Three Keys to Recovery

You find yourself hospitalized with a serious condition for the first time.  "But I'm only 45," you think to yourself.  Brought into the ER three days ago, you nearly die in that sterile room with the funny smell.  You pull through, but there are tests, and more tests, and the "vampires" show up every twelve hours for a blood sample--not just one tube but three.  You can't go to the bathroom by yourself.  The virility you once felt is gone.

But things slowly get better.  Your numbers get better, and you find out there are lots of numbers.  Too many numbers to keep track of.  You finally get discharged, but the prognosis for recovery is kind of bleak.  None of it seems right.  It doesn't fit, so you get signed off to see a specialist.  They figure it out, the prognosis for recovery gets a lot better.  You are happy with that.

You settle in at home since you are in no shape to work and focus on getting better.  The euphoria of hope that you will live a long life is replaced by the day to day rigors of recovery.  New diet, new exercises, your life is changed in a big way.  Thirty minutes in a chair and you get up stiff and sore.  Your body aches horribly all the time.  But you slowly improve.  More tests, doctor visits every three weeks.  But you improve.  A year later you are back at work, having made some lifestyle changes but the stiffness and pain hasn't gone away.  It is less severe but still there.

Your doctor, nutritionist, and a lot of other people will tell you what to do to get better. but having gone through this experience myself at age 47, I suggest you supplement that with your own game plan.  For me the three steps outline below got me through the experience.

Knowledge. While faith is important, knowing in some detail what you are suffering from and how to get better empowers you. Medicine is not an exact science.  We assume doctors' knew what they were doing, but with all due respect, sometimes they don't.  You will speak with at least three different physicians on the hospital staff who drop by to see you everyday--your primary physician and usually two or three supplementary ones.  You ask each the exact same question and get three totally different answers. What do you do?

You read and learn about your ailment. That knowledge allows you to understand what the medical folks are saying, what types of questions you need to ask, and when to seek a second opinion.  You are being fed a lot of bad news about your future from doctors, but your condition continues to improve dramatically.  You and your family's frustration reaches a point where you demand a second opinion and referral to a top notch specialist.  You research the possibilities and narrow it to three or four doctors.  You find one that can see you soon and you make the trip.  They deal specifically with the disease you are suffering from and pinpoint the problem.  Your search for knowledge has paid off...the prognosis is much better.

Support. There are different types of support. While you may be suspicious of the doctors, the support staff--nurses, blood techs (the infamous vampires), and cleaning staff are often good sources of support.  You see them regularly.  They get to know you and you them.  Sometimes it is like another member of the family coming in the door.. They always show up smiling, asking how you are, and respond with a chuckle to your stories and jokes. Maybe it is supposed to be a "good cop, bad cop" thing, with the doctors being the bad cop, but what's refreshing is a hospital staff that excels at being the good cop.

Support from friends and family is important to recovery. First, they remind you that people want you around and want you to get better. Second, they can do some of the footwork chores you normally stress over so you don't have to.  Of course, if married with kids at home, your spouse will do the job of two parents  Other family members will take shifts to be there with you and assist with researching your particular ailment so you are knowledgeable.  Friends will show up to help keep your spirits up.  Nothing like a hospital room full of fat men on a Monday night watching football.  Even if you are the kind of person that does not want to be waited on, enjoy the support, embrace it.  And know that more than likely you will do the same for them some day.

Humor. This third key might best be titled "stay positive" but humor is a great way to cope with a bad situation.. Unless you have been confined to an uncomfortable hospital bed for days, no one realizes how awkward it is when they visit you. You are laying there in a degrading hospital gown and visitors look at you with such sympathy. It is actually a downer so use humor to lighten things up. They may be stupid little jokes and comments, but if it brought a smile to the nurse, custodian, or visitor then it was worth it. Anything to cut the tension. You have to laugh at your situation, even if it is not something to laugh about, because humor is therapeutic. Not every patient is like that, but you have to find a proactive way to cope with your health issues. For many like me it is humor.

