Return to Anesthesia

It's on.

Tomorrow I have a nuclear stress test at 7:00 a.m. (to satisfy my absolutely useless cardiologist, whom I've come to hate) and a go-see with my internist (whom I still like) at 3:45 p.m. It is my HOPE that both of them will immediately sign off on my upcoming surgery.

If, God willing, they do then a week from tomorrow I'll arrive at Mt. Sinai hospital here in Manhattan at 10:00 a.m. for a radical prostectomy performed by Dr. David Samadi, using the da Vinci surgical robot.



I can't think of anyone, among my male friends, better suited to this than me. Sex has become nothing but a bitter memory of how I routinely sold myself short over the years.

God has actually done me a big favor.

Meltdown

I had a meltdown last Friday which lasted all weekend.

I was a complete douchenozzle for some of the time (I was pretty well-behaved on Saturday night).

It started on Friday when I got home from my job in NY and found two packages I could've done without. One was a letter, with affidavit, from the NYC Transit Authority, wanting me to tell them the entire story of the transit fare card incident at 53rd & Lex on August 24th. The other was a packet from my surgeon wanting all kinds of tests and clearances, from my internist and from my cardiologist, prior to my upcoming robotic prostectomy on October 14th.

In and of themselves, they were nothing. I was out about $58.00 with the MTA and the other stuff would kill a couple of vacation days during the next few weeks.

It could be much worse. These are high-quality problems for somebody who, 11 years ago, didn't have a job and was virtually homeless.

Somewhere along the way, my gratitude, which ordinarily colors most of my thinking, flew right out the window.

What saved me was having a schedule and sticking to it, of meetings and forced association with other recovering drunks like me.

I arose Saturday morning, grunting with resentment, and dragged myself to my local 12-Step, 7:00 a.m. meeting. Then, I dragged myself to a 10:00 a.m. meeting in Princeton. Then I took myself to see the new Matt Damon movie (GREAT!) and capped it by driving 80 miles (round-trip) to a gay 12-Step meeting in Pennsylvania with a couple of beginners in tow. That was good. It kept me focused on them, and not on myself.

Sunday, I was a grump again. A fax machine in Atlantic City kept attack-dialing my home phone number, starting at 6:30 a.m.. I did a reverse look-up on the internet of the number and got an e-mail address and phone number for the company. I sent an e-mail and left a voicemail, basically threatening them with physical violence if they didn't subdue their lousy fax machine. Eventually it gave up.

I went to my usual Sunday 12-step meeting, sat in the back and growled at everyone, including my sponsor.

I fled the meeting, went to the supermarket, went home and spent the afternoon isolating, napping and generally feeling sorry for myself.

This morning, I attended my home group meeting at 7:30, got to the office, took all the steps to "do the next, right, thing" and suddenly life is worth living again.

I owe this mostly to a) God, b) the program and c) people who care about me.

We have a saying in 12-Step programs which is very annoying:

"This too shall pass."

It did.

Oh, Ya Got To Have Friends!

She's the one who started it all. The Divine Ms. M, Bette Midler, in the fall of 1972. Her debut album. And the cut that still resonates in my head to this day is the first cut of the "B" side, "Friends."

And I do. Have friends. After my hideous experience at NY/Presbyterian hospital last Friday a friend of mine, who just happens to work there, took me out to keep me company until I crawled back in from the figurative ledge. This same friend had already told me that I would come and stay with him and his wife after my surgery until I was well enough to travel home from New York to central New Jersey.

And it didn't matter which New York hospital I used. I would still be welcome.

Then on Sunday, out of the blue, a friend of mine from Baltimore called and announced that he and his partner would "love to have me come and recuperate with them" if I chose to have the surgery done at Johns-Hopkins. How many people have friends who would invite them to come and be an invalid with them, for however long it took to get well?

I have friends like that.

I don't remember ever doing anything to earn friends like that, but I seem to have 'em.

Oh, and here's the kicker on all this. Yesterday morning I called a surgeon's office at Mount Sinai and made an appointment to see him this coming Friday morning. He's performed over 1,000 prostectomies using the "da Vinci" robot. This morning, at my daily 12-Step meeting, our "guest speaker" was someone who worked in medical administration --- for a doctor who specializes in cancers.

Take a guess.

Yup. We spoke after the meeting. She works for the guy I'm seeing on Friday. The paperwork (and insurance) is all being taken care of.

I am being taken care of.

I've got friends.

2 Down, 2 to Go

This is a prostate cancer update.

