A support group bulletin board that I frequent has descended into petty squabbles, causing some people to get so angry that they threaten to leave.  Hard for me to fathom.  I wrote and posted this as a way to make my point about relative importance of friendships in our lives.

Five weeks prior to the end of World War I, a relatively small group of American soldiers, the 1st Battalion 308th Infantry, 77th Infantry Division, lay shivering deep in the bowels of the Argonne forest.  They entered the forest with 600 men and four days later were carved down to just over 200.  They had rushed forward, as ordered, and had fought their way ahead of their flanking support and their rear supply lines.  The German lines had flowed around their small circle and closed in behind them.  They were surrounded like a thorn that the body encircles with inflammation.  And they were just that, a brave thorn in the defenses of the last German line of resistance.  They were offered terms of surrender on several occasions, but the commander, with the support of his battered troops, refused.  His refusal was based on his belief that it had fallen upon him and his men to hold this piece of ground.  This was the part that fate would have them play in the fight against tyranny.  If they did their duty and held this small piece of wood, they might help end the blood bath of this, the latest human convulsion called war.

The dead had mostly died horrible, agonizing deaths.  The defensive strategies at the time of this war had not caught up with the new technologies of death.  The wounded suffered from lack of food and water and nothing to relieve the pain.  The living struggled to maintain their resolve and courage while awaiting the horrors that would again emerge from the forest mist.  Where did they find the courage?  How does one hold onto sanity in these conditions?  A small stream lay within sight, yet several men were lost to snipers as they made a courageous flight to retrieve water for the wounded.  The long awaited artillery support brought fleeting elation as it quickly turned to the nightmare of “friendly fire” death.  And yet they held on.

What was their motivation?  Certainly each man had his own story; his own values.  Most were probably not driven by a broad view of their part in the geo-political future.  But, I also suspect that they held a sense of obligation and duty to a way of life that they understood as better than what the world had offered to its people in the past.  They each in their own way knew that future generations would be influenced by their actions and sacrifice; a sacrifice that is beyond the ability of most people to comprehend.

Tomorrow we have the privilege to be able to vote for the people who will govern us.  We select those who will make our laws, administrate the laws, and apply justice.  It is easy to get caught up in the cynicism of how our political system has evolved.  Much of this cynicism is justified.  Yet all of the cynicism pales in the historical light of the fact that we can safely, without threat of persecution cast our vote.

We owe it to that one shivering soldier lying in the mud waiting for his destiny to come shrieking through the trees, to participate in the system that has been won over and over again at such remarkable cost.

Please vote.

Someone asked for particulars about the ‘personal issues’ I mentioned in my last entry.  Someone also forced me to publicize them because she said it was an important object lesson.  I’m not sure about that, but I’ll go with it this time: 

The other morning I was going through the melancholy process of trying to make a decision about getting an abdominal hernia repaired.  The hernia resulted from the biopsy for my lymphoma.  A while after the biopsy I lifted something heavy and felt the tear.  I’ve lived with it for about two years, but every once in a while it causes me trouble.  I can get by with it, but sometimes it’s pretty painful.  I have an appointment with a surgeon to discuss getting it fixed.  The  problem is that my oncologist predicted there would be a period of almost 6 months when I wouldn’t be able to do much.  That notion is almost impossible for me.  I have way too many things going on at home that require me to be able to work and lift. 

Then I started thinking about losing that much time.  Statistically, I’ll be doing well to be around 5 years from now.  Now, I'm fully aware of all the caveats that go along with talking about survival statistics. But I got stuck on a hypothetical scenario: "If, somehow, I knew definitively that I only had two or maybe three years, would I want to waste 6 months of it being unable to do anything active?  Maybe it would be better to just put up with the annoyance and make the most of the time left.” 

