(ALS) STANDS FOR, AMYOTROPHIC LATERAL SCLEROSIS

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Special events and holidays are overwhelmingly festive occasions...but there are exceptions. When my son Andrew was in second grade, I wanted to clarify why some holidays were more like observations or remembrances. So while his contemporaries (and many adults) were quick to wish a “happy” Memorial Day or a “happy” Veterans Day, I thought it was important for him to see the distinction. I said, “Yes, it’s great to have a barbeque on Memorial Day or get off from school on Veteran’s Day but these days are really reserved to acknowledge the ultimate sacrifice people risked, to keep our country free and to maintain our American way of life.”

Similarly, I want to clarify the deeper meaning of the trending, “ALS ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE,” fad.  First, I want congratulate the participants because through their use of a fun gimmick on social media, the word about ALS awareness is spreading. Their efforts have generated incredible amounts of money. These funds hopefully will support research to minimize this horrible disease and lead to a cure.

The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge is simple. Before turning an ice water bucket over their head, that person through Facebook, will challenge three friends to do the same, or make a contribution to ALS.

IF YOU CAN STAND THE THREAT OF MAJOR "SHRINKAGE" THE ALS ICE WATER CHALLENGE CAN BE BUCKETS O'FUN.

I have watched dozens of ice water videos, starring my family, friends and coworkers. Whoever generated this idea was a genius. I just wish more of the splashees took a step back from the personal entertainment aspect of this activity and demonstrated a better understanding of ALS.

Most importantly, ALS by itself is meaningless and by abbreviating the heinous name, the awful nature of the problem is trivialized. I feel that the seriousness of this devilish illness would be appreciated more if everyone knew, ALS stands for Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Simply stated, Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis is a neurodegenerative disease that is characterized by muscle spasms, rapid and progressive weakness due to muscle atrophy, difficulty speaking, swallowing and breathing. This disease is non-contagious but usually leads to a cruel, debilitating death.

Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis occurs in one out of 150,000 people. Most victims are between 40 and 60. It is believed that it is caused by a virus, exposure to neurotoxins or heavy metals, heredity, defective immune systems or enzyme abnormalities.

We should consider ourselves lucky if we don’t know anybody who is...or has suffered from this affliction. That’s why I commend my wife Sue for being the only person I heard on all the videos I watched, who put a face on this menace. She did it by including in her ice bucket message that her friend Grace lost a long, hard battle with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.

I’ve seen this disease upclose too. One of my favorite, regular customers (Alí) vanished from the casino for about a year. When he reappeared, he was being pushed in a wheelchair by an attendant. His once strong thirty-five year old body was twisted and shriveled. Ignorantly I asked, “Are you okay?” Through his foreign accent, he struggled to gasp, “I got Lou Gehrig’s Disease.” I was stunned. Far worse, I never saw my friend again.

(1959 PHOTO). ALI AND I FIRST STARTED CHATTING WHEN HE SAW CANARSIE ON MY NAMETAG. HE SAID HE LIVES IN MY OLD NEIGHBORHOOD, IN ONE OF THE APARTMENTS ABOVE THE CANARSIE THEATER.  OUR FRIENDSHIP BLOSSOMED WHEN I TOLD HIM MY PARENTS LIVED IN ONE OF THOSE UNITS TOO, BEFORE I WAS BORN.

Chances are, Alí had no idea who Lou Gehrig was or why he was connected to Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Lou Gehrig was one of the all-time greatest major league baseball players. His dazzling accomplishments on the field,(1923-1939), have made his name one the most recognized in all professional sports.

LOU GEHRIG WAS BORN IN 1903, WAS DIAGNOSED WITH AMYOTROPHIC LATERAL SCLEROSIS IN 1938 AND DIED FROM IT, AT AGE 37, IN 1941.

Lou Gehrig’s prowess as a power hitter and his seemingly limitless durability earned him the nickname, “The Iron Horse.” But it was the unfortunate coincidence that this Herculean, elite Hall-of-Famer, so noted for showing up at the office, (fourteen straight years, covering 2,130 consecutive games) could be disabled, crippled and soon there after killed by a condition that would eventually bear his name.

