Sunday, March 12, 2017

A Twofer

It’s hard to believe I haven’t written anything for this blog so far in 2017. It is not as though I have had nothing to say, quite the contrary. Those who are my “friends” on Facebook know that since the end of last year - since the presidential election, precisely - I have had plenty to say. And plenty more on other topics, too, from the innocuous to the important and everything in between. Sadly (or, maybe not), Facebook has taken the default role in my online presence. This is nothing new and was not going to be the subject of my musings today, but it is ironic that just last year I was I the midst of a Facebook “hiatus.” I didn’t just abstain (which is difficult when everything that happens regarding my profile generates some kind of notification), I suspended my account. I was in Facebook never-never land. And it was good.

But not so good that it left any kind of lasting impression a year later. In fact, were it not for Facebook’s little features that keep track of my activity, I would not have remembered my stop and start dates or even whether it was two weeks, six weeks, or more. And upon my triumphant return it was clear that both my presence and my absence had no impact on the medium. Sure, some friends missed my online friendship (particularly those whom I only have an online “friendship” with, but also a few with whom I have a history of friendly debate), but in the world of Facebook and social media, whatever I have to add is lost in the noise. It’s not just me, far more “famous” people contribute, too, and their impact, when compared to the whole, is negligible.

Still, if it didn’t do something for me, I wouldn’t do it. What Facebook does for me, primarily, is simple enough. It is what my blog did early on - it gives me a means of publication and the opportunity to build an audience. At one point, I had several thousand “hits” on The 25 Year Plan every month. Since I have not been publishing there regularly, my hit counter has spent more time not counting than it has spent counting. But I get a fairly good amount of response, feedback, “likes,” shares, etc., from Facebook. Why? Because unlike my blog of late, I “maintain” a presence on Facebook. But I have expanded beyond Facebook, too - linking my various profiles in a cross-posting manner. I guess I could do that on my blog as well, but it’s not really for that. It’s more for what I am doing right now; It’s more for this.

So, after three paragraphs of talking about what I was not going to talk about, I probably should write about what I came to my keyboard to do.

A few years ago, I started fooling around with video from these new, so-called, “action cameras.” About the same time, the iPhones and their knock-offs (sorry, the Samsung Galaxy and all others did not innovate, they imitated) were gaining traction. The video from cell phones, smart or otherwise, was not as good as these new purpose-built cameras, and between me and my kids, we tried a few. My boys mostly used them for snowboarding and four-wheeling, I stuck to mostly recording motorcycle rides. The video in all cases was only so-so. It was not, at first, anything remotely resembling “HD” and as far as the editing software available, it was clumsy and/or expensive, usually both. But despite the obstacles, they showed a great deal of promise. Today, the stunning quality of smart-phone video and the rise to the top of the action camera heap by GoPro is evidence of the promise the technology held.

We all, my boys and I, kind of got on board early, but our enthusiasm faded. We all learned a lot and much of that is still applicable. However, the time needed to produce video that entertains and informs without boring the audience to death is considerable. Even today, with the abundance of editing software and the extremely high video quality (my latest GoPro Session measures about an inch and a half square and captures video at a maximum of 4K resolution), making movies takes time. Enter the iPhone and its progeny. With tools like iMovie and other built-in software “apps” that deal with the video footage all on one small device, shooting, editing and producing video became somewhat simpler. Not exactly easy, but considerably easier. While I was in Baton Rouge one day, riding my 2007 Harley Road King home from the local shopping center, I had an idea that resulted in what is now known as “ShirtPocket Productions.”

