"The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe...to be bad." Thoreau

This post was precipitated by an atheist’s blog in which the owner said she had donated blood for the people of the U.S. Bible Belt after last week’s tornadoes. I immediately wondered why she would give blood to people who wouldn't want their sons to marry her; who wouldn’t vote for her for any office whatsoever; who would do their damnedest to shove their religion down her throat while silencing her own beliefs; and whose enthusiastic acceptance of this country’s torture of political prisoners would imply that it wouldn’t take much encouragement for them to subject people like her to a similar fate. George H. Bush surely spoke for most Americans when he said: “I don't know that atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered patriots.”

Other things that make me feel that I’m not a true citizen of the U.S. of A:

I know almost nothing about modern American music, movies, celebrities, or commercial television—and I would be embarrassed if I did.

The death of bin Laden. Aside from the fact that it’s in questionable taste to take to the streets to celebrate the death of anyone, bin Laden’s attack inspired us to: curtail our own civil liberties, waste a trillion and a half dollars, cause the deaths of 1.75 million people, and become a nation of torturers; so rather than gloat because we have at long last killed him, we should hang our heads in shame over the far greater evil that we have done.

The fact that America cares not a whit for the opinions of the cultured or the learned, but let Oprah Winfrey or Donald Trump express any opinion on anything, and you will hear of it. Only the opinions of the rich and famous matter in America.

Going to the library for a book on Thomas Paine (one of America’s most important founding fathers) and only finding two books on him versus a dozen on his shelf-mate, Sarah Palin.

The news media because it is a tool for marginalizing dissidents, and it succeeds very well indeed. I’ll give two examples from last week.

1) England’s royal wedding, strangely enough. It occupied a full third or more of the national news all week despite that fact that 328 Americans were killed and major portions of many towns were destroyed by tornadoes. If the news is to be believed, the whole country was absolutely gaga over that wedding.

2) A local cop’s funeral last week during which a 1,000-vehicle procession proceeded up and down the streets of the city for two solid hours creating major traffic jams. Surely I’m not the only one who thought the hype, the in-your-face machismo, and the unwarranted favoritism (others who die while serving the public good are not so honored), was absurd, yet you would never have suspected it from watching the local news.

Almost everything my government does. It’s as if the people who are running this country are hell-bent on its speedy destruction, and the voters are behind them all the way. I stand aghast at the way this country is run, not just sometimes, but all the time.

The myths that Americans hold about this country. For example: that we’re uniquely favored by god to be the pre-eminent nation on earth; that the free world loves us for protecting it; that we are a moral example to other nations; that everything about America is the best in the world; and that other nations are either completely for us or completely against us, with the latter being on the side of evil.

America is so in love with size and convenience that we ignore the most basic means of protecting the environment even when they would save us money. For example, recycling, composting, reusable shopping bags, fuel-efficient vehicles, public transit, minimal product packaging, and smaller homes on smaller lots. We’re betting this country’s future on the hope that advancing technology will make it possible for us to be wasteful forever, yet we give very little funding to developing that technology.

Our entire economy is built on permanent growth (i.e. more goods for more people forever), yet permanent growth is unsustainable. This is not a fact that Americans can acknowledge simply because Americans are obsessed with owning things. (We call it “retail therapy,” and our national motto is “Shop ‘til you drop.”) I would even suggest that we have basically two religions in this country. The most popular by far is consumerism, and its distant second is Christianity, yet this is not the order we acknowledge. Because I embrace neither, it’s as if I’m in a constant state of pissing on the flag, which, come to think of it, I am—I speak of what the nation has become rather than the ideals upon which it was founded.

In fact, the two things that I hate most in this world are the United States of America and Christianity, because while there are worse things, these are the two that are in my face everyday. Yet, the world’s best hope isn’t that my greedy, arrogant, wasteful, bankrupt, and warmongering nation collapses but that it evolves. I fear that the first is all but certain, and the second all but fanciful. I say this because America shows no signs of changing its ways despite the fact that it is very nearly eyeball to eyeball with destruction. To hell with future generations and even the earth itself, Americans want what they want, and they want it now.

I’m glad I’m practiced in misery

The day after I last wrote, my pain level went through the roof and has stayed there, prompting me to take a phenomenal number of sleeping pills and narcotics. The worse case scenario would be that I tore the tendon that had to be temporarily detached during surgery in order to reach the joint. This fear of re-tearing tendons is a major stressor that goes on for months following shoulder surgery. I’ll give the pain two more days before I call the doctor.

Fortunately, pain doesn’t get me down as bad as it once did. I well remember the days when I would sit in my recliner (I had to sleep in a recliner in order to sleep at all) in the wee hours and worry that if the pain got any worse, I would become hysterical. As you might imagine, that fear was harder to survive than the pain itself. Now, that I have a long record of survival, I can reassure myself that it’s unlikely that anything like that will happen.

