One of my Facebook Friends posted a picture of an old transistor radio, and asked how many used one of them. I had one, eerily similar to the one in the picture, but mine had an ear-phone, that plugged in to it. I mentioned that I used to listen to Giant's games after my bedtime, and recalled the names, Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons, of the Giant's announcing team back in the 1960's. Going back -- in my memory -- I could hear their voices, and remembered how vividly they made images in my mind with their words. I also remembered getting "in trouble" for listening to the games after bedtime, because I'd get so involved in a game, that I'd forget I was in bed, and supposed to be quiet. My dad would open my door, lay a couple-of-dozen Anglo-Saxon favorites on me, and tell me to get to sleep. As I'm typing this, I'm thinking that he just wanted me to shut-the-heck-up, because he never did the obvious punishment of taking my radio away...
Hodges and Simmons are, in a way, one of the reasons I decided to study English. Another was my Great-Uncle Henry, who used to like to play word games, and always had a pun to share. Sometimes the puns were real "groaners," but others were extremely funny, and others very thought provoking, but that's beside the point... I didn't mention that I have a list of "All-Time Favorite Baseball Announcers," and that they are on the top of the pile, as far as I'm concerned.
I started listening to the games in 1961, when most TV's were Black and White, and you might be able to watch a game on the weekend, but never during the week (before the decade was out, Channel 2, KTVU, Oakland/San Francisco, started to televise games in mid-week, particularly with the Dodgers). Russ and Lon made me feel like I was sitting between them, watching the game unfold in front of me. On TV, you may have gotten a picture (in Black and White), but Russ and Lon made you see the green grass, the reddish dirt, and crisp, clean white lines, in your mind, something I'm not sure that today's kids could do that, anymore...
Yes, I've been a Giants fan since I was a kid, I used to, kinda, liked the Dodgers for a time, but with the team they had? Koufax, Drysdale, Maury Wills, John Roseborough, Duke Snyder... and the play-by-play announcing of Vin Scully? That was back before we moved to the Bay Area, and I got to see the Giants. My first game was a Pirates/Giants game at Candlestick Park, in 1961. My dad, and his friend from work, Alex, took me in Alex's new Cadillac, we sat in the upper deck, and darned near froze to death as the sun set. There was a guy in the next section, a couple of rows down, pulled out a "Mummy Bag" (a sleeping bag that covers everything but your face), it was that bad...
It wasn't long after that, that I bought that transistor radio, so I could at least listen to the games... My dad didn't like the Giants (he really didn't like the Pirates, either, but they were close to where he grew up), and used to gripe about the "two big niggers," referring to Willie Mays and Willie McCovey. As ugly as that sounds, it's pretty indicative of my dad's attitude on race, and it's how I was raised, I'm sad to admit... I was fortunate to have my dad around for 18 years after I retired from the Navy, and had time to spend with him as an adult. I asked him why he persisted in calling black people by that insulting word, and he explained it to me in such a way, that I understood... I had made it my goal not to use such words, especially around my children. Even at age 10, I knew my dad was wrong to use such language regarding other people, and out of rebellion, more than probably anything, I became a full-fledged Giants fan.
Of the current crop of Giants announcers, I only have good things to say. It's hard to bad-mouth a member of the Baseball Hall of Fame, and besides, Jon Miller and I probably listened to a lot of the same games (we're the same age). Dave Flemming is also making a name for himself, and working beside a Hall of Famer can only make him better.
Kruk and Kype? They have to be the best of the current best, and I could be a little biased, here... I HATE it when the Giants games are on FOX or ESPN. The Network Guys are always biased towards the teams from the East, and know very little about players from the West, probably because the games out here are after their bedtimes? Whatever... Duane and Mike make the games fun to watch. Being former Giants themselves, the are able to develop a rapport with the guys on the team that the Network Guys can't, and pretty much don't even try.
While I'm on the subject of Baseball Announcers, let me be clear, Joe Buck isn't worth the sweat from a dead camel's testicle. He is, without a doubt, THE WORST BASEBALL ANNOUNCER IN THE GAME! There, I've said it.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Some Rather Large Improvements
I tried to write about my most recent hospital stay, September 20 - 23, 2016, but I was doing more rambling than actually stating what it was I started out to say... Yes, I am aware that I can't tell a story straight through without a bunch of diversions, that's why I named my blog RamblingWithSteve (Duh.)... but whenever I catch myself going "away," I stop, save whatever I've written, and keep it as a Draft. I've posted a number of things, over the years, but my library of Drafts has a lot more...
Why, you might ask? Any number of reasons, but mostly because I've gone too personal, or I just can't find any relevance in what I've written. I keep them because they contain something (a reference, turn of phrase, etc.) that I might want to return to someday. The same as I've kept a Word copy of a manuscript I've worked on for a bunch of years... I wrote it, and hopefully someday, someone will actually read what I've written...
See, rambling already... I mentioned some large improvements, and since my hospital stay, I've been making a bunch. I'm getting stronger every day. My physical therapist asked how I would rate my physical condition, and I told her, "Not dead... Yet"... My heart rate is still high (low 90's sitting, low 100's standing), but I did seven and a half minutes on a "HiStep" machine (a stepper, except you're seated). I was at 94 when I first started, I took a reading on the HiStep sensors, to check how close they were to the "finger trap" pulse-ox device, and they were very close. I proceeded to take HR readings every minute, at the request of my physical therapist. I started easy, a steady 55 - 65 steps per minute, and had readings of 98, 98, 97, 96, 97, and 98 through the first six minutes. I tried pumping it up a little, and did 90 -95 steps per minute for the last minute and a half, pulse went to 104, but backed off to 94 as we watched it for a minute or two... at one point, during some flexibility measurements, my HR went down to 92 (but I was seated)... as soon as I stood up, it went to 104, but backed off to an even 100 really quickly... after some walking/stepping drills, it went back to the mid 90's...
If you consider that a few weeks ago I was pumping 148, laying on a gurney in the Emergency Department (no more ER, and I have trouble saying I was in ED, think about it...), that I stayed in the 110's through most of my stay, and that I've been tracking in the 100 - 115 area, while at rest, it seems that the little things I have been doing are bringing my heart rate back down... I used to track upper 70's before, so I have some work ahead of me.
Fortunately, my Primary Care doctor (Dr. John Vogel) had no problems writing a referral for physical conditioning, and in a week, or so, I'll be back at the therapist, working on improving upon, "Not dead... Yet"...