But first, a few words about the entity, “ShirtPocket Productions.” It is not a real production company, at least not yet. It consists of one unpaid employee - me. It has yet to make a single dime; it has never submitted an invoice of any kind. We have never had a customer. Our expenses are not zero, but excluding the price of the cameras (currently three GoPros and an iPhone), there are none. Travel expenses, gas, food, lodging, etc., are all part of a whatever I was going to do anyway. That I ever decide to record video is an add-on, it is never the purpose. It is a fantasy company, a fun third-person entity I use to talk about myself when putting videos together. It is sort of Warren Miller-esque, but not really that, either. And, while it is not “real,” I have used the terms, “ShirtPocket Productions,” “SPP” and “ShirtPocket Short,” sometimes in conjunction with “the good folks at…” often enough, long enough and publicly enough to be able to claim the copyright to the names. In other words, although today it is a game, in the future it might be something more. Therefore, when it comes to ownership, the names are mine.

Where did the name come from? That ride home from the shopping center was warm - it was what one might call “t-shirt riding weather.” It just so happened that the t-shirt I was wearing had a shirt pocket. I was using an iPhone 5 at the time and for those who remember, the iPhone 5 was no wider, but considerable taller than the iPhones 4 and 4s were. When placed in my shirt pocket, the camera lens stuck up above the top of my pocket. I wondered, “what would the video look like if I started it, dropped the phone in my shirt pocket and rode?” It was not only pretty cool, it was the birth of ShirtPocket Productions. It didn’t become like it is today all at once. In fact, it didn’t become anything at all, it was just a passing thing, a funny play on words, a clever caption. Over time, however, the name and the enjoyment I’ve had with this "company" has grown into something that has become an expression that supplements the art of my still photography and writing.

It has become all too apparent that my interest in such things ebbs and flows. Actually, my interest in most things does, but these are sustained interests that I return to regularly, if not often enough (remember - this is my first post of 2017). ShirtPocket Productions goes through periods of dormancy, too. As I get better and more creative at assembling video (editing, soundtracks, etc.), I am able to do it more efficiently. But it is still time consuming. ShirtPocket Shorts are short - usually one to two minutes long. To create one, with music and fades and titles - even as amateurish as SPPs are - takes at least an hour, usually longer.

And I have learned some things along the way. For example, to use copyrighted music - which is most everything on the radio, in my iTunes collection, etc., it takes the permission from whoever owns it. Even if it is coming from the radio on my motorcycle as part of the ambient background “noise,” it gets flagged by YouTube, by Facebook and others. For my last two ShirtPocket Shorts, I didn’t even try to wiggle around the restrictions (doable, but temporary and I don’t want to open myself up to litigation - SPP doesn’t have a legal department). It turns out the Apple’s iMovie has a bunch of royalty-free music and other sound-effects that do not get flagged. While it is not the recognizable soundtrack I would like sometimes, it is good quality and, oddly enough, tends to refocus viewers on the video itself.

In light of all of this, I am using this return from a de facto blogging hiatus to post SPPs last two ShirtPocket Shorts. In an effort to include this blog more prominently in my online presence, it might be the perfect place to expand the storyline with words and, perhaps even dedicate some longer videos that are beyond the attention span of a Facebook “news feeder.” At any rate, with spring just around the corner and summer coming soon, the raw footage will be piling up. It might be time to give ShirtPocket Productions’ CEO a raise.


Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Winter Solstice

I used to do this quite often… wake up before the sun, grab a cup of coffee and open an MS Word document. Before doing anything else, I would contemplate life, think about where I’ve been, where I am, where I’m going and what it all means. I was never deluded that I might somehow find the answers, but these early morning introspections were part and process in the art of discovery. They are scattered throughout my blog, The 25 Year Plan, a project now entering its 12th year. Those blog posts, for a variety of reasons, have waned in recent years, but that does not mean there is nothing new to say, nothing to new learn, nothing new left to discover. Indeed, what I don’t know is orders of magnitude greater than what I do.

Today is the winter solstice, the first day of winter and the shortest day of the year. It is a turning point, an appropriate time to place a book mark and make some notes. The year, 2016, is about to come to a close. The turn of the millennium was almost 17 years ago. I turned 17 in 1979 - the year 2000 (never mind 2017) - was a veritable lifetime away. And yet here we are, all those years later. Earth time is a funny thing; when put on a human scale, it is both very long and exceedingly short and for many icons this past year - too short. That same year, 2000, my life took a drastic, painful, dramatic, interesting, profound, (insert-your-own-adjective-here) turn. Since then, and since 2005 especially, my ability and willingness to document that progression has culminated in this - right here, right now. The year 2000 damned near killed me - that it didn’t is worth thinking (and writing) about.

