BREAKING NEWS

I can’t figure out why I listen to the news. In most instances, it’s really not news, it’s commentary.  Depending on which channel you watch, you can get whichever opinions supports your own beliefs.  You can get the opinions you are looking for 24 hours a day!  Every hour a banner crosses your screen proclaiming, “BREAKING NEWS” followed by the journalist of the hour recounting what the previous hour’s journalist reported.

To tell you the truth, the only thing that changes daily is the number of deaths in the US.  The rest of the news appears to be static.  The daily death count from shootings is fairly static. Social unrest persists as people use perceived discrimination as a reason to act out and destroy other individuals’ property and rights.  Police continue to get raked over the coals as mistakes get front page attention.  

I’m afraid that the “truth” is lost in all the media hype.  Truth is an interesting thing.  It used to be that you were innocent until proven guilty. Now you are tried in the news and proclaimed guilty no matter what the facts really are.  Unfortunately, rather than a prosecuting attorney investigating the charges and presenting the case to a judge and jury, the current day prosecutor is a lynch mob, toting signs, threatening riots and demanding justice.  It seems that “JUSTICE” is defined as giving the mob what they want regardless of what’s right.  It also seems that the mob is winning!

Last night, a journalist interviewed the mayor of a large city that had banned the use of tear gas.  When asked what the police were to use in the case of a riot, the mayor’s response was vague and meaningless.  As usual in the political world, the mayor side stepped the issue and started discussing the benefits of defunding the police and using that money to increase social programs in distressed neighborhoods.

Oh God, I just realized that I’m acting like a journalist, offering opinion without truly knowing all the facts!  Let me stop here and tell you the truth.  The truth is, I don’t know what the truth is!  “BREAKING NEWS!”  I’m sick and tired of the talking heads presenting their opinions as fact.  I’m sick and tired of watching modern day lynch mobs on TV demanding their “justice” before all the facts.  I am extremely disappointed in our government for bugling to mob action.  I’m also scared!

In my opinion, there are too many similarities to Nazi Germany.  As statues are defiled and removed and history is re-written, I am left wondering when the book burning will begin, and intellectuals will be rounded up and shot. 

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I feel much better.  Time to turn the TV off and go outside.

Here’s your song and joke.

A little British boy raises his hand to ask his teacher a question.

“Miss, My mother says freedom is the most beautiful thing in the world. What does freedom mean?”

The teacher, seeing the importance of this question for the sweet, innocent child, thinks quickly about how best to respond.

She smiles sweetly and says, “Why don’t you come up and tell the class what you think freedom is, dear”

The little boy comes up to the front of the class and the teacher hands him a big thick dictionary of English.

“Go on, dear, find us the definition of freedom.”

The boy arrives at the section for F and finds the definition.

“Freedom means doing whatever you want whenever you feel like it with total disregard for others no matter the consequences it has for the people around you or the destruction it causes. Freedom is the broken record answer you give to end every reasonable argument where someone tries to get you to do something you don’t feel like doing.”

The teacher is shocked. The class looks up stunned and confused and the little boy bows his head in disappointment, tears filling his eyes.

About to console the little boy, the teacher notices the cover of the dictionary and beams a bright smile.

“Don’t worry, class!” she rejoices.

“That one is American English.”

SOMETHING GOOD?

One of my readers suggested that I write an article about the good things that have come out of Covid-19.  She went on to give me an example talking about how nice it was to have her husband working at home since May. Obviously, I should tell you how nice it has been being quarantined with Renee since March.  She edits my articles and I’ll pick up a few brownie points by schmoosing up to her.

Realistically, I’m probably driving her crazy.  Can you think of anything good that has come out of Covid-19?  If you can, please leave a comment below.  I’ve gained 30 pounds since this started.  If I had been emaciated at the onset, that would have been good.  However, I was already overweight and now I’m thinking about becoming a Sumo wrestler.

I’ve saved a bunch of money.  Since we no longer go anywhere, we stay home in the evening and count our newfound wealth.  NOT!  Out of sheer boredom, we surf Amazon and buy all kinds of crap we really don’t need. The high point of our day is checking the front stoop for Amazon packages.  Today, my pickled celery came.  Pickled celery from NY is seriously good! 

I have not been this excited in months!

At first, donning a mask and playing doctor with nurse Renee was fun.  After a while she tired of me pestering her, so she decided that, in nurse Renee’s exam room, a temperature would be done rectally.  Oops, game over! 

Nurse Renee says the only positive she sees coming from the Covid-19 experience is an increase in family time.  Unfortunately, my literature suggests that the increased family time is associated with increased child and spousal abuse.  

I’ve always said that, if you can make something good come from something bad, the bad wasn’t all that bad.  For the life of me, I can’t find anything good coming from tearing apart the social threads of society.  I almost forgot, COVID has killed 140,000 people to date.

The only good I have witnessed is the calls and cards I’ve received from my former patients who worry about my depression.  Many have recounted how they are handling their depression.  I want to assure all of you that I really am doing fine.  I puke up the foul stuff that accumulates in my mind every day when I write this blog.  Writing is cathartic, just as your reaching out to care for me is good for you.