IT WAS BELIEVED THAT GEHRIG'S LONGEVITY STREAK WOULD NEVER BE BROKEN.  BUT WHEN CAL RIPKEN SURPASSED THE IRON HORSE WITH HIS 2131st CONSECUTIVE GAME ON SEPTEMBER 6, 1995, RIPKEN WAS FOREVER IMMORTALIZED IN BASEBALL HISTORY.

I saw a list of celebrities who died from Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. Some of the names I recognized were;


• Actor, Dennis Day (1916-1988)

• Chairman, Mao Zedong (1893-1976)

• Musician, Huddie “Lead-Belly” Ledbetter (1888-1949)

• Actor, David Niven (1910-1983)

• Politician, Jacob Javits (1904-1986)

• Baseball Player, Jim “Catfish” Hunter (1946-1999)

WORLD REKNOWN THEORETICAL PHYSICIST STEPHEN HAWKING (1942-PRESENT) AND FOOTBALL'S STEVE GLEASON (1977-PRESENT) ARE THE ONLY ALS VICTIMS ALIVE WHOSE NAME I RECOGNIZE.  

Whether you specifically participated in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge or not...and whether you call it ALS, or Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis or Lou Gehrig's Disease, I hope this wasn't  merely a random, childish stunt for you. The significnce of this challenge is, is to come away from the event with a better idea of this sickness' scope and be inspired to help. 

For those of you who made a cash contribution, I think it's great to get involved and volunteer.  However, your idealism and enthusiasm shouldn't get in the way of the harsh reality that many charities, (even reputable organizations) have poor road records in regard to the percentage of each donation dollar going to the where it was intended.  So please be careful where you donate and be conscious of (easily researched), "administrative costs."

"MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND," is dedicated to NOT telling you how to spend your money.  But please realize that the Internet can provide easy access to charity navigators that will help separate worthy causes like St. Jude Children's Research Hospital from bogus, non-transparent, less accountable ones.

I certainly wouldn't want to sway anyone away from helping the Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis cause. If it happened to Lou Gehrig, it could happen to any of us. 

LAST MONTH WE "OBSERVED" THE 75th ANNIVERSARY OF LOU GEHRIG'S GUT-WRENCHING 4th OF JULY 1939 FAREWELL SPEECH. TO HELP "REMEMBER" AND "ACKNOWLEDGE" A REAL LIFE SUPERMAN CUT-DOWN BY THE KRYPTONITE KNOWN AS ALS, CLICK ON THE LINK (below) TO VIEW IT.

http://search.mywebsearch.com/mywebsearch/redirect.jhtml?pn=1&ct=RR&action=click&redirect=GGmain.jhtml&queryTerm=gehrig+farewell+speech+youtube&cb=CD&pg=GGmain&p2=%5ECD%5Exdm003%5ES04317%5Eus&n=77fc41c7&qid=268ef737ba7b4f67b6934ef0e883a91e&ss=sub&st=bar&ptb=D6B92608-79BD-4909-92A0-160CFD832118&si=CKuH4unForUCFQPd4AodLCEADg&searchfor=Lou+Gehrig%27s+Farewell+to+Baseball+Speech&ord=2&&tpr=jrel3&ots=1408823287968

And if you still have a job..."HAPPY" LABOR DAY!

EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER; THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOE BUSINESS

Now what? I’ll never like it and I’ll never get used to it, but at my age, I shouldn’t be shocked when something suddenly hurts or stops working. So raise your hand if you want to hear about the mystery that recently terrorized my foot.

At work in 1999, in a lonely, distant alcove of our break room, my friend ABP huffed, “If you don’t take care of your feet, they can’t take care of you.” I nodded. Her tone changed to a groan, “I messed up by wearing stylish shoes my whole life.” She told me how in the 1970's, she hobnobbed through dozens of Philadelphia-areas discotheques in "fuck-me pumps." Then she lamented, “And now with this job, I’m paying the price twenty-five years later…my feet are killing me.” 

WOMEN HAVE HISTORICALLY SACRIFICIED FOOT COMFORT FOR STYLE.  THS POINT WAS JUSTIFIED THE OTHER DAY WHEN ANOTHER FEMALE FRIEND SAID THAT SHE BOUGHT BOOTS ONLINE.  THEY CAME ONE SIZE TOO BIG AND THE EYELIT COLOR WAS COPPER NOT GOLD.  STRANGELY, SHE SAID SHE WOULD HAVE AVOIDED THE HASSLE OF SHIPPING THEM BACK, IF THE EYELIT COLOR WAS RIGHT.

