Better Than a Stick in the Eye

So last week I had to go to my doctor's office and do some lab work in preparation for the annual physical exam that I had today. I distinctly remember thinking that it was less than ideal to be up so early, and fasting at that. Then one of my grandmother's old sayings popped into my head, "Well it's better than a stick in the eye." Of course my grandmother was right, it was not that bad after all and I probably should have been more grateful for having the opportunity to take advantage of such great health care. But frankly I found it hard to appreciate being stuck in the arm with a needle and having to walk through a busy waiting room holding a plastic container of warm urine.

Well anyway, these annual visits have over the years become a routine for me, one that I no longer look forward to. In the distant past my doctor would review the lab tests, poke and prod me a little, pat me on the back, and then say in a satisfied way, "Everything appears to be great. Keep doing what you are doing." More recently things have not gone so smoothly and I have actually come to dread this time of year, knowing that it is quite possible that the doctor will tell me that he is concerned that there is something horribly wrong with me.

Anyway, last year a young woman from my doctor's office called me a few days after I had given blood to inform me that the doctor did not want me to take any calcium-based antacids for ten days or so. The woman told me that the doctor was concerned about the high level of calcium in my system and that we would talk about it when I came in for my physical. "Alright" I said. "Is this anything that I should be concerned about?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Well, I'm not sure. The doctor just asked me to let you know."

I should have immediately called my sister the doctor who would have told me that the labs were most likely screwed up and that I should not worry. Instead I took matters into my own hands and decided to google "high calcium". Part of my "I don't need to ask for directions" mentality I think. The first article that I opened told me that "Hypercalcemia is the most common life-threatening metabolic disorder associated with neoplastic diseases, occurring in an estimated 10% to 20% of all adults with cancer."

My heart sank. I knew that I had some untreatable malignant form of cancer that was intent on killing me within a matter of days. I actually envisioned asking the doctor how much time I had left and him responding "ten," to which I asked if he meant years, months, days. "Nine, eight, seven . . ." were the next words out of his mouth.

What helped to elevate my anxiety even more was the knowledge that I had not taken any antacids in a quite a while, and certainly not on a regular basis. Then it occurred to me. "Maybe it is from the milk." You see I do not remember a time when I did not drink at least four gallons of milk a week, and it is not at all unusual for me to drink a full gallon on any given day. There is absolutely nothing under the sun that I love to put in my body more than milk. When I was a child it was chocolate milk. I would mix a quart or so of milk with something approaching a cup of powered Nestles Quick then sit in front of the television with a table spoon and my concoction, draining the glass one slurping spoonful at a time. The only thing that has changed today is that I know longer add the chocolate to my milk.

The truth is that I am addicted to milk and the thought of giving up my habit was almost unbearable. For five full days I did not drink any milk. Not one drop. What was I going to do if the doctor told me that I had some condition that required that I not drink milk anymore, for the rest of my life. The fear of having cancer was lifted, having been replaced by the panic that resulted from the realization that I was going to be told that I could never drink milk again. This is how my mind works and yes it is tiring.

Come to find out that my sister the doctor had been right. The lab technicians had messed up my tests somehow. I did not have cancer and I did not have to give up my daily milk fixes. You can not imagine the sense of relief that I felt. While I am truly grateful for being cancer free and for not having to give up milk, I believe that I am at least equally grateful for being reminded that my exaggerated fears don't often have a basis in reality. Of course the problem is that my brain is leaky and what I learn I quickly forget. Oh well, such is life.

The Sensibility of Rats

So when I was young I thought that if I could just get into my mid-twenties that all would be well. I would have the perfect job, the perfect wife, the perfect house, and a truly carefree life full of adventure, parties, and people that loved me. After all, that appeared to be the life that the adults around me were living. I thought of this freedom as a given, my birthright in a sense. Needless to say, it did not quite work out that way.

By the time I was twenty-five I had given up on the possibility that I would have anything that approached a normal happy life, let alone the life that I had idealized as a child. It was clear to me that others were to blame for the unhappiness and unease that I felt, for my failure to attain those things in life that should so rightfully have been mine. I blamed my parents whose self-centered antics had left real marks on my psyche. I blamed the women who came in and out of my life for not being strong enough, pure enough, or kind enough to fully appreciate the purity and depth of my love for them. I blamed everyone around me for the way that I felt, in complete denial of the fact that I was actually the source of all of my troubles. I was miserable and made everyone who loved or wanted to love me miserable as well.

