Coronavirus Prep

Been a while since I posted - doesn't make any difference, though, since nobody reads these posts. The blog concept seems to be a non-starter.

As long as I have the floor, though, thought I'd bring the blog up to date with regard to the coronavirus epidemic and its impact on us old folks in central Ohio.

Like everyone else, we're worried. About getting the virus and getting sick, or even dying! We're in that demographic - old  people. And like everyone else. we'v e been buying stuff to stockpile in case we have to be quarantined, or chose to quarantine ourselves.

We weren't quite fast enough to buy up everything we 'd need for an extended period early on. But we have managed to stash away a lot of hand sanitizer, antibacterial soap, sterilizing wipes, etc. I tried to get some face masks, but the good ones were back-ordered and probably won't get here until the crisis is over! I ended up with a bunch of probably useless one-time masks.

We went shopping and bought up a whole bunch of canned beans and pre-packaged rice, Figure we could live a while on rice and  beans. And taco chips. We also bought a couple weeks worth of frozen TV dinners.

The whole idea is to minimize the number of times one of us would have to go out for food during the peak of the thing.

The greatest concern turned out to be TOILET PAPER! We couldn't find toilet paper anywhere. All the brick and mortar stores (Kroger, IGA, etc) were sold out, Even Amazon had NOTHING!

I was faced with the stark realization of the end of civilization as we know it - no fuckin' toilet paper!

Luckily my wife found out that the local drug store was expecting a shipment and I timed my visit correctly to score a couple of 12-roll packs (rationed). Right now we have toilet paper bundles stacked up in the living room.

We've also got packages of antibacterial wipes stacked up in the corner and maybe a gallon of hand sanitizer. I've got a half-gallon of  surgical scrub on order and am expecting, eventually, to the get the N95 face masks I ordered early on.

I'm trying to train myself to wash my hands frequently, use the hand sanitizer, and disinfect my beard often.

About all we can do is avoid crowds, and wash our hands.

But - you've got to live your life. I have to go bowling on Wednesday night, we've got to go to doctor's appointments, and we have to got shopping for food, etc.

More "What It's Like to Get Old"

Another post in my series "What It's like to get Old:"

Arthritis

It is an unfortunate fact that, as we age, almost all of us develop an acquaintanceship with arthritis – or “Uncle Arthur” as my family orthopedic surgeon calls it. My wife began her relationship early and by age 70 has had both knees replaced and arthroscopic surgery in her shoulder. The arthritis in her feet and ankles has been pronounced inoperable and she now walks only with the help of a walker.

My personal relationship with Uncle Arthur began with MRI and x-ray examinations of my knees which showed that my right knee was “bone-on-bone” and the left knee wasn’t much better. Since my wife had already had two successful knee replacements, I decided (age 66) to have a knee replacement - my right knee.

I had the knee replacement surgery, recovered well and did some intense physical therapy. But the pain in the knee didn’t improve beyond a certain point. I returned to my surgeon and had more knee x-rays. The images showed that the upper end of the tibia, below the artificial knee, was crumbling. The diagnosis: I needed a second knee replacement. A partial replacement to replace the fitment on the tibia with a different type of fitment.

I had to repeat the entire replacement process a second time within the same year. I missed essentially a whole bowling season.

As earlier, I recovered from the surgery and had intensive physical therapy. But as time went on, the pain did not go away. It’s been 7 years now and I’ve not taken a step without pain in my right knee.

I’ve returned to the surgeon, of course, several times and had more x-rays. They cannot do an MRI any more on my knee since it’s full of Tantalum metal components.

So, once again I’m stuck with a diagnosis:

·       We don’t know why it still hurts

·       Everything looks fine

·       We don’t know any way to fix it

My personal belief is that the surgeon somehow upset the natural leverage angles by which my tendons pull on the various bones, and I am stuck with chronic tendonitis in my right knee. The metal parts seem to be perfect but the soft tissue still hurts 7 years later. Despite having two knee replacements on the same knee.

So, of my wife and my four total knee replacements, we have two successful (hers) and two failures (mine).

