Careful to Not Be Careless

My dad used to call it "being all stoved up", meaning he felt stiff and sore. He'd stand after sitting for a while and moved stiffly around until his body complied with where he wanted to go. That was usually after working in out in the yard or in the garage or whatever the physical activity was, including walking the dogs and/or walking with my mom. He didn't really exercise otherwise, but after the stroke he had right after he retired from the police department in 1994, he did the best he could to take care of himself and stay active until he passed in 2012. 

I'm thinking of him because his birthday is right around the corner. He'd be 93 if he was still alive. Mercy me. I'm also thinking of him because I've got a big birthday coming up later this year and it includes the numbers 6 and 0. Mercy me, again.

My wife Amy and I are gratefully healthy and exercise regularly, and yet are both north of 50 years old. Amy, who's almost six years younger than me, is much more flexible than I am, but gets just as "stoved up" after sitting down to work for any length of time. Since we both work from home, we'll both be sitting and working away after our morning workouts, and then when my watch reminds me that it's time to stand, I can feel and hear my bones creak and pop as I do so. Same with Amy. We'll both moan and laugh, but we feel it all. 

Which is why we're careful not to overdo it when working out and careful not to trip and fall when walking or hiking. Our two teens don't play sports anymore, but they are both active. Our oldest Beatrice uses our home gym a few times a week and our youngest Bryce, well, doesn't -- but sometimes walks the dog with us at the end of the day. They'll be starting high school this year and both will be in theater and choir, so there will be some physical activity within those activities.

Our teens are still young and spry, as they should be. Amy and I are not. Healthy, though, and grateful to be so, both of us with positive and balanced body images. Balanced as in "a little fit / a little fat". In fact, Amy saw a t-shirt with that on it, and we promised we'd get one for each of us. Stay tuned for that.

Now that I'm almost 60, I want to ensure that I'll always be active and able to do the beach workouts that I do each week, or to just be able to take walks with Amy along the water or in the redwoods when I'm 90+ (and she's 84+). And to stay healthy and active for our kids and grandkids someday. Of course, you never know what could happen in life, when you're going to go, or what you might break, even just working around the house, which is why we're careful to not to be careless no matter what we're doing. 

Blessings to the old-ish folks. Stay as healthy as you can, kids. 

Feeling the Ceiling from the Bottom Up

“If you're not gonna tell the truth, then why start talking?” —Gene Wilder

And then humbly, from the mouths of babes:

"Daddy's going to die first, you know," said Beatrice.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because you're the oldest."

"Yeah," agreed Bryce.

"Daddy's going to live a long time," said the Mama.

"Yes I am."

Yes, I am. I feel great. 

Maybe it's self-deceit, feeling the proverbial ceiling of my life as I do now than ever before, primarily because of my age more than how I actually feel. And deceive ourselves we do, whether we feel good or not. My sister can attest to that, but she's thankfully a lot better today than she was just three months ago. And I feel pretty good myself after all these 50 years.

In fact, after all the millennia of evolution that helped us recognize patterns in the world that maybe kept us alive, even if the patterns didn't always play out, hence the deceiving ourselves just in case. Because if we didn't adapt quickly enough, we were dead.

This from a fascinating NPR TED Radio Hour episode all about Why We Lie. How up until the advent of written communication about 5,000 years ago, everything we shared our ancestors shared orally just disappeared in thin air. No record of truths or lies or all in between -- and the reality is a lot of us lie a little bit to ourselves and others -- all the time.

Today everything is documented all the time and that harsh fluorescent reality light shines on our lives nearly 24/7. You put something in an email or post it on Twitter and Facebook or look it up online via your browser of choice -- even if you delete it all -- the ghost of it all is fossilized forever. No take backs. Ever.

There's another form of this "written" record as well, our physical documentation, that we can never escape. That of which is inside each of us, and of what modern medicine can tell us about ourselves (or at least, tries too via tests and procedures and vast array of fantastical techno gadgetry -- even doctors self-deceive and directly deceive when they need to).

Recently I finally made time to take that magical test you take when you hit 50, the one that checks you out from the bottom up, if you know what I mean. Days before the test I joked with my wife that my bowels were having Braxton Hicks contractions. Thankfully she laughed. While the girls played nearby, we continued to discuss my pending preventative colonoscopy screening, and she asked me what I had to do to prep for the procedure.

"An all liquid diet 24 hours before and then that industrial sludge the night before. Ugh," I said.

"I know, but it'll be over before you know it," said the Mama.

"Is Daddy getting his blood taken?" asked Bryce.

"No, not exactly, Sweetie," said the Mama.

"Is he getting a shot?"

"No, not a shot. Sort of a surgical procedure."

"It's not a surgical procedure," said Daddy. "Should I tell them what it is?"

"Nope."

"But it's a horrible alien probe."

"Nope."

Sigh.

After a night of human Drano (what I drank was called GoLYTELY® -- it had a mild salt water taste), I laid on the examination table the next day under the influence of fentanyl looking inside myself on a TV monitor,  like Dennis Quaid injected into Martin Short in the old movie Interspace.

"Wow, you've got a big large intestine," said my Gastroenterologist. "Looking good so far."

