The game is called Gaga. And it’s been going on much longer than Lady’s been lusting for limelight. It happens in an octagonal, sand-filled pit, has no real beginning or end, can accommodate as many players as want to squeeze in, and beckons kids from about age 8-16. My best guess is no adults have competed, or are invited. It’s a Camp thing, you see.
Camp rocks. From my parents’ lakeside deck overlooking the bay where Camp happens, I listen day and night to Camp noises including singing, screaming, chanting, laughing and, of course, the sound of sailboats and kayaks and canoes capsizing. Which leads to more screaming, laughing, splashing… My son (now in college) and my daughter (in high school) have done an overnighter week at this camp since they were old enough. They (and their friends) unanimously call it “the best week of the summer” and give it an 11 on a 10 scale.
The summer conundrum
That one glorious week aside, many parents of late have taken to overscheduling their kids’ everything, including summer. I get it. After all, MN schools meet all of 180 days per year—and about 11 of them feature early dismissal. Is than an adequate education? Probably not. So this parent felt a hefty responsibility to augment those 169 classroom days with summer opportunities of all kinds, from arts to science to watersports and crafts to ________________.
Throw in our culture’s kid sports obsession—that can lead to multiple sports, games, and practices per day—and it’s little wonder that people say, “Kids grow up so fast these days…” Because we make them. We push them. We need to get them out of our face so we can work and take a break. And, well, they need to get off their butts and their stupid screens. Sadly, you know that’s where their minds will usually be glued if given too much free time. Yuck.
Welcome the do-little movement
Still, there exists a noteworthy backlash against over-scheduling summer. A early-summer Strib article told of parents (some of them social-media mavens) preaching the gospel of lazy days and mellow moments. Of un-programming. Of swimming, biking, pottery, libraries, and (my favorite) encouraging kids to stare at the ants for 30 minutes if they feel like it.
In other words, kids need to learn to create things on their own. To go outside and make-believe or make up a game.
To. Be. Bored.
Ahhhh, precious boredom…
Boredom. Now there’s a luxury most people can ill afford these days. Even youth. Yet, frankly, it feels so good. Sitting on that deck and listening to those kids celebrating summer and childhood and getting-away-from-it-all from sun-up through the wee hours is, for me, a sacred boredom. I never get tired of it. And I smile with deep gratitude inside that my offspring get the chance to be there. Do that. To just be kids. Surrounded by others just like them but from all over. With the supervision of counselors who, for the 8 weeks or so weeks of Camp, also become kids again.
We all need Camp, or at least that state of mind. We all need to feel young, to let summer float our souls into a sunny bliss, to wash ourselves in the timeless, warm waters of lakes and ponds and rivers and pools. To ditch our screens and careers and to-do lists.
There’s still time. It’s only mid-August. You’re still alive, and so’s that kid inside of you.
BreakAways of all sorts continue to generate news, and (possibly) progress. Work perks like flex time, telecommuting, and parental leave gain traction here and there, while travel and entertainment are booming as people ‘go out’ and the economy hums on.
Yet people still seem to love their jobs. Or have a love/fear relationship with their job (in)security. Here are just a few noteworthy news bits passed along by the MYBA interns, starting with dads who seemingly rather cuddle their computer than their own earthling offspring…
Daddy leave won’t leave the building
Here’s the good news: From 2015 to 2017, paternity leave offered jumped from an average of 4 weeks to 11 weeks. Now for the bad news: Only about 56% of employed men even qualify. Worse yet: Most men just say no. While 2/3 of women use all their parental leave time, only about half as many men do.
Why not? 1/3+ worry it would jeopardize their career; ½+ think it might show lack of commitment. As one Silicon Valley exec sagely comments, “If you don’t take it, it’s borderline idiotic.”
The dilemma is getting attention, from HuffPost to CNBC to a new book by Josh Levs, a former journalist (now blogger) who took legal action against CNN for their biased policies. In this election ‘year of the woman’…in this time of too many men getting spanked for impolite tendencies…in this era of #metoo women roaring, it’s noteworthy that not all men get their way (or even equal treatment) all the time, and that somebody cares about that, too.
Unfair benefits benefit nobody, people. Stand up for your rights!
Fly away, but leave the laptop
So says Star Tribune travel editor Kerri Westenberg. Makes sense, right? What’s the point of vacation if you don’t vacate your baggage (so to speak)? And these days, ‘work’ seems to be mostly screen-centered (like everything else). Yet, increasingly, people bring their laptop (and cell phone and WORK) with them when allegedly getting away from IT all.
