For much of the past ten years, I have been in pain. It started out as pain that could be medicated with OTC remedies, or a hot Jacuzzi bath. In 2005/06, I reinjured the disks in my back. I tried to work through it, but it became agonizing to get through a day's work, and I quit a physically demanding job to go back to teaching. I won't suggest that teaching is a physically demanding job, although good teachers try to entertain, as well as teach, so big gestures can get tiring. I was beginning to look like a 90 year-old, all bent over and such. One day, at Church, a guy named Dave Gover came up and asked what was wrong with my back. I told him that I had bulging disks at L5-S1, and was having some of the worst sciatic pain I had ever experienced.
The question caught me unprepared, I knew a little about Dave, like that he was a doctor, and worked at David Grant, but I had no idea what his specialty was, so it came out of right field. "How would you like to be pain-free for up to 90 days?" The look on my face should have told him that I was beyond shocked. I said something to the effect of kissing something in public, and allowing him a half hour to draw a crowd...
From that point on, Dr. Gover helped guide me to get the referrals I needed to get into the Interventional Radiology Clinic, and I was introduced to a procedure known as an Epidural Steroid Injection, or ESI. Using fluoroscopic imaging, the doctor inserts a small needle up next to the spine near the bulging disk, and bathes it in a solution that contains a steroid that actually shrinks the disk, taking pressure off the sciatic nerve. In my case, they do it bilaterally, meaning they do both sides of the spine.
The first time, despite the fact that the doctor who did it (not Gover) stuck the needle into my sciatic nerve, causing me to levitate for a second or two, I felt better as soon as the lidocane shots were administered. Lidocane takes some getting used to, after several ESI's, I no longer feel like screaming when the doctors numb the area, but it still burns. The effect lasts as long as the lidocane does, and as it wears off, the pain level goes back up. That scared the heck out of me, at first, because the original doctor, they called him EZ, told me that someday, these shots would no longer work. Now days, I don't panic, because within a few days, the pain level will go way down. After seven and a half years, I know the routine. Using the hospital's pain scale of 1 to 10, with 1 the least pain, and 10 the worst, it goes something like this:
On the morning of the ESI, my back pain is somewhere between 8 and 10, depending upon how well I slept. After the lidocane, it goes to 1, until the lidocane wears off, and the pain level goes back up to 6, or 7, or sometimes even 8/9. Over the next two or three days, the steroid will begin to shrink the disk, and the pain goes down to 5. Since I have arthritis in the same area, a 5 is about as good as it gets, even though I take Norco 325/5 every 4 to 6 hours, as needed. I stay there, for the most part, so I have learned a little about pain management.
I'm the only person I know who can hurt himself sleeping. Seriously, we've tried everything from Air to Waterbeds, and things that would never occur to Normal people. We finally settled on a memory foam over coils hybrid we got at Matthew's over on Orange Dr. Mattresses, pillows, mattress coverings of foam, memory foam, and egg crate foam, we have tried everything. Mary, from necessity, has learned to sleep on her right side, so she can hear. Up until the cancer surgery, I snored, pretty badly, most nights. I don't know what happened, or even if there is any proven relationship between the removal of part of a lung and a reduction in snoring, but over the past 18 months, Mary stays in bed with me on most nights, so I know it has abated quite a bit. No matter what we've tried, even the major makers of air and foam bedding who claim that their air/foam will reduce back pain, but give you a bunch of crap when you inform them that it didn't.
Right now, I am 2 1/2 weeks from my next procedure (ESI), and the sciatica is beginning to return to my left side, so the right can't be far behind. My pain level has risen to about six, so this is the beginning. By the time of my procedure, it will be at 9. This is not a particularly good time to be me.
I don't claim to know very much about the origin of pain, but I could probably write a book about the effects of pain on the body, and the mind. Most of the time I try to joke about it, particularly when I go to Church, and people ask how I am doing. I could be honest: "Just f-ing great. I didn't have to worry about having died in my sleep, 'cause I woke up in pain. If I ever woke up without it, I'd have a heart attack." But I take the easy way out and say, "I'm getting on as best I can." Which usually gets a, "We'll keep you in our prayers."
