Today, on my birthday, I'd like to give to my friends my best wishes, thoughts and prayers. (You know who you are!)
I have little else in this world but I have time, and I have some friends. Nothing can be gained that is more worthwhile; and nothing can be lost that is more regretful.
To my friends, I wish the very best to you and I pray that your needs will be met, your desires fulfilled, and that your Hearts will be filled with happiness.
As for me, I am grateful for you. Thank you for being my friends.
Bob
Friday, November 11, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
King Johnny and the Koo-Koo Horse
Sometimes, my stories don't end the way they started. This one won't.
To begin, I want to tell you what Johnny, the 'Little Big Guy', said to me today. He is my 3 1/2 year old grandson. He is deeply into making up stories about Super-Heroes and Bad Guys. I guess his old Pa helped him get started on that! (heh, heh) I named myself "Pa" because it was easy for him to pronounce. And I had always heard that great people say,"I don't care what they say about me, as long they get my name right!" Well, I wanted to be great in my grandson's eyes.
So, today he was King Johnny, the Giant King who chases away Bad Guys! He had an old straw hat for a Crown; and his mother's "Huggie"* was his robe. Leopard spotted!
*A wearable blanket for cold nights, and for watching TV.
He was off to chase Bad Guys through the house with my car keys, that doubled as some sort of evaporator gun. I, of course, was in trouble and in dire need. My barn was a wreck and all my animals were running around loose!
He asked,"Who did it, Pa?" And I told him; "It was a terrible, giant horse named "Koo-Koo Horse"! He was crazy-mad and he kicked my barn over, right on its side!" Then, King Johnny held up those super-powered car keys and said, "I'll get him for you!"
We agreed, as we usually do, that instead of hurting Koo-Koo Horse, we would win him over to our side. That way, we could add him to our army of trusted 'sidekicks', and they would help us to chase away all the Bad Guys.
OK. So much for the story. He wanted me to get up from the couch and follow him around the house at high speed. But I was very tired from not having slept the night before and worst of all, my umbilical hernia, now about the size of a golf ball, was REALLY sore. I told him I had to rest a while. He asked, "Why?" So, I told him that "Pa is getting older. When we get older, we get tired and we have to stop and rest once in a while. That's just the way it happens, Johnny."
Now, I was afraid I would lose substance in his eyes by telling him that, but
may I tell you what he then said to me? Yes... I'll tell you.
He walked slowly toward me, after pondering my comments for half a minute or so, and wrapped his little arms around my neck and hugged me. He was pouting and I thought that he might start crying. Then he said,"I don't care if you get older. I will still love you just as much Pa, even if you get older and older and older, because you will still be the same guy!"
Then he gave me a big kiss on the cheek. I returned it with my patented
Grampa-Saur Bear Hug. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't want me to let go.
He's getting to an age where affection takes on a more subtle form. Soon, we will be reduced to poking fun, little shoulder punches, hand-crushing handshakes, or maybe just a high-five. But, "I love you!" is still "I love you!" And today, for a few healing moments, it was just like "yesterday" all over again - before he got to be such a big old three year old.
Now, his own Daddy, years ago, would tell me; "I don't care what happens, Dad. We will ALWAYS be together because we're stuck like glue!"
Well, today when his Daddy got home from work, Johnny told him what he had said to me. (Yeah, I prodded him a little to do that!) For a long moment, his Daddy stood still, and silent. His face was lost in time. His eyes were turned upward and toward the right side of his brain. He seemed to be questioning himself, while half smiling. Was he remembering something in his past?
I remained silent, but my heart wanted to ask my son,"What happened to your glue? Did it get weak? Did it dry up? Or did it just grow old? Did I let you
down, somehow, three years ago when I died and left you in shock, in that silent, sterile emergency room all night long? Told that I came in dead, that I
wouldn't make it through the night? Did it change how you felt about me, seeing me turn blue-grey, seeing me covered with ice and a freezing blanket? Seeing me in a coma, in the ICU, being kept alive by a heart pump and a ventilator?
I was once YOUR Super-Hero. Did I now appear weak and fallible to you? Were you becoming ashamed of me during the next month, when I didn't know who I was, or where I was? Did I lose all my credibility in your eyes, that day when I wanted to leap off of the hospital rooftop to save a pigeon from a hawk? Imaginary as you thought it was, there was a day when you admired me for that sort of thing.
Today, it's YOUR little son running around the house in a silly costume, saving his Kingdom from "Koo-Koo Horse"! But you look so proud! And you're playing the game right along with him, and he's looking up to you - to see what he must become.
So, how is that different from my saving a pidgeon from a hawk? Imaginary or
not, my motive came from my heart. My heart that was alive - then dead - and
then alive again!
What a game that is! And talk about an adventure! Your very own Dad defeated Death! Had you become so practical, so much the engineer, so "grown-up", that you lost all respect for me?
I admit that at first, in the battle of Life vs Death, I lost! So does everyone. So will you. So will little Johnny. And his little brother, Andrew. So do we all.
But I promised you when you were just a little Billy, that if I had to, I would
come back from the dead to help you. And there you were... a new marriage; a new career; friends losing their jobs all around you; with a seven week old,
brand new baby boy in your arms; and a 57 year old babysitter, available if you needed me.
And what did I do but die on you? Just when you really needed me. (Even if you didn't think you did.)
BUT DAMN! If I DIDN'T COME BACK!
Didn't I promise you that I would?
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally published by me on Wednesday, August 10, 2011 at 10:38 am
"I will still love you just as much Pa,
even if you get older and older and older,
because you will still be the same guy!"
King Johnny
Yes, I will... and you will always be the same Johnny, to me!
If I can just live that long...
1 comments:
Tree said...
WOW! I feel as if I was right there in the room with you! Here's hoping we
can all keep, or get back, that child-like perspective and unconditional
love. Johnny is MY HERO! :)
To begin, I want to tell you what Johnny, the 'Little Big Guy', said to me today. He is my 3 1/2 year old grandson. He is deeply into making up stories about Super-Heroes and Bad Guys. I guess his old Pa helped him get started on that! (heh, heh) I named myself "Pa" because it was easy for him to pronounce. And I had always heard that great people say,"I don't care what they say about me, as long they get my name right!" Well, I wanted to be great in my grandson's eyes.
So, today he was King Johnny, the Giant King who chases away Bad Guys! He had an old straw hat for a Crown; and his mother's "Huggie"* was his robe. Leopard spotted!
*A wearable blanket for cold nights, and for watching TV.
He was off to chase Bad Guys through the house with my car keys, that doubled as some sort of evaporator gun. I, of course, was in trouble and in dire need. My barn was a wreck and all my animals were running around loose!
He asked,"Who did it, Pa?" And I told him; "It was a terrible, giant horse named "Koo-Koo Horse"! He was crazy-mad and he kicked my barn over, right on its side!" Then, King Johnny held up those super-powered car keys and said, "I'll get him for you!"
We agreed, as we usually do, that instead of hurting Koo-Koo Horse, we would win him over to our side. That way, we could add him to our army of trusted 'sidekicks', and they would help us to chase away all the Bad Guys.
OK. So much for the story. He wanted me to get up from the couch and follow him around the house at high speed. But I was very tired from not having slept the night before and worst of all, my umbilical hernia, now about the size of a golf ball, was REALLY sore. I told him I had to rest a while. He asked, "Why?" So, I told him that "Pa is getting older. When we get older, we get tired and we have to stop and rest once in a while. That's just the way it happens, Johnny."
Now, I was afraid I would lose substance in his eyes by telling him that, but
may I tell you what he then said to me? Yes... I'll tell you.
He walked slowly toward me, after pondering my comments for half a minute or so, and wrapped his little arms around my neck and hugged me. He was pouting and I thought that he might start crying. Then he said,"I don't care if you get older. I will still love you just as much Pa, even if you get older and older and older, because you will still be the same guy!"
Then he gave me a big kiss on the cheek. I returned it with my patented
Grampa-Saur Bear Hug. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't want me to let go.
He's getting to an age where affection takes on a more subtle form. Soon, we will be reduced to poking fun, little shoulder punches, hand-crushing handshakes, or maybe just a high-five. But, "I love you!" is still "I love you!" And today, for a few healing moments, it was just like "yesterday" all over again - before he got to be such a big old three year old.
Now, his own Daddy, years ago, would tell me; "I don't care what happens, Dad. We will ALWAYS be together because we're stuck like glue!"
