I’m Just Old

I’m getting too old for this stuff.  According to the surgeon’s notes I scheduled myself a “minimally invasive component separation, 6cm incarcerated ventral hernia, laparoscopic abdominal wall reconstruction for recurrent incarcerated hernia” surgery.  In simpler language the doctor was going to perform a hernia below my rib cage and sew up the splitting of my abdominal area (the abs known affectionately as the almighty six-pack) referred to as diastasis recti.  This is not my first rodeo when it comes to hernias.  No, this would be my fourth repair.  It seems that each hernia snuck around the surgical repairs within a year or two.  Helping this feat to take place was the weakening and separation of the abdominal wall—the abs six-pack.  I can assure you that I have never had well-defined abs in my life, and certainly none that would be admired like an Adonis figure.  The closest I ever came was when I held a six-pack of beer in front of my chest at a college party. 

The surgeon was going to stitch the two sides of the abs back together—right up the center of my abdominal area.  Then she was going to push the pesky hernia back into its rightful place and cover its escape hatch with a bunch of surgical mesh.  That was the plan until she found a second hernia joining the party off to the side of the first hernia.  This was something she hadn’t expected but she took care of since she was already under my skin . . . a two-for-one bargain.  It was all done by robotics . . . at least that is what I was told . . . two to two-and-a-half hours top and I would be slapped back together with no more protrusions making me resemble the Poppin’ Fresh Dough Boy of Pillsbury fame.

 

Piece of cake . . . after all this was not my first walk in the park; no, this was my fourth!  Oh, how poorly the mind remembers the past.  Especially the recovery part.  The surgery was easy because the patient is off in la-la land thanks to the wonders of anesthesia.  One minute you slid your butt onto the surgical table and the next you wake up several hours later in a room surrounded by a lot of smiling faces asking if you know your name and where you are at.  I felt like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz upon her return to Kansas.  I thought Toto was hiding in the corner.  It is not long after that when memory confronts reality.  I am not sure if my memory failed me or if doing this surgery at 67 plus years old was confronting me with reality . . . painful reality.

 

Geez, I forgot how painful this surgery ends up being.  This surgery was outpatient.  No spending the night in the hospital unless the pain was severe or there were complications.  There were no complications.  Severe pain? I think pain medication is given to expire several hours after the patient gets home.  Outside of some discomfort of movement I felt no pain . . . at least not until I got home.  All the fun and adventure began once I got home.

 

Owie!  Owie!  Owie!  From my chest down to my crotch, I hurt.  First there was the pain from the pre-surgical shaving . . . from the chest to the crotch.  It was both physical and psychological pain.  The nurse whipped out that electric razor and went to town in from of God and everyone gathered in the room.  Up, down, left, right she went with the razor shaving hair off.  Lower and lower she kept going to parts I wasn’t quite ready to share with strangers in the room.  Then once the shaving was done she used those CHG (Chlorhexidine Gluconate) wipes to scrub down and sterilize the shaved area and they burned.  They were burning hours later . . . owie, owie, owie!

 

Then there was the pain of the actual surgery.  The doctor covered a lot of area.  Rarely do any of us think about the abdominal area of our bodies and how involved that area is in our minute-to-minute lives.  Those muscles are the center of it all.  We use them when we stand up, sit down, bend over, roll over, pick something up, walk, sit to take a poop, sneeze, cough, twist, and turn . . . these muscles move a lot.  Having someone push and move them around before stitching them together creates a whole lot of tenderness and soreness . . . a whole lot of pain.  It feels like someone took a baseball bat and tenderized the whole abdominal area of my body.  It hurts like . . . well, hell!  I move like a hundred-year-old person—slowly and deliberately with a lot of moaning and groaning . . . lots!

