Category Archives: health

Hemet To Fallbrook

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Today’s ride, 59.6 miles with 4,847′ of climbing was surprisingly easy. I was barely pressing down on the pedal and going uphill faster than ever. Maybe because I switched out my whip.

There are 11 of us and so we take turns driving one half of one of the six days. Lucas was the person who got double duty, so me, being my incredibly selfless self, offered to drive both my assigned pre-lunch shift and his post-ride one. Because Lucas is a real athlete, and not an impostor, he gladly accepted.

Halfway today, I ate my second breakfast outside at a sun-drenched Temecula cafe.

Eventually, Chucky Chuck, Marky Mark, and Lindy Linda rolled in and I sat with them while they ate. Marky Mark, who didn’t like his heart rate and how he felt during the first half road shotgun with me into Fallbrook. He told a great story about nearly strangling a guy who hit him while he was cycling in China. Who knew MM is a cold blooded almost killer?!

Alternative title of this post. And On The Fifth Day He Rested. Not much of a cyclist and definitely not much of an Old Testament scholar.

For anyone needing Strava inspiration today, my friend, DanDantheTranspoMan, might mow his lawn. He’s a great guy and a hell of a follow.

Tomorrow, lots of Pacific Ocean bike path. The pro triathletes are in town for the biggest race of the early season. I will be so rested you might see me slowly pass Lionel Sanders. Or maybe the pass will be fast.

Postscript. Sanders is not racing. Chickenshit.

Borrego Springs to Palm Desert

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Hot damn kids, real internet today. Now, the only problem is your intrepid reporter is completely shelled. Not enough strength in my fingers to type much.

Ride report could be titled “Teamwork Makes the Dreamwork”. The first half of today’s ride felt like a ride through the set of Breaking Bad. I was half expecting to see Walter’s and Jesse’s RV around every bend. And I coulda used some cocaine!

Once we hit the highway, the Bay Area Boyz drilled it. All. The. Way. In. They make them tough in NorCal. When Griffin was repairing a flat, Blair told me he once did 300 miles in 20 hours. LOL. If it wasn’t for the BABs, I would’ve ended up as half-melted roadkill. Massive pull after pull that Griffin and I took full advantage of all morning.

It was in the mid-90s at the finish.

Dunno if I can recover in 18 hours. Probs need more like 18 days.

And so it goes.

The Michiganders check out a desert dragon.
Frickin’ Griffin. The King of Flats.
Drug of choice. Shoot that potassium straight into my veins.

Paragraph To Ponder

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Meanwhile, back at home, the War President declares the affordability crisis is over.

Jessica Grose writing in the New York Times:

“On Thursday, a woman named Sharon from Minnesota called into C-SPAN’s ‘open forum’ to express her despair about the cost of living. ‘I’m 65 years old. I’m legally blind. I’m on disability. I went to my doc, and I lost 28 pounds in the last year. I did not need to lose 28 pounds. I did not try to lose 28 pounds. I lost the 28 pounds because I cannot afford to eat anymore,’ Sharon explained, speaking clearly even though she sounded near tears. Because of Trump administration cuts to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, and the high cost of groceries, gas and electricity, Sharon only allows herself $65 a month for food.”

Sign-Holding As Therapy

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Everyone once in awhile, a reader enlightens me. This especially poignant example is from Richie, who I had the privilege of teaching and playing noon basketball with in Greensboro, NC back in the day. If Richie was just a little taller he would’ve been an NBA point guard instead of a distinguished social scientist/author.

“I have gone to the big protests (Hands Off, No Kings, with casts of thousands), and now for many months I have been spending Tuesdays, from 12-1, with a group of 20-30 protesters, at an intersection in Friendly Shopping Center, outside Senator Thom Tillis’ Greensboro office.  We all hold signs, some of which are easily read as people drive by, especially when they have to stop for the light, and some of which may not be so easy to read depending on how much text there is, and how fast the car or truck is going.    On a typical day,  many drivers honk their horns in support, many give thumbs up, and some roll down their windows and thank us for being there.  For every 20-25 such indications of support, there will be one person who gives us the finger, or thumbs  down, or yells at us to “get a life” (at which point I usually remark to whoever is standing near me that they used to yell ” get a haircut”j.

     Some of my fellow protesters — mostly but not all, older, mostly white — go to another protest on Thursdays, on Wendover, on a bridge over the road,  where it is probably harder to read the signs, and no one stops to converse.