I had my appointment with the surgeon at Weill-Cornell/New York - Presbyterian Hospital last Friday at 3:00 p.m.

I showed up on time, signed a paper, got my blood-pressure checked and was seated in a waiting room. In about 10 minutes I was taken to an examination room.

I sat in there, unattended, with no one dropping in to check on me, for 70, that's right, SEVENTY minutes, before I got sick and tired of waiting and walked out to see what was going on.

"Oh" some flunky exclaimed. "Didn't anyone come in?"

No.

I went back. It was another 10 minutes or so before I was finally escorted into Dr. God's inner-sanctum by one of his flunkies in a lab coat. She began the interview, only to quickly be joined by Dr. God, Himself.

I maintained a civil tongue but made my displeasure at being treated so badly abundantly clear.

I ran through my list of questions, which he promptly answered. I terminated the interview with, "I'll let you know."

I thought about it over the weekend and concluded that the actions of the staff were indicative of the mind-set of the teacher. That they treat people badly because he tolerates them treating people badly.

I would, under no circumstances, consider urological surgery at Weill-Cornell/New York - Presbyterian Hospital. In case anyone cares.

Next stop, Mount Sinai this coming Friday morning, followed by Memorial Sloan-Kettering a week from Wednesday.

I'm tired of doctors. I'm tired of surgeries. I'm tired.

The Heartbreak of Butt Itch

There's no polite way to put this but ever since my surgery in August (70 pounds and 3 waist sizes lost so far), I've been having a slight problem with sore butt.

The weight started falling off my face and back first. The gut was the last to go. It happened so quickly that my center of sitting gravity shifted and what had been a nicely padded portion of my nether regions was suddenly being rubbed raw by my skivvies as I sat, day after day, once I'd returned to work.

I tried creams.

I tried salves.

I tried Gold Bond powders of various compositions.

Nothing worked. And it hurt like hell to commute for an hour each way every day on seats covered in ancient upholstery most likely made from horse hair. It hurt to sit for any period of time.

Finally, I saw a dermotologist. He instantly knew what the problem was, prescribed some steroidal crap for it and told me to only use it for 2 weeks and, after that, the coup de grace,

to slather on a healthy serving of plain, unadulterated, unfumed, petrolatum every morning after I bathed.

And so I did.

Ahhhhh. What a relief.

I've oft heard it said, from childhood on, that as the years pass we become more and more childlike until, at the end, we're as helpless as newborns.

And now I know why. Now if someone would only come and change my diddie.

No News...

Is possibly good news.

Id est, after PDF'ing the clearance letter from Dr. Assman to Dr. Gastric-Bypass yesterday, I haven't heard a word from Dr. G-B informing me that I had better let Dr. A have his way with me or else my insurance company won't pick up the tab for my impending surgery.

I'm assuming, therefore, that Dr. G-B is good, and that we're on track for me to have this surgery done on August 11th, come Hell or High Water.

Yeah, Hooray!

This might happen after all.

The Assman Cometh

Well I saw the assman yesterday afternoon. That's the technical term for their profession. Others refer to them as "gastroenterologists."

I prefer assman.

All I wanted was a lousy letter from him validating that I have a standard plumbing installation down there. He should know. Three years ago he shoved a 6' pipe up my ass and had a look around.

Instead, what I got, was a non-stop inquisition/bitch fest about his crazy-assed daughter, the law school maven, who informed daddy recently that she wants to practice entertainment law and didn't I agree with him that she was nuts and she should do something practical, like corporate law, instead?

Frankly, I don't give a crap if she graduates or not, works in entertainment law or takes up pole-dancing for a living.

All I want was a letter.

I got a sort of letter, the bottom-line of which is that although he clears me for the surgery, it is WITH THE UNDERSTANDING that he'd like to perform an endoscopy on me prior to the bariatric surgery.

Doctor's love to pile-on when they smell a few insurance bucks to be made in the process.

They love, even more, accusing lawyers of piling on when they go to them with their "simple, little, straightforward" malpractice suits.

Whatever.

I got the letter, such as it is, and faxed it over to my surgeon today. I put a note on it asking him to call me if he wants me to have the pipe up the butt... again.

As we say in my 12-Step Program... "more will be revealed."

But not, apparently, until I get home tonight and check my messages (doctors are also too cheap to call long distance from New Jersey to New York).

Doctors. Feh.

Here's the modern version of the Iron Maiden the assman wants to use on me.

