Lyme Disease

Nearly five years ago I began to feel sick. Nothing specific, a general feeling of grave illness. I actually felt the presence of Death, my death. I was shaking with chills and sweating so profusely that streams of perspiration would drip down my spine as I stood in front of a class of SAT students in the summer of 2005. I began losing weight. I started wearing clothes I'd never been able to get into. My face was becoming angular. I could see my jaw and cheek bones. This was not all bad. Getting thin in our society is the right move. Thin is good; heavy is bad. Or so the commercials would have us believe.
I made plans. I decided to cut back on my teaching load and eventually retire early so that I might enjoy whatever time I had left. Cancer runs deep in my family and I have no illusions about escaping that sentence. When my weight loss became dangerous and my libido died my wife decided it was time to fight back. I'd been to my doctor a few times, but he missed the diagnosis by a mile. I never thought much of him or his skills so I neglected to mention that months ago I'd had a rash on my ankle--a nasty, irregular-shaped, blood-colored ovoid. Friends became concerned about my health and forced me to find a good doctor. You know how that goes--the really skilled practitioners are jammed with patients and their practices are closed. You can't get in. By a stroke of luck I had taught the son of one of Woodstock's most skilled doctors and was able to whine and plead my way in. At our first meeting my new doctor said, "Do you want to know what you have?". I was stunned. He said we'd need blood tests to confirm, but he was certain I had Lyme Disease. He was right. And the damage was already done.
Let me tell you about Lyme Disease. I know two people who have chronic Lyme similar to my case. One is a young woman with a husband and two young children. Her Lyme has attacked her heart. She lives in constant panic that her heart will stop or explode. She's been to Day Kimball's emergency room so often they know her by name. The other sufferer is a man in his 40's with a wife and children. His Lyme has activated a latent Multiple Sclerosis condition that is life threatening. After talking to these people and reading about the disease I have learned that, in some cases, Lyme Disease acts like a catalyst in your system. It kick-starts any genetic weaknesses. In my case I learned, at age 57, that I have a birth defect--Spina Bifida Occulta. My spinal column is not completely formed and my vertebrae and disks are open and at risk. So the Lyme has attacked my spine and nerves. My vertebrae are beginning to rub on each other, causing bone-spurs and nerve damage. I have lost over 2" in height as my spine collapses into itself. The pain is related to my skeleton and nervous system--mostly joint pain and a constant burning pain in my lower back and legs. For other people the Lyme attacks are focused on hearts or other genetically weak areas.
Lyme disease is not well understood. The test is remarkably inaccurate. Our medical community doesn't have a well-defined plan of action against this virulent disease. I've begun reading web sites devoted to Lyme Disease. Try it sometime. Ordinary people like me post their stories and they are terrifying. They all have one theme in common: if you don't treat Lyme immediately and properly you are facing a life sentence of pain.
Let's talk about chronic pain. Pain makes you selfish, tired, anxious and depressed. Presently, I'm fighting a wave of panic, anxiety and depression. Every morning I get out of bed looking forward to another day of constant pain and a night of anxiety. In my case there is little hope. I have no disks left in my spine. If I do normal things--cutting wood, lifting equipment, changing tires--I am in greater pain the next day.
The true struggle for me now is to keep going.
There's a line from Cormac McCarthy's novel "The Road" that fits here: a man's son asks him what's the bravest thing you've ever done, daddy. The father looks into his son's eyes and says, "Getting out of bed this morning".
Lyme Disease. Learn about it. Please.

Dawn's Early Light

I wish I knew how it works. I was looking out my bedroom window, listening to our 4 dogs barking in the pen, letting me know it was time to bring them inside and feed them things--biscuits, puperoni, apples, tea, cheese, celery, cashews--when I was filled with a vivid memory from 38 years ago. Vivid. Maybe it was the fact that I had trouble sleeping last night and lay awake as the room filled with that eerie, blue/gray light of dawn. Maybe.