Why, you might ask? Any number of reasons, but mostly because I've gone too personal, or I just can't find any relevance in what I've written. I keep them because they contain something (a reference, turn of phrase, etc.) that I might want to return to someday. The same as I've kept a Word copy of a manuscript I've worked on for a bunch of years... I wrote it, and hopefully someday, someone will actually read what I've written...
See, rambling already... I mentioned some large improvements, and since my hospital stay, I've been making a bunch. I'm getting stronger every day. My physical therapist asked how I would rate my physical condition, and I told her, "Not dead... Yet"... My heart rate is still high (low 90's sitting, low 100's standing), but I did seven and a half minutes on a "HiStep" machine (a stepper, except you're seated). I was at 94 when I first started, I took a reading on the HiStep sensors, to check how close they were to the "finger trap" pulse-ox device, and they were very close. I proceeded to take HR readings every minute, at the request of my physical therapist. I started easy, a steady 55 - 65 steps per minute, and had readings of 98, 98, 97, 96, 97, and 98 through the first six minutes. I tried pumping it up a little, and did 90 -95 steps per minute for the last minute and a half, pulse went to 104, but backed off to 94 as we watched it for a minute or two... at one point, during some flexibility measurements, my HR went down to 92 (but I was seated)... as soon as I stood up, it went to 104, but backed off to an even 100 really quickly... after some walking/stepping drills, it went back to the mid 90's...
If you consider that a few weeks ago I was pumping 148, laying on a gurney in the Emergency Department (no more ER, and I have trouble saying I was in ED, think about it...), that I stayed in the 110's through most of my stay, and that I've been tracking in the 100 - 115 area, while at rest, it seems that the little things I have been doing are bringing my heart rate back down... I used to track upper 70's before, so I have some work ahead of me.
Fortunately, my Primary Care doctor (Dr. John Vogel) had no problems writing a referral for physical conditioning, and in a week, or so, I'll be back at the therapist, working on improving upon, "Not dead... Yet"...
Friday, September 2, 2016
Maybe Another Day...
... I'll get off my rear, and actually do something around the house. Not that I'm idle all of the time, with restrictions on how much I can lift, 10 pounds if you ask my doctor, but in reality, my golf bag weighs about 40, and not even my "brother from another mother" Mr. Bill is going to load and unload my golf bag. ** Just a side note, on some of the "better" (expensive) courses have people meet you, and take care of your clubs from trunk to cart, and back. TPC Scottsdale even wiped all of my clubs down.** I can't think of it as "defying doctors orders," or being one of those old guys who think, "I'll show you who can lift only 10 pounds..." I'm not doing either, but the reality is, if I could only lift and carry less than 10 pounds, I can't even help my wife bring in the groceries. A few days ago, we FedEx'd the top of the table at Mary's mom's house, to he brother in Cleveland. The box weighed less than 52 pounds, and was almost 4 feet square, and 8 inches deep, so I never even tried to carry it, but I did manhandle it around, once Mary and I got it into the car, and rolled it (yes, I did say it was square) into the FedEx store, until I could slide it on the tile.
That's the reality. Quite often, it costs me, I will hurt for a day or two, but I have been able to work out (stretching, exercises from my Physical Therapist, inversion, meds, Australian Dream (this is no joke, if you have arthritic joints, you should try this stuff), lidocane patches and creams. You'd think, with my history of back pain, my complete knowledge of my history of back pain, I'd be babying my back a week before a new treatment, but no-o-o-o-o... Sometimes I think that despite my 129 IQ, that I'd know better... [BZZZT!] That was Beulah the Buzzer (only a few of you will get that), and your answer was incorrect. The correct answer is: I'm a flipping idiot.
I'm slowly understanding that the list of "Things I Can No Longer Do:" keeps getting longer every day. It took a long time for me to understand that I no longer wanted to do my own car maintenance, an to find a place to take my car. ** Firestone, at the corner of Callen St. and E. Monte Vista Ave. (in Vacaville) has been doing the work on my cars since 2000, and I recommend them very highly. ** I worked for a number of years as a mechanic at the old Vaca Bowl (a year in 1966, two and a half years from 1991 to 1994), and at STARS. I was on the crew that installed everything from the seating to the back wall of the building, settee's, approaches, lanes, gutters, pinsetters, ball returns, "the whole nine yards." After that, I was the night mechanic for about a year before I started teaching. During my Navy career, I took a second-job as a pinsetter mechanic two or three times, as well. I guess, I got tired of having to scrape grease from under my fingernails, and using solvents to get the gunk off my hands, face, and arms. So giving up being a "backyard mechanic" wasn't that hard.
It's all of the other stuff, now.
I should say, at this point, that I learned enough plumbing, electrical, and landscaping stuff when I was a teenager, and we moved to Vacaville, my parents buying a "brand-spanking new," never before lived-in house on Berryessa Drive. Before we ever took possession of the house, my dad had worked out a deal with the builder that allowed my dad to make a few alterations in where certain light fixtures would be, where to place heating/AC ducts, and some other stuff. The builder agreed, as long as my dad made the changes himself. My dad had built-in slave labor... me. I have to admit, after all these years, that my dad had some great ideas, including the addition of a few electrical outlets, some switches, and moving a chandelier from the center of the kitchen/dining area to the center of the dining area alone. He got a lot of static from the builder, but when the house was finished, my dad looked like a genius. All of our work was inspected, and approved by the Building Inspectors, so everything was "within code". We also moved both toilets to accommodate a larger vanity that we installed instead of the one that "came" with the house.
Throughout my Navy career, I would learn even more, and utilized the skills I had developed as a kid. I could have done a replacement ceiling light fixture in our second bedroom, but even thinking about it made me tired, and although I could have done it myself, I paid someone to get it done, and darned glad I did. Same with our front yard, I was going to have a tree taken out, then I was going to prepare and plant a new front yard. When the tree came down, there were roots everywhere, the ground-down the stump, and as much of the surface root as they could, and putting in a new yard would be a pretty big deal. The guy who does our lawn care offered to sod it for a few hundred bucks, so guess who put in the yard? I kind of wish I had, because our yard is "lumpy".
My dad trained me pretty well, there were lots of things I used to be able to do, but "at my age," I'm better off not doing them anymore.
That's the reality. Quite often, it costs me, I will hurt for a day or two, but I have been able to work out (stretching, exercises from my Physical Therapist, inversion, meds, Australian Dream (this is no joke, if you have arthritic joints, you should try this stuff), lidocane patches and creams. You'd think, with my history of back pain, my complete knowledge of my history of back pain, I'd be babying my back a week before a new treatment, but no-o-o-o-o... Sometimes I think that despite my 129 IQ, that I'd know better... [BZZZT!] That was Beulah the Buzzer (only a few of you will get that), and your answer was incorrect. The correct answer is: I'm a flipping idiot.
