…Nineteen years, that is, since my double-lung transplant at
the wondrous Cleveland Clinic (technically, I won’t hit nineteen years until
August 26th. Unless I step into an open manhole, I should make it.)*
My visit last weekend was both medical and pleasure. Besides
my yearly checkup, I spent the weekend with my best friend Steve and his wife,
Dede. Steve and I have been best friends since our first day of high school way,
way, way back in the Nixon administration.**
My checkup was blissfully routine—my vital signs, breathing
tests, chest x-ray and bloodwork were all unremarkable, which is remarkable.
I’m a lucky man. I sat next to a woman in the lab waiting area and, as is my
habit, nosily asked her, “Did you have a transplant?”
“Yes, lung, on April first,” she said. “Did you?”
It feels so great in situations like that to say, “Yes, in
2004.”*** I like to think laying that ancient date on patients like her gives
them a renewed feeling of hope and possibility. She asked me if I ever get used
to all of the medications. I told her yes. The whole routine has become
routine for me and it will for her.
Then, amazingly, waiting for breathing tests on the ninth
floor, I ran into anotherwoman who had her transplant on April
21st, and an almost identical conversation ensued. It felt great
being an elder statesman of the transplant community.
The survival statistics say, sadly, that one of those women
won’t make her sixth year anniversary. But nobody knows what the future has in
store for them, or me, or any of us. Carpe diem!
* Don't put it past me
** Nixon seemed, then, to be the worst president imaginable. How naïve we were.
*** W seemed, then, to be the worst president imaginable. How naïve we were.
Many years ago there was an Emperor so exceedingly fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on being well dressed. He cared nothing about reviewing his soldiers, going to the theatre, or going for a ride in his carriage, except to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, "The King's in council," here they always said. "The Emperor's in his dressing room."
In the great city where he lived, life was always gay. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two swindlers. They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most magnificent fabrics imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine, but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid.
"Those would be just the clothes for me," thought the Emperor. "If I wore them I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away." He paid the two swindlers a large sum of money to start work at once.
They set up two looms and pretended to weave, though there was nothing on the looms. All the finest silk and the purest old thread which they demanded went into their traveling bags, while they worked the empty looms far into the night.
"I'd like to know how those weavers are getting on with the cloth," the Emperor thought, but he felt slightly uncomfortable when he remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the fabric. It couldn't have been that he doubted himself, yet he thought he'd rather send someone else to see how things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth's peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how stupid their neighbors were.
"I'll send my honest old minister to the weavers," the Emperor decided. "He'll be the best one to tell me how the material looks, for he's a sensible man and no one does his duty better."
So the honest old minister went to the room where the two swindlers sat working away at their empty looms.
"Heaven help me," he thought as his eyes flew wide open, "I can't see anything at all". But he did not say so.
Both the swindlers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty looms, and the poor old minister stared as hard as he dared. He couldn't see anything, because there was nothing to see. "Heaven have mercy," he thought. "Can it be that I'm a fool? I'd have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the minister? It would never do to let on that I can't see the cloth."
"Don't hesitate to tell us what you think of it," said one of the weavers.
"Oh, it's beautiful -it's enchanting." The old minister peered through his spectacles. "Such a pattern, what colors!" I'll be sure to tell the Emperor how delighted I am with it."
"We're pleased to hear that," the swindlers said. They proceeded to name all the colors and to explain the intricate pattern. The old minister paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to the Emperor. And so he did.
The swindlers at once asked for more money, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weaving. But it all went into their pockets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weaving as hard as ever.
The Emperor presently sent another trustworthy official to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the minister. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the looms he couldn't see anything.
"Isn't it a beautiful piece of goods?" the swindlers asked him, as they displayed and described their imaginary pattern.
"I know I'm not stupid," the man thought, "so it must be that I'm unworthy of my good office. That's strange. I mustn't let anyone find it out, though." So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the exquisite pattern. To the Emperor he said, "It held me spellbound."
All the town was talking of this splendid cloth, and the Emperor wanted to see it for himself while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of chosen men, among whom were his two old trusted officials-the ones who had been to the weavers-he set out to see the two swindlers. He found them weaving with might and main, but without a thread in their looms.
"Magnificent," said the two officials already duped. "Just look, Your Majesty, what colors! What a design!" They pointed to the empty looms, each supposing that the others could see the stuff.
"What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I can't see anything. This is terrible!
Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the Emperor? What a thing to happen to me of all people! - Oh! It's very pretty," he said. "It has my highest approval." And he nodded approbation at the empty loom. Nothing could make him say that he couldn't see anything.
His whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined the Emperor in exclaiming, "Oh! It's very pretty," and they advised him to wear clothes made of this wonderful cloth especially for the great procession he was soon to lead. "Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!" were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. The Emperor gave each of the swindlers a cross to wear in his buttonhole, and the title of "Sir Weaver."