   38 years ago I was sleeping in a small room in the Bachelor Officers' Quarters on Camp Ames in South Korea. Ames is a tiny outpost in the mountains about 7 miles outside Taegu. Camp Ames contained nuclear weapons and I was the Security Operations Officer. 24 years old. 2nd Lieutenant. There must be some mistake, I kept thinking. You expect me to keep nuclear weapons safe from angry South Korean farmers who want to steal a nuke and throw it across No Man's Land into the North? Or maybe some serious terrorists who would love to nuke a city in Korea for their vision of the future? You've got the wrong guy, sir. Nope. I was it.

   So, 38 years ago the phone rings in my cubicle. It was still dark, so this couldn't possibly be good news. It wasn't. The voice on the other end--one of my MPs--told me that Sgt. Booze was headed toward the medical building and I should get over there fast. It didn't look good.

   It wasn't good. When I got to the operating room Sgt. Booze was laying on one of those stainless-steel trolleys where they put dead bodies. He was unconscious. His 'girlfriend' lay on another trolley nearby, but no one paid her much attention. She was a very small, thin Korean woman who planned to live with Booze for the entirety of his 13-month tour. Then, with any luck, she'd find another soldier to live with. If not, she's pick up soldiers nightly in one of the numerous bars of Chong Dong-Ni, our village. Chong Dong-Ni contained bars, restaurants, tailor shops and about 300 working girls. These girls had absolutely no social standing in Korean culture. They were dead as far as honest, hardworking Koreans were concerned. The fact that some of them had been sold to the mama-san by desperate parents didn't seem to matter much. They were invisible outside Chong Dong-Ni. But here she lay, alongside Booze, in the Dawn's Early Light. The doctor, a good friend of mine who looked and lived  like a character from MASH, was working furiously on Booze. He told me what had happened.

   Booze lived off-base with his girl in her hut. The huts were heated by small charcoal heaters in the center of the hut. The charcoal pieces looked like larger versions of the stuff we'd light in the incense burners at Catholic mass when I was an altar boy. I always got a kick out of loading the stove in some girl's hut and thinking back to the days of serving 7 o'clock mass in the gray morning light. Anyway, sometimes the heaters leaked. Most of them leaked. Carbon Monoxide. Deadly. If you were small and thin you'd probably sleep very close to the heater and inhale much more CO. Also, if you were small it would take much less gas to kill you.

   The doctor finally revived Booze and I stopped composing that letter in my head to his mom. "Dear Mrs. Booze: I regret telling you that your son died last night serving his country in a far away place. He was a fine soldier." I'd had to write one letter already from Camp Ames the night I arrived. One of my guards shot and killed himself while walking perimeter with his guard dog. The dog wouldn't let anyone get to his handler's body and I was afriad we'd have to shoot the dog too. 

   Booze's girl never made it. She was dead on arrival. I remember looking at her terribly small, thin body laying on the cold steel gurney in that cold, gray light. No one to claim her or care for her.

   Booze was one of my favorite soldiers in Korea. He saved my life one night, so I was doubly happy to be part of the welcoming-back-to-consciousness party that dawn 38 years ago. One night I was in a bar, waiting for a certain girl to arrive. There were 2 other soldiers in the place. Ugly, redneck boys. And they were bullying one of the girls. I don't like ignorant folks. I don't like bullies. So, I stepped in. Big mistake. Huge mistake. They turned on me like angry rattlesnakes. I fished my wallet out and showed them my ID like Van Helsing holding up a Cross to a threatening vampire. I'm an OFFICER!! Of course, the boys had noticed that I was in my civvies...and anybody could get an officer's ID. They had backed me into a corner and I was making my peace with God when the door opened and Sgt Booze--all 6'3" of him, muscled and black (did I mention that Brother Booze was a Black man?), in his MP outfit with .45 pistol and night stick--entered the joint. Booze was a martial artist as well as being a fitness fanatic. And tonight Sgt Booze decided that he would take off his pistol belt and night stick. Yes, Brother Booze thought, tonight I want to use my hands and feet on these good old boys who are threatening my officer. He kicked and punched the 2 redneck gents for about 45 seconds. Both ended up laying against opposite walls on the floor where they were arrested and cuffed and taken to the jail facilities on base.

   Booze turned to me and said, "Sir, I think you should return to base."

   Roger that, Brother Booze.