Even into my late-thirties I just could not see the role that I played in my own life. I could not understand that I was wholly responsible for my thoughts and actions, for my peace of mind (or lack thereof), for my failures and for my successes. I was to blame for not recognizing the humanness of my parents and for not forgiving them for their inevitable human frailties. I was to blame for periodically creating those intolerable situations, full of raging jealousy and incessant demands, that drove even the best women away.

Today I live much of the life that I dreamed of as a child. Minnie and I have a relationship that is as close to perfect as is humanly possible. We have the love and respect of dear friends and of the members of our family. Both our health and are finances are good. Most importantly, I now understand that even without all of these things that my life can be full of joy if I simply allow myself to understand it to be so.

How did this happen you may ask? I believe that it was an act of God coupled with a bit of willingness on my part to honestly examine my life and make some simple changes. These changes have reformed the way that I see the world and think about life and my relationship to it. I now know that it was my thinking (and the actions that stemmed from it) that had all along been the source of my troubles, the roadblock that had kept me from finding my place in this seemingly upside down world.

It would be dishonest of me at this point not to disclose that I do fall back into my old way of thinking on a fairly regular basis. What is amazing to me is my willingness at those times to let myself stay in such a dishonest and frankly miserable place. I remember seeing somewhere a description of some sort of psychological lab test in which rats in a cage were given the option to press one of two buttons. When the pressed the red button a jolt of electricity was sent through the metallic floor of the cage that they were in. When they pressed the blue button a cookie fell out of a hole on the side of the cage. As you can imagine, it did not take long for these rats to learn that it is always better to push the blue button and get the cookie than to push the other button and get shocked.

What I have found is that it is not always so simple for me to choose to mash the cookie button. Frankly, I find it difficult at times to resist pressing the red button, knowing full well that my choice will inevitably create painful consequences for me and those around me. Go figure the workings of a reformed, yet still uncured mind. Nevertheless, what seems important to me is the fact that I now have some choice in the matter of whether I will be happy or not, whether I will push the red or blue button. For this I am and will always be immensely grateful.

Cold Days in Hades

So I find myself in the uncomfortable position of rooting for the New York Yankees tonight when they play the Boston Red Sox. Please understand that I have never wished anything but plagues and poxes on those pinstriped goons from the north. I mean this as no slight to those residents of the great state of New York whom I know love their goons as much as I do mine. I simply have learned over the years that given the chance, that damn team from New York will come back from 20-0 in the bottom of the ninth to beat my beloved Texas Rangers. For this reason, and this reason alone, I find the New York Yankee's mere existence utterly unacceptable.

I have to say that Minnie is a real trooper during baseball season. I know that she does not really want to hear me babble away every night about baseball, but because it is important to me she patiently listens while I explain where "our" teams stand today. It is not that she is not a fan of the game, which she generally is. It is more that she does not consider following baseball to be as high of a priority as making sure that the bills are paid or that groceries are in the house.

The only time that Minnie's patience with my baseball craziness clearly wears thin is when I am forced by situations beyond my control to whoop, holler, cuss, or otherwise elevate my voice in the direction of a television, a radio, or my iPhone. I have found that this has the potential to rattle my lovely wife. Because I have learned over time that it is best not to rattle Minnie I do my best not to explode from the couch in baseball ecstasy or rage, though sometimes it seems that it would be easier for me to will my heart to stop beating than for me not to react to a great pitch, catch, or score.

So back to the uncomfortable position that I find myself in today. Those who follow the game understand that I am not so much hoping that those goons from New York win so much as I hope that Boston loses. If anyone is to blame, and they are, it is those damn Los Angeles Angels who appear to be unbeatable in the American League West this year. If my Texas Rangers can not catch the Angels their best chance to make it to the post season is for them to win the American League Wild Card race. This will require that they win more games in the next six weeks than do the Boston Red Sox or the Tampa Bay Rays. Needless to say, I will be on pins and needles until the end of September, frustrated with my team one day and ecstatic for them the next. But honestly, that is one of the many things that I love about the game. But just don't ask me to root for those damn Angels, until of course they play Boston next month.