 

I have discovered that the key to controlling this pain is to not move.  This of course is the opposite of what the medical people says brings healing—they say “move!”  Granted they don’t say to run a marathon, but they do say to move around—walk, stretch, exercise, wiggle your toes, flail your arms.  The moving around part is no big deal.  It is getting up and doing it that kills a person.  Thankfully they do understand this and include a “better living through chemistry” section in the recovery.  Both non-prescription and narcotic painkillers with a heavy emphasis on the non-narcotic route.  Lots of Tylenol and Ibuprofen.  Plus, a fiber treatment because anesthesia tends to clog the plumbing.  Apparently being constipated is not good for hernia surgery recovery.  

 

Another pain is the pain of hunger.  Prior to the surgery I was told to stop eating at midnight which basically meant I ate my last meal at 6:00PM the night before.  One does not exist on water, tea, and broth from 24 hours when he is a steak and potato guy.  Then coming out of surgery it is pretty much the same—no real food for several days until the pooper starts pooping.  I guess I should thank God for Meta Muscil.  Kind of speeds up the process.  Hangry is not a good look on anyone and I’ve had enough Campbell’s Chicken and Rice soup.  Lots of liquids.  Lots of trips to the bathroom.  I really craved a burger from our local greasy spoon but was vetoed.

 

Throwing in sleepy as another inconvenience . . . an impossibility . . . a painful proposition.  For healing, sleeping on one’s back is the best, quickest, and painless.  That is not a problem when one sleeps on one’s back.  I am not one of those people.  I am a combination of one side and semi-prone on the top.  Legs are in a hurdler’s position.  Arms crossed under the pillow.  Quite a contortion that has be done at least twice—once on each side—before sleep takes place. The wife voted for the recliner.  So, I gave it a whirl.

 

My recliner is a cushy contraption.  Very comfortable.  Has a mind of its own.  When fully reclined it is completely horizontal for sleeping.  Also, when fully reclined one has the tendency to be engulfed . . . consumed in the cushiness . . . sunk in . . . immersed.  This is fine until one wakes up and must visit the bathroom.  Then the adventure begins.  Lots of moaning, groaning, and swearing trying to figure out the best way to sit up and remove myself from the chair without tearing out all the surgery that has been performed.  Can’t really call it sleep . . . dozing maybe but not sleeping when its every hour on the hour of wakefulness thanks to that liquid diet, a small bladder, and that pesky bladder monkey that likes to visit us older folks in the middle of the night.  Deciding that there had to be a better way, I decided to sit up and sleep in the recliner.  But the recliner had its own ideas.  As I am sitting in the chair it begins to slowly inch its way back while I am dozing until it is in the prone position and I am completely on my back.  It is a comedy of errors that doesn’t bother the chair but makes my life a P.I.T.A.  I’ve taken to sleeping sitting up which is good for a couple of hours until I get a new pain in my neck from leaning to the left or right.  I never thought I would dread sleeping.

 

I’m holding my doctor to her word.  She joking referred to me as a “cash cow” if she continued to do what the previous surgeons had done in repairing the hernia.  She could make a lot of money off me she said.  Instead, she wants to repair it once and for all.  Four is enough.  She went all out.  Then she warned me to do as she says throughout recovery.  This is her specialty and she is the best.  I admire her confidence and fear her words.  She means what she says, and I am not going to mess with her.  After all of this and my poor memory of the previous adventures . . . I can’t take another one.  If it goes as planned, she will be my hero.

 

As I said earlier, this is not my first rodeo.  I’m getting too old to participate in the rodeo. My mother used to say that this too shall pass . . . and it will.  Besides my abdominal area is a walking fly swatter with all the mesh that has been inserted.  It has only been 24 hours since the doctor worked her magic . . . only 1,008 hours (six weeks) until recovery is complete.  I can handle it . . . I’m retired and have nothing else to do.  It is a long rodeo, but I will make it.  Then goodbye to the Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh Dough Boy and hello to an awesome six-pack down there somewhere.  Watch out Brad Pitt!  Here I come!   

 

Loose Birds . . . I Understand

 

Mind you . . . I am not a fan of the president of our nation.  Not even close.  As far as I am concerned the man is an immoral, corrupt, nasty, lying individual who relishes the chaos and trauma he inflicts upon others—especially the citizens of the United States of America.  He is a buffoon . . . a clown with no admirable qualities.  I cannot stand the man. 

