Two friends of mine told me that last Monday had been declared the most depressing day of the year. I figured it was because folks around these parts were in mourning over the Vikings' sudden demise in the NFC title game he day before. I was wrong. This had been so declared by somebody of importance. (Neither could remember who said it.)
But it might as well been over the football game.
I work in athletics and I understand games can be emotional things. But when I see a guy on TV who is claiming he can offer therapy to folks who were traumatized over a close, exasperating loss in a football game, I truly begin to wonder if folks have lost their collective minds.
Then I read that another guy has publicly put his athletic allegiance up for auction ... and some idiotic news outlet is running with the story.
The great, late Red Smith used to refer to covering athletics like working in the Toys and Games Department of a department store. He was, of course, correct. My neighbor Kenny is about as diehard a Viking fan as there is. He wears a jersey when he watches games and shouts advice at the TV at the local saloon where we watch such events.
But when I saw him the next day, he merely shrugged and said it was a fun run. He had moved on.
Listening to talk shows (and the hosts), it is clear, however, that others have not. A pity.
Don't misunderstand. Memories - good and bad - are a great part of athletics. I have never forgotten that Jack Reed hit the only home run of his major league careerin the 22nd inning to defeat the Tigers one day in 1962. Or that Hank Aguirre threw to the wrong base at a key moment in what proved to be a key loss to the Angels in the wild 1967 pennant race.
But the sun still came up the next day and life goes on. The difference here, I suppose, is that after losing that game the other day, Vike fans woke up here to a gray sky and the usual January chill.
To those folks, I offer this bit of sunny therapy: spring training begins in less than a month.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
When saying you're sorry isn't good enough
This is one of the reasons why I entitled this little enterprise "Midwestern Sensibility Views." Us folks in flyover country know a copout when we see one ... and we don't like to allow people to get away with it.
Which is why many people in my neck of the woods are snickering at Mark McGwire suddenly admitting what everybody had suspected for more than a decade -- that he used steroids during his halcyon home run days in the 90s.
You may recall that McGwire basically took the 5th amendment in front of a Senate committee investigating steroids. That may have got him off the hook there but the folks who vote for the Baseball Hall of Fame took notice. As a result, he has never come close to induction into the hallways of Cooperstown.
Now that he has admitted his sins, his fans in St. Louis and elsewhere are reacting that this should change everything.
Sorry, it doesn't work that way.
Confession may be good for the soul but a sin is still a sin. And there is no denying that anything McGwire achieved in his career has a stigma attached to it. As a result, it is now impossible to say whether his career figure of 583 home runs is more impressive than, say, Harmon Killebrew (573) or Willie McCovey (521) , two strongmen who, by all reports, did it the old fashioned way. (Milkshakes, hamburgers and perhaps a few beers.) It doesn't elevate you back in status. It just clarifies the situation.
Carl Pavano, a victim of McGwire's while pitching for Montreal, came out yesterday and said he should be in the Hall Of Fame now, In essence, Pavano said the past is the past and all previous mistakes can be forgiven. This might be the way it works in the non-real world. But in the hardscrabble world of the Midwest, we tend to look at things differently. True, a lot of mistakes are just that. They can be corrected, forgiven and we move on.
But some - ranging from the real world violence of shooting somebody in the back to the play world status of a baseball player shooting up to be able to hit a 95 mph fastball - are past that range.
And it helps if you own up to your screwup right away ... instead of 10 years later when your brother is about to come out with a book that basically nails you to the wall.
McGwire was a good player who decided he needed an edge to become better than good. For more than decade, he ducked and weaved his way around the truth. It is more than fair to give him good marks for finally coming out and admitting it. But it doesn't excuse him. He has a scarlet letter of his own making. Where I live, you don't get those sort of things easily because we like to give the benefit of the doubt as much as possible.
It doesn't mean he can't be forgiven. But it can't be forgotten. Like Pete Rose (who was banned for his gambling exploits), McGwire deserves to stay on the outside looking in forever.
Which is why many people in my neck of the woods are snickering at Mark McGwire suddenly admitting what everybody had suspected for more than a decade -- that he used steroids during his halcyon home run days in the 90s.
You may recall that McGwire basically took the 5th amendment in front of a Senate committee investigating steroids. That may have got him off the hook there but the folks who vote for the Baseball Hall of Fame took notice. As a result, he has never come close to induction into the hallways of Cooperstown.