Another interesting aspect (interesting to me, anyway) of all that I’ve been through is that it has probably left me less depressed than I’ve been in years. I certainly experience anger, fear, and sadness, but not ongoing depression. During the London Blitz, psychologists found that the depression rate of Londoners actually went down as their city collapsed around them. Obviously, that was a very different situation than my own, yet one commonality might be that pain and fear trump depression. After all, depression requires reflection, and reflection requires that one’s basic needs be realized.

Even among WWII concentration camp survivors, there appeared to be little clinical depression, presumably because the people were too busy surviving fear, sickness, overwork, exposure, and starvation, to ponder their deeper feelings. So it was that the suicide rate appeared to go up after liberation when the former inmates had sufficient comfort and leisure to consider the meaning of what they had suffered, and to mourn for what they had lost in terms of family, friends, wealth, and opportunity.

The UPS and DOWNS of chronic pain

I just came from the doctor, and he and I agreed that things are going splendidly following my shoulder replacement twelve days ago. This could mean that I’m one surgery away from being relatively pain free. Why, then, do I feel sadder than I’ve felt in a long time. To try to understand, I wrote “The UPS and DOWNS of chronic pain.”

THE UP: People will give you a lot of sympathy. THE DOWN: Sympathy has the shelf-life of bananas.

THE UP: You find out who your friends are. THE DOWN: You discover that you don’t have many.

THE UP: You will find friends among other people who suffer. THE DOWN: You wonder if you will still be friends if one or both of you stops suffering.

THE UP: You’re excused from making a lot of the difficult decisions about life that normal people make. THE DOWN: You don’t get the rewards that come from those decisions.

THE UP: You get to take a lot of drugs that have the power to make you feel pretty good at times. THE DOWN: If you’re in a lot of pain, you can hardly tell you took them, and in no time at all, you will have to take enough drugs to kill a normal person in order to feel even a little high.

THE UP: You always have something to talk about. THE DOWN: People don’t want to hear it.

THE UP: Pain is a school that teaches you that you’re tougher than you ever imagined. THE DOWN: The tuition is outrageous.

THE UP: You don’t have the energy or the desire to create a social face. THE DOWN: Your newfound honesty will often look like irascibility to everyone else.

THE UP: You accumulate an impressive store of medical knowledge about obscure conditions and treatments. THE DOWN: No one gives a damn.

THE UP: Against all odds, you are buoyed along by hope for a brighter tomorrow. THE DOWN: Like a sandcastle on the beach, your hope has to be rebuilt twice a day.

THE UP: No one can tell by looking at you how much pain you’re in. THE DOWN: Even when you try your best to describe it, no words are adequate.

THE UP: Your family will insist that you’re not a burden. THE DOWN: You know they’re lying.

THE UP: If nothing else stops the pain, there’s always death—if not now, then someday. THE DOWN: A life spent looking forward to death isn’t much of a life.

THE UP: Someday, you really might get past the pain, and then you will enter into a land “in which all things are made new.” THE DOWN: You will discover that this new land comes with a whole set of new problems.

In summary, even if I escape this pain, I know from within my own body how vulnerable I am, and how hard—if not impossible—it is to fix some things. How, then, can I ever live without fear, and how can I ever live without guilt that I don’t suffer when so many others do? My first real peer support was from Michelle at http://thesmallgodsshallbemyjudge.blogspot.com and Twinkle at http://elysianreveries.blogspot.com. Michelle will probably always hurt and has been near death a few times, and Twinkle is now in so much pain that she seldom writes anymore. For me to feel good when they cannot is to betray them.

Today, I heard on the news about the street fighting in Syria. Those who are wounded are afraid to go to the hospital because the police can pick them up there and murder them. They are therefore taken to private homes where they lie in agony in a city without water or electricity. Then there are the women in Africa who are shunned because of pregnancy-related incontinence; there are the abandoned pets that whimper in cages at the pound; there are the beasts of the forest that face starvation when they grow old; there are the women who are sold into sexual slavery; and there are the children who are forced to grow up in violent homes and on violent streets. So much suffering! So much suffering!

Please don’t think for a moment that I imagine myself to have risen to some exalted position from which I KNOW pain because ALL I can ever say is that I know what I have experienced, and whether by some imaginary measuring stick, it has been a little or a lot, it has been sufficient to change me, and, at this moment anyway, I just wish I could go back to the way my life used to be, because I don’t feel refined, and I don’t feel enlightened; I just feel broken, and I don’t think I will ever feel whole again.