     I doubt that the weekly protests, or even the big Hands Off or No Kings protests, change people’s minds.  Rather I think they remind people,  including politicians, that many Americans (and, today, people attending the Olympics)  are outraged by what is going on.  They remind people who do not like what is happening that they are not alone, even in the reddest of states.  For me personally, I rarely think I am changing anyone’s mind.  Mainly I consider it a form of therapy.  It.makes me feel better, that I am not just phoning our awful Senators and congresspeople (which I sometimes do), or giving money to causes that I support, but doing something that might in a small way contribute to the extensive evidence that people are horrified at who we have become.”

It’s Happened

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A large part of the rationale for the move to the Adult Family Home three months ago was that I could recover, and therefore Lynn and I could heal and get in sync, and spend whatever time is left as positively and peacefully as possible.

I am not in a good place, but a much better one. Way, way less stress. FuFu, Alison, and Jeanette, among many others, have saved me.

As a result, for the last two months, Lynn and I have enjoyed my visits. We look at photo albums. We listen to music. I tell her about my day. We loop the hood.

Most of all, we touch. I hold her hands and massage her calves. She hugs me tightly as if she’s not going to let go. We press our foreheads against each other. I caress her head as she falls asleep. We kiss.

It’s how we communicate.

I’ve never partnered with someone who is dying, so I’m improvising. All the time. What to say?

Last week I kneeled on the floor next to her hospice bed as she cried before napping. I told her I loved her and that she was okay, which of course, was untrue. Then I told her how sorry I was for what she’s experiencing. And that she’s been fighting it every minute she’s been awake for a few years and that was why she was completely exhausted. And that I wanted her to Rest even if that meant being alone. I told her how much I am going to miss her. More tears.

Then I told her she wasn’t alone and wouldn’t be alone. That she is bearing the fruit of having built such a caring and loving family.

We have had a much more intense relationship than you would probably guess. Intensely good most of the time, intensely bad some of the time.

I told her I was skimming an old Apple Note I wrote from when we were in marriage counseling five or six years ago. And how my one regret is all the time we wasted being mad at each other. I asked her to forgive me for being so stubborn and selfish. More tears.

I suspect she wanted to say something similar, but I was okay with her not being able to because I wanted to take most of the responsibility for our epic, sporadic struggles.

Even though we wanted to at times, I told her we never quit, and that was something.

In hindsight, we probably wasted 10% of our time together being too mad at each other to thoughtfully interact. Even though we learned to repair things, 10% of 38 years is almost four years! What we would do to have four years back.

More than Lynn, I accepted that we were never going to coast conflict free like some couples seemingly do. That the heartache was part and parcel of the intense intimacy. Again, in hindsight though, I wish we had far fewer, less intense conflicts. Fewer days where we couldn’t even talk to one another.

My unsolicited advice. Don’t take whatever committed relationships you’re in for granted. Be as proactive as you can. Trust one another enough to talk about what lies below the surface so that resentments don’t build up. Learn to listen and get more comfortable probing your partners’ feelings. If possible, by yourself, or together, enlist the help of a professional to learn to have fewer, less intense conflicts.*

Most of all, don’t assume you have many years and decades left, because you may not.

*LOL, I’m gonna get slammed for that wee bit of hypocrisy. :)

Localism Is The Answer

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Increasingly, it’s obvious that the more “plugged in” to the news, the more “on-line” one is, the worse their physical/mental/spiritual well-being because media algorithms know that outrage is the surest way to attract and keep eyeballs, and thereby sell advertising. As a result, outlandish opinions dominate. And once you and I are sufficiently outraged, we can’t unplug.

So if you and I want to maintain whatever sanity we have, we should intentionally tune out the news. Learn to leave our phones behind on occasion. Step away from our keyboards. Not watch as much t.v., or more likely, stream television clips.

Ignorance may in fact be bliss, but it also empowers those in power, because the more uninformed people are, and the more apathetic, the more free elected officials are to do as they please.

So what are we to do? Localism is the answer. Or a variation of the popular phrase that you no doubt remember, “Think globally, act locally.” Instead, maybe we should, “Think locally and act locally.” I’m advocating for a type of grassroots accountability, starting with ourselves and then branching out to where we live, trusting that if we do right by those we’re in closest relationship with, our county, state, country, and world will be okay in the long run.

So, in this way of thinking, we don’t get embroiled in fighting about national policies or current events. Instead, we recognize that our attention and energy are finite; consequently, we focus on being better partners, parents, and friends to those we live with, next to, and near. We go to the farmers’ market and initiate conversations with those closest to us.

