who would leave his imprint in the sands of history no less than did Washington and Grant, Jefferson and Truman, Adams and Eisenhower.


I could hear the scratching of the pens as the scribes began a new chapter in the history books.


I watched the ceremonies on my television until 1:30 or thereabouts when I had to stop and get ready to go to work. I was going to miss the parade, but that was OK. I'd seen the important bits, the historical stuff. I didn't need to see the bands and the military groups marching down Pennsylvania Avenue. I didn't need to see any of the fancy balls being thrown all across the city. I didn't need to see the Obama's in their formal dress, dancing and celebrating. I'd seen the 44th president of the United States start his term. I'd seen the first black man be sworn in as President of the United States.


I bore witness to history.


But I also felt a sense of the surreal qualities of what I'd seen. The ceremonies of the day seemed to have had the qualities of a dream or a fantasy, something from which I would soon awaken. I'd shake my head upon arising and wonder at the inventiveness of the sleeping human brain, how it could take the most unlikely set of circumstances and make a whole history out of them. My goodness, what would I dream up next?


But it was not a dream and it was not a fantasy. A 48-year-old black man is now my president, the leader of my nation and, in essence if not in fact, the world. He was duly elected in November and duly sworn in on Tuesday. The facts are the facts and reality is reality.


And how do I feel about it?


OK, I guess. He wasn't my choice, but I'm OK with that now. I'm a bit nervous about his politics. I'm a bit nervous about his age. I'm a bit nervous about his history.


But will he be saint or scoundrel?


History will judge the greatness of this man. The fullness of time will pare away the inconsequentialities of his presidency and will leave only the acts upon which he will be known. Will they be the acts of a great and wise statesman, another Jefferson or Lincoln? Or will he be simply known as the first black United States president with no distinguishing characteristics in his presidency? A political hack of the right color in the right place at the right time.


I guess time will tell.


But until then I'm going to wish him all the luck in the world. I don't think he really needs it but I'm going to wish it for him anyway.


I think this guy just might surprise all of us!






Thursday, January 15, 2009

A River of Friends



A River of Friends



Tonight is a quiet night at my workplace. I work as a computer operator for a county municipal water department. I monitor a program that displays the real-time status of the water towers, pumps, valves and chemical feeds for the county. Some nights the work is demanding and takes a lot of concentration and skill to perform. On other nights the system pretty much runs itself with only the occasional tweaking necessary. Tonight was one of the quiet ones. I'd accomplished the additional clerical tasks that were my duty for the evening and had settled into an observant monitor mode, watching the system as it and I moved through the hours, moved through the night.


And as I sat there watching the display screen, my mind drifted a bit and began returning to a question I'd been puzzling over for some time. The question was, “What constitutes a friend?”


I don't believe there's an easy answer to this, even if you might think there was at first glance. Perhaps you could begin your determinations by formulating a list of what characteristics or qualities would define a friend.


Maybe it's someone you've known a very long time, most of your life even. Someone whom you're very familiar with. Someone who you're fond of or attached to in some way. And then there are the various degrees of relationships or friendships to consider – acquaintances, friendly acquaintances, people you are friendly with but not friends, near-friends, people who you are friends with but not close friends, just friends, close friends and best friends.


The sex of the friend is generally immaterial unless the friendship evolves into love but, even then, lovers can be friends, too.


One dictionary I looked at primarily defines a friend as, “a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.” I think that's about right.


The question then becomes “how do we obtain friends and can you lose one?”


On obtaining friends it seems obvious, at least to me, that you have to be a friend to get a friend. But losing friends? That's a toughie. I'm not sure it's even possible.


I've got friends I was almost immediately friends with the same day I met them, but that's not generally the case. It usually takes a period of time to move from the acquaintance, friendly acquaintance, etc., etc. before they slip neatly into one of the “friends” categories – near, just friends, close or best. And sometimes that progression falters at one step and the person stays at one of the lower levels.


An old joke states, “A friend will help you move. A best friend will help you move a body.” I think that puts it quite succinctly.


It really wouldn't take a genius to figure out why my head was full of these questions at this period of time. Some old friends had come back into my life over the past year and I was enjoying listening to the story of their lives. And, in return, telling some of my story back to them.


And I had reached a difficult period with one of my best friends.


In the first instance, I'd lost contact with a lady whom I'd been close friends with in the '70's and '80's. I didn't even know her address or her last name. I'd heard through the grapevine that she'd divorced, remarried and had moved to Arizona. That was about it. She returned around a year ago to her (and my) hometown for her father's funeral and I saw her again after a separation of many years. It took about one minute after again seeing her to rediscover our friendship and to carry on from where it was paused all those years ago.


I'd also restarted a friendship with a couple of guys I'd served with in the military. We'd spent the better part of a year and a half at an Air Force base in the Panama Canal Zone and had grown quite close. When the tour in Central America had ended we'd gone our separate ways – Joe stayed in the service, saw the world and retired to eventual college and a librarian position a stone's throw away from the Pacific Ocean in California. Al went back to the farm in northern Iowa for a while, moved around a lot, stuck his fingers into a lot of pies and eventually settled in a small town in southwestern Missouri. Ernie returned to his beloved Oregon, raised kids and dogs and eventually retired. And Tony ended up in West Virginia, divorced and dating again in his early 60's. Me? I went back to my Ohio birth town, married, had a son and worked with computers.


