My girl friend Cassandra had her secrets and I learned them only slowly. She was never on time for anything, sometimes showing up more than an hour late for our dates. She couldn't hold a job, perhaps because of secret #1, and always felt mistreated and in need of money. She asked for loans and never paid them back. And she didn't mention that she was married.
by
On the positive side, she really admired my running. And, as I'd only just begun to get into it, she gave me a book...The Official Book of RUNNING by Bill Emmerton to help me along. AND she wrote a very nice note in it:
"I look forward to saying I know that guy when you are handed your medal for winning
the Boston Marathon in well under 2 hours."
It's a good thing that Cassandra gave me a book at that point in my running career because, having not yet run more than 3 miles, I didn't know much about competitive running. Sure I knew that a marathon was longer than 3 miles but I didn't no how much longer. I also didn't know that a marathon time of "well under 2 hours" was not humanly possible as it would demand a pace of "well under 4 minutes per mile" for the 26.2 mile course.
But I didn't know that so I just felt good that I had a goal. And, in reading Emmerton's book, I saw that I also needed some medium range goals before the one of winning the Boston Marathon. I thought, perhaps, a 5 mile race might be a good stepping stone, so I signed up for my very first, scheduled for Brooklyn's Prospect Park on January 3, 1982. I also figured that an even more intermediate goal would be to actually run that distance at least once beforehand.
So I did that, the week before, on the indoor track at the McBurney YMCA on W 23rd Street. The McBurney Track circled the gym 1 floor below it...20 times around for 1 mile. So I ran around it a glorious 100 times...5 miles! I then dragged a wooden stool into the men's shower and sat on for my shower. I didn't have the strength to stand...but I was ready for the race!
On race morning I got to Prospect Park early...and was shocked to learn that there was a great big hill on the course! What was that doing there? The only races I'd ever run were short dashes and there were no hills on the track! Why I remember field day in junior high school when I won the 60 yard dash. The course was flat as anything. Yes there was controversy...Alan Ng complained afterwards that I'd cut him off at the start. One, Alan Ng is a big baby and a complainer and I hope he's since grown out of it. Two, I could outrun him anytime whether I cut him off or not which I DIDN'T!! And three, I'm sorry that I cut you off, Alan. My bad. But the point is...the course was FLAT, no hills!
But the Prospect Park course wasn't. It contained a simply awful hill on mile 2 that went up and twisted around forever. And that intimidated me as we lined up for the start. But I ran it well. At least I assume I did. Frankly I don't remember it at all. What I do remember, however, is running downhill on mile 4 and simply FLYING by lots of people who probably were worn out by the big hill. In any case I got to the finish line in 37 minutes flat, a 7:24 pace. Not bad for my first 5 mile race ever!
When I learned later that a marathon was more than 5 times longer than the race I'd run...and that, even if I maintained my pace (which, of course, I wouldn't) I'd miss my "well under 2 hours" goal by about 90 minutes or so, that goal seemed seriously in jeopardy. In addition, as my goal was also to win the Boston Marathon there was also the matter of the 872 runners who'd beaten me in Prospect Park. They could be a problem in Boston as well.
So Cassandra, it seemed, hadn't suggested very realistic goals. But it did get me into my first 5 miler and that was fun...just as all the ones I've run since, including this morning's effort, have been!
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Saturday, June 15, 2013
BACK IN THE RUNNING
I had one thought as I walked to the beginning of the 5K race at Roosevelt Island this morning...don't get too close to the start. ALL the runners up there will be WAY too fast for me.
It was my first race in 9 months. A physical issue had played havoc with my life since September, depressing, difficult, uncomfortable...and really screwed up my running! Now I'd only been back at it for 6 weeks...no speed work, nothing long, nothing too hard. Was I ready to race? Not really. But it was exciting to be there to try!
So I searched for the right spot to line up, knowing that I intended to run (if I was up to it) at an 8:30 per mile pace. I walked beyond the front row right at the starting mark, and a bunch more rows beyond that. Finally I came to a group of racers all wearing head phones and heavy looking t shirts. A few others were wearing costumes. "I'm not going behind these people," I thought. "I'm out of training but at least I look like a runner!" I settled in in front of them. And waited.