Now that he has admitted his sins, his fans in St. Louis and elsewhere are reacting that this should change everything.
Sorry, it doesn't work that way.
Confession may be good for the soul but a sin is still a sin. And there is no denying that anything McGwire achieved in his career has a stigma attached to it. As a result, it is now impossible to say whether his career figure of 583 home runs is more impressive than, say, Harmon Killebrew (573) or Willie McCovey (521) , two strongmen who, by all reports, did it the old fashioned way. (Milkshakes, hamburgers and perhaps a few beers.) It doesn't elevate you back in status. It just clarifies the situation.
Carl Pavano, a victim of McGwire's while pitching for Montreal, came out yesterday and said he should be in the Hall Of Fame now, In essence, Pavano said the past is the past and all previous mistakes can be forgiven. This might be the way it works in the non-real world. But in the hardscrabble world of the Midwest, we tend to look at things differently. True, a lot of mistakes are just that. They can be corrected, forgiven and we move on.
But some - ranging from the real world violence of shooting somebody in the back to the play world status of a baseball player shooting up to be able to hit a 95 mph fastball - are past that range.
And it helps if you own up to your screwup right away ... instead of 10 years later when your brother is about to come out with a book that basically nails you to the wall.
McGwire was a good player who decided he needed an edge to become better than good. For more than decade, he ducked and weaved his way around the truth. It is more than fair to give him good marks for finally coming out and admitting it. But it doesn't excuse him. He has a scarlet letter of his own making. Where I live, you don't get those sort of things easily because we like to give the benefit of the doubt as much as possible.
It doesn't mean he can't be forgiven. But it can't be forgotten. Like Pete Rose (who was banned for his gambling exploits), McGwire deserves to stay on the outside looking in forever.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Home Sweet Home indeed!
Got released St. Joe's yesterday after three days and never was so happy to be on Cottage Avenue again.
Two things happened.
1) The doctor cleaned up the at the site where the stents were put in. It was pretty messy for a few days but we are done to a gauze pad and an oversized bandage that covers the area. There are some movement restrictions (no lifting of anything over 10 pounds, no snow shoveling, no walking the dog until there is no ice on the sidewalks, etc.) but otherwise things are fine.
2) Somewhere in the last week, I developed a staph infection. We don't where I encountered this nasty thing. Could have been in the doctor's office. Could have been at SPA the weekend before. Could have been at church on Friday for all we know. But the little bugger got into the blood and that is all that really matters. Quite often, these things can be handled by oral medications. However, because of the recent stents put into me, Dr. Kravitz felt he could take no chances. So, I have a new companion for the next 4-6 weeks, a portable penicillin unit. It comes in a carrying case that can be put around your waist like a fanny pack.
I have to take it with me everywhere except the shower. And, yes, I can already seen carrying this baggage everywhere I go (even to bed) has the potential to become a pain-in-the-rump. But I can pretty much go as I please and certainly can get around the house with no issues. I will be able to do some minor chores, such as laundry and the dishes.
It definitely beats the hell out of the alternatives.
There are things that still need to be done. I am learning how to change the penicillin. (It must be done on a daily basis.) I will have to adjust to the fact there will be home visits by nurses a couple times a week to during my time with my new companion. They need to draw blood, change dressings and the other duties home nurses do.
My brother Paul, who is a doctor, gave me a great piece of advice. He told me I have every right to be mad and frustrated over what happened. After I am done with that, I simply have to move on. It's hard advice but it's correct. So I have to work at not obsessing over how this happened and simply work on getting healthier so I can rid myself of this device.
My friend Steph Harris (and others) told me I will simply have to slow down a bit. If I didn't do so, she (and others, such as my wife and her sisters) promised to kick my butt. That is what I believed is known as tough love. I may not like that message a lot. But I love the messengers for saying i.
One other observation. When something like this happens to you, you learn a lot about yourself ... and other people. We all have people we consider good friends but times like this remind you how good they really are and how much you really cherish them.
But what amazes you sometimes is when other people you know call or text you to wish you well and ask if there is anything they can do for you. What also astounds you is when your comrades at your favorite saloon band together and tell your wife to call if there is anything they can do - even to do somewhat so basic as getting groceries or walking the dog. That makes you feel warm and is the type of encouragement you need.
