Category Archives: health

In The Presence Of Company And Snacks

Posted on by
6

What has the post-‘rona world wrought? People connecting. Hell yeah.

Patricia Marx in The New Yorker:

“When my editor asked whether I’d be interested in writing about the growing trend of friends getting together to tackle to-do lists, I thought, “Sounds about as fun as a group root canal.” I e-mailed back, “YES!” It was February; I hate the cold; the research would take place indoors. Also, I figured, it might take a village to make me get that comptroller form notarized, memorize the map of South America (don’t ask), and write my will—an item on my list for eighteen years. (As for to-do-list items that never die, thirty-three years ago, the agenda of a friend of mine included: No. 1, get my figure back; No. 2, dance lessons . . . No. 8, figure out if I should break up with Tim; No. 9, leave Tim. Not his real name, because my friend is still wondering about divorcing him.)

Everyone, it turns out, has a lot of shit to do, and many find the drudgery easier to slog through in the presence of company and snacks. Over the course of two months, I sat in on eight Admin Nights, as these gatherings are often called. (“Are they, like, fossils of extinct mollusks?” a hedge-fund guy at a dinner party asked me, thinking of ammonites.) There was a meetup of young mothers who had a lot of children’s birthday parties to organize, a group of Gen Z-ers whose morning session had a live soundtrack provided by a d.j., and a group of people with A.D.H.D., based mostly in Australia, who meet regularly on Zoom. At the Women in Games get-together, a seven-year-old attendee, brought by her mother, marvelled that grownups have homework, too.”

This morning, on the way to Masters swim practice at the Y, I saw three women running shoulder to shoulder on the Henderson Rd sidewalk by Olympia High School. They were not fast, at all, but that’s irrelevant. They had found each other, agreed to meet up, and were clearly vibbing, talking through who knows what. Simultaneously improving their physical and mental health.

And props for your introverted humble blogger for livening up Masters by asking the women in Lane 3, “Do you know the Masters swim team secret?” Looking perplexed, they repeated, “Masters swim team secret?” “Yeah, this lane has the best technique.” They were touched and proudly added their lane was also the most jovial. Five women connected, happier together, living fully.

Maybe I shoulda started this out by writing . . . some people connecting. Social anxiety shows no sign of abating. And we’re way less likely to see our lonely, socially anxious neighbors struggling to find connection. Because often, they can’t even leave their homes.

Here’s to celebrating connection while continuously extending the circles of friendship we’re lucky enough to enjoy.

On The Sidewalk Ramp Above Deschutes Parkway

Posted on by
1

Last night I went for a beautiful sunset run. West Bay, Tugboat Annie’s flyby, and back to Cap Lake for a short out and back. I unplugged and started walking at the base of the sidewalk ramp beside the Fifth Street Bridge. And that’s where our story begins. A story I could use your help processing.

Halfway up the first switchback, just above Deschutes Parkway, a women was lying on a blanket seemingly going through her bedtime routine. All sorts of accessories were spread across her blanket which covered the entire width of the sidewalk. As I approached, she said, “You can go around the other way.” Haha, I thought to myself, I’m not taking the unnecessarily long route tonight.

So your intrepid reporter stepped over and around her with one of my dogs landing smack dab on her blanky. Which set her off a bit. “I’m going to say you raped me.” Unable to process that, I kept walking. And then, “Faggot.” That got me to u-turn and engage. Feel free to deduct points at this point.

What I should’ve said is “Homophobic much?” Instead, I asked a question, “Why don’t you think people should be able to walk on this public sidewalk?” Brown skinned, maybe even indigenous, she said, “Because it’s my land.” To which I said, “Well, thank you for letting me use it tonight.” Close curtains.

Come on, you have to give me back the points you previously deducted for the smoothish ending.

This story is either a run-of-the-mill anecdote or an important case study about class differences, urban life, and how we will or won’t get along. Or something in between, I’m not sure.

The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know my neighbor’s story. Nothing could explain away what she said, but I’m disinclined to castigate her more generally for being troubled and impoverished since I have no idea how she ended up going to sleep on the sidewalk ramp above Deschutes Parkway.

Lean In

Posted on by
Reply

You are anxious and want to take a “cognitive behavioral therapy” approach to becoming less anxious. Meaning more practice exposing yourself to anxiety inducing content. Or maybe your life is just way too peaceful and you want/need more drama.

I have just the thing. The “Thurston County Scanner, News, and Weather” Facebook site. Which reveals the seamy underside of ThursCounty. Let’s get down and dirty and embrace the underside. Shall we?

Exhibit A. May 15th. Olympia Police Department are responding to the Olympia Farmer’s Market for a report of a naked man with a beard, dancing on the stage. While coming in the area, law enforcement had eyes on the male and reported that he was now wearing pants.

Of all places to nude bomb, why the bucolic center of our charming community?! My fave part of this report is the phrase “man with a beard” as if there were multiple dancing nudies. Thank you for that helpful detail.