Well, today when his Daddy got home from work, Johnny told him what he had said to me. (Yeah, I prodded him a little to do that!) For a long moment, his Daddy stood still, and silent. His face was lost in time. His eyes were turned upward and toward the right side of his brain. He seemed to be questioning himself, while half smiling. Was he remembering something in his past?
I remained silent, but my heart wanted to ask my son,"What happened to your glue? Did it get weak? Did it dry up? Or did it just grow old? Did I let you
down, somehow, three years ago when I died and left you in shock, in that silent, sterile emergency room all night long? Told that I came in dead, that I
wouldn't make it through the night? Did it change how you felt about me, seeing me turn blue-grey, seeing me covered with ice and a freezing blanket? Seeing me in a coma, in the ICU, being kept alive by a heart pump and a ventilator?
I was once YOUR Super-Hero. Did I now appear weak and fallible to you? Were you becoming ashamed of me during the next month, when I didn't know who I was, or where I was? Did I lose all my credibility in your eyes, that day when I wanted to leap off of the hospital rooftop to save a pigeon from a hawk? Imaginary as you thought it was, there was a day when you admired me for that sort of thing.
Today, it's YOUR little son running around the house in a silly costume, saving his Kingdom from "Koo-Koo Horse"! But you look so proud! And you're playing the game right along with him, and he's looking up to you - to see what he must become.
So, how is that different from my saving a pidgeon from a hawk? Imaginary or
not, my motive came from my heart. My heart that was alive - then dead - and
then alive again!
What a game that is! And talk about an adventure! Your very own Dad defeated Death! Had you become so practical, so much the engineer, so "grown-up", that you lost all respect for me?
I admit that at first, in the battle of Life vs Death, I lost! So does everyone. So will you. So will little Johnny. And his little brother, Andrew. So do we all.
But I promised you when you were just a little Billy, that if I had to, I would
come back from the dead to help you. And there you were... a new marriage; a new career; friends losing their jobs all around you; with a seven week old,
brand new baby boy in your arms; and a 57 year old babysitter, available if you needed me.
And what did I do but die on you? Just when you really needed me. (Even if you didn't think you did.)
BUT DAMN! If I DIDN'T COME BACK!
Didn't I promise you that I would?
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally published by me on Wednesday, August 10, 2011 at 10:38 am
"I will still love you just as much Pa,
even if you get older and older and older,
because you will still be the same guy!"
King Johnny
Yes, I will... and you will always be the same Johnny, to me!
If I can just live that long...
1 comments:
Tree said...
WOW! I feel as if I was right there in the room with you! Here's hoping we
can all keep, or get back, that child-like perspective and unconditional
love. Johnny is MY HERO! :)
Angels in the Office
Dental pain is not new to me but doing something about it is. And I'd like to
tell you why, and what I'm doing about it. That might be interesting.The best
part of this article, though, is the part about Angels.
First, let me ask: Do you believe in Angels? I sure do. You who know me, know that I had a sudden cardiac arrest in 2008, and that I had a remarkable
spiritual experience to go with it. It was complicated, so I'll just say, for now, that I died and was in the presence of an Angel. Many people have said that.
That's not new. I'm wondering though, for the first time, if some people, here
on Earth, are truly Angelic. I don't mean that they are "nice", or "good looking", or fit the religious descriptions of Angels. I'm actually asking if people can become Angels; if they might have an "Angelic DNA", so to speak, and so become full Angels in a future time. If it's possible, is there evidence?
Well, to get back to the dental part of this, I suppose that if some people can
be Angels, then some others can be Devils. (It's easier to believe in Devils,
isn't it?) I know of a dentist who may have been one!
I met him a long time ago - back around 1985. I had an abscessed tooth just
below the right side of my nose. Yep, that's where it really hurts. It hurt so
much that I couldn't think straight. I didn't know whether to punch myself in
the head or just pee in my pants and cry. It hurt that much. I went out to find
a dentist.
The only one who would take me on a late Friday afternoon, "tested" my tooth repeatedly with some electrical device that looked like the stun guns of today. I sat absolutely mummified in his chair as he shocked my tooth! Over and over again, each time turning up the power. As I said, I wasn't thinking straight at the time or I never would have allowed that. I called it off after about a dozen shocks and then he informed me that no dentist would see me so late on Friday, or on the weekend - EXCEPT for one dentist with whom he had once been a professional partner.
I was in so much pain that I had to accept the referral. I didn't understand,
though, why he wouldn't give me some novacaine or an antibiotic, but he wouldn't. He made an appointment, in my name, for the next day. And that is when I met the Devil. Maybe I should say, the "other Devil".
Doctor B, seemed very reluctant to see me on a Saturday, but he did. He gave me an anesthetic and said my teeth would have to be cleaned before he could do a root canal. I believed that, too. His assistant did the "cleaning" with some
sort of hand-held laser device. She was not kind. That device HURT like hell.
Tooth after tooth. She said that the plaque had to be removed from the gum line and that was the easiest way to do it. After a long time, she was finished.
Then came the root canal. It took forever. He "had to" do it three times, each
time starting over again. Now, I should tell you that I have long roots, some of
them kind of twisted. Before Dr. B had finished, he had pushed his little needle-drill way past the tooth and, I believe, right into a sinus opening. I left his office thinking that my tooth would never hurt again. I was wrong. It was
infection after infection. Pain and more pain. I swore I would never go to
another dentist and I didn't, not until 25 years later - which was a few days
ago - which brings us to the Angels.
[I want to tell you that Doctor B, without any action on my part, was arrested
a couple of months later. He was being watched by the FBI, IRS, and who knows who else. He tried to run away to Germany with tens of thousands of dollars in cash, many "doctored" patient records, and false insurance claims. Doctor B was a Busy B, wasn't he? Well, the FBI did arrest him, it was in the newspapers, and I hope he was sentenced to Life in Heaven, because he would have only felt at home in Hell.]
So, on with the story. A few weeks ago, some teeth in my upper left jaw began to hurt - a lot. Now, my teeth are in VERY bad shape, as you can imagine. Since Doctor B, I have had one painful infection after another and eight or nine teeth eventually broke apart - down to the gums. I'm not kidding, folks, it's bad. Not to mention discolor, etc. As I said to the dental assistant, "I don't want you to look in my mouth. It's a junkyard in there!"
Once again, pain had brought me to a dentist. I hoped it would be better this
time, but I wasn't going to put up with ANY nonsense. Now, I'm 60 years old, fat but strong, kinda crabby, and not the type to scare easily. I was afraid of this dental appointment, though. I walked into the office, expecting to be greeted by a squinty-eyed Doberman with a bow in her hair. But guess what?
I MET AN ANGEL!
Yes, I am sure of it! She looked at me and sent some kind of pain-relieving
compassion into my heart, and from there, straight up to my teeth. I actually
felt relaxed as I filled out the patient history form. That's something I hate to
do, because too many questions are invasive and unrelated. But not this form. It was friendly and respectful.
Then, when I gave that back, another young woman greeted me and took me to the exam room. She was like the first one - calm, friendly, sympathetic, and if I may say so, quite pretty. But there was something about her manner that wasn't quite "normal". She was calming me just by being near me. (That's a change.)
Maybe she was just charming me into trusting the dentist, who was about to enter the room. I've always been a sucker for a charm. But I actually did trust the dentist when he appeared. After what I'd been through, I'd have to call that a real Miracle, and "normal" people don't do real Miracles. The Doctor looked at my ughhh-leee teeth and never even flinched. It was as if he'd seen it all before. He made an appointment for me to return and get the work started. (Demolition, really.)
Ok, so I returned two days ago, and was met by another Angel. She may have been the same Angel from days before, but I was so dazzled that I couldn't really tell. On this day, I was to meet with another Doctor in the office. First, of course, I was met by HIS Angel, who led me to the chair that most of us have hated at one time or another, but not this time. I don't know what power she had over me, but I just flowed into that chair like thick paint, and she could have melted me like butter. But I suspect she doesn't turn it up full-blast for simple tooth extractions. Actually, it was to be two teeth pulled, and two roots dug out from below the gumline. She was amazing and I was calm.
Then, the Doctor came in and I immediately felt a trust unknown to me for 25 years. Not only trust in a dentist, but trust in a Man. He talked a little as he went to work. He was so willing to use as much anesthetic as I needed, that I thought I had won the lottery. To be honest, there were a few "pinches" now and then, but that is all. I never would have believed that four in a row could be that easy! But it was easy. All the while, I had my hands folded over my chest like a man in a casket (just in case). Each time the Doctor gave me more anesthetic (by needle), she would put her hand on mine until he was done. I've never heard of that being done before. I'm telling you now, that there was some kind of power from her hand that kept me still. (Ok, so my right foot was jerking around a little. I'll admit that.) And time seemed to go by so quickly. I mean quickly. It felt like 20 minutes and then we were done, but of course it was much longer. Another thing to ponder: did she make time disappear?
