“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?

“Loneliness is far more than just a bad feeling… It is associated with a greater risk of cardiovascular disease, dementia, stroke, depression, anxiety, and premature death. The mortality impact of being socially disconnected is similar to that caused by smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day, and even greater than that associated with obesity and physical inactivity.” – Dr. Vivek Murthy (U.S. Surgeon General) 

I retired from full-time employment in 2014, at age 67. It wasn’t that I thought it was really my time to move on – rather my employer believed it was. I was working as an academic dean, at a community college in the Bay Area, and the administration that had hired me, well, those folks were long gone. The new president didn’t take any time to get to know me and was more interested in putting in his own administrative team. Therefore, I was toast.

So, after receiving official notice that my contract was not being renewed, hastily evaluating my financial situation, and determining that retirement was at least theoretically possible, I packed up and moved back here to Oregon. After all, I had spent a considerable portion of my life in Corvallis and Eugene and my thinking was that there were folks here that would constitute some kind of community for me: that I wouldn’t be totally devoid of a support system.

Flash forward to present day: I’m now 76, and while it’s true that I’m not entirely without a support network, it’s turned out to be a pretty meager one. I have lunch once a month with an old friend from my photography days and about once a year with former Oregon University System colleagues. I made new friends when I spent three years as a part-time faculty member here recently (2019-2022), but now that that position has ended, I now rarely see those folks. I have kept in contact with Katrina (mentioned previously in my writings here; she is the person named in my Advance Directive), but she has her own very busy life and we communicate primarily, and fairly infrequently, by text. I have a Zoom session with an old high-school friend from Wisconsin once every couple months or so. And finally, I admit I had high hopes for real and sustained human connection when I was in a relationship for about three years, but that ended last year and left me alone and grieving. 

Given that the pandemic is largely in our rearview mirror, I have once again started spending time here at my neighborhood Starbucks. It’s not really community, per se, but as I sit here writing this, there are the sounds of work, conversation and occasional laughter. There are college students at the next table studying for, what I assume, their final exams. It’s true that I don’t actually meet people here, but it provides some sense of comfort: probably for the same reason that, when at home, I keep the TV or radio on most of the time; the NPR hosts and the news anchors at MSNBC keep me company. Fortunately, right now I have part-time work, in a tech-support role, at the college, that physically puts me in the classroom and in contact with instructors and students, for a few hours a week. That tends to keep me going.

I fear that I am one of the individuals that the Surgeon General speaks of in terms of the “loneliness epidemic.” I am more socially isolated than is really healthy. I know for sure that I am touch-starved. I’m pretty sure that, at this rate, I’m destined to be alone at the end.

For now, I guess I'll just keep breathing, walking, writing – and remain open to whatever comes next.

(Apologies for my prolonged absence here.)

Soundtrack Suggestion

When I was young
I never needed anyone
And making love was just for fun
Those days are gone

Livin' alone
I think of all the friends I've known
But when I dial the telephone
Nobody's home

All by myself
Don't wanna be
All by myself
Anymore

("All By Myself" - Eric Carmen)

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. I think they’re silly, and always have. After all, who needs a change of calendar to change their life? Not me.

That said, I did set a couple of goals for myself at the beginning of 2016. I didn’t make them public, and I knew the world would not end if I simply decided to abandon one or both.

Goal #1 was creative in nature: publish one iPhone photo per day to Instagram (and simultaneously to Facebook and Twitter). It became pretty obvious within the first month that this was going to be quite a challenge, but I was inspired to this quest by Facebook friend (Pulitzer Prize winning photographer; former Chief White House Photographer; Oregon native) David Kennerly, who published a book after he accomplished this task. He made and posted one iPhone 5s photo a day for the entirety of 2013 and then published David Hume Kennerly On the iPhone. It’s quite a great book. You should check it out.

This goal actually evolved over time. I wanted to take at least one publishable photo per day and then upload it. I quickly modified that to simply posting one photo per day, whether or not it was taken on the same day. Then, I decided one image per day was allowable, regardless of camera used or its content (screenshots became permitted). I kept on giving myself more and more flexibility or I might never have reached the goal. But now, on January 1, 2017, I am able to report that I did indeed post one image a day for each of the 366 days (yes, it was a leap year) of 2016. Whew. For those of you who follow or friend me, I hope you enjoyed at least some of the work I produced. (I highly doubt a book will follow.)

Goal #2 was physical- and mental-health related. In 2015, I had walked over 800 miles during the course of the year (as measured by the Walkmeter app on my phone). Therefore, I thought that 1,000 miles might be a reasonable goal for 2016. I am happy to report that I made it; my final mileage for the year was 1,066. Of course, many of the photos you saw me post during the year were taken during those daily walks. (There were only a handful of days during the year when I didn’t get out for at least a short walk). This final tally comes to an average of 2.9 miles/day. I’m pretty happy with that result.

Other than that, 2016 pretty much sucked. But at least I can say I lived through it.