...I haven't decided whether I'm getting more creative as I grow older, or if I've finally gone over the edge. Maybe this blog will answer the question. Or perhaps, raise a few more. We'll see.
…when I was a very small child, my mother would come into my
bedroom to check on me and the bed would often be empty. She would find me lying on
the windowsill, pointing at the sky and saying, “…Moon! Moon!”
She would put me back to bed, but some mornings she would
come to wake me and find me fast asleep on that windowsill. I don’t remember
this, but I was told the story many times. I’ve no idea why I am thinking about
it today, but I would love to meet that little boy again who marveled, as did
his ancestors, at that great, comforting globe in the night sky.
***
…most mornings I wake up and read the usual slew of depressing
news. Then there’s mornings like this when instead I see that an act of kindness and love makes global news.
We need more of this.
***
There have been many, many pieces of music which have moved
me. But my love for music had to start somewhere, and there had to be something
that moved me to start thinking about doing some music myself. I’ve been
pondering this a while. There were two watershed moments.
The first came in the 3rd Grade, when we were taken to see The Sound of Music at a theater. I was stunned. It is still a favorite of mine. If it is on TV, I stop what I am doing and plop my butt in a chair to watch.
The day after we saw the movie, I marched into the music teacher's office and sang the song I've featured below from memory. It brought tears to her eyes. I can't remember her name, but I remember the look on her face.
...then, when I was in grade school in New Jersey, came the seismic event. I was in a van with my mother and Hey Jude started playing on the radio, WABC, New York. Up until then, I played whatever music was around the house, which wasn't much and certainly wasn't The Beatles.
My mother reached for the dial and I slapped her hand away, pleading to let me hear the rest.
My cochlear implant processors are both on the verge of
biting the dust. They turn on and off by themselves and change programs on a
whim.
The implants themselves are fine. It’s the external hardware
that is on death’s door. The hardware is proprietary, expensive and out of
warranty. I have to schlepp along praying that one or heaven forbid both
processors don’t go belly-up.
I wrangled with the insurance company for replacements, but no
go. They function (with frequent intermittent issues), and they are reparable, so
the insurance company won’t budge (yes, appeals were filed).
The insurance company was terrific regarding my prostate cancer
recurrence. Last year’s summer of radiation was covered and I get the dreaded cancer-fighting
manboob pill at no cost.
What I have noticed more than ever as I age, however, is the
phrase: “Waiting for insurance approval.”
They are increasingly picky about what gets a thumbs-up, and
those decisions can take a while.
Insurance didn’t approve a sleep study recently because
there’s no evidence I have sleep apnea. One f*cking phone call to my wife would
clear that up. I am repeatedly threatened by my honey with suffocation by
pillow after subjecting her to particularly rambunctious snoring and funky breathing
sessions. I waited weeks for their decision. Denied.
(I am going on record here to plead with D.A. Salavantis to
take mercy on my wife if I drive her to commit snoricide. One night with me and
any jury would let her walk.)
While waiting for the sleep study decision, my insurance
promptly approved a stress echocardiogram after “something” showed up on an ECG
in the doctor’s office during my last regular visit. The same visit that led to
the order for a sleep study. The one I need before my wife murders me for
driving her insane.
During the test, more than one person present asked if I’d
been checked for sleep apnea. I referred them to my wife. More troubling to me
was the repeated questions about pain in my chest. I told them it was, on a scale of 1-to-10, a 1. Before the test, I mentioned
I had reflux and took prescription meds for it. The reflux pain recently got
worse, and my dosage was increased. I didn't have reflux pain before the test. I had reflux pain the entire time I
was on the treadmill, and it gradually faded afterwards. I think I knew at that point
reflux wasn’t my problem.
Three hours after the stress test my doctor called personally
and said he was referring me to a cardiologist for a cardiac
catheterization.I was told to expect a
call from the cardiologist’s office. Which never came.After a week and multiple attempts to reach a
live human being at either doctor’s office, I finally got through to my regular
doctor’s secretary. I told her I was still waiting to hear from the
cardiologist’s office.
“You’re kidding! I’ll call them and get back to you back
personally!” she exclaimed.
She did, and she always has. Once I can finally reach this
wonderful young lady she solves problems quickly. I love her. I just hate their
phone system.
