My hands shake uncontrollably as I write this and a lack of coordination with my keystrokes means a frustrating effort to complete every thought without making constant corrections. Writing these was once fun but now really more of a challenging chore as the perfectionist in me tries to construct proper sentence accuracy. I’m also trying to write with just one eye, the other bandaged after yesterday’s trip to the cornea specialist, Dr. Kane.
A Covid Booster, multiple blood tests, several IVs, prescription drugs, catheterizations, probes in all possible bodily cavities, electrodes, urine samples, eye tests, doctor consults, heart monitors, cornea polishing, and x-rays sum up my week of medical hell. Naturally, they found more than originally expected, including a badly calcified aortic valve that needs to be replaced. Nothing like getting a lifetime of surgical procedures in a few short weeks.
I’ll be bionic, even trionic, and currently thoroughly saturated with numerous pain-numbing tonics. Any personal privacy that I may have once enjoyed has be exposed and violated. Body parts have been shaved, cameras inserted, measurements taken, vitals recorded, and insurance reports filed. I visited with at least seven different physicians this week, not to mention their support staff that measured weight, height, temperature, medication usage, blood pressure, iron levels, heart rate, drinking or smoking habits, allergies, toilet habits, frequency of sex, and family history, to mention just a few of the endless questions that they ask of us. Who knows what they did to me while I was out cold?
I do get the weekend to recover, but my right eyelid is taped shut and an embryonic membrane covers my eye, leaving me with depth perception difficulties, light sensitivity, a watery discharge, and limited visibility. Xanax and eyedrops somewhat relieve the stinging and itching, but discomfort is the norm, like a severe cornea abrasion or a needle in my eye. At least, they only had to smooth the surface of one eye, not both as I originally anticipated. Getting my extremities to move to run this morning was daunting and maintaining a straight line forward on unstable legs took a great deal of focus. Nonetheless, I completed my minimum mile in just under a cautious 16-minutes and added a few more tenths for good measure. Tomorrow should be easier, but all the tests and early morning appointments that have limited my mileage will put me at only about 30 total miles halfway through October and 765 for the year.
My wife was covering for me last night at a neighborhood meet-and-greet that we organized before we got wind of this unexpected ocular procedure. She also found another acquaintance to go with her for tomorrow night’s theatre fundraiser. I’ll take one more pain pill to knock myself out for the night before attempting to fulfill another groggy morning’s run obligation. Right now, I feel sluggish and a bit depressed, but certainly not due to missing the party or theater. Instead, I watched the Beckham documentary on Netflix out of my good eye.
The Braves, Orioles, Dodgers, and Twins are already out of the playoffs. The hated Bryce Harper has led the Phillies into the NLCS, while my favorite player, Kyle Schwarber, has yet to contribute to the historical Philadelphia home run barrage.
While I wait for the Phils to move on, baseball will keep me entertained this healing weekend, along with college/NFL football, and potential I.U. basketball recruit announcements. However, as my right eye continues to burn, I find myself reflecting on a story and poem that I wrote many years ago.
My poor mom, worried about a note, written in an unreadable scribble from a visiting eye doctor and relayed to me from school nurse to take home. Mom could only make out the words, “Morso in the right eye,” thinking it sounded like some uncurable disease. She spent most of the weekend at the library worried and trying to research what this mysterious malady was before Monday finally came and she was able to get ahold of the nurse. We all had to laugh!
MORSO
“Moreso” The Doctor’s report,
Made Mom cry.
Morso detected,
In her son’s right eye.
What went wrong,
With my son’s eye?
If he has Morso,
Can he die?
It must be bad,
If I read it right.
Will it affect,
His precious sight?
I’ve never heard,
Of this disease.
I beg of you,
Help him please.
In a panic,
Need explanation.
What is Morso?
Give Clarification.
There’s no such thing,
“I didn’t write Morso.”
Said the doctor,
Who should know.
It reads “more so,”
Didn’t mean to scare,
One eye’s weaker,
When you compare.
My silly mistake,
I now concede.
Doctor’s handwriting,
Hard to read.
Just needs glasses,
To improve his sight.
Both eyes tested poorly,
But “more so” in right.
Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com
I found it ironic that the cornea polishing that I just endured was performed solely on my right eye. Once again, its damage was “more so” than that in my left. Despite this chuckle, I’m still reminded of my torturous fraternity initiations during Hell Week.