   So, there you have it. Dawn's Early Light 38 years ago in the mountain village of Chong Dong-Ni--me and Brother Booze.
And a nameless, faceless, lifeless Korean woman.

The Black Dog

Maybe it's the time of year.
We're in the twelfth month and one more year is about to enter the record books. I suppose it's natural to look back and evaluate your life. I'm OK with looking back and grading the past year, but I'm not OK with the Black Dog following me relentlessly. Just out of reach, but always there.
You know the Black Dog. Some people call it 'the Blues', others call it Depression. The Black Dog is real. And powerful.

Let's give this canine symbol a gender--female, for my lovely seven year old Black Lab, Sophie.

She's with me as I go to bed and when I wake. I know she's there, so I plan my days around her. Develop strategies for going to Cumberland Farms for gas, Mrs Bridges' Pantry for tea and lunch, 85 Main for drinks and dinner.
Being stalked by the Black Dog is exhausting. She keeps me on the defensive--which is depressing. The weather doesn't help much--gray, raw days with terrible light quality. What will happen when the snow storms batter our roads and driveways?? Good news is quickly overwhelmed by the mind-numbing, never-ending pat-pat of the Black Dog's paws just behind me. And bad news is like a fire-works show. Owww!!

There are strategies for dealing with the Black Dog:
1) Stay physically busy. Rake leaves. Cut fallen trees. Split wood. Be outside. Accomplish things.
2) Say kind things to your friends and family. The cheezier the better. If your children understand that you're trying desperately to chase that dog away they may join in the effort--and then you have a chance.
3) Be good to your spouse. (I'm sure that you're always good to your spouse...but, during these times of extreme touchiness, it can't hurt to be extra gentle and caring.)
4) Forgive your fellow humans as they trample over your hopes and dreams, take your parking spot, cause you to miss the traffic light, and take 10 minutes to complete their business ahead of you in the bank.

So, it's December. Another year is almost over and I don't know where the time went. My brother-in-law says it's because we didn't get a summer this year. I don't know. How can a person misplace 334 days? Another problem is that the Black Dog follows me into the new year. She disappears for a day or two at New Year's, but can be found, tail wagging, tongue out, panting at the kitchen door any day after January 5th. She disappears sometime around April. I think it's the sweet scent of rebirth, the warm/chill breeze carrying the smell of earth and decay, the sure knowledge that Spring has returned that causes the Black Dog to move on, to trot over the hill without even a momentary pause and turning of the head to say good-bye.
I suppose the Black Dog doesn't need to look back. I know she'll be back.
Where does she go in the meantime?????

Thanksgiving 2009

November 27, 2009, the day after Thanksgiving, is a gray, rainy, raw day. The kind of day best spent in bed reading and napping. But I am feeling nostalgic, thinking back to Thanksgivings of my past. The food, the families, the laughter and tears, all those faces hovering over heaping mounds of stuffing, potatoes and turkey slices. Too many of those faces are gone now and those that remain have gotten noticeably older. Maybe that's why I want to go back--to remember the faces and the laughter, the food and drink, the heat and chaos of the long-gone Thanksgiving feasts before another face disappears from the table.

For the second year in a row both of our children are far from home celebrating Thanksgiving in their own homes. Cary lives in Portland, Oregon and was planning an extended feast where friends would drop by all afternoon and evening to eat, drink and celebrate the joys of life and friendship. Tom lives in Madrid, Spain. He was busy on the email all day yesterday getting last-minute instructions on stuffing, cooking time, temperatures, etc. It sounded like a regal event--young American expatriates gathering in a flat to cary on the chaotic traditions of Thanksgiving. I miss my children. More so on family holidays. I think next year we'll make every effort to be together for Thanksgiving. That would be nice. Looking around the table at the faces of those I love most in this world.

This year we went out for Thanksgiving dinner. Much easier, much cleaner, far less work, and maybe cheaper. The restaurant was crowded which surprised me, but the service was fine and the menu was lovely. The trouble was it just didn't feel like Thanksgiving. I missed the incredible amount of work--the buying and preparing of the food, the cleaning of the house, the preparation of hors d'oeuvres, the setting of the table, the slicing and serving, and the endless cleanup. The controlled chaos of family feasts. Someone always has too much to drink; everyone has too much to eat; something is over- or under-cooked. But the joy of sitting around a table elbow-to-elbow with your loved ones is too precious to miss.