Get’s worser.

Exhibit B. May 16th. Another peaceful day at the Olympia Farmers Market was interrupted when Olympia Police Department responded to reports of a male who had climbed onto the roof of Pithos Gyros and began urinating from the roof. After finishing his business, he continued wandering around the rooftop. The subject is also said to be associated with a second individual inside the market. No word on what inspired the elevated decision-making, but we can confirm the Farmers Market does not currently offer rooftop restroom facilities. It does not sound like he has been located.

So, if you’re like me, and enjoy frequenting the Olympia Farmer’s Market, prepare yourself for more than flowers, fruit and veggies, and snow cones. Sheriff Sanders reply, “I hate it when I find myself on the roof of an unassuming business and nature calls” for the win.

On Mental Illness

Posted on by
Reply

Here’s one especially thought provoking paragraph from Dr. Awais Aftab’s New York Times essay, “We’re Thinking About Mental Health Diagnoses All Wrong”.

“The symptoms of mental illness reinforce one another. An important theory in psychiatry, known as network theory, posits that mental health problems emerge from symptoms pushing and pulling on one another in self-reinforcing loops. Being unable to sleep can fuel daytime nervousness; nervousness can drain energy; low energy can lead to social isolation; isolation can worsen depressive rumination; and rumination can make it difficult to sleep. And so on. Symptoms are often triggered by life stressors, but once the symptom arrangement becomes self-sustaining, it continues on long after the stressor has disappeared.”

I liked the essay, but found it a little too abstract for my peabrain. I wish Aftab had illuminated his intriguing insights with examples from his patients’ lives. I assume, maybe incorrectly, that therapists can finesse client-patient privilege by tweaking contexts and names.

Aftab’s readers, unsurprisingly with bigger brains than me, embraced his insights sans examples. Dig this top comment.

Awais Aftab for the win.

How Am I?

Posted on by
6

Three weeks after ejecting from my roadbike and skimming across Center Street, I feel somewhere between two-thirds to three-fourths of the way back depending upon how much I’m asking of my bod. I don’t cry when choking on pistachios anymore. And I’m walking a lot, cycling a little, and I ran all of two miles yesterday even though I couldn’t breath very deeply at all. And I’m hoping to get the gills wet Monday at Masters swimming. Thanks to everyone who has checked in. Your texts and calls have meant a lot. They have made me feel a lot less alone.

More importantly, how is my soul five months after Lynn’s passing?

The second hardest adjustment has been the near complete loss of the connectedness to everyone who showed up for Lynn so consistently until the very end. Everyone, of course, quickly returned to their normal lives. I understand that, but it has still been disorienting. The house is so dang quiet.

However, the single hardest adjustment has been the loss of Lynn’s constant love, which as it turns out, I grew more dependent upon than I realized. As an introvert who digs solitude, I always fancied myself as fairly independent and resilient. LOL. In the immediate aftermath of her dying, I felt like the guy in the opening of MadMen.

Despite MSA’s slow motion devastation, I was unprepared for what, at the very end, felt like the pulling of a trap door. Which compelled me, two months ago, to go on a couple of dates which really upset my daughters whose well-being is as important to me as my own. And so now, as a result, I am disconnected from them. So disconnectedness upon disconnectedness.

Within that larger context, there have been what we in the Pacific Northwest call “sunbreaks”. Moments in the week, when the clouds separate just enough for warm, healing light to briefly shine through. When Steve calls during one of his Camino training walks to see how I’m doing. When Kevin calls. When MARN calls. When Lou, from high school, reaches out. When Mark invites me to walk. When Kris reaches out and comes over and listens to me ramble like the wonderful counselor she is. When Lil’ Chris sends a heartfelt card and note and invitation to a community event. When the college roommates write to see how we’re doing. When Marybeth sends this card.

Damn, that’s what everyone said, “I’m so happy I met Lynn.” I miss the KChrises, the roommates, Marybeth. Lynn’s people.

More sunshine than a sunbreak, I am not dating anymore because I’ve met someone special. Someone incredibly sensitive to my grieving and the family’s. Someone who watched Lynn’s memorial service on YouTube and said, “I wish I had known her.” Someone who gives me confidence that I will be alright. Especially when my daughters can accept my free falling self and we reconnect.

Sunday, Mother’s Day will be especially hard for A and J. Here’s what I want them to know. I turned on Lynn’s phone recently and there were 99 text messages. One dated 12/16/25, the day after she died, was piercing. Lisa, her boxing coach texted, “I love you Lynn. No more pain. Rest in peace.” Followed by a purple heart and strong arm emoji.

I want them to find solace in their mom’s legacy. So many people loved her. So deeply. We were very fortunate to be among them for as long as we were.

What To Worry About

Posted on by
2

Among the selfless things I do for my beloved readers, paying some attention to Trump’s True Believers has to be near the top of the list.