Independent of that thought process, I came by the “live like today..." quote.  I began thinking about where this hits the mark and where it misses.  It’s logically reasonable to assume that you should live your life the same whether you believe you have a "normal" life span ahead of you or a definitively short time.  I stuck to that point of view myself when, after the first diagnosis, several family members and friends suggested that I should take off on a “life's dream” type of extended vacation.  My feeling was that if a dream trip made sense under those conditions, it would have made equal sense prior to diagnosis.  If I wasn't living the kind of life that I would dream of, shame on me. 

But in thinking about this more, I don't think the subject is suitable for pure, cold logic.  It’s too human.  Through the process of living, over time we gain a concept of risk and probability.  We know, consciously, that we could be hit by a truck tomorrow, but we also have an innate perception of the low probability of that event actually happening.  We live our lives accordingly.  If I was told, without question, that I was going to die on Sunday, would I come to work on Friday?  Absolutely not.  I would quickly derive a Life Plan B and pursue it.  But even though I know that I could die on or before Sunday, I’ve reconciled the probability of this early death and decided, subconsciously, to continue with Life Plan A, which will probably include a guiltless 2 hour nap on Saturday (what a waste). 

I’m still up in the air about this whole topic, but I plan to see the surgeon next week and hear what he has to say.

My red-headed Xanga conscience has gently urged me along, so the following ramblings are her fault.

I was actually musing over some personal issues this morning and thought about setting them to digital pen with a long-winded blog.  However, it’s the kind of issues that when writing about, I can’t get the image out of my head of the reader; lips pursed, head shaking, and thinking, “sheesh, why doesn’t this guy get a grip”.  It has to do with short term and long term planning, health, philosophy, etc. blah…blah…blah.

I heard two quotes the other day that really hit home with me:  Live each day as if tomorrow is your last, Learn each day as if you’ll live forever.  And…(teacher in an interview giving her take on the value of learning history)  “…important for students to understand history and how it affects our lives.  This leads to sophisticated thought and that’s what college education is all about”.  Yes, that is it.  I have never heard it stated so succinctly and accurately.  When talking to the lamenting college student about the universal question, “why do they make me take all of this crap, I just want to be an [anthropologist]”, the sensitive mentor should not hesitate to tout the idea that “higher” education is all about developing the basis for  sophisticated thought.  Learning to be a whatever is secondary.

Speaking of college;  My daughter proudly announced that she got an A on her sociology test last week.  It was an essay test which covered several complex sociological concepts, including some of Marx’s theories.  I read her essays and was quite impressed.  This was quite a step in development for a girl who, like her dad at her age, is all too practical for her own good, which can narrow one’s view of what matters in the world.  She was very proud and so am I.  Son relayed via our new communication venue, Instant Messaging, that his mid-term grades came out and he is sitting with 4 A’s and 1 B.  He confidently followed with saying that the B in anthropology was based on one test and that he thought that he could bring that grade up by the end of the term.  I didn’t pass on what I was thinking, “ damn boy, when I was in school I would have given away my beer money for a B in anthropology”.

So my kids are setting a good example for me.  In keeping with the first quote above, I think I’ll schedule a sky diving lesson and grab a copy of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey to read during the decent.

We went to the Bob Evans Farms festival yesterday.  What a beautiful day.  It was classic Ohio fall weather; clear blue sky, moderate temperature, dry, and that certain smell in the air.  On the way there we passed a farm where a young fellow was out in the yard sitting on a well used go-kart.  He was scooting his rump and pushing on one tire with his foot in an obvious attempt to make the darn thing go.  I told my wife that this image coupled with the look and smell of fall brought on a flood of boyhood memories;  riding my cousin's homemade go-kart around the farm for hours on end, working on the thing for even longer hours only to ride some more; hiking up the back hill to where the old orchard would offer a few apples that had been spared by the birds and the deer;  laying in the drying grass and leaves and staring up at the wispy clouds; and finally running down the hill at the sound of the dinner bell to be the first to wash up and dive into food that had been spread across the kitchen table.