Needless to say, I’m babying my left arthritic knee to avoid the necessity for another knee replacement. 

My wife (age 73) had her left shoulder joint replaced this week. Appreciate your natural joints while you still have them. As we age, most of us are in for cut-and-paste, cut-and-paste. 

I've been a league bowler my whole life, and I've kept statistics on my scores. For the six years before my knee surgery, I averaged 190. For the six years since the surgery, my average is a depressing 177 - 13 pins poorer. My knee doesn't hurt me especially when I'm bowling, but something is surely different that seems to be beyond my control. 

Bursitis

Like arthritis, as we age we almost universally develop bursitis. A bursa is a sac filled with lubricating fluid, located between tissues such as bone, muscle, tendons, and skin, which decreases rubbing, friction, and irritation. As we age, these bursa can become damaged or irritated. The result is pain.

My wife has had various bursitis treatments including cortisone injections and even surgery to remove a chronically damaged bursa.

My first experience with bursitis was when I tried to clean our deck by brushing on a cleaning solution with a push broom. I felt a tightening in my right elbow – not a pain, but a tight feeling. I looked down, and I had a swelling on the back of my elbow about the size and shape of a baseball!  I‘d never even heard of anything like that. Off to urgent care. Diagnosis – bursitis. Treatment: elastic bandage and rest.

My second experience was the time (age 70) I dumped my motorcycle while stopped on uneven pavement and strained my left knee (the “good” one). Back to the orthopod. Diagnosis: bursitis. Treatment: cortisone injection and exercise.

Peripheral Neuropathy

Beginning in my sixties, I began experiencing vicious itching attacks in my feet. My wife experiences the same thing. In her case the attacks occur mostly at night. Mine can happen any time.

My mother, in her seventies, also had this problem.

In my case, I’ve also lost a great deal of the feeling in my toes. As best I can tell, we’re both suffering from peripheral neuropathy, a type of nerve damage.

While peripheral neuropathy can be caused by a variety of things, including diabetes, it often occurs with no known cause. From my blood tests, there is no known cause for my neuropathy – except age.

Another of those: We don’t know what causes it, and we can’t fix it. But we do know what to call it.

About all we can do is use counter-irritants to suppress the itching, and local anesthetics. I’m also using a foot roller as a counter-irritant. My doc says that Vitamin B12 might help. Research on the web says that the Methylcobolamin formulation of B12 is recommended – so now I take that daily. Haven't noticed any improvement.

My wife also experiences the loss of sensation in her fingers. So far I'm no affected by that (knock on wood). 

If you're afflicted by peripheral neuropathy, you begin to think of it as the beginning of a slow death, creeping up from your finger tips and toes. 

Dental Issues

It’s an unfortunate fact of life that, if we live long enough, most us will outlive our teeth. I’ve always had good dental care, but I’ve also not been blessed with the best teeth. So, in my early years I had lots of fillings in my permanent teeth. But as I aged, I started breaking my molars and needing crowns. By my 50’s, all my molars were crowned. Then I started developing problems in the root structures and needed root canals – even in some teeth already crowned.

Then I developed problems with cracked roots – problems that crowns and root canals couldn’t fix. I’ve had two molars removed. After the first one was removed, I began biting my tongue, especially in my sleep. Had to get a mouth guard made.

In my 50’s I developed Temporal Mandibular Joint Syndrome – from a highly unnatural bite from all those crowns. I suffered bad headaches. I saw a specialist who eventually solved the TMJ problem.

Two years ago I had the second molar removed, and decided to get an artificial implant to replace it. A year and thousands of dollars later, I now have the implant. While that has solved the tongue-biting problem, it still hurts a little to chew hard foods with the implant.

Lacking any dental insurance, all this dental work has cost me a small fortune. But so far, I still have all but two of my original teeth (not counting my wisdom teeth). Knowing the problems my dad and grandparents had with false teeth, I vowed long ago to hang onto my own teeth as long as I possibly could. So far, so good.

The best advice I can give you? Take care of your teeth and get dental insurance.