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I didn't want to leave that room. The doctor could have taken out every tooth, my jaw bone and a few ribs, and I wouldn't have complained. They both were fantastic! Was he an Angel, too? Why not? He and the other Doctor, both had the same calming qualities and no doubt chose the assistants who would work with them.
So, this is where the story usually ends, but there's a little more. I still
had to pay the bill and make the next appointment. I walked out to the front desk, and to my surprise, more Angels! I'm not kidding! I really have this deep
feeling that I have fallen in among a bevy of Angels! They may not be fully
actuated, but in time they will be. They were so friendly and cheerful and most of all, compassionate - and they displayed that compassion, too.
You may not believe any of this, but please don't forget... I died a few years
ago, and was guided by a real Angel. Yes, it really happened - no matter what
your religious ideas, or lack of them. So today, I know Angels when I'm in their presence, and I was in their presence. If you ever meet them, their names are Sharla, Meggen, Jessica and Kris. I spotted a few more floating around the office, too. (Not Angel names, you say? How can we know that?)
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally posted by me on Friday, September 2, 2011 at 1:27 pm
I have acknowledged the good people mentioned above, in my page called "Good Things".
If I've led you to believe that this world is now free of evil, then let me
share this private information with you: my dental bill, so far, shows a
"balance due" of $666.00!
As they say, the "Devil is in the details."
tell you why, and what I'm doing about it. That might be interesting.The best
part of this article, though, is the part about Angels.
First, let me ask: Do you believe in Angels? I sure do. You who know me, know that I had a sudden cardiac arrest in 2008, and that I had a remarkable
spiritual experience to go with it. It was complicated, so I'll just say, for now, that I died and was in the presence of an Angel. Many people have said that.
That's not new. I'm wondering though, for the first time, if some people, here
on Earth, are truly Angelic. I don't mean that they are "nice", or "good looking", or fit the religious descriptions of Angels. I'm actually asking if people can become Angels; if they might have an "Angelic DNA", so to speak, and so become full Angels in a future time. If it's possible, is there evidence?
Well, to get back to the dental part of this, I suppose that if some people can
be Angels, then some others can be Devils. (It's easier to believe in Devils,
isn't it?) I know of a dentist who may have been one!
I met him a long time ago - back around 1985. I had an abscessed tooth just
below the right side of my nose. Yep, that's where it really hurts. It hurt so
much that I couldn't think straight. I didn't know whether to punch myself in
the head or just pee in my pants and cry. It hurt that much. I went out to find
a dentist.
The only one who would take me on a late Friday afternoon, "tested" my tooth repeatedly with some electrical device that looked like the stun guns of today. I sat absolutely mummified in his chair as he shocked my tooth! Over and over again, each time turning up the power. As I said, I wasn't thinking straight at the time or I never would have allowed that. I called it off after about a dozen shocks and then he informed me that no dentist would see me so late on Friday, or on the weekend - EXCEPT for one dentist with whom he had once been a professional partner.
I was in so much pain that I had to accept the referral. I didn't understand,
though, why he wouldn't give me some novacaine or an antibiotic, but he wouldn't. He made an appointment, in my name, for the next day. And that is when I met the Devil. Maybe I should say, the "other Devil".
Doctor B, seemed very reluctant to see me on a Saturday, but he did. He gave me an anesthetic and said my teeth would have to be cleaned before he could do a root canal. I believed that, too. His assistant did the "cleaning" with some
sort of hand-held laser device. She was not kind. That device HURT like hell.
Tooth after tooth. She said that the plaque had to be removed from the gum line and that was the easiest way to do it. After a long time, she was finished.
Then came the root canal. It took forever. He "had to" do it three times, each
time starting over again. Now, I should tell you that I have long roots, some of
them kind of twisted. Before Dr. B had finished, he had pushed his little needle-drill way past the tooth and, I believe, right into a sinus opening. I left his office thinking that my tooth would never hurt again. I was wrong. It was
infection after infection. Pain and more pain. I swore I would never go to
another dentist and I didn't, not until 25 years later - which was a few days
ago - which brings us to the Angels.
[I want to tell you that Doctor B, without any action on my part, was arrested
a couple of months later. He was being watched by the FBI, IRS, and who knows who else. He tried to run away to Germany with tens of thousands of dollars in cash, many "doctored" patient records, and false insurance claims. Doctor B was a Busy B, wasn't he? Well, the FBI did arrest him, it was in the newspapers, and I hope he was sentenced to Life in Heaven, because he would have only felt at home in Hell.]
So, on with the story. A few weeks ago, some teeth in my upper left jaw began to hurt - a lot. Now, my teeth are in VERY bad shape, as you can imagine. Since Doctor B, I have had one painful infection after another and eight or nine teeth eventually broke apart - down to the gums. I'm not kidding, folks, it's bad. Not to mention discolor, etc. As I said to the dental assistant, "I don't want you to look in my mouth. It's a junkyard in there!"
Once again, pain had brought me to a dentist. I hoped it would be better this
time, but I wasn't going to put up with ANY nonsense. Now, I'm 60 years old, fat but strong, kinda crabby, and not the type to scare easily. I was afraid of this dental appointment, though. I walked into the office, expecting to be greeted by a squinty-eyed Doberman with a bow in her hair. But guess what?
I MET AN ANGEL!
Yes, I am sure of it! She looked at me and sent some kind of pain-relieving
compassion into my heart, and from there, straight up to my teeth. I actually
felt relaxed as I filled out the patient history form. That's something I hate to
do, because too many questions are invasive and unrelated. But not this form. It was friendly and respectful.
Then, when I gave that back, another young woman greeted me and took me to the exam room. She was like the first one - calm, friendly, sympathetic, and if I may say so, quite pretty. But there was something about her manner that wasn't quite "normal". She was calming me just by being near me. (That's a change.)
Maybe she was just charming me into trusting the dentist, who was about to enter the room. I've always been a sucker for a charm. But I actually did trust the dentist when he appeared. After what I'd been through, I'd have to call that a real Miracle, and "normal" people don't do real Miracles. The Doctor looked at my ughhh-leee teeth and never even flinched. It was as if he'd seen it all before. He made an appointment for me to return and get the work started. (Demolition, really.)
Ok, so I returned two days ago, and was met by another Angel. She may have been the same Angel from days before, but I was so dazzled that I couldn't really tell. On this day, I was to meet with another Doctor in the office. First, of course, I was met by HIS Angel, who led me to the chair that most of us have hated at one time or another, but not this time. I don't know what power she had over me, but I just flowed into that chair like thick paint, and she could have melted me like butter. But I suspect she doesn't turn it up full-blast for simple tooth extractions. Actually, it was to be two teeth pulled, and two roots dug out from below the gumline. She was amazing and I was calm.
Then, the Doctor came in and I immediately felt a trust unknown to me for 25 years. Not only trust in a dentist, but trust in a Man. He talked a little as he went to work. He was so willing to use as much anesthetic as I needed, that I thought I had won the lottery. To be honest, there were a few "pinches" now and then, but that is all. I never would have believed that four in a row could be that easy! But it was easy. All the while, I had my hands folded over my chest like a man in a casket (just in case). Each time the Doctor gave me more anesthetic (by needle), she would put her hand on mine until he was done. I've never heard of that being done before. I'm telling you now, that there was some kind of power from her hand that kept me still. (Ok, so my right foot was jerking around a little. I'll admit that.) And time seemed to go by so quickly. I mean quickly. It felt like 20 minutes and then we were done, but of course it was much longer. Another thing to ponder: did she make time disappear?
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I didn't want to leave that room. The doctor could have taken out every tooth, my jaw bone and a few ribs, and I wouldn't have complained. They both were fantastic! Was he an Angel, too? Why not? He and the other Doctor, both had the same calming qualities and no doubt chose the assistants who would work with them.
So, this is where the story usually ends, but there's a little more. I still
had to pay the bill and make the next appointment. I walked out to the front desk, and to my surprise, more Angels! I'm not kidding! I really have this deep
feeling that I have fallen in among a bevy of Angels! They may not be fully
actuated, but in time they will be. They were so friendly and cheerful and most of all, compassionate - and they displayed that compassion, too.
