It's a Walk In the Park

Today, a major victory: I took a walk out of doors.

When first I underwent the unpleasantness of excision from religious life, I was quite a mess. I wept copiously, every morning and evening, for nearly a year. It was an Olympic performance.

I took solace in mid-night walks. For whatever reason I felt that even the casual glances of passersby would trample my desired privacy, and so I would wait all day to totter around my neighborhood in darkness.

It was so soothing an exercise, I often passed most the night this way. Several times my poor father was worried enough to drive out looking for me in his rickety Chrysler.

Since the time I became so sick, my walks were suspended. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months. Today, at last, I returned, in the pattern of MacArthur. The weather was perfect. I made it half way before I was out of breath. Did I break a sweat? Men sweat, but ladies perspire.I am advised not to overdo these things; but I imagine there is a daily constitutional in my immediate future.

In the meantime, I will continue to pass along the advice of those illustrious purveyors of wisdom, Ace of Base: "Take a walk in the park when you feel down, there's so many things there, that's gonna lift you up."

Pain Can BreakOr It Can Break Open

“Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist,
and into them enters suffering,
that they may have existence.”
~Leon Bloy

Australia

My surgeon is from Australia. His accent is charming and makes everything he says, even nasty stuff like "skin infiltration," sound lovely.

I was noodling around, looking up all the surgeons in the department, when I discovered that a whole bunch of them came over here from Australia at the same time. Clearly, growing up in Australia leads one to have huge brains and proficiency cutting with sharp, shiny knives.

If you take a look at the map, it makes perfect sense. Australia is like my native New Jersey: Only the strong survive.

Talk Radio

Today I was lounging around (my most frequent activity these days) listening to the radio. I had a horrible wave of disgust and nausea overcome me and I was forced to turn it off. I am a conservative person, and yet I seem to have lost my taste for the AM dial.

I have tried to namby-pamby it in my own mind, but the bare naked truth of the matter is this: many conservative "media" types are stupid. That's it, I said it. Stupid. Either they really do lack critical thinking skills, or they simply choose not to use them.

The problem is, these people have no readily apparent intellectual interest in a political or social movement. They are "pop" conservatives. Entertainers. Instead of thinking out an argument, they attempt to zing. They publish vapid, 150 page books with large pictures of themselves on the cover.

It has been widely assumed that the failure of the left-wing to maintain its own stable of similar "pop" communicators is to that movement's detriment. I think the reality is exactly the opposite.

Healing Takes Time

When I was in the hospital, there was a clock between the beds, hung in such a way so that every patient could tell the time. Knowing the hours and minutes is good for recovery, so my nurse said.

There was, for me, a nightly 3 am blood draw. The technicians were always silent, only smiling. At 4, a nurse gave me a series of injections. At 5, she came to record the dosage rate of my morphine pump.

At 6:00, the gaggle of doctors arrived. I always heard them coming; they stood in the hallway talking about me. When they came in, they never turned on the lights. Just stood there around my bed, asking me questions in the dark. I realized later that they were trying to make it easier for me to fall back asleep.

At 7:00, the night nurse came to introduce the day nurse. Then another injection. Then liquid breakfast. After the first day, the nurse would unplug the machines and arrange the various tubes so that I could take a morning walk.

At 4:30, the doctors came again. This time it was my surgeon and one or two others from the morning rounds. My surgeon is the most senior, and happens to have charge of the department, so I guess he is allowed to sleep in a little. He always wanted to know if I'd eaten my lunch. He'd never ask, just lift the cover on my food tray to see how much I'd left behind.

At 5:30, there was liquid dinner. And an insulin shot. And an afternoon walk. One evening I took advantage of this time to escape to the 10th floor. I knew of a linen cart there that was always full of hospital pants. On my floor there were no such pants, because the doctors wanted easy access to a patient's bottom parts, should an emergency arise.

At 7:00, the shift changed, and the nurses were busy giving report. So they didn't notice me sneaking back into my room with a armful of contraband pants. I shared with my roommate and we hid the extras so that they wouldn't be confiscated.

At 9, another series of injections. More insulin. At 10, vital signs taken. At midnight, lights out.

I still have those pants. I wore them home. I feel a little guilty for stealing them, but they are soooo comfortable.

Happy Birthday, America

Independence Day is my favorite holiday. Thanksgiving and Christmas are full of tension, stress and the risk of unmet expectations. But no one wigs out about the 4th of July. Dad gets out the grill and we all just enjoy each other's company. Now that's a celebration.