I've recently got reacquainted with these gentlemen (and lady) and am deep in the process of assimilating their life stories and annexing them with my own. It's an exhilarating process and I'm enjoying the hell out of it!


The second instance, the difficult period with one of my best friends, is occurring as I write. He had unthinkingly done something recently that may have some negative implications to my career. I know it wasn't done with animosity, but the action may end up hurting me in the long run. And in these uncertain economic times you have to be extra careful with your words, actions and thoughts.


I'm still trying to cope with my feelings regarding this action. I know that this man will always be my friend, even if we never pass another friendly word to each other again. Too much water has passed under the bridge for that to change. And he's been a lifeboat for me on too many occasions, pulling me from the fire, rescuing my bacon, being there for me when I needed someone. That will never be dismissed or forgotten.


So I sit here in my quiet office and watch the computers, listening to their digital words as they tell me what's happening in their world. “All is well with me,” one water tower whispers. “Me too, me too,” others say. Two pumps chatter with their messages also, “I'm pumping this much water a minute!” one of them excitedly says. “My chlorine is this much!” another one proudly displays. And through the long, quiet shift the tower levels move upward and downward, the pumps hum and the water wends its way down long, dark pipes to sit a while and wait. Soon a faucet opens for a thirsty child, a toilet flushes, a shower starts providing hot, steamy water for a thankful user on this cold evening. And the life-giving water flows some more.


My friends are out there somewhere on this dark, winter night in their different parts of America, going about their business right this very minute. Maybe they're sitting in their home with their feet up by the fireplace, watching a favorite TV show. Or sitting at a familiar desk, smiling at a well-turned phrase and writing their letters, stories and poetry. Or perhaps playing on the floor with their old dog, their furry friend and companion of many good years. Or maybe quietly watching a beloved husband as he naps on the couch under a window open to the warm, desert air. Perhaps even sitting in a nighttime meeting where the good works of the world are accomplished quietly, unobtrusively and with dignity.


And this river of my friends flows around me and through me, touching me and returning my touch to them. I am refreshed and revitalized.


I wish you well tonight, my friends.






Thursday, January 8, 2009

Tummy Troubles





TUMMY TROUBLES







I could see it coming a long time ago. I knew that the possibility existed and that it would become more and more likely as time went on and the situation didn't improve. So when my doctor recommended a certain course of action, I guess I had to agree with him.


Even if I didn't really want to.


Let's cut to the chase:


I'd been having some occasional stomach problems for a very long time, years and years, actually. Most of the time it was usually something minor – some light pains, some off-and-on nausea, some low-grade discomfort a lot of the time. My family doctor had tried a few remedies out on me but none of them had seemed to do the trick. Nexium and Prevacid were two of the medications that were tried and eliminated. Nothing really seemed to hit the spot. And the discomfort was becoming more and more prevalent. So on my latest trip to see the family doctor I asked if there was anything else he might recommend. He said that it was probably time to see a specialist and he set up an appointment for me with a gastroenterologist. I agreed with him and marked the appointment on my calendar.


Maybe I'd start making some progress now.


The “tummy” doctor was a nice guy. I don't think I've ever met a medical doctor who didn't strike me as a nice guy (or lady!) They must teach them that in medical school. He was very personable and we talked for a considerable period of time going over my history and my current complaints. He wrote a lot of it down, nodded a lot and gave me assurances that we'd definitely be able to figure out what the problem was and be able to do something about it.


That was very encouraging.


I was waiting for his next words, though, knowing what they would be. I held my breath, hoping I was wrong.


I winced a bit as the doctor then spoke them, “Let's schedule you for an endoscopy – I'll take a little look around in there and then we'll see where to go after that. OK?”


I grimaced and nodded my head. “Sure. Guess that's the best course.”


So another appointment was made for me, this time at the local hospital where the good doctor would “scope” my stomach and “see what he would see.” I marked this date in my calendar also. I eyed the circled date with a critical eye. January 6. Hmmm... Anything portentous happen on that date? Let's see... Ted Turner purchased the Atlanta Braves, “Wheel of Fortune” debuted on TV, the last “Milton Berle” show aired, “Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom” debuted, Elvis Presley's final appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show, Merrill Lynch was founded, New Mexico became the 47th state, George Washington married Martha Custis. All on different years, of course, but nothing too momentous. Guess I'll have to add “I get an endoscope exam” to the list of major occurrences on that date now.


One thing you probably should know about me. When I get nervous, the first place that it affects is my stomach. Guess you could probably figure that one out without too much help. And I have a vivid imagination that likes to conjure up horrific scenarios. So as the day for the “procedure” approached and my anxiety increased, the condition of my tummy deteriorated. When the night before the appointment rolled around my stomach felt like Muhammad Ali had walloped me a good one. Sore, queasy and nauseous. Sounds like a law firm specializing in medical malpractice, doesn't it? My sleep that night was almost nonexistent, with tossing, turning and colorful, terrifying nightmares, most of which consisted of my choking on rubber tubes being jammed down my throat by maniacal, wild-eyed Frankenstein doctors.