These three keys do not end once you leave the hospital. You will probably spend time rehabilitating and you should do so based on knowledge, support, and humor. I spent six months out of work and each one was painful due to my body repairing itself. It can be psychologically painful to. Did you let my family down? The problems of life are still there, what do you do?  You can't physically do as much, so how do I adjust to that. My answer: learn about it, be sure to tap into your support network, and take it with a smile on your face.

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The Bike Ride

The Bike Ride

 

Fear, Courage, Determination combine because the boy wants to ride.

Hands on the grips, feet on the pedals,

Dad propels him down the road but then suddenly let's go.

Legs pumping wildly, arms straining to keep it straight,

The boy is a free bird but turns a little too late.

Down he goes, hands catching his fall, but he pops up ready to

ride.

 

Freedom, love, desire combine because they want to ride.

She on her bike, he on his, down the street they travel

Two people in love, living in the moment on a pleasant summer day.

No particular destination in mind, just two hearts pedaling

away.

Confident that together every challenge can be conquered,

Whether rain, dog, or heat of day; they live in the ride.

 

Independence, vigor, resolve combine because the lady wants to ride.

Many years have past, a long life been lived since that first

time.

So many rides with family, friends, and a loving husband,

But now on her own sitting atop three wheels instead of two.

The lady is not sad, the memories flood back to her in waves.

Knowing that she will never regret the ride she didn't have.

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Norman and Willy Build a Clubhouse

Norman and Willy Build a Clubhouse

By Samantha Duvall & Robert Duvall

                               

          Norman and Willy were best friends.  It was a strange friendship.  Norman was an elephant and really BIG!  Willy was an earthworm and really small.  This is a story about them building a clubhouse.

          Norman and Willy were in the playground at school.  Marcus the monkey, Lola the giraffe, and Sally the panther were playing hide and go seek.

          “Norman, let’s go play hide and go seek with the others,” said Willy.

          “You sure, Willy?” asked Norman.  “They don’t like to play with us.”  Norman looked at his really big body.  “They say I’m fat and might hurt someone.”

          “You’re an elephant and all elephants are big.”  Willy laughed, “I’m the smallest one here.  You haven’t hurt me.”

          “Yeah, but you sit on the top of my head.”

          Norman walked over to the monkey, giraffe, and panther with Willy riding on top of his head.  “Can we play?” asked Norman.

          Marcus the monkey said, “We who?  It’s just you.”

          Willy wiggled his body and shouted, “Hey, I’m on top of Norman’s head!”

          “I can see the worm,” said Lola the giraffe.  “He’s kind of cute up there.”

          “Yeah, but you are tall,” said Sally the panther.  “And no Norman, you cannot play.  You’re too big and might hurt someone.”                              

          Marcus added, “Norman you are chubby.  Too chubby.”

          “Norman, you are as big as a house,” said Lola.

          Willy became angry.  “At least he doesn’t have a neck like a long tree.”

          “Come on Willy.  They don’t want to play with us,” said Norman.  “Let’s go.”

          After school, Norman is walking home with Willy riding on his head.  Marcus, Lola, and Sally are in front of them.

          “Hey guys.  Are we going to start making our clubhouse today?” asked Lola.

          Marcus said as he jumped up and down, “Yeah! Let’s meet at Sally’s house and do it.”

          Marcus, Lola, and Sally walked to the panther’s house to begin building in the backyard.

          Maybe it was from all the bouncing sitting on top of Norman’s head but Willy comes up with a plan.  “Hey Norman, let’s build our own clubhouse.”

          “That’s a good idea.  I have a lot of room at my house,” said Norman.

          The two best friends walked to Norman’s house and into the backyard.  Bushes, branches, and fallen trees were piled up to the side.

          “This is perfect,” said Willy.                     

          Willy hopped off Norman’s head and sat on a fence pole telling Norman what to do.  Norman took one big tree trunk at a time and slammed it straight into the ground.  Willy told Norman they needed wooden walls, so Norman held the planks in place as Willy tied them to the posts.  They left room for two windows and a big door for Norman.  (They also made a little door for Willy.)