De Quervain’s Syndrome

This past year (age 72) I developed a chronic pain in my right thumb. Back to the orthopedic surgeon, more x-rays and an MRI of my hand.

Seems I developed a problem whereby a tendon at the base of my thumb no longer slides smoothly through a sheath of tissue like it’s supposed to: De Quervain Syndrome. I guess it’s a form of tendonitis. Treatment: cortisone injection, ibuprofen, exercise and ice. And try to avoid whatever it is I’m doing to exacerbate the problem.

So I stopped using the thumbwheel roller mouse I’d been using. I think that bowling might also be partly responsible – although not bowling all summer didn’t make it go away. I’ve got a thumb brace, but it doesn’t help much (and my dog keeps chewing it!).

How can you stop using your right thumb, for chrissake?  So, De Quervain’s Syndrome has become another one of the things I’m having to live with.

Hurray for the Civil Service!!

As a retired Civil Servant (38 years working for USAF intelligence) I am much gratified to see how Civil Service professionals (not politically-appointed, and profit-motivated) are standing up and "speaking truth to power" in the House impeachment inquiry. I've done that a time or two myself, albeit on much smaller stages.

As the cartoon shows, the professional Civil Service is definitely on the high ground with respect to the hypocritical and criminal scum thrashing around in Trump's self-made swamp. 

If that's what Trump means by "Deep State," then I'm a very proud to have been a member of that noble brotherhood of professionals for nigh on 4 decades. Way to go, guys! Keep it up.The truth will out!

- sgb

An except from my unpublished autobiography

1950-1952 Shelby, Ohio

The Scrappy House

In 1950, Daddy was transferred to Ohio. You might wonder what the USAF had to do with Shelby, Ohio. During WWII, a large number of equipment and supply depots were built, scattered all over the country. The idea, I guess, was to decentralize the military supply system so that it was less vulnerable to attack. Anyway, after the war there was a large supply depot in the middle of the cornfields outside Shelby, Ohio.

We lived in two houses in Shelby. The first house, the “Scrappy House,” was really substandard accommodations. It was out in the country, at a rural corner in the corn fields. The place was really rundown and drafty, cold in the winter – there was no insulation.

Daddy says the house was built by a local entrepreneur from GI surplus plywood glider crates from WWII. We had a big snow in the winter of 1950/51, and the snow would blow through the gaps in the walls and doors and pile up inside the house.

I remember a surprising number of things from that time:

·                Watching the corn harvest across the road, with the harvester sucking up the corn stalks and shooting the corn into a following wagon.

·                My mother making cranberry sauce from scratch in the kitchen. I remember listening to the berries pop in the boiling water.

·                Christmas morning, 1950. I slept in the living room because there wasn’t any other place for me to sleep. I awoke way early on Christmas morning and could see a giant teddy bear by the tree that wasn’t there the night before. I remember lying there for an eternity before everybody else woke up. That Christmas, Daddy wasn’t home with us. I have no recollection of that, but he says he spent Christmas week in a hospital alcoholic ward going through detox. Right after he got home, we moved to Earl Avenue.

·                Snow Cream. This was a confection made from freshly fallen snow, sugar and vanilla flavoring. I remember Mama going out the back door with a saucepan and bringing it back full of clean snow.

·                Getting my mouth actually washed out with soap for something I’d said. I don’t remember what I said, but I sure remember the taste of that soap.

·                Lying in bed at night, in the living room, watching the passing car headlight beams shine through the seam between the walls and ceiling of the house. I was sleeping in a glider box, for chrissakes!

·                Visiting the military police station on the depot where Daddy worked and getting a genuine military police badge. I wonder what ever happened to my badge.

·                Mice in the house. I remember a dinner being interrupted by the snap of a trap behind the refrigerator.

14 Earl Avenue

The second house was downtown in Shelby. We moved there right after Christmas 1950. It was a big old two-story wood-sided town house, with a sort of tower in one corner. It was painted yellow. We lived in only a part of the house. 