Recently, someone, on-line ironically, asked a great question that gets to the heart of localism. They asked, “Do you know the name of the person that delivers your mail?”

I don’t. Why? Because I’m usually on my computer when she visits each morning.

Clearly, I have a ways to go.

On Dying

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Great title, Ron. What’s the opposite of clickbait?

The rollercoaster that is living with and caring for someone with Multiple Systems Atrophy careened down to the bottom of the track Tuesday late afternoon/early evening. Lynn’s body shut down. And I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. This was late into a long two-day stretch without our normal a.m. help. So I wasn’t in a good place, and Lynn, of course, was in a much worser one.

Then the 5p meds and my amazing dinner kicked in and she bounced back enough to ask, “What would you do?” And so, I told her.

“I’d probably give up. It’s hard to know for sure, but yeah, I might throw in the towel and let nature run its course. You’re way tougher than me. Which is kinda ironic isn’t it, since I often said you were too damn delicate? Yeah, in the end, you turned out to be way tougher than me. Maybe I have some Erwin Byrnes in me.”

Then I told her that a not inconsequential subset of people on the MSA listserv choose death with dignity or they voluntarily stop eating and drinking. Because they want to assert some modicum of control over the downward spiral.

In the past, after reflecting on her mom’s decision to stop eating and drinking in her final two weeks, she’s said she’d do the same someday. That time is not now, but her will to live isn’t what it appears on the surface when she flashes her golden smile. Her will to live is gradually flagging. Hence her question, “What would you do?”

Last night J asked her if she enjoyed visiting with her college roommates online and she surprised J by saying, “Not really.” Having eavesdropped on the conversation, I intuitively knew why. Because she will not be giving a toast at either of her daughters’ weddings. And she will not be traveling anywhere. The roommate’s normal catching up was a painful reminder of things lost and how her world keeps getting smaller and smaller. Of course, they didn’t intend for that, and they didn’t realize it because of . . . the golden smile.

Lynn’s question, “What would you do?” prompted me to think even more deeply about her daily life. Yes, I am a complete mess right now, but I’m going to get better. And I’m going to renew my passport next year, and I’m going to catch up with you hopefully, and add lots of events to my calendar that I’ll look forward to. I am bullish on the future.

What does Lynn have to look forward to? Or maybe, more immediately, what brings her joy? Me, especially when I’m okay enough to joke around. The labradude appearing suddenly under the wheelchair. Picking dead leaves off the tomato plants. SchittsCreek with the hijas. Saturday lunch with the gfriends. Always, Saturday lunch.

For me, I don’t know if that would be enough. If I was her, I’d feel almost entirely like a spectator of others’ lives, not an active participant. I’m not sure I’d feel enough purpose to keep fighting through all of the adversity. To be so damn dependent upon everyone for everything. Again, she’s starting to wonder if it’s enough too.

Whether to passively live as long as possible or more actively speed up the dying process a little or a lot is a deeply personal question upon which reasonable people disagree.

One thing I know for sure however, is that everyone who is dying slowly, should get to decide for themselves what to do, if anything, without any outside pressure. That’s why I keep telling Lynn my probable throwing in of the towel doesn’t matter. That she gets to decide how to live out her ninth inning. Which is one important factor in the move to an adult family home. She will be cared for by pros, not a shattered, amateur, impostor of a caregiver.

In saying I’d prob let nature run its course, I also shared my way of thinking about death which took shape following my dad’s sudden death when I was 33. At first, I was mad at the world that I’d never get to find out where our newly evolving friendship was headed. That he didn’t get to hold Jeanette. That so much promise was cut unfairly short. Then, somehow, I consciously pivoted to celebrating our nascent friendship and all the positive memories I had of him growing up.  

My intentional approach is “choose to celebrate” all the positive memories instead of being eternally upset that the movie cut off before the ideal end.

I told Lynn not everyone lives 64 years. And not many people have as fulfilling a 40 years (38 married) as we’ve enjoyed. I told her that, eventually, I will be okay, largely because of all the positive memories we made. She seemed receptive to my quirky thinking, but I can’t be entirely sure. Equally possible, she thought, “How did I get stuck with a bonafide whacko?”

I just don’t think we can do both simultaneously, we have to choose one or the other. I choose to celebrate. Is it a panacea for softening the blow of loss? Does it speed up the grieving process? No and probably not. Is it better than the alternative? Of being mad at the world? Of staying mad at it? Most definitely.