          “How are we going to do the roof?” asked Norman.

          “We can use the bushes to lay on top of some wooden limbs,” said Willy.

          By dinner time, the clubhouse was done.  It was solid and really big.

          “We did a good job, Willy,” said Norman.

          “Yes, we did,” replied Willy.

          The next day was Saturday, so there was no school.  Norman and Willy decided to get a peek at the other clubhouse.  They walked over to Sally’s house.

          “Their clubhouse is kind of small,” said Norman. 

          “For you it is, but it also leans to one side like it is going to fall over,” said Willy.  “And there’s a huge hole in the roof.”

          Norman and Willy watched as Marcus, Lola, and Sally argued about how to make their clubhouse better.  They were not getting along very well.

          “Let’s go inside and see what it is like,” said Marcus.  So the monkey, the giraffe, and the panther went into their little, run down clubhouse.  They disappeared inside except for Lola’s head and neck which stuck up through the roofless top.

          Suddenly there was a low rumble.  And it grew. And it grew.  “Get out!” screamed Marcus.  But it was too late.  The whole clubhouse fell on top of them.

          Willy laughed and laughed.  Even Norman snickered and had a smile on his face.

          “Help us!” shouted the three trapped animals.  Norman walked over and began to gently remove the timber and branches.  Soon Marcus, Lola, and Sally were freed.

          “I guess being big isn’t so bad,” said Sally.

          “Yeah,” added Marcus, “you just tossed those big poles like they were toothpicks.”

          Willy whispered in Norman’s ear.  The big elephant nodded his head.  “Hey, you guys want to come over to our clubhouse.  It’s big enough for all of us,” said Norman.  “And then maybe we can play hide-and-go-seek.”

          They huddled up and whispered to each other, and then said all together, “YEAH!”

THE END

Passion

 

I watched a "cute" movie the other day called The Big Year. It's about bird watching. I know, not my normal western, action, or fantasy preference in movie selection, but it had Steve Martin (who I adore), Owen Wilson (who I like, nose and all), and Jack Black (who I normally loathe but with Martin he had to be good). All three decide to do a "Big Year." Every year there is an informal competition between bird lovers to find out who can spot the most species. Those watchers who truly dedicate themselves to the passion of "birding" do not hold anything back (money, job, family) to pursue a Big Year. While the movie got into the psychological and competitive side of the event, what caught my interest was the passion these guys had for birds. BIRDS!

Everyone has something they are passionate about, and if they don't then they should find something. Family, friends, and job do not count. Whatever it is should be separate from those important spheres of one's life. Other people do not have to like or respect it, but it has to be something you absolutely can not do without. I know fishing was my Dad's passion. I couldn't say 100% for sure but I think working in the yard and garden has become my Mom's passion. For a slightly off the wall uncle it is the stock market.

I think the purpose of passion, in the sense I have been talking about it, is just that...to provide one with purpose. The other so called passions will leave or may change--kids leave home, you retire, the relationship isn't what it once was--but the idea of a Big Year kind of passion is that it is something permanent. It provides a person with a sense of purpose beyond the socially accepted norms. Was Steve Martin a good father and husband in the movie...yes. Was Jack Black a loving son...yes. Was Owen Wilson still keeping a good paying job...yes. But these three characters had found something that gave them purpose above and beyond those things.

Most people are loving fathers and mothers, good workers, and caring neighbors. But a Big Year kind of passion is an individual thing and that can be scary. Maybe this is why so many people keep these passions to themselves, afraid the guys at the office will not understand their passion for painting or crocheting. These type of passions are expressions of individuality. However, within the circle of people with whom you share the passion you gain respect and are accepted. Other "birders" admired Martin's and Wilson's characters because they were good. Maybe they couldn't sink a three-pointer but they could spot the shit out of birds. Even Black's character, because he was a decent guy, finds acceptance and the attention of a pretty girl. My point is others who may be important to your life do not have to understand your passion but they should accept it as they accept you.