Ms. Westenberg cites some heavy reasoning to temporarily cut the connection, including that 9 out of 10 Americans state their happiest memories took place while on vacation. (And no, the other 1/10 weren’t necessarily on the job.)
She also mentions a respected heart study that found that men who skip their vacations are 30% more likely to have a heart attack. And get this: Women who refuse to vacation are 50% more likely.
So take this medicine from Dr. BreakAway: Use your PTO and you’ll definitely live larger, and likely live longer. Or you can skip your prescription and end up with a broken heart. Literally.
Dosage #2: if you want to fill your head with happy memories, take your time. Work matters, and makes money! But what good is money if it won’t buy free time?
One-plus year ago, I received the blessed news that my Care Crew and their amazing arsenal had won the cancer war inside of me. Of course, the journey carries on anyway, like a long, lost cruise. Still, I’m pleased to note every little cancer-versary, even though I keep mostly mum and celebrate with nary a sliver of chocolate cake.
In this transition into the After-Life, I wonder: Should I continue writing about this topic? Usually I decide, Heck no, move on! But the appointments and occasional complication continue. And funny or forehead-slapping scenes persist. So then I figure, How can I let this stuff go? After all, my Cancer Comedy career is still emerging—and can a comedian ever have too much material?
The good news is the bad news: When you ask anyone who has to endure thorough check-ups, they will say It’s not just you; it’s genuinely stressful and anxiety-inducing. I mean, just look at the guy in that picture. Does he look like he’s having fun? Has he lost that can-do attitude? Would he rather, say, be undergoing root canal? I think his kindergarten teacher would be ashamed.
I happen to know he’s trying, and he’s tough. But the process is also trying and tough, and the cheerleaders have left the building. Most staffers are kind enough and remember me; one saw me at a track meet recently while another had seen me biking. So those singing dollies at Disneyland got it right: Cancer is a small world—a world of laughter, a world of tears, a world of hope, and a world of fears.
A Disney dolly is not what I resembled today when the pain went to 11 as they shot some of Kim Jong Un’s ordinance into my veins as part of a scan. For some reason, it burned like hell. “F**KING A!” I screamed as I shot up from the plank. They apologized and offered an explanation (that made no sense to me) of what went wrong. I resisted the urge to run away and blow off the test.
When enduring this particular scan, a recorded Voice of God tells you what to do: “Breathe. Hold it in.” That’s when they shoot the high-octane gas into your veins and the machine makes extra-terrestrial sounds—echo-y little pings and pongs and the faraway crunch of bones and brains smashing. And then, 5 minutes later, Voice of God says “Exhale.” It can seem like forever, but I find my flesh looks surprisingly good in blue. Matches my eyes.
After a pause, Voice of God gets all tricky and says, “Exhale. Don’t breathe.” And the flush of molten asphalt flows again. In my mind, I’m fantasizing that I take the microphone from Voice of God and say things like, Please rise and bow your heads or Stand up! Sit down! Fight Fight Fight!
Now, about those infusions: They do a nice job of describing what you will experience, stuff like…A hot sensation…flows into your whole body…a bad taste will fill your mouth…and you’ll have to pee…then you’ll think you ARE peeing…but you’re not.
Of course, when those sensations happen, no one is in the room, since they don’t want to undergo the toxic radiation they’re putting you through. That’s probably a good thing—so they don’t hear us patients yelling, GAWD, this sh*t tastes like sh*t! and Stop! I have to pee! and Help! I think I’m peeing! I swear, when Voice of God tells me it’s over and I can sit up, I stare straight at my crotch and wonder, How DO they DO that!?!
“You have really nice veins”
The blood-thirsty nurses always say that to me. I don’t know what it means, and even though they’re usually women, I doubt it’s a come-on. But they are honest, because they don’t ever say, “This will be easy.” Or “This won’t hurt a bit.” And then comes the ice pick in the arm.
Blood. They take blood, lots of blood. I usually turn the other way and read the paper (upside down). If it’s not going well (some are more on-point than others), I try out some new material, like Are you part vampire? Or Shouldn’t I get paid for all that? Or Where’s the dang cookies and Kool-Aid? They cart the blood away like milk cartons. Days go by before they reveal what emoji face they might apply to the specimens.