Think of MAGA like a glacial iceburg. That’s calving. The number of defectors is on the rise, but like in a cult, there’s still a lot of True Believers who literally cannot find it in themselves to criticize the foreign policy of the best President since maybe Lincoln.

After listening to Lindsey Graham and others of them express absolute appreciation for Trump’s Middle East war, I’ve come to this conclusion. Their anxiety is different than yours and mine.

They are not worried about . . .

  • healthcare access and affordability
  • rising prices for things like food, insurance, and gas
  • increasing incidents of gun-related violence
  • the impact of environmental degradation on their daily lives
  • polarization in politics and the future of democracy
  • the rise of Artificial Intelligence and it’s inevitable impact on job security
  • housing costs, or about the future of Social Security, or about whether they’ll ever be able to retire
  • their families and their mental health and well-being
  • the quality and accessibility of education. . .

Nearly as much as they are about the Iran’s nuclear capabilities. When they wake up, they seemingly ask themselves, “Is today the day?”

All of us are anxious. But the roots of the True Believer’s anxiety and most of ours are radically different.

With Apologies To My Sissy

Posted on by
5

Who often reminds me, as only a loving big sissy can, “It’s not all about you, Ron.” But this post might be. 😜

A subset of humble blog readers, who also happen to be personal friends, have reached out to see how I’m doing post bike accident. Which I’ve greatly appreciated. Here’s more than they, and you, prob wanna know. If my sissy has read this far, she’s rolling her eyes.

Five of us were enjoying a truly beautiful spring day, sunny, 50’s, meaning built-in air conditioning. In a pace-line, we were two hours into a two hour and twenty minute ride, baring down on Tumwater High School at 20-22mph thanks to a slight tailwind.

I was fifth of five. The lead rider, who has been relegated to Witness Protection, did not point out a small, but deep divot in the road. Remember sports fans, whenever you’re on the front, your main responsibility is to the be the eyes for the whole train. Rider number four hit the devilish divit head on, and as a result, slowed quite a bit. I was sitting my customary three feet behind him and didn’t have enough time to avoid riding into his back wheel. At the last fraction of a second, I turned my wheel to avoid his, but all that did was create an angle that launched me dead left into and across the center of the road. Picture a rock skimming across a glassy pond.

My skimming across the pavement happened right in front of a kind and caring woman on the way to work. Had she left for work 20-30 seconds earlier she very well could’ve ran over me. She checked on me and called it in while my friends looped back to provide additional/wonderful support. Soon, a bevy of young male firefighters began asking me questions and poking and prodding me. If I was gay, I would’ve immediately started feeling better. They asked me who the President was, and I said, “Oh man, I feel badly enough already.”

My friends studied my helmet and saw that there were no scratches and so everyone knew my compromised cognition was just my normal state of being. While I was sliding across the road, I was sure I’d broken my collar bone or hip or both. When I came to a stop and was able to sit up and eventually get to the side of the road, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that apart from road rash on my right shoulder, elbow, and knee, all the damage was confined to my right rib cage. Which hurt like a motherfecker.

The fire boys recommended I go to the hospital for a more thorough eval, but they have to say that, right? One also stated with a wink what all my cycling friends and I already know from experience, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for broken ribs.

Meanwhile my friends were putting my chain back on and checking out CanRon, the name of my newish whip, which remarkably, was almost entirely unscathed, maybe because it first bounced off me instead of the road.

Then, I somehow rode it home chapperoned by the team until we got to Deschutes Falls Park and then BC rode with me all the way into the garage atop the Fifth Street Bridge. There’s only two explanations for how I made it home under my own power. Stupidity and adrenaline.

The first night was scary. I had help at dinner, but afterwards, when alone, I was unable to move. I could hear my ribs rattling when breathing, which was even painful. My doc cycling friend who fancies himself a comedian, advised, “Just don’t move or breath.” Eventually, I tried to get into bed, but ended up half on the edge of the mattress and half off. Then, I couldn’t get off the edge of the bed. There may have been a lot of moaning and even tears. Masculinity is overrated.

Eventually, I had a good idea, which like the aurora borealis, happens on occasion. The recliner for the win. Somehow, I slept as well in it as in bed. And that continues to be the case.

I read it takes twelve weeks to recover, but my doc cycling comedian friend texted this yesterday, “You can do activities as tolerated. It should start getting better about 2 weeks after the injury. It will be mostly gone by 6 to 8 weeks.”

The good news is I am way, way better already, six days in. Yesterday, I walked 1.25 miles to the gym, cycled for 30 minutes, and walked home. Just don’t ask me what kind of watts I was pushing. It’s amazing to be able to go from sitting to standing without feeling like someone is jamming a huge butcher knife right into my side. Now, it’s more of a butter knife.

So, my goal is to be back running, cycling, and lastly swimming, closer to six weeks than eight. I mean I need to be ready for the start of the Tour de France in early July. And time is wasting.

Unlike me, the white Oakley frames did not survive the crash. And for the unusually observant, energy gel in cheek, not chewing tabacco.