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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

    

THE LADY WITH THE SCARY ARMS

     The boys outside the house on  Sumac Street seemed just a little out of control. One rode a bike, darting in between parked cars and dangerously close to the strollers on the block. The smaller one kept pointing his gun...obviously a toy one...at those same strollers. No one really seemed to notice but me.

     I walked towards the house and the boy on the bike asked what I was doing. "Talking to people about President Obama," I answered. "You know, the election. Are you going to vote for him?"

     "I'm not old enough," he said. "But my mom is. Come in the house and talk to her." He rushed ahead of me and opened the screen door and went inside, motioning for me to follow. I came to the door and figured I really ought to wait there for his mom. The people of Philadelphia had been plenty friendly to me, but maybe not so friendly that I could enter a home without an adult's invitation. The smaller boy came over and  pointed his gun at me. "Are you going to shoot me?" He laughed, changed his aim, pulled the trigger and shot a plastic ball through the open door.

     Their mom picked up the ball, tossed it outside and came to the door. She looked a little out of sorts, a little disheveled,  like her son had just awakened her. She also had tatoos running up and down both arms and across the top part of her chest. I got a bad feeling. I didn't think my usual charm would go over well with her. I was not expecting this to be a very good discussion. I anticipated that this would be a brief one. I had the thought that, like her oldest, she was probably a biker.

     I figured I'd be taking one for the team. But at least I'd be able to mark her off the list of the 120 doors I was supposed to knock on.

     I introduced myself and asked if she had a couple of minutes to chat about the Presidential election. I didn't think that she'd be particularly interested. I was wrong. She was an Obama supporter. I asked what issues particularly interested her. "Obamacare and education," she replied. "I'm raising 2 special needs boys."

     Oh. She talked. Her oldest had a mild form of autism. Her youngest had been born with congenital heart defects that had required several surgeries. He also had a learning disability. Medical bills had put her family $30,000 in debt. She was working in a bar at night and in a nursing home by day to pay the pills and start cutting into what she owed. She couldn't get health insurance but expected she'd be able to under Obamacare. "He needs to get reelected so I'll have it."

     She railed at the local Republicans who, she said, were hurting the school system and making it more difficult for her son with the learning disability. "The Mayor of Philladelphia is a Republican," I asked, demonstrating my ignorance. She looked crossly at me. "The governor. Too much funding for charter schools." Oh.

     The day was getting warmer and I was starting to sweat as I had uncharacteristically worn long pants on a Saturday to avoid looking too casual. She brought me a glass of water as she detailed the various programs she was using in kind of a scatter shot effort to take care of her kids' manyl needs and pay her bills.

     It was the best talk of the day. I knew pretty early in it that I'd badly misjudged her. My misperception was based, frankly, on her appearance, the behavior of her kids and her tatooes which, I must admit, kind of scared me. I felt silly. But I took some solace in knowing that sometimes I'm an idiot and this won't be the last time.

     I also thought that this woman fits all of Romney's stereotypes as well. There's a good chance she pays no federal income taxes. She takes advantage of every government program that can help her. She unabashedly wants more and will  use all of Obamacare once it's fully implemented, after we get him reelected.

     To think for a second, however, that this is a person who doesn't take responsibility, who doesn't try as hard as she can, who has a victim mentality is GROSS. A gross distortion. A complete charicature. It shows what an idiot Romney can be. Unlike me, however, he seems blissfully unaware of it.

     How we see this woman, how we regard her, how we help her, and, indeed, how we get to know her...beyond the irrelevancies of the tattoos on her arms and what she doesn't pay in federal income tax, is what, I think, discribes the differences between these 2 campaigns and why I keep walking down the streets of Philladelphia.

    

    

    

THE DAY I ELECTED RICHARD NIXON

     I didn't mean to do it. Voting for Richard Nixon, I mean. Three times. All in the same election. But I did.

     Similarly, I never expected to be living in Kentucky. Northern Kentucky, right across the Ohio River from Cincinnatti. But I was.

     All of this happened because I hated the Vietnam War.

     It was 1971 and times were exciting. The Mets, the Jets, the Knicks, my teams, were all recent champions. I was a new college graduate, just passed my 21 birthday. And I was having a fight with my draft board.