I said, “Sometimes my feet hurt too.” She took off a shoe, massaged her foot and said with a sigh of depression, “No. I have real problems and keep putting off surgery.” I said, “Sorry to hear that.” ABP said, “I have ugly feet with bunions and my gnarled toes are a million times worse.”

ABP was an especially good-looking woman. Even in her forties, if she put her mind to it, I'm certain she could make a decent living as a model. To boost her morale I said, “I’m sure nothing about you could be ugly.” She said, “You’re sweet. But if you saw my hammer toes and clawed toe…you’d barf.”

A HAMMER TOE (MIDDLE TOE) IS A DEFORMITY THAT PERMANENTLY BENDS THE TOE (RESEMBLING A HAMMER), AT A JOINT.  SIMILAR PROBLEMS INCLUDE, CLAW TOES AND MALLET TOES.

My hammer toe curiosity got the better of me. Besides, ABP opened the door with what sounded like an invitation. So I innocently said, “Okay, let’s see.” I guess the poor girl had been hit-on a gazillion times. She growled, “I’m not taking off my pantyhose in front of you!” I knew my friendship was devalued to “coworker” as she stood up and silently hobbled away.

Other than the obvious sexual lesson I learned, I found out the importance of taking care of your feet and legs, (especially in casinos where many of us spend the vast majority of our time on duty, standing up). In my particular case, the risk factors are heightened because for over fifteen years, I have been an avid power-walker.  Yes my calves (only) are so well-chiseled that Michelangelo’s, “Statue of David” is jealous.

I SUGGESTED POWER-WALKING TO BIG DAVE, BUT HE'S BEEN STUCK IN THE SAME RUT AND HASN'T MOVED FOR QUITE SOME TIME.

ABP’s words of warning have remained with me. So, I panic and stress over the new creaks, leaks and squeaks of old age that prey on my lower body. You never know, one of them might signal a debilitating problem that could prematurely end my livelihood or even cripple me.

A perfect example of a sudden new physical problem invading my body, occured two years ago.  That's when my son Andrew started university life. His school, The College of New Jersey (TCNJ) is near Trenton. At ninety-minutes away by car, he is close enough for visits and far enough that he (and we) feels like he’s away.

On one of my visits during his freshman year, about halfway up, I got a severe, knifing pain, in my right, upper-most thigh. It felt like a cramp, so I tried to flex, within the confines of the car, but I got no relief. Soon the radiating agony expanded down my leg, to the arch in my foot. I pulled over.

I used to get leg cramps when I played high school football, so I did some of our pre-game leg exercises. I got immediate relief. But forty-five minutes of driving later, the intense stabbing pain returned.

The same symptoms afflicted me on the way home…and still do whenever I drive longer than forty-five minutes. I told my doctor. She never heard of such a thing? She said, “If it only affects you on long car rides, you’re lucky…when you need to stretch…stretch.”

Damn, when it rains, it pours. Then, about a year ago, I developed another new, sharp pain, in my right heel. It felt like I had stepped on a rock in bare feet. I’d have good days then it would return. I waited until my twice-a-year check-up to see my doctor. She didn’t hesitate to make a diagnosis, “You have plantar fasciititis!” She recommended some home remedies that included stretching, icing it down and massage. I got a degree of relief, continued power-walking and never missed a day at work.

Incredibly, soon my other foot acted-up. On the outside edge of my left foot, I thought I had a painful wart. It was at an odd angle, so I never actually saw it. A month of wart removal treatment didn’t help. I bought bigger shoes, wore thicker socks and started wearing gel-pads. I felt better but not good. At their worst, both feet were killing me simultaneously.

One of my customers saw the anguish in my face and sympathized for me. During a lull, I told her my situation. She said that she used to be a bank teller and that she got relief by getting clogs that nurses wear.

Four months ago, (April 2014), on my most painful day, I gave in to the torture of my feet and went to a medical supply store. The clerk said their shoes were sold through mail-order only. I didn’t want to wait. She suggested Allen’s Shoes.

The salesman at Allen’s thought I had plantar fasciititis in my right foot and speculated that I had tendonitis in my left foot. He tried to sway me off the clogs. As per my customer’s advice, I tried them on anyway. They were butt-ugly, felt weird to walk in and didn’t make my feet feel any different…plus were twice as expensive as any shoes I ever bought.