;
Today was #5,400 in the running streak. It felt like I was both mentally and physically tired while trying to complete the 2.1-mile course. I pushed through with thoughts of the inevitable end to my precious streak and images of Frankenstein on the operating table. When I met with the surgeon later in the day, she confirmed that they would need to open my breast plate to access the area where my aorta enters the heart chamber. She recommended replacing the now calcified and leaky valve with one from a willing bovine or swine. I was impressed with her explanation and detailed drawing of the surgical plan but struggled with her lack of experience. She’s a graduate of UF and specializes in aorta repair, but she doesn’t have the expertise of a master surgeon with 10,000 hours of practice. I was warned that this would be an issue at a Regional Hospital like Sarasota Memorial. I was also not comfortable with the fact that the department head passed me off to a relative rookie. We’ll now look more seriously at Tampa and Stanford.
I’m feeling a bit depressed and sorry for myself after years of exercise and conditioning that I thought would keep me healthy. Instead, I’m looking at a serious operation where they actually stop my heart, functioning only via ventilation, followed by months of rehabilitation. The surgeon assured me that I would feel much better in the long run, seemingly amazed at the fact that I could continue to run despite the circulation and breathing issues that I’ve faced. The deterioration in my running skills have been obvious but so gradual that I’ve gotten accustomed to the routine. I hope to keep going until the surgery and restart this daily habit in the future. At least, there’s a little bit of optimism left in me.
Tomorrow, it’s the urologist for more prostrate tests and Friday will be a preliminary Prokera insertion, a healing device made from amniotic membrane, done prior to cataract surgery. Apparently, the surfaces of my eyes are just as wrinkled as the rest of my body, so they have to smooth the ocular surface. I have yet to find someone else that has had this done but according to the doctor it is not initially painful, but “fifteen minutes after you leave my office, you’ll hate me.” I’m not looking forward to the weekend, looking through an extra layer of tissue and waiting for the next dose of Xanax. I’ll also need this pain killer to watch Michigan once again demolish Indiana in football. It’s all at least a distraction from a broken heart.
I’ve started my medical week with a Covid booster and felt like I had a low-grade fever when I arrived at the hospital two days later for my TEE test. My temperature was normal, so my mind was obviously playing games, falsely concerned that they might make me reschedule. As for the results, the cardiologist described my heart valve as “rusty and leaky,” the same words that the mechanic used about our car. Both of us look good on the outside but are apparently in bad shape on the inside.
The heart valve issue, in addition to the aortic aneurism repair, makes my surgery more complicated, while all of my advisors are suggesting that I don’t have it done at a Regional hospital like Sarasota Memorial. This procedure requires more expertise, the result of many hours of practice by a skilled surgeon. Today, I am resting after all this testing, but tomorrow I meet with the local heart group to determine my options. Most likely, I will opt to have this done in Tampa, although my stepdaughter wants me to come to Stanford. These are decisions that seem surreal, and I don’t really want to deal with them.
The diagnosis helps explain why I’ve been so tired, and breathing has been difficult. I’ve probably adapted to these conditions during the course of my Run Streak. Perhaps running will be easier once I’ve had surgery, but the motivation of having to do it every day will likely be over. It will take time to recover and I’m slowly coming to terms with this fact. The procedure itself can probably wait until the end of the year when I surpass 15-years and in the meantime, I will get my prostrate and eyes fixed. I’ll be a new man in 2024! No more resting after testing!
Like many retirees on Monday morning, I have a TEE time. However, I’m not taking my clubs. Instead, it’s another heart test at Sarasota Memorial Hospital to monitor on my aortal aneurism. TEE is an abbreviation for Transesophageal Echocardiogram. On Wednesday, I should have a date for surgery when we meet with the cardiologist to examine the results. Other tests have previously determined that I have no blockages, but the concern is the size, currently at 5.3cm, just under the 5.5 danger mark. Most of my advisors have indicated that I should just go ahead and get it taken care of before I get any older, which is inevitable. If I don’t get older, it’s because of this life-threatening flaw in my circulation system.
It has been proven that I do have a heart, although some of my employees in the past have questioned this fact. I’m also not disappointed that there will be no golf on Monday, a skill that I really never got the hang of, despite many attempts and lessons. I do still have my clubs, but they are slowly deteriorating in the heat of our Florida garage. The TEE procedure co-pay will be about the same as a round of golf.
I’ve had tubes shoved down my throat before, at least this time it will be done while I’m not conscious. I have a strong gag reflex; proven during the many laser procedures I had done on my vocal cords down in San Antonio many years ago. Ultimately, the wart that affected my speaking abilities continued to grow back until a more drastic liquid nitrogen freeze was conducted when we moved to Portland. It has left me with a raspy voice that when coupled with my hearing aids and upcoming cataract surgery, means I will hopefully speak no evil, hear no evil, and see no evil.