Things I remember from this time:

·                Halloween – I was a clown and Daddy was a hobo and we went to a costume party at the church and we won a prize. Mama had done drama in college and she made the costumes and made us up. She’d taken a hatchet to a pair of Daddy’s old shoes. She made him up with burnt cork.

·                Daddy working in the detached garage, in the rain, building Sheila a dollhouse. Was something dad’s do for daughters – I did it myself some 20 years later.

·                Pissing off the next-door neighbor when I sprayed his freshly waxed car with the hose. Hey – I was only trying to help.

·                Getting my first dog - Homer. He wandered up one day, and we kept him for a while. I got to name him. Mama wondered if the name derived from the Greek mythology stories she had read me – I said no. “Homer” got the name because he had found a home. He didn’t get to keep him long, though. Our landlord didn’t want us to have a pet, so we had to give Homer away. That broke my heart. I can still see that landlord – a short, fat man with a round face and a little mustache, always wore a hat. To a four-year-old, he was evil personified. My folks didn’t care for him either – he actually gave me a snare drum for Christmas. I have no idea why he did that – the most obvious conclusion was to drive my parents crazy, I suppose.

·                Mice in the house. We had mice in the house. I could hear them scurrying around at night – in the walls and ceilings and on the hardwood floors. Even in the drawers of the chests. I remember them getting into bed with me at night and feeling them scamper across my blanket. Once I awoke to see a whiskery little pink nose close to mine. I remember being afraid and covering my head with the blankets to keep the mice away from me. When my parents tucked me in at night, they really tucked me in. I was trussed up like a mummy.

·                Daddy going off somewhere for a long period of time. They told me Daddy was going to “school.”  

·                Mama pulling me down the sidewalk on my sled. We were going to the little neighborhood grocery. I remember that it was the wrong kind of sled – it had metal runners for use on ice. We were trying to use it on snow and it wasn’t very satisfactory.

·                Mama pouring a bottle of whisky down the kitchen sink.

 14 Earl Avenue, circa 1992

Daddy was an alcoholic, but he stopped drinking when we were in Shelby. He joined AA, there, and has been active in AA – and sober – ever since. He joined AA right after that Christmas week in a detox ward in 1950.

I don’t remember anything specifically about Daddy’s drinking. I do remember some drama between my parents in Shelby, and I remember Mama pouring a bottle down the drain. I learned about Daddy’s drinking from him and Mama over the years since then, but I actually have no specific recollection of Daddy’s drinking.

I remember one night, sitting in a parked car with Mama – Sheila must have been there too. We were waiting for Daddy to come out of a bar – I think he was in there on AA business. I remember a Cat’s Paw neon sign over a shoe repair shop. I remember reading the sign, perhaps with Mama’s help (I was only about four). I remember Mama telling me to look away when we saw a derelict begin to urinate in an alley.

Daddy says he came home drunk from work the last time on Dec 22, 1950. The next day he joined AA, and has been sober since.  There are lots of reasons that I am proud of my father, but none bigger than his courage facing, and beating, alcoholism.

[My wife and I made a trip through Shelby on our 25^th anniversary, in 1993. With no help, I actually drove right to the house on Earl Avenue. Shelby’s not a big town, but finding a house in a town by dead-reaconing when you had last been there as a five-year-old, 41 years earlier, is some miraculous experience, I think. I just had a feeling where it was, you know? And I recognized it immediately. I didn’t know the street address at the time, but I confirmed it with Daddy; I found the right house.

The house was still there, and it was still yellow! It was old-looking in 1952, but it didn’t look like it had aged any in the intervening 41 years. The street was not as wooded as I remembered, and of course, everything looked smaller.

I think I even found the remains of the old scrappy house too, while heading north out of town. It was then just a farmer’s dilapidated storage shed. Of course, it hadn’t been much more than that when we lived in it nearly a half-century earlier. But – I guess they built those glider boxes to last, huh?]

We left Shelby in June 1952; Daddy had his orders to go to the Korean War. He took the rest of us to Murray, Kentucky where my maternal grandmother lived.