Before the procession the swindlers sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing the Emperor's new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scissors. And at last they said, "Now the Emperor's new clothes are ready for him."
Then the Emperor himself came with his noblest noblemen, and the swindlers each raised an arm as if they were holding something. They said, "These are the trousers, here's the coat, and this is the mantle," naming each garment. "All of them are as light as a spider web. One would almost think he had nothing on, but that's what makes them so fine."
"Exactly," all the noblemen agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see.
"If Your Imperial Majesty will condescend to take your clothes off," said the swindlers, "we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror."
The Emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put his new clothes on him, one garment after another. They took him around the waist and seemed to be fastening something - that was his train-as the Emperor turned round and round before the looking glass.
"How well Your Majesty's new clothes look. Aren't they becoming!" He heard on all sides, "That pattern, so perfect! Those colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent outfit."
Then the minister of public processions announced: "Your Majesty's canopy is waiting outside."
"Well, I'm supposed to be ready," the Emperor said, and turned again for one last look in the mirror. "It is a remarkable fit, isn't it?" He seemed to regard his costume with the greatest interest.
The noblemen who were to carry his train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up his mantle. Then they pretended to lift and hold it high. They didn't dare admit they had nothing to hold.
So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, "Oh, how fine are the Emperor's new clothes! Don't they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!" Nobody would confess that he couldn't see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.
"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.
"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."
"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.
The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.
Moral of the story--if someone tells you and shows you what they are, believe them.
Especially when they do it over and over and over.
Song of the Week: Two songs, since I didn't post anything last week:
What so Never the Dance, Parts 1 & 2--Houseguests. Try to get that five note refrain out of your head afterward.
I was
driving home from work the other day, stopped at the corner of Oak and James
Streets. A late model Nissan waited ahead of me at the light, and as it
changed and they drove away, the passenger tossed what looked to be a snack-size
potato chip bag out the window. It fluttered to the ground as they drove away.
Big deal,
right? Look at the trash you see on the streets all the time. I see these everywhere
for some reason:
Why are people flossing their teeth on the street? What’s next, cutting their toenails, or using a Ped-Egg?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vp6trGdGDsg
(I think we can all agree, yum!)
And if I could resell all the masks I see, I'd be a rich man:
But that potato chip bag made me mad, and sad. What goes
through a person’s mind when they use the planet as a trash can? Look, I’m no
Pollyanna, and there are worse things people do, and do to each other.
Don’t litter. And don’t floss your
teeth on the street. I don’t want to get hit with a flying piece of your burrito.
And, for the love of God, use your Ped-Egg behind closed doors.
Song of the...Week: (I've been calling it "Song of the Day" but since I only post once a week)...
I joined Facebook this week. I’m not really the last holdout, but I'll bet I’m close. I actually did join a few years ago, and to show you how serious I was about it, this was my profile photo*:
I signed on and immediately was swarmed, like a hive of angry murder hornets, with people who were clamoring to be my friend. I panicked, signed off and deleted my account. I batted away all entreaties to rejoin from friends until this week. I have an ulterior motive, of course. I'm writing a book, Tougher Than the Rest, a fictionalized version of my life, centered around the time leading up to my double lung transplant**
I wanted to promote the book, so I figured Facebook was the way to go. I signed on and quickly made a bunch of new friends and reacquainted myself with some old ones. Cool.
I did post the first five pages of Tougher... and received some nice comments. On the advice of a friend, I tagged about nine friends to alert them to the post. Facebook quickly flagged that egregious behavior with "Your comment goes against our Community Standards so only you can see it."
Facebook asked ne if I disagreed with the decision and I said no, although I wished I could have said "Fuck no."
An hour or so later, my stepsister sent me a message saying she enjoyed the post, and ended with "Love you." I sent her a message that said, "Love you too," which was flagged with (see above).I disagreed with that, too.
My friend Carl saw a post recently that said, "I can't wait for Joe Biden to die," which did not violate community standards. Maybe I'll send a post that says, "I love Joe Biden," just to see what happens.
I don't think I'm long for Facebook.
Addendum: This racist, misogynist, incendiary, hateful, and overall dickish comment was flagged by Facebook. It was the answer to a nice message from a friend about my writing:
* For you kids out there, that's the famous mugshot of JFK assassin Lee Harvey Oswald, not really me.
** If you regular readers of The Ego Has Landed are sick of hearing about the book, try to imagine how sick of talking about it I am.
Song of the Day: Roger Clyne was a member of the Refreshments, who were responsible for the theme to King of the Hill, the greatest TV theme of all time. This is from their album, Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy.