On surviving yet again

Miscellaneous experiences and reflections

Three shoulder surgeries in 25 months. If you don’t think that sounds like fun, you really ought to try it sometime. This was my first joint replacement though, and recovery should be easier because less soft tissue was involved, and it’s soft tissue that takes forever to heal.

I remember getting a nerve block just before they rolled me into the O.R. at 7:30 Friday morning, but the O.R. anesthesiologist must have cold-cocked me the minute I arrived because I don’t remember anything after my gurney hit the swinging doors. I don’t even remember waking up in recovery or being rolled upstairs to my room.

Because I’ve lived on narcotics for so long, they no longer work well, so my first night in the hospital was hell. I had a PCA (Patient Controlled Anesthesia) pump that injected a xylocaine-like drug into my neck, but when the main block wore off in the middle of the night, the PCA didn’t touch my pain, so I was given intravenous morphine, Dilaudid, and oxycodone, all within ninety minutes and all without effect. Nurse Jen then called Mark (my surgeon) and he told her to double the Dilaudid, but even that didn’t help.

Jen then said “I don’t mind waking doctors up in the middle of the night, so if you think of something else that might help your pain, you tell me.” It soon hit me that I needed Neurontin along with the Dilaudid, so Nurse Jen woke Mark up a second time and got me a prescription for 900 mgs of Neurontin, and the two drugs together enabled me to sleep three hours for a two night total of seven hours. (Mark hates the drug, and he knows that I know this, so I laughed about him being awakened in the middle of the night to prescribe it.) As you might imagine, Saturday sucked, yet if I hadn’t suggested the Neurontin, no one else would have thought of it, and I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep.

Thirty-six hours after surgery, I could barely walk 200 feet, and I needed Peggy’s assistance to go that far. Twenty hours later, I came home and walked 2,000 feet all by myself. Today—three days post-op, I walked a mile.

I won’t take a medicine unless I know what it’s for, and this meant that I sometimes turned down medicines while I was in the hospital. If I asked a nurse what XXX was for, and she said, “I don’t know, but it’s on your schedule, so you need to take it,” I didn’t take it.

After I was put into a room, I was surrounded by seven machines of one kind or another, and I was hooked up to four of them around the clock. I literally couldn’t stand up to use my urinal without a lot of wires and tubes becoming entangled. Also, some of these machines had alarms that kept going off for no good reason. I finally insisted that the worst offender be disconnected, and after three hours of serious bitching on my part, it was.

My main physical therapist was an Aussie guy who didn't want to talk about anything but his diabetes and his desire to move back to Australia for the government run healthcare. I kept thinking: “I wish you were there now, dude; I wish you were there now.” If I had it to do over I would have asked for another therapist, but all it takes is a moment of weakness, and some selfish bastard will steamroll you every time. I’ll still complain about him, but doing so after the fact will be less satisfying.

I think that most nurses and doctors respect a patient more—and treat him better—when he’s not mindlessly compliant. As for the ones who are bothered by it, I assume they’re on a power trip, or else they’re so lazy that they resent being forced to actually think for a change.

I had my yearly physical just before my surgery, and, just for the hell of it, I called my internist “Doctor Kirk” (Kirk is his first name). I hadn’t called him by his title since I started going to him 21 years ago, and he looked flabbergasted. I interpret an insistence on being addressed by a title as indicative of a need to have people brown-nose you, so I guess it’s just as well that I’ll never meet the queen.

The anesthesiologist who performed my nerve block was so concerned because I’m “not narcotic naïve” (meaning that I take a lot of narcotics) that he came by twice on his days off to check on my pain level. I wanted to leap out of bed and kiss him. Doctors like that are to die for.

I’m pretty sure that a nurse stole some of my Dilaudid, but I believe you should be 99% sure before you formally complain about such a thing, and I was only at 98.5% (although I did mention my suspicions to her).

I’m sure that some of you wonder if I’m ever tempted to pray given that I’m in chronic pain and have had numerous surgeries. No, I’m not. When someone tells me that their oncologist had “given up” on their Aunt Matilda, but that god dropped by and healed her cancer, I think about how much more impressed I would be had god re-grown her missing leg, or eye—or even her missing toenail. Funny how religious people only pray for things that might happen anyway. Why is this, religious people? Why not ask god to raise the dead or at least re-grow teeth? I mean, jeez, how difficult could a bicuspid be?

Finally—and for the hundredth time—allow me to warn you against ever allowing yourself to be intimidated by a lot of diplomas and certificates, or by a bigger than life personality. I promise you, you will occasionally have an idea that is so brilliant yet so seemingly obvious that you will be appalled that the experts overlooked it. Yet, they did because even the most brilliant, caring, and educated people suffer from the all too human tendency of falling into a rut.