I tried on a pair of New Balance shoes. In three strides, it was like a friggin’ miracle. If it had been a cloudy day, the sun would have burst through the overcast to the tune of heavenly harp music. My acute pain (in both feet) turned off like a light switch. I walked through every corner of the store expecting the relapse…that never happened.

Luckily, these shoes don’t have that Frankenstein orthopedic look and immediately felt like ordinary shoes, (yes they were more expensive than the clogs but in exchange for greater support, one can’t have everything…can one)?

I stopped complaining about the cost by the third day. Mainly because after work, I take my shoes off at the front door and throw them in the dark garage, (years ago, I tracked automotive grease from the casino parking lot through our living room…and never heard the end of it from my wife Sue). Of course now Sue gives me a hard time for bitching about the price of my princely shoes and then throwing them willy-nilly like they were shit and upsetting the pristine orderliness of our storage facility).

My new shoes are so good that when I was on vacation, I was reminded how important they were. Five days into my time off, I’d get achy tendonitis twinges. The return of these subtle ouchies meant the problem still exists but once back to work, my great footwear make life livable.

Unfortunately, getting older means, if you manage to defeat some stray physical obstacle, there’s always another to carry the torch of trouble, misery and hurt to another part of your body. That’s why I was so pissed-off coming in to work this past Wednesday (August 13th).

The walk from the employee parking lot to the break room is two city blocks. From the second I got out of my car, I had an intense pain in my left pinkie toe. At first, I imagined that my sock was bunched up…but a blister couldn’t go from “zero-to-sixty,” in mere seconds. Like the stubborn schmuck that I can be, I decided to keep walking (limping).

I dwelled on negativity and I convinced myself that something like a hammer-toe could spring-up from out of nowhere. It was disgusting how I pictured my wee digit being dark purple, swollen and with pus oozing from under the toenail. I was remembering that ABP said that the convalescence from her surgery would have her off her feet for months. That’s when I was thinking that amputation might be necessary if I wanted to avoid time lost from my job.

I headed for the union men’s room. Inside, I sat on a bench so I’d get a good look at the malevolence growing out of my little toe. I took off my wonderful New Balance shoe and carefully set my cherished hero down. I peeled off my unbunched-up sock and was shocked to find my beautiful foot…and suddenly pain-free pinkie...in perfect condition. I shook out my sock…nothing! My golden-boy shoe was next. And aha, I heard something rattling around. I sensed it couldn’t be a pebble because it seemed too light but it had to be somewhat sizeable to get wedged in and cause me such aggravation.

Oh how I felt like an idiot when I discovered a single M and M-sized dog food nugget in my shoe.

I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY THAT DOG FOOD SHAPED LIKE M AND M's DON'T MELT IN YOUR HAND, MOUTH OR SHOE!

I tried to think back and pictured throwing my shoes in the garage and toppling the forty-pound bag of dog food. One piece found its way into the shoe and like a perfect storm of circumstances, the one nugget got lodged well enough in, to crush my cute and defenseless little toe.  Yay me, another edition of "Edelblum Mystery Theater" has been solved.

Yes it’s true, I gained another little victory…but life is usually reduced to the temporary joy of little victories. It sucks to think about it but we never know when the ugly head of catastrophe is lurking around tomorrow’s corner. I say, what separates the well-adjusted people of world from those who get caught-up, is how we play the bad poker cards of life, we are dealt.  Just remember, there's no business like shoe business...and as Ethel Merman used to say; let's go on with the show.

ETHEL MERMAN (1908-1984) STARRED ON STAGE, MOVIES AND TV.  SHE WAS KNOWN FOR HER BELTING, MEZZO-SOPRANO SINGING VOICE.  THE SONG I ASSOCIATE HER WITH, FROM THE BROADWAY SMASH, "ANNIE GET YOUR GUN," IS, "THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS."  CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR HER SING IT.

http://search.mywebsearch.com/mywebsearch/redirect.jhtml?action=pick&qs=&pr=GG&searchfor=utube+ethel+merman+no+business+like+show+business&cb=CD&pg=GGmain&p2=%5ECD%5Exdm003%5ES04317%5Eus&n=77fc41c7&qid=e7bd1c087d2e46f29b0e704297c05df9&ss=sub&pn=1&st=bar&ptb=D6B92608-79BD-4909-92A0-160CFD832118&tpr=&si=CKuH4unForUCFQPd4AodLCEADg&redirect=mPWsrdz9heamc8iHEhldEcgdjfjqpMajKYmz288FhTJUUyoGKBtyODnwVgQA9jB9asSRd7HNQ6vo28AS7ocSwQ%3D%3D&ord=2&ct=AR&

So to side-step many of life's miseries, always keep your head, be prepared to bluff and check for dog food in your shoes.