I’ve been kicking it old school*
with my transplant-related diabetes for going on nineteen years. I’m type 1, which
means I’m insulin-dependent. That has required me to check my glucose levels by
pricking my various fingers about twenty-seven-thousand times** over the
years. Yes, ouch. High glucose readings (generally, above 180) usually mean I
need to compensate for my pancreatic insufficiency by injecting insulin. Despite
how onerous it all sounded back in 2004, I got the hang of it fairly quickly.
My A1C, a measurement of average blood sugar over a three month span, has mostly
remained under 7%, the generally accepted baseline for diabetes. I consider myself both lucky and proud.
I saw my endocrinologist today and
he gently suggested, for the fourth or fifth straight visit, that I join the 21st
century (my words) and graduate from all that finger stickin’ to a Dexcom G7 Continuous
Glucose Monitor. A GCM, a sensor that is a disc about the size of a quarter, attaches
to my belly with a plastic applicator and, through apparently some sort of witchcraft,
sends continuous glucose readings to my phone. Each sensor lasts for ten days, and then you just
pop it off and attach another. How can you beat that, right?
Well, mostly. The problem isn’t with
the GCM, which works very well. The problem is with the delivery system. Each new
sensor comes packaged inside the applicator and after the sensor is applied,
Dexcom says on their website, “throw out the sensor and applicator
following local guidelines biohazard waste.” That big hunk of plastic, the size
of a urine sample cup?*** I was so disappointed to find that to be the case, that
there isn’t a program to return those for sterilization and reuse. This world
is drowning in plastic, and more than ten million Americans tossing out those
cups every ten days, well…
I tried emailing Dexcom to discuss
this subject. If they answer I’ll tell you what they said.
* The first and last time I will ever use that expression.
** I did the math.
*** See?
Song of the Day: Mike Campbell, from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and his new band, the Dirty Knobs. They already have a second album, but this is the title track from their first. Kinda like Tom Petty meets the Stones.:
On August 28th,
1990, my friend and coworker Daina told me some new guy was starting work that
day. "His name is Carl Cafarelli, and you're gonna love him. He's so funny
and he loves music as much as you do," she told me.
Two understatements.
Daina introduced me to Carl, and I said, "Too bad about Stevie Ray,
huh?" (Stevie Ray Vaughan was killed in a helicopter crash the previous
evening.)
And Carl said, the very first thing he ever said to me,
"That's what he gets for flying LaBamba Airlines."
As he likes to say, "You gotta be quick!"
The very swell 443 Social Club on Burnet Avenue in Syracuse last night
held, as Carl put it, "the world's loudest book release party in recent
memory" to celebrate his very swell new book, Gabba Gabba Hey! A Conversation
With the Ramones. His book isavailable locally and also directly from Rare Bird Records.
The "loudest" part was provided by
Perilous, a band featuring members of "regional superstars, The Trend,
Pauline and the Perils, Hurtin' Units, and Screaming Meemies” as well as former
and current Flashcube Paul Armstrong's Boston-based band 1.4.5. Earplugs were
available but were no match for the sonic (and excellent) assault from both
bands.
Carl read a few excerpts from the book and then ended the evening by, no
doubt, fulfilling a lifelong dream as he, backed by 1.4.5, sang "Rockaway Beach.”
Song of the Day: (This is where Carl's video would go if I weren't sixty-six years old and knew how to imbed it), The original will have to do:
The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame announced thirteen new members this week, and I felt very old reading the list (that's because I am old.*) I applauded the choices of Link Wray (why did it take so long?) and the Spinners (ditto) but was mystified by some others because (*see above).
I am accustomed to the angry and bitter tenor in the weeks that precede the announcement of new members to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Baseball fans are, to use the technical term, lunatics. Often, all that teeth-gnashing leads to exactly zero inductees. The (possibly) best player of all time, Barry Bonds and the (possibly) best pitcher, Roger Clemens, are essentially banned by the writers over suspicion of steroid use (the suspicions are very likely true, but without absolute proof, how do you leave them out?)
Sorry for the digression. This was supposed to be about the Rock Hall. Anyway, I was saddened that, nearly twenty years after his death, Warren Zevon was once again passed over. He had a long and critically acclaimed career, with the commercial highlight his 1978 album, Excitable Boy. That album featured the FM smash, "Werewolves of London," and other sardonic songs such as "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner," "Lawyers Guns and Money," and the title track, which contains the romantic lyrics:
After ten long years they let him out of the home
Excitable boy, they all said
He dug up her grave and built a cage with her bones.
Well, he's just an excitable boy
How do you leave a guy like that out of the Hall of Fame?
Song of the Day: You probably know Linda Ronstadt's version of this song. Warren's is a lot harder edged. Listen to the last verse. Very different from Linda's.
I take solace in the fact that if Zevon was alive, he wouldn't give a shit about being skipped over.