The Rasta Angel appears
I’m unsure about spirits and angels and things. But they do make great literary devices. And sometimes, when you’re lost in the deep, dark woods of your thoughts, a perfect stranger can show up with a message of miracles and hope. So I was not surprised yesterday when a Caribbean dude with dapper dreads sat at the table next to me under the scalding sun at Chipotle. We were the only ones who could handle the heat and eat outside.
With that patois that instantly takes me to my don’t-worry-be-happy place, he lit up and went off loudly like only an Islander can: If you ees bone een America, you nevva tink life ees guud enough. Always be want-in’ mo’. Da people who get to come to dees country, DEY WANT to be hee-yah! Ass wha’ I’m say-een to you! We got to stop all da figh-TIN and fear-INN an’ com-plain-INN. We got to bring back da gra-ti-TUDE, mon!
We had a long chat, naturally. He told me lots of things, including that he is in love with a woman who lives in Norway. He wants to marry her, he says, And just teenk of datt! Den I might could gitt to leeve in No-o-o-rway, mon! he beamed.
I told him I’d been there, that it’s magnificent, and that it’s one country where the people actually like and care for each other. He bobbed while singing out Ya mon! Ya mon! and squeezing some lime. Then, with the timing of a master comedian, I asked, “Does your girlfriend have a sister?”
He bellowed out a large, life-loving Island laugh and guffawed, I Iike you! I like YOU! You eess faaaaah-NEE!
I don’t know if he really was an angel. Or if I’m really funny. But that really did happen. And since I must admit that these advanced-class tests can bring out the inner snark and angst, he really did remind me to be grateful. And that I must pass these tests, for I want to see Norway (and the Caribbean) again.
BreakAway was among the first to proclaim that the sky is falling (but nobody is noticing) when phones began to take over the world, the driver’s seat, and even travel and leisure. Want a break from phone-y living? Here’s a tour group for you. Off the Grid founder Zach Beattie says, “The entire focus of the trip is mindful travel.”
In a WashPost article, columnist Elizabeth Bruenig makes a compelling case that Americans need to let go of our obsession with work. She questions the new DC wave of “work requirements” for governmental aid. She reminds us that in other democracies nearly everyone “enjoys the kind of leisure time only our highest paid workers can afford.” And she asserts that we overstate the “dignity” of work and overlook the “dignity of rest.”
Meanwhile, here in MN, local writer Kevyn Burger reminds us that the family meal may be on the Endangered List, but is more vital than ever: “Children from families that routinely sit down to a meal together suffer less depression, obesity and substance abuse.”
Hey, it’s good for parents, too. I’ll eat to that!
As everyone knows, this site launched 10 years ago before an historic 4-month island-hopping winter with two kids in tow. Since then, sabbaticals and career breaks in the news have been occasionally chronicled by our steadfast staff. While that topic moved aside for cancer reportage and things for a while, we’re pleased to announce: It’s ba-a-a-a-ack!
The more things change, the more BreakAways remain unthinkable for most Americans. So…much of the news in our topic comes from the UK, India—and other lands that value time over money. We will again minimize coverage of foreign work-styles, if out of juvenile jealousy. But the world needs to know that Time Off remains a Thing and actually does show up in lovely streams and news stories, including these…
This savvy resource boasts a simple mission, and I bet you can guess it. They cite the 662 million unused days off as their inspiration. And (no surprise here) they find their funding in many sponsors in the travel industry who would much benefit if folks took more vacation. But wouldn’t we all?
Hey, if FastCo is on board—and manages to get the word “hack” in the headline”—we’re in good hands. Here we have a story about a woman who, with considerable angst and effort, found a way to take a hike for 5 months. Everyone won, and her synopsis is, “ Sometimes the best way to improve your work is to stop working.”
Returnships ease transitions for BreakAway practitioners
For those who have been off the job path for a while, returnships are now the buzz word for a way to ease back in, catch up on skills, and fill holes in some big corporations—like BP and JPM. Usually, this option is all about women returning from family leave. So it’s no surprise that The Mom Project is in the house. That’s terrific, and we welcome same for those who leave for whatever reason (including travel dreams!).
How to keep Millennials working
On the HR front, this savvy site lists 14 ways to improve retention with those ever-wandering Millennials, including flex time, team retreats, free lunch (no such thing), and of course, sabbaticals. They state takers must “show how it will benefit the organization before it’s approved,” which sounds a bit like telling someone what to do with a gift. Still, RAH!