FOUND AND LOST; MICHAEL CLARKE DUNCAN

I can’t believe it’s the second anniversary of the TV show, “THE FINDER,” getting cancelled. Most people never heard of it but I loyally watched all thirteen installments until it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"THE FINDER" STARRING GEOFF STULTS (left) AND MICHAEL CLARKE DUNCAN (right) LASTED ONE SEASON, (JANUARY 12, 2012 TO MAY 11, 2012).

In 2011, the premise was originally wrapped within, “THE FINDER” episode of another personal favorite, “BONES.” The writers and producers came up with a unique, slick and beautiful to look at concept, (filmed in Miami with gorgeous underwater photography). The supporting characters were interesting and the storylines coming from their relationships left me wanting more.

"BONES" NOW IN ITS EIGHTH SEASON, INTRODUCED, "THE FINDER" ON APRIL 21, 2011, (SEASON SIX, EPISODE NINETEEN, SHOW #125 IN THE SERIES).

"THE FINDER'S," star, Geoff Stults as Walter Sherman, is a retired army major.  The gimmick is, he suffered some mysterious level of combat-related brain damage while serving in Iraq. These head injuries left him suspicious and paranoid. But along the way, his “problems” also include a mystical ability to see patterns that nobody else can see. He uses these universal connections to find things. In the case of the episode of, “BONES,” he is subcontracted out by the FBI, to launch an independent investigation, to find a stolen treasure map fragment. Throw in some intelligent quirkiness and you have a program that is exciting and fun to watch.

This, possibly best-ever episode of “BONES” became the pilot for, “THE FINDER.” I thought I got in on the ground floor of something special. I was completely invested in the show and never missed it. Unfortunately that pilot was also the problem because the potential of the first production was never recaptured.

In an obscure bar in the Florida keys, the audience is introduced to the three main characters of, “THE FINDER.” The "MOD SQUAD-like" trio are staring at a chalkboard and having a philosophical debate on which is sadder; a twelve-year old girl smoking or a drowned cat.

TV's, "MOD SQUAD" WAS A HIPPIE, UNDERCOVER POLICE TEAM THAT FEATURED A WHITE MAN, WHITE WOMAN AND A BLACK MAN.  THE SHOW LASTED FIVE SEASONS AND 123 EPISODES FROM 1968-1973.

Ike, is Walter Sherman’s shapely but tough, Scottish accented female sidekick. Apparently, Ike owes her life to, “The Finder.” But instead of being a corny love interest, she was more like his conscious and emotional protector while also serving as his bartender, airplane pilot and a walking encyclopedia. Unfortunately, her character was dumped after the pilot episode in favor of a cardboard detective/love interest, (so much for uniqueness).

Luckily my favorite character was not dropped by the show. Michael Clarke Duncan plays male sidekick Leo Knox, (a likeable, Buddha-spouting widower and former attorney). He also owes his life to Sherman and serves as his confidant, manager, legal advisor and bodyguard. I became transfixed with every baritone word and action he made. I especially liked his use of lawyer-speak when advising Sherman not to do something. Which gave rise to The Finder’s catchphrase; I’ll risk it, (which was cleverly used in the pilot but rarely called upon throughout the show’s short run).

Another character that never appeared after the pilot was the Catholic bishop. Dynamic anti-religious sparks fly when Walter asks the Bishop for historical data about the church's connection with the map piece that might lead to a sunken Spanish gold galleon. Apparently the Bishop owes Walter his faith therefore he is patient with the anthesist's impertinence. To be consistent with the show's demise, the non-religious aspects The Finder’s nature is never mentioned again.