I try to not indulge in regrets, particularly when it comes to something as fickle as parenting and child-rearing.  But!  If I had it to do over again, I would try to recall the little things in my childhood that so frequently return to boost my spirits and make me smile and make a point of making sure that my children had the oportunity to create their own sustaining memories.  It seems that many of these memories were the result of our childhood effort to overcome boredom;  the days were sometimes endless and there was an intense drive to "find something to do".   I think that a shortcoming of our modern dailey life is that kids very seldom are lacking of stimulating (over stimulating) things to do.  There is some value - I don't know what it is- to spending a half hour laying under an apple tree and seeing how many times you can toss an apple straight up into the air until it just barely touches that branch and catch it with one hand; all while swatting the occasional sweat bee.

What fond memories do you finding welling up at a certain sound or smell?

Flu shots and demons

The flu vaccine shortage presents a bit of an internal, self-image struggle for me.  I have been taking the flu shot for the last several years because I fell in the “chronic disease, compromised immune system” group and also because my wife insisted.  Whether or not to take the shot was never much of a struggle.  I didn’t feel there was any risk in taking it, it didn’t cost anything at the local health department, and with the exception of last year there was always plenty to go around.  Even last year they were able to come up with enough doses to cover everyone that were in the risk groups, plus many more.  So the way this settled out in my mind was that it was a smart thing to - ounce of prevention and all that - and if it kept me from feeling miserable for a week sometime during the winter, I should just do it.  I didn’t have to weigh my need, justification for, or right to the medicine against others’ need.  I wasn’t taking it because I had a special need. I was just taking it because it was available, might avoid some brief misery, and it didn’t affect anyone else.

This year with the quarantine of the UK supplier’s production, the situation is different.  The world supply of vaccine is about half of what is necessary.  Should I be one of the ones who get the vaccine?  In dealing with the lymphoma, I play this game with myself; at the same time that I am constantly aware that I have the disease; I also deny that it has any real influence in my life.  Any physical limitations that I experience in my daily life, I attribute to letting myself get out of shape and getting towards the high side of middle age.  Whenever I hear, “Are you sure you should do this” – usually in reference to plans to do something physically strenuous or something with some infection risk” I am always quick to answer, “sure, I can do what I’ve always done”.  This isn’t macho, or bravado kicking in as a result of not wanting others to see me as weak.  It is a more complicated internal struggle.  It is me trying to control the tendency to let the disease be a crutch, trying to come to grips with my own motivations and discipline; a struggle with self-awareness.

Now I am faced with having to compare my need for the limited drug with others’.  The dose that I take will not be available for someone else who has a medical need.  My problem is that I realize that I have to make this decision by myself.  Any of my support group that I would ask, family, friends, or medical, would make the case for me taking the drug.  Is it a life and death question, probably not in my case, but not out of the question?  Clinically, on paper, I have a weakened immune system but, in practice I seem to recover from bugs of different sorts at the same rate that I always have.  My self-image can’t put me in the same group as those that are considered necessary candidates for the vaccine.  The demon that I struggle with is trying to resolve whether my decision is influenced mainly by ego and self image or by rational thought.  I can’t decide. 

Ok, I'm blogging. 

There must be some material in Bush's foriegn policy and war legacy for a good satirist.  Something that compares Bush's compulsion to invade Iraq and a teenager's drive for sex.  A clever comic should be able to do something with this.  Something like:  Bush's war experience is like the teenager who succeeds in his pursuit of sex only to hear the words, "I think I'm pregnant".  A permanent reminder of a temporary emotion.  Humor is good in most situations, maybe not this one.