You may not believe any of this, but please don't forget... I died a few years
ago, and was guided by a real Angel. Yes, it really happened - no matter what
your religious ideas, or lack of them. So today, I know Angels when I'm in their presence, and I was in their presence. If you ever meet them, their names are Sharla, Meggen, Jessica and Kris. I spotted a few more floating around the office, too. (Not Angel names, you say? How can we know that?)
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally posted by me on Friday, September 2, 2011 at 1:27 pm
I have acknowledged the good people mentioned above, in my page called "Good Things".
If I've led you to believe that this world is now free of evil, then let me
share this private information with you: my dental bill, so far, shows a
"balance due" of $666.00!
As they say, the "Devil is in the details."
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Sad Little Puppy
This I read today:
[A wise old man once said, "There comes a time in your life, when you walk away
from all the drama and the people who create it. You surround yourself with
people who make you laugh. Forget the bad, and focus on the good. Love the
people who treat you right, pray for the ones who don't. Life is too short to
be anything but happy. Falling down is a part of life, getting back up is living
."]
Is that the message of wisdom? Get up and walk away from the sad and the
unhappy? Turn our backs on it all?
I'd like to walk away from a lot of things, and feel free - free to be happy.
Just like that wise old man. But...
What if that wise old man lived next door to a little puppy, that was suffering
under the ignorance of it's master? Then the wise old man moves away - out of
that neighborhood and into a nicer one where people are kind and sociable. The
puppy looks way over there and sees the wise old man smiling and laughing,
having left his cares behind.
Then the puppy looks over its shoulder and sees its ignorant master coming,
bringing more pain, and misery. It prays, desperately, for the wise old man to
come back and save him, but he doesn't - and he never will. He's left the misery
behind and he's enjoying life.
Oh, he thinks about the little puppy now and then... wondering if it's still
suffering... or if it's still alive. But then he turns to his new neighbors and
smiles, and thanks God for such a beautiful world!
But what about that wise man? And what about God? Is God happy for that wise
old man? Is God happy that the wise old man is happy?
And what about that puppy? What about that sad little puppy? I know a sad
little puppy. As long as I know it's sad, how can I be happy? And I wonder, how
can God ever be happy?
Sad little puppy...
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally posted by me on Saturday, August 6, 2011 at 12:39 am
3 comments:
[A wise old man once said, "There comes a time in your life, when you walk away
from all the drama and the people who create it. You surround yourself with
people who make you laugh. Forget the bad, and focus on the good. Love the
people who treat you right, pray for the ones who don't. Life is too short to
be anything but happy. Falling down is a part of life, getting back up is living
."]
Is that the message of wisdom? Get up and walk away from the sad and the
unhappy? Turn our backs on it all?
I'd like to walk away from a lot of things, and feel free - free to be happy.
Just like that wise old man. But...
What if that wise old man lived next door to a little puppy, that was suffering
under the ignorance of it's master? Then the wise old man moves away - out of
that neighborhood and into a nicer one where people are kind and sociable. The
puppy looks way over there and sees the wise old man smiling and laughing,
having left his cares behind.
Then the puppy looks over its shoulder and sees its ignorant master coming,
bringing more pain, and misery. It prays, desperately, for the wise old man to
come back and save him, but he doesn't - and he never will. He's left the misery
behind and he's enjoying life.
Oh, he thinks about the little puppy now and then... wondering if it's still
suffering... or if it's still alive. But then he turns to his new neighbors and
smiles, and thanks God for such a beautiful world!
But what about that wise man? And what about God? Is God happy for that wise
old man? Is God happy that the wise old man is happy?
And what about that puppy? What about that sad little puppy? I know a sad
little puppy. As long as I know it's sad, how can I be happy? And I wonder, how
can God ever be happy?
Sad little puppy...
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally posted by me on Saturday, August 6, 2011 at 12:39 am
3 comments:
Happy Birthday, Dad!
August is the month of my father's birthday. He was with me the day I was born. I don't remember that, but I was with him the day he died. That I remember and I know that he does, too.
Whether said to a son or to a daughter, this video really gets down to what's
important. I watch it frequently. It's hard to do that. Just as the man in this
video seems to be my Dad speaking to me, so it seems that he is me - speaking to my own son. One day my son will have to speak to his children. It is a chain of life that should not be broken. When it is, it breaks God's Heart. And all the Sundays in church won't heal a thing.
So, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD! A lifetime isn't enough to say more.
http://www.youtube.com/user/rturri2008#p/c/B16967BA8CCEA9CA/3/N1EkWnqiJiQ
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally published by me on Monday, August 8, 2011
To my good friend, Amin:
Thank you again for making this video
and I do keep you both in my prayers.
http://www.youtube.com/user/aminhafez]
Whether said to a son or to a daughter, this video really gets down to what's
important. I watch it frequently. It's hard to do that. Just as the man in this
video seems to be my Dad speaking to me, so it seems that he is me - speaking to my own son. One day my son will have to speak to his children. It is a chain of life that should not be broken. When it is, it breaks God's Heart. And all the Sundays in church won't heal a thing.
So, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD! A lifetime isn't enough to say more.
http://www.youtube.com/user/rturri2008#p/c/B16967BA8CCEA9CA/3/N1EkWnqiJiQ
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally published by me on Monday, August 8, 2011
To my good friend, Amin:
Thank you again for making this video
and I do keep you both in my prayers.
http://www.youtube.com/user/aminhafez]
Feelin' Moody
UH, OH... feelin' moody.
Am I overtired? Or just seeing it like it really is? I don't know. It's one of
those days when the sun goes behind a cloud and says, "Ah... screw it. Tomorrow will be all messed up again, anyway."
I've never been tolerant but I've always been patient. (It takes longer that way, but things have a chance to work out right.) Then, with my cardiac arrest, I get an anoxic brain injury. Now, my patience seems to be in a puddle between my feet. Why? I don't know. And I don't care.
I'm feelin' moody.
Surely you've heard the song,"Feelin' Groovy", by Simon & Garfunkel. (1966,
folks.)
Nice song. Happy tune. But I woke up at 6:00 this morning after only four hours of sleep. I'm not feeling nice. I'm not feeling happy. And I'm not talking to any lamp post.
So I'm thinkin', write a song called, "Feelin' Moody". I wonder if it would
catch on and be a hit. Would anyone listen? I don't know. And I don't care.
"I'm Feelin' Moody."
"It's a day
when I'd like to say,
I won't be thinkin' of ya.
Off my path
with your sorry ass.
Smile at me and I'll punch ya."
Now, I feel a little better.
Or do I? Nope. It's all crappy...
and I'm feelin' moody.
So there.
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally posted by me, on Thursday, July 21, 2011 at 2:33 pm.
Am I overtired? Or just seeing it like it really is? I don't know. It's one of
those days when the sun goes behind a cloud and says, "Ah... screw it. Tomorrow will be all messed up again, anyway."
I've never been tolerant but I've always been patient. (It takes longer that way, but things have a chance to work out right.) Then, with my cardiac arrest, I get an anoxic brain injury. Now, my patience seems to be in a puddle between my feet. Why? I don't know. And I don't care.
I'm feelin' moody.
Surely you've heard the song,"Feelin' Groovy", by Simon & Garfunkel. (1966,
folks.)
Nice song. Happy tune. But I woke up at 6:00 this morning after only four hours of sleep. I'm not feeling nice. I'm not feeling happy. And I'm not talking to any lamp post.
So I'm thinkin', write a song called, "Feelin' Moody". I wonder if it would
catch on and be a hit. Would anyone listen? I don't know. And I don't care.
"I'm Feelin' Moody."
"It's a day
when I'd like to say,
I won't be thinkin' of ya.
Off my path
with your sorry ass.
Smile at me and I'll punch ya."
Now, I feel a little better.
Or do I? Nope. It's all crappy...
and I'm feelin' moody.
So there.
- - - - - - - - - -
Originally posted by me, on Thursday, July 21, 2011 at 2:33 pm.
Friday, October 7, 2011
This Job Stinks!
What a lousy job. Spending hours in the basement with a snake.
Not the kind that crawls, but the kind that you force through a clogged drain
pipe. Mine is 25 feet long, and coiled into a red plastic case that rotates the snake and makes the end of it spin. I have to keep feeding the springy, metal "snake" further into the drain, and then spinning it by turning the handle on its red plastic case. It isn't easy. It isn't fun. And I admire any plumber who says, "I love my job!"
[Now, it's 6:13 am. I haven't slept. If you know me, you know I don't sleep well. I'm the guy who had the sudden cardiac arrest and now dreams about dead people. I sleep better in the daytime. Like a zombie, I guess. But that's another story.]