Knowing my own disdain for this individual I catch myself in a shockingly ironic position of understanding his recent “flipping” behavior with a heckler at a Dearborn, Michigan, Ford Plant.  We all saw it on the news, on social media, and across the Internet.  As tRump was touring the auto plant one of the laborers yelled at him, “Pedophile protector!”  Of course, we all know this is a reference to the Epstein files dealing with the sex trafficking scandal that just won’t go away for tRump.  Files that the president himself ordered to be fully released to the public back on December 19^th, 2025.  A date that has come and gone with little to show.  Nearly a month later less than ten percent of the files have been released.  Needless to say, the nation’s citizens are not happy.  They feel scammed . . . gaslighted . . . played for dupes.

 

It is a “touchy” subject for tRump.  A real irritation.  A rash that won’t go away.  It is no wonder that the laborer’s heckle got under the president’s skin.  Frustrated and angry the leader of the United States reacted like one of us . . . like a common person . . . he pointed at the guy and gave him the “finger” . . . flipped him off . . . gave him the “bird”.  In America there is no greater retort to express contempt and displeasure towards another than letting the “bird” fly.

 

I understand tRump’s behavior.  I understand where he is coming from.  It is a totally “American” reaction.  According to the White House Director of Communication, Steven Cheung, “. . . the president gave an appropriate and unambiguous response.”  Americans throw the “your number one” sign a million times a day.  So, why not the president of the United States of America?  If we are honest with ourselves, we must admit that we understand.  The insult has been around for generations, and we’ve even used it ourselves.

 

This is the frustrating part . . . we’ve all done it.  We have all “flipped” someone off.  Given someone the “finger” or the “bird”.  Declared them “number one”.  I know I have.  Probably more times than I would ever want to admit . . . especially when driving.  It’s a universal sign of displeasure and irritation with another person or group.  Get cut off—the “finger” is exposed.  The message is sent.

 

A couple of years ago I got disgusted with the frequency of my profane signaling while driving.  Tired of “flipping” people off.  That’s when I started to use sarcasm.  Everyone appreciates sarcasm.  Instead of giving other drivers the “finger”, I started to give them the “thumbs up” sign.  For a while I felt good about it . . . even thought it was humorous, but it didn’t feel the same.  Still did not reflect my frustration and anger towards that errant driver.  I’m human after all and the “bird” came back.  Sadly, I now use both hand signals saving the “finger” for those I perceive as the most offensive.

 

That’s the kicker.  The “finger” that the president flashed at his heckler is offensive.  It has always been offensive.  We all know what it means.  It is as old as the Pantheon . . . the ancient Greeks used it to express displeasure towards others.  In ancient Rome it was a physical threat.  One story explaining the origin is the Agincourt myth.  According to the story it was 1415 during a battle between the English and French at Agincourt.  The English used longbows which were a powerful weapon.  The French feared the weapons and when they would capture these English soldiers, they would cut off their middle finger.  Without this finger, the bow couldn’t be used effectively.  They thought this would keep the English from fighting in the future battles.

 

Well, the English won the battle, they mocked the French by showing that they still had their middle fingers.  English longbows were made from yew trees.  Pulling back the bowstring was called “plucking the yew”.  Taunting the French, the English waved their middle fingers while proclaiming, “See, we can still pluck you!”  It eventually evolves into the gesture we know today . . . “pluck yew!”  I think you got the picture.

 

Okay . . . it was inappropriate for the president to “flip” off the factory disgruntled factory worker no matter how infuriating the statement was.  Also, it was inappropriate for the laborer to say what he said no matter how truthful it might be.  This was not hospitality . . . not the way to treat a guest no matter how vile that person might be.  As for the president . . . well, it’s not the behavior we expect from the greatest leader of the free world.  We expect much more from our president.  Yet . . . come on!  We would have done the same thing had we been being hassled and heckled.  We would have “flipped” the guy off too.