This afternoon, we’ll go to the movie, probably Equalizer 3 with Denzel Washington or The Creator, followed by dinner and games at a neighbor’s home. I’m sure they will have variations with their interior that my wife will wish we had in ours. This is always this danger of going into another home in our resort center. She looked at a fireplace the other day, checked out some dining room chairs, and wants to have a customized design painted on our white range hood. It’s these little things that distinguish our design and furnishings from the neighbors – our silly little game of staying ahead on the Jones’, rather than just keeping up.
Funds for this type of work are running low, in fact we’ve gone well over our initial plans by adding a heated pool, custom tile, outdoor kitchen, dining room built-ins, widened the drive, and put in additional landscaping. We’ve also purchased furniture, lighting, and artwork that I didn’t plan for in budgeting. Extensive travel has eaten up our retirement funds and medical bills could soon be a factor. I’m on a campaign to cut down on expenses, while she is pursuing a substitute teaching job. We went to Sarasota the other day to get her fingerprinted. The work will be a good way to give back to the community. Ours will be a much more conservative lifestyle going forward, trying to find contentment with what we have.
We still have trips to San Francisco, Orlando, Marco Island, and the Trans-Atlantic cruise, that are all mostly paid for, to anticipate. By next summer I will probably doing some part-time work to ease the retirement boredom. By then it will be eight-years of sitting on my butt watching TV. The only exercise I get every day is the morning run that might be a thing of the past by then. I’ve stopped some of my hobbies like baseball card collecting and genealogy and have dropped a couple of streaming services like Hulu and Peacock.
The Halloween decorations came out yesterday, including the haunted, dancing Snoopy that we bought nearly 25-years ago, just before we got married. Lots of glass pumpkins, Limoges
Boxes, and candy dishes came out of storage to celebrate the season. I smile when I hear the Peanuts theme but has dancing moves are a victim of old age and corroded batteries, just like me. Regardless, Snoopy Rocks!
Next week is my first true test as a Senior Citizen with a medical appointment every day except Tuesday – and there’s still time to complete the sweep. Mondays are typically a standing visit with my Chiropractor, but instead I’ll be having a TEE procedure, another steppingstone on the path to repairing an aortic aneurysm. After a day of recovery, I drive to Sarasota to speak with my cardiologist and review both the TEE and Heart Catheterization tests that I will have undergone. Most likely, we’ll set a day for surgery. On Thursday, I drive to St. Petersburg for more tests regarding my prostate issues and perhaps a firm date for that procedure. On Friday, I will be at the mercy of an Ophthalmologist and a painful Prokera eye surface treatment in preparation for cataract surgery. Most likely, I will be sight-challenged and uncomfortable the following week.
I’m facing three major surgeries, heart, eyes, and prostrate, in such a short timeframe, after 72-years of no operations. It’s a sure sign that my parts are wearing out, with thoughts of Hollywood:
“The Six Million Dollar Man was an American science fiction and action television series, running from 1973 to 1978, about a former astronaut, USAF Col. Steve Austin, portrayed by Lee Majors. After a NASA test flight accident, scientist Oscar Goldman proclaims, “We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was. Better, stronger, faster.” As a result, Austin is rebuilt with bionic implants which give him superhuman strength, speed and vision.
In my particular case, perhaps The Wizard of Oz story is a better example. I do run with the speed of a Tin Man, with heavy steps and in need of a good oiling. However, as The Wizard says to the man in need of a ticker: “And remember, my sentimental friend, that a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others!” I will not get the strength or speed of Steve Austin but perhaps better vision and a heart that is no longer a ticking time bomb.
Austin was retooled by the Office of Scientific Intelligence (OSI), while mine is hopefully mostly paid for by Medicare. I will also have a super woman by my side to get me through this, my own Jaimie Sommers. My wife and our friends/family have been truly supportive and sympathetic. I truly am loved, but still will be just the same old fart with some brand-new parts! (I feel a poem coming on…stay tuned)
Today, just for variety, it’s an eye doctor appointment, reminding me of this Jackson Browne classic:
“Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying
Now I want to understand
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding
You must help me if you can
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?
‘Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams
People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it’s later than it seems
Doctor, my eyes, tell me what you see
I hear their cries, just say if it’s too late for me
Doctor, my eyes cannot see the sky
Is this the price for having learned how not to cry?“
My wife knows the words to almost every song – even after hearing it just once. We call it the chip, something that constantly amazes me about her. I really never paid much attention to the lyrics, so when I include them in this blog it’s as if I’m hearing the song for the first time. Yes, I can recall familiar bits and pieces, but I would badly butcher it singing along.