Tires, Stitches, Greening America & Mommie Dearest

I took one look outside last Friday morning and decided to call in well ("I feel great -- I won't be there!") Actually, I knew I was going to blow off work by the time I left the office Thursday night. The weather was forecast to be shitty and it didn't disappoint.

I was seeing the eye doctor at 4:30 to get the giant stitch in my eyelid removed, so that gave me the day to kill. So I went in search of new tires for the car.

My Honda Element came with Goodyear Wranglers -- the biggest pieces of crap it has ever been my misfortune to own. They lasted exactly 32,375 miles. I do NOT recommend them.

I wound up at Sam's Club at 10:00 a.m. in a driving rain and found out they only had one set of tires in stock that would fit my car. And they did not come with any guarantee.

The $600 government rebate was burning a hole in my bank account so I crossed over Route 1 and dropped into the Firestone store. They had a lovely set of Bridgestones which were, frankly, less than I expected to pay and which came with a 60k mile treadlife guarantee. They were installed in a thrice and I was once more safely on the highways of New Jersey, in a monsoon.

The only movie of note which opened over the weekend was that trashy Vegas thing, which I decided to skip, so I killed time at home until it was time to see the eye doctor.

I'd spent all week thinking that he'd put two stitches into the incision. But I was wrong. It was one, giant, stitch, tied off at both ends of the incision, with the majority of the thread hidden inside the lid someplace. He snipped the ends and yanked it out and my eye, VOILA!, looks nearly as good as new (well, I no longer look like I'm winking at everybody, thank God!).

Saturday I drove up to northwestern NJ to personally inspect the construction site of a new home being built by really close friends of mine. It was amazing. It's huge. About 5,000 sq. ft. The ground floor is entirely his company -- he's an industrial designer. The upper two floors are the "living levels" of the house. It's constructed entirely of concrete slabs and industrial steel. Utterly fireproof. It's also green to the point where they'll always manufacture more electricity than they use (and will, eventually get a paycheck FROM PSE&G every month for the surplus juice they sell to the grid). The house is heated and cooled geothermally. They dug down 100's of feet to get to the permanent temperature line. Cooling tubes are embedded in the concrete slab floors and walls. The cantilevered roofs of the house and out-buildings will be totally covered with photovoltaic cells. There'll also be a wind-powered generator, about 100' tall, to crank out some power on cloudy days.

I spent nearly an hour there before I started feeling like a third-wheel at the construction site, so I left. I'm happy for my friends, but sad that they will be living so far away from me now. This couple has been there for me through thick and thin over the last 10 years, and I love them dearly.

I know I'll always be a welcome guest up there...

Sunday was a beautiful day, but....

I'm nearly 60 and I still have "issues" with my long-deceased mothers (my birth mom and her mom, my grandmother). You'd think I'd be able to move past all that by now.

It's amazing how we let people live, rent-free, inside of our heads. Even years after they've long since died. I guess I'm just one of those people who love to run a Hotel du Pain inside their head. Or at least feel compelled to do so.

I hope you all had a pain-free Mother's Day. I didn't.

Paging Doctor Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard!

I met with the gastric-bypass surgeon yesterday. Here's a picture of him with his associates, the doctors Howard.



It's official. I qualify for a roux-en-y gastric bypass. I just have a little "legwork" to do in advance. Such as getting clearance letters from my Internist and Cardiologist. Seeing a shrink and a nutritionist. Have a sleep apnea study done.

But all things considered, it's probably a done deal. We're shooting for a surgery date sometime in August.

Today I am up to my eyeballs in all the hubbub associated with seeing doctors and getting things in writing -- all in a timely fashion.

This brings back lots of memories of my quadruple bypass in 2004, and my bilateral endarectomies (or, as I call them, "Mz. August and Mz. October") in 2005.

Because the bypass will, at the very least, cure my diabetes (I hope) and cause me to lose about 75 pounds (going from pleasingly plump to skinny-as-a-rail), I am really looking forward to it.

Other beneficial side-effects include curing my gout, alleviating my burgeoning rheumatoid arthritis and generally fixing up various aches and pains (especially joint pain as the pounds melt away).

But it's the diabetes I'm after. I'm long past the point of actually caring about the cosmetic effects of surgery. I was never particularly vain and I have no intention of starting now.

This is about having 30 or so years of high-quality dotage ... unlike what happened to any number of people on my mom's side of the family -- many of whom wound up sightless and/or limbless in nursing homes in their old age(s). I really don't want to wind up like that.