We are in a mess of historic proportions in Iraq and its hard to imagine either candidate being able to lead us to a resolution that is not similar to the Vietnam solution;  pull out and let the chips fall where they may.  A terrible waste.  In 10 years it may be difficult to discern if the status of the world, the region, or even the country of Iraq is better as a result of deposing Hussein.  History will never know how Iraq would have evolved.  An early death of Saddam may have seen an uprising against his brutal sons.  After all, a dictator is a complex person who often only holds his grip through the thinnest threads.  History shows that many dictatorships fall apart through subsequent generations.  Speculating on what could have been is pointless, I suppose.  This is the delema that we have created for ourselves; we are now responsible for the future of Iraq and its people.  We have interceded in the progression of this country's social and political evolution and no matter what happens we will be accountable.  I am convinced that eventually our only choice will be to pull out and let the people of Iraq attain their own equillibrium.  We have imparted change on the course of history, but only time will determine if it was a net gain or loss.  There is little support from the other observers or people directly involved who can also speak without bias, for the position of Bush's White House that the democratic elections can actually happen with any scale of validity.  I think the only possible hope for attaining a stable, responsible central government within Iraq is to develop a strong, broad international coalition (not the trivial puppets that Bush likes to tout) that can be accept by the majority of Iraqies as a legitimate peace keeping, nuetral force.  I don't see Bush as being able to pull this off.  Who knows what Kerry would be able to do.

In conclusion I will be inconclusive.  However, I am not running for President.

I'm going to have to cancel my charter membership to CLSIFC (the Chicken Little, Sky Is Falling Club). I have found that this organization promotes a very irrational and, come to find, inaccurate approach to assimilating and responding to insufficient data.

I have what could be called a chronic form of cancer, Indolent Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.  It is treatable, but not curable so, one enters states of remission during which time you get periodic tests, usually CT scans to look for renewed activity.  Like Pooh, I was all in a bother last week because the CT technician asked a benign question, "have you had a chest Xray recently?". According to CLSIFC guidelines this could mean nothing other than, he saw a huge tumor in my chest during the CT scan. Welllll....

I got the Xray and CT report today which showed that there has been no change in tumor count, location, or size since the last scan in May. Hooooraaayyy. My onc is interpreting this as a good thing (according to the nurse that I talked to). I will actually see the onc on 9/14. She probably won't want to do anything until I'm symptomatic again.

So, I've learned a little lesson...which will probably last just about until my next scan time.

(LMF - tag, you're it)

Bob

Eagle vision

When I was younger, say, early twenties I recall that I had the perception that middle aged, say fiftyish, people probably had a handle on most of life’s illusive, subtle nuances.  Not that they were right in all the truths that they held dear but, that they had long since settled in on how they felt about all the important stuff.  Maybe they did back then but, now that I find myself in this age bracket my experience is that I have more questions than answers.  I have found very few truths-in-a-nutshell upon which I can rely to carry me through the constant barrage of life’s challenges.  I am continually learning and re-learning how to deal with life in a way that feels right to me, to establish what is right and wrong, and what is important and why.  I have to constantly pull myself up by the seat of the pants and point my nose in the right direction as I struggle to reign in the cynicism that creeps into control of my view of the world and the people that define it.

I had another object lesson in this effort about a week ago.  My son is working for his Eagle Scout rank as a wrap-up to his scouting career.  Each Eagle Scout candidate must complete a project that meets several criteria, a couple of which are community or social benefit and leadership.  The project he came up with was to build a few benches along the bike path that is in our community.  The path is a real nice asset to the community with portions following the river through the city and others winding through the wooded hills between our city and the next.  The bench idea quickly evolved with input from “The Committee”, to a covered affair much more elaborate than the original, simple “bench” concept.  We agreed to this with the caveat that there would be only one bench.