I have seen the years, seventy-two of them and counting. I try to take in the meaning of this song and how it might relate to me. I do know that I tend to shut my eyes when something unjust or controversial happens and maybe this protects me from crying.
My eyesight is a bit blurry, so a prescription update is likely. Maybe this will help me see clearer. Playing games on my phone has led to some eye strain and mild headaches. I’m sure I’ll get dilated, and the onset of cataracts will be apparent. I also need new glasses since there are some tiny cracks in my lenses. A new look is in order, after years of wearing wire rims. Doctor, my eyes require your attention!
I’ve established many habits – good and bad throughout my life. They say that it takes 30-days to start one. Brushing my teeth was probably the first, along with combing my hair, things that hopefully all of us do every day in the spirit of personal hygiene. I didn’t make daily flossing a regularity until later in life. Push-ups are part of my daily regimen, dating back to my teenage years and inspired by a grandfatherly-like figure on family vacations at the Bay Palm Trailer Park, now just a few miles down the street. I do about 90 every day, along with some stretching and crunches before my morning run. This has been slightly disrupted recently with medical procedures.
I’ve tried to add swimming to my list of good habits, but only with marginal success. Some of my many bad habits are sweets, mainly cookies, Diet Coke, and television binging. Video games on my phone, like MonopolyGO and Solitaire Cash are rapidly becoming addictive practices. The phone itself is something I can’t put down, constantly searching sports, Facebook, weather, and personal banking apps. Screen time is often shocking and continues to grow. My wife considers leaning, shuffling, and shallow breathing to be annoying habits of mine. Her list is probably too big to elaborate on.
My biggest addiction is running every day. I’m obsessed with it from the moment I wake up, often regretting what has become a daily task. The Florida heat had me up earlier but overcast skies and cooler temperatures have kept me in bed longer of late. What was once a 7:30 start is now closer to 8:30. I was also in the habit of doing a daily 5k, but excessive heat and humidity caused me to reduce that by a mile. I just completed the month of September with only 64 total miles, and I’m also at 737.5 miles this year, with only 91 days left to reach my 1000-mile goal. For the first time in many years, I probably won’t get there!
I continue to shuffle down the street every day, doing my best to ignore stiffness, lack of balance, and awkward form. Today, was #5,390 on my quest to reach 15-years of running every single day. It is likely that I won’t make that either, with a pending heart procedure that will probably put me in the ICU for a few days. I try my best to enjoy these last days of “The Streak,” but under the circumstances, it’s hard to remain motivated. I feel like I’m running on concrete legs with a piano on my back while the slightest headwind might bring me to a stop. Once I do stop, will I be able to start another one? That’s the million-dollar question, as old habits are in this case thankfully hard to break!
We choose our teams from the area where we live, the schools we attended, and outside influencers that cross our paths. I grew up in the Chicago area (northern Indiana) with a father that was a Detroit sports fan and neighbors that were Bears and White Sox supporters. My folks graduated from Indiana University and even baby pictures showed me in I.U. gear. They were able to win for many years with even me as part of their fan base but have fallen on hard times over the past 35-years of my life.
The Elkhart High School Blue Blazers were my hometown favorite. The only Indiana professional sports franchise was the Pacers, until the Colts showed up in the middle of the night. Nowadays, there are women’s teams and minor league teams, but the state is still primarily influenced by Chicago, St. Louis, and Cincinnati teams. Hockey and soccer were not of interest to me until later in life, while I began to follow the Cubs since my dad and son were big fans. With my record of losers, I’m sure I’ve done them no favors in climbing on the bandwagon.
As a kid, I was drawn to players like Johnny Unitas of the then Baltimore Colts, Sherm Lollar of the Chicago White Sox, and Mike Ditka of the Bears. These attractions were likely due to the influence of television. For Lollar, it was the 1959 World Series against the Dodgers. Unitas joined the Colts in 1959 and Ditka the Bears in 1961, all in my vulnerable pre-teen years when I established initial fandom. “Johnny U” was the only one on a team outside my geographic circle. Ironically, the team moved to Indianapolis, as Peyton Manning eventually took his place in my heart, wearing that classic white helmet with the blue horseshoe. My dad talked me out of being a Yankees fan, despite my love of Mickey Mantle. They wouldn’t have probably won as many rings if I had stayed on board.