"Great," I said. Big large intestine? What was that -- a double positive? 

At this point (and in that place, laying there as I was) there's no where to hide after 50 years of living, just like my knee surgery from two years ago that I watched in its entirety. Once the surgeon was inside my knee, he had to clean out loose cartilage he couldn't see in my MRI, and then drill holes in the head of my femur in order to draw blood and eventually create scar tissue, all after trimming my torn meniscus.

The body is a span of sped up geological time, with trace elements of everything ever inhaled, ingested, damaged and released internally by one precipitating factor or another, trapped forever, layer after layer, in cellular walls like hardened subatomic sediment. Although about 5 percent of adult men and women are diagnosed with colon cancer at some point in their lifetime, thankfully that wasn't something that ran in my family. Other cancers and auto-immune genetic anomalies may still lay dormant, but to date I continue to be in good shape.

So today I've gone from feeling the road as I do to feeling the ceiling from the bottom up, but the good news was that I got a A+ on my test. A big large double positive A+. Amen.

Take care of yourselves -- Dads, Moms and Kids -- and get any and all your preventative screenings when recommended. The body always tells the truth, even when we don't.

Feeling the Road as I Do

“Sing with me, sing for the years
Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears
Sing with me, just for today
Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away…”

—Aerosmith, Dream On

The San Francisco Giants overcame a 0-5 first inning deficit to ultimately beat the Los Angeles Dodgers 9-6. And we were there.

Well, at least for the first five innings we were there. At that point the score was tied up at 6-6 and the girls made it as long as they could before we headed home.

It was an amazing experience for all us – especially the girls – since it was Little League Day at AT&T Park and Santa Cruz represented well among many other Bay Area cities. Beatrice and I wore our team’s shirts and hats (the Rockies) and Bryce wore the hat and shirt from our T-ball team last year (the Reds). The Mama wore the Reds hat as well.

The Little League teams and their families got to march through the stadium before the game started. The girls were thrilled looking over the field and up at the surrounding stands.

“Where are we going to sit?” Beatrice asked as we walked along the stadium’s perimeter.

“Way up there,” the Mama and I answered, pointing to the upper deck above the third base line.

“Mama, I don’t want to sit up there,” Bryce said. “That’s too high up. I don’t want to fall.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You won’t fall. We all have seats to sit in.”

“It’s too high!”

Our parade ended and we exited the field. We then proceeded on the winding upward walk to our section. The girls ran ahead of us, energized by the ballpark and all the people and kids. The Mama and I walked behind deciding on what we wanted to eat for lunch. We rounded another bend in the walkway and fell silent.

Maybe I have another 20 years of good road ahead, I thought. Twenty healthy, productive years where I can provide for my family so that we can do things like this. The Mama probably has even longer, being five years younger than me and statistically speaking outliving me in the long run.

Maybe I’ll be able to keep running after them, at least until they’re out of the we-need-to-run-after-them phase. Maybe later on in my 70’s, 80’s and beyond, I’ll be in good health still. Maybe at some point I’ll see them start their own families if they so choose and still be able to shuffle after grandchildren. 

Maybe. God, I hope so. 

Man, what a buzz kill I am. Let’s play frickin’ ball!

The week before we had family visiting during Spring break – Amy’s Dad and Step-mom – and the girls were so excited. They couldn’t wait to show them they’re favorite toys and games and anything else they could think of in the moment.

The day before they arrived, Beatrice said, “Wait, how come they’re still alive? They’re so old.”

Beatrice is our literal inquisitor, not meaning any harm, but sometimes hitting the big-question sensitivity from out of the awkward blue.

“They’re not that old, Beatrice,” the Mama said. “They’re doing fine and will be here tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay. I can’t wait to see them!”

We all hugged and laughed and I thought, Daddy’s old getting older too, Bea. Mercy me…

Having children later in life and being older parents has never bothered me that much, only because we’ve worked hard to take care of ourselves and so far benefit from the best of our gene pools. And we both feel great. However, the imaginary infinite road we told ourselves we had throughout our 20’s, 30’s and even in our 40’s, is now gone for good.

Gone like the crushed cartilage cleaned out from my right knee when I had torn meniscus surgery nearly two years ago. I feel the difference every single time I work out, especially when I do my once-per-week beach run. It doesn’t hurt, but it’ll never be the same again either. And I certainly don’t want a complete knee replacement anytime soon (reminds my lovely physical therapist, the Mama).

Yes, I feel every inch of the finite road these days, my suspension nearly shot. And with more friends and family losing loved ones of late, mortality is a familiar tune hummed frequently to myself.

I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, although feeling the road as I do, I take nothing for granted. When even dropping the girls off at school before leaving on a business trip becomes as much as a memorable moment as walking in a Little League parade at a big league ballgame. Or when Beatrice hits the ball off the pitching machine during a Little League game and Coach Daddy’s arms fly into the air to cheer, overcoming her fear of playing. Or when Bryce shouts “winner, winner, chicken dinner!” when playing family bingo, but later on leaving poop in the toilet -- again.

All that has happened and all that is yet to be. Taking the scenic route makes it all worthwhile. The laughter and the tears. Until the Good Lord will take us away. Amen.