Bufflehead Ducks and a Story

Today I saw something I've never ever seen before. In the man-made retention pond beside the Kroger's in Fairborn, Ohio, I spotted two small ducks paddling around contentedly.  They were black and white and had markings I've never seen before.

I parked by the lake (my wife was in the nearby eye doctor's office), and tried to get close enough to the two ducks to get a photo. Needless to say, they weren't cooperative and kept navigating away as I approached. I snapped a couple of too-far-away photos with my iPhone anyway and returned to my vehicle.

I have a bird identification app on my iPhone (doesn't everybody?) and tried to identify said ducks. No luck.

Figuring these were migratory birds, I did a general image search for black and white migratory ducks in Ohio. Sure enough, after a couple of clicks, I identified my mysterious friends as Bufflehead Ducks. I found out a lot about this species of small marine diving ducks - and noted that Ohio is indeed on their migratory route, and 1 Nov is a likely time to spot 'em in Ohio. I even found out how best to cook 'em! I certainly didn't need to know that part!

The two I spotted were both male. I know nothing about migratory Bufflehead ducks, but it seemed unusual, to me, that the pair were both male. I would have guessed a male/female pair. Maybe these two were just best friends. Or perhaps they had a gay relationship - I've heard of gay penguins, so why not gay Bufflehead ducks? In my insensitive late-1950's schoolboy vernacular, that would make them "homo-ducks."

The name Bufflehead is derived from "Buffalo Head," in reference to the rather enlarged head of the male. (The photo above, I did not take, but found online.)

Speaking of identifying ducks - I've got a story for you. Trust me, this all relates.

Back in the early 1980's I had to travel frequently to Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville, Alabama. My main point of contact there was a guy named Darwin Moss. He and I spent a good deal of time together over a 2-3 year period. He and I had a shared interest in black powder revolver shooting.

As senior intelligence analyst in my work group, it was part of my job to train and mentor junior analysts and as it happened I made a trip to Huntsville with a junior analyst named (and I'm not kidding) Don Johnson. He was a very bright young man and I was enjoying my role as mentor.

As it happened, one afternoon he and I deplaned in Huntsville and took a rental car to Darwin's office on Redstone. As we entered his work space, I introduced Don to Darwin and we were all seated around Darwin's desk.

Behind Darwin's desk, mounted on the wall, was an  impressive array of five different species of colorful taxidermy (stuffed) ducks. Darwin, you must know, was an ardent fisherman and duck hunter. I knew from my previous visits that Darwin had had one of each species of duck he'd shot stuffed and mounted behind his desk. I'd even heard his wager before - but I was unprepared for what followed.

As we were admiring his display of stuffed ducks (they were hard to ignore), Darwin issued this familiar challenge, "....and I'll give $50 to anybody who can name all five of those ducks."

As before, I was at a loss - knowing nothing about ducks. I looked over at young Don and he said straight-faced, "Donald, Daffy, Huey, Dewey, and Louie."

I was stunned for a second. Being a serious duck hunter, Darwin was not particularly amused, but I thought that was the funniest damned thing I'd ever heard. I had a robust laugh at Darwin's expense and allowed as how Don had indeed "named all five of those ducks." Darwin wouldn't pay up, though. I figured the laugh alone was worth $50.

Don was killed a couple of years later in a tragic traffic accident. I wrote his grieving parents and told them the duck story.

Telephone Poles

As I walk my dog (see Figure 1), my mind wanders. My dog’s defecation habits can only be SO intriguing, after all. My attention eventually locked onto the utility poles along the way. Over time, I’ve been conducting a research project on the subject of utility poles, and the wires they carry. Basically, the question is, “What IS all that stuff on the utility poles?”

Figure 1

Being near three-quarters of a century old, I’m conditioned to still call the things “telephone poles.” I’ll always call them that, because that was what everybody called them back when I was a boy. I’ve even heard them called “telegraph poles.” That shows you just how old I am.

When I was about 10 years old, there was a “telephone pole” at one corner of our rural lot on Silver Palm Drive, out in the Dade County, Florida wilderness. This pole was of intense interest to me, for some reason, and I have a couple of clear boyhood recollections.