Soon the horn sounded and we were off, running south along the Queens side of the island. I found a comfortable pace that felt sustainable and stuck with it even as hordes (it seemed) of people passed me, including some with the heavy looking t shirts. None of the costumed characters did, though, so I didn't feel embarrassed into speeding up. About a third of a mile in to the 3.1 mile race and we turned right, then, quickly, right again. Now we were running uptown along the Manhattan edge.
Only a few racers were passing me by and they all looked young and athletic and must have arrived late and started near the back of the pack. I wasn't bothered by them. I felt fairly comfortable and was looking for the 1 mile marker. Soon it was there and I looked at my watch...7:56! A minute faster than ANYTHING I'd run in training and way faster than my intended pace. Too fast. Unsustainable. I came upon a sharply descending ramp and flew down it. Wow! Speedy. "Maybe I could keep this up," I thought. "Maybe I could run this pace for just 2 more miles...." Fortunately reality intruded. NO WAY. If I tried I'd throw myself into oxygen deprivation and have a miserable time before the end. Would probably hurt so much I'd end up walking, an absolute disgrace in the shortest of all middle distance races. How would that sound on facebook?
I slowed down. Good thing I did. As I passed the water station just beyond the race's half way point I felt myself involuntarily slow further. I was pooped! Suddenly I began thinking that maybe this was all too much for me, that I'd never be able to sustain even this reduced pace and that I'd squander my first, fast mile. "Where is that damn second mile marker," I thought, even as I knew the answer as I'd run this course before. It's at the spot where we cross back to the Queens side of Roosevelt Island and head south to the finish. I came to it and fearfully looked at my watch. With all the slowing I'd done the time could be bad. It wasn't...8:36.
Two miles down and still ahead of my goal pace. But slowing by 40 seconds from mile 1 to mile 2 was not good. If that happened on mile 3 it would ruin everything. I needed to at least maintain the speed I was running at. But now I was exhausted and uncomfortable and the wind, which I'd never felt at my back, was now in my face. I thought of walking. REALLY terrible to do that so close to the finish. So instead I played a game. Run to the next landmark and then we'll see. Then go on to the next landmark. And so I kept pace to the next bench, to the next tree, to the place where the sun stopped and the shade began, to where, the shade ended and the sun resumed. I was lost in my game, barely noticing that no one was passing me, till, suddenly, I felt someone on my left.
I knew I couldn't hold him off so I just hoped that he wasn't in my age group. And, as he passed, I knew that he wasn't. Because he wasn't a he. He was a she A young she. And even my addled, oxygen deprived brain knew that a young she won't be in the men's 60 to 64 grouping.
No one else passed me, but I did slow down a bit to stop hurting so much and then, feeling a bit better, picked up the pace again. Where was that damn 3 mile marker? Finally, it appeared and, passing it, I looked at my watch. For the first time in the race I actually hit my intended pace...8:30 on the button! Actually faster than mile 2! Just a tenth of a mile to go. My goal pace would've brought me in at 26:21. The clock wasn't even at 26. I tried picking it up and finishing before the minute hand had a chance to tick up. I couldn't. 26:02.
Later I found that I'd won my age group as, sure enough, the young lady who'd beaten me at the end had not changed sexes or grown older. Doesn't matter. My age group, at least in this race, was pokey. More telling, I finished exactly in the middle of the 124 men and 80 of the 253 finishers. That wasn't bad.
In fact this was by far the slowest 5k I've ever run. I've never run any race below a half marathon distance at a slower pace. And yet my last mile and a half here was SO hard fought, so in the competitive, athletic spirit, that I feel really good about it.
And I guaranty, with consistent training, that young lady will not be going by me on mile 3!
It was my first race in 9 months. A physical issue had played havoc with my life since September, depressing, difficult, uncomfortable...and really screwed up my running! Now I'd only been back at it for 6 weeks...no speed work, nothing long, nothing too hard. Was I ready to race? Not really. But it was exciting to be there to try!
So I searched for the right spot to line up, knowing that I intended to run (if I was up to it) at an 8:30 per mile pace. I walked beyond the front row right at the starting mark, and a bunch more rows beyond that. Finally I came to a group of racers all wearing head phones and heavy looking t shirts. A few others were wearing costumes. "I'm not going behind these people," I thought. "I'm out of training but at least I look like a runner!" I settled in in front of them. And waited.