I'm slowly understanding that the list of "Things I Can No Longer Do:" keeps getting longer every day. It took a long time for me to understand that I no longer wanted to do my own car maintenance, an to find a place to take my car. ** Firestone, at the corner of Callen St. and E. Monte Vista Ave. (in Vacaville) has been doing the work on my cars since 2000, and I recommend them very highly. ** I worked for a number of years as a mechanic at the old Vaca Bowl (a year in 1966, two and a half years from 1991 to 1994), and at STARS. I was on the crew that installed everything from the seating to the back wall of the building, settee's, approaches, lanes, gutters, pinsetters, ball returns, "the whole nine yards." After that, I was the night mechanic for about a year before I started teaching. During my Navy career, I took a second-job as a pinsetter mechanic two or three times, as well. I guess, I got tired of having to scrape grease from under my fingernails, and using solvents to get the gunk off my hands, face, and arms. So giving up being a "backyard mechanic" wasn't that hard.
It's all of the other stuff, now.
I should say, at this point, that I learned enough plumbing, electrical, and landscaping stuff when I was a teenager, and we moved to Vacaville, my parents buying a "brand-spanking new," never before lived-in house on Berryessa Drive. Before we ever took possession of the house, my dad had worked out a deal with the builder that allowed my dad to make a few alterations in where certain light fixtures would be, where to place heating/AC ducts, and some other stuff. The builder agreed, as long as my dad made the changes himself. My dad had built-in slave labor... me. I have to admit, after all these years, that my dad had some great ideas, including the addition of a few electrical outlets, some switches, and moving a chandelier from the center of the kitchen/dining area to the center of the dining area alone. He got a lot of static from the builder, but when the house was finished, my dad looked like a genius. All of our work was inspected, and approved by the Building Inspectors, so everything was "within code". We also moved both toilets to accommodate a larger vanity that we installed instead of the one that "came" with the house.
Throughout my Navy career, I would learn even more, and utilized the skills I had developed as a kid. I could have done a replacement ceiling light fixture in our second bedroom, but even thinking about it made me tired, and although I could have done it myself, I paid someone to get it done, and darned glad I did. Same with our front yard, I was going to have a tree taken out, then I was going to prepare and plant a new front yard. When the tree came down, there were roots everywhere, the ground-down the stump, and as much of the surface root as they could, and putting in a new yard would be a pretty big deal. The guy who does our lawn care offered to sod it for a few hundred bucks, so guess who put in the yard? I kind of wish I had, because our yard is "lumpy".
My dad trained me pretty well, there were lots of things I used to be able to do, but "at my age," I'm better off not doing them anymore.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
So I Have Pioneers in My Family...
... and granted, the relationship is fairly distant (my great-grandfather's uncle's grandson, I think), a lot of things in my life are starting to come together (sort of). It explains a lot about my thinking as a boy, attending a Lutheran church. This isn't some "recovered memory," it's a long held set of beliefs that just happened to be significantly different than what I was learning from my beloved Pastor Zeltin. Make no mistake, the Reverend Pastor John Zeltin played an enormous part in the development of my spiritual nature. His pronounced Russian accent, although clearly understandable, made me listen more intently on what he was saying, to try and find his meanings.
It was because of this that I discovered a dichotomy that even Pastor Zeltin couldn't explain. This was my thinking (and it holds to this day): If God was, indeed, our Maker, our "Heavenly Father," as He instructed us, how was it possible for Him to come "with hate," and "with vengeance," against his more wayward children? When I was young, even though our family wasn't very demonstrative, affection-wise, I knew that because I was his son (Charles Scott Martin), he would do anything, even if it meant his own life, to save me. My dad never had to say it (although in retrospect, it would have been pretty cool), it was understood. Simple fact. Done deal. When I became a father, I knew I would do anything to save one of my children. I also know the pain of having one turn his back on me, but I would still do anything to save him, if he would just say he was sorry... to his mom. Theme sounds kind of familiar, huh?
I couldn't get that idea out of my head, other ordained ministers, like Cotton Mather, write epistles like, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," and I wondered how that could be. Yeah, I made my Earthly Father angry a couple of times... you buying that?... but never to the point of wanting to inflict any actual harm on me. Yes, my children have made me angry as well, and it isn't any shock to them, either. Yet I would do whatever I can possibly do to help them.
It was because of this that I discovered a dichotomy that even Pastor Zeltin couldn't explain. This was my thinking (and it holds to this day): If God was, indeed, our Maker, our "Heavenly Father," as He instructed us, how was it possible for Him to come "with hate," and "with vengeance," against his more wayward children? When I was young, even though our family wasn't very demonstrative, affection-wise, I knew that because I was his son (Charles Scott Martin), he would do anything, even if it meant his own life, to save me. My dad never had to say it (although in retrospect, it would have been pretty cool), it was understood. Simple fact. Done deal. When I became a father, I knew I would do anything to save one of my children. I also know the pain of having one turn his back on me, but I would still do anything to save him, if he would just say he was sorry... to his mom. Theme sounds kind of familiar, huh?
I couldn't get that idea out of my head, other ordained ministers, like Cotton Mather, write epistles like, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," and I wondered how that could be. Yeah, I made my Earthly Father angry a couple of times... you buying that?... but never to the point of wanting to inflict any actual harm on me. Yes, my children have made me angry as well, and it isn't any shock to them, either. Yet I would do whatever I can possibly do to help them.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Am I the Only One...
... that has noticed a distinct pattern in the differences between the Democratic and Republican administrations in the last 75 years, or so?
Democrats win the White House, the US gets embroiled in a World War, a continuation of his policies brings us through the World War, only to get caught in a war of ideology in Korea.
In 1952, a Republican is elected, the country lives in a non-war era that leads to the greatest progress and prosperity the world has ever known.
In 1960, the young and energetic Democrat wins, the nation becomes embroiled in another ideological war in Vietnam. His legacy live on through his successor, following the assassination in 1963, and continues through the former Vice President's re-election in 1964.
1968 brings the Republicans back to the White House, the US begins a new strategy in Vietnam, eventually leading to an extremely abrupt end in 1974. In those six years, American prosperity has continued at a rapid pace, that is, until a scandal forces the resignation of the Republican, and the appointment of an oafish Vice President to the Office.
1976 finds the people skeptical about the Republicans, and a former Governor and peanut farmer gets to sit in the "big chair". Gas lines (people waiting to buy gasoline) grew ever longer, as relations in the Middle East go south, leading to the taking of the American Embassy in Tehran, along with 416 hostages. Americans are having to deal with double-digit inflation, and double-digit interest rates.