So, today I am doing what we refer to in 12-Step programs as "the next right thing", calling doctors, making appointments, taking care of business.

So, before I start thinking that I am God (which I sometimes do),

and to keep me "right-sized" this morning

I spoke at a 12-Step meeting here in Manhattan at 7:30 a.m.

Because, you see, I need to be reminded, and often, that even though the monkey is no longer on my back ...

the circus, most definitely, is still in town.

Usual & Customary

I have a headache like you wouldn't believe. I spent the better part of 2 hours today on the phone with my insurance company, trying to find out if I could get the foremost expert on gastric bypass surgery in New Jersey to perform mine.

Short answer? Only if I'm rich enough not to need insurance. The doctor in question doesn't take insurance (except Medicare). My insurance company, to go out of network, I would have to cough up a) $750.00 deductible PLUS 20% PLUS whatever the bill ran above the "Usual and Customary" fees for the area I live in.

The top surgeon charges $12,500.00 for a Rouen en Y bypass (that's the biggie, the lap-band is only $7,500.), so you can see that it would wind up costing me a personal bundle to get this done by the best guy around.

The nice lady at the insurance company tried to help me find someone else, but all she could come up with were a bunch of doctors in northern Jersey, across the river from New York City.

Eventually, though, I found a website that listed pretty much all of the surgeons in New Jersey who do this. There's even one who heads up a department for this at a major hospital near where I live. I could go with him, but to be honest he doesn't seem to have as much experience as the other guy.

Owell. Now I get to decide.

I think I'll think it over for awhile.

p.s. It snowed like hell this morning and our offices are closing at 3:30 today (45 minutes from now). It's time to look busy before I go catch a bus.

Two Down, Two to Go.

Well, true to his nurse's word, my cardiologist called me this afternoon and we had a nice little telecon for about 10 minutes regarding my suitability as a surgical candidate for gastric bypass surgery. He was solicitous. He was concerned, lest I hadn't explored all of the available options (Rouen en Y vs. adjustable band, etc.). But at the end of the conversation, when I put it to him point blank, he agreed that I could tolerate ALL variations of the surgery with no foreseeable threat to my heart and that he would, indeed, sign off on it in writing.

So, having gotten my endocrinologist and cardiologist on-board, that leaves my internist and, finally, the nebulous surgeon who will actually perform this miracle surgery.

Actually, I know who it will probably be. Both doctors mentioned his name in the course of my conversations with them. He has a rather thriving surgical practice in the area, devoted entirely to gastric bypasses.

Moreover, he does these surgeries at Princeton Hospital and not at Robert Wood Johnson Hospital.

This is the same Princeton Hospital that's aka Princeton Plainsboro Hospital, where Dr. House malpractices medicine. It's also where the ambulance took me on January 4th with blood gushing from my forehead.

I have a feeling that if I can get my internist in line with my surgical expectations, the actual surgeon will have no problem whatsoever in taking my insurance company's ill-gotten premiums.

I haven't been this excited about something since 2005, when they sliced open my carotids and sucked the congealed cholesterol out of both of them.

I hope I'm not getting hooked on being mutilated.

Tattoos would be cheaper.

Ouch.

Thanksgiving came and went. I enjoyed it... mostly. I broke out in a severe attack of gout by Friday morning, though. I'm still trying to pin down what, exactly, I ate to bring it on. Right now the primary suspect is the duck breast we had on Wednesday night. Sigh. It struck me in the knuckle of the thumb on my right hand. It turned red, swelled up and hurt like hell. I couldn't sleep Friday night, the pain was so bad.

I'm going to have to start writing down my reactions to just about all foods now. This won't be fun. Not for me and certainly not for friends who do nothing more than try to feed me, God bless 'em.

For those of you who are unclear about gout, let me explain. Purines (the stuff that gout is made of) build up in the blood stream, abetted by certain foods which are notoriously high in them, such as asparagus, shellfish (every kind from clams to crabs, shrimp & lobster) and "game" (venison, wild fowl and, I suppose, duck). At a certain point the blood becomes so saturated with these purines that they look for a way to precipitate out of the blood by forming crystals IN THE JOINTS farthest removed from the heart. This is why, traditionally, the first outbreak of gout occurs in the knuckle of the big toe on the right foot.

The pain these crystals cause is excruciating. Worse than a raw nerve hit during a root canal.

There is a treatment for it. The immediate medicine is called Indomethicin, which is a heavy-duty anti-inflammatory. With me, it works within an hour or two to relieve the worst of the pain. The long-term medicines for it are Allopurinol and something called colchicine.