On December 18th, 2005, I wrote the first post of almost 600 to date in The 25 Year Plan. But that is not all of the writing I have done and it is not the only place my writing has been published. However, unless one was a reader of certain local newspapers, involved in certain (and relatively small) academic circles, or has been aware of this blog, it is unlikely my name would ring any sort of literary bell. That sort of notoriety has never been what I am after. If it develops as a result of this ongoing process and because others find what I say beneficial, enlightening, or in some other way worthwhile, so be it. But fame and fortune have never been on my agenda. Indeed, from what I have observed in more than 54 years on the planet, both can be fatal.

Since recovering from a near-death wreck in October of 2000, much has changed - in the world, of course, and equally obviously, I have too (17 years represents a significant percentage of any human’s life) - but the nature of that change, probably catalyzed by that wreck, is paradigmatic. It did not happen overnight. I did not wake up from a five-week induced coma sometime in November of 2000 thinking, “Fuck! That was close. I need to change my whole life and what it’s all about. I am going to do that.” It took a little more monumental toe-stubbing before, in August of 2004, I fundamentally changed my perspective.

To go through all of the ins and outs of what that involved is a book, not a blog-length post. However, briefly: Going back to school in the fall of 2003 had a lot to do with it. Getting clean from alcohol and drugs in March of 2003 had a lot to do with it. Learning to live that way through a residential treatment program for six months in 2003 had a lot to do with it. Going to jail for not days, not weeks, but months (not years) both before and (as a result of not staying clean) after getting clean had a lot to do with it. Too many people to name - family, friends, professors, doctors and other professionals - all had a lot to do with it. And the final two jail stints in August and September of 2004 made it crystal clear that I had a stark choice to make. That I made the one I did cannot be accounted for by a single factor.

I have been clean for a little more than 12 years now. In that relatively short period of time, interspersed with navigating instances of significant failure, I managed to accomplish some amazing things - amazing to me, that is. These are things that were both what I believed to be beyond my reach as well as things I could never have dreamed for. The bottom line is part of what I discovered 11 years ago when I gave this blog the subtitle, Perspectives, Purpose and Opinion. It is purpose. I’ve written about its elusiveness, its vagueness, its imprecision, but also that it is. It is real. What is that purpose? I haven’t a fucking clue. Is there one? Absolutely. And the truth is probably more than that. I am here to contribute in some indefinable way - not just professionally, but also personally, emotionally, spiritually, civically, however and whenever possible. My job - our job - is to leave the planet a better place. To that end, I still have work to do.


Monday, November 14, 2016

Whose President?

One of my favorite lines from the film version of The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring comes towards the end when Captain Boromir, with his last breath, accepts Aragorn as the heir to the throne of Gondor and, as such, pledges allegiance to his “king.” Aragorn would be, of course, a good king, a literary manifestation of Plato’s “philosopher king” who would, ultimately, rule over utopia. Indeed, once the army of Sauron was defeated, Aragorn returned to white city of Minas Tirith to assume his lordship over the kingdom. Middle Earth entered the Age of Men; peace, good fortune and good will followed. All was well. King Aragorn was wise and strong and benevolent – he did not need to demand allegiance. It was freely given.

Of course, so long as good, benevolent philosopher kings are plentiful, there would be no need to overthrow such a regime. Unfortunately, although absolute power does not corrupt absolutely right away, ultimately it will, absolutely. A long-term or permanent succession of benevolent totalitarian leaders is never a safe bet. Absolute power corrupts (eventually) absolutely. That is why the founders of these United States of America put together such wonderfully enduring representative republic. We, the people, are in charge and sooner or later, when power begins its march towards absolute corruption, our founders gave us the ultimate weapon – our Constitution.