Ultimately it is all about happiness. While all three of the characters in the film may grow old and generally happy without "birding," they are so much more happy because of it. Passionate endeavors make one happy because they in many ways are searches for beauty and perfection--the colorful cardinal, the flawless knitted sweater, the perfect tomato. There is often a sense of competition or adventure--the Big Year, the county fair, the craft show. Engagement of the mind and body are often necessary (but not required...ask Stephen Hawking). All of these elements make the pursuit of the task worthwhile and make the person happy. It is easy to say we are happy, but how many of us truly are?

Finally, I believe to achieve the highest stage of this pursuit of passion the topic, hobby, endeavor must be shared with family and friends. Again, they might not get it, but if they truly care about you, they will support it because it makes you happy and is part of who you are. Fear should not be an impediment to happiness or passion.

For those who are passionless, like myself, maybe there is hope. Life changing events can affect people in strange ways. I don't want to get too personal but I do want to offer my insight (for what its worth). I have not been passionate about something in a long time. Things that at one time I was passionate about may be beyond my physical ability to enjoy anymore. So I believe a person can search out and find new passions. The key requirement is that you have to make the decision to look for it. Maybe it will fall in your lap, but more often than not you have to look for it. maybe it's resurrecting something from long ago. maybe it's something new. The thing to remember is that to live a passionless life is to live half a life. So join me in searching for a complete life.

 

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America's Tolkien

I'm not being blasphemous. This is an interesting piece on Game of Thrones. Here.

 

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A Lil' Silver Magic

A Lil’ Silver Magic

By R. W. Duvall

            My Dad had a knack for fishing.  It didn’t matter if it was bass, catfish, crappie, blue gill, or trout, he always caught fish.  Some said he had a gift, but he would scoff at and dismiss such a notion.  I think he was simply in his element when fishing.  For my Dad fishing was as much spiritual as it was recreational.  And like some enlightened Buddhist priest as he aged he grew to enjoy it more as his skills neared perfection.

            When I was a kid he taught me how to plug, worm, and flip for bass.  He showed me how to rig a goldfish when flathead fishing.  He shared with me his expertise, like how much line should separate the hook from bobber when floating a bait for trout or crappie.  The only time I ever taught my dad anything about fishing—that he actually used and bragged about—was how to spoon for Southern Utah trout. 

            When I was sixteen dad bought an acre lot in the mountains above Cedar City, Utah near a small village called Duck Creek.  It was and still is a beautiful place.  Although I never spent much time there until after college, trips to “the lot” were always special.  I took my sons for a week or two during the summers to visit with their “papa” and, of course, fish.  Near Dad’s lot was Duck Creek and Aspen Mirror Lake (it’s more like a big pond).  Within twenty minutes were Navajo Lake, Mammoth Creek, and the Sevier River.  Finally, Lake Panguitch was about an hour drive and considered one of the trophy trout lakes in Southern Utah.  We had plenty of places to fish.

            One late afternoon many years ago my two sons, Dad, and myself were fishing Aspen Mirror Lake along the rock damn.  Filled with mostly stockers, occasionally a couple larger holdovers could be caught, it was a popular stop for families during the weekends, but on this Tuesday afternoon we were the only ones there.  But the fish were not biting.  Not even a nibble on Powerbait or red worms.  This particular summer I decided to stock up on a variety of spoons and spinners for just such an occasion.

            I tied on a snap swivel (I know it’s a sin but for the part-time fisherman, swivels are as good as gold) and attached a gold bladed rooster tail spinner.  I started casting out.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glancing at me.  I cast a couple more times, waiting for it…waiting for it…waiting for it.

            “You’re not gonna catch nuttin’ on that,” he said in a matter of fact way.  I didn’t respond but kept casting.  And then it happened.  My pole bent double as a nice eight inch Rainbow slammed into the lure.  I held the tip high to keep him clear of the moss bed that was about three feet under water.  Twenty seconds later the fish dangled from the end of my line for a quick photograph.