Bieber takes a break from career break
Nobody takes more breaks than celebrities, for whom we have an info-fetish. Sometimes, in fact, celebs (like Jennifer Lawrence) even make news by saying they’re going on break, but then don’t. J-Law was going to raise the BreakAway bar and raise goats! But, hmmm, na-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah.
Biebs, meanwhile, drew attention for taking a break…from his career break…to be a part of NBA all-star game festivities. Ah, the life of a celebrity!
How are your BreakAway visions doing? Life is long, so keep the faith!
So said Dr. Finger when he burst into the room as he flipped me a print-out of test results that had otherwise been kept secret. “Get-T-F-Outa-Here!” I shouted in awe as I threw a Town & Country magazine across the room. For 6 weeks, they had directed me through a new regimen of tests, scans, and procedures chasing 2 kinds of possible cancer that have nothing to do with the previous one. Not all clues along the way suggested we were headed toward this happy conclusion.
I know what you’re wondering. Why was Kirk reading Town & Country? Well, just to set the record straight, I hadn’t seen one in years, and it carried my shaky mind away to memories of comfortable homes and splendid dinners (or at least coffee tables). That said, the magazine may have been upside-down for all I know—although I did notice the models keep getting younger.
“Cancer Again: The Sucky Sequel”
I was prepared enough for bad news that the above headline was already mosh-pitting in my head. And I’d reverted to the ABCs of considering scenarios. Like, I alerted Support Squad A. Obligations and travel arrangements had a Plan B. And if drafted, I was ready to jump back into the C zone, like a soldier re-enlisting for battle, in hopes that we might mop this sucker up by the 4th of July in time to move on to the important things, like floating.
Now, some might dub that pessimism. But PCSD does that to you. So does the pursuit of fearlessness, which features rigorous workouts in realism: Seeing and accepting all possibilities, even the ones you don’t like. It’s quite empowering, really—moreso than well-meaning sideliners who chirp, “Just stay positive!”
Pains in the ass
Women worry about breast cancer. Men fear the prostate. Both are common, and the male problem runs in my gene pool like good looks. So when my “blood work” in December showed some new, elevated numbers—perhaps caused by friendly fire from all the treatments—I had to board the P Train toward exams and destinations unknown.
Along the way, the search thickened when one scan unexpectedly discovered something concerning in my sacrum. I’ve learned to become concerned when doctors say concerning (though I’d never heard concerning and sacrum used in the same sentence before). Prostate is bad enough. But can’t we leave my sacred sacrum out of this? It didn’t help that a friend of mine, as we speak, has both prostate and spinal cancer. Stage 4. He put off seeing a doctor. The Bad Thing spread. He’s going to make it—I believe. But first he’ll go through hell and back again.
In my case, I was fairly fearless about bone cancer. There are many reasons, but the most intuitive one is that my back suffers from a condition that, if I were a noted doctor, I’d name “BackF*ck.”I achieved this condition through a lifetime of combative sports, risky activities, nasty accidents, gardening abuse, and of course, genetics. (When all else fails, blame your kinfolk.) Like many of us, I live with this annoyance well enough and work to keep it in check.
Fortunately, my hunch was right. (!!!) So when Dr. Finger explained that the back issue was not cancer but asked, “Hey, did you know you broke your tailbone?,” I could only shrug. “No, but I’m not surprised. But, may I ask, is it…concerning?” “Naaah,” he answered, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Fun fact: When you’re dealing with doctors about cancer, you could come in carrying the arm you just severed off and they’d say, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“This might sting a little bit…”
That’s another phrase doctors like. It’s code for, “This might make you scream.” Nonetheless, when it came time to strategize the prostate biopsy, I chose to be awake. How could a stupid, short procedure I’d been afraid of all my life be a bigger pain in the ass than what I’ve been through? And the protracted process of knock-out surgery? S0 tedious (a different kind of pain in the ass).
Now, my guess is that very few writers have gotten rich and fabulous writing about prostate biopsies. And most folks probably don’t want to hear about it. So instead, let’s talk about animals. Everyone loves animals, right? Like, the remarkable porcupine. If I had to choose an animal that the procedure reminded me of, I’d definitely go with porcupine.
So if a porcupine should cross your path and need to enter your body, take my advice: Take valium. Scarf them like Sweet Tarts. You won’t scream as loud and you’ll enjoy a nice nap later—at about the time the porcupine retreats back to his proper hole, wherever that is.
