For Sunday, April 13, 2008 774 words


Run, fat boy, run


Went to see my doctor today. Got scolded, soundly. I asked him to scold me. I need that. I explained that I am more motivated to be healthy when my doctor gives me orders.
I had a sore throat. Thought it might be strep. I babysat my 3-year-old grandson, Jack, last Saturday, and we shared an orange juice. Got a call two days ago from his father, Chad.
“Dude. If you get a sore throat in the next few days it’s probably strep. We all have it. Jack has lemons hanging in the back of his throat.”
Yesterday, I got a sore throat. This morning, Thursday, it was worse. I called the Advice Nurse at 5 a.m. – no waiting. She scheduled me for a same-day appointment with my old doctor buddy, Neil Watter. I just got home.
Neil took my temperature, blood pressure, and gave me a quick exam. He concluded that it was probably not strep, just a run-of-the-mill sore throat. He did a swab and sent it to the lab to be sure, but he had strong doubts.
I started to get up. He said, “Hold on. I want to talk to you about your blood pressure. It’s high and you don’t take any medication for it.”
“Eh, yeah, Doc, I know. I am doing my best to avoid the pills.”
“Well,” he said, squinting at his computer screen, “your best isn’t good enough. You have the same weight and blood pressure you had last year.”
“Eh, that’s good, right? I’m maintaining a plateau.”
He shook his head and gave me a big white-bearded smile. “You promised me you were going to drop 20 pounds and modify your diet.”
“You’re right, Neil. I confess. I blew it. I spent the last six months sitting at computers and dinner tables and theaters.”
“So, should I order up the pills?”
“No, Neil, please, give me one more chance. Didn’t you read my recent column. This summer is Camping Summer. I intend to do a lot of hiking and exercise.”
“Steve. I don’t read your column. I live in Napa.”
“OK. Well, I do intend to eat better and exercise more. Please don’t give me the pills. Instead, threaten me, Neil. Give me a deadline. Give me a goal. I do better when I’m under doctor’s orders.”
He swiveled his chair away from his computer to face me. He said, with his hands on his knees, “All right. I’ll give you one more chance. You have until August to drop 15 to 20 pounds. I also want to see a drop in your blood pressure. Otherwise, the pills!”
“Arg. Not the pills. I’ll do it. I promise. I’ll even alert the media. I’ll let the whole town know. Then if I fail I’ll be publically humiliated. That might push me.”
“Hmm. I’m also prescribing a diet.”
“Ah. Rats. I suck at diets.”
“Too bad. You’re doing it. It’s called the DASH diet. ‘Dietary Approaches to Stop Hypertension’. I’ll print it out. You can start today. It’s all about fruits and vegetables and whole grains.”
“Oh, geez. I eat that stuff now. It hasn’t helped. I guess I need to eat a whole lot more if I want to lose weight, huh?”
“Go ahead. Crack jokes.”
“All right, I’ll do it. Well, I’ve got to go. Bye, Neil.”
“Hold on. Not so fast. As long as I have you here. You’re past due for a colonoscopy, and a blood sample, and a physical, and a stool sample. And how is your diastasis recti? It’s been 10 years.”
“Arg. You mean my Pregnant Woman’s Disease? My busted gut? I confess. It hurts, Neil, ever since I pushed that wheelbarrow of wet cement up the hill in 1998. It hurts when I run, sit up, sweep, rake, hoe in the garden. Maybe that’s why I’m overweight?”
“Maybe. You know surgery is the only cure. We’d sew a Gortex patch over it. You’d be laid up for a few weeks.”
“Yes. I need to do that before I retire and my benefits crumble. But I wouldn’t want to do it with all this excess weight around my middle. I’d have to lose 15 to 20 pounds first. Hey, wait a minute. You’re thinking what I’m thinking. If I lose the weight, I could maybe have the surgery this fall.” He nodded. “Now, there is a motivation.”
“I’ll enter that request into your records,” he said. “It’s all dependent on you losing the weight and lowering the blood pressure. If you fail, you keep your pregnant woman’s disease another year, and you get the pills.”
“I shall not fail.”