     They kept trying to draft me. And I kept telling them that I was a Consciencious Objector who refused to serve in the armed forces and would certainly never go to Vietnam. They didn't believe me and I demanded a hearing. There they asked me questions, laughed at my answers and probably concluded that it wasn't worth the effort. They granted me CO status and ordered me to do civilian work in the national interest.

     So I joined VISTA...Volunteers In Service To America, a federal program that was the domestic equivalent of the Peace Corps. And that's what brought me to my 2 room apartment on Boone Street, Newport, Kentucky. There I set up a (surprise!) basketball league and a recreation program for kids in public housing. And a program to help people train for their high school equivalency diploma.

     And in my spare time I joined the McGovern for President campaign. Shh, don't tell anybody. I wasn't supposed to.

     I loved Senator McGovern. Unlike his oppenents, the soft spoken Senator Muskie, the compromised former Vice President Humphry or the hawkish Senator Jackson, McGovern's opposition to the horrible Vietnam War was deep and passionate. Like mine. Much to my surprise he did well in the primaries and I joined his campaign.

     The first thing we did was voter registration. To my surprise we registered far more democrats than republicans. After he won the nomination we started to canvass and found a good bit of McGovern support. I was made leader in 5 districts which we thought would go our way. Things looked good!

     Then things turned bad. The Democratic convention was so crazy that McGovern didn't give his acceptance speech till 2 in the morning...long after even I had fallen asleep. His VP pick had to resign after word leaked that he'd received electrical shock therapy for depression. Neither Senator Kennedy or several other big name Democrats would accept McGovern's pleas for them to become his new running mate, leaving my guy hanging and looking silly. He also felt he had to withdraw his signature domestic proposal...a negative income tax...because almost no one could understand it. I recall a part of that speech: "A leader who won't change isn't a leader, he's a disaster."

     Sadly the campaign had become a disaster. No Democratic leader or candidate in Kentucky would say McGovern's name. At a fundraiser for our Senatorial candidate, the nominee ended his remarks by saying: "Let's support our ticket from the top to the bottom." "Top of the Ticket." That was as close as they'd come to naming the man at the top of our ticket.

     Still I worked with all my heart. And we did well. The only disaster WE had was when I called a potential voter named Alex Pigg. I couldn't help it. I asked to speak to Mr. Pigg and couldn't stop laughing! On the plus side I hadn't yet identified myself as a rep from the McGovern campaign.

     Talk at campaign headquarters focused on Harry Truman. He had completely fooled the polls so who's to say we couldn't too. If that was our best shot I was not encouraged.

     On Election Day I still held on to hope but knew it would take a near miracle. I walked out onto Boone Street very early that morning; I was the Democratic Challenger at one of the polling places as we were on guard against Republican shenanigans. I noticed a light rain fell. RAIN? I became excited. Maybe it was raining all over the country! Maybe the rain would get very hard! And maybe only the most commited of voters...McGovern supporters, of course...would come out! We could win a low turnout election! Oh my gosh!

     I got to the poll on, I think, Monmouth Street. The rain had stopped.

     There were no Republican shenanigans at the poll. Perhaps I'd scared them off. Still I had work to do. A person came in not knowing how to vote. The election officials there sent me into the booth to help him.

     Now I imagine you realize that they shouldn't have done that. You don't send a representative from 1 political party into a voting booth to help an uncertain voter. But that is what they did. So in I went. And asked who he wanted to vote for. To my horror he said: "Nixon." I moved my finger towards the clip next to Nixon's name. I paused. My finger began shaking. I lowered my hand and now my finger was next to the name McGovern. The shaking became a lot worse as I contemplated going against the voter's instructions. I couldn't get myself to do it. But how could I cast a vote for Nixon? I don't know. But I did. His vote (the idiot!) went the way he intended.

     It happened two more times that day. Two voters who needed help. Help to vote for Nixon. Each time it was easier to cast the asked for ballot.

     At the end of the day, the voting officials had me view the actual vote count. This was important because this was one of our Priority districts. We needed a big win here. And we did win...by 3 votes. My heart fell. A 3 vote win in our priority district where we had focused so much effort. I knew that we had lost.

     A while later, at campaign headquarters, I watched on TV as the news anchor announced the first state projected for Nixon...Kentucky, of course. And based in part on my 3 votes!

     I've just got to do better for Obama!