The morning of January 6 was overcast, gray and dismal with light flurries in the pre-noon forecast. I showered and dressed, trying to keep my mind off my upcoming appointment and on something light and inconsequential. Of course that didn't work. My fickle brain would constantly return to the looming procedure. Try not to think about elephants for the next 30 seconds and you'll see how much control you have over your own brain. My eyes would flicker to the clock almost every minute, calculating how many of them I could hold on to before I had to leave for the hospital. The minutes evaporated like smoke in a hurricane. Too soon the moment arrived when I must leave. I grabbed my son, who was to accompany me, and we were off.


I checked into the hospital at the main reception area and was told to go down the hall to the the elevator, go to the second floor, turn right and go to the end of the hallway to the endoscopy section. Our local hospital has grown immense during my lifetime and it was very easy to get lost in. We got into the elevator, rode up one story, turned right and went to the end of that hallway, where we found ourself at an exit door. No endoscopy department, nothing. We then realized that the floor we'd started on was the GROUND floor, not the first. So the first floor up from it was the FIRST. You confused yet? I was. We retraced our steps, rode the elevator up one more floor, which was the second floor this time, and walked the long hallway to where my destiny awaited me.


As a side note, have you ever noticed the demeanor of the people who work in health services? They are, with few exceptions, upbeat and happy. They really do seem to want to help you. At least they give that impression when you see them. I guess a lot of that is due to the fact that its you that's the patient, not them. The people I met at the endoscopy department were shining examples of the type – almost to a fault. I and my aching stomach were assured at every step of the way that the upcoming procedure was “a piece of cake” and that I should relax. They told me that almost no one even remembers what goes on there and they even asked a patient in my room who had just come out of the same procedure if he'd remembered anything.


Very little”, was the answer.


So I was put on a hospital bed, my vitals were taken, some sheets of permissions were signed and an IV was started in my right hand. That was where the “twilight sleep” medications would be injected into me at the appropriate time. They then left me to my own devices for a while. I chit-chatted with my son for a bit and then I realized something. This was going to be my third “-oscopy”. I had previously had a Colonoscopy where they examined my innards from the rear. Then I had had a Cystoscopy where they had examined my innards from the front. Now I was going to have an Endoscopy where they were going to examine my innards from the top. I had just about run out of orifices to probe and innards to examine! This was to be my third of the series!


What a lucky boy I was!


Very soon a nice nurse (where do they find these people?) arrived and wheeled me down the hallway to the procedure room. I waved at my son as I went by and said I'd see him in a bit. I figured the odds were somewhat better than 50/50.


The procedure room was filled with lots of medical equipment of various sorts, most of which I had no clue as to their purpose. I didn't notice any long rubber tubes hanging around, so it appeared that my nightmares weren't to be repeated in actuality. Thank goodness!


I was hooked up to a pulse/blood pressure machine and had one of those annoying oxygen tube things stuck up my nose. I was told to roll onto my right side. Somewhere about that time my smiling gastroenterologist entered the room, like a lead actor stepping upon the stage, and asked if I was ready. I considered my options for a moment then, accepting my fate, said yes. He squirted a strawberry/banana-flavored liquid into the back of my throat to numb my gag reflex then inserted a rubber block with a hole in the middle of it into my mouth. That was supposed to keep my jaw open during the procedure.


I thought to myself, “Oh boy! Here we go!”


One of the nurses then injected the “sleepy” juice into my IV and...


And...


I could remember the nurses and the doctor talking together while the procedure was going on. I could remember burping a lot. I assume air was pumped into my stomach to open things up and I was expelling some of it. But as to the procedure itself?


Nothing. Zippo. Nada. Zilch. The “sleepy” juice had done its trick.


The first thing I remember for sure after the procedure was being wheeled into the recovery room where I lay in a marvelously delicious state of being half-awake and half-asleep. No pain, no concerns, everything comfy and cozy.


Sometime later my bed was wheeled back to the room where I'd started and I was given some juice, some Lorna Doone cookies and reunited with my son. My throat was a tiny bit raw, but the “happy” juice was still buzzing around in my veins so I could have cared less.


It was over! My appointment with the unknown had been accomplished and I was, once again, a man free from any upcoming terrors. Hurrah!


At least until the next time.


The doctor came in a bit later, showed me pictures of my innards and explained what he'd done. There was nothing of real concern he'd said, but he'd taken a couple samples to have analyzed just to make sure. The IV was removed from my hand not long after that and I was free to go.


The ride home was uneventful. It was still a gray, snowy day outside, but inside this old body it was blue skies, sunshine and tropical breezes blowing. (I just love that medical-grade happy juice!)


I suppose if I had to draw any conclusions from this experience they would have to include:

Do what's right for your body even if it scares you silly.

Trust in the expertise of the specialists.

Heed the wisdom of the knowledgeable.

And don't be such a ninny worrying about the small stuff!


I'll try to remember all this the next time.


But probably not.