 

That is the whole frustrating part of this scenario . . . as much as I cannot stand this individual or his behavior and actions . . . I understand his knee-jerk response.  Though I don’t agree with what he did, I understand.  And if we are honest with ourselves, we have to admit that we understand too.  It’s kind of an icky feeling wouldn’t you say?  Ironic in that we catch ourselves lowered to and on the same level as someone we despise.

 

At the same time, I am not fooling myself.  The gesture by tRump might come across as an ill-gotten moment of frustration and contempt . . . a slip of the finger . . . a mistake by the president.  But it wasn’t.  No, it was more of a revealing Freudian slip.  An inner thought that expressed what the president really thinks about others . . . about the world and nation . . . about us as the citizens he represents.  A “oops, did I say that out loud” moment.  Most of the time he just expresses them through his daily actions of creating chaos and trauma—not a profane gesture.  This individua—tRump—does not like us or our nation.  He expresses it daily waving his middle finger at us, taunting us . . . proclaiming, “Pluck Yew!” Maybe he will add the symbolic gesture to his verbal repertoire and start being congruent.  Wouldn’t surprise me.

 

As I stated earlier, I am not a fan of tRump.  No, I am far from it.  Much of what this individual represents and does makes me sick and angry.  He is despicable.  Though I do not agree with his recent “flippant” behavior . . . I understand.  As we have witnessed, it will continue to get worse.  The individual knows it.  He doesn’t care.  The emperor’s new clothes are being exposed for what they are . . . nothing!  And he knows it.  He is cracking and his opposition knows it.  Does he care?  Naw, he’s just letting the “bird” fly.

Oh, So Close

One of the pleasures of being put out to pasture—I mean being retired—is the time and freedom to read all the pop psychology and relationship articles that come floating across the social media on my computer and phone.  There is a ton of it out there on every subject imaginable.  A recent one that caught my attention was about the six hobbies that point to a man being a “great dad”.  Looked like a challenge to me.  Like any self-proclaimed “parent of the year”, I was curious to see how I stacked up to the author’s premise. 

The writer of the article claims that how a man uses his free time while parenting reflects much about his character and approach to life.  The author stated that if a man had any of the six hobbies that his children were raised by “a truly exceptional man who prioritized quality time, growth, and emotional well-being.”  The guy laid down a gauntlet and dusting off my “World’s Best Dad” trophy and shirt, I rose to the challenge.

 

The first hobby . . . cooking.  I cooked while my children grew up . . . especially when their mother was gone. It was a matter of survival.  They are all still alive.  I could doctor up a box of mac-and-cheese, throw in a frozen pizza, grill cheese sandwiches, scramble some eggs, and even serve some cereal.  I’m not helpless in the kitchen, I am just not the sort of chef the guy was referring to in his article . . . I cooked to survive.  And my children survived.  I was no fancy chef, and I would say that cooking is my favorite thing.  Strike one!

 

Gardening was the second hobby.  Beyond taking care of the lawn and mowing the grass. Gardening is not my bailiwick.  When it comes to gardening . . . planting flowers, vegetables, and what-not . . . that is my wife’s domain.  She plants; I clean up the mess.  It has been that way since the day we married.  Years ago, when the children were starting middle school, it was decided that the family should have a garden.  A family decision.  So, I plowed a plot.  We planted corn, watermelon, pumpkins, zucchini, yellow squash, and tomatoes.  There was great enthusiasm as we planted . . . then—POOF—it disappeared.  The children got busy . . . they got bored . . . discovered that it was work.  No one wanted to water the garden, weed the garden, hoe the garden . . . do any gardening!  In the end the results were dismal . . . a couple of skinny squash, pickle-size zucchini, no tomatoes, one itty bitty watermelon, and a couple of forlorn pumpkins.  What was meant to be a family activity and less in growth, patience, and perseverance became a lesson in swearing.  Thankfully the wife dedicated her focus to flowers after that and my swearing subsided.  Strike two!