I spent several hours in the basement last evening, squatting at the drain's "cleanout plug" - in positions that would make a Yoga master whimper. Why are these plumbing things always in the most inaccessible places? Well, anyway, the cleanout is directly below the kitchen sink, and I'm sitting on a silly little stepstool, in front of the open drain. I see the standing water and it's telling me that the clog is somewhere beneath the concrete floor and the front lawn. My snake is 25 feet long and that's about the distance to the other side of the basement, so I should be able to snake out this clog.
I have to force the wire snake into the drain opening, about 18 inches at a time, tighten a thumb screw, and then turn the handle to spin the snake inside the pipe. Loosen the thumb screw, pull out another 18 inches of springy snake, feed it in, tighten the thumbscrew and spin it. Over and over again. Eventually, I will extend my influence through 25 feet of pipe. And that will be the neat and tidy part of this job.
After all that work, I'll have to pull the snake back OUT of the pipe. About two feet at a time, so I can clean it with a rag, before stuffing it back into the plastic, rotatable case. The snake will be gooey - black gooey - stinky gooey.
Well, I guess the goo is really the point of today's writing. It stains. It's stinks. It splashes on my face. It's all over my shirt. It's all over my moccasins. My yellow rubber gloves are way too tight for my ape-y hands. My hips are sore and my knees are about to disassemble themselves. I'm almost 61 years old, and I'm in no shape for this labor. But, back to the goo.
The entire pipe is packed solid with this creepy stuff. No wonder the kitchen sink is backed up. After I've punched a hole through the pipe goo, the water should start running through the pipe. The dishes that are piled on the stove can be washed, and we can cook our own meals again. But that will not be!
The water still won't pass through this pipe. But not to worry. My wife, who always looks ahead, will have come home with a pint-sized bottle of SULFURIC ACID that will do the job - the job that her husband will have failed to do. Man and snake... not fit for this task... but she knew it ahead of time... and she WILL remind me! God luv 'er.
So, in goes the bottled miracle. WOW! STINKS! BUBBLES! HOT! Move back. Dangerous stuff for sure. Don't sniff that bottle or you'll be riding in an ambulance asking the medic, "Why the hell did I do that?"
But to get to the point, it works! After waiting 15 minutes, the water runs down the drain and we test it with a garden hose that's attached to the utility sink. Yep. The water runs just fine. The acid did the trick. After writing this, I will curl up like a snail beneath the kitchen sink and re-attach the cheap "consumer" plumbing I had earlier removed. Then this job will be done.
I will sleep. By this evening, I will really be hurting; but I'll enjoy that Neanderthal feeling of victory over my enemy. All acid aside, I planned this battle - I chose the weapons - I snaked it. I met the beast in its own field, and there I took it down. Yes. I did. Y-A-A-A-H-H-H! Tell me I didn't!
There's just one thing, though. What in hell IS that smelly, gooey, gritty, black goop, anyway? And where does it come from? I flatly reject ALL of the stupid, evasive answers found on the internet; and in expensively useless home repair books. Just let me explain my frustration.
A few years ago, knowing our plumbing was old and subject to frequent choking, I stopped letting ANY food, even dissolved food, go down the kitchen drain. I had discovered, for example, that once having boiled pasta, the cooking water should not go down the kitchen drain. Try this yourself. Boil that water until it evaporates away. Takes about 30 - 45 minutes. To your surprise, you will be left with a handful of dry, rubbery, amber colored "flubber"! Lift it out of the pan and you can bounce it off the floor. It's the starch and protein that was boiled out of the pasta. You'll see that enough of this "flubber" can clog up your plumbing real good. And if that doesn't surprise you, try the thick goop in which your beans are canned. Evaporate that, and you'll have a handful of rubbery starch and protein that will dry hard - hard as plaster. Enough of that down the sink and your plumbing will die.
So, I thought that only letting water down the kitchen drain would put an end to the evil goop, but now I can't believe how wrong I was! Seriously. I'm stunned. I've tried to find out the nature of this goop and I can't do it. If you read hundreds of plumbing forum answers, as I have, you'll agree that people who don't know what they're talking about, should shut up - and people who do know, like those who claim to be plumbing experts, should STOP LYING to the rest of us. It won't hurt their business if they tell us where that sewery crap really comes from! Speaking for myself, I'll respect them for their honesty. I'll be grateful for their sharing of a dirty trade secret. I'll be able to defend my own home against the Goopy Plague, possibly regaining the respect of my wife. I won't have to get angry and write cynical articles like this one at six in the morning; after wasting a whole evening and a sleepless night fighting with a snake that isn't a snake. I won't ruin my clothes and stain my hands and aggravate my arthritis. Once again, I'll be a happy homeowner! But until then...
STAND BACK, EVERYBODY! I SMELL LIKE THE FEET ON A SEWER RAT!
- - - - - - - - - -
Last words:
It's really true about the bean goop and the pasta water.
Don't use sulfuric acid if you can avoid it. It can seriously hurt you.
If you ever find out what that black pipe-goop is, please email me.
I have never smelled the feet on a sewer rat. Don't believe everything you hear.
Thank you for reading my blog and sharing a moment of my life with me. Really.
Not the kind that crawls, but the kind that you force through a clogged drain
pipe. Mine is 25 feet long, and coiled into a red plastic case that rotates the snake and makes the end of it spin. I have to keep feeding the springy, metal "snake" further into the drain, and then spinning it by turning the handle on its red plastic case. It isn't easy. It isn't fun. And I admire any plumber who says, "I love my job!"
[Now, it's 6:13 am. I haven't slept. If you know me, you know I don't sleep well. I'm the guy who had the sudden cardiac arrest and now dreams about dead people. I sleep better in the daytime. Like a zombie, I guess. But that's another story.]
I spent several hours in the basement last evening, squatting at the drain's "cleanout plug" - in positions that would make a Yoga master whimper. Why are these plumbing things always in the most inaccessible places? Well, anyway, the cleanout is directly below the kitchen sink, and I'm sitting on a silly little stepstool, in front of the open drain. I see the standing water and it's telling me that the clog is somewhere beneath the concrete floor and the front lawn. My snake is 25 feet long and that's about the distance to the other side of the basement, so I should be able to snake out this clog.
I have to force the wire snake into the drain opening, about 18 inches at a time, tighten a thumb screw, and then turn the handle to spin the snake inside the pipe. Loosen the thumb screw, pull out another 18 inches of springy snake, feed it in, tighten the thumbscrew and spin it. Over and over again. Eventually, I will extend my influence through 25 feet of pipe. And that will be the neat and tidy part of this job.
After all that work, I'll have to pull the snake back OUT of the pipe. About two feet at a time, so I can clean it with a rag, before stuffing it back into the plastic, rotatable case. The snake will be gooey - black gooey - stinky gooey.
Well, I guess the goo is really the point of today's writing. It stains. It's stinks. It splashes on my face. It's all over my shirt. It's all over my moccasins. My yellow rubber gloves are way too tight for my ape-y hands. My hips are sore and my knees are about to disassemble themselves. I'm almost 61 years old, and I'm in no shape for this labor. But, back to the goo.
The entire pipe is packed solid with this creepy stuff. No wonder the kitchen sink is backed up. After I've punched a hole through the pipe goo, the water should start running through the pipe. The dishes that are piled on the stove can be washed, and we can cook our own meals again. But that will not be!
The water still won't pass through this pipe. But not to worry. My wife, who always looks ahead, will have come home with a pint-sized bottle of SULFURIC ACID that will do the job - the job that her husband will have failed to do. Man and snake... not fit for this task... but she knew it ahead of time... and she WILL remind me! God luv 'er.
So, in goes the bottled miracle. WOW! STINKS! BUBBLES! HOT! Move back. Dangerous stuff for sure. Don't sniff that bottle or you'll be riding in an ambulance asking the medic, "Why the hell did I do that?"
But to get to the point, it works! After waiting 15 minutes, the water runs down the drain and we test it with a garden hose that's attached to the utility sink. Yep. The water runs just fine. The acid did the trick. After writing this, I will curl up like a snail beneath the kitchen sink and re-attach the cheap "consumer" plumbing I had earlier removed. Then this job will be done.
I will sleep. By this evening, I will really be hurting; but I'll enjoy that Neanderthal feeling of victory over my enemy. All acid aside, I planned this battle - I chose the weapons - I snaked it. I met the beast in its own field, and there I took it down. Yes. I did. Y-A-A-A-H-H-H! Tell me I didn't!
