“I was trying to figure out what I should have already told you, but I never have. Something important, something every father should impart to his daughter. I finally got it: generosity. Be generous, with your time, with your love, with your life.” [From a terminally-ill, near death, Dr. Mark Greene, to daughter Rachel, during “On the Beach,” an episode of “ER,” May 9, 2002; emphasis mine.] 

I wrote last time about my fall on the ice during the recent storm. As reported, I did not break any bones; however, the residual effects of the mishap continue to linger on. The trauma of the tumble seems to have taken up residence in my lower and upper back – as well as in my psyche. My spirits are quite low.

In the first two weeks after the storm, I had massage, physical-therapy, and Zero-balancing sessions – in addition to my regularly-scheduled therapy appointment. At this point, though, my recovery still has a way to go. I need significantly more time – and help - to facilitate my healing.

In questioning my life’s choices during this period of blueness, I reviewed an essay from February 2006 here on Musings entitled “Generosity.” I have had reason to reflect again on the meaning of this term and specifically its place in the context of friendship.

What am I talking about? Well, I now have reason to believe that what I had experienced as acts of generosity from a friend were, perhaps, deeds that had been misinterpreted by me. I now suspect that perhaps some kind of relational score-keeping had been in play. This has sent me even more into an emotional tailspin, leading me into a deeper examination of my own behavior; to wit: Who am I as a friend? Am I in search of some kind of reciprocity rather than act from a generous spirit? Am I generous enough with my love? My time? My energy? My life? Who am I, really? And, in this context, how am I perceived by others?

I have always believed that each of our lives are comprised of our own individual choices – a sum of the good and/or bad. This long-held belief has, recently, however, come to be challenged. During the last few weeks I have been trying to make my way through Determined by Robert Sapolsky, a dense academic treatise on the topic of free will. Sapolsky makes the compelling argument that, essentially, free will is a myth -- that our lives are really the sum of our biology, our environment, our experiences, of human evolution. The theory is that whatever we choose to do in any moment is dictated by the sum of our life up until the previous moment, that that moment is the result of the previous moment, on and on and on. From Sapolsky’s viewpoint “…all we are is the history of our biology, over which we have no control, and of its interaction with environments, over which we also have no control, creating who we are in the moment” (Sapolsky, 2023, p. 85).

So, in this particular paradigm of human existence, none of us can really be held accountable for our actions – they have all been pre-determined. In fact, every act of mine (ours), lets say in the matters of charity or generosity, are built into us and that we don’t really choose to behave in one way or the other.

I admit that I find myself being quite depressed at the concept that my (and your) existence has already been determined in advance, that my (our) choices are not really choices. Thinking about this interpretation of being human has not done anything positive for my spirits.

So, in sum, right now my body and my soul are in pain. I am seeking help from various sources to manage life right now. But I am in a state of confusion about the meaning of the human experience and what actions I (we) may (or may not) have control over. I am wondering what “choice” is --and whether or not I have the ability to actually choose the right way to work my way out of this painful period.

Reference

Sapolsky, R. (2023). Determined. New York: Penguin Press.

As I sit here in my neighborhood Starbucks, sipping a hot chocolate on this late-January Sunday afternoon, I am thinking about how I have (mostly) successfully made it through another horrible winter-weather event. No, here in the Willamette Valley we really don’t have the blizzards and sub-zero temperatures that regularly incapacitate other parts of the country; that’s not our thing. The experience that we have all collectively lived through here, recently, is yet another Oregon ice storm. 

Starting nine days ago, on the evening of Friday, January 12, freezing rain began to coat the landscape from Eugene, here the southern valley, up to Portland in the north. When it started we didn’t really know how bad it was going to get, of course. But the forecast was not encouraging. And when I awoke last Saturday morning, it brought back unpleasant memories of a previous ice-storm disaster we had here. It was in December of 2016, when I was living in another neighborhood of north Eugene, that freezing rain left a good portion of the city immobilized. I had electricity for the first day of the storm, but when I awoke during the middle of that night, I had the realization the power was out. For the first full day of darkness, and then the second, I wore multiple layers of clothing (including a down jacket and ear muffs), huddled on my couch, for hours and hours at a time, under a big pile of blankets. I kept my phone powered on with an external battery pack and listened to the news.