We designed and planned, held meetings, and solicited approvals.  Finally, building day approached.  In my mind Son and I would get up early on Friday, set the posts in concrete and then, with an early start on Saturday, we would put in a long day and have the whole thing built by nightfall.  It was doable; I know how to build and he has the young muscle.  Then, a few days before B-day (Build Day :}) Son asked, “what time do I tell everyone to show up on Friday?”.  “What…who?!”, I gasped already knowing the answer.  “The other scouts, a couple parents, and the scout leader”, Son replied.  I immediately descended into a murky pit of insurmountable problems.  What would have been an enjoyable two day project with Son was now turned into a four day project of, “Don’t pick up the saw by the blade when its plugged in”, “I’ve always driven nails in this way”, “If you hit Johnny with the hammer again, you’ll have to have quiet time”, and “I know we could have designed the bench that way, but…we didn’t”.  I was thoroughly and really disheartened.  Son explained that it was necessary.  Leadership and managing the helpers were supposed to be part of the project.  I was now dreading the whole event with every fiber of my being.  “C’mon Bob”, you say.  “Aren’t you being a little pessimistic”, you counsel.  NO!  I was convinced it was going to be hell weekend.  But, its Son’s final scouting hoorah and we could get through it.

Oh well. (@#$$%@#@!!)

Well, given the lead-in to this story, you can probably guess where this is going.  For one thing, the project needed a little more labor then I had envisioned.  Even with the power auger on the tractor, digging the holes in the hard packed, old railroad right-of-way required two hours of strenuous labor.  Extra hands came in…well…handy.  The young ones, much to my pleasant surprise, were very adept at helping when needed, but staying clear when something we were doing was a little dangerous.  The adults in the group came, apparently, ready to follow directions and acquiesce the leadership role to Son and me.  Very little haggling over methods to “skin the cat” emerged and the whole effort ran smoothly.  The next day even more people showed up.  Again, the group worked as a well oiled, if not poorly designed, machine.  My reservations (ok pessimistic, cynical laments) were only realized briefly when a particular person (which I should admit to myself was probably the sole focus of my pain) showed up for only about 20 minutes; just long enough to say, “you gotta cut those bolts off (this as someone had already gone to get the saw)” and “thats not the right way to hold that board when you cut it”.  Fortunately, he had to leave to make sure the County Fair got up and running properly (hee hee hee).

The book cover

“You can’t judge a book by it’s cover” is an old adage that I latched onto early in life and used on numerous occasion in the late sixties and early seventies to validate the long hair and holey jeans look that I rebelliously adopted.  “You can’t go out looking like that!  What will people think of you?!”  “They shouldn’t be thinking any thing about me ‘cause of the way I look!  They don’t know me!  They can’t judge…” and so on.  In the ensuing years, I have tried to hold onto this truism and use it as a guide in my interactions with the community at large.  It is one of those obviously true snippets that come under constant fire in the everyday practice of living.  The most poignant strains to my ridged view on this matter came when dealing with my children and their choice of friends and hang-out buddies (shudder).  I have had to rationalize all sorts of variations in the basic theme that people are not all good, not all bad, are very complex and their true self is often not evident in the pierced tongue.

Like with most truisms, this one can get buried in details as we try to bend it to suite our own flailing attempt to get along but, like all true truisms, this one will occasionally burst forward out of the pile of rationalized rubble and thump you on the top of your head to get your attention.  This has happened to me recently and I must say that I was surely in need of a wake up thump.

Last week for the second summer in a row, I spent some of my vacation time working at a church camp.  My roll was a pleasant diversion of grunt and gopher work.  I was so low on the totem pole that I didn’t even have an official assignment.  I was at the beckon call of everyone from the camp director to the head dish washer.  It was great.  I just waited for the next command and did what I was told.  This may not sound like the typical description of a relaxing vacation, but for me it was a nice break from being dad and “the manager”.

The head dishwasher, Dan, is the subject of this writing.  My first encounter with Dan was last year.  The initial contact was not a pleasant one.  For starters, Dan’s appearance immediately brought to mind images of Charles Manson.  A gangly, brutish kind of build topped with a countenance that wore a permanent frown.  The dark eyes seemed to be fixed in a permanent glare.  “Did you wash your hands!?”, he barked in a tactless sneer.  “errr, yes”, I stammered as I went through the mental process of reminding myself that I was not in mom’s kitchen, I was a mature adult and didn’t have to dodge another paddling.  “Is that a clean towel?!”  “Yes”, I said firmly having regained my composure and sense of self.  The rest of the time went similarly when it came to encounters with Dan.  Being at church camp it would be really inappropriate to get into a knock down, drag out argument, so people either avoided Dan or learned to tolerate him.  The general consensus was that he is a nut.  However, there was this piece to the puzzle that didn’t fit with the other pieces; he was here and for several years had devoted a week of his vacation time to laboring, for free, to make it possible to have this camp for the kids.  Why would someone who so obviously hated life and the horse it road in on, give so readily of his time and energy.