Staring at the ants
Throughout these weeks, I kept the Zen poem, Hokasai Says, close-at-hand. It states:
He says it doesn’t matter if you draw, or write books. It doesn’t matter if you saw wood or catch fish. It doesn’t matter if you sit at home and stare at the ants on your veranda…
(Spoiler alert: The stanza ends with, “It matters that you care.”) Funnily enough, a Minnesota-dystopian thing happened: Disgusting, nuisance, winter ants left the veranda and moved into my house. This I learned when I awoke one morning and they had carried me down the stairs and were trying to shove me into their little ant-hole.
They’ve also invaded the cat’s food (no matter where you move it). The trail mix. The kitchen counter. The sink. And yes, even the Triscuits. So I’m like, screw the war on cancer: I’m at war with the ants! Hokasai might disapprove. But he’s been dead for centuries. And if he’d had a chance to snack on Rye and Caraway Seed Triscuits with avocado, smoked salmon, sweet-hot mustard and capers, I think he’d understand.
I must confess: Sometimes, I smash them. With my fist. It takes effort; they’re fierce, tough buggers. Earlier today, one blew me away. He (I’m pretty sure it was a he) was carrying another ant, a dead one. At full speed. I pounded him anyway. But it only half-worked. So you know what this half-smashed ant did? Smashed Ant just flipped me off and kept right on carrying his dead cousin toward Mount Triscuit.
Now that is fearlessness! Now that is strength! Now that is a desperate metaphor for what a guy must do when, not nine months after kicking cancer’s ass, the healthcare team decides we need to run six weeks of new tests for two other kinds of cancer.
The comedy continues
Dr. Fingers was a riot. Doctors are so much funnier when they bring good news. “We’ll need to see you occasionally,” he said, “about every six months.” “Bummer,” I responded as we shook on it, “You have such damn big hands.” He slayed me with a ready comeback: “Well, if you’re really lucky, I won’t order a second opinion” as he held up two fingers.
Oh, this guy is good. I’m definitely considering taking him on my cancer comedy tour as a warm-up act.
Every one of us is frightened. He says every one of us has to find a way to live with fear.
Wise man, that Hokasai. Fearlessness don’t come easy, but, like so many intentions, maybe it becomes easier with practice. And perspective. Like this: I had lunch with a friend last week who showed up uncharacteristically out of sorts. So I asked about it.
Turns out that, right before our meeting, she had visited a close friend who’s son had taken his own life the day before. At age 20. I have no idea, no idea, how one carries on after that.
In comparison, going through some unpleasant tests and a health scare is a blessing.
Earlier this month, some powerful Apple shareholders (including teacher retirement funds) raised a stink about the addictive-ness of the iPhone, particularly for youth. Then they went back to their abacuses and high-fived themselves for 1) saying the right thing; 2) making 50% gains on Apple in the last year and; 3) finally figuring out how to use their iPhones.
Has anyone else about had it with Apple? I have. That makes me a brazen hypocrite because I depend on these toys and tools too. BUT BUT BUT. This Apple-head feels bruised to the core. I’m on screens too much—and more all the time—and still I barely can keep up with the flow. I’m sickened by my own kids’ (and millions of others) absolute inability to put them down—and weary of being That Guy who actually still nags about it.
A history of innovation and…what, exactly?
As for that savvy corporation, it’s too easy to be unimpressed with Apple’s record of addressing crappy conditions in factories abroad, modest pay for US employees despite their profit-per-employee (~$400K), and an uninspiring track record of doing anything much for the public good with their billions of profits and cash.
Shall we arrange a lunch (or must it be “coffee?”) with Messieurs Gates and Buffett, Mr. Macintosh?
And what about the recent expose’ that new phone operating systems intentionally make your old phone run slower? And fry your battery? Planned obsolescence is one thing, but forced? This is a new level of customer discourtesy. Corporation over consumer. Profit over service. Greed over good.
Elmer L. Anderson, a great Minnesotan who ran a large company and has passed on, preached the simplicity of successful business and ethics: First, take good care of the customer. Second, nurture your employees. And if you do those things well, then third: Profits will follow.
While we liberal-ish culties happily diss other giants in other industries for their shady ways, we can’t conceive of a bad Apple. Instead, we gossip like little girls about the Next Big Thing (is it called the Ten of the X!?!) and line up for hours in hopes of obtaining one before, well, before you do!