For Sunday, April 6, 2008 820 words

The story of Gino

Gino’s gone. He moved out. He’s my old college roommate who has been living with us since the start of 2005. Yippee for him.
We’ve been friends since Penn State 1974. We parted ways at graduation. I moved to Modesto to live with my ex-girlfriend, Cheryl, and her new husband, Al. Gino moved back to Philadelphia with a Wildlife Technology degree and took up work as a carpenter.
Times have changed. Gino could be the Poster Boy for Good Karma.
He had a hard first 50 years, then things turned around. He moved to California on his 50th birthday, fell in love, and as of last month lives with his sweetheart, Deb, in San Francisco. They met on match.com. I see true love between them. I’ve given the matter my keenest discernment. I am greatly happy.
Gino is a good soul to the core, but he’s had tough times. He blew out a knee over a decade ago playing volleyball in a lumpy backyard. Pop. Laid him up for a couple years. Operations. Rehab. It cost him his vegetarian lifestyle. His leg muscles were so atrophied that he needed a heavy protein diet to recover. He ordered up a hamburger one day, and never looked back. He now eats more chicken than any man in the state, except Jim Morrison.
Gino’s wife of a year, Deb, also dumped him while he was in bandages. He had to pack his bags hopping on one foot and move out to nowhere on crutches. Deb had another fella she wanted to move in his place.
Miserable and limping, he holed up in an expensive little apartment, dedicated himself to his craft, and worked seven days a week for the next umpteen years, mostly for family members. They paid him squarely when he asked for it. Often he worked for fun and stayed for dinner.
Gino lived alone after his breakup. During this time he honed his craft through experience and much reading of construction periodicals. He learned to do everything – plumbing, electrical, masonry, cabinetry, fine finish work. He was Mr. Zippity Doo Dah.
Huge family he had. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, all noisy and scattered all over the southeast corner of the Keystone State. They kept him busy and gave him enough references to last a lifetime.
He would visit me in California about once every two three years. I always made his visits whirlwinds of activity. We drove all over the state. Hiked Yosemite and Big Sur. Took the Fun Train to Reno. Drove Highway 1 from stem to stern. Camped among the big, big redwoods up in Orick, the coastal center of Redwood National Park.
He’d fly home after his visits to his long, dark apartment, and the comparison contrast dilemma of memories would manifest in his mind and bring a burden into his soul.
He finally threw down the C clamp. Said, “I’m done. I’m moving to California.” And he did. You’ve read of our many exploits since he arrived. We’ve kept up the Schedule of Fun.
Anyhow. To loop back to the start. Gino is gone. Of course, he didn’t say anything. What’s to say? I came home one day and my garage was empty. His 65 tools were gone. I opened the drawers in his bathroom. No toothpaste, soap, toenail clippers. He was out of there.
Brooks our cat meowed a lot when Gino left. Gino used to rub Brooks’s belly with his sock foot for hours watching TV. He called the cat Frankie. He didn’t like the name Brooks. Refused to use it.
While Gino lived here our kitchen sink was under a magic spell. I could put a dirty dish into it and the dish would disappear. That magic is gone. Right now it looks like the Cypress Expressway.
While Gino lived here our dining room table was under a magic spell. A cornucopia of well seasoned meals in delicate sauces used to appear in the evenings. The pop of fine wine signaled the start of our many banquets. Now it’s steamed rice and store-roasted chickens.
Gino is in his happy place. He’s with Deb, and the dogs, Winston and Shiloh. He doesn’t have to work so hard for the first time in his life. Deb’s family has done all right for themselves. Deb and Gino are able to live a good life. He walks the dogs. Scoops poop. Sleeps without pain. Smiles a lot. Has time to pay attention to details, like the smell of roses.
We go visit a lot. Deb has a beautiful house off Union Street, walking distance to a dozen night clubs and restaurants. The Betelnut is only two blocks away. How great is that?
They come here. Last week Gino helped me put in a sliding glass door and bathroom window.
It’s funny ironic how Gino’s life has revolved. Now, visiting me means work, and staying home is bliss.