The first recollection is of a visiting mile-away neighbor boy showing me how to put my ear up to the creosoted wooden telephone pole and listen to sounds of all the people talking on the phone. Well, that’s what HE said the noise was. Sure enough, I could hear some kind of humming sound. In my naiveté, I took his word for the explanation and for a couple of years actually believed I was hearing thousands of overlapping conversations. Later, I decided that the noise was probably just the wind in the wires above. Now, being so much more advanced and knowing that the “telephone pole” also supports the electrical line power distribution, with its substantial 60 cycle-per-second (Hertz) component, I’m sure I was just hearing 60-cycle hum conducted from the power transformer to the “telephone pole.”

The other recollection I have is of a fascination with the fact that the “telephone pole” had steel spikes driven into it every couple of feet, beginning about 6 feet off the ground. I knew these spikes were for the purpose of climbing the pole. I even knew that the spike ladder didn’t go down further to keep idiots like me from climbing the pole.   Sometime in my youth, I remember seeing a lineman (I assumed a telephone lineman at the time) climb a pole, with blades strapped to his lower legs. (This was in the days long before cherry pickers.) He needed those blades to reach the bottom rung of the spike ladder. I thought the guy with the strap-on climbing blades was way cool, and for a time wanted to be a telephone lineman when (and if) I grew up.

The “if” part of that previous statement also relates to this story. Being a boy blessed with an adventurous spirit and not having a lot of distraction on Silver Palm Drive (other than scorpions and snakes), my imagination would sometimes take charge. We lived out in the “boondocks” as my Dad would say, amid nothing but papaya, avocado and citrus groves. There were no neighbors close by and no other kids to play with, except my younger sister. As I recall, she was not involved in this particular life-threatening adventure.

Anyway, back to the “telephone pole.”  Noting that the spikes were for climbing, but started way above my height, it seemed a worthy challenge to figure out a way to climb the telephone pole myself. I contemplated this adventure a while and waited for a time when neither parent was around. Somehow I knew that neither would particularly approve of telephone pole climbing. A year or two before, they had disapproved of my climbing the iron trellis by the porch of the pink tract house in Homestead – and hoisting myself up onto the roof. I did this more than once – it really gives an 8 year-old a whole new perspective on things. I also learned that climbing up on a roof is much easier than getting back down.

So, I leaned my two-wheeler bike up against the pole, climbed aboard and climbed up on the seat of the bike, holding on to the pole with my arms. I could indeed reach the bottom rung of the spike ladder and proceeded then to climb up the pole a few feet.

I was perhaps halfway between the ground and, what I now know to be, the power transformer on the pole when it occurred to me that I didn’t really know what I’d hoped to accomplish. But, whatever it was, I figured I’d already accomplished it. So I just listened to the humming conversations for a minute, and then climbed back down. No worse for wear, except for a couple of splinters from the pole.

My folks never did learn about me climbing a “telephone pole.”

A Remembrance

When I was a boy there’d sometimes be a mad dog alarm and mothers would keep the kids indoors.  I remember a couple of times. Actually, my mom’s Mad Dog alert went off for every stray dog in the neighborhood. Probably over-protecting, but then I never got bit by a mad dog either. Well, one cocker spaniel -  but he was just pissed off, not really “mad.”

I think my Mom’s deathly fears for us kids fell in this order:

• Polio
• Snakes (Coral, Rattlers and Moccasins)
• Mad dogs (which also included "unsavory" people I'm afraid)
• Worms (the kind you took pills for)
• Hookworm (whatever that is - can’t go barefoot)
• Ringworm
• Tooth decay

I    I think by the Nixon administration she was including republicans in the Mad Dog category.

What it's like to get old

Here's the next couple of complaints in my on-going series about what it's like to get old:

Acquired Brown’s Syndrome

I first noticed the symptoms of this bizarre affliction whilst driving a car in Louisville, KY. I was in traffic and I was swinging my eyes left and right trying to keep track of any threats. When I swung my vision to the right, my left eye stopped moving while the right eye continued to swing until it was focused on the object in question. Then my left eye would sort of snap right and catch up with the right eye. I’d have a short period of double vision.