Together, we’ll get through this!  Here’s your song for the day and a joke.

Three golfing partners died in a car wreck and went to heaven. 
Upon arrival they discover the most beautiful golf course they have ever seen. 

St. Peter tells them that they are all welcome to play the course, but he cautions them that there is only one rule: 
Don’t hit the ducks. 
The men all have blank expressions, and finally one of them asks “The ducks?” 
“Yes”, St. Peter replies, “There are millions of ducks walking around the course and if one gets hit, he squawks then the one next to him squawks and soon they’re all squawkin to beat the band, and it really breaks the tranquility. If you hit the ducks, you’ll be punished, otherwise everything is yours to enjoy.” 
After entering the course, the men noted that there was indeed a gaggle of ducks everywhere. Within fifteen minutes, one of the guys hit one of them. The duck squawked, the one next to it squawked and soon there was a deafening roar of duck quacks. 
St. Peter walked up with an extremely homely woman in tow and asked “Who hit the duck?” 
The one who had done it admitted “I did.” 
Immediately, St. Peter pulled out a pair of handcuffs and cuffed the man’s right hand to the homely woman’s left hand. “I told you not to hit the ducks,” he said. 
“Now you’ll be handcuffed together for eternity. 
The other two men were very cautious not to hit any ducks, but a couple of weeks later, one of them accidentally did. The quacks were as deafening as before and within minutes St. Peter walked up with an even uglier woman than before. St. Peter determined which one had hit the duck by the fear in his face, and cuffed the man’s right hand to the homely woman’s left hand. 
“I told you not to hit the ducks”, he said. “Now you’ll be handcuffed together for eternity.” 
The third man was extremely careful. Some days he wouldn’t even move for fear of even nudging a duck. After three months of this he still hadn’t hit a duck. St. Peter walked up to the man at the end of the three months and had with him a knock-out gorgeous woman, the most beautiful woman the man had ever seen. St. Peter smiled to the man and then, without a word, handcuffed him to the beautiful woman and walked off. 
The man, knowing that he would be handcuffed to this woman for eternity, let out a sigh and said “What have I done to deserve this?” 
The woman responded “I don’t know about you, but I hit a duck.”

I’M MAD

I’m mad!  I’m just not sure who to be mad at!  Several of my patients with chronic pain have complained that no one wants to fill their prescriptions for scheduled medications.  Scheduled medications (mostly narcotics) are more tightly controlled by the feds than non-scheduled medications.

Over the years, I accumulated about a dozen patients with chronic pain.  They all had good reasons for their pain and the majority were on low doses of their medications.  A dozen patients is a small number and I kept it small by aggressively treating pain syndromes with physical therapy, injection therapy, and specialty care using surgery when appropriate.

Towards the end of my career, I was telling patients who needed narcotics that the government believed that anyone prescribing narcotics was a drug pusher and anyone taking a narcotic was a criminal.  Yes, my profession went from openly stating that pain was a vital sign that needed to be aggressively treated to treating pain aggressively could end your career. 

Why?  There are, in fact, bad docs who sell pain pills in huge amounts in their pain clinics. There also exists greedy pharmaceutical companies that misrepresent their products and pay bad docs to overprescribe their medications.  Because of the sins of the few, many suffer.

“Chronic pain patients” are a real pain to treat.  They have to be seen on a regular basis. They aren’t happy about having to be seen regularly and they let you know it.  Their medications require extra paperwork and are monitored by big brother.  They tend to be broke emotionally, physically and financially as many have trouble working due to both the pain syndrome and its effect on their ability to work.  They suffer and sometimes take it out on those trying to help them.

On the other hand, treating “patients with chronic pain” can be emotionally very rewarding.  Goals can be set and reached in most cases. The effects of your treatments are easily assessed in how functional and happy your patient is once treated.  By controlling your patient’s pain, you also improve his family’s life; and, in some instances, you are able to get your patient back to work.    

Unfortunately, the sad truth is many of my colleagues are afraid to prescribe narcotics and push chronic pain patients out of their practices.  Please note that, in the paragraphs above, I refer to “chronic pain patients” and “patients with chronic pain.” There is a difference!  And that’s why I’m angry.  There shouldn’t be!!

Patients with chronic pain need care and get care from caring physicians!  If the physician sees them as chronic pain patients, they don’t get care, they get the boot!  That’s just plain WRONG!

So, who am I mad at?  Certainly, I’m pissed at the feds.  PATIENTS WITH CHRONIC PAIN AND THEIR PHYSICIANS SHOULD NOT HAVE TO FEAR THE GOVERNMANT!  NOR SHOULD THEY HAVE TO JUMP THROUGH MULTIPLE HOOPS TO GET THEIR MEDICATIONS.

I’m also mad at my colleagues. I understand their fears, but they can’t let fear stop them from caring for patients in need.  One of their fears is that a few bad apples may slip through their defenses and get their hands on meds they shouldn’t have.  That’s the risk a physician must take in order to serve the greater good: caring for those who are truly in pain. (I’ve seen some great actors in my day and been fooled more than once. That’s a story for another day.) 