Soon the horn sounded and we were off, running south along the Queens side of the island. I found a comfortable pace that felt sustainable and stuck with it even as hordes (it seemed) of people passed me, including some with the heavy looking t shirts. None of the costumed characters did, though, so I didn't feel embarrassed into speeding up. About a third of a mile in to the 3.1 mile race and we turned right, then, quickly, right again. Now we were running uptown along the Manhattan edge.
Only a few racers were passing me by and they all looked young and athletic and must have arrived late and started near the back of the pack. I wasn't bothered by them. I felt fairly comfortable and was looking for the 1 mile marker. Soon it was there and I looked at my watch...7:56! A minute faster than ANYTHING I'd run in training and way faster than my intended pace. Too fast. Unsustainable. I came upon a sharply descending ramp and flew down it. Wow! Speedy. "Maybe I could keep this up," I thought. "Maybe I could run this pace for just 2 more miles...." Fortunately reality intruded. NO WAY. If I tried I'd throw myself into oxygen deprivation and have a miserable time before the end. Would probably hurt so much I'd end up walking, an absolute disgrace in the shortest of all middle distance races. How would that sound on facebook?
I slowed down. Good thing I did. As I passed the water station just beyond the race's half way point I felt myself involuntarily slow further. I was pooped! Suddenly I began thinking that maybe this was all too much for me, that I'd never be able to sustain even this reduced pace and that I'd squander my first, fast mile. "Where is that damn second mile marker," I thought, even as I knew the answer as I'd run this course before. It's at the spot where we cross back to the Queens side of Roosevelt Island and head south to the finish. I came to it and fearfully looked at my watch. With all the slowing I'd done the time could be bad. It wasn't...8:36.
Two miles down and still ahead of my goal pace. But slowing by 40 seconds from mile 1 to mile 2 was not good. If that happened on mile 3 it would ruin everything. I needed to at least maintain the speed I was running at. But now I was exhausted and uncomfortable and the wind, which I'd never felt at my back, was now in my face. I thought of walking. REALLY terrible to do that so close to the finish. So instead I played a game. Run to the next landmark and then we'll see. Then go on to the next landmark. And so I kept pace to the next bench, to the next tree, to the place where the sun stopped and the shade began, to where, the shade ended and the sun resumed. I was lost in my game, barely noticing that no one was passing me, till, suddenly, I felt someone on my left.
I knew I couldn't hold him off so I just hoped that he wasn't in my age group. And, as he passed, I knew that he wasn't. Because he wasn't a he. He was a she A young she. And even my addled, oxygen deprived brain knew that a young she won't be in the men's 60 to 64 grouping.
No one else passed me, but I did slow down a bit to stop hurting so much and then, feeling a bit better, picked up the pace again. Where was that damn 3 mile marker? Finally, it appeared and, passing it, I looked at my watch. For the first time in the race I actually hit my intended pace...8:30 on the button! Actually faster than mile 2! Just a tenth of a mile to go. My goal pace would've brought me in at 26:21. The clock wasn't even at 26. I tried picking it up and finishing before the minute hand had a chance to tick up. I couldn't. 26:02.
Later I found that I'd won my age group as, sure enough, the young lady who'd beaten me at the end had not changed sexes or grown older. Doesn't matter. My age group, at least in this race, was pokey. More telling, I finished exactly in the middle of the 124 men and 80 of the 253 finishers. That wasn't bad.
In fact this was by far the slowest 5k I've ever run. I've never run any race below a half marathon distance at a slower pace. And yet my last mile and a half here was SO hard fought, so in the competitive, athletic spirit, that I feel really good about it.
And I guaranty, with consistent training, that young lady will not be going by me on mile 3!
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
IMPOSSIBLE
This morning I've taken the first steps in doing what seems impossible. Self cath. Hard to believe I can really learn it. Hard to believe I can really do it. But after taking the first step I have no choice but to try.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
TOO PAINFUL A MORNING
This morning I rode the R Train to our first softball practice. I won't be participating in it. Nor will I be playing next Sunday when the regular season and the defense of our 2012 championship title officially begins.