The condition persisted and I could repeat the effect easily. Not every time I moved my eyes, but maybe about one out of three times, this would happen.

Well, I sure hadn’t read anything about this in the Human User’s Manual, so I was concerned. I was afraid that maybe I’d had some kind of stroke or something. Perhaps a stroke in my eye?

Immediately on return from our trip I went to see my eye “doctor.” I say “doctor” because as it turned out he was not a doctor – merely an Optometrist. He had absolutely no clue as to what was wrong with me. But, thankfully, he had the good sense to refer me to a competent real eye doctor, a specialist, and I had the good sense to go see him,

My wife and I went to see the specialist. We were seated at his desk and I tried to explain what I was experiencing. When I finished my explanation, I looked up and he was laughing. He said, “I know exactly what’s wrong. In fact, I wrote a paper on it in medical school.”

He explained that one of the tendons in my left eye, the one responsible for pulling the eyeball to the right, passes through a bony kind of eyelet. And my tendon was dragging on the eyelet. “Lateral Ascending Tendon Syndrome.” They even had a common name for the variant I had – “Acquired Brown’s Syndrome.” The “acquired” word separates my condition from Congenital Brown’s Syndrome.

So, I’d gone to two doctors, but now I had a name for my condition.

I asked him, “What causes this?”

Answer  - “We have no idea.”

I asked the doc, “Well, what can we do about it?”

He responded - “Absolutely nothing.”

Turns out, my condition is extremely mild. If it had been really severe, there is a risky operation. But the risks far outweighed the benefits in my case. My case is extremely mild, and intermittent. It has persisted for over 30 years now – but has gotten no worse.

This, as it turns out, happens about two times out of three when go to the doctor with a complaint:

·       You go to 2-3 doctors before you find one who knows what’s wrong
·       You have several expensive tests performed for each doctor
·       They finally tell you what you  have
·       But they don’t know why, and
·       There’s no treatment or cure

Basically, you worry a lot, spend a lot of money, and end up with only the name of your present affliction. Add it to your growing list.

Torn rotator cuff (right shoulder)

I tore something in my right shoulder when I carried a very heavy box of books from my vehicle into the local middle school. I was helping my wife, doing some heavy lifting. Heavier, I daresay, than my increasingly crispy body could bear. Something gave way.

A visit to our family Orthopedic Surgeon confirmed I had torn my right rotator cuff. (As couples age, we gain a “family Orthopedic Surgeon.” By the time I needed surgery for my rotator cuff, my wife had already had shoulder surgery and two knee replacements.)

I had the arthroscopic shoulder surgery to “clean it out in there,” and the subsequent physical therapy. There was significant discomfort during my recovery – but eventually I healed.

This was a case when the doctors could “fix” it.

Bronchiolitis

This particular tale of woe was truly self-inflicted, but can serve as a lesson about dealing with health issues and doctors as you age.

This saga begins with the fact that I was a beginning woodworker, working at a “shop” in my basement. I was building a chest from an exotic hardwood (Padauk), and developed some kind of allergic bronchial reaction to the sawdust. I developed a cough that never seemed to get any better. After about 3 months, I began seeing doctors.

The first specialist I went to gave me a series of tests – including lung capacity tests and a chest x-ray.

His diagnosis was COPD!  What, I don’t have COPD! My father-in-law had Emphysema and COPD for real. I just had a reaction to some sawdust.

The chest x-ray didn’t show anything wrong with my lungs but did indicate that my aorta was somehow “uncoiling.” What? What the hell does that mean? That sounds freakin’ important!

Time for another doctor.

Incidentally, these specialists you see are often of foreign birth and English is, at best, a second language.

I eventually found a doctor who actually listened to me and diagnosed me with a condition that babies often get - Bronchiolitis. Basically, my coughing in response to an allergic reaction had itself irritating my bronchial tubes and the condition was self-perpetuating. The more I coughed, the greater the irritation and the more I coughed. Endless cycle.