The problem was I forgot to pack the Indomethicin. So I suffered. A lot. For a day and half. Until I got home and took 2 capsules. That was at 10:55 a.m. By 1:00 p.m. the pain had dramatically subsided (so had the swelling and redness).

No doctor has ever given me a satisfactory explanation as to "why" I would contract gout. But I have a sneaking suspicion that it's all tied up with heart disease and diabetes.

That's the sort of problem I could sink my obsessive-compulsive teeth into.

I wonder if it's too late to become a physician, and is it a good idea for a recovered alcoholic to have easy access to prescription pads and narcotics?

I'll call my sponsor and see what he says.

I love ruining his day.

Dr. Pancreas

If you're traveling to D.C. anytime soon you might find this to be of some use.

I took the day off yesterday for my thrice-yearly visit to my endocrinologist, whom I call Dr. Pancreas 'cause it sounds close to Dr. Pangloss, a character in Voltaire's "Candide" who preaches a philosophy of "All's for the best in this best of all possible worlds."

Dr. Pancreas took one look at me and instantly determined that the bellyful of gila monster venom I was shooting twice a day was having absolutely no effect on either my weight or my A1C, so he instantly ordered me to stop taking the stuff. This meant, of course, that I had to deal with MegaDrugCo, a wholly owned subsidiary of MyUselessHealthPlan, LLP, because I had just sent them some scrip to renew my prescription for a 90-day supply of the poison-pen injectors and I needed to stop them from sending it and billing me a bajillion dollars for same.

After wandering in voice-mail wildnerness for 20 minutes and pressing "Zero" 87 times before a human being finally came on the line, (Lydia LovelyVoice, "I didn't understand your last response. Let's try it again!" (ZERO.... ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO).

So I nipped that catastrophe in the bud. No Byetta. Meanwhile I have about 300 disposable "sharps" which attach to the pens that I have no idea what to do with. I don't know any junkies who get their shit from their dealers in disposable pens. Keeping them is no use. If I ever have to go on insulin the needles are too fine to allow the insulin to pass through them.

After seeing the good Doctor I went down to Hamilton (where the post-office that had the anthrax scare is located) to go to the movies. I want to see the new Cate Blanchett/Elizabeth I movie (I'm a sucker for costume period-pieces). The theater was closed. It was too early (don't they open at dawn?) I got an early lunch (soup and a salad) at a nearby Bob Evans' (eschewing the greasy breakfast specials). I went back to the theater. It was going to be another hour before they opened.

I gave up and started for home. I made quick trips to Tarjay, El Banco de Coca Cola, Super Fresh and Blockbuster.

Okay, I admit it, I rented "Transformers." Okay, I admit it, it sucked unless you're an enormous fan of Shia LaBoeuf. I watched it. I napped. I had a light supper consisting mostly of some chicken. I yakked on the phone to a couple of other recovering drunks. I turned in around 9:30.

Not much of a day, really, unless you count the visit to Doctor Pancreas. The good news is, I don't have to see him again until February!

Half Truths Availed Us Nothing

As I've previously blathered blogged, I've been doing this glucose monitoring test all week with the last reading being this morning at 2:15 a.m.

And boy, are my fingertips tired! (BA-DAH-BING!)

I mentioned, also, that the readings have all been quite within specs and reason. Yeah, well, I should elaborate on that.

You see, as a recovering alcoholic and, therefore a bald-faced, lying, conniving, dope-fiending, truth-twister, I may have gone out of my way all week to be on my VERY BEST BEHAVIOR, eating-wise, so that the readings would be well within specs when the time came to take them.

What I'm hoping is that the doctor, who knows I'm a recovering drunk, will take that into account when he looks at the numbers after I fax them to his office on Monday.

See, I've come a long way from the bad old days when, during my annual physicals when my doctor would ask if I drank and, cause I always answered yes to that, when he next asked me, "how much?" my stock response was the same stock response that every lying drunk gives...

"Oh.... a couple" (of quarts)

All doctors who treat active alcoholics (or even people whom they suspect are alcoholics) should automatically add in a "drunk factor" of at least 35-50% more than whatever the drunk/druggie as copped to.

Last week I avoided anything even faintly resembling a starch. No potatoes, no rice, no bread, mostly salads, soups, some fruit and some really lousy frozen TV dinners from Healthy Choice (sorry Healthy Choice, it's not your fault you don't make Hungry Man Dinners).