There's just one thing, though. What in hell IS that smelly, gooey, gritty, black goop, anyway? And where does it come from? I flatly reject ALL of the stupid, evasive answers found on the internet; and in expensively useless home repair books. Just let me explain my frustration.
A few years ago, knowing our plumbing was old and subject to frequent choking, I stopped letting ANY food, even dissolved food, go down the kitchen drain. I had discovered, for example, that once having boiled pasta, the cooking water should not go down the kitchen drain. Try this yourself. Boil that water until it evaporates away. Takes about 30 - 45 minutes. To your surprise, you will be left with a handful of dry, rubbery, amber colored "flubber"! Lift it out of the pan and you can bounce it off the floor. It's the starch and protein that was boiled out of the pasta. You'll see that enough of this "flubber" can clog up your plumbing real good. And if that doesn't surprise you, try the thick goop in which your beans are canned. Evaporate that, and you'll have a handful of rubbery starch and protein that will dry hard - hard as plaster. Enough of that down the sink and your plumbing will die.
So, I thought that only letting water down the kitchen drain would put an end to the evil goop, but now I can't believe how wrong I was! Seriously. I'm stunned. I've tried to find out the nature of this goop and I can't do it. If you read hundreds of plumbing forum answers, as I have, you'll agree that people who don't know what they're talking about, should shut up - and people who do know, like those who claim to be plumbing experts, should STOP LYING to the rest of us. It won't hurt their business if they tell us where that sewery crap really comes from! Speaking for myself, I'll respect them for their honesty. I'll be grateful for their sharing of a dirty trade secret. I'll be able to defend my own home against the Goopy Plague, possibly regaining the respect of my wife. I won't have to get angry and write cynical articles like this one at six in the morning; after wasting a whole evening and a sleepless night fighting with a snake that isn't a snake. I won't ruin my clothes and stain my hands and aggravate my arthritis. Once again, I'll be a happy homeowner! But until then...
STAND BACK, EVERYBODY! I SMELL LIKE THE FEET ON A SEWER RAT!
- - - - - - - - - -
Last words:
It's really true about the bean goop and the pasta water.
Don't use sulfuric acid if you can avoid it. It can seriously hurt you.
If you ever find out what that black pipe-goop is, please email me.
I have never smelled the feet on a sewer rat. Don't believe everything you hear.
Thank you for reading my blog and sharing a moment of my life with me. Really.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Dead Or Alive
Well, it's the day I've long awaited - April 19.
Long awaited because I didn't know if would live long enough to see this day.
Months ago I began having chest pains (angina), and I've gained a lot of
weight. I was concerned that I wouldn't be here to celebrate my 3rd New-Birth
Day. But here I am and I'm quite alive.
Three years ago, on April 6, 2008, I fell victim to a Sudden Cardiac Arrest.
Not many will believe that I actually died and stayed dead for some time, but
it's true. On April the 19th, I was in the hospital intensive care unit and they
were getting ready to pull out my breathing tube (E.T. tube), thus disconnecting
me from my ventilator. The fear was that I would thrash around, unable to
breathe, and they wouldn't be able to reinsert the tube. Therefore, I would die.
I've always wondered if they liked me at all because they just went ahead and
pulled out the tube, anyway! The staff called this, "Pull and Pray". (Now
THAT's a confidence builder.)
Well, long story short, God liked me more and made me breathe again. I remember
a moment of anguish and confusion (when the tube was out), and then a gasp, and
then I was breathing on my own. Alive again. I have named that day, my
New-Birth Day.
I've heard that some are nearly silly with joy after such a miracle, while
others are simply grateful to be alive. And a few would rather be back in the
spiritual place in which they were, while in a coma.
The reason I'm NOT feeling overjoyed is that there are so many 'survivors' who
remain in a coma or coma-like state. They may remain that way, totally disabled
and totally dependent upon the care of others. To make this even worse, family
members are among the others. It seems that more and more families are being
advised to disconnect the ventilator, or stop the tube-feeding, or just let the
pneumonia rage until the patient is dead.
Well, if they don't agree to killing their loved one, then that loved one
likely will not be treated as a fully living person, ever again. We could say,
never again be treated as a full citizen.
Medical decisions, made more for the convenience of the medical facility than
for the good of the patient, will likely keep this poor soul in such a disabled
state for months or years.
FINAL INSULT
may have horrible bedsores that open the flesh to the bone.
Next, some doctor with the backing of the insurance company, will work at
making the family feel guilty for the suffering of their loved one. In other
words, it's the family's fault for not "letting the person go" much earlier.
This is the last, big attempt to get them to agree to euthanasia (legalized
killing). If not, then the facility will begin refusing to care for the patient,
and the family will have to take over the care at home - something that they can
almost never do.
Well, I was in a coma but only for 13 days. After that, I was mentally disabled
for a month and a half due to the anoxic brain injury. Anoxic means that my
brain was deprived of oxygen for at least 15 minutes, while my heart was not
beating - starting at the moment of my cardiac arrest.
Now, being something of a "miracle man" myself, I've been told that I should be
so happy to be alive. Well, I am... sort of.
Someone else said that I have "survivor's guilt". Well, I don't... not much.
I'll tell you what it is. I feel OUTRAGED that so many of my fellow "survivors"
are being treated this way. I hope their families will agree to let me tell
their stories here on this site, so that you can hear, first-hand, about the
anguish that this is causing families all over this countr
No doubt, some think that when the emergency crew arrived at my house and found
me on the floor after a Sudden Cardiac Arrest, with the near certainty of an
Anoxic Brain Injury, that they should not have tried to revive me, at all.
Rather, that they should have taken my body to the nearest hospital, covered it
with a sheet, and declared me, "Dead On Arrival".
- - - - -
Originally published by me on Wed April 20, 2011
This article also appears on '- Surviving Cardiac Arrest - rturri'
2 comments:
Marty said...
I am honored to know you.
I am so glad you are here to write - including the fury.
May 1, 2011 7:46 PM
Marty said...
I hope you don't mind, but I posted a link to this post on my facebook page.
It should be read.
May 1, 2011 7:50 PM
Long awaited because I didn't know if would live long enough to see this day.
Months ago I began having chest pains (angina), and I've gained a lot of
weight. I was concerned that I wouldn't be here to celebrate my 3rd New-Birth
Day. But here I am and I'm quite alive.
Three years ago, on April 6, 2008, I fell victim to a Sudden Cardiac Arrest.
Not many will believe that I actually died and stayed dead for some time, but
it's true. On April the 19th, I was in the hospital intensive care unit and they
were getting ready to pull out my breathing tube (E.T. tube), thus disconnecting
me from my ventilator. The fear was that I would thrash around, unable to
breathe, and they wouldn't be able to reinsert the tube. Therefore, I would die.
I've always wondered if they liked me at all because they just went ahead and
pulled out the tube, anyway! The staff called this, "Pull and Pray". (Now
THAT's a confidence builder.)
Well, long story short, God liked me more and made me breathe again. I remember
a moment of anguish and confusion (when the tube was out), and then a gasp, and
then I was breathing on my own. Alive again. I have named that day, my
New-Birth Day.
I've heard that some are nearly silly with joy after such a miracle, while
others are simply grateful to be alive. And a few would rather be back in the
spiritual place in which they were, while in a coma.
The reason I'm NOT feeling overjoyed is that there are so many 'survivors' who
remain in a coma or coma-like state. They may remain that way, totally disabled
and totally dependent upon the care of others. To make this even worse, family
members are among the others. It seems that more and more families are being
advised to disconnect the ventilator, or stop the tube-feeding, or just let the
pneumonia rage until the patient is dead.
Well, if they don't agree to killing their loved one, then that loved one
likely will not be treated as a fully living person, ever again. We could say,
never again be treated as a full citizen.
Medical decisions, made more for the convenience of the medical facility than
for the good of the patient, will likely keep this poor soul in such a disabled
state for months or years.
FINAL INSULT
may have horrible bedsores that open the flesh to the bone.
Next, some doctor with the backing of the insurance company, will work at
making the family feel guilty for the suffering of their loved one. In other
words, it's the family's fault for not "letting the person go" much earlier.
This is the last, big attempt to get them to agree to euthanasia (legalized
killing). If not, then the facility will begin refusing to care for the patient,
and the family will have to take over the care at home - something that they can
almost never do.
Well, I was in a coma but only for 13 days. After that, I was mentally disabled
for a month and a half due to the anoxic brain injury. Anoxic means that my
brain was deprived of oxygen for at least 15 minutes, while my heart was not
beating - starting at the moment of my cardiac arrest.