1980 put a Republican (converted Democrat and former Hollywood actor) back on the seat of power. As he was being sworn in, the Iran Hostages were being freed. "Trickle-down economics" became a new source of prosperity, and once again, Americans lived in peace. Despite an assassination attempt, and a suspected battle with Alzheimer's, "Regan-omics" would continue with the election of the Vice President in 1988.
1992 shuffles in a new Democrat, a former Governor and alleged jazz-saxophonist, and blatant philanderer. Despite massive increases in taxes, the economy continues to grow, and Americans still know peace. What they don't know is that the administration's refusal to deal with a known terrorist, once and for all, would set-up one of the greatest acts of mass murder ever known on American soil.
2010 -
Democrats win the White House, the US gets embroiled in a World War, a continuation of his policies brings us through the World War, only to get caught in a war of ideology in Korea.
In 1952, a Republican is elected, the country lives in a non-war era that leads to the greatest progress and prosperity the world has ever known.
In 1960, the young and energetic Democrat wins, the nation becomes embroiled in another ideological war in Vietnam. His legacy live on through his successor, following the assassination in 1963, and continues through the former Vice President's re-election in 1964.
1968 brings the Republicans back to the White House, the US begins a new strategy in Vietnam, eventually leading to an extremely abrupt end in 1974. In those six years, American prosperity has continued at a rapid pace, that is, until a scandal forces the resignation of the Republican, and the appointment of an oafish Vice President to the Office.
1976 finds the people skeptical about the Republicans, and a former Governor and peanut farmer gets to sit in the "big chair". Gas lines (people waiting to buy gasoline) grew ever longer, as relations in the Middle East go south, leading to the taking of the American Embassy in Tehran, along with 416 hostages. Americans are having to deal with double-digit inflation, and double-digit interest rates.
1980 put a Republican (converted Democrat and former Hollywood actor) back on the seat of power. As he was being sworn in, the Iran Hostages were being freed. "Trickle-down economics" became a new source of prosperity, and once again, Americans lived in peace. Despite an assassination attempt, and a suspected battle with Alzheimer's, "Regan-omics" would continue with the election of the Vice President in 1988.
1992 shuffles in a new Democrat, a former Governor and alleged jazz-saxophonist, and blatant philanderer. Despite massive increases in taxes, the economy continues to grow, and Americans still know peace. What they don't know is that the administration's refusal to deal with a known terrorist, once and for all, would set-up one of the greatest acts of mass murder ever known on American soil.
2010 -
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
An Inspired Posting...
I read an article this morning, in an addendum to the local newspaper called The Campus Star in which our budding young journalists take a hand at writing articles, OP/ED pieces, etc. Some of them are very well done, but it doesn't take long to realize that the authors are children, and by nature fairly immature. One specific article, entitled "Why We Must Not Fear Death," was an opinion piece by a junior at the charter high school. It was obvious, from her description, that she had dealt with the death of family members, and felt that she was on the brink of still more in the near future. Yet she has hung on, and developed an acceptance of death, something to be embraced rather than feared.
It's not often that I hear that kind of rhetoric from sixteen year old kids. Most would be whining about how "un-FAIR" death was, but this young woman squared-up and is facing death as a natural course of life, not something to deny, or be afraid of. It got me to thinking about how death has effected me, personally, and through me, my extended family. That's why I started writing this flipping blog in the first place. It started after my dad passed in April of 2009. I wrote about the day he died, and how my mom reacted to it. This was after Mary's mom's passing the previous month. I got to give two eulogies in 30 days. I was pretty shaky when Dad died, and worked some of it out on the keyboard.
It's not often that I hear that kind of rhetoric from sixteen year old kids. Most would be whining about how "un-FAIR" death was, but this young woman squared-up and is facing death as a natural course of life, not something to deny, or be afraid of. It got me to thinking about how death has effected me, personally, and through me, my extended family. That's why I started writing this flipping blog in the first place. It started after my dad passed in April of 2009. I wrote about the day he died, and how my mom reacted to it. This was after Mary's mom's passing the previous month. I got to give two eulogies in 30 days. I was pretty shaky when Dad died, and worked some of it out on the keyboard.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Friendship
When I was a kid, I couldn't have imagined having friends that go back 50 years. 'Course, you couldn't have convinced me that I'd live to be 50, so I guess that point is moot. The fact of the matter is that I have a bunch of them, and hear from them fairly often. In fact, I have two that I play golf with every week. I've got a bunch on Facebook, who report in from a bunch of places from all over the globe, or some, like me, who came back to Vacaville after a period of absence, and some that never left. I have a bunch of FB friends whom I haven't known for quite as long, some have been for quite a while, though, but not 50 years.
So many of my classmates are no longer with us. Some succumbed to the violence of war; some from the ravages of drugs. Still others have passed from "natural" causes (although I can never see something that starts eating the body that hosts it as "natural"), and others through recklessness, or carelessness, and these are the people I've known the longest.
We moved around a lot when I was a kid, by the time I could learn all the names of the kids in the neighborhood, we'd move again. Right up to the 1957 move to the house on Bergwall Way in Vallejo. We lived there for eight years. Three before my dad retired from the Navy, and five while he worked at the California Medical (Correctional) Facility in Vacaville. Today, people wouldn't think twice about driving 27 miles to work, but in the early '60's the Interstates were just getting built, and Dad had to run US 40 through Fairfield, and into Vacaville. For the first time, I had friends that I could hang-out with, go on hikes with, take a bus across Vallejo (paying the 25 cent fare, each way, with money we made picking up bottles and claiming the deposits) and go swimming at "The Plunge," a pool adjacent to Vallejo High, and play a lot of neighborhood games. Then, one day, Dad comes home, and we're going to move again. In June of 1965, days after my sister Pat graduates from Hogan High, we're picking up, lock-stock-and-barrel, and moving into an apartment in Vacaville.
At the time, I thought it was the worst thing that could happen to me. Vallejo was a city, with 65,000 people in it. Vacaville was a fruit stand on the highway, a rural community comprised of less than 14,000 when we first moved in. Other than the prison, the big employers were Travis AFB, and the Basic Vegetable Processing plant that gave the town its distinctive odor, onions, mostly, but at the end of the onion season, they would process garlic for a short while. Even after the season was over, the town still reeked of onions. The locals used to joke that blind people could tell when they got to Vacaville (by the smell). I didn't think it was that funny...