So when my doctor looks at the weeks numbers and sees that they "average" 100mg, he should probably see that as being more like 130-150mg, instead (which still ain't bad for an average that's fasting, pre and post meal, 1 hour prior to eating, bedtime and mid-sleep cycle.

Sigh. It's hard doing the right thing.

After all, I am an alcoholic.

And only human.
p.s. Go see "The Bourne Ultimatum." It's great and I'm in love with Matt Damon again.

Doctors

I took a mental health day yesterday in order to look after my physical health.

I had my annual physical, preceeded by my semi-annual clambake with my cardiologist.

That's me over there, 4th from the left, just behind the cardiologist.

Only kidding.

The net-net of all that was a) it's time to schedule a cardio-stress-test, which will be the 1st one since my quad-bypass 3 years ago and b) my internist decided to up one med (allopurinol for my gout) and drop another one (lyrica for my neuropathy).

All in all it was a good day.

The best part was going to see "The Simpsons Movie" in the afternoon. I'd tried to go on Sunday but because the weather was so rotten everybody in Mercer County had the same idea so that when I got to the lobby I looked at the lines and blurted out "THIS IS SO NOT WORTH IT!" to which some woman replied, "WHAT'S NOT WORTH IT?" not realizing that I was merely making a rhetorical statement.

The movie was pretty good but I have to agree with most of the critics who said it was, basically, just a long version of the show. But it was definitely worth it to hear Marge scream out, "Will somebody just throw the goddamned bomb?"

Sometimes laughter is the best medicine.

Dr. Digit

I've been waiting weeks for my annual date with Dr. Digit aka my urologist. I saw him tonight, after I was finally released from jury duty for another couple of years.

He looked at the latest x-rays of my kidney stones and told me how they haven't changed much in the last year.

He then crammed a well-lubed finger someplace where I've only let several (thousand) other men place well-lubed things, but it's been a long time and, oh God, I'm so lonely...

But I digress. He announced that I have the prostate of a 20 year old. No, he didn't tell me to give it back because I was getting it all wrinkled.

But he dropped the PSA bomb on me today. A PSA test is a preliminary blood test for prostate cancer. Apparently, he saw the results of one I had last year, before my annual visit then.

He may have mentioned something about a slightly elevated PSA at the time, but it was a busy year, what with diabetes and everything, so I probably let it slip my mind that he wanted a follow-up reading in January. I didn't do it.

I did have some blood work done last weekend, in anticipation of my upcoming annual physical, at the end of July. I'm sure my internist ordered up a PSA test as part of that battery. It's pretty standard for men over 50 during their yearly physical.

It would be very easy to become alarmed about this. If I were in a relationship with somebody, it would probably scare the hell out of me.

And that reminded me of my ex. His internist told him, in 1992, that he had an elevated PSA. One test led to another and in no time, he was having his prostate removed. I'm sure it scared the shit out of him. He kept things to himself. For weeks he thought he was HIV positive, and kept it to himself. All of a sudden we were using condoms, after 15 years of a so-called monogamous relationship. I thought it was odd, but then, he was pretty odd. It was only two months later that he found out that those unusual corpuscles in his urine weren't because of HIV. He found out that it was merely prostate cancer, instead. I stayed with him all through that, including a recovery that included having to learn how to inject himself with chemicals in order to achieve an erection again.

Today I have a new compassion for people who live in fear. I know what it means to live in fear. I lived there for decades. Only in recovery have I learned how to put fear in it's proper place. 90% of my groundless fears are just that... groundless.

So, I could turn to the dark side of my self-centered, fear-based mind right now, and project a worst-case scenario of being riddled with bone cancer by Christmas and dead within a year (unlikely), or I can just sit tight, go about my life and wait for the results of the blood work.

Meanwhile, I'll focus on the good things in my life. Like friends. And family. Hell, even doctors (I have some really good ones!).

And no matter what happens I will have complete faith that it's part of some plan by someone or something greater than myself... and that it's nothing I need to drink over.

Voir Drear

I just spent a mind (and butt) numbing day (from 7:45 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.) trapped in a courtroom in Superior Court in and for the County of Mercer in the State of New Jersey.

They were trying to find 14 people who would be available for the next couple of weeks to hear some case about some guy who got nabbed with a ton of drug paraphenalia and crack/cocaine in Princeton, of all places for God's Sake (is nothing sacred?)