The fanaticism might compare to football fans who watch their heroes get quickly and quietly hauled off the field with torn ACLs, shattered bones, and chronic concussions that morph into a lifetime of pain and mental hell. We care little beyond how it affects wins while we suck down $15 beers and scream, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”
Closer to home
But that’s all on the Big Screen, or at least the Big Stage. Around here (which would be most anywhere), you can’t walk into Chipotle without seeing a gaggle of people eating alone, tapping away, spilling salsa on their device, and mumbling (reading?) to themselves like President Trump singing The National Anthem.
You just know they take it to the toilet with them, too. And the bed, car, and classroom. Don’t google how many people fondle their phones while having sex.
This parent and teacher has sat through training and straight-faced discussions about Nomophobia. It’s a thing. So…Yep. It’s the educators’ job now to gently empathize with the students’ anxiety about not having access to their phones. That’s IF you make them put it away, that is. And good luck with that. (They’ll just surf the same stuff on their computers—maybe half-pretending to take notes. Maybe.)
Kids these days!
All to say: Kids these days! Kids! It’s so much worse than our worst fears. Conversation comes and goes, but it ain’t what it used to be. When youth gather, the chatter often revolves around something from the phone. The biggest giggles will be inspired by the screen.
Their lives happen on their screens. Screens light them up. Like coke excites cokeheads. But at some point, it’s fails to be so fun. Because now it’s an addiction. Life is difficult without it.
Old (but at least not fake) news
Of course, this is not news. Nor is the notion that this stuff is addictive, and the brain reacts just like it does for, say, booze, blow, and opioids. Opioids: Now there’s a national crisis for you. But I wonder if opioids will kill more innocents than distracted drivers on their phones? I wonder which will harm more relationships? I wonder which will be called a dreadful crisis and which will be considered cool?
I wonder which will make the most people rich?
My phone gets plenty of use. But I try to practice tough-love self-discipline about how, when, where, and how much I use it.
I wish that didn’t make me feel so alone and alarmed.
Returning for scans and tests brings a memory flood that’s like a dam breaking in the brain. A dam one’s worked damn hard to build. Revisionist history morphs into Fake Truths. It wasn’t so bad becomes OMG! THIS! AGAIN!
Hurry up and hack
Test day(s) and the prep before can max the nerves. This time, fresh snow turned roads and knuckles white—and ensured that everything everywhere ran late. This made everyone stressed. They were already sick (beyond their job angst and infirmities) and hacking like suffering ducks, everyone: Staffers, nurses, patients, relatives, and the omnipresent Waiting Room Nomads who have no obvious reason for being there.
So I must ask: Why so some patients bring a family reunion to their appointments? God only knows. But they do.
The check-in line? Gridlock. After all, one kindly lady can only do so much. And it’s hard to collect info from folks having hack attacks. Language interpretations take time, too. And then there are the irrelevant questions they ask, like, “What’s the temperature in Moscow?” and “What was Richard Nixon’s sperm count when impeached?” Some patients just don’t have the answers. In any language.
“When did you retire?” the receptionist asked one fossilized man attached to various machines. After much consideration, he answered, “Two thousand seventy.” The clerk cocked her head and replied, “Okay, just have a chair, honey. It’ll be a while, honey.” He didn’t move. Time passed. So, this being the era of #metoo caution and all, she asked, “Does it bother you when I call you ‘Honey?’” That perked him way up, “Who doesn’t like being called ‘Honey?’” And they laughed—loud, and long, and clear! I actually thought they might dance a little jig. The sound was so out-of-place that the waiting room went silent for a moment.
Finally, my turn! “Hi. Name’s Horsted. But you can call me honey. That sounds really good right about now.” Awkward pause, irked stare. “Okay, hon. Let’s just slow down here.” “Hon?” I replied, half insulted. “Just ‘Hon?’ Please! I want pure “Honey!” “Okay, fine; you’re honey. You need some scans. Right? You know we’re running late here on acccounta the snow and half the staff is out sick as dogs. I don’t feel so good myself. Have a seat, hon. Please. Now.”
Thus ended our brief romance. But it was sweet while it lasted.
The comforting sound of your own name
While awaiting my tests from infectious technicians, I read three papers, fought off flying phlegm, and scowled at the omnipresent gang of way-fare youth that skip school so they can hang out in waiting rooms playing screen (scream?) games at full volume. I watched a rambling parade of delusional VIPs shamelessly pacing and squawking into their phones.
Decades later, my turn came when a nurse appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Future and brayed, “MR. HO-O-O-RST-E-E-E-D?” I regained consciousness and approached her. “Welcome to the machine,” she stated with no irony, and not, unfortunately, to make a Pink Floyd connection that might melt some ice.