So, my parents, my sister, and I are living in a second-floor 3BR apartment, that overlooks the pool and cabana. It's summer-time, we've just moved into an apartment with a pool, and I get an ear infection on moving day, had it worsened by attending the races, that night, at the Vaca Valley Drag races, and spent most of that first night in my new home in the emergency room at the (then) Travis AFB Hospital (it became David Grant during my high school years), with an earache. It was July before I was allowed to use the pool.
Actually, I have to admit it, but I figured that this apartment building had to have lots of girls my age, so I'd get to know some people before school started [BUZZ]. Most of the female population of the apartment building were working women, or wives, all but a girl named Barbara who was two years younger than me, still hadn't shed her "baby fat," had a brutal case of acne, and was someone, I found fairly quickly, I just couldn't stand being around. It looked like it was going to be a l-o-n-g summer.
Sometime in July, the Vacavile Reporter, a local-news paper that came out on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, had a notice for high school boys interested in playing football that a physical was required, and that physicals would be given free by Dr. Cavanaugh, at the Vaca High Gym, on a certain date/time (c'mon people, it's been 50 years for goodness sakes). I talked about it with my dad, and he was always trying to get me to get involved in sports, so I reported to the gym at the appropriate time, and got into a line. Understand, I know absolutely NO ONE. To be truthful, I don't even know much about football, but I show up, get in the line, and wait my turn. The first thing I learn is that I'm not into the local jargon, so I only understand about half of what is being said around me. Then there's this kind of pudgy kid, cracking jokes and laughing; at first I thought he was annoying, but by the time we got through the line, we had become friends.
I've never told him so, but he helped me a lot in those first days at Vaca High. He was a sophomore, a survivor of his freshman year, mostly because he had an older brother who'd beat the crap out of anyone who picked on him, but it was he who schooled me in local-speak, where the "cool people" hung out, and how to know when upperclassmen were screwing with you. I never met his older brother, but I have come to know why he was so protective of his little brother, and after the older brother was killed in Vietnam, I tried to help "little brother" whenever I could. Besides, we have lived somewhat parallel lives, both being raised in a military family, both coming to Vacaville because our dads worked at CMF, and we had fathers who were so much alike, they couldn't stand to be in the same room together.
I would be gone for long periods of time, and he would be the first person (except on one occasion)
I would connect with whenever I got home (the very idea of a "home" was inconceivable when I first moved here, so you see I have a lot invested in Vacaville). I'd look him up, get caught up on all of the gossip, and find out what was going on in town, and somehow feel that I hadn't been gone for years at a time. Somewhere along the line, he took up golf, and when I wasn't living in town, I would make sure we played a round, or two any time I visited. After we moved back in 1989, we'd play every Saturday, if I wasn't deployed. From '94 to '99, when I was in Paradise, CA, going to Chico State, we'd get in a round whenever, but from '94 to '97, I was either in class, or at work, 7-days a week. It was, actually, 2000 before we started playing together on a regular basis again, but that would be broken up by our 18 months in Spokane, WA, although we played twice during that time. In 2005, when I got back, it was Saturdays, until August of 2014 when he retired. Since then, it's been a couple of rounds a week.
I am grateful to have had a friend for 50 years, even though he feels more like my brother.
So many of my classmates are no longer with us. Some succumbed to the violence of war; some from the ravages of drugs. Still others have passed from "natural" causes (although I can never see something that starts eating the body that hosts it as "natural"), and others through recklessness, or carelessness, and these are the people I've known the longest.
We moved around a lot when I was a kid, by the time I could learn all the names of the kids in the neighborhood, we'd move again. Right up to the 1957 move to the house on Bergwall Way in Vallejo. We lived there for eight years. Three before my dad retired from the Navy, and five while he worked at the California Medical (Correctional) Facility in Vacaville. Today, people wouldn't think twice about driving 27 miles to work, but in the early '60's the Interstates were just getting built, and Dad had to run US 40 through Fairfield, and into Vacaville. For the first time, I had friends that I could hang-out with, go on hikes with, take a bus across Vallejo (paying the 25 cent fare, each way, with money we made picking up bottles and claiming the deposits) and go swimming at "The Plunge," a pool adjacent to Vallejo High, and play a lot of neighborhood games. Then, one day, Dad comes home, and we're going to move again. In June of 1965, days after my sister Pat graduates from Hogan High, we're picking up, lock-stock-and-barrel, and moving into an apartment in Vacaville.
At the time, I thought it was the worst thing that could happen to me. Vallejo was a city, with 65,000 people in it. Vacaville was a fruit stand on the highway, a rural community comprised of less than 14,000 when we first moved in. Other than the prison, the big employers were Travis AFB, and the Basic Vegetable Processing plant that gave the town its distinctive odor, onions, mostly, but at the end of the onion season, they would process garlic for a short while. Even after the season was over, the town still reeked of onions. The locals used to joke that blind people could tell when they got to Vacaville (by the smell). I didn't think it was that funny...
So, my parents, my sister, and I are living in a second-floor 3BR apartment, that overlooks the pool and cabana. It's summer-time, we've just moved into an apartment with a pool, and I get an ear infection on moving day, had it worsened by attending the races, that night, at the Vaca Valley Drag races, and spent most of that first night in my new home in the emergency room at the (then) Travis AFB Hospital (it became David Grant during my high school years), with an earache. It was July before I was allowed to use the pool.
Actually, I have to admit it, but I figured that this apartment building had to have lots of girls my age, so I'd get to know some people before school started [BUZZ]. Most of the female population of the apartment building were working women, or wives, all but a girl named Barbara who was two years younger than me, still hadn't shed her "baby fat," had a brutal case of acne, and was someone, I found fairly quickly, I just couldn't stand being around. It looked like it was going to be a l-o-n-g summer.
Sometime in July, the Vacavile Reporter, a local-news paper that came out on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, had a notice for high school boys interested in playing football that a physical was required, and that physicals would be given free by Dr. Cavanaugh, at the Vaca High Gym, on a certain date/time (c'mon people, it's been 50 years for goodness sakes). I talked about it with my dad, and he was always trying to get me to get involved in sports, so I reported to the gym at the appropriate time, and got into a line. Understand, I know absolutely NO ONE. To be truthful, I don't even know much about football, but I show up, get in the line, and wait my turn. The first thing I learn is that I'm not into the local jargon, so I only understand about half of what is being said around me. Then there's this kind of pudgy kid, cracking jokes and laughing; at first I thought he was annoying, but by the time we got through the line, we had become friends.