They blew through over 60 prospective jurors before they hit the jackpot. I was 1 of 15 remaining jurors in the pool. The pool kept dwindling because people either a) knew somebody whose sister once dated a guy whose mother was shacking up with some skeevy bastard who ran a crank lab down in the Pine Barrens or b) their stepbrother's fiance is a cousin to somebody who is a corrections officer in North Dakota or c) they're leaving on a month long vacation to Norway tomorrow night.

Had I actually been called to the bench to begin the process of voir dire ("speak the truth") my ace in the hole for weasling out of it was that I'm in recovery. Defense attorneys are notorious for NOT wanting people in recovery on the trial jury for their drug-dealer clients. They suspect, and rightly so, that we'll hang their asses.

As excruciating as this process is, for everybody, it is our best hope for obtaining at least a fairly impartial jury for our trials. I mean, I'd want a jury composed of people like me, wouldn't you?

Anyway, the good news is that I am now relieved of jury duty for at least a couple of years (except for Grand Jury).

I intend to treat myself by taking tomorrow off.

Except for my appointment with my Urologist at 5:45 p.m. tomorrow night.

Hmmmm, come to think of it, maybe jury duty wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Kidnapped!

I've been kidnapped. Starting next Monday I'm on jury duty in Mercer County New Jersey for a week, or a trial, whichever is more excruciating.

Every other county in New Jersey, and probably all the rest of the counties in the country, have a rule of "1 day or 1 trial" and then you're done. Not Mercer County. For, although the county is the home to Princeton University, it also has the misfortune of being home to the state capital, Trenton. And Trenton has some pretty unsavory neighborhoods, if you get my meaning, if you catch my drift.

With any luck I'll get some gangland killing but I've done this before and I know they hate having people on juries who work at law firms. Even if they are just measly assistants.

I'm hoping that jury duty ends at a decent hour every day next week because I have an appointment to see Every Man of a Certain Age's Best Friend, his urologist, next Thursday evening at 5:45 p.m. I see him once a year (I got another midriff x-ray last Saturday), so he can see how my kidney stones are doing. So far, so good. I haven't passed any and they seem to be benignly growing with no intent to escape.

Next Friday, if I live that long, will be my penultimate birthday in my 50's. I'm trying to decide between having birthday cake or cyanide.

My 50's really flew by, unlike my 40's. My 40's dragged, mostly because I was so drunk and unhappy. It turns out that the happier you are, the faster time flies. It reminds me of the very un-PC joke about the guy who was told by his doctor that he had six months to live. "Well," the guy said, "I guess in that case I'd better marry a Jewish American Princess and move to Duluth. At least it'll be the longest six months of my life."

My 50's, though, were all spent in recovery. And although there were days which I thought would never end, the years flew by.

So I'm trying (seriously now) to decide what to do for my birthday. I'll be in court that day, but I won't be in court next Saturday, and I'm thinking about doing something I really love to do.

Go to Six Flags/Great Adventure and ride Kingda-Ka until I puke! (My buddy Jake did a shout-out regarding Six Flags/Great America, boyfriends and roller coasters the other day.)

Nothing says "STILL A TEEN AT HEART (but not the knees)" louder than riding roller coasters until one needs a couple of hip replacements.

Or maybe I'll just schlep down to the gay beach in Belmar and lie, like a beached whale, upon the sun-drenched sand for hours on end, ogling the golden youth of NooJoyZee.

And if I see something I like, maybe I'll kidnap HIM and force him into a life of wanton debauchery... or debauched wantoness, whichever comes first.

It's a very good time for kidnappings. It brings out the "kid" in all of us.

Diabetes for Fun and Profit!

I had my first appointment with my endocrinologist this morning. At 8:00 a.m.

I've been to Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital a bajillion times over the last couple of years. I had an angiogram there, quadruple-bypass surgery, bi-lateral endarectomies and gawd only knows what else. I know the place like the back of my hand.

The problem is that they're constantly reinventing the city of New Brunswick, where the hospital (and Rutgers, the State University) is located. Basically they're doing road work that should've been done 30 years ago.

There's a message there... for me. About getting things done to me that should've been done 30 years ago.

Anyway, I like my new doctor, even if I had to wait a year to see him. I told him that I felt like I'd finally gotten into Studio 54. He laughed. He's a nice man. He had two little associates who trailed him the whole time I was there. One was a full-fledged doctor and she did most of the leg work in terms of getting my whole background, current medical status, etc. The other, an even younger lady who reminded me a lot of somebody, but I can't remember who, was all agog the whole time. You could tell that she was very, very new to the medical profession. She looked like she was about 18 years old. The slightly older one looked to be about 25-27.