A quart of “a fine wine”
Today’s scans would first involve swilling two 16-oz bottles of tainted sugar-water in 60 minutes. An orderly took me to a men’s dressing room (so I could participate in a procession of other patients changing into hospital jammies while their entourages watched me warily). Mr. Orderly soon served as my bartender and told me to sip my toxic elixir “like a fine wine.” Except he said it like, “A fahn wahn.”
This time, having lived this movie before, I actually brought my own wine glass. The cheesy, cheapo kind that you can drop on cement and it won’t break but that I thought might break some ice on this long day. He was unimpressed. And just plain icy.
My poise was running low, as was my energy (since one must fast). And by now I was impatient as the hottest boy at homecoming. So I pushed back. “Fine wine? Really? I know a few things about wine. And I’ve never pounded a quart of fine wine in 60 minutes.” He was still unimpressed. I asked a few irrelevant questions of my own, trying to at least chip ice.
“Mr. Rheostat, Good Lor’, just drink the shi’. I’ll be back in an hour. And it betta be all gone, awright?” He gave a little eye-rolling chortle and shuffled off. Like I said, everyone was feeling stressed and testy. “Not a problem! I can drink like the best of them!” I shouted. He remained unimpressed and waved me off under distant fluorescent light.
Did I mention it was Friday. While normally a good thing, avoid major medical on Fridays. The staff is fried. Fry Day. Just sayin’.
Passing the tests?
The scan tests themselves were pleasant enough. Meditation training removes most fear of being stuck inside a large, noisy tube while The Voice of God tells you when you can and cannot breathe, move, etc. Heck, I’ve even fallen asleep in there—if they provide enough warm blankets—much to the dismay of the harried crew. “Mr. Horsted! Wake up! You’re twitching!” (“Oh, sorry, I was dreaming about an erotic party on a pontoon in an Iowa corn field…”)
As for the blood work? That’s more high-risk. And can take days to produce (sometimes inconclusive) results. This time, my nurse was a newbie who clearly had failed chef school. I’ll just leave it at that, except that to say that life brings scars. Wear them with pride, I say, like others show off drunken-weekend tattoos.
The results came in multi-media form, rather like a U2 concert but without Bono presiding to make it epic and awesome. A 3-page radiologist’s report hit the mailbox forthwith, riddled with big, intimidating words. A late-in-the-evening phone message from Dr. Zen that dysfunctional phone connections failed to fully capture. Meetings alongside doctors with seemingly hours looking at charts and images of my innards from thousands of angles. They always see “things” I don’t—tell me about stuff going on in there of which I’m unaware. They’re amazing. Although I’m pretty sure I could beat them at cribbage.
The journey continues…
The best news is the tumor is not back. (Rah!) After that, things get more murky. Tests revealed some “things” they don’t like. So I don’t like them either. Thus, I get to continue my research for the book chapter called, “Adventures in Waiting Rooms,” enjoy some new test procedures, and expand my network of medical friends.
But instead, for now, I can do no better than to quote Forrest Gump: “That’s all I have to say about that.”
Life, sometimes, becomes a waiting room, for every one of us (you too) as we slog through uncertainty. As Grandma always joked, “Hurry up and wait!” Mom, meanwhile, still reminds us to “Pray for patience.”
Patience. Patience. I got this.
Thanks for listening…
PS Happy New Year! Here’s to one more run around the sun…
The Amazon Christmas ad running lately features smiling, otherwise faceless boxes travelling from a robo-warehouse to a little girl. It’s a fine ad that no doubt brought prosperous smiles to some ad agency. And that about sums up what Christmas has become, eversomuchmoreso, every year.
There was a time when the dominant imagery was about singing carols, trimming trees, decorating cookies, and gathering friends and families. Now, one may have to seek to find those icons in the media, on the streets, or even in your own home.
President Trump has made a thing lately of announcing that the “War on Christmas” is over, with his minions (elves?) oh-so happy to cheer him on and foist new, post-MAGA signage confirming same. Yet this only seems to re-declare the ongoing war on Christmas. But there is good news: The upcoming new tax code will bring much, much more profit to Amazon and Companies.
Most people’s childhoods are like life itself: A complex quilt of sensual recollections, for better and for worse. The holidays rank right up there. But with any luck, there were dark evenings with twinkling lights, hungry afternoons making home-baked cookies, and silent nights of singing traditional songs. Grandma made it so.