So, next year, Thanksgiving 2010, if the Fates allow, I want our house to be filled with the odor of Thanksgiving, the heat of the oven and overstuffed bodies, and the lovely faces of my wife, my two children and our friends. That would be very nice, indeed.

On Joy Road

Yesterday I took another walk with Robert Frost.

It was a beautiful, bright, breezy New England afternoon. The kind of weather that explains why anyone with an ounce of sense would put up with a month like last January with its weekly major snow storms--or this past July with its 12.4" of rain. The clouds were scudding across the sky--serious gray-bottomed clouds, not those fluffy cotton-balls. The leaves were popping; the birds were singing.

Frost and I decided to walk up Joy Road toward Sabe Spalding's farm so I could pick up my 1951 Ford tractor which the maestro had put in shape for another season of moving wood and plowing snow.  Joy Road is a scenic back road in Woodstock lined with ancient stone walls and ceilinged over with maple, oak and birch branches. Whenever I walk in these northern Connecticut woods Robert comes with me. I love his poetry. I recite his verse as I walk--seasonally appropriate verse: : "The Road Not Taken" in Fall and "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" in Winter. Sophie and Bowen have heard me say "And miles to go before I sleep" or "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood" so often I imagine them rolling their eyes...Oh, no! Not again...

When I walk these woods, Robert comes with me, and so do Sophie, Bowen, Nickie and Mack, our 4 dogs who replaced our 2 children when they flew off to Oregon and Spain. I recommend dogs. Maybe not 4, but certainly 2. Dogs are essential on a woods walk. They are guides into the natural world. Shamans. I watch the joy that flows from them as we hit the trail and cross the stream into the deep woods. Nickie kicks his back legs off to the right as he runs. The other 3 display their own joyous eccentricities as we move around the trails.

   So, Robert Frost and 4 dogs. Perfect. Frost wrote a short poem, "Dust of Snow", about a person having a bad day who goes into the woods looking for solace and is healed by Nature through the actions of a bird. I go into the woods for solace most days. And most days I find it. Not from a crow necessarily, but certainly from Robert, Sophie, Bowen, Nickie and Mack.

   There's a lot to be thankful for.

The Face Of Evil

At the time we met and shook hands, nervously standing around him like celebrity watchers, William Calley was about 25 years old. He was medium height--5'7" maybe--with close-cropped dirty blond hair. There was nothing about the man to cause you to notice him. Except the guards sitting with him at the downtown disco in Columbus, Georgia. They were noticeable. They were packing heat. As Infantry Officer Candidates we were trained to notice things like that--Colt .45's. Great stopping power. Low muzzle velocity, but knock-down power for sure. Calley had guards because he was under house-arrest at the time for a little action in some no-name ville in Vietnam. My Lai. If you're my age those 2 words--My Lai--conjure up worlds of sadness, grief and horror. They encapsulate the late 60's feel. The dirty underbelly of our foreign policy in Southeast Asia.
My Lai, a small village suspected of harboring VC fighters. Of providing aid and comfort to the enemy. Bill Calley's company had been taking daily losses in and around My Lai. Sniper fire. Booby-traps. Ambushes. Every day Calley's troops came under enemy fire and at a certain point they put their humanity down and strapped on the bloody mask of Terror. Hard to imagine from 8,000 miles away watching the war on TV. Hard to understand the heat and exhaustion from constant humping the bush, no sleep, night ambushes, bad food, terrible water, wet feet, wet everything, jungle rot, carrying 40 lbs of gear, digging defensive positions every night, 2 hours on/2 hours off. Blood on your fatigues from your buddy who was med-evac'd out yesterday with a serious chest wound from a sniper located somewhere over toward that village. Every day.
There were several layers of command that day flying in circles above Lt. Calley as he approached the village. Immediately above Calley was his CO, a captain. Above him was a major. I don't know where the chain of command stopped, but the order came down to 'kill everything that moves'. Try this on: you're 23, in command of maybe 30 ragged, armed boys who have just about had it with the war, the gooks, the filth and they're ready to collect the death-price for their fallen comrades. You're also exhausted and frustrated and scared. Kill Everything That Moves? Are you sure, sir? Try to imagine that moment. I know to a certainty that I would have followed those orders. I would have violated my moral code and walked around my conscience without a second thought. Lt William Calley did.
I think it was a chopper pilot--a Warrant Officer--or maybe a photo-journalist who came upon the aftermath while the smoke still hung in the air over the bodies of the 200+ women, children, and old folks--grandmas and grandpas. The young men, of course, not at home. They were in the jungle preparing the next ambush or booby trap. This witness took photos because he knew no one would believe the extent of the evil that had been done that day. Imagine an infant's body torn in half by automatic-weapons fire. Laying alongside its mother and grandmother, mixed in with the village livestock. Pigs and chickens. Dogs. Babies. Women. 218. 234. I don't remember the exact number. Kill Everything That Moves. Roger That. Wilco.