When a new president is sworn in, he (or, someday, she) swears to defend and protect the Constitution. He or she, essentially, swears loyalty to us through the document that puts the power in our hands. We never swear any allegiance to the president. Ever. We do swear “allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands…” But that is far different than Boromir’s acceptance of Aragorn as his king. In terms of our constitutional democratic republic, Boromir would be accepting the US as his country and through that acceptance, it’s laws and power structures. It might seem subtle, but the difference is important.

Donald Trump is the President of the United States of America. I did not vote for him. I believe that he is the least qualified president that “we, the people” have ever sent to the White House. But what I believe is not important – we, through constitutional authority, have decided. With a significant popular loss and a thin, but decisive, Electoral College win, Trump’s election is hardly a “mandate.” In some respects, however, it is. The Constitution allowed those who hold the real power in this country to give Washington DC and politics as usual a great big orange middle finger. We, the people, have spoken.

But what about all those who cannot fathom a Trump presidency? I get it. In many respects, I’m right there with you. But… for those who are claiming “He’s not my president,” I have some perspective. First, this is not new; many, many never accepted President Obama as their president either. Maybe you feel your reasons are more legitimate? I’m not going there. But there is more. No president has ever been “my president.” I don’t serve any president – they serve me. All presidents have been President of the United States of America. All have served to defend and protect the Constitution. In other words, they have pledged allegiance to us. They are serving us. None of them are or ever will be “my president” the way Aragorn is Boromir’s king.

In Gondor, King Aragorn is the law of the land and so long as he lives and remains uncorrupted by absolute power, I guess that works for everyone. In this country, our founders decided the best bet was to just keep the power to ourselves – we, the people. Trump is, in fact, the President of the United States, but he, like every other president, works for me. He is not “my president,” he is only president of my country. And he is only that because we say so, even if I didn’t. It’s been working for a good long while now, I’m not ready to try anarchy just yet.


Wednesday, July 13, 2016


Yesterday I had what could be described as a "close call" while riding my motorcycle. It didn't really feel that way then, and it's only in retrospect that it feels that way - a little - now. It's not the first close call I've had, and it's not even the closest. Indeed, my closest call wasn't even on a motorcycle and it wasn't close; it was a direct hit. But these potential life-altering or life-ending instances are both uncommon and, at the same time, frequent enough that it makes me wonder sometimes how anyone ever manages to survive more than a few years. While it is true that the ladder that blew off the trailer in front of me could have taken me down at freeway speed, it seems that it is more likely that it would not. And, of course, that's what happened.

The whole ordeal lasted way less than a minute. It felt and still feels like it was much longer. It feels like time slowed way down and that I had ample time to make decisions and adjustments, and I did have to make some decisions and adjustments. Panic very well could have killed me. We hear about "freak" accidents all the time, usually only when someone dies due to them. But how many occur in which the end result is nothing more than a ladder sliding along the freeway and off onto the shoulder? A freak accident where the greatest injuries are a few scuff marks on an aluminum ladder is not news, but those results are far more common.

The long short of it is simple enough. If I choose to allow the possibility (remote or not so remote) of something happening, if I choose to live my life in fear, then I would never leave my house. There are things that can happen no matter how careful I am, no matter how much caution and precaution I exercise. At the same time, even though I was totally innocent yesterday (and a few years ago when I hit a deer on my last bike, same thing and, luckily, same result), there are things I can do to reduce (but never eliminate) the odds of that kind of thing happening again. I try not to ride in deer country at dusk. I will, as much as possible, no longer be as close to any vehicle with equipment that could escape. However, those little things probably will not save my life - freak accidents are freak because they are unusual and defy prediction. Staying calm in the face of these things is far more important.