Annie

So on my way to my doctor's office this morning I passed by the old apartment complex on the east side that I lived at when I first moved to Austin. "Ahh," I thought, "that is where I taught Annie to retrieve tennis balls."

I had forgotten where I was for a moment, mainly because I was still not so silently cursing the taxi driver who had just made a U-Turn directly in front of me, nearly causing me to broadside him and his unsuspecting passenger. (On a side note, I wonder if anyone else ever thinks about intentionally ramming other drivers when they do stupid things like that? I am not talking about actually accelerating into them, but more like just not slamming on my brakes to avoid hitting them. I have that reaction all the time but never act on it. I usually end up just cussing them, then getting frustrated with myself for not being more loving and tolerant. Crazy isn't it?)

Anyway, when the cloud of craziness was lifted I saw where I was. "Ahh," I thought, "that is where I taught Annie to retrieve tennis balls." Love and tolerance returned to me and I smiled. Dogs generally have that affect on me.

My time living at that apartment complex was strange and depressing for me, for reasons that I do not need to go into here. Suffice it to say that I was a full-time law student who would rather have been teaching history, oppressed by the wild antics of an abusive alcoholic wife whom I no longer recognized. What I remember as the bright side of that period was that I was able to live with two great dogs, both of whom have since passed on to a place where chewing on furniture and eating out of trash cans is unquestionably acceptable behavior.

Annie was a long-haired tan dog that closely resembled Higgins, the dog of movie fame more commonly known by the stage name Benji. Annie was the sweetest, most loving, trusting, most eager to please dog that I had ever known. For many years she was actually my best friend, and I could not have asked for a better friend. All of my free time was spent with her, hiking, swimming, chasing balls (me throwing, her chasing), or just lying together on the couch. Through it all she stood by my side, smiling eagerly and lovingly at me with her panting mouth and bright brown eyes, encouraging my closed heart to open up, at least if just for that moment.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read "I want to be the person that my dog thinks I am." Implicit in this statement is the recognition of a dog's capacity to feel and demonstrate something that approaches unconditional love. The unconditional love that Annie showed to me was truly a stabilizing force during that uncertain period of my life. Annie has been gone for more than a year now but I often get teary eyed thinking about her. I will always be grateful to God for creating a creature that was capable of such natural generosity.

Roasted Marsala Chickpeas

So I bought some Roasted Marsala Chickpeas a couple of weeks ago. They were packaged nicely, looked tasty, and by all indications were going to be fantastic. I could not wait to open them and give them a try. When I finally got to put a handful into my mouth I was pleased by the crunch, and then, from some ugly place in my childhood, I noticed the flavor. "What the heck" I thought, "these things suck."

Well I am not the kind of person to give up easily so I kept eating them. (While it is true that I am this stubborn, it is probably more accurate to say that I kept eating them because I hate to waste anything, even if it means that I have to suffer in the process). Much to my surprise I began to enjoy the taste of those little red legumes. In fact, I have found it hard over the past few days to keep from eating them. I now consider them to be one of the many things that I truly love.

(On a side note I have always wanted to love mushrooms as well, but with no success to this point. I have to admit that they look really good to me, and I know that since so many people rave about them that they must possess some redeeming quality. But for whatever reason every time that I put one of these spore-bearing fruiting bodies of a fungus into my mouth I come close to being sick. One of these days I will just give up on them completely. I think that sushi may be in this category as well, though the coolness factor of eating raw fish keeps me coming back for more.)

So where is the lesson in all of this for me? I think that I have known for a long time that it is important for me to keep trying new things, otherwise I might miss out on discovering some great little gem that will bring pleasure to my life. But now I think that I know as well that it is important for me to try things a second time if I don't love them at first. I understand that this involves a bit of dice rolling, but it is worth having to eat a few mushrooms to be able to uncover the beauty of Roasted Marsala Chickpeas and the joy that comes to me from eating them.