   So, one Saturday night in 1971 in Columbus, Georgia in a disco, we stood around Lt William Calley and shook his hand. We were with him. We knew he had been offered up as the fall guy. We knew we would have done the same thing and I think we were thanking him for doing it so we wouldn't have to. I think back to that night--that moment--when we came face-to-face with Evil. With a mass-murderer. A baby killer. And he looked just like me.

Deep-Fried Oreos

Last night Pam, Jim and I went to the Woodstock Fair ("Always Labor Day Weekend"). It was a beautiful evening/night for the opening of this year's fair. Tonight we'll return to see Herman's Hermits perform. Great fun.
The Woodstock Fair has something for everyone: For the youngest attendees just the sights, sounds, and smells are enough to jazz them up for a week.
As they get older there are the RIDES!!......
About 9 years ago Tom convinced me to get into a sardine can sized container made out of metal mesh with 2 seats--Tom and me...the sardine can went around and around, up, down, spinning, twirling, screaming, body pushed into shapes that caused black-out pain, bones cracking, everything in your pockets flying out--keys, change, wallet, special heart-shaped stone given me by Pam that I always carried--screaming threats at the operator and Tom ("If we get out of here, I'm going to kill you!!!").
As the attendees get older still there is the romance of the Midway!!......
The lights and shadows. The lovely young creatures in their best outfits and make-up. The handsome young males showing off their best t-shirts and Harley-Davidson chain wallets. Pursuing each other down the narrow, crowded alleys where you can shoot hoops, throw baseballs at bowling pins, sit in Giant Chairs, get Henna Tatoos, and meet the person of your dreams. Something for everyone, for sure.
At my age, there is the food. Nothing like it! Nothing. Anywhere.
Last night I started slow. Laid a conservative base of pork-chop sandwich with extra sour kraut. Perfect. We had just come from the Sheep Barn where we petted all sorts of lovely sheep and had no time to wash our hands. So Pork w/Sheep dressing, I guess. After the pork sandwich I moved aggressively to the DEEP-FRIED OREOS!! 6 Oreos in batter, deep-fried, placed lovingly in a white paper bag, dusted with about 1/4 lb of powdered sugar and shaken by the fry artist. $5.00. All done fresh while you wait, drooling. I kept checking my watch. Then you have to wait about 5 minutes for the glistening gems to cool. Otherwise you get a severe case of tongue and mouth burn. A lot like eating hot pizza at 2 am after 15 beers. Nothing quite like a deep-fried Oreo. The first taste is the powdered sugar coating, followed by the crunchy batter covering, leading you to the melted, gooey Oreo inside. 6 of them. I had to resist going back for another round.
Several years ago we found DEEP-FRIED TWINKIES...The Holy Grail of Fair Food. Disappeared after that year. But what a taste. You needed at least 2 twinkies to come to your senses and enjoy the taste. The whole experience was overwhelming. Sweet, too hot, crunchy, creamy, terribly unhealthy, absolutely wonderful.
I wonder what awaits us at The Fair as we grow older. Maybe the magnetic, pain-reliever jewelry vendors? The Chair Massage? It's a bittersweet event, The Woodstock Fair. But, the food! Nothing like it!! Anywhere!!!