What a great sentiment, "We'll keep you in our prayers," particularly if you happen to believe in the power possessed by a single, earnest prayer. Sometimes I wonder, though, if they're praying for me to get worse; but that's just me, getting in the way of my own redemption. I do, by the way, believe in the power of prayer, and in the existence of a power far superior to our own, whom I choose to call God, that can intervene on our behalves, even to the point of miracles. I have seen too many, heard (on good authority) of many more. I have had a couple happen in my own life. Little ones, to be sure, but I have been married for more than 41 years to a woman I still love deeply, and that is a miracle.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Friday, June 19, 2015
A 1959 Triumph TR3
After my sister Pat left home, and we moved into the house on Berryessa Drive, my dad got a "wild hair," and decided that he wanted a British-made sports car. The summer weather, in Vacaville, was great for an open top roadster, and I knew that this would be "my car" one day, so I encouraged that part of him. One evening, we took a trip to Sacramento, to visit car dealerships, and see what was available up there.
He didn't want a "new" sports car, he wanted a good, used car. We went to the MG dealer, and looked in the used car section, but nothing popped out at my dad. We wandered a little further, and came upon an "iron lot," where Dad found a 1959 Triumph TR3. It was painted white, had black leather interior, and had all of the great lines of an English roadster. For example, the rear view mirrors were mounted on the side of the fenders, a total of close to five feet in front of the driver. Dad started to drool, but managed to ask to look at the engine, and the various tops for the car. The salesman told me the hood key was in the glove box, and asked me to get it. It was the only thing in the compartment, so it wasn't hard to find, a chrome-plated "T" that tapered to a shape that fit the two bolts in the hood. Remember, this was 1966, and I was all of 14 years old, so the fact that the T-wrench looked as though it had never been used didn't set off any alarms, but it felt funny.
The salesman, let's call him "Dave," popped the hood, and what greeted us was an immaculate Triumph in-line four cylinder engine, that looked like it just rolled off the assembly line. The car had about 45,000 miles on it, but for a seven year-old car, that was pretty low. We were still oohing and ahhing over the engine, and I noticed that there was a paint line, showing that the car's original color had been a lavender shade of purple. Again, to a fourteen year old, it seemed weird, but it didn't set off any alarms. Dave showed us the twin SU-carburetors, and told us that it took some time to learn how to keep them in sync. My dad was now drooling openly, and his hand kept reaching back for his wallet.
Dave told my dad that they were asking $1,200 for the car, but he'd do him a "solid," and drop it to $999. Dad had a thousand dollars, in cash, on him, ten $100 bills. Dad was quiet for a minute, appearing to "mull it over," then he looked Dave right in the eye and said, "Make it an even $900, and you've got a deal." That's how we got the little sports car from Hell. I call it that, because those things I didn't think much about at the time, were about to make themselves understood.
Mom drove off in the '63 Galaxy we had, and left right after Dad made his deal. This is mid-1960's, there were no cell phones, I-80 was four lanes, and we got as far as the Milk Farm before the engine seized up. Those of you familiar with the I-80 corridor through Vacaville, Dixon, and Davis know that although it gets into triple digits in the summer afternoons, it can drop into the '60's at night. Couple that with the Delta Breezes coming from the Southwest at 10 - 20 mph, and it can get quite cold after a day of 100 degree heat. I was freezing. Dad walked back to the Milk Farm, and used a payphone to call a tow truck, and to let my mom know what was going on. We got home around 11:00 pm, the tow driver helped us push the car up the driveway, into the garage, and it stayed in that spot for almost a year.
Work on the car went fairly slowly. We didn't have lifts, or any pneumatic tools, so everything had to be broken down by hand. Dad had set up boxes to hold the various systems associated with the engine, ignition, carburetion, heating/cooling, etc. As we pulled the assemblies from the block, we would put them into their box, to soak in solvent until we got back to them. It wasn't until we had the entire engine broken down that we would find out how hard it was to get parts for. A lot of things had to be ordered by mail, and new parts could take forever to arrive. As we "cracked the block," my dad started giving me more responsibility with the reassembly. He would double, triple, quadruple check my work, and I learned how cars ran. I was also learning to take care of a car I had a lot invested in.
I have no idea what all of the parts cost, and I had some help with the car's appearance, repainting, reupholstering, and an electrical problem that was probably created by my dad, but fixed by the Chief of Police, who was the father of a friend, and enjoyed puzzling problems like the one that developed. All I know is, that almost a year to the day, I put the key in the ignition, turned it on, and hovered over the starter switch while I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pushed...
VRRRROOOOOOMMMMM. Pop, pop, and then an uneven purr. I was so excited, I practically wet myself. We tweaked for a few minutes, checked the adjustments of the carburetors, and adjusted the idle, and stood back in awe of this sleek purring roadster that we had given a new life.