The temperature outside remained in the teens and twenties. More trees fell under the weight of the ice, more power lines went down. I learned that it could be several days before power was restored. The temperature in my apartment continued to fall. It was about the time that I began to see my breath that my mood began to significantly decline. Oh, I thought, this is the very scenario that plays out when it is ultimately learned that the storm has led to various fatalities: people freezing to death, alone in their own dwellings.

It was after two full nights alone in the cold when I decided, on the third day, that I needed to take some kind of action. Given that the power was not out all over the area, there were pockets where life was, unbelievably, going on as usual. I called a hotel a few miles away, learned that they had power, and that they were offering discounts to folks who were seeking a safe place in the storm. I made a reservation, hastily packed a suitcase with my frozen fingers, and very carefully drove over there. I settled in, took a long hot bath, and started to feel safe. But this whole experience had been traumatizing and had left me with a sense of dread, unease, and extreme vulnerability. 

Now, fast forward to 2024 and this storm. The weather this time turned out to last days longer and be more severe than originally anticipated; in fact, this storm was even worse than last time, according to the experts. Reports kept coming in with more and more power outages, even as my lights remained on. I became increasingly anxious. I rather expected to have to relive the trauma of 2016 all over again. And this time, any kind of escape seemed even more problematic; I didn’t believe my car would make it out of my parking lot, much less get me to a hotel that had power. What was going to be my survival maneuver this time?

So then, at one point, on the third day of pandemic-like isolation, and because of my previous hardship, I tried to make from the bottom of my stairs to my car. I took just two steps -- before I fell! Luckily, I didn’t believe I had any broken bones, but I felt foolish. What was I thinking!? I still had power, internet, heat and food. There was no call for emergency measures yet, but still I was somewhat panicky. I was likely in a state of trauma-induced anxiety and not thinking entirely clearly. 

I went back upstairs and started to take care of my slightly wounded body. Even without any broken bones, I was hurting. My left shoulder seemed especially problematic. I texted a friend who immediately called me back with some self-care advice.

As this episode ends, I am able to report that I was able to make it out of the house on day six and find some comfort and care with a massage therapist who began tending to my slightly-broken body (and spirit - and ego). I am on the mend now, though it appears I have some healing yet to do.

With this essay I am, of course, reporting on one man’s lived experience of these events; ultimately, I survived just fine. The lights in my dwelling remained on the entire time and I only lost internet for about 15 hours. Mostly I had to deal with my increasing anxiety -- and then with my injured body. 

What is missing from this report, obviously, is the experience of the thousands and thousands of other Oregonians who fared much less well: those families whose lights went out, and are still out; those individuals who tried to walk outside and ended up in the emergency room with broken arms, wrists, hips, pelvises; those folks who tried to heat themselves inside with dangerous devices and ended up with carbon monoxide poisoning; business owners who lost days of income because of closure; and those of us who physically survived but will live long-term with the trauma.

If you are out there and reading this, I hope you are in a place where you are warm and safe – and, for the time being, living your life mostly trauma-free.

Soundtrack Suggestion

Time, time, time, see what's become of me
While I looked around for my possibilities

I was diagnosed with “dry eye disease” a number of years ago after I complained to my ophthalmologist about my chronic itchy, scratchy eyes. I was informed that this condition exists when there are not enough natural tears around to provide adequate lubrication for the eyes. This is why the eye drops you see advertised, or that you find on the shelves at the pharmacy, are referred to as “artificial tears.” For the last several years, I have been using prescription Restasis eye drops to ameliorate my condition. 