Here’s what she told me when she called: “The cardiologist
was waiting for (*drum roll please*) insurance
approval. They just got it today and will call you shortly.”
Long and short, I’m getting a cardiac catheterization on
Friday. I won’t meet the cardiologist until afterwards, which means I have little
to research ahead of time other than the procedure itself. I won’t know what
the hell is going on until after the procedure. Is it nothing, or reflux after
all? Is it a valve? A blockage (perhaps that 12th chicken wing from that order last year I thought I got shorted on)?
There’s really no point researching further
because I have no specifics, other than I had a pair of abnormal tests.
Waiting for insurance
approval.
How many people die waiting for that?I might have a chicken wing lodged in a
coronary artery! This could be a smidge serious.
Or not, because an abnormal stress echo isn’t a perfect
prognosticator for chicken-wing-stuffed-arteries. My minimal layman’s research
tells me there is a fair likelihood nothing will be found. There is a chance
they may find a significant blockage, pop in a stent and keep me overnight.
There is about a 1% chance they’ll put me in the hands of a surgeon. This is
based on general research, nothing I’ve been told. Because I don’t know a
damned thing yet, other than my results are “abnormal.” You probably can’t tell
I hate being in the dark.
I feel like crap, and I haven’t been particularly lucky the
past few years, so my money is on the stent.
When archaeologists find my bones
10,000 years from now, they will uncover a slew of medical hardware:
cochlear and eye implants, mesh, staples, pins and god knows what else. Maybe
even a dime I swallowed when I was four. (We went to visit someone in the
Maryland countryside the day after I swallowed it, and they had an outhouse.
This was 1961/62 and it wasn’t the first one I’d seen or used at that tender
age. I extracted a promise from our hosts that they would look for my dime and mail
it to me. I waited for days for a stinky envelope to arrive with my life’s
fortune within. It never came. Maybe because it is still with me. Maybe in a ventricle
or plugging a major vessel. Maybe.)
Anyway, the experts will call me Ridgewood Man, the missing
link between homo sapiens and homo bionicum.
One final note on the subject: Waiting for insurance approval.
It has occurred to me that no matter how you cut it, our health
care is destined to be rationed, either by the government or by the insurance
companies. In either case, it’s not our best interests they’re looking out for,
kids. It’s all about the beans they count. The older you get, the fewer beans
you have coming your way. Ditto for many other scenarios. Someone other than
your doctor will make the call on whether or not beans get thrown your way.
Against rationing healthcare? Too late. That ship has sailed.
(Footnote: to this day I despise dimes and never put money
in my mouth. Except the occasional crisp dollar bill when I’m short of floss.)
***
I flew to Chicago in April. Coming home, I went to wait at
the gate for the flight back to the Wyoming Valley. Something unusual happened.
There were three women waiting for the flight, and we all were seated at a
table charging our various electronics. And we had a blast. There was lively
conversation, popcorn shared liberally, and a splendid time was had by all.
If you have been to huge airports like O’Hare, you must have
noticed that thousands of people are packed in close proximity at their gates,
and no one talks. People keep to themselves. Yes, there is moment or two of
polite conversation here and there, but it is extremely superficial stuff.
By O’Hare standards, we were having a frat party.
I pointed this out to my new friends. A continent of quiet,
miserable people surrounded us, the strange, happy band of traveling Valley
people.
I don’t fly often, but I am willing to bet this will never
happen to me again.
***
I have aged significantly in the last year. My face is
weathered and wrinkling. It’s hard to move around. Sleep is fitful. I am
cantankerous, cussing at everyone running the stop sign down the street. Almost
nothing brings me joy save for the family and my grandkids. And the occasional
double shot. This time out, it’s Linda Ronstadt. Parkinson’s disease has robbed
her of her singing voice, but she has an impressive body of work. Here’s a
couple of my favorites.
...and on a lighter note (but still celebrating that incredible voice):
I have been writing snippets of things for probably two
months now, intending to post them and never having the time. I am finally posting
some of this backlog. It is in no particular order.
Enjoy. Or gag. Your call.
***
I am at that point in my life where I want to see things
more clearly. I try to strip things down to their core to see what makes them
tick. To see if they are the right or wrong things to do. To see if I have the
courage to speak against that which I believe to be wrong.