Extra credit for anyone who can identify the location.
He didn't want a "new" sports car, he wanted a good, used car. We went to the MG dealer, and looked in the used car section, but nothing popped out at my dad. We wandered a little further, and came upon an "iron lot," where Dad found a 1959 Triumph TR3. It was painted white, had black leather interior, and had all of the great lines of an English roadster. For example, the rear view mirrors were mounted on the side of the fenders, a total of close to five feet in front of the driver. Dad started to drool, but managed to ask to look at the engine, and the various tops for the car. The salesman told me the hood key was in the glove box, and asked me to get it. It was the only thing in the compartment, so it wasn't hard to find, a chrome-plated "T" that tapered to a shape that fit the two bolts in the hood. Remember, this was 1966, and I was all of 14 years old, so the fact that the T-wrench looked as though it had never been used didn't set off any alarms, but it felt funny.
The salesman, let's call him "Dave," popped the hood, and what greeted us was an immaculate Triumph in-line four cylinder engine, that looked like it just rolled off the assembly line. The car had about 45,000 miles on it, but for a seven year-old car, that was pretty low. We were still oohing and ahhing over the engine, and I noticed that there was a paint line, showing that the car's original color had been a lavender shade of purple. Again, to a fourteen year old, it seemed weird, but it didn't set off any alarms. Dave showed us the twin SU-carburetors, and told us that it took some time to learn how to keep them in sync. My dad was now drooling openly, and his hand kept reaching back for his wallet.
Dave told my dad that they were asking $1,200 for the car, but he'd do him a "solid," and drop it to $999. Dad had a thousand dollars, in cash, on him, ten $100 bills. Dad was quiet for a minute, appearing to "mull it over," then he looked Dave right in the eye and said, "Make it an even $900, and you've got a deal." That's how we got the little sports car from Hell. I call it that, because those things I didn't think much about at the time, were about to make themselves understood.
Mom drove off in the '63 Galaxy we had, and left right after Dad made his deal. This is mid-1960's, there were no cell phones, I-80 was four lanes, and we got as far as the Milk Farm before the engine seized up. Those of you familiar with the I-80 corridor through Vacaville, Dixon, and Davis know that although it gets into triple digits in the summer afternoons, it can drop into the '60's at night. Couple that with the Delta Breezes coming from the Southwest at 10 - 20 mph, and it can get quite cold after a day of 100 degree heat. I was freezing. Dad walked back to the Milk Farm, and used a payphone to call a tow truck, and to let my mom know what was going on. We got home around 11:00 pm, the tow driver helped us push the car up the driveway, into the garage, and it stayed in that spot for almost a year.
Work on the car went fairly slowly. We didn't have lifts, or any pneumatic tools, so everything had to be broken down by hand. Dad had set up boxes to hold the various systems associated with the engine, ignition, carburetion, heating/cooling, etc. As we pulled the assemblies from the block, we would put them into their box, to soak in solvent until we got back to them. It wasn't until we had the entire engine broken down that we would find out how hard it was to get parts for. A lot of things had to be ordered by mail, and new parts could take forever to arrive. As we "cracked the block," my dad started giving me more responsibility with the reassembly. He would double, triple, quadruple check my work, and I learned how cars ran. I was also learning to take care of a car I had a lot invested in.
I have no idea what all of the parts cost, and I had some help with the car's appearance, repainting, reupholstering, and an electrical problem that was probably created by my dad, but fixed by the Chief of Police, who was the father of a friend, and enjoyed puzzling problems like the one that developed. All I know is, that almost a year to the day, I put the key in the ignition, turned it on, and hovered over the starter switch while I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pushed...
VRRRROOOOOOMMMMM. Pop, pop, and then an uneven purr. I was so excited, I practically wet myself. We tweaked for a few minutes, checked the adjustments of the carburetors, and adjusted the idle, and stood back in awe of this sleek purring roadster that we had given a new life.
Friday, June 12, 2015
Some Things Come To Mind...
Facebook friends know how much I use the ellipsis (...) in my Comments and Posts. For those of you who do not understand the uses for the device, the ellipsis indicates that the thought/quote/idea continues beyond the last word given. ...also stand for something before the ellipsis when the beginning of the thought/quote/idea is understood, or irrelevant (see, I took out the "An ellipsis can..."). As a freelance writer, I can use the ellipsis to make a quote say what I want it to say, and claim literary license. News reporters, on the other hand, do not have that liberty, and are required by their own code of ethics not to do such things. Personally, any news writer who uses the ellipsis freely is fairly suspect. I use it because some of my comments could actually be longer, but...