 

Hobby three . . . writing poetry.  As a kid I wrote a lot of poetry.  Really bad poetry . . . really bad.  I stumbled across a whole bunch of it recently while cleaning my den.  Thank goodness I was alone.  It was embarrassing.  It has gone off to a better place thanks to the garbage collector.  It’s gone and no one will ever experience that trauma.  But I am not taking a strike on this one.  Even though I wrote terrible poetry, I wrote a lot of other stuff.  Being a minister, one has a tendency to write . . . write lots, especially sermons.  In a 40-year span of ministry I have written a minimum of 2,080 sermons, 480 newsletter columns, countless eulogies, and many wedding devotions.  Since my college days I have enjoyed writing.  The kids know it.  Though it was not poetry, my children saw my love of writing.  This is no strike . . . it’s ball one!

 

For some reason this author thinks that DIY (do it yourself) projects constitute a hobby . . . that DIY teaches skills, problem-solving, creativity, and the importance of perseverance.  This is hobby four.  Again, this is not in my wheelhouse despite my willingness to give anything a shot.  Where others have patience to tear apart, repair, and rebuild . . . I have duct tape, super glue, wire, and garbage.  Do it yourself is torture and the family learned early on that it was best to leave the house when “Dad” had to put something together. Creativity came in the new ways swearing could be done.  The greatest lesson learned is that there are people out there in the world who do these things for a living to keep people like me from losing sanity.  Well worth the money spent.  Strike three!

 

Hobby five was knitting.  I can barely tie my shoes.  Plus, I shouldn’t be around sharp objects.  Knitting looks complicated.  It involves math . . . counting in particular . . . and it goes beyond what I can count with my fingers and toes.  It is too difficult.  I will leave the knitting to those who have the skills, desire, and ability to count beyond 20.  For me it is never going to happen.  If being an exceptional father means having knitting skills . . . well, strike four!

 

Finally, hobby number six is reading!  I love to read!  As our children grew up, we encouraged them to read.  We even let them stay up an extra 30 minutes past bedtime if they were reading.  Our house was filled with books—all sorts of books.  They were piled everywhere.  And in turn they have encouraged their children—our grandchildren—to be readers.  One can never have enough books to read.  Finally, one I can hit out of the ballpark . . . HOME RUN!

 

The final tally takes a little of the shine off my mythic “dad of the year” image I had of myself.  I figured I scored 25 percent on this great scale of extraordinary as a parent.  I guess I was not as special as I thought—cooking, poetry, DIY projects, knitting, and gardening are not my hobbies, not even close.  Thankfully I was saved from being skunked by the fact that I love to read and write. According to this challenge I could probably use some parenting classes.

 

Nowhere in that author’s article were the things I was good at: humor (especially sarcasm), teasing, embarrassing my children in front of their friends, coaching, playing catch, telling “dad jokes”, watching endless sporting and school events, getting thrown out of sporting events, attending concerts and school plays.  There was nothing about encouragement.  Nothing about loving them even when they were unlovable.  Staying by their side when sick.  Not killing them when they did something really (and I mean, really) stupid.  Being present in their celebrations and their heartbreaks.  Being there for them.  Laughing.  Crying.  Loving.  Especially loving.  Always loving.  I think these things go a long way in being an extraordinary parent . . . extraordinary dad.

 

Overall, I think I did okay as a dad.  Could have been better.  Could have been worse.  I am sure that the jury is still out.  I am sure how I am viewed as a father by my children changes as they grow older . . . as they parent their own children.  In the end, all of us who have been parents did and continue to do the best that we can.  We have given our “best and worse” to the ones we love . . . especially our children.  I know I have.  My children still invite me to family gatherings . . . allow me access to my grandchildren.  I do not need some writer telling me what makes an “extraordinary good dad”.  The reward and confirmation has always been in the eyes of my children.  I’ve still got it . . . yup, the older I get the better I was . . . “dad of the year”!