Now, being something of a "miracle man" myself, I've been told that I should be
so happy to be alive. Well, I am... sort of.
Someone else said that I have "survivor's guilt". Well, I don't... not much.
I'll tell you what it is. I feel OUTRAGED that so many of my fellow "survivors"
are being treated this way. I hope their families will agree to let me tell
their stories here on this site, so that you can hear, first-hand, about the
anguish that this is causing families all over this countr
No doubt, some think that when the emergency crew arrived at my house and found
me on the floor after a Sudden Cardiac Arrest, with the near certainty of an
Anoxic Brain Injury, that they should not have tried to revive me, at all.
Rather, that they should have taken my body to the nearest hospital, covered it
with a sheet, and declared me, "Dead On Arrival".
- - - - -
Originally published by me on Wed April 20, 2011
This article also appears on '- Surviving Cardiac Arrest - rturri'
2 comments:
Marty said...
I am honored to know you.
I am so glad you are here to write - including the fury.
May 1, 2011 7:46 PM
Marty said...
I hope you don't mind, but I posted a link to this post on my facebook page.
It should be read.
May 1, 2011 7:50 PM
Cry Baby Cry - Why Baby Why?
Ok, I'll admit it. I am a "babysitter". Twice a week, my wife and I spend a day with our two Grandsons. They are a three year-old, and a four month-old.
Let's face it... sixty years old and three years after my cardiac arrest, I am
not as quick-in-the-head as I was when our own son was so young. My memory of what happened one minute ago is no longer perfectly reliable. Fortunately, my memory of what happened decades ago is still intact. I remember the many subtle lessons my son taught me about being the guardian of a child, when I spent some years at home, being "Mr. Dad". (Don't even think about calling ME Mr. "Mom".)
Years before that, I was determined to become a child psychologist, studied it, and worked with distressed children in a state hospital.
Armed with this experience, I can babysit successfully. I FEAR NO CHILD!
I can rely upon myself to guide these two little boys away from trouble, away from harm, and away from disappointment. I do have a problem, though, with a few things and these are: DISAGREEING with GrandMa, Mommy and Daddy, and a multitude of women who think that they are somehow perfectly endowed at birth, with infinite wisdom, regarding the "rearing" of children. Well, if that were true, you and I wouldn't be just two well adjusted individuals, living in a world filled with idiots! Would we?
The problem upon which I have become focused is a baby who cries too much. You may say that he does not, but if you were taking care of him all day, you wouldn't say that.
He's only a few months old, and I'm told that babies at that age cry - "That's what babies do!" I remember when his three year old brother was the same age. He cried a lot, too. So did the baby next door, and the babies at the park, and the mall babies in shopping carts. And you may think me arrogant, Ma'am, but I'm going to tell you WHY they cry so much and why they need more GrandPa's like me to make their little lives a little happier.
To get right down to it, the problem - most of the time - is with their diapers! Not IN their diapers - but WITH their diapers. In other words, It's the damned "diapers"! And no, not the soft, cloth kind that some of you devoted Moms still believe in (God bless you for it, too!), but these cheap, convenient, and marketable plastic ones. As with any product that causes more harm than good, that men like me sharply refer to "a lousy piece of crap!", these no-good plastic poop-catchers are instruments of INFANT TORTURE and were designed in the Devil's own workshop. That's right. And I'll tell you why.
(Still with me? :)
At this time, Mama, a little demonstration is in order. You can actually try
this experiment, or you can just imagine it.
1: Take a stong rubber band that must be stretched to fit over your wrist.
2: Now, stretch it over your wrist.
3: Leave it there for as long as your baby would go without a diaper change.
4: Time's up! Now, you look me in the eye and tell me that your skin, under
that rubber band, doesn't hurt.
Well, you can't, because you have a red, sore, depressed ring around your wrist. If that rubber band is as strong as the elastic band in the diaper's leg openings, your fingers are probably tingling right about now, because of the loss of oxygen. I remind you that I am one whose heart stopped, and left me dead for over 15 minutes, and I know what a loss of oxygen does to a body. It kills cells and it hurts! Now, of course, a diaper isn't going to stop your baby's
heart, but it can sure put those little feet to sleep, and that kind of tingling isn't good for anybody.
Now, the next time your baby cries enough to drive the pidgeons out of the barn, just stop and LOOK at your baby's groin, and SEE the red ring that the
elastic has gouged into the skin. You know that's sore. LOOK at your baby's
cute little behind and count the number of pinch marks all over those sensitive little Angel buns, caused by wrinkled plastic. If your baby was wet, or even a little damp, those marks will be multiplied and stinging viciously.
OK, so now we have a little baby with cyanotic skin. (Excuse me, Mom, that
means no oxygen.) When you hold your baby upright, the crying usually stops or at least is lessened. And you think, "All this baby needs is to be held." It seems true enough. Yep... until you sit down and hold the baby on your lap, or lay the baby down, hoping against hope for a nap. Then the crying starts again. Worse than before! Pick up the baby, walk the baby, rock the baby, and maybe the crying will stop again. But not for long. That situation is getting worse as time goes by, and the baby is feeling even more pain.
If you would just remove that awful excuse for a diaper and "rub the little red
marks away", the crying will not only stop, but soon your baby will coo and
giggle again. It's that easy. If you must continue to torture your baby with
those 'Pants of Pain', then at least put a strip of soft cloth between the elastic bands and the poor child's skin. Lay a nice soft flap of cloth over those Angel buns, too. Or, better yet, USE A REAL DIAPER. Not convenient? Sorry about that, but it's not about you - it's about the baby! Two years of that torture and you'll have a child who is sad, angry, "fussy" (what a "weasle" word that is), and stuck with a personality built upon early childhood misery.
So, you don't believe it, huh? You think that because the Baby Product industry caters to you everyday, and hugs you everyday with drippy compliments, that you know more than GrandPa? Well... you DON'T! And your baby suffers for it.
OK... OK... so it's not your fault. You didn't make the diapers. That's true.
But you know who did. Isn't it time that you stood up for your little bundle of
joy and told those sadistic money makers that your child is too deserving of
happiness to be wrapped in their "Pants of Pain"? Don't give them any more of your money... until they stop treating you like poop. Stand up for yourself,
Mom, and for your baby.
And listen to GrandPa... just once!
- - - - -
Originally published by me on Monday, April 11, 2011
2 comments:
rturri said...
Comments on this post are MOST welcome.
Thank you!
Bob
April 14, 2011 3:55 PM
Ruth said...
Couldn`t agree more. Ruth
April 21, 2011 9:15 AM
Let's face it... sixty years old and three years after my cardiac arrest, I am
not as quick-in-the-head as I was when our own son was so young. My memory of what happened one minute ago is no longer perfectly reliable. Fortunately, my memory of what happened decades ago is still intact. I remember the many subtle lessons my son taught me about being the guardian of a child, when I spent some years at home, being "Mr. Dad". (Don't even think about calling ME Mr. "Mom".)
Years before that, I was determined to become a child psychologist, studied it, and worked with distressed children in a state hospital.
Armed with this experience, I can babysit successfully. I FEAR NO CHILD!
I can rely upon myself to guide these two little boys away from trouble, away from harm, and away from disappointment. I do have a problem, though, with a few things and these are: DISAGREEING with GrandMa, Mommy and Daddy, and a multitude of women who think that they are somehow perfectly endowed at birth, with infinite wisdom, regarding the "rearing" of children. Well, if that were true, you and I wouldn't be just two well adjusted individuals, living in a world filled with idiots! Would we?
The problem upon which I have become focused is a baby who cries too much. You may say that he does not, but if you were taking care of him all day, you wouldn't say that.
He's only a few months old, and I'm told that babies at that age cry - "That's what babies do!" I remember when his three year old brother was the same age. He cried a lot, too. So did the baby next door, and the babies at the park, and the mall babies in shopping carts. And you may think me arrogant, Ma'am, but I'm going to tell you WHY they cry so much and why they need more GrandPa's like me to make their little lives a little happier.
To get right down to it, the problem - most of the time - is with their diapers! Not IN their diapers - but WITH their diapers. In other words, It's the damned "diapers"! And no, not the soft, cloth kind that some of you devoted Moms still believe in (God bless you for it, too!), but these cheap, convenient, and marketable plastic ones. As with any product that causes more harm than good, that men like me sharply refer to "a lousy piece of crap!", these no-good plastic poop-catchers are instruments of INFANT TORTURE and were designed in the Devil's own workshop. That's right. And I'll tell you why.