The real bottom line is this is, as my vascular doctor said, a bump in the road. A serious bump perhaps. But there are people in a helluva worse mental, spiritual and physical shape than I am in today. Do me a favor, will ya? If you know one of these folks, lend them a hand in whatever way works best for you and them.
I know what people have done for me and can anticipate what some folks might have to do down the line. In this forum, all I can say is a public thanks to one and all and a personal promise to pay it forward at some point down the like.
Privately, I am looking forward to telling each and every one of them how grateful I am.
Two things happened.
1) The doctor cleaned up the at the site where the stents were put in. It was pretty messy for a few days but we are done to a gauze pad and an oversized bandage that covers the area. There are some movement restrictions (no lifting of anything over 10 pounds, no snow shoveling, no walking the dog until there is no ice on the sidewalks, etc.) but otherwise things are fine.
2) Somewhere in the last week, I developed a staph infection. We don't where I encountered this nasty thing. Could have been in the doctor's office. Could have been at SPA the weekend before. Could have been at church on Friday for all we know. But the little bugger got into the blood and that is all that really matters. Quite often, these things can be handled by oral medications. However, because of the recent stents put into me, Dr. Kravitz felt he could take no chances. So, I have a new companion for the next 4-6 weeks, a portable penicillin unit. It comes in a carrying case that can be put around your waist like a fanny pack.
I have to take it with me everywhere except the shower. And, yes, I can already seen carrying this baggage everywhere I go (even to bed) has the potential to become a pain-in-the-rump. But I can pretty much go as I please and certainly can get around the house with no issues. I will be able to do some minor chores, such as laundry and the dishes.
It definitely beats the hell out of the alternatives.
There are things that still need to be done. I am learning how to change the penicillin. (It must be done on a daily basis.) I will have to adjust to the fact there will be home visits by nurses a couple times a week to during my time with my new companion. They need to draw blood, change dressings and the other duties home nurses do.
My brother Paul, who is a doctor, gave me a great piece of advice. He told me I have every right to be mad and frustrated over what happened. After I am done with that, I simply have to move on. It's hard advice but it's correct. So I have to work at not obsessing over how this happened and simply work on getting healthier so I can rid myself of this device.
My friend Steph Harris (and others) told me I will simply have to slow down a bit. If I didn't do so, she (and others, such as my wife and her sisters) promised to kick my butt. That is what I believed is known as tough love. I may not like that message a lot. But I love the messengers for saying i.
One other observation. When something like this happens to you, you learn a lot about yourself ... and other people. We all have people we consider good friends but times like this remind you how good they really are and how much you really cherish them.
But what amazes you sometimes is when other people you know call or text you to wish you well and ask if there is anything they can do for you. What also astounds you is when your comrades at your favorite saloon band together and tell your wife to call if there is anything they can do - even to do somewhat so basic as getting groceries or walking the dog. That makes you feel warm and is the type of encouragement you need.
The real bottom line is this is, as my vascular doctor said, a bump in the road. A serious bump perhaps. But there are people in a helluva worse mental, spiritual and physical shape than I am in today. Do me a favor, will ya? If you know one of these folks, lend them a hand in whatever way works best for you and them.
I know what people have done for me and can anticipate what some folks might have to do down the line. In this forum, all I can say is a public thanks to one and all and a personal promise to pay it forward at some point down the like.
Privately, I am looking forward to telling each and every one of them how grateful I am.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
An interesting 24 hours
Very few recoveries from surgical intrusions go perfectly. There is always some complication in some way, shape or form.
So, when a blood clot developed near the spot where my stents were inserted, I wasn't too concerned. I would be a bit inconvenienced but we would simply find the right kind of medications to handle the problem and move on.
Guess again.
The adventure started when I went in for what I thought was a routine ultrasound at my cardiologist's office. What was supposed to be a 10-15 minute procedure started to go bit long. Tracy, the woman running the machine, looked puzzled. Eventually, she called a doctor from St. Joe's. He came in, looked at the results and scratched his head a few times.
This is never a re-assuring trend. They were looking for a PSA - an aneurysm - but what they saw didn't look like a PSA.
There were several hushed conversations while I lay on my back, wondering what the hell was going on.