Teaching hospitals are all the same. Watch "Scrubs" or "Grey's Anatomy" or "House" and you'll get some idea of what I'm talking about. Lots of grizzled old farts and bazillions of fresh-faced probies who will probably wind up killing as many patients as they save before they finally finish their residencies.

But I'm one of the lucky ones. I've had tremendous luck at RWJUH. I've also had tremendous medical care there, too. Don't get me wrong, the place pisses me off now and then. But I'm still HERE to be pissed off... and believe me... that's a friggin' miracle.

My new doctor is immediately taking me off one medicine, Actos, that I've been on for over a year and a half. It turns out that Actos is probably the cause of my enormous weight gain (over 45 pounds in the last year). He's also put me on something called "Byetta" which is, basically, Gila Monster spit that works wonders on my diabetes. It comes in a tube and I have to inject myself in my stomach with it twice a day. It doesn't hurt at all. I've already done it once. Checking my blood sugar actually hurts more. He's also taking me off a cholesterol med I've been taking since Christmas. He says taking that medicine is like carrying coals to Newcastle, i.e., pointless. If my uric acid is okay, he'll put me on nicotinic acid which is, apparently, an old standby for cholesterol reduction.

I have to fax my blood sugar readings over every week now. I have a follow-up appointment in October. I have a hot-line number and a hot-line e-mail address if I have any problems or concerns. I'm being monitored.

I feel like a beta site... or a lab rat.

There are only 100,000 endocrinologists in the US and over 30,000,000 diabetics. That last number is expected to double in the next 10 years and most health plans would rather pay for amputations than for education.

I'm lucky I got educated about my diabetes. That education opened some doors for me that most people won't ever get to see, let alone go through.

I am one of the lucky ones. Thank God.

Re-Decoration Day!

I got so sick of looking at my old layout that I decided to try a new one.

Tell me the truth, now. Does this blog make me look fat???

Anyway, I think I'll try this "flush right" format, with bigger, blockier letters for awhile and see how I like it.

News of the Day:

Lindsay Lohan got drunk again. Like that's news to anyone who reads any of the Hollywood Gossip websites (see: below). The kid's a major drunk/druggie and everyone in Tinsel Town knows it.

Let's hope her hangers on, er, posse (the bloodsucking leeches who make a living off of her talents and fame) are wise enough to know that their meal-ticket is in real jeopardy and pack her off to a "real" rehab instead of one of those phony, revolving-door, Hollyweird types of places where they give you time off for good behavior and let you out, with a "sober companion" for wild night's on the town.

Actually, if I were a bloodsucking hanger-on for someone like LiLo, or any of another dozen stars and starlets with serious substance abuse problems, I'd probably be very wary about having my client totally recover. If they did, they might actually "see" how they're being used and manipulated by others who do not necessarily have their best interests at heart.

On the home front, I'm still condo shopping although Memorial Day weekend doesn't have much to offer on that front. Most people were away for the weekend. That included me. I spent Saturday and part of Sunday in NYC with my college roommate, having some quality time together. It was nice. Nicer still since he lives in what used to be known as Hell's Kitchen and which these days is called "Hellsea" ("Hell's Chelsea"). It being Fleet Week, the neighborhood was crawling with sailors and marines, i.e. lots of eye candy for all the inhabitants of the gayborhood.

But I got home Sunday night to find... nothing on.

Fortunately, for me, someone at work had lent me the complete collections of Season 1 and Season 2 of "Lost." I had originally started watching Lost when it premiered 3 years ago, but somewhere along the way I got... well, Lost. And let's face it, it's the kind of show (like "24") that you REALLY need to keep up with. But then I caught the season finale to this past season and was blown away by all the revelations, so I decided to give it another go. I put out an APB at work and the guy who manages the mailroom came through for me.

So on Sunday night (and Monday night) I watched the first five episodes of the 1st season. It's so much easier (and more fun) to watch it without commercials and station breaks. Each episode is over in 46 minutes (less when you skim through the bullshit shots in the jungle). I should be able to finish both seasons in the next two weeks.

It's that time of the year when I have to trudge off to see multitudes of doctors. Next week I have my first run-in, er, appointment with my new endocrinologist (diabetes doctor) and then, over the next month, I see my opthamologist, cardiologist and internist (annual physical).

Naturally, I'll report on everything (my A1C has been faboo for the last year, let's hope it stays that way!)

And that's what's doing on the Least Coast.

Have a great evening everyone!