Monday, July 23, 2007
Loathing Without Fear
It's very difficult for me to write about something I truly dislike. And since I truly dislike Birmingham, Alabama, I may never write about my recent visit there except to say that I really enjoyed seeing my youngest child and her four children. That's it.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Thank You, Dr. Freud
It's a quiet Sunday in Bloomington, Minnesota, and I'm very, very tired. I travelled to Birmingham, Alabama, on 7/16/07 to visit with my youngest child and her four children. I'll write about that trip later.
But yesterday, 7/21/07, I attended the graduation of my only son from Walden University at Walden's Thirty-Eighth Commencement Ceremony. He took an M. S. in Psychology, a very nice complement to his B. S. from Auburn University. The title of his M. S. thesis is Effects of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Gambler's Anonymous on Pathological Gamblers. The ceremony was held in Northrop Auditorium on the East Bank Campus of the University of Minnesota, and it's a good thing not all graduates listed in the graduation program showed up. The Northrup wouldn't have held them. Northrop is a lovely, old theatre which looks as if it was built during the W. P. A. It's being prepared for remodeling and will lose the incredible pipe organ on which a woman played the relevant graduation music during the afternoon. A recent article in the Star-Tribune lamented this loss, which apparently can't be avoided if the remodeling is to be completed properly.
My son turned 45 years old on 6/29/07. When I celebrated my 45th birthday in 1985, I had had my M. A. in English for only about 20 months. I guess you could say that we're late bloomers, but we're persistent. I remember that after finishing my thesis in November 1983, I went to bed for about 2 days, alone. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings, and what's interesting to me is that when I was an undergraduate, I took all the core courses to prepare me for graduate work in Psychology, which I first entered before returning to the study of literature. And my son writes well above average poetry. What does all this say about genetics? I don't know, but my son and I obviously have similar interests. And now we both have advanced degrees, though he has a decade + experience working with disturbed youth.
I remember a Psychology professor telling our huge class at the University of Alabama at Birmingham many years ago that other than psychology, a quite effective method of studying human behavior was the study of literature. And I learned over the years that if one wants to find out what really happened in a particular society, he should read that society's fiction, not historians. In any case, yesterday was a wonderful , blue-skied day for graduation, and my son strode across the stage, all 6' 3", 240 lbs of him, as if he were striding across the world. Congratulations, young man!
Finally, if this post seems somewhat disjointed, so am I! Have a wonderful work week!
But yesterday, 7/21/07, I attended the graduation of my only son from Walden University at Walden's Thirty-Eighth Commencement Ceremony. He took an M. S. in Psychology, a very nice complement to his B. S. from Auburn University. The title of his M. S. thesis is Effects of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Gambler's Anonymous on Pathological Gamblers. The ceremony was held in Northrop Auditorium on the East Bank Campus of the University of Minnesota, and it's a good thing not all graduates listed in the graduation program showed up. The Northrup wouldn't have held them. Northrop is a lovely, old theatre which looks as if it was built during the W. P. A. It's being prepared for remodeling and will lose the incredible pipe organ on which a woman played the relevant graduation music during the afternoon. A recent article in the Star-Tribune lamented this loss, which apparently can't be avoided if the remodeling is to be completed properly.
My son turned 45 years old on 6/29/07. When I celebrated my 45th birthday in 1985, I had had my M. A. in English for only about 20 months. I guess you could say that we're late bloomers, but we're persistent. I remember that after finishing my thesis in November 1983, I went to bed for about 2 days, alone. The title of my thesis is Prosody as Meaning in the Poetry of E. E. Cummings, and what's interesting to me is that when I was an undergraduate, I took all the core courses to prepare me for graduate work in Psychology, which I first entered before returning to the study of literature. And my son writes well above average poetry. What does all this say about genetics? I don't know, but my son and I obviously have similar interests. And now we both have advanced degrees, though he has a decade + experience working with disturbed youth.
I remember a Psychology professor telling our huge class at the University of Alabama at Birmingham many years ago that other than psychology, a quite effective method of studying human behavior was the study of literature. And I learned over the years that if one wants to find out what really happened in a particular society, he should read that society's fiction, not historians. In any case, yesterday was a wonderful , blue-skied day for graduation, and my son strode across the stage, all 6' 3", 240 lbs of him, as if he were striding across the world. Congratulations, young man!
Finally, if this post seems somewhat disjointed, so am I! Have a wonderful work week!
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Turn Your Clocks Back 100 Years
I'm going to Birmingham, Alabama, tomorrow. If it weren't for the fact that my youngest child is visiting from the Middle East, I wouldn't even consider it. I look forward to seeing her and her 4 beautiful children, as it may be the last time I see them in this life, but I am near nausea thinking about being in that city. I hope you had a Happy Bastille Day.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Fatboy
Before I began Nutrisystem, I was weighed in at 280+ lbs by my primary physician's nurse. Recently, I was weighed in at 255, again by my primary physician's nurse. When I began this change of course, I could hitch my size 50 belt only to the first notch. After two food deliveries from Nutrisystem, I can now go to the very last notch. I've not kept a close eye on my weight drop but rather allowed myself to feel the differences in my life.