Thus endeth the lesson on the ellipsis.
I don't know that anyone ever reads these, there are only three people who follow my blogs, and I have no idea if they get a notification whenever I post something. If not, my readership is me, and me alone. I could foul this up with profanity (apparently as a former sailor, I am stereotyped as a drunken, foul-mouthed lout), but I have been working on "PG13" language, particularly at home. And besides, as a former sailor, I was a polite drunk. I just think there is too much profanity in the world today.
Seriously. When I was a teenager, being male, I used profanities to prove how tough and grown up I was. Girls, in the company of boys, almost never swore. Now, young ladies are hanging out windows, giving the finger, and dropping F-bombs like B-27's over Germany in 1945 (look it up, I guessed on the year, but sometime in there, the allies bombed the living doggie doo out of the German industrial cities, so it's an apt analogy). I used to tell the girls in my English classes that if I could get one of them to stop swearing, or even to become more aware of their swearing and slow down, I would be the happiest English teacher in the school.
The way girls dress, now days, can be a problem for a male teacher. I once, during a Summer School assignment, had a young lady come into my classroom and plop down in the front row. Normally, it's a behavior I've seen in my own kids, and it's a challenge to the teacher, "Entertain me!" Except this particular young lady was very attractive, and dressed in a top and miniskirt that highlighted her... well... her cleavage. Here she was, in the front row, dressed somewhat provocatively, sitting in a rather un-ladylike position. Did I mention the miniskirt? I quickly wrote a note, telling her to please move to the back of the class. She straightened up and looked at me defiantly, and said, "Why? I like sitting in the front row." I gave her my best fatherly look and said, "Frankly, it's because of the way you are dressed. If you come to class dressed a little more conservatively, you can sit wherever you want." She got up and moved to the back of the row. The next day, she was in shorts and a blouse that buttoned up, and sat in the front row. She stayed there for the next six weeks, and in the end, she thanked me for making her think about how she appeared to people. There's a long story, but she would wear that particular outfit to drive her dad crazy (I could see why). I told her she wouldn't leave my house in that outfit were she my daughter, but of course if she were my daughter, she would only leave the house under guard. It was something, at 49, I was the oldest person she knew, her grandparents passing before her birth. Never saw her again after that summer semester was over.
I've had a chance to look back on a horrible time in my life, the loss of my daughter Amy in 1979. The old adage goes, "A parent should never see his children die." I don't know who said it, under what circumstance, but I agree wholeheartedly. I watched our second child die in my hands at Slidell Memorial Hospital in Louisiana. She was born several months prematurely, and was not equipped to handle oxygen straight from the air. She fought hard, but it was futile, her little lungs just couldn't do it, and then she went limp. It was a feeling I never want to experience again, ever. I haven't talked about this, ever, and I don't really want to get into this now. I went to see her, the nurses were all in tears, and I asked if I could see her. She was in an incubator, a plastic box with glove holes in the side. They said there was nothing they could do but make her comfortable, and it was OK for me to hold her in the box. They watched as I picked her up, and felt how little she was. Amy was kicking, like she was fighting to stay, and then she went limp...
End of story...
Except it didn't end right there. We tried, had a son 355 days later, except there was still a hole at the table where Amy should have been. For a long time, she went without a permanent marker, and there was something that remained undone, and was keeping us from reaching some closure. Mary sent me Polaroid pictures of the permanent marker, I was on deployment to Misawa, Japan in 1989, and I think I scared some folks in the barracks because of the loud weeping. Some folks worried that I was losing it, but it was the relief of having done the last thing we could do on earth for my daughter. Prior to doing that, came the second most horrible time in my life, my separation from Mary in 1981.
We said we weren't doing it, but each of us ourselves for Amy. Me because of the drugs I took in the 1960's and early '70's. Mary had her own reasons, but we started putting up barriers to communications, and soon we weren't talking to each other. I always likened it to fencing ourselves off from each other. Each thing we couldn't talk about was like a board in the fence. Pretty soon we got to the point where we couldn't talk to each other at all without starting a argument, and our relationship deteriorated fully. We were legally separated, waiting for the divorce to become final, and I had a bit of an epiphany, and we put our marriage back together, and things have been great ever since. There is another adage about marriages that make it past the first seven years will make it forever. We were married in '74, separated in '81. We almost didn't make it past seven years. This past year was 41 years together. Believe me, miracles happen, I've seen it.