On my subway car, I saw several people in running gear. No doubt they were heading to Central Park for today's 10 kilometer race. I ran that contest several years ago and completed the 6.2 mile course at a pace just under 7 minutes per mile, the fastest I'd ever gone for that mid level distance. Even with no softball practice I wouldn't be running that race today.
This juxtaposition of things I really want to do but can't feels awful. A way too painful reminder of this awful thing I've been going through for months now. I can't pee.
Two weeks ago my urologist took his second crack at a surgery (called TURP) designed to remove excess prostate tissue that could be getting in the way. Just as he did after the first one back on Nov 1, he said it went well. At it's conclusion, a catheter is installed to allow the trauma done to the area to subside. Nine days later it was removed. At first things were okay. Then, at 1 AM, I awoke to find that I couldn't pee. Before things could become too painful I was back in the ER having a catheter put back in. Hate to rush to judgment but it sure seems to me that this surgery was a failure.
The prostate is not the problem, that seems clear enough. That leaves either a too weak bladder (though a test a few weeks ago said that it was plenty strong enough) or an overly tight sphincter muscle, perhaps one that is prone, for some reason, to spasm.
I spoke with my urologist last Tuesday. He has since spoken to another. I myself, on Friday, met with a third. They all say that there are ways of dealing with either a weak bladder or a tight sphincter. Some I'm more comfortable trying than others. One scares the shit out of me. And the thought of another possible trip to the ER...just how much more of that can I take?
But this morning on the R Train...amidst road runners and heading to softball players? Too painful.
On my subway car, I saw several people in running gear. No doubt they were heading to Central Park for today's 10 kilometer race. I ran that contest several years ago and completed the 6.2 mile course at a pace just under 7 minutes per mile, the fastest I'd ever gone for that mid level distance. Even with no softball practice I wouldn't be running that race today.
This juxtaposition of things I really want to do but can't feels awful. A way too painful reminder of this awful thing I've been going through for months now. I can't pee.
Two weeks ago my urologist took his second crack at a surgery (called TURP) designed to remove excess prostate tissue that could be getting in the way. Just as he did after the first one back on Nov 1, he said it went well. At it's conclusion, a catheter is installed to allow the trauma done to the area to subside. Nine days later it was removed. At first things were okay. Then, at 1 AM, I awoke to find that I couldn't pee. Before things could become too painful I was back in the ER having a catheter put back in. Hate to rush to judgment but it sure seems to me that this surgery was a failure.
The prostate is not the problem, that seems clear enough. That leaves either a too weak bladder (though a test a few weeks ago said that it was plenty strong enough) or an overly tight sphincter muscle, perhaps one that is prone, for some reason, to spasm.
I spoke with my urologist last Tuesday. He has since spoken to another. I myself, on Friday, met with a third. They all say that there are ways of dealing with either a weak bladder or a tight sphincter. Some I'm more comfortable trying than others. One scares the shit out of me. And the thought of another possible trip to the ER...just how much more of that can I take?
But this morning on the R Train...amidst road runners and heading to softball players? Too painful.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
TODD
The death last week of my brother in law Todd stings. In the 30 years we knew each other he was a large, kind, provocative, fascinating, enfuriating, influential presence.
Todd thought I needed his help with finances. Money was more important to him than it was to me...he loved the "finer" things and I just wanted the proper sports equipment. He figured I should be doing more with my savings then just saving it. He got me to buy my first shares of stock.
Haber was a new technology company and Todd got me to invest. The company had developed a process to non toxically separate precious metal like gold from the ore that it was found in. It was fun to be an investor. The company did good things and the value of its stock kept going up. As I had no need for the money I just slowly increased my number of shares and watched the price continue to rise.
And then there came a time when I did need it. That was when, in the mid 1980s, I decided to leave my steady social work job and develop a private practice as a psychotherapist. As I earned $25 total in my first week of practice, I knew I'd need my savings and investments to help me.
Sadly it was at exactly this time that investors began to notice that Haber, despite all its new technology promise, wasn't actually extracting precious metal from the ore it came in. Nor, of course, was it making any money. It's price share went down, stabilized, then plummeted.
I was in shock. Everything was disappearing just when I needed it. I met with Todd, who was a stock broker, to decide what to do. He owned far more shares of Haber than I did. He said he couldn't bear the idea of selling after such a downturn. "I'd rather watch it go down to zero," I recall him saying, "and go out in a blaze of glory then give up on something that has so much promise."