I’m mad at myself.  Right now, some of my former patients are suffering in pain and can’t find a physician who will care for them.  I should be there for them and I’m not!  Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do to help other than write an article that will never get into the hands of the docs it’s meant to influence. (And, for sure, never change the governments stance on pain meds either.)

Feel free to share this with your doc.  If he actually reads it, you are probably in the right place.

Here’s your music for today ad a joke.

One morning at a doctor’s clinic a patient arrives complaining of serious back pain.The doctor examines him and asks him:

“Tell me what happened to your back…?”

The patient replies: “Sir, I work for a local night club. This morning I went to my apartment early and heard some noise in my bed room.

On entering I knew someone had been with my wife and the balcony door was open.

I rushed out of the balcony door and did not find anyone.

As I looked down from the balcony I saw a man running out and he was dressing himself.

I was very angry. I grabbed the fridge and threw it at him.

It was very heavy…

That is how I strained my back.!”



Later that day, a second patient arrives as if he has been in a car wreck.

The doctor said: “My previous patient looked bad..

But you look terrible..

What the hell happened to you ?”



He replied: “You know I have been unemployed for a while now.

Today was the first day at my new job…

I forgot to set my alarm and I was late…

I was running out of the building, getting dressed at the same time.

And you won’t believe it but I was hit by a fridge.

I don’t know how and where from this fridge fell on me…!!!”



Before closing hours, the third patient comes. He looks like he was punished in hell.



The doctor is shocked.

He asks: “What the hell happened to you..??”



The patient replies:

“Well, It started like this, I was in a fridge……….

IT’S HOW MUCH THAT MATTERS

I heard a doc say, “It’s not just if you get infected, it’s how you get infected” that matters.  The larger the exposure/dose, the worse the disease.  If he is right and the size of the viral load you are infected with is directly related to the degree of illness you develop, then not wearing a mass is lunacy.

As I previously stated, masks primarily block larger particles in your breath from reaching others.  The secondary effect is to prevent or lessen the load of droplets being actively propelled into your airway by the person in front of you.  Yeah, every time you’re with unmasked or poorly masked individuals, you are breathing all of their air.

When I was bar hopping in my 20’s, inhaling a cute girl’s air was sweet, now it’s poison.  Wear masks in public, if not for others, then for yourself.  I know it’s your right to not wear a mask.  I know you believe what the internet says: masks don’t work or make you worse.  Even if there was only a small chance of controlling this virus by universal masking, it would be worth doing.  

My colleagues and I wore masks our entire careers. I treated infectious diseases while I donned masks, used sterile technique and hand washing for close to 40 years without getting seriously infected.  CERTAINLY, I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANY COLLEAGUE INJURED BY WEARING A MASK.

My readers want to know what they can do about those people who refuse wearing masks.  There is only one thing to do: turn and walk away. Actually, you could pray that you walked away fast enough and that the person who was exercising his/her right not to wear a mask never knows the pain of being wrong. MY FAVORITE PRAY IS “MAY YOU BE SO BLESSED AS TO NEVER KNOW WHAT DISEASE YO U PREVENTED.”

Here’s your music for this am and a joke.

They said that a mask and gloves were enough to go to the supermarket.

They lied, everyone else has clothes on.

STRESS

One of my former patients posted the following:

I have a lot of

Excitement 

In my life.

I used to call it STRESS

But I feel much better

Now that I call it

EXCITEMENT.

Sometimes, the difference between a winner and a loser is how they manage stress.  While we all experience stress, a person with good coping techniques/stress management skills can turn stress into excitement (or a host of other sentiments/feelings).

How do you handle stress?  Have you had any stress management courses?  Been in counseling?  Read about stress management techniques?  If not, why not?

Most of us have never had a formal education in stress management.  When you realize that all humans experience stress, it’s remarkable that so little education in stress management is made available to us through the educational system.

As a doc, it was not uncommon for me to find myself in highly stressful, life and death situations.  The 60-year-old male having a heart attack in my office was always a stressful event.  When I read the above statement, I realized that I channeled that stress into excitement as I ran my code procedures and waited for the paramedics. 

How is it possible that I went all the way through undergraduate, graduate and post graduate training without a single stress management course?  Maybe it’s because admitting that you are stressed is taboo, unmanly.  I do know that I innately possessed good stress management skills.

When I was an ER doc back in the dark ages, the most stressful thing I had to do was put in a chest tube.  In those days, putting in a chest tube was somewhat barbaric.  While I had no problem opening the chest of a 24 year old patient with a knife wound in her heart, I had an unexplainable fear of putting in a chest tube.  My stress management technique was to go to the men’s room anytime a patient needing a chest tube came into my ER. It worked until, one day, Dr. J pounded on the bathroom door.

Dr. J – “Segal, gets your ass out of the bathroom and put in this chest tube.”

ME – “I’M TAKING A DUMP.  PUT IN THE CHEST TUBE YOURSELF.”

Dr. J – “She’s going to die if you don’t get your ass out here.”

Me – “Fuck, What’s wrong with you?  Go put in the tube.  I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

Dr. J – “You’re finished now!  Time to man up and get past your fear.’

Dr. J was a great teacher and he worked side by side with me until I conquered my