I've never told him so, but he helped me a lot in those first days at Vaca High. He was a sophomore, a survivor of his freshman year, mostly because he had an older brother who'd beat the crap out of anyone who picked on him, but it was he who schooled me in local-speak, where the "cool people" hung out, and how to know when upperclassmen were screwing with you. I never met his older brother, but I have come to know why he was so protective of his little brother, and after the older brother was killed in Vietnam, I tried to help "little brother" whenever I could. Besides, we have lived somewhat parallel lives, both being raised in a military family, both coming to Vacaville because our dads worked at CMF, and we had fathers who were so much alike, they couldn't stand to be in the same room together.
I would be gone for long periods of time, and he would be the first person (except on one occasion)
I would connect with whenever I got home (the very idea of a "home" was inconceivable when I first moved here, so you see I have a lot invested in Vacaville). I'd look him up, get caught up on all of the gossip, and find out what was going on in town, and somehow feel that I hadn't been gone for years at a time. Somewhere along the line, he took up golf, and when I wasn't living in town, I would make sure we played a round, or two any time I visited. After we moved back in 1989, we'd play every Saturday, if I wasn't deployed. From '94 to '99, when I was in Paradise, CA, going to Chico State, we'd get in a round whenever, but from '94 to '97, I was either in class, or at work, 7-days a week. It was, actually, 2000 before we started playing together on a regular basis again, but that would be broken up by our 18 months in Spokane, WA, although we played twice during that time. In 2005, when I got back, it was Saturdays, until August of 2014 when he retired. Since then, it's been a couple of rounds a week.
I am grateful to have had a friend for 50 years, even though he feels more like my brother.
Friday, April 22, 2016
It's been a while since I've been able to write. Hip surgery and recovery, Spring Training, and learning how to swing a golf club without trying to protect my left hip. I've been doing it for over a year, now, so I shouldn't expect it go away just-like-that. Besides, to be up and playing golf after only a few months is unbelievable in itself. It used to be that these surgeries ended up with a lot of physical therapy, over a period of months. I was up, on my feet, walking without pain on the third day after my surgery, and sure, I have physical therapy, and I'm in my second set of 12 visits with a really great therapist named Nicole, but it's not the same. I've gotten into such lousy physical shape over the past several years, she's trying to bring me UP to a baseline, before we can work on the hip solely. It helps that she has a sense of humor about things, because, despite their posted, "NO WHINING" sign, I do it all the time.
I'm getting better, too. It used to be that I could, on a NU STEP machine, make a quarter mile in 5 minutes (go ahead Kevin, laugh if you must), on level 2. Now, I'm making .26 miles in 5 minutes, but on resistance level 6. Running was never my thing. Sure, I could blaze down the baselines, 60 feet/90 feet, but anything more than that was timed with a calendar. Back when I was playing intramural softball in the Navy, I was an "old guy" at 30. When I'd go to bat, I'd hear, "OK, let's get 'Pops' out and go in," or similar such stuff, until I put the bat on the ball. I like to say that I moved pretty quick for an "old guy," and by the end of the game, the young guys would learn that, "Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill."
Currently, I'm a mess. Only one time have I been more than 170 lbs, and I had a stroke when it got to 184. I'm currently at 168, I'm normally in the 150's, but my hip problems put a stop to my major form of exercise, walking the golf course. It's been a lot of "baby steps," like everything, at first, my early PT sessions were marred by cramps in my calves and thighs, I couldn't go around the block without having to stop for a moment to deal with burning muscle cramps. Now, I can get around the block, and I'm almost ready to try walking for nine holes. I'm going to try seeing how far I can go the next time I play with John Baronowski. He can carry my bag in the golf cart, and I can see how far I can make it without any resistance (my bag and clubs weigh about 35 - 40 lbs, and I don't know how that translates to a push cart with 12" bearing-ed wheels, but I suppose I could figure out how much more force it will take to push them around, but I play for fun), then I will try it with the clubs. My goal is to walk a full 18 holes on my 65th birthday on July 15, 2016. God willing, I'll make it.
I had my quarterly epidural steroid injection on April 11, but I am still having sciatic pain, and Doctor Dave has ordered an MRI for my lumbar spine, and wants to see me as soon as I get out of the tube. This last injection was the first of my ninth year of taking them. When I first started, Doctor Dave was a Captain, who worked for a LtCol, and Doctor Dave's kids were in elementary school. Now, Doctor Dave is the LtCol, and his kids aren't so little anymore. This is the man who knows what I looked like when I was told that lung cancer had been confirmed, because he's the one who told me. Doctor Dave is more than just a great doctor, he's a friend -- I'm proud to say -- and a spiritual example to me, as well. What can I say? I'm a fan.
I keep seeing these ads for Laser Spine Surgery Clinics, and actually saw one in Santa Rosa, they ask to see a recent MRI to determine if they could make my sciatica go away forever. How great would that be? My only problem is that my insurance carrier may not approve it. It's definitely something worth looking at, and I plan to ask Doctor Dave if he thinks that its time I look into it. I can get copies made, the rest would be pretty easy, I'm pretty sure that I can get the referral, its United Healthcare/Mil...
I'm getting better, too. It used to be that I could, on a NU STEP machine, make a quarter mile in 5 minutes (go ahead Kevin, laugh if you must), on level 2. Now, I'm making .26 miles in 5 minutes, but on resistance level 6. Running was never my thing. Sure, I could blaze down the baselines, 60 feet/90 feet, but anything more than that was timed with a calendar. Back when I was playing intramural softball in the Navy, I was an "old guy" at 30. When I'd go to bat, I'd hear, "OK, let's get 'Pops' out and go in," or similar such stuff, until I put the bat on the ball. I like to say that I moved pretty quick for an "old guy," and by the end of the game, the young guys would learn that, "Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill."
Currently, I'm a mess. Only one time have I been more than 170 lbs, and I had a stroke when it got to 184. I'm currently at 168, I'm normally in the 150's, but my hip problems put a stop to my major form of exercise, walking the golf course. It's been a lot of "baby steps," like everything, at first, my early PT sessions were marred by cramps in my calves and thighs, I couldn't go around the block without having to stop for a moment to deal with burning muscle cramps. Now, I can get around the block, and I'm almost ready to try walking for nine holes. I'm going to try seeing how far I can go the next time I play with John Baronowski. He can carry my bag in the golf cart, and I can see how far I can make it without any resistance (my bag and clubs weigh about 35 - 40 lbs, and I don't know how that translates to a push cart with 12" bearing-ed wheels, but I suppose I could figure out how much more force it will take to push them around, but I play for fun), then I will try it with the clubs. My goal is to walk a full 18 holes on my 65th birthday on July 15, 2016. God willing, I'll make it.