Friday, July 01, 2016


On Thursday, June 23rd, I loaded up my 2014 Harley-Davidson Street Glide Special for a trip that, ultimately, had no destination. The “excuse” for the ride was to attend an old friend’s wedding in Southern California last Saturday, but I didn’t need to be gone a week or log the miles I did to do that. The easiest and, probably, most cost-effective way to meet that end would have been to fly down, spend the night and fly back to Sacramento. It should come as no surprise that “easy” and “cost-effective,” while both noble ends in and of themselves, are not necessarily the stuff of legend. I decided to take the long way around. I decided to take my time. I decided to do something many dream about, but comparatively few ever actually do.  And although my six-state, 3,100 plus mile trek was not record-setting by any means, it is also true that these sorts of things are not competitive. My “opponent” is me, Mother Nature and/or other variables. There is no winning, there is only doing.

Briefly, my ride went from Sacramento south to Pacheco Pass and over to Monterey where I picked up the Pacific Coast Highway and rode it down to Santa Barbara where I spent the night. PCH is one of “those” roads - epic in every respect. This time was no different. Friday morning, I met up with a friend (also no stranger to these sorts of adventures) who served as my local tour guide. She took me through not one, not two, but three different local canyons, including Malibu Canyon and culminating with Topanga Canyon. In Chatsworth, we parted ways. This would be the only day I rode with someone else. For a ride that consisted of very little planning, meeting up and riding together that Friday was one of the few planned events. Saturday was the wedding (different than any other wedding I’ve ever attended or been in, but that’s a different story for a different time) and Sunday I headed down to Anaheim to see my eldest son, daughter-in-law and grandsons. After dinner, I left Anaheim for Blythe, CA. I wanted to ride later in the day because that part of the desert can be unbearably hot this time of year. When I arrived in Blythe well after dark, the temperature was still near 100 degrees. I left early in the morning for Tucson, AZ (again, to avoid the heat) and stayed with a friend in Tucson Monday night.

So far, except for the PCH and the canyons near Malibu, the ride would have to be classified as utilitarian. Good, but nothing to get too excited about. That was about to change. Tuesday I rode north through Arizona, into New Mexico and ended up in Durango, CO. From Anaheim on, this was all new motorcycle territory for me, though I have driven many of those roads in the past. There were some notable exceptions like the Salt River Canyon in Arizona. It was magnificent - even more so on a bike. From Gallup, New Mexico all the way back to Williams, AZ, it was all new for me. From Durango I went north on the Million Dollar Highway to Ouray, CO where I picked up the San Juan Skyway to Placerville and Cortez, CO. Then I went south and west to the Four Corners, the Grand Canyon and into Williams for the night. From Williams I rode through Las Vegas and through the eastern Nevada desert before coming west around Lake Tahoe and home. The last day was about getting home and doing a little “endurance” riding - it could be described as utilitarian, too, but it was more a battle against my own psyche. The last day came in at just more than 740 miles, most if it through the desert.

The prior two paragraphs are only there to very briefly describe where the ride went. It doesn’t even begin to explain what it was. Those two paragraphs were, to be perfectly frank, a chore to write. It doesn’t say what I saw, what I experienced, the elements I faced and both the negative and positive aspects of the solitude involved. Some of that will be told as I continue, but this ride, as much as it is always about the machine and riding it, isn’t even about the ride itself. This was about escape. Escape from what? More like “from whom?” I was escaping from myself and a cycle of negativity that was eating me alive. Indeed, this ride became what it was… this ride became for that very reason. Let me see if I can put that into words.

I mentioned how many would love to do something like what I just did, but few actually have. The ones who don’t are not just day-dreaming out loud, they are not just blowing smoke; I firmly believe they are absolutely sincere and their intention is to do just that. It doesn’t have to be a motorcycle ride (solo or otherwise) it could be any kind of cross-country trek - a major hike, a bicycle ride, sailboat voyage or any number of things that involves some kind of physical long-distance journey. When I was filling up my bike in Tonopah, NV, a gentleman said to me, “someday…” I said, “Don’t wait too long, someday might never come.” He understood. For a split-second I saw in his eyes a determination that probably surprised even him. It is not uncommon when stopping for gas, food, water or for the night to see others see me with a form of envy that is not born of maliciousness. They don’t “want” my bike, they want to experience the world in a certain way and perhaps the most quintessential way is on a Harley. The metaphor, “steel horse,” could not be more appropriate.