The cardiologist, who, at times, has the air of an absent-minded professor, came in to give his view. His view was he didn't like what he was seeing and was sending me back to St. Joe's. "We'll find who the vascular surgeon is today and get you in to see him." He added what happened to me occurs in less than one percent on of all stent cases. That is not how I wanted to be unique.
Instead of going home, I felt like I was going to prison.
And we were just getting warmed up.
At St Joe's, they quickly checked me in. A half hour later, Dr. Miller came in for a looksee. I am told he is one of the best around in this field. He took one look and said, "We have you scheduled for surgery tomorrow but I think we can handle this right now."
In conversation, he told me he was a St. John's grad. When I told him I was a UST grad, he smiled. "Placebo, please," he said to a young nurse named Dani, who had simply been entering my info on a computer and had been pressed into service as an emergency assistant.
Next thing I knew, Dr. Miller was poking, scraping and cutting at the infected area. A couple of times, he paused to warn me this "might" hurt.
"Might" was right in this case. The procedure didn't take long but it was intense.
Dr. Miller packed the area tightly, said he thought this might work out alright and went home.
So, right about the time I thought I was going to be heading to work a bb game, I was stuck in a hospital bed, getting dressings changed every 2 hours or so. Dr. Miller had said this would be the case but eventually things might start clotting.
It has never occurred to me blood clots could be a good thing but medicine is a mysterious thing at times.
To be safe, Dr. Miller kept the original surgery on the calendar. But the cardiologist just came in to say there will be no surgery today for sure. That's good news in one way - means I can finally eat something. But I still don't know where I stand (or don't stand.)
In theory, my odd day had one good by-product. By all reports, it is absolutely miserable outside with snow and wind flailing all over the place. So, while people are freezing their butts off and struggling to drive, I am warm, safe, sound and indoors.
But a little part of me (the part that isn't covered in blood) is really looking forward to getting back to be a part of such weather.
So, when a blood clot developed near the spot where my stents were inserted, I wasn't too concerned. I would be a bit inconvenienced but we would simply find the right kind of medications to handle the problem and move on.
Guess again.
The adventure started when I went in for what I thought was a routine ultrasound at my cardiologist's office. What was supposed to be a 10-15 minute procedure started to go bit long. Tracy, the woman running the machine, looked puzzled. Eventually, she called a doctor from St. Joe's. He came in, looked at the results and scratched his head a few times.
This is never a re-assuring trend. They were looking for a PSA - an aneurysm - but what they saw didn't look like a PSA.
There were several hushed conversations while I lay on my back, wondering what the hell was going on.
The cardiologist, who, at times, has the air of an absent-minded professor, came in to give his view. His view was he didn't like what he was seeing and was sending me back to St. Joe's. "We'll find who the vascular surgeon is today and get you in to see him." He added what happened to me occurs in less than one percent on of all stent cases. That is not how I wanted to be unique.
Instead of going home, I felt like I was going to prison.
And we were just getting warmed up.
At St Joe's, they quickly checked me in. A half hour later, Dr. Miller came in for a looksee. I am told he is one of the best around in this field. He took one look and said, "We have you scheduled for surgery tomorrow but I think we can handle this right now."
In conversation, he told me he was a St. John's grad. When I told him I was a UST grad, he smiled. "Placebo, please," he said to a young nurse named Dani, who had simply been entering my info on a computer and had been pressed into service as an emergency assistant.
Next thing I knew, Dr. Miller was poking, scraping and cutting at the infected area. A couple of times, he paused to warn me this "might" hurt.
"Might" was right in this case. The procedure didn't take long but it was intense.
Dr. Miller packed the area tightly, said he thought this might work out alright and went home.
So, right about the time I thought I was going to be heading to work a bb game, I was stuck in a hospital bed, getting dressings changed every 2 hours or so. Dr. Miller had said this would be the case but eventually things might start clotting.
It has never occurred to me blood clots could be a good thing but medicine is a mysterious thing at times.
To be safe, Dr. Miller kept the original surgery on the calendar. But the cardiologist just came in to say there will be no surgery today for sure. That's good news in one way - means I can finally eat something. But I still don't know where I stand (or don't stand.)
In theory, my odd day had one good by-product. By all reports, it is absolutely miserable outside with snow and wind flailing all over the place. So, while people are freezing their butts off and struggling to drive, I am warm, safe, sound and indoors.
But a little part of me (the part that isn't covered in blood) is really looking forward to getting back to be a part of such weather.
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