I, however, had no desire to go out in a blaze of glory, or, more accurately, to lose all of the investment. I needed this money now. "SELL," I should have said. In fact I said nothing and Todd left.
Over the next few days the stock continued to lose its value and I continued to watch in muted shock. Until the day I received a note from Todd's office. The day after we spoke he'd sold all my Haber shares! I actually made a relatively small profit overall. More importantly I had enough now to allow me to develop my therapy practise.
Pretty nice of Todd to come to his senses and realize what I needed. And pretty dramatic of him to do it without letting me know!
One day around this time Todd had a massive heart attack. I visited him one night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital where he was recovering. It was just the two of us. Todd looked back at his life and said "I've always run at the head of the pack. The best of everything." By that he meant the finest of steak, the best cigars, a whole host of things that, I thought at the time, might well have contributed to his heart attack and drastically changed his life. But he was unremorseful, unappologetic and, seemingly, accepting, of the bargain he'd negotiated for himself.
I was dismayed. We'd always had different views on exercise, working out, healthy eating, healthy life style. I was hoping that he'd now develop a different attitude and commit himself to changes that could help to really make him better. But I also marvelled at his no regrets attitude. He wasn't beating himself up over past choices that couldn't be changed, something I'm not so good at doing. Maybe that was his way of not getting depressed and being able to go on with optimism.
Over the years, Todd and I often argued. I think he liked to make a point in a provocative way and see what reaction it would stir. Many times it stirred a sense of challenge, fun and interest in me. Sometimes, however, he would just make me angry.
Though much of our political views were usually not that different, Todd was a huge supporter and defender of the free enterprise system. Sometimes that put us at odds like the time, in our last huge fight about a year or so ago, I reacted to the latest banker scandal by saying "all those bankers should be thrown in jail."
My brother in law did not think that a very smart comment and called me "a fucking idiot."
Todd thought it would be interesting to explain to me why I was mistaken. I decided to focus more on the "idiot" part of his reaction and explain why I couldn't just let that one go and move on to the merits. Voices, okay, my voice, escalated from there.
So there it is. Todd evoked a lot of passion. It was NEVER boring to be around him. I wish we had another 30 years.
Todd thought I needed his help with finances. Money was more important to him than it was to me...he loved the "finer" things and I just wanted the proper sports equipment. He figured I should be doing more with my savings then just saving it. He got me to buy my first shares of stock.
Haber was a new technology company and Todd got me to invest. The company had developed a process to non toxically separate precious metal like gold from the ore that it was found in. It was fun to be an investor. The company did good things and the value of its stock kept going up. As I had no need for the money I just slowly increased my number of shares and watched the price continue to rise.
And then there came a time when I did need it. That was when, in the mid 1980s, I decided to leave my steady social work job and develop a private practice as a psychotherapist. As I earned $25 total in my first week of practice, I knew I'd need my savings and investments to help me.
Sadly it was at exactly this time that investors began to notice that Haber, despite all its new technology promise, wasn't actually extracting precious metal from the ore it came in. Nor, of course, was it making any money. It's price share went down, stabilized, then plummeted.
I was in shock. Everything was disappearing just when I needed it. I met with Todd, who was a stock broker, to decide what to do. He owned far more shares of Haber than I did. He said he couldn't bear the idea of selling after such a downturn. "I'd rather watch it go down to zero," I recall him saying, "and go out in a blaze of glory then give up on something that has so much promise."
I, however, had no desire to go out in a blaze of glory, or, more accurately, to lose all of the investment. I needed this money now. "SELL," I should have said. In fact I said nothing and Todd left.
Over the next few days the stock continued to lose its value and I continued to watch in muted shock. Until the day I received a note from Todd's office. The day after we spoke he'd sold all my Haber shares! I actually made a relatively small profit overall. More importantly I had enough now to allow me to develop my therapy practise.
Pretty nice of Todd to come to his senses and realize what I needed. And pretty dramatic of him to do it without letting me know!