It takes a lot of factors coming together to make something like this happen. As much as people can envision themselves heading out on the open road (or open whatever), more than just a couple of planets have to align. I own a motorcycle and I have for many years; I know what is involved in terms of physical, psychic and financial determination. Yet, this is just the third time I’ve taken such an adventure and the first time I’ve done it solo. I remember very clearly the first time six years ago. I rode with a friend to Butte, MT on an 11-day odyssey. It wasn’t going to be just the two of us - a larger group of friends all started to plan the ride months earlier, but as the date grew closer everyone else dropped out. I came close to dropping out myself. I kept thinking about how far it was, all the things that could go wrong, who would mind things at home - planets, all of them, that I was pushing out of alignment. At one point I realized that I was in the process of sabotaging my own “someday.” If I did not go then, I never would have.

More people have the tangible resources than they do the intangibles. Imagining oneself out on the open highway or being taken in by a canopy of trees lining the road or feeling the spray of the ocean while riding along the coast is the easy part. Those imaginational renderings never include the sweating butt, the twinge in the shoulder blade, the cramps in the hands or the miles of abject nothingness riding through the desert or across the salt flats. All of these terrain and geographic features are magical, but that magic can fade after 100, 200 or 500 miles. And if not a solo ride (if the vehicle of choice is a motorcycle, all rides are solo to some extent), what about the committee decisions? Where to eat, stop, sleep, and when to pee? These things are not what comes to mind when envisioning the romantic “open road.” Committees of one are the easiest, every decision is necessarily unanimous. But the solitude does have its downside, and many do not factor that into the romantic vision, either. This last trip was very intentionally a solo ride. I did not “invite” anyone, I didn’t want anyone else to go.

All of the friends who wanted to go both six years ago and last year all have their own motorcycles. All are part of the “biker” lifestyle (not to be confused with what is portrayed on TV - that is not what we are about). They all had planets that fell out of alignment. For some it was the time. For others it was the money. For still others it was family or work obligations. It doesn’t take much to throw a monkey wrench into something like this. And while I cannot say for sure, it is also possible that some were subconsciously pushing planets out of alignment. It is a much larger commitment than just a vacation. When envisioning how great it would be, those little details need not be entertained. When the departure date is looming, however, those details can become all-consuming.

Some say I am “living the dream.” This means different things to different people. It means different things to me depending on where my head is at the time. A little more than a week ago, my head could not see any dream. It was wrapped much too tightly around a notion that has haunted me my entire life - justice. When I was a kid, it was much more localized as fairness. As I grew and became more aware of the world I live in, I was able to see justice or, more often injustice, in people and places that were not directly tied to me. Bad things were happening to good or innocent people so much that I grew numb to it. It was a form of accepting that the world is not fair. Okay. Got it. But when good things happen to bad people (defined in numerous ways, it doesn’t have to be serial-killer bad)? That is a much more difficult concept to accept, for whatever reason. But it comes and goes. And when it touches my life in a very direct way it has a very direct effect on my serenity. In those times, I am living no dreams. In those times I am again five years-old and it is once again “no fair!”

It is exceeding rare that I am not in a profound state of gratitude for all I have. Whether it is by grace, by work or by luck, I am almost always in amazement at the life I get to live. In some respects, one could say I paid the price, but the truth is that I am one lucky SOB, too. The problem is that where I have worked hard to get much of what I have (luck and grace, while not a direct function of effort, are still affected by it), others seem to get what they want by doing little to nothing. I know, life is not fair, but when it hits very close to home, it devalues not the stuff I have, but what it took to get there. In other words, it diminishes the intangibles. And that - that - is on me. I should not and, in fact, do not need anyone to place any value on the things I know are good and true about me. The bottom line is simple enough, no none else can make me happy and, much more importantly, no one else can make me unhappy. And life isn’t fair. It’s not supposed to be.