            “Ummm…what were you sayin’ Dad?”  I said sarcastically.  He mumbled something about luck and baited his pole with a big glob of orange Powerbait.

            “Can I reel in the next one?” asked my oldest son, Jake.  I nodded my head and promised Zachary the one after that.  Sure enough, within ten minutes both had worked their arms reeling in trout.  By this time I knew dad was interested.

            “So what kinda lure you usin’?” he asked.  I showed him the rooster tail and popped open a clear plastic storage box full of a variety of spinners and spoons in different styles and colors.  He looked, didn’t say much, kind of grunted and went back to his baited pole.  I caught three more fish that afternoon, and he caught ZERO!

            To be fair, my dad is open to new things and ideas; it just takes him a little while to adjust to it.  That evening he took the boys to the little store at Duck Creek to get an ice cream.  I noticed when he got back a brown paper bag with a half dozen trout lures in it.  I knew not to push it, so I didn’t laugh but I really wanted to.

            The next day all four of us went to Navajo Lake.  Navajo is formed by a bowl-like ring of mountains and the water sits there like a cup full of soup.   It generally is a boat fishing lake, but during dry years or in the later months of the summer a levee appears that runs right through the middle of the lake from one shore to the other.  It provides great access to deeper parts of the lake, which is not very deep at about twenty to thirty feet depending on the water level. 

            It was late July, so the levee was running across the lake.  We got out and walked down it, stopping about one hundred feet from shore.  Dad and the kids were already rigged for Powerbait, so they stuck with that.  At Aspen Mirror I was using a light rig, a spinning reel with six pound line on a five foot pole, but for Navajo I brought a six and a half foot Ugly Stick rigged with a Bass Pro Shop spinning reel with ten pound line.  Another, larger, snap swivel was tied to the line.  I started out with a heavier rooster tailed spinner with red accents.

            Dad was the first to reel in a fish, but the bite went dead after that.  I kept casting, working my way toward the middle of the lake.  About thirty minutes after we arrived, a fish hit.  I had checked my drag earlier and this trout was stripping some line anyway.  I pulled in a nice fat twelve inch Rainbow.  I suspected there was a depression or hole about thirty yards from the levee.  I could barely reach it with the rooster tail, so I snapped on a half-ounce, silver Kastmaster. 

            I threw that lure out there for all I was worth, gave it a five count and then reeled it in slowly.  On the second cast a second foot long Rainbow attacked.  That was all it took.  Dad was already cutting his bubble bobber and hook rig off and tying on a swivel and gold Kastmaster.  We spent the next hour catching fish almost non-stop.  The boys had a blast reeling them in.  My youngest complained his arm hurt when we were done.

            That was the beginning of our love-affair with spoon and spinner fishing for trout in Utah.  Like every other method of fishing he had perfected, Dad played with the spinner/spoon approach and made it his own.  He would call in the summers bragging about the latest rod and spoon combo he had tried.  Not to say that we never bait fished again, but there is something different, something special about catching a trout on a lure, especially when you prefer to catch and release.  So the next time you are in the mountains looking to catch a Rainbow, German Brown, Cut-throat, or Brook trout tie on a lil’ silver magic.

Broken

BROKEN
 

by R. W. Duvall

 



I am broken and tired.

My muscles ache and my joints are sore.

Energy that once filled me as a young man is gone.

Exhaustion numbs my body and mind.

 

I am broken and tired.

The tonic of escapism is gone.

The nectar will kill me if consumed.

While destruction solves nothing, could it bring peace?

 

I am broken and tired.

A once vibrant mind and intellect has vanished.

Creativity, motivation, accomplishment mean nothing.

A thoughtless, empty shell I have become.

 

I am broken and tired.

Where once a lively spirit thrived,

Now a soulless zombie lives.

Hope is the luxury others have but is distant from this being.

 

I am broken and tired.

From father and husband to cad and failure.

I tried to do my best but seem to have disappointed all.

I give up trying to achieve bliss.

 

What is to become of a creature such as me?