(Still with me? :)
At this time, Mama, a little demonstration is in order. You can actually try
this experiment, or you can just imagine it.
1: Take a stong rubber band that must be stretched to fit over your wrist.
2: Now, stretch it over your wrist.
3: Leave it there for as long as your baby would go without a diaper change.
4: Time's up! Now, you look me in the eye and tell me that your skin, under
that rubber band, doesn't hurt.
Well, you can't, because you have a red, sore, depressed ring around your wrist. If that rubber band is as strong as the elastic band in the diaper's leg openings, your fingers are probably tingling right about now, because of the loss of oxygen. I remind you that I am one whose heart stopped, and left me dead for over 15 minutes, and I know what a loss of oxygen does to a body. It kills cells and it hurts! Now, of course, a diaper isn't going to stop your baby's
heart, but it can sure put those little feet to sleep, and that kind of tingling isn't good for anybody.
Now, the next time your baby cries enough to drive the pidgeons out of the barn, just stop and LOOK at your baby's groin, and SEE the red ring that the
elastic has gouged into the skin. You know that's sore. LOOK at your baby's
cute little behind and count the number of pinch marks all over those sensitive little Angel buns, caused by wrinkled plastic. If your baby was wet, or even a little damp, those marks will be multiplied and stinging viciously.
OK, so now we have a little baby with cyanotic skin. (Excuse me, Mom, that
means no oxygen.) When you hold your baby upright, the crying usually stops or at least is lessened. And you think, "All this baby needs is to be held." It seems true enough. Yep... until you sit down and hold the baby on your lap, or lay the baby down, hoping against hope for a nap. Then the crying starts again. Worse than before! Pick up the baby, walk the baby, rock the baby, and maybe the crying will stop again. But not for long. That situation is getting worse as time goes by, and the baby is feeling even more pain.
If you would just remove that awful excuse for a diaper and "rub the little red
marks away", the crying will not only stop, but soon your baby will coo and
giggle again. It's that easy. If you must continue to torture your baby with
those 'Pants of Pain', then at least put a strip of soft cloth between the elastic bands and the poor child's skin. Lay a nice soft flap of cloth over those Angel buns, too. Or, better yet, USE A REAL DIAPER. Not convenient? Sorry about that, but it's not about you - it's about the baby! Two years of that torture and you'll have a child who is sad, angry, "fussy" (what a "weasle" word that is), and stuck with a personality built upon early childhood misery.
So, you don't believe it, huh? You think that because the Baby Product industry caters to you everyday, and hugs you everyday with drippy compliments, that you know more than GrandPa? Well... you DON'T! And your baby suffers for it.
OK... OK... so it's not your fault. You didn't make the diapers. That's true.
But you know who did. Isn't it time that you stood up for your little bundle of
joy and told those sadistic money makers that your child is too deserving of
happiness to be wrapped in their "Pants of Pain"? Don't give them any more of your money... until they stop treating you like poop. Stand up for yourself,
Mom, and for your baby.
And listen to GrandPa... just once!
- - - - -
Originally published by me on Monday, April 11, 2011
2 comments:
rturri said...
Comments on this post are MOST welcome.
Thank you!
Bob
April 14, 2011 3:55 PM
Ruth said...
Couldn`t agree more. Ruth
April 21, 2011 9:15 AM
A Good Day to Die.
Today is April 6, three years after my sudden cardiac arrest. I am approaching 5:00 pm, filled with a dark silence.
When I arrested, I was on my exercise bike, trying to reach a heart rate of
136. The last thing I saw in that life was the monitor reading 139. Then my
legs stopped moving, my foot fell off the pedal and hit the floor, and
everything was suddenly silent and dark. I thought that I had fallen into deep, dark water and was weightlessly sinking. I realized, then, that I didn't have to breathe anymore, had no fear at all, and as they say, I just "went with the flow". At least 15 minutes, plus the time it took for my wife to discover me, would then pass before the EMTs would get my heart beating again. It would be 13 more days until my eyes would open and I would breathe again, on my own.
As this day continues (it is now 4:38am and who can sleep?), I feel like I'm
sinking again. Feeling the feeling all over again. I'm sure it will stay with
me all day. In fact, there has not been one day in three years that I haven't
been aware of this feeling being somewhere inside of me.
Today may be a weird experience, even for me, as I am attending a funeral
service this afternoon at 5:00pm. Give or take a minute or two, 5:00pm is the
time that I arrived at the Emergency Room by ambulance - dead. I should put it this way - I was not in my body anymore -and THAT is dead.
Now, it happens that a few days ago, my Mother-in-Law passed away in her sleep, and I suppose the experience, for her, was the same as it was for me - except that she didn't have to wait an eternity in a coma, as I did. She has moved on.
The "viewing", this afternoon, is for her.
I will be the only one present who will be able to stand alongside of her and
not have to wonder, "What is it like to die?"
April 19 will be a better day. That is the day I opened my eyes and with a gasp began to breathe again. Something they said would not happen. It is the day I call my "New-Birth Day". Then I was crazy for the next four weeks - another thing I'll never have to wonder about.
The neurologist said that I would probably remain "psychotic" for the rest of my life, but today we know the truth about that, too.
"Hey, Doc... nah na nah na nah nah!"
In the words of the great Lakota man, Crazy Horse... it was a good day to die.
- - - - -
Originally published by me on Wednesday, April 6, 2011
2 comments:
Marty said...
Bob,
You write beautifully. So powerful and so touching.
You make me weep and you make me proud.
My best wishes for this day. I am so glad you are here.
Your friend,
Marty
April 6, 2011 9:43 AM
rturri said...
Marty,
Wow! Could I possibly be worthy of all that? You are a wonderful person,
Marty. I read each of your posts and you always give me more to think about.
Now, to uncover a little secret... your blog, HEART STOPS, is the model for
starting my own! I got all the confidence that I needed, from you. You ARE
my friend.
Always,
Bob
April 8, 2011 4:43 AM
When I arrested, I was on my exercise bike, trying to reach a heart rate of
136. The last thing I saw in that life was the monitor reading 139. Then my
legs stopped moving, my foot fell off the pedal and hit the floor, and
everything was suddenly silent and dark. I thought that I had fallen into deep, dark water and was weightlessly sinking. I realized, then, that I didn't have to breathe anymore, had no fear at all, and as they say, I just "went with the flow". At least 15 minutes, plus the time it took for my wife to discover me, would then pass before the EMTs would get my heart beating again. It would be 13 more days until my eyes would open and I would breathe again, on my own.
As this day continues (it is now 4:38am and who can sleep?), I feel like I'm
sinking again. Feeling the feeling all over again. I'm sure it will stay with
me all day. In fact, there has not been one day in three years that I haven't
been aware of this feeling being somewhere inside of me.
Today may be a weird experience, even for me, as I am attending a funeral
service this afternoon at 5:00pm. Give or take a minute or two, 5:00pm is the
time that I arrived at the Emergency Room by ambulance - dead. I should put it this way - I was not in my body anymore -and THAT is dead.
Now, it happens that a few days ago, my Mother-in-Law passed away in her sleep, and I suppose the experience, for her, was the same as it was for me - except that she didn't have to wait an eternity in a coma, as I did. She has moved on.
The "viewing", this afternoon, is for her.
I will be the only one present who will be able to stand alongside of her and
not have to wonder, "What is it like to die?"
April 19 will be a better day. That is the day I opened my eyes and with a gasp began to breathe again. Something they said would not happen. It is the day I call my "New-Birth Day". Then I was crazy for the next four weeks - another thing I'll never have to wonder about.
The neurologist said that I would probably remain "psychotic" for the rest of my life, but today we know the truth about that, too.
"Hey, Doc... nah na nah na nah nah!"
In the words of the great Lakota man, Crazy Horse... it was a good day to die.
- - - - -
Originally published by me on Wednesday, April 6, 2011
2 comments:
Marty said...
Bob,
You write beautifully. So powerful and so touching.
You make me weep and you make me proud.
My best wishes for this day. I am so glad you are here.
Your friend,
Marty
April 6, 2011 9:43 AM
rturri said...
Marty,
Wow! Could I possibly be worthy of all that? You are a wonderful person,
Marty. I read each of your posts and you always give me more to think about.
Now, to uncover a little secret... your blog, HEART STOPS, is the model for
starting my own! I got all the confidence that I needed, from you. You ARE
my friend.
Always,
Bob
April 8, 2011 4:43 AM
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