Being politically unaffiliated helps me. When looking at an
issue, I take the politics out of things and simply ask myself, “…is this the
right thing to do?”
Sometimes the answers are unsettling.
***
I figured out what I am. A mystery, wrapped in an enigma, deep fried in peanut oil, slathered with chicken wing sauce and coated with ranch dressing.
Or I am composed entirely of bacon. Either is a possibility.
***
I started writing a song earlier in the summer. I know, big
whoop, but I haven’t written a song in decades. I had to stop right around the
time I started to get half-decent at it because my hearing loss was too severe.
I sold my 4-track and turned the page.
When I got my cochlear implants, I began to enjoy
music again. It wasn't and still isn't the same as my natural hearing, but sometimes it is very, very close. Every piece of music I
listen to is a voyage of discovery. This is true even with songs I knew prior to being engulfed
by deafness.
Before my implants, I read somewhere that I would never be
able to enjoy music my brain didn’t already know. This was true at first. But a
funny thing has happened since 2009, when I got my first implant. I can enjoy new
music (which for me is anything I haven’t heard before). It takes a little work
at first, but every time I listen to a new song I “hear” more of it. I have artists on my iPhone that I never dreamed I’d have
because I never thought I’d enjoy new musical frontiers: Carlene Carter, Jill
Hennessy, Joan Osborne and many more. I also have old favorites, including a whole mess of Linda
Ronstadt (who I’ve always loved). Yes, there is a trend here. I spend a lot of
time with the women on my iPhone.
I’ve also done a very tiny bit
of performing, generally one song a year when The Last Surviving Buffalo Band does their summer reunion show.
I can also enjoy live concerts again.
Carlene Carter was the first artist I heard live after my
cochlear implants. She was opening for John Mellencamp in Hershey, Pennsylvania.
I had never heard her work before, and I was powerfully affected. Carter is a hard-working artist. As soon as she
finished her set, she hoofed it to the lobby to sell and sign her CD’s. I did something
I never do at a concert: I bought her CD and asked her to autograph it. I also
told her she was the first artist I’d heard since regaining my hearing. I could
tell she was moved. She asked me what I wanted her to write on the CD. I told
her: “Anything you want.” So that’s exactly what she wrote, and it was a hoot
for both of us.
Where was I? Oh, yes...
I was listening to music again and dabbling with my guitar, but I didn’t have the
courage to attempt to write.
That changed in May of this year, when I read the story of
Claudia Patricia Gómez González. She was shot dead in Rio Bravo, Texas by a
Border Patrol agent after she and a group of others entered the United States
illegally. The Border Patrol’s account of the shooting morphed from a tale of a
group of assailants armed with ‘blunt objects’ attacking the agent to a group
rushing the agent. In the later account the blunt objects were not mentioned. In
any case, a shot rang out and a young woman was killed.
Claudia Patricia Gómez
González was a forensic accountant (a dangerous bunch, those bean counters).
She died near Laredo, and her story has been largely in the rear view with the
emergence of the news of families being broken apart after entering America
illegally.
Her death haunted me, and in my brain a long-locked door
began to crack open. I began to write music for the first time in damned near
forever.
I finished that song recently. It is not performed very well,
because performing is still extremely challenging for me. It takes a lot of
work just to make sure I am singing in the same key I’m playing on the guitar,
and I am extremely rusty on guitar. I am also an old fart, and that doesn’t
help either. I get winded tying my shoes, let alone singing and playing a guitar.
I put the song up on YouTube, and asked my best friend and professional
musician, Mark Williams, to listen to it. If the song wasn’t good, he’d tell
me. That’s the way it’s always been with us. If it sucks, we say so. (The ones
that sucked were overwhelmingly mine.)
He said what I'd written gave him chills.
The song is called “This is not America.” You can find it by
clicking here.
I may upset some people with it. Others may embrace it. That
doesn’t matter to me. What matters is the message.
I do worry no one will hear
that message.
I’m just a 60-year old guy schlepping along from day-to-day,
trying just to tread water like many other Americans. I realize that even if I have
managed to write something powerful, it will probably fall through the cracks.
I don't have a massive social media following to push it along. But if one person …just one person …hears it and is moved to address injustice,
I’ve done my job.