One day around this time Todd had a massive heart attack. I visited him one night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital where he was recovering. It was just the two of us. Todd looked back at his life and said "I've always run at the head of the pack. The best of everything." By that he meant the finest of steak, the best cigars, a whole host of things that, I thought at the time, might well have contributed to his heart attack and drastically changed his life. But he was unremorseful, unappologetic and, seemingly, accepting, of the bargain he'd negotiated for himself.
I was dismayed. We'd always had different views on exercise, working out, healthy eating, healthy life style. I was hoping that he'd now develop a different attitude and commit himself to changes that could help to really make him better. But I also marvelled at his no regrets attitude. He wasn't beating himself up over past choices that couldn't be changed, something I'm not so good at doing. Maybe that was his way of not getting depressed and being able to go on with optimism.
Over the years, Todd and I often argued. I think he liked to make a point in a provocative way and see what reaction it would stir. Many times it stirred a sense of challenge, fun and interest in me. Sometimes, however, he would just make me angry.
Though much of our political views were usually not that different, Todd was a huge supporter and defender of the free enterprise system. Sometimes that put us at odds like the time, in our last huge fight about a year or so ago, I reacted to the latest banker scandal by saying "all those bankers should be thrown in jail."
My brother in law did not think that a very smart comment and called me "a fucking idiot."
Todd thought it would be interesting to explain to me why I was mistaken. I decided to focus more on the "idiot" part of his reaction and explain why I couldn't just let that one go and move on to the merits. Voices, okay, my voice, escalated from there.
So there it is. Todd evoked a lot of passion. It was NEVER boring to be around him. I wish we had another 30 years.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
IT'S ALL UPHILL
I felt pretty upset yesterday morning when my doctor's office said that the TURP procedure to relieve my miserable BPH symptoms was not scheduled until November 1. Almost 3 weeks! Three more weeks of walking around with, being annoyed by, this Lousy Device I've got to wear so that urine won't stay inside my body, screw up my bladder and kidneys and make life incredibly uncomfortable.
The worst part is that I can't do anything the least bit physical. No running, of course, but also no weight lifting, no aerobic machines, no swimming, no push ups, no...well, you get the idea. And these are among the things that I love, the things that make me feel so good, so strong, so in shape, so, well, so not my age!
In fact, at my lowest, this makes me feel kind of old and decrepit. Cautious, careful and like my life is now spent walking up hill.
Oddly, however, aside from these limitations, it's not been as physically uncomfortable as seemed possible. I'm walking okay, going up and down subway stairs okay, carrying what I need to carry and getting on with my life as usual. Just not the working out stuff that I crave.
Life is all up hill, stairs have been okay and I can't run or work out. How can this all be put together?
I've decided to walk my building's staircase. Six stories. Slowly. Using the handrail. But to the top I'm going to go, then down on the elevator an back up again. A bunch of times. Just now, 3 trips. 18 floors of up stairs walking. Nicely parallels my life.
So far, no apparent ill affects. I'm going to try it again later. 4 trips. If I've got to wait till November 1, I won't wait laying down. If I can help it.
The worst part is that I can't do anything the least bit physical. No running, of course, but also no weight lifting, no aerobic machines, no swimming, no push ups, no...well, you get the idea. And these are among the things that I love, the things that make me feel so good, so strong, so in shape, so, well, so not my age!
In fact, at my lowest, this makes me feel kind of old and decrepit. Cautious, careful and like my life is now spent walking up hill.
Oddly, however, aside from these limitations, it's not been as physically uncomfortable as seemed possible. I'm walking okay, going up and down subway stairs okay, carrying what I need to carry and getting on with my life as usual. Just not the working out stuff that I crave.
Life is all up hill, stairs have been okay and I can't run or work out. How can this all be put together?
I've decided to walk my building's staircase. Six stories. Slowly. Using the handrail. But to the top I'm going to go, then down on the elevator an back up again. A bunch of times. Just now, 3 trips. 18 floors of up stairs walking. Nicely parallels my life.
So far, no apparent ill affects. I'm going to try it again later. 4 trips. If I've got to wait till November 1, I won't wait laying down. If I can help it.
Friday, October 5, 2012
BAD PARTS OF AGING
There are lots of good, quite young, parts of me. My hair, for example. It's really dark. No grey at all. True, I pluck out the occasional old looking strand, but I don't think that counts. Pretty good hair. And my lungs. Youthful, too. Efficiently takes in so much oxygen with each gulp that a test says it's like a 29 year old's. So I can run around and race around and sprint around with a lot of folks who claim to be much younger. My knees, my quads, pretty much the same thing.