Having been out running errands today, Christmas shopping looks alive, if unwell. The stores are mostly chaotic, Big-Box voids. The underpaid workers look and act like the walking dead. The merchandise is strewn about like the bulls just left the building. And many stores don’t even seem to bother decorating.
Cue back to that commercial. Indeed, the most familiar holiday sound this X-mas may be the r-r-r-r-rip of opening Amazon boxes. Who packed it? Did anyone wrap it? Who was so thoughtful to go click click click, or did you just order it yourself? There is one difference, though: I’ve never seen a real box smile. Nor anyone opening one that came via a faceless delivery service.
Still, still, still, Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Hug your living relatives. And pray for peace on earth. Amen.
At a certain age, one learns that the world no longer lines up to rock and revel on your special day. You may have to procure your own chocolate cake—or cupcake—or just order one at an eatery that ruins it with nuts and berries and a martini-high price-tag, yet it doesn’t compare to Mom’s (and by that I mean Betty Crocker’s).
As for surprise parties? The surprise may be having a party at all. And if so, that someone else does the planning. That a quorum shows up. And that somebody remembers the cake and gets it right. Chocolate. With chocolate frosting.
Whither desks, leaves, and bike rides
My birthday came and went with all the hoopla of a buffalo fart lost in dust in the wind. And I could hardly be happier. I logged some requisite desk time, yet the weak November sun strived its best to shed light on the metaphorical piles and melt away any SADness that November days can bring.
Than came raking. Leaf Mgt. With all the great labor-saving devices: The deafening leaf blower; the 16-ton mower; well-worn work gloves. Everybody hates raking. Me too. But on this day, it felt positively gratifying to send dust up my nose and strain my back.
After all, one year ago, that head was going through daily radiation and that nose barely functioned. My care team was emphatically anti-dust and, in fact, wanted me to wear a mask at all times. The body had no energy for yard-work—preferring beds, baths, and beyond. There was a fun, if spontaneous, party for me one year ago. But I suspect some folks showed up because, well, they worried I might be serving my last cake.
Exactly one year later, my kayak took me for an unseasonably warm glide featuring crashing through ice while my headphones blasted Ziggy, Phish and Mick. I sang along like nobody was listening. Because nobody was. I mean, who the hell else is lingering on an ice-laden lake on November 30?
My bike then raced through a robust westerly wind and logged its second-best timing ever on my favorite trail. The ladies who lunch-walk daily gave me that knowing smile, though I still don’t know what they think they know. The heavyset man with the old, black Lincoln was fishing again—within hours of the latest ice-out; he gave me his usual, serene nod and, as usual, looked like he was getting skunked and couldn’t care less. The mustachioed man who reads hardbacks on the bench in the woods was there too, and again resolutely ignored me as I buzzed by, still head-phoned and serenading.
The birthday’s evening festivities featured sushi with my daughter, and then time-killing in nearby bars between my two trips of chauffeuring her to and from the soccer dome. Even the bartenders didn’t give a rat’s ass that it was my birthday. Freebies? Zilch. Generous pours? Nope. Chocolate cake on the house? Not on your life.
The bestest gift
BUT. I got one pretty cool gift: Life. And I feel so much younger than a year ago. Oh sure, the day featured a doctor appointment, and we had to discuss my 555 upcoming tests that threaten to disturb today’s peace. But at this clinic, everybody knows my name. And Doctor Grace and I addressed the tasks at hand and then meandered amiably into wellness-reflection-personal stuff that left me feeling just great—and grateful to have relationships with savvy, kindhearted healers who say things like, “Kirk, you’re awesome!”
So heck yeah, I had an awesome birthday, never mind that the traditional booty was scanty—3 calls, 3 cards, some digital greetings, one hug, zero HB2U songs, and nary a crumb of chocolate cake. (Lest you think I’ve gone all softie on ya, that going cake-less part does sorta piss me off.)
Yet I suppose I’ve devoured dozens of cakes already. Anyway, who would have enough candles? And have I recovered enough to blow them all out?
Life goes on. LIFE! That impressively large (but, please, not yet old) number I turned today is quantifiable proof of life going on. And maybe, just maybe, as Phish (and I) sing, “I feel the feeling I forgot.”
So let’s party?
Maybe I’ll even throw my own impromptu party again. Surprise! It’s warm this weekend, the full moon will rise over the lake, and the bonfire pit could use a warm-up. Maybe I’ll even head out to get that chocolate cake, damn it. With chocolate frosting.