It didn’t take long until I became disillusioned by, “THE FINDER’S”, direction. I only watched in hope that it might rediscover the magic of the pilot, and if it couldn’t, watching Duncan was enough for me.

I first found Michael Clarke Duncan in 1999’s, “THE GREEN MILE.” He gave a memorable performance as John Coffey, a Depression-era, wrongly convicted child murderer, on death row in Louisiana. It’s ironic, that role catapulted his career in film, TV and voice-overs in animated features. But he was lost to me for more than ten years because I was unfamiliar with any of his work until, “THE FINDER” episode of, “BONES.”

MICHAEL CLARKE DUNCAN (1957-2012), HAD KNOCKED AROUND HOLLYWOOD GETTING ODD JOBS THAT INCLUDED HIGH-PROFILE BODYGUARD WORK.  HE STARTED DOING COMMERCIALS AND BIT ACTING PARTS UNTIL HIS BIG BREAK IN,"THE GREEN MILE."

I may not know which is sadder, a twelve-year old girl smoking or a drowned cat. But I do know I was deeply saddened by Michael Clarke Duncan’s untimely heart attack and death. Which I assume was only a coincidence because it came shortly after the Fox Network announced that “THE FINDER” was cancelled.

Duncan led a clean life, was a vegetarian and lived many of the precepts of Buddhism. The Finder served its calling when it found Duncan for me but alas, now they are both gone...

IN A CRAZY MAN-CRUSH KIND OF WAY, I MISS DUNCAN.  IN THE TWO ROLES I KNOW HIM FROM, HE WAS DEEP, INTELLIGENT AND MADE ME FEEL THAT THE PEOPLE AROUND HIM WERE SAFE.  WHENEVER I THINK ABOUT IT, I CAN'T STAND LOSING HIM. 

Michael Clarke Duncan's passing makes me think of the 1979, chart-topping song by the, "POLICE," "I CAN'T STAND LOSING YOU."  Click on the link below to hear the thought provoking lyrics.
http://search.mywebsearch.com/mywebsearch/redirect.jhtml?action=pick&qs=&pr=GG&searchfor=youtube+the+police+I+can%27t+stand+losing+you&cb=CD&p2=%5ECD%5Exdm003%5ES04317%5Eus&n=77fc41c7&qid=825087a8ef484cbfbe4484f82295acff&ptb=D6B92608-79BD-4909-92A0-160CFD832118&si=CKuH4unForUCFQPd4AodLCEADg&pg=GGmain&ots=1407692347187&pn=1&ss=sub&st=bar&tpr=sc&redirect=mPWsrdz9heamc8iHEhldEcgdjfjqpMajKYmz288FhTLdjzyG8DEAy6s%2BGyLAMdxQJj8lG1xD4KFm32d%2F1k%2BwmQ%3D%3D&ord=0&ct=AR&


I found Michael Clarke Duncan (again) but now he's lost for good.  Unfortunately, the best way to remember him is not through, "THE FINDER." series.  That's why I'm recommending you watch the single “BONES” episode with him.

MY NEW REALITY; SAYING GOOD-BYE TO MIDDLE-AGE

Like the Sword of Damocles, the ugly specter of turning sixty dangles over my head. Over the next nine months, I have to find a way to cope with my next (undesirable) milestone of life because to many, this watermark symbolizes the dilapidated, gray, second to last gate that ushers in old age, (the last gate of course…is pearly).

IN THE 1812 PAINTING (above) BY RICHARD WESTFALL, A GREEK, MORAL ANECTDOTE, "THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES," IS REPRESENTED.  IT REFERS TO THE IMMINENT AND EVER-PRESENT PERIL FACED BY THOSE IN POWER, (OR IN MY CASE, I NEVER KNOW WHEN OLD AGE WILL BEFALL ME).

In 1968, on a handful of occasions, I babysat for the couple next door, (the husband was the cheapest man on the face of the earth…but that’s another story). One time while getting paid, (never more than two bucks), Mr. Miser gravely griped, “I just found out I got arthritis.”

I was thirteen and sophisticated enough to know arthritis was a health problem but because I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, I thought it was a death sentence. So a few days later when I saw him throw his golf clubs and tennis racquets into the back seat of his "beater" convertible, I thought it was odd. Then shockingly, he leapt over the closed door into the driver seat. That’s when I knew he was a lying sack of shit!