But not my prostate. Oh, it functions alright, as far as I know. But it acts in a really old manner. Like in many men as we age it keeps getting bigger. Big enough to hug my urethra and impinge on the urine flow from the bladder. And sometimes to totally stop it. BAD crisis of aging!
That happened for the first time 5 months ago so I began to take medication. That made it okay till last Monday. Then, sitting in my office, listening to a patient, wondering if it could be really happening again, my hand, holding the pad I use to take notes, began to shake violently. This can't be! But it was. No more pee and the awful growing discomfort that comes with it. As quick as I could, I raced uptown to my urologist.
"Have a seat," said the receptionist, but I couldn't sit down. Fortunately my doctor had me into his office quickly and hooked me up with the dreaded catheter. Immediate relief! When I handed over the $50 copay a bit later he joked: "I wonder how much this would've been worth to you before I fixed you up!"
The plan was to leave the catheter in place till the following Wednesday....9 days...to allow things to cool down and regain function. Then we'd decide what to do next.
Nine days! Nine days of no running, no athletics, no working out. Nine days of walking around EVER so gingerly. Nine days of difficulty sleeping, general discomfort and more than a bit of depression. Yes, these are some of the bad things about aging.
Still, there's another, more important bad thing....
I couldn't see how 9 days could pass, but, of course, they did. One of the things that sustained me through this time was my love of the election and excitement about how well Obama was doing. I plunged into reading the analysis, the polls, the predicitions. I became a BIG fan of the wonderful 538 Blog. And I grew confident that Obama was on the verge of victory.
As important as I think that is for the nation, it paled, of course, to its personal meaning: It cheered me up.
All this, of course, made me keenly aware of the import of the upcoming Presidential Debate. And that was scheduled for Wednesday evening, just hours after my doctor's appointment. Great big day!
The day finally arrived and the doctor removed the catheter. I could pee! Okay, good start. Then he outlined my options. We could add a second medication to the one I was currently taking. It would shrink the prostate, but not for many weeks. It also had some pretty awful potential side effects and it's been linked to agressive prostate cancer though my doctor didn't believe that was necessarily true. The second alternative was a surgical procedure called TURP that would use a laser to evaporate the places where the prostate had become too close to the urethra.
My doctor said he didn't have an opinion on which option was best. I had no medical issue to make it critical to choose the agressive surgical solution. I faced merely quality of life issues...putting up with possible side effects of the medication or the occassional time when I might again require the Dreaded Catheter.
Me? I had to decide? Based on what fountain of knowledge that I posess was I to decide? I didn't want any of those options. I wanted my prostate to be young and small again. At worst I wanted to remain on the single medication and maybe drink less water and hope for the best much harder. I didn't want a new medication with scary side effects. I certainly didn't want surgery and the recovery it entails.
And this, my friends, is pretty much the worst part of aging. Sometimes just you has got to decide when all you want is for some all knowing authority to tell you the right thing, the happy ever after thing, to do.
"The surgery," I said, then instantly regretted it. Maybe I didn't need something so irrevocable. Maybe the new medication wouldn't treat me unkindly. Maybe I should continue as is and wait and see. "The surgery," I concluded.
I went to my office and, later, home, to watch the debate. All was flowing well. I was not drinking very much. Maybe that WAS the key! The urologist had once told me that could be important. Maybe I should hold off on this procedure after all.
The debate came on and it was awful. I hoped I was wrong but, when MSNBC commentator's Rachel Madow's first post debate words were "I don't know who won," I knew who had won. Comments by others, including David Gergen who I really respect, and a CNN Snap Poll all supported the original diagnosis. It was a miserable night.
But at least I could pee.
Until a few hours later when I awoke to find that I couldn't. By 2:30 AM I got to the Emergency Room at Roosevelt Hospital. They took good, quick care of me. Again, as the Dreaded Device went on, great relief! They had me lay there for awhile to make sure nothing else was wrong which there wasn't.
One thing I knew for sure. I'd made the right choice regarding the TURP decision. It will, by the way, happen in the next 2 to 3 weeks. Nice to feel certain. Tough way to achieve that certainty.