Thus endeth the lesson on the ellipsis.
I don't know that anyone ever reads these, there are only three people who follow my blogs, and I have no idea if they get a notification whenever I post something. If not, my readership is me, and me alone. I could foul this up with profanity (apparently as a former sailor, I am stereotyped as a drunken, foul-mouthed lout), but I have been working on "PG13" language, particularly at home. And besides, as a former sailor, I was a polite drunk. I just think there is too much profanity in the world today.
Seriously. When I was a teenager, being male, I used profanities to prove how tough and grown up I was. Girls, in the company of boys, almost never swore. Now, young ladies are hanging out windows, giving the finger, and dropping F-bombs like B-27's over Germany in 1945 (look it up, I guessed on the year, but sometime in there, the allies bombed the living doggie doo out of the German industrial cities, so it's an apt analogy). I used to tell the girls in my English classes that if I could get one of them to stop swearing, or even to become more aware of their swearing and slow down, I would be the happiest English teacher in the school.
The way girls dress, now days, can be a problem for a male teacher. I once, during a Summer School assignment, had a young lady come into my classroom and plop down in the front row. Normally, it's a behavior I've seen in my own kids, and it's a challenge to the teacher, "Entertain me!" Except this particular young lady was very attractive, and dressed in a top and miniskirt that highlighted her... well... her cleavage. Here she was, in the front row, dressed somewhat provocatively, sitting in a rather un-ladylike position. Did I mention the miniskirt? I quickly wrote a note, telling her to please move to the back of the class. She straightened up and looked at me defiantly, and said, "Why? I like sitting in the front row." I gave her my best fatherly look and said, "Frankly, it's because of the way you are dressed. If you come to class dressed a little more conservatively, you can sit wherever you want." She got up and moved to the back of the row. The next day, she was in shorts and a blouse that buttoned up, and sat in the front row. She stayed there for the next six weeks, and in the end, she thanked me for making her think about how she appeared to people. There's a long story, but she would wear that particular outfit to drive her dad crazy (I could see why). I told her she wouldn't leave my house in that outfit were she my daughter, but of course if she were my daughter, she would only leave the house under guard. It was something, at 49, I was the oldest person she knew, her grandparents passing before her birth. Never saw her again after that summer semester was over.
I've had a chance to look back on a horrible time in my life, the loss of my daughter Amy in 1979. The old adage goes, "A parent should never see his children die." I don't know who said it, under what circumstance, but I agree wholeheartedly. I watched our second child die in my hands at Slidell Memorial Hospital in Louisiana. She was born several months prematurely, and was not equipped to handle oxygen straight from the air. She fought hard, but it was futile, her little lungs just couldn't do it, and then she went limp. It was a feeling I never want to experience again, ever. I haven't talked about this, ever, and I don't really want to get into this now. I went to see her, the nurses were all in tears, and I asked if I could see her. She was in an incubator, a plastic box with glove holes in the side. They said there was nothing they could do but make her comfortable, and it was OK for me to hold her in the box. They watched as I picked her up, and felt how little she was. Amy was kicking, like she was fighting to stay, and then she went limp...
End of story...
Except it didn't end right there. We tried, had a son 355 days later, except there was still a hole at the table where Amy should have been. For a long time, she went without a permanent marker, and there was something that remained undone, and was keeping us from reaching some closure. Mary sent me Polaroid pictures of the permanent marker, I was on deployment to Misawa, Japan in 1989, and I think I scared some folks in the barracks because of the loud weeping. Some folks worried that I was losing it, but it was the relief of having done the last thing we could do on earth for my daughter. Prior to doing that, came the second most horrible time in my life, my separation from Mary in 1981.
We said we weren't doing it, but each of us ourselves for Amy. Me because of the drugs I took in the 1960's and early '70's. Mary had her own reasons, but we started putting up barriers to communications, and soon we weren't talking to each other. I always likened it to fencing ourselves off from each other. Each thing we couldn't talk about was like a board in the fence. Pretty soon we got to the point where we couldn't talk to each other at all without starting a argument, and our relationship deteriorated fully. We were legally separated, waiting for the divorce to become final, and I had a bit of an epiphany, and we put our marriage back together, and things have been great ever since. There is another adage about marriages that make it past the first seven years will make it forever. We were married in '74, separated in '81. We almost didn't make it past seven years. This past year was 41 years together. Believe me, miracles happen, I've seen it.
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