He prescribed an inhaler and prednisone and I was cured within a week or so.

Another one the doctors could fix – once I found one who would listen. And then only after paying for expensive tests I probably didn’t need. Be prepared to fight knee-jerk incompetent diagnoses, too, Like COPD in this case. And “uncoiling” aorta.

One lesson I did learn – to be more careful about controlling the sawdust in my shop. And be more careful about some of the materials I use. I’ve never used Padauk since and doubt I ever will.

Echolocation and Lychees

My wife uses a walker 24/7, her feet and ankles having long since succumbed to arthritis. As a result, when we go shopping in the big stores, she uses an electric shopping cart that most big stores have these days.

I, myself, often use one of those carts, too, to save wear and tear on my 0.75 total knees: half a knee on one side, and about a quarter on the other. In fact, we have developed an admirable two-geezer shopping technique that employs two electric carts and our cell phones for communication. She’ll call and say, “Go get your cereal,” and I’ll putter over to the breakfast food aisle. We’ll rendezvous in the fresh vegetable section when we’re done.

Well, today she had to make a “quick run” to Kroger for a can of lychees for some Halloween eyeball recipe she plans to make (don’t ask). I tagged along on foot, thinking that this was a quick errand. I caught up with her in the Asian food section, but alas, no lychees. They had lychee juice, but not the canned fruit.

As I was poking around amongst the Asian items, looking for a lost can of lychees (sounds like a Jimmy Buffett song), I turned around and my wife was gone, electric cart and all.

After scouting the adjacent aisles, I couldn’t find her. I thought, “I’ll just call on the cell phone and find out where she is.” This works in our normal grocery store.

But, “Oh, NO!” There’s no cell service in Kroger’s!  I then remember this about the new Kroger’s – no cell phone service. Something about the metal roof over the huge superstore.

“What am I gonna do?”  I could be stuck in here for hours until she randomly runs into me. There’s no place to sit.

So, I went back to the entrance and requisitioned another electric cart. At least they had several and the one I picked had a freshly recharged battery.

I swung a gimpy leg over the seat and set off to do a grid search of the 6-acre Kroger.

In the old days, grocery stores were laid out in a regular grid. You could cross down one row and see down each aisle. It was possible to lay out a logical search pattern with near 100% probability of finding your wife. Not so anymore.

There are too many deviations from the regular grid – escarpments and jutting corners and exhibits and abutments and all kinds of impediments to a regular search. You’re reduced to the almost hopeless task of driving around randomly until either you find her, or run out of juice in your battery, whichever comes first. A daunting prospect.

I tried to think, “How’d we use to do this? Before cell phones? When I lost her in a grocery store back in the old days.”

I remembered – ECHOLOCATION. I learned years ago that my wife recognizes my cough. And I recognize her answering cough. So, I go about a hundred feet, and cough <coff><coff> and wait for an answer.

So, I began my semi-random search grid, coughing <coff><coff> periodically –and waiting for an answer from my wife. Like a couple of cetaceans in the open seas. Blue whales looking for their mates.

So I’m cruising around on the electric cart, coughing like a retired coal miner, and some sympathetic store employee asks me, “Can I help you find anything?” I replied, “My wife?” She were amused, but not particularly helpful.

I ultimately spotted her about a quarter mile ahead and made my signal, <coff><coff> and she immediately looked around towards me. Mission complete.

It’s good to know the old ways when modern technology lets you down. It’s a good lesson for you young whippersnappers. Good advice from the Old Boomer.

Enon Apple Butter Festival

I'm getting prepared for my only craft show of the year: The Enon Apple Butter Festival (Enon, Ohio Oct. 12-13, 2019). 

The following are photos of my booth at last year's festival. I've  been doing the festival now for a decade or so. After this year, though, I may have to stop - I'm getting too old for the lifting and toting.

I never sell much at the festival, but I get a lot of dialog, ideas, and positive feedback from the patrons, and I enjoy talking about my woodworking.

The festival in 2020 will be on the same date as my grandson Nick's wedding. I'll have to miss that show anyway.