Another bad part of aging.
But not my prostate. Oh, it functions alright, as far as I know. But it acts in a really old manner. Like in many men as we age it keeps getting bigger. Big enough to hug my urethra and impinge on the urine flow from the bladder. And sometimes to totally stop it. BAD crisis of aging!
That happened for the first time 5 months ago so I began to take medication. That made it okay till last Monday. Then, sitting in my office, listening to a patient, wondering if it could be really happening again, my hand, holding the pad I use to take notes, began to shake violently. This can't be! But it was. No more pee and the awful growing discomfort that comes with it. As quick as I could, I raced uptown to my urologist.
"Have a seat," said the receptionist, but I couldn't sit down. Fortunately my doctor had me into his office quickly and hooked me up with the dreaded catheter. Immediate relief! When I handed over the $50 copay a bit later he joked: "I wonder how much this would've been worth to you before I fixed you up!"
The plan was to leave the catheter in place till the following Wednesday....9 days...to allow things to cool down and regain function. Then we'd decide what to do next.
Nine days! Nine days of no running, no athletics, no working out. Nine days of walking around EVER so gingerly. Nine days of difficulty sleeping, general discomfort and more than a bit of depression. Yes, these are some of the bad things about aging.
Still, there's another, more important bad thing....
I couldn't see how 9 days could pass, but, of course, they did. One of the things that sustained me through this time was my love of the election and excitement about how well Obama was doing. I plunged into reading the analysis, the polls, the predicitions. I became a BIG fan of the wonderful 538 Blog. And I grew confident that Obama was on the verge of victory.
As important as I think that is for the nation, it paled, of course, to its personal meaning: It cheered me up.
All this, of course, made me keenly aware of the import of the upcoming Presidential Debate. And that was scheduled for Wednesday evening, just hours after my doctor's appointment. Great big day!
The day finally arrived and the doctor removed the catheter. I could pee! Okay, good start. Then he outlined my options. We could add a second medication to the one I was currently taking. It would shrink the prostate, but not for many weeks. It also had some pretty awful potential side effects and it's been linked to agressive prostate cancer though my doctor didn't believe that was necessarily true. The second alternative was a surgical procedure called TURP that would use a laser to evaporate the places where the prostate had become too close to the urethra.
My doctor said he didn't have an opinion on which option was best. I had no medical issue to make it critical to choose the agressive surgical solution. I faced merely quality of life issues...putting up with possible side effects of the medication or the occassional time when I might again require the Dreaded Catheter.
Me? I had to decide? Based on what fountain of knowledge that I posess was I to decide? I didn't want any of those options. I wanted my prostate to be young and small again. At worst I wanted to remain on the single medication and maybe drink less water and hope for the best much harder. I didn't want a new medication with scary side effects. I certainly didn't want surgery and the recovery it entails.
And this, my friends, is pretty much the worst part of aging. Sometimes just you has got to decide when all you want is for some all knowing authority to tell you the right thing, the happy ever after thing, to do.
"The surgery," I said, then instantly regretted it. Maybe I didn't need something so irrevocable. Maybe the new medication wouldn't treat me unkindly. Maybe I should continue as is and wait and see. "The surgery," I concluded.
I went to my office and, later, home, to watch the debate. All was flowing well. I was not drinking very much. Maybe that WAS the key! The urologist had once told me that could be important. Maybe I should hold off on this procedure after all.
The debate came on and it was awful. I hoped I was wrong but, when MSNBC commentator's Rachel Madow's first post debate words were "I don't know who won," I knew who had won. Comments by others, including David Gergen who I really respect, and a CNN Snap Poll all supported the original diagnosis. It was a miserable night.
But at least I could pee.
Until a few hours later when I awoke to find that I couldn't. By 2:30 AM I got to the Emergency Room at Roosevelt Hospital. They took good, quick care of me. Again, as the Dreaded Device went on, great relief! They had me lay there for awhile to make sure nothing else was wrong which there wasn't.
One thing I knew for sure. I'd made the right choice regarding the TURP decision. It will, by the way, happen in the next 2 to 3 weeks. Nice to feel certain. Tough way to achieve that certainty.
Another bad part of aging.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)