In the end, it’s not what just what you do now, it’s what
you leave behind.
***
The universe may be conspiring against me
again.
It’s too early to be sure, but I have been in a bit of a decline the
last several months. I am still a full-functioning idiot, but I am slowing down
drastically. My wife convinced me to go through my symptoms with my doctor during
my recent regular visit. This led to a test a few days later. My doctor called me three
hours after the test was performed to tell me he was referring me to a
specialist.
In my experience, we usually have to chase down doctors for test
results. A quick call from the doc after testing is a bit ominous. It has been
several days and no call from the specialist’s office. My calls to either my
doc or the specialist hits their answering services.
I hate answering services,
especially in the hot-damned middle of the frigging day when I have very few
opportunities to call.
I am in a holding pattern until I either get that call or I decide to just pop in unannounced at one or more doctor’s office. I probably fell
through the cracks. (Wrong phone number given to the specialist, a sticky note with my info fell into a half-eaten box of Lo Mein, cosmic rays killed a hard drive…whatever. I'm used to it. It's always something.)
Bottom line: It may be nothing. Maybe I’m just in lousy
shape. Hey, this is me we’re talking about, what could possibly go wrong?
All I know for sure is that if something happens to me,
there will be layoffs at Perdue Farms, specifically in the chicken wing
processing plant. There may also be a lot of one-winged chickens at Perdue,
because they won’t need both wings at once when I'm out of the picture.
The impact of my demise on Frank’s
RedHot Sauce production is unknown. Ditto whether there will be layoffs or possible closings of any Ken’s dressings plants. The
celery market will be fine. That’s green stuff. I limit my intake of that
because it fills me and reduces my wing intake.
***
I wish I could draw. I don't need the skills of an expert artist, just enough "stuff" to draw rudimentary cartoons. I imagine them all the time, and simply can't execute. Today I envisioned a young hen strolling down a path lined with chicken coops. Lipsticked beak. A purse. A necklace. Three roosters, cigarettes dangling from their beaks, are leering as she passes, and each shouts a comment:
"Hey, Henny...do those legs go all the way up?"
"Flap those wings, baby!"
"What you got under those feathers, Henny!" The caption underneath: Fresh Young Chickens This probably even isn't original. I must have seen this somewhere. The Far Side. Herman.
Even if it is original, I suspect it's for the best that I can't even draw a straight line.
***
Some months back, Ben Bradlee Jr. did a phone interview with
me for a book he is writing on Luzerne County and the 2016 Election. I’m not
sure what he expected to hear when we talked, but there was a brief pause when
I told him I’d left politics and was unaffiliated.
One thing I will say is that Bradlee is a reporter who does his homework before an interview. He knew I
chaired two GOP districts in the county. He asked hard questions about one of
them. I’ve no idea if anything I said will make it into his book. If it does, I
may lose some friends. So be it. I simply spoke the truth as I saw it on that
particular day.
I understand why he called. Luzerne county was pivotal. I
was one of six district GOP chairs in Luzerne County. I was a loyal Republican
and worked hard for my party and its candidates. Depending on who you are, I
share either a smidge more of the credit or blame for the 2016
Election than the average voter.
Yet I have abandoned all party politics.
Why?
Both major parties seem
hell-bent on pitting one half of America against the other. Frankly, we’ve had
enough of that, and I am fairly certain it is only going to get worse.
I will vote in the General Elections. I can’t vote in
Pennsylvania’s closed Primaries. At this point in my life, I do not see myself
registering under a party banner again. I’d rather focus on people. All people.
A related side note: I have also found that the farther I drift from
politics, the closer I get to God. I think that tells me I’m moving in the
right direction.
***
I have lost many people over six decades, but the losses
that hurt the most are the people I’ve lost who are still here.
***
Recently the following songs played on my iPhone as I drove to
work: Norwegian Wood by The Beatles, Now That You’re Gone, by my dear friend
Mark Williams, and Oh Mother by Jill Hennessey. All I will say is WOW. This is
why I can’t ever lose my hearing again. I can’t live without music. Especially
the great stuff.
***
I don’t know when my next post will come. It might be
tomorrow, it might be in months. Until I do post again, be good to each other. (And if anything should happen to me, short sell Perdue, Frank's and Ken's.)