Down through the years, I learned the complexities of life. Perhaps the clearest of all my lessons is that the world is infrequently black or white. Certain issues, especially regarding aging and health are layered, and come in far more than fifty shades of gray.

In 1995, I was diagnosed with my own painful arthritis. I was bright enough to correctly assume that it wasn’t life threatening. My doctor directed me to use an over-the-counter remedy. Over the next twenty years, other than a rare flare-up, my problem was been 97% held in check.

GLUCOSAMINE AND CHONDROITIN ARE NATURAL SUBSTANCES FOUND IN AND AROUND CARTILAGE CELLS. IT IS SOLD AS A SUPPLEMENT FOR ARTHRITIS SUFFERERS BECAUSE IT AIDS IN CARTILAGE RETAINING NECESSARY WATER.

Now forty-six years later, even though my thrifty neighbor never gave me a tip, I’ll give him one. If you’re stricken with arthritis, and willing to spring for about fifty dollars a year, Chondroitin and Glucosamine is well worth it.

There is something mystical about hitting forty. We gradually start having new health issues. Each passing year, the number of episodes grows as well as their severity. There’s a gazillion reasons why we shouldn’t complain about our health, but the number one reason is, it doesn’t take long before we bitch to someone who is in far worse shape.

My first surgical procedure was kidney stones about ten years ago. The doctors knew the stone was obstructed but to run up the bill, it was better for them heavily medicate me and wait two days for it to miraculously dislodge itself, (which we all now know…it didn’t).

While it’s true this was my first over-nighter in a hospital since birth, I honestly don’t think I ever went into to panic mode. But apparently I said something to my terminally ill (cancer) roommate that suggested I needed emotional counseling. Despite his plight, this man was so pleasant, confident and reassuring. So the last thing I wanted to do was upset this brave soul…in ANY way.

I woke up feeling nauseous at 3:00AM on my second night, (as instructed I called for the night nurse). There was no response. I rested quietly over the next ten minutes hoping my putrid impulse would subside. It didn’t, so I pressed the signal button...and a minute later, I hit the buzzer again.

During those queasy moments, I rationalized that the floor nurse must have been helping someone else. I braced for the impending emergency. I dreaded the thought of disturbing my kindly roomie so I looked to see what was involved in disconnecting the multitude of feeder tubes and sensors that were attached to me. When my sickness suddenly spiked higher, I imagined the nurse downstairs, in the cafeteria with her face buried in a pint of butter pecan ice cream or hiding in the utility closet, having phone sex. Like a madman, I repeatedly and obnoxiously started wearing out the signal button.

Seconds before the arrival of my “V-Moment,” I realized that I had run out of options. I ripped off all my tubes, jumped out of bed and puked all over the wall…as blood from my arm splattered everywhere. What a great release/relief it was for me…until I heard my roommate’s commentary on the smell and length of the clean-up crew’s stay. Incidentally, embarrassment was added to my awful experience when my saintly roommate, the following morning, sincerely was concerned about my health.

You’d think that nightmare would make me more careful about what I said, (and to who). But seven ago while at work, (dealing craps in a casino), I felt a little pop in my lower back. The radiating twinge of pain varied in intensity as I struggled to find a comfortable position. I was experienced with this recurring problem but this time, no matter what I did, the different levels of agony wouldn’t subside.

LJT, (my supervisor) saw my situation and probably thought I needed to pee. He asked, “You okay?” I whined, “I tweaked my friggin’ back and it’s killing me.” LJT said, “You know I had a heart attack. I almost died. You don’t even know what pain is!” He had someone temporarily replace me. I took extra strength aspirins did some stretching and was much better. Later, I apologized to LJT. He said, “And make sure you never complain about back pain to any woman who gave birth either!”

I never learn from my mistakes. Five years ago, I felt like there was a burning hole in my stomach. These acute symptoms were incapacitating for a couple of hours.  Then they’d mysteriously vanish…only to reappear and tear through my innards in similar way, three weeks later. Like a schmuck, I waited months for my routine check up…it was a hernia.

GENERALLY, A HERNIA IS A PROTRUSION OF AN ORGAN (A BIT OF INTESTINE) THROUGH A HOLE IN THE ABDOMINAL WALL, (NO THE DIAGRAM ABOVE IS NOT ME).