Eight days, 3,130-ish miles though the desert, the heat, the rain, the dust and the mountains riding some of the most magnificent roads this nation has to offer gave me that. A sense of peace. I encourage anyone who intends to make a similar journey to stop intending and do it. Push the planets back into alignment and go. It is romantic, just not like you think it is.

Friday, June 03, 2016

An Ounce of Prevention

From my earliest memories up to my mid-30s, I never had any serious medical issues. Sure, I’ve been stitched up a time or two, broken an arm and I have been pretty sick a handful of times, but nothing really all that serious. Even when I had my wisdom teeth pulled at 18 years-old, I was only mildly sedated and given a local anesthetic. I remember it clearly; I was awake the whole time. It wasn’t until much later in life that I was in a position to need fluids intravenously (anaphylactic shock due to an allergic reaction to over-the-counter medication). I was in, fixed up and out within a couple of hours at a clinic. But that’s the extent of it. Until I was 37, I had never spent the night in a hospital as a patient.

All of that radically changed on October 17th, 2000. I was in a terrible automobile accident that should have killed me. It didn’t, but the hospital and all that goes with it became a real, constant and integral part of my life. I’ve written extensively about that wreck in my blog (this link has links to most of those posts), this is not about that, exactly. But it is about medical procedures and some of the nuances that never meant all that much to me prior. Among them is a simple revelation that only those who have been in the hospital for a sufficiently long period of time get it. We are the people who understand what the hospital means more intimately than anyone else. It’s not the doctors, the nurses, the x-ray and MRI techs, it’s not the family members who come to visit. Everyone else - everyone else - gets to go home. We don’t. We are there 24/7 and there is nothing we can say about it. We, who have been hospitalized for long periods of time, know it in a way no one else can. And it sucks.

I was there for about three months, five weeks of which I was in a “medically induced coma.” That’s pretty much a euphemism for being sedated into oblivion. I spent those five weeks in la-la land, somewhere between totally unconscious and semiconscious. They were the easiest weeks. After they brought me out of it, I was still put back under general anesthesia regularly for various procedures related to my recovery. When I was finally released, my hospital days were not over yet - I had to go back for procedures that took anywhere from a day to more than a week. Thankfully it’s been about 15 years since I’ve been hospitalized or needed a general anesthetic.
When I was conscious and I knew I would be “going under,” I found the experience not at all unpleasant. The unpleasantness either preceded whatever procedure I was going to have or came about a day later in the form of pain (or both), but I came to enjoy the “going under” and waking up part. Often, when I woke up, there would be new stuff about me (external fixator removal and the reversal of my colostomy were two procedures that made huge improvements). It was kind of exciting and not at all unpleasant. If nothing else, it was a break in the routine. Of course, by this time I knew hospitals and I knew what to expect.

In two days I will be “put under” for the first time in 15 or so years. It’s nothing serious, in fact, it’s a good thing. I am getting a colonoscopy because at my (ahem) advanced age, it’s considered a very good idea. It is not, however, the first time I have been “scoped.” Because my injuries in that accident resulted in a temporary colostomy, I was scoped fairly often. The procedure was never a problem and going under was, as I mentioned, something I had grown to enjoy. The prep for it is similar to what I have to do for this one. I’ll be drinking a ton of “purging fluid” and dealing with the, um, fallout. For those who have been there, you know, but imagine if you will what that looks like when the “exit” has been moved to your abdomen. No fun, but then they put me under and I was in my happy place again.

It’s been a long time. It was more than 37 years before my first hospital stay and it’s been around 15 since my last. I don’t know what I liked so much about going under and I am not exactly looking forward to it. The procedure itself? It is what it is. It’s an ounce of prevention. I can say with conviction that, although I know hospitals like only those who have lived in one do, and while I am not going into anything remotely unknown, I can also say, unequivocally, I do not like hospitals. That year or so of spending almost as much time in one as out of one was enough. To this day it takes more and more effort just to go inside one, let alone admit myself. I guess to those who have never been in one for a long time, this sounds like no big deal. And the reality is that it’s not. But it kind of is, too.