A quite noticeable difference is the reduction in pain in my lower back and legs. After I had spinal surgery in December 2005, I couldn't consistently keep the pain down no matter how much medication I used. Now, though the pain isn't gone and probably never will be, it's less than it's been for a very long time. And tonight I bought a size 46 belt at Macy's, a Perry Ellis on sale for $9.99. It won't be long before I fit into my old size 42 belt, and if I don't do something monumentally stupid, I could eventually fall below 200 lbs again, a weight I can carry well even though I'm not Wilt Chamberlain.
Another difference is the general increase in energy. At my age, I need all the help I can get keeping my energy up. I now find myself looking for excuses to get out and about instead of excuses to remain in my recliner. It's something like a rebirth of the senses. A contributory to this rebirth could very well be my recent titration from Prednisone, initially prescribed for me because of my lousy lungs. My pulmonary physician at the University of Minnesota recently examined the slides that were made during my lung biopsy in 2006 at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, and with all the other information he had gleaned through examination, decided that I didn't need steriods anymore. Good for him!
In addition to the steroids, I had done a huge amount of emotional eating after my back surgery and respiratory failure. It's not difficult to put on weight when one eats a pint of ice cream at a time, stuffs chocolate down his throat almost non-stop, avoids anything green except money, and inhales pastry like a drowning man. On top of all that, I found myself adrift in Minnesota, surrounded by blonde-headed people who talk funny. It all seemed like a good idea at the time, and most of it tasted good, too. But now, I'm on the road to another recovery, thanks to Dan Marino and all the other athletes who advertise for Nutrisystem.
A quite noticeable difference is the reduction in pain in my lower back and legs. After I had spinal surgery in December 2005, I couldn't consistently keep the pain down no matter how much medication I used. Now, though the pain isn't gone and probably never will be, it's less than it's been for a very long time. And tonight I bought a size 46 belt at Macy's, a Perry Ellis on sale for $9.99. It won't be long before I fit into my old size 42 belt, and if I don't do something monumentally stupid, I could eventually fall below 200 lbs again, a weight I can carry well even though I'm not Wilt Chamberlain.
Another difference is the general increase in energy. At my age, I need all the help I can get keeping my energy up. I now find myself looking for excuses to get out and about instead of excuses to remain in my recliner. It's something like a rebirth of the senses. A contributory to this rebirth could very well be my recent titration from Prednisone, initially prescribed for me because of my lousy lungs. My pulmonary physician at the University of Minnesota recently examined the slides that were made during my lung biopsy in 2006 at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, and with all the other information he had gleaned through examination, decided that I didn't need steriods anymore. Good for him!
In addition to the steroids, I had done a huge amount of emotional eating after my back surgery and respiratory failure. It's not difficult to put on weight when one eats a pint of ice cream at a time, stuffs chocolate down his throat almost non-stop, avoids anything green except money, and inhales pastry like a drowning man. On top of all that, I found myself adrift in Minnesota, surrounded by blonde-headed people who talk funny. It all seemed like a good idea at the time, and most of it tasted good, too. But now, I'm on the road to another recovery, thanks to Dan Marino and all the other athletes who advertise for Nutrisystem.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Way Back When
I had actually begun a blog entry about my first car when I stopped to watch a 2-hour "Secret History of the Klu Klux Klan" on The History Channel. How easy it is to forget or suppress or put aside unpleasant feelings about the past. I know that we all have selective memory, but this documentary stirred up old anxieties, old fears, old queasiness. It's especially discomforting today, since I'm going to Birmingham, Alabama, next Monday, a city I miss about as much as I'd miss skin cancer.
When I was hired as by the U. S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission in Birmingham in 1971, I asked one of my superiors for the name of a photographer to take my official government I. D. picture. I was given the name of Chris McNair. The name didn't immediately ring my bell, though I realized who he was before he took my photo. His 11 year old daughter, Denise, had died violently when the 16th Street Baptist Church exploded on September 15, 1963, dynamited by Klansmen Robert Chambliss, Bobby Frank Cherry, and two others, cowards and terrorists who slithered through Southern nights in their many attempts to stop the march of freedom of former slaves and their descendants.
When the news of the bombing was announced, I simply couldn't believe it, even though I had lived much of my then 23 years in Birmingham. I had grown up in a racist society, but even this surprised, shocked, and truly saddened me. In later years, my work with the E. E. O. C. and other federal agencies was particularly medicinal, though not a complete antidote to the hatred I had seen around me and that I can still feel even over so much time and distance.
I don't know what I expected when I walked into Chris McNair's photography studio. I just didn't expect him to be so pleasant, almost soft spoken. He was a real man, have no doubt, but he exuded kindness, gentleness even. I suppose I expected an angry facade, a man still seeking revenge for what had been so unfairly taken from him and his wife, for nobody had yet been put on trial for the murders of four little girls that awful Sunday just outside downtown Birmingham. Because I'm white, I really expected him to view me with at least a hint of suspicion. But he met none of these expectations.