Of all my teams, Indiana University basketball under Bob Knight is undoubtedly my most successful sports allegiance, witnessing three national titles, the most memorable in the stands when Keith Smart hit the winner. If I had chosen Notre Dame or Purdue, I would have seen personal glory in other sports, particularly football. I’ve tried to root for these teams, but negative childhood vibes have gotten in the way. It’s odd, because I’ve worked near both campuses and have had personal ties, so I should naturally be more supportive. My cousin played for the Irish and his father was an assistant coach, so it was the first stadium I ever visited, one of my treasured memories of going to games with my dad. I also interacted with Purdue coaches, like
Tiller and Keady, and players such as Drew Brees, but my dad hated both schools, so I loyally followed along.
As we moved from place to place, I adopted the local teams, but only rarely was it productive. The Illini were much less successful than the Hoosiers. While living in Austin, I did watch the Texas Longhorns win a College World Series title on TV and then saw live and in person the Oregon State Beavers equal that baseball achievement in Omaha, while working in Portland. I also followed the Portland Timbers when they won the MLS championship in 2015. The Oregon Ducks had their moments in football and basketball, but never won all the marbles. I even favored the Mariners in nearby Seattle, but they remain the only MLB franchise to have never played in a World Series – my kind of team. The Seahawks won the Super Bowl in 2013 but have been unable to repeat since I became their adoptive fan.
Most all my favorite memories of my father are around attending sporting events, including the infamous “Hamburger” outburst. We went to high school games, ND Stadium, Comiskey Park, Riverfront, and Wrigley Field together. Saw “The Monster” explode with fireworks, celebrated those NCAA Championships of our IU Alma Mater, had lunch with Jim Coker of the Phillies, watched an angry Lou Pinella throw first base at an umpire, and witnessed Sammy Sosa top Babe Ruth’s HR record. Outside of sports, I remember carving our YMCA Indian Guides totem pole, along with a related overnight campout and our pinewood derby entry. We also traveled to Akron as a family to watch my good friend Tim Steffen compete in the Soap Box Derby nationals. Who could ever forget our lengthy station wagon journeys to Yellowstone, Wall Drugs, Mackinac Island, The Wisconsin Dells/Locks, Mt, Rushmore, Englewood, FL, and Gulf Shores.
I never had success in the fantasy leagues or on betting in general, too often choosing players that ended up injured or performed poorly. I tried to stay out of my son’s selections, even though he invited me to be part of his team, a mistake he will learn to regret. We’re off to a bad start. Unfortunately, like father – like son.
As far as professional sports, I have only gotten small doses of victory, otherwise it has been a miserable relationship. The Pacers have never won an NBA title, but the Colts did win a Super Bowl in 2007. Unfortunately, it was against my Bears, so it was a game of mixed emotions. The Bears won it all in 1986 and I reacted with my own “Super Bowl Shuffle.” The White Sox finally won rings in 2005 and the Cubs did it in 2016, games I was able to attend. That’s only 3 Chicago titles in 60 years of following these teams. That’s 171 losing seasons, including this year. The Bears are already 0-3, while the Cubs have dropped their last four as a potential playoff contender, and the long ago eliminated White Sox have only won four of their last ten. I logically should have been an obnoxious Bulls fan, but I spared them the “Johnston Jinx.” I really know how to pick ’em, don’t I?
I’m on my way to that 2,500th post, a milestone I should reach by the end of the year if sticking firm to my original post a day commitment made upon retirement. However, all things are slowing down as motivation wanes with age. I’m trying to muster enough to find a new challenge in the way of part-time employment. My wife has decided to do some substitute teaching, but I don’t think that’s for me. She’s at least found something that supports a community need. I keep going back to the ballpark and trying to find a place there, but once again we’re out of town for most of Spring Training. The Braves have clinched the best record in baseball and could very well claim another World Series title. They just swept the Cubs and foiled their playoff chances to get there.
I enjoyed The Saint of Second Chances documentary, the story of the Veeck family, former owners of the White Sox. There was great footage regarding the Disco Night disaster at Comiskey Park and lessons learned about stadium promotions that continue to drive crowds to games. The Veeck’s were shameless, creative promoters and heroes in the world of marketing, playing a major role in my radio and TV career. More importantly, the show is a study in perseverance and compassion, as fathers and businessmen. I recommend it highly.
I’m currently watching the Last Kingdom on Netflix in the afternoons at the suggestion of a friend. In the evenings, my wife and I have tuned to the Black Mirror series. It will take a back seat to Date Night at Roessler’s this evening. Tomorrow night I will be at Blue Break’s sports shop here in Venice for a card trading event. The owner, Jonathan Stone, and I will further discuss the sale of my Topps Now Shohei Ohtani baseball card collection. He plans to take it to Japan with him in December to help determine its value and hopefully find a buyer. Is my future in the cards?