I survived the operation and put it behind me. Well guess what? Last year, the symptoms returned. Lucky me, I had a new hernia. No you don’t get a reduced rate as a repeat customer so I was doubly pissed off in September 2013, when I had to go through the nonsense again.

There’s nothing really funny (or unusual) about two hernias within five years. So when March 2014 rolled around and the symptoms re-re-reappeared, I was triply frustrated. My distress was further heightened because the doctor does not guarantee his work and another procedure would be a completely separate fee, (so much for frequent flier discounts).

Two week ago while at Camp Zimbo, I held my left arm above my head and twisted my hand to the right and said, “It hurts when I do this.” He smacked me in the head and said, “Then DON’T do that!”  That might sound like an old vaudeville routine but what it meant was JZimbo didn't want to hear about petty maladies.

JZimbo is eleven days older than me so unfortunately for both of us, the rigors of middle-age health issues always come up. That’s when he mentioned that he might have a hernia. I never told him I had two hernia operations and need a third so I pretended to NOT be an expert. I let him vent. I didn’t want to fall in the trap of complaining about my trivialities when I fully knew that he had been victimized by a laundry list of decapitating injuries (including a fractured ankle and a knee replacement…plus unsuccessful eye surgery). So after he talked his way down from his potential dilemma, (on his own), I felt good knowing I didn’t play, “can you top this” with someone who really has been punished by life’s little cruelties. My temporary victory didn’t last long.

When I got home, I came to a conclusion about my third hernia. But if you know and love me, you know…once a schmuck, always a schmuck!  Due to my (unappreciated) experience, I now know how to minimize my hernia pain. So, in protest of getting “put up on the lift” again, I have decided to “gut” it out and (for now) live with it.

Hernias are unfortunately common. One of my friends (BBF) is experiencing the joy of his for almost two years. In the beginning, I recommended getting it taken care of. But after what I went through, I can understand anyone's reluctance to go under the knife.  So, I’m in no position to tell him he’s wrong.

Recently while on duty at work, my latest hernia was ravaging my belly. Under the circumstances, the best I could do to minimize the hurt was holding my stomach. DOM, (my supervisor) asked, “I had the stuffed peppers upstairs too and my guts are ready to explode?” A smile covered my grimace as I groaned, “Nah, I would never eat that in our cafeteria. I got a friggin’ hernia.” He said, “Shit, don’t complain to me, I’ve had three hernias.” I said, “Me too, this is my third.” He said, “I got one five years ago and had the surgery. Then last year another one popped opened.” I said, “So you got it taken care of?” He said, “Hell no!” I said, “But you said three.” DOM said, “Yeah, now I got another one that makes three.  I'll wait till they invent a hernia zipper...that way when get my tenth, they can go in and out much easier.” My smile evaporated into a look of concern as I said, “You must be dyin’ inside?” He said, “What are you a wuss? Besides, with insurance being the way it is, I’d be dyin’ worse if I paid for every little ache.”

I said, “BBF has been putting his hernia off for a long time.” DOM said, “You know he was demoted to part-time. He’s not having the surgery because he has shitty insurance, he's not having it done because he has, NO insurance.”

Remember the line in old cowboy movies; there’s always someone else faster on the draw. Well when it comes to complaining about your health, be aware that few people want to hear about it and almost everyone else is or knows someone, who is suffering worse than you.

Age is relative. I truly feel it’s just a number and that you’re as old as you feel. Day to day, I overwhelmingly feel like a king and a kid at heart, (the remaining times, I feel like a specific kid, King Tut…and he’s been dead and...usually...buried for 3300+ years).

So, I accept the challenge of my looming, new reality. I feel if you don’t find a path you can handle, the stressful harshness of an advanced age bracket will eat you alive and cause problems you never imagined.

Through my sixties, I pledge to be dignified and stay the same bundle of joy that you’ve always loved and admired.

And as for my neighbor from 1968, I’m sure his arthritis never stopped him…of course he was only about thirty-five back then, (but he complained as if he was sixty). Still, something tells me, (even though I haven’t seen him since 1984), that he’s still alive and kicking today. I make that assumption because I just saw a life insurance commercial with Alex Trebek.  That ad claimed, the average cost of a funeral was $8,000.00…and my thrifty neighbor would never cough-up that kind of cash.