On the day they lost their child, both Chris McNair and his wife were at worship. I suppose faith is the only way out of that awful place that the death of a child puts the parents in. It took years for anybody to go to trial for these awful murders, the last one just into the 21st Century. But not only did Chris McNair continue his life as a photographer, he also served a public which had allowed such an atrocity. He was later elected to the Alabama State Legislature and the Jefferson County Commission, retiring from public life in 2001.
I met Chris McNair in life that one time only. But I'm still awed and amazed. You can meet him, too, as I did again many years later, in a film entitled "Four Little Girls," a heart-wrenching documentary by Spike Lee, which should've won the Academy Award the year it was eligible. Watch it, please, and you might gain a better understanding and a bigger heart.
When I was hired as by the U. S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission in Birmingham in 1971, I asked one of my superiors for the name of a photographer to take my official government I. D. picture. I was given the name of Chris McNair. The name didn't immediately ring my bell, though I realized who he was before he took my photo. His 11 year old daughter, Denise, had died violently when the 16th Street Baptist Church exploded on September 15, 1963, dynamited by Klansmen Robert Chambliss, Bobby Frank Cherry, and two others, cowards and terrorists who slithered through Southern nights in their many attempts to stop the march of freedom of former slaves and their descendants.
When the news of the bombing was announced, I simply couldn't believe it, even though I had lived much of my then 23 years in Birmingham. I had grown up in a racist society, but even this surprised, shocked, and truly saddened me. In later years, my work with the E. E. O. C. and other federal agencies was particularly medicinal, though not a complete antidote to the hatred I had seen around me and that I can still feel even over so much time and distance.
I don't know what I expected when I walked into Chris McNair's photography studio. I just didn't expect him to be so pleasant, almost soft spoken. He was a real man, have no doubt, but he exuded kindness, gentleness even. I suppose I expected an angry facade, a man still seeking revenge for what had been so unfairly taken from him and his wife, for nobody had yet been put on trial for the murders of four little girls that awful Sunday just outside downtown Birmingham. Because I'm white, I really expected him to view me with at least a hint of suspicion. But he met none of these expectations.
On the day they lost their child, both Chris McNair and his wife were at worship. I suppose faith is the only way out of that awful place that the death of a child puts the parents in. It took years for anybody to go to trial for these awful murders, the last one just into the 21st Century. But not only did Chris McNair continue his life as a photographer, he also served a public which had allowed such an atrocity. He was later elected to the Alabama State Legislature and the Jefferson County Commission, retiring from public life in 2001.
I met Chris McNair in life that one time only. But I'm still awed and amazed. You can meet him, too, as I did again many years later, in a film entitled "Four Little Girls," a heart-wrenching documentary by Spike Lee, which should've won the Academy Award the year it was eligible. Watch it, please, and you might gain a better understanding and a bigger heart.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Medic!
I don't know if it's a permanent change, but it's been with me for a while now. Actually, it's been over 18 months. The change is that I don't see the world in any way similar to how I saw it in the past. The world seems foggy, out of focus.
When I went to the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles in late January 2006, for the second time in 3 days, I was about to die. The ER doctor put me on oxygen almost immediately and prepared to admit me with a horrible lung infection. As I lay in a room near the ER, I went into respiratory arrest. The staff knocked me out and intubated me as I lay in the dark, so to speak. The next thing I remember is going in and out of consciousness, finally awakening some days later with my wrists tied to the hospital bed and a respirator doing my breathing for me. I was told that after admission to the Pulmonary Critical Care Unit, I had experienced critical care room psychosis and had tried to pull all the tubes out of my body.
I stayed in the unit on a respirator for about 15 days. Obviously, I survived, but everything has been different since. It's almost as if a thin, gauze screen has been erected between me and the world. The emotional pile up has had me often feeling disconnected and anxious, then later, depressed, then briefly whole, but not for long, only minutes. For now, I'm going to chalk it up to coming face to face with my own mortality for the first time in my 6+ decades of life. I never felt anything like this before, and though I'll chalk it up, as I said, I'm not absolutely sure just what it is. All I'm certain of is that I wish it would go away.
When I went to the Emergency Room at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles in late January 2006, for the second time in 3 days, I was about to die. The ER doctor put me on oxygen almost immediately and prepared to admit me with a horrible lung infection. As I lay in a room near the ER, I went into respiratory arrest. The staff knocked me out and intubated me as I lay in the dark, so to speak. The next thing I remember is going in and out of consciousness, finally awakening some days later with my wrists tied to the hospital bed and a respirator doing my breathing for me. I was told that after admission to the Pulmonary Critical Care Unit, I had experienced critical care room psychosis and had tried to pull all the tubes out of my body.
I stayed in the unit on a respirator for about 15 days. Obviously, I survived, but everything has been different since. It's almost as if a thin, gauze screen has been erected between me and the world. The emotional pile up has had me often feeling disconnected and anxious, then later, depressed, then briefly whole, but not for long, only minutes. For now, I'm going to chalk it up to coming face to face with my own mortality for the first time in my 6+ decades of life. I never felt anything like this before, and though I'll chalk it up, as I said, I'm not absolutely sure just what it is. All I'm certain of is that I wish it would go away.
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