For me, among the consequences of having chronic dry eyes was that I found myself reading less; plus I was writing a lot less. Also, I was aware that the closed captioning on my (Ultra HD) TV screen was slightly blurry.  All this really worried me. I could still mostly function in the world, but my experience out there was definitely more limited.

Then, one morning in June 2022, I awoke in distress upon realizing that I had very little functional vision in my left eye; everything was totally blurry. I tried not to panic while I waited to place a phone call to my eye doc. When I got his office on the phone, I was informed that my ophthalmologist was in surgery that day, hence unavailable, so I took an appointment with one of his partners. I did not know this person and the appointment did not go well; I thought the diagnosis and the advice I was given was garbage. He seemed mostly mystified by my condition although he did give me additional eye drops and suggested that I continue on with the routine of warm compresses that I had been doing for years.

Exactly one week later, I awoke with the same problem in the other eye. FUCK! Again I called. Again my regular ophthalmologist was in surgery. Once more, I foolishly consented to see the substitute which was pretty insane given the previous week’s encounter. I did finally gather enough information from him to embark on a knowledge search myself, however.

What I discovered is that I have a rather common condition called meibomian gland dysfunction (MGD). One of the most succinct descriptions I found online is as follows:

The meibomian glands are oil producing glands in both your upper and lower eyelids. The oil produced by these glands forms the outermost layer of your tear film. This oil layer protects your tears from rapidly evaporating. When these oils are reduced or eliminated, your tears evaporate from the surface of your eyes quickly and your eyes become much drier. This is especially true when you are engaged in visually intense tasks such as reading (books, magazines, newspapers), staring at a computer, cell phone, or tablet screen, watching television, driving, etc.

Once I had a label for my condition (which was not provided by the substitute eye doc), it opened up a wealth of information available online. I learned lots from watching YouTube videos, for example. 

Then, finally, the time came for my annual eye exam. My ophthalmologist was well-aware of MGD and knew what to do. Among the recommendations was a referral to a dry-eye specialist (who knew there even was such a person!). Treatments are available, I was told, although expensive and not covered my insurance. I said I really didn’t care about the cost because I needed some relief. I wanted my eyes back!

Now, a year and a half later, I can happily report that these treatments have been successful. The whole process involved some minor lifestyle changes (e.g., no more aftershave) plus in-office radio-frequency (RF) and intense-pulsed-light (IPL) treatments. I am back to reading (and writing) more. And the TV-screen captions are no longer blurry!

So, this is just to say to all of my fellow septuagenarians (and everybody else) who have bodies that are changing and eyes that are like deserts: help is available!

Soundtrack Suggestion

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?

I just finished reading Ten Before Thirty, the debut novel by Yana Kazan, a work that was recommended to me recently by friends. I was informed that Kazan is the pen name of a former professional colleague and that the novel is autobiographical in nature; of course I was intrigued.

Ten Before Thirty can most appropriately be described as a coming-of-age story. The protagonist is Annie Zechman who we first meet at the age of ten as she mystically encounters her long-dead great-grandmother Flora. Flora warns her that there are ten “really bad” things coming at her and that Annie has the choice of experiencing them early in life - or later. Annie chooses “early,” namely before the age of thirty. Hence the title of the book.

One of the earliest, really bad things to happen is the sudden death of her father at the age of 52. As the narrative unfolds, we learn, in quite some detail, about several of the other traumatic events she encounters; when tallied up they are undoubtedly more than ten in number. We find out, for example, that as a young child, Annie was molested by her grandfather. And early on, Annie’s single-parent mother finds a man, marries, and moves the family to Dallas, Texas. It is the early Sixties and as Annie is finishing high school, President Kennedy is assassinated nearby during her senior year. 