I had my quarterly epidural steroid injection on April 11, but I am still having sciatic pain, and Doctor Dave has ordered an MRI for my lumbar spine, and wants to see me as soon as I get out of the tube. This last injection was the first of my ninth year of taking them. When I first started, Doctor Dave was a Captain, who worked for a LtCol, and Doctor Dave's kids were in elementary school. Now, Doctor Dave is the LtCol, and his kids aren't so little anymore. This is the man who knows what I looked like when I was told that lung cancer had been confirmed, because he's the one who told me. Doctor Dave is more than just a great doctor, he's a friend -- I'm proud to say -- and a spiritual example to me, as well. What can I say? I'm a fan.
I keep seeing these ads for Laser Spine Surgery Clinics, and actually saw one in Santa Rosa, they ask to see a recent MRI to determine if they could make my sciatica go away forever. How great would that be? My only problem is that my insurance carrier may not approve it. It's definitely something worth looking at, and I plan to ask Doctor Dave if he thinks that its time I look into it. I can get copies made, the rest would be pretty easy, I'm pretty sure that I can get the referral, its United Healthcare/Mil...
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
This Is Still "The Land of the Free"
According to Wikileaks, the term "Politically Correct" refers to a person who alters their speech so as to not offend any person, or group of persons.
I am offended by things like "Black Lives Matter," not that I am devaluing the lives of African Americans, I just believe that ALL lives matter, regardless of your race, creed, ethnicity, nationality, sexual orientation, and any other qualifier you can think of. I believe we are all God's children (whichever God that people worship), and have a right to live our lives without being gunned down in the street by punks, gangsters, or police.
However... If I were to express those sentiments publicly, I would be shouted down as a racist, and THAT, my friends, is a direct violation of my First Amendment Right to "Freedom of Speech," if not a blatant attempt to control my thinking (which I guarantee will not work).
Additionally, I am not particularly comfortable in the presence of homosexuals, transsexuals, trans-gendered, people. For that, I am labeled "homophobic," despite the fact that I have been friends with a few people who describe themselves by their sexual preferences. Personally, I don't give a rodent's rump what you do in your bedroom, in fact I'd be enormously happy not to know your sexual habits. I don't talk about mine (my wife would kill me if I did), and would prefer it if your sex life wasn't a topic of discussion at all. By the way, when did someones sex preferences become a political issue anyway?
I'm not comfortable with large groups of Muslims (or Jehovah's Witnesses, for that matter), and for that I am called a "hater," and my wife's nephew keeps trying to school me on how peaceful Islam is. The fact of the matter is that Muslims have been at war with Jews, as well as other MUSLIM sects ever since the Seventh Century. I don't hate Muslim people, I've read a good part of the Koran (however you want to spell the Islamic book), trying to understand a little about them before I visited North Africa while in the Navy. My problem with bringing Syrian refugees to the US lies in the hap-hazard way the Administration is doing it's background checks, not, in any way, because of their religion.
I am offended by labels such as, "racist," "hater," and "homophobe," so, all of you so-called "Politically Correct" jerk-offs, check your presumed superiority at the door, because you are more offensive than anyone. The Constitution of the United States of America gives me the right to express myself using any words I choose. Try to silence me... I triple-dog-dare you (screw the playground rules) to try and stop me. Call me all of those things, but don't put it in print, because I'll use it as evidence in my Civil Rights lawsuit against you.
I am offended by things like "Black Lives Matter," not that I am devaluing the lives of African Americans, I just believe that ALL lives matter, regardless of your race, creed, ethnicity, nationality, sexual orientation, and any other qualifier you can think of. I believe we are all God's children (whichever God that people worship), and have a right to live our lives without being gunned down in the street by punks, gangsters, or police.
However... If I were to express those sentiments publicly, I would be shouted down as a racist, and THAT, my friends, is a direct violation of my First Amendment Right to "Freedom of Speech," if not a blatant attempt to control my thinking (which I guarantee will not work).
Additionally, I am not particularly comfortable in the presence of homosexuals, transsexuals, trans-gendered, people. For that, I am labeled "homophobic," despite the fact that I have been friends with a few people who describe themselves by their sexual preferences. Personally, I don't give a rodent's rump what you do in your bedroom, in fact I'd be enormously happy not to know your sexual habits. I don't talk about mine (my wife would kill me if I did), and would prefer it if your sex life wasn't a topic of discussion at all. By the way, when did someones sex preferences become a political issue anyway?
I'm not comfortable with large groups of Muslims (or Jehovah's Witnesses, for that matter), and for that I am called a "hater," and my wife's nephew keeps trying to school me on how peaceful Islam is. The fact of the matter is that Muslims have been at war with Jews, as well as other MUSLIM sects ever since the Seventh Century. I don't hate Muslim people, I've read a good part of the Koran (however you want to spell the Islamic book), trying to understand a little about them before I visited North Africa while in the Navy. My problem with bringing Syrian refugees to the US lies in the hap-hazard way the Administration is doing it's background checks, not, in any way, because of their religion.
I am offended by labels such as, "racist," "hater," and "homophobe," so, all of you so-called "Politically Correct" jerk-offs, check your presumed superiority at the door, because you are more offensive than anyone. The Constitution of the United States of America gives me the right to express myself using any words I choose. Try to silence me... I triple-dog-dare you (screw the playground rules) to try and stop me. Call me all of those things, but don't put it in print, because I'll use it as evidence in my Civil Rights lawsuit against you.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
I'm a little late for New Years...
... but I hope everyone had a safe and memorable New Year. I've been busy, getting things together for doctor appointments, and dealing with hip and sciatic pain. For those of you who have never had a sciatica problem, there is no comfortable position to be in, period. It hurts to walk, it hurts to sit, it hurts to lie down. Being on your feet is the least uncomfortable, but with the problems in my left hip, I'm kinda damned if I do, and damned if I don't. At this point, even Norco is having a minimal effect, and I'm taking 1.5 to 2 caplets every four hours (when awake). I took some at 3am this morning, but only because I was up to pee... I slacked off on drinking water, and my kidneys were complaining, so I'm back to 48ozs a day; my body just isn't used to that much water, and I end up having to "hit the head" in the middle of the night... so I used the opportunity to take an extra caplet.
