Hurt feelings

We’ve all had them at times; bumps in the emotions road that hurt. Most often they come from an offhand comment or an unthinking remark never meant to sting. But sometimes it can be hard to get them out of your system, to stop reacting. I think that may be especially true of people who’ve been through a transplant or any traumatic experience for that matter. You can get fairly tightly strung.

I have to admit to a couple of bumps myself. One I’m still reacting to everyday, the other I’m afraid I can’t do much about.

Every morning when I get dressed I check twice to make sure my belt is through every loop in my pants. That’s my way of dealing with something my daughter explained to me years ago when I missed a loop. “Dad, you look like an old man.” I’m not sure it assures me of eternal youth, but it dampens the hurt.

However, every time I think about something my wife said years ago – which is not very often -- I can only close my eyes and wince. We’d just come back from a lunch with a fraternity brother of mine who was obviously declining, losing a long battle with cancer and the bottle. Leaning against the kitchen counter, fooling with the wooden spoons in our Harriet’s Kitchen crock, I worried something under my breath about how thin Jerry looked.

From behind me, with a slight chuckle, obviously meaning to relieve my concern, Harriet said, “Well, you don’t have a butt anymore.”

My advice, once again, comes from Bernie who lives in the moment. And a thought for the day I sent to some other folks: Today is a gift. That’s why it’s called The Present.

The Long Goodbye

We’re spending time this weekend getting my mother situated in a long term care facility. It’s the best of several we spent time checking out and not far from our house so we can visit often. As many of you know, it’s a draining experience. You want the best for them in this time, and you hope you’re doing the right thing.

Harriet and I are home for a few hours now before we return late this afternoon. It gave me time to finish writing a poem I started some time ago.

The Long Goodbye

A mystery even Chandler’s Marlowe

Couldn’t solve

With no reason or rhyme

A crime of the mind

Someone taken from you

But still there

The soft silken hair

The same beautiful smile

But an empty stare

Sweet and Sour News

People involved in the transplant experience, whether pre or post, get used to having this unusual dish served to them; half with a spoonful of sugar on it, the other half with a lemon squeeze. Maybe you recognize one of these examples:

It’s definitely not pneumonia…but we don’t know what it is.

The EKG indicates that you have atrial fibrillation…but it’s not life-threatening.

Your oxygen saturation level has improved to 94%...but your blood pressure is 160/83.

You’re finally on the “list”…but it could be at least six months before you get the call.

You’ll never have to be on oxygen again…but you’ll have to be on these 15 meds the rest of your life.

You can go anywhere you want to go…as long as you wear a mask.

I got my serving of Sweet and Sour today. After my bronchoscopy at Shands, while I was still in Goofyland, Dr. Akindipe spoke with Harriet. He told her there was nothing to indicate any rejection…but they couldn’t be positive until they had the lab report on Monday.

On a completely positive note, with a helping of tail-waggin’ (it’s even sweeter than sugar) all over it, we got back in time for me to take Bernie on a walk down to the lake.

Another day, another lesson

This one has nothing to do with Bernie. Over the last few days, I’ve seen a rather dramatic downward slide in my FEV1 (Forced Expulsion Volume).That’s the measure of my lung function I take each morning.

Nothing else is awry. My temperature this morning was 96.9, blood pressure 111/65 and heart rate 59. As usual, Bernie (okay, he’s involved, but he’s never more than a pounce away) and I walked a mile before breakfast and I wasn’t winded at all.

Still, when the FEV1 drops, something’s up.

It could have to do with my recent late night stay in the hospital at my mother’s side. Or one of the other non-recommended activities this old blockhead tends to engage in without a mask; going out to lunch, grocery shopping, etc. Or a slowdown in the number of times I use Purell to sanitize my hands when I’m out or even at home. With my immune system compromised, I could have picked up a bug doing any of those things.

It could also have to do with a misunderstanding we’ve since corrected on the daily dosage of Prograf, one of the immunosuppressant medications I take. Or it could be just a rejection hiccup in the struggle of my body to throw out this intruder which most transplant recipients experience at least once in their post-op lives.

Whatever it is, we’ll soon know. Harriet and I are on are way to Shands early tomorrow morning where I’m going to have a bronchoscopy – that neat thing where they sick a camera down your throat into your lungs while you're asleep. When we find out what’s going on, so will you.

Oh, I almost forget to include the lesson. Never get too confident.

Take time for yourself

The weather here in Central Florida has changed dramatically. The high today was predicted at only 93 compared to yesterday’s 98. So, Bernie and I were able to get in a few more walks. On one of them this afternoon we came across a familiar scene. As we turned the corner and started down the road along the lake, we saw a teenage girl I’d guess at 15 or 16 years of age sitting on the hand made bench that someone long ago placed there. She was alone, reading a book.

Bernie wanted to say hello, but I gave him a quiet, “No.” He turned to look for something else of interest and we passed without interrupting the girl. The incident had me musing about something I recently read that someone as revered as the Dali Lama favored. Everyone, especially transplant recipients, should set aside some time to spend by themselves.

And then her cell phone rang.

Addendum to Children's Day

I’ve had a chance to re-think Children’s Day. Perhaps we should make this new holiday a weekend event; one day for the boys, and another for the young ladies. Heavens knows, they’re different. Mother Goose reminded us what they’re made of…snips and snails and puppy dog tails…and sugar and spice and everything nice. And as they grow, the differences grow with them.

As a father, I’ve been able roll with the boy’s punches, knowing they were coming. But the girls are another story. As this recent poem shows, I’m still trying to work it out.

Daughters and Fathers

He would do anything for her

But what she wants him to do

Is nothing

And he has to live with that

He has to keep his thoughts to himself

His eyes closed, his voice silent

Any action on hold

And pray for her to call

That’s what fathers do

When not to exercise

This morning, to take Bernie on his first walk, I slipped on a fresh T-shirt off the stack of laundry my wife did yesterday. When we came back, 20 minutes and three quarters of a mile later, Bernie’s tongue was lolling out the side of his mouth and the T was soaking wet. I tossed the shirt in the washing machine and cut another notch in my lesson stick.

It’s a good idea to read the paper or listen closely to the radio before you go wandering off on your exercise routine. The forecast high temperature in Central Florida today is 97 degrees. And with the predicted 65% humidity factored in, it will feel like 108 degrees.

Transplant recipient or not, I suggest you take the advice I gave Bernie borrowed from a Noel Coward song: Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.