We then follow Annie through her undergraduate years at a women’s college in Missouri and to grad school in Wisconsin. And yes, the “really bad” things keep coming. Annie has very few friends during these early years, and her choice of emotionally-unavailable men along the way almost certainly works against her best interest. The list of traumas includes (but is not limited to): the loss of a love; date and stranger rape; being hit by a car; nearly being kidnapped; and being strip-searched in jail. It is an eye-opening account of a somewhat naïve and vulnerable female as she attempts to navigate the rather hostile world of the turbulent Sixties and Seventies.

By the time the book ends, we know that Annie has had a number of therapists to help her along the way, that she has successfully completed her bachelor’s and master’s degrees, and has embarked on the path to a Ph.D. program in educational administration. Of course, life goes on, and nothing protects any of us from the natural and inevitable traumas of being human, but perhaps we can trust that Annie has the tools and life experience to successfully navigate future “really bad” things.

Given the historical references in the text, it is not difficult to discern the actual timeline. The period in which this story takes place corresponds almost precisely with my life. If I’ve calculated correctly, I am one year younger than Annie; I was a junior in high school when JFK was assassinated, for example. To the extent that the story is autobiographical, I now know much more about “Annie’s” early years than she knows of mine. I found the book wonderfully-written, skillfully-edited and highly-compelling. My vote: an enthusiastic thumbs up. 

Soundtrack Suggestion

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming
We’re finally on our own
This summer I hear the drumming
Four dead in Ohio

Gotta get down to it, soldiers are cutting us down
Should have been gone long ago
What if you knew her and found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

(“Ohio” – Neil Young – Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young)

Wikipedia states that “cord-cutters” [are those people who] cancel their subscriptions to multichannel television services available over cable or satellite, drop pay television channels, or reduce the number of hours of subscription TV viewed in response to competition from rival media….

Given this definition, I have become, in the last week, a bona-fide cord-cutter. It’s something I’ve been considering for a long time – perhaps years. My long-time provider for live TV has been Comcast (er, Xfinity) and I can’t remember a time in my life when I haven’t had a set-top box attached to coaxial cable coming out of the wall. Of course, don’t get me wrong, the picture quality, the ease of use, and the X1 voice remote are all extremely attractive features I’ve gotten used to. What I’ve not been able to accept are the ever-increasing monthly bills and the abysmal customer service.

However, I have always found excuses not to change. As you know, change is a bitch.

A couple of days ago, though, I walked into the local Comcast/Xfinity store armed with a file folder of research materials: copies of my bills from the last year-and-a-half; a tally of all the monthly/yearly costs for my streaming services; information about YouTube TV (where I’m signed up for a trial period); and an estimate of projected new costs compared to what I’m currently paying.

It didn’t take long for me to realize, hoever, that none of this stuff was going to be required. The service representative that I talked to didn’t really care; he seemed more than happy to just go ahead and cancel my cable and voice services, no questions asked. Poof! A few dozen key strokes later and he made it happen. All that was required was for me to choose which internet speed I wished to continue. I decided to move down from the Gigabit+ speed to the 800 Mbps option. Of course, this is likely still much more than I really need, but I’ve gotten used to what’s defined as “superfast.”

I also informed him that I was going to order a modem and stop renting that piece of equipment from them very soon. (After my initial investment, I will save an additional $15/month.) Additionally, my new “land-line” (actually VoIP) provider will be Ooma.

As it now stands, for live TV, I am now with YouTube TV. They happen to provide just about any option I think I need for live news and sports. Of course, I knew I could not live without HBO Max (now called simply Max), so I went to their website and signed up for a one-year package. And finally, I remain a customer of Netflix, Hulu, Apple TV+, Amazon Prime, and Paramount+. I am an absolute content junkie. Geesh!

So, in the end, according to contemporary terminology, I’m now a cord-cutter. My modem/router still remains connected via coaxial cable to the wall, of course. But I’m no longer using Xfinity as my cable TV provider and, for right now, YouTube TV seems to be working out just fine. Ask me in a few months for a progress report.