Fortunately, the sciatic problem will start to go away after Monday, January 11, 2016, when I take another round of epidural steroid injections, and the impinging disc will shrink back to where it's off the sciatic nerve. I'm really looking forward to the "lidocaine honeymoon," or the time when the numbing agent for the injections makes things not hurt for a few hours. This is becoming a ritual, of sorts, on the day I get my injections I am supposed to "go home and rest" (doctor's orders). Lately, I've taken to napping in the living room, while Mary goes out and runs errands, etc. I put the TV on something that takes very little brain action to watch (reruns of Futurama and Simpson's, golf, football -- if the sound is down -- and stuff like that). Just nothing with shrill voices, or people arguing (sorry Fox News). Passive stuff, old movies, things I've seen a thousand times (except Spaceballs, that's only for times when my girls and I can watch it together). I doze, rather than fully sleep, but I get into a fully relaxed state, and if 30 to 60 minutes happen to slip by, no biggie, because I will sleep pretty well the night after a "procedure".
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, I'm going to try to cram in as much golf as I can, since I will have my hip arthroscope on Friday, and I don't know when I will be able to swing a golf club again. The PA at Summit Orthopedics thinks I could be walking with a cane, or at least a single crutch, by the time I have my follow-up on the 28th. I hope he's right, or even real close. By the time we go to Scottsdale, for Spring Training in March, I should be pretty mobile.
MY goal, which may be different from their goals, is to be playing golf again during the month of April. Not April 1, or any specific date, just sometime in April. Heck, at this point, not having actually had the surgery, I have no idea how I'm going to feel afterwards. I know it's going to hurt, any time one's body is invaded by foreign objects, the body responds with pain. The PA said that they would be stretching my left leg in order to create a working space for the arthroscope, and that I might have some residual sciatic pain. That will be different, since my current bout of sciatica is centered on the right side. I plan to start playing with a cart, for a while, and walk as much as I can without having to push/pull/carry my clubs. When I am comfortable enough to play nine holes on foot, I will start pushing a hand cart. Ultimately, I'd like to be back to walking the full 18 holes (with clubs) by my birthday in mid-July.
As for the surgery, I'm a little apprehensive, mostly because of the pain. I have full faith in my surgeon, Dr. Hunter Greene, so there's nothing down that line. At the same time, I am really looking forward to the surgery, mostly because it's going to, eventually, take my hip pain away. I've been living with this pain in my hip since October of 2014, I reported it to my Primary Care doctor in November, and again in December, and having an MRI done on the area in January of 2015. At first I was concerned that the pain might be a worsening of the A Vascular Necrosis (AVN), a condition I was diagnosed with earlier. AVN, simply put, means the top of the femur (which forms the ball of the hip joint) has a 6.5cm dead spot on it. When it was diagnosed, I was told that I would have symptoms of pain on the inside of the hip, that would indicate a potential failure of the femoral head. When my pain first started, it was on the inside of the hip, actually just below and to the left (my left) of my... well, you get the idea...
It's kind of like being poked, repeatedly, with a stick with a dull point on the end, right on the inside of the left hip. It's not, exactly, an unbearable pain, although I've had it bring me to my knees when I wasn't careful walking on a downhill slope, or going down stairs. Going up isn't exactly a "walk in the park," it hurts to do that, too, but it's particularly painful going down. I've taken to doing a side-step to come up and down my driveway. All the folks at Summit Ortho say that pain will be gone after all is said and done, so there's a light at the end of this pain.
I've always thought that a surgery would be a terrible way to start the year, but this may actually be a good thing. I hope...
Fortunately, the sciatic problem will start to go away after Monday, January 11, 2016, when I take another round of epidural steroid injections, and the impinging disc will shrink back to where it's off the sciatic nerve. I'm really looking forward to the "lidocaine honeymoon," or the time when the numbing agent for the injections makes things not hurt for a few hours. This is becoming a ritual, of sorts, on the day I get my injections I am supposed to "go home and rest" (doctor's orders). Lately, I've taken to napping in the living room, while Mary goes out and runs errands, etc. I put the TV on something that takes very little brain action to watch (reruns of Futurama and Simpson's, golf, football -- if the sound is down -- and stuff like that). Just nothing with shrill voices, or people arguing (sorry Fox News). Passive stuff, old movies, things I've seen a thousand times (except Spaceballs, that's only for times when my girls and I can watch it together). I doze, rather than fully sleep, but I get into a fully relaxed state, and if 30 to 60 minutes happen to slip by, no biggie, because I will sleep pretty well the night after a "procedure".
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, I'm going to try to cram in as much golf as I can, since I will have my hip arthroscope on Friday, and I don't know when I will be able to swing a golf club again. The PA at Summit Orthopedics thinks I could be walking with a cane, or at least a single crutch, by the time I have my follow-up on the 28th. I hope he's right, or even real close. By the time we go to Scottsdale, for Spring Training in March, I should be pretty mobile.
MY goal, which may be different from their goals, is to be playing golf again during the month of April. Not April 1, or any specific date, just sometime in April. Heck, at this point, not having actually had the surgery, I have no idea how I'm going to feel afterwards. I know it's going to hurt, any time one's body is invaded by foreign objects, the body responds with pain. The PA said that they would be stretching my left leg in order to create a working space for the arthroscope, and that I might have some residual sciatic pain. That will be different, since my current bout of sciatica is centered on the right side. I plan to start playing with a cart, for a while, and walk as much as I can without having to push/pull/carry my clubs. When I am comfortable enough to play nine holes on foot, I will start pushing a hand cart. Ultimately, I'd like to be back to walking the full 18 holes (with clubs) by my birthday in mid-July.
As for the surgery, I'm a little apprehensive, mostly because of the pain. I have full faith in my surgeon, Dr. Hunter Greene, so there's nothing down that line. At the same time, I am really looking forward to the surgery, mostly because it's going to, eventually, take my hip pain away. I've been living with this pain in my hip since October of 2014, I reported it to my Primary Care doctor in November, and again in December, and having an MRI done on the area in January of 2015. At first I was concerned that the pain might be a worsening of the A Vascular Necrosis (AVN), a condition I was diagnosed with earlier. AVN, simply put, means the top of the femur (which forms the ball of the hip joint) has a 6.5cm dead spot on it. When it was diagnosed, I was told that I would have symptoms of pain on the inside of the hip, that would indicate a potential failure of the femoral head. When my pain first started, it was on the inside of the hip, actually just below and to the left (my left) of my... well, you get the idea...
It's kind of like being poked, repeatedly, with a stick with a dull point on the end, right on the inside of the left hip. It's not, exactly, an unbearable pain, although I've had it bring me to my knees when I wasn't careful walking on a downhill slope, or going down stairs. Going up isn't exactly a "walk in the park," it hurts to do that, too, but it's particularly painful going down. I've taken to doing a side-step to come up and down my driveway. All the folks at Summit Ortho say that pain will be gone after all is said and done, so there's a light at the end of this pain.
I've always thought that a surgery would be a terrible way to start the year, but this may actually be a good thing. I hope...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)