This year I was ready for Dan and had counseled myself repeatedly during the preceding week on just how I was going to reach a state of mind where Dan could not penetrate.  I would work with him to get the work done, but not let him infiltrate my sense of peace and tranquility that I was seeking in the wooded camp setting.  This plan seemed to work well.  The first test was during cleanup for Sunday’s dinner.  I was sliding a stack of freshly washed dishes onto the shelf of the storage cabinet when I misread the clearance of the top few plates which started a quick series of jerky reactions, and I dropped the whole stack on the floor.  These are the type of cafeteria wear that are designed to minimize breakage and maximize sound.  The stack hit the floor with a horrendous noise and clatter…right behind Dan.  Dan spun half around, never missing a stroke with his high pressure rinse hose and barked, “Ah, Ah, Ah…those gotta be redone!”  I was already picking up the top of the pile from the floor and responded with my indignation at its peak, “no, we’ll rewash the ones that actually touched the floor”.  Dan turned, seemingly with more hunch over his work, and sprayed vehemently.  I was left wondering if there was a lock on my cabin door.

The rest of the week went without much mishap.  The kids got fed, the balloons filled with water, pictures were taken of many activities, the kitchen was cleaned and cleaned again, and Dan and I reached a civil working arrangement.  He even joked a bit.  By Thursday evening everybody is pretty much on their last leg.  It was late evening, dinner was over, and all we faced was the late night snack.  We were ahead of the food preparation schedule so I took a moment to go outside and stare at the trees.  When I walked around the corner of the lodge, Dan was standing, bent over, and staring at something.  “Nice night”, I offered.  “Y’know what this is?” he responded.  I went over and looked at the slight yellow flower that he was holding gently on his finger tip.  “No, can’t say that I do”, I said slightly sheepishly.  I’ve always considered myself an outdoorsy kind of person although I realized early on that I didn’t have the memory capacity to be a true wild plant authority.  “Well, c’mon, you should know what you’re lookin’ at if you’re going to be out here!” he proclaimed.  So, we spent the next half hour strolling along the edge of the woods while he identified 40-50 different wild flowers and plants.  Our tour ended at his car where he pulled out his field guide to wild flowers and began teaching me the mechanics of using it.  He showed me his guide to Columbus metro park system which includes several thousand acres, most of which he has walked and conducted his own plant census.

Ann walked by, “showing him the ropes?”  “Yeah, he’s slow but has potential”, Dan replied.  Ann smiled, knowing my predicament.  “Pay attention; Dan has a degree in botany from OSU.  You can learn a lot”, she grinned.  I looked at Dan like someone who can’t believe the rabbit actually came out of the magician’s hat.  Thinking back, I’m hoping my mouth wasn’t actually hanging open.

We talked some more until the mosquitoes found us and then we went back to the kitchen to start prepping for the next day.  Dan and I had connected.  The next day, Friday, is the last day of camp and a horrendous work day of clean up, packing, and washing down the entire lodge.  It’s the kind of work that can be made much easier when the workers work as a unified team; give and take, anticipating other’s needs and moves.  Dan, I, and the rest of the volunteers got the job done well and in fine time.

I stumbled upon a darkly bound book, long avoided; sitting on the back recesses of the shelf and was willing to look when the pages fell open.  I am not only better for this experience in terms of personal growth, but I am a notch happier.  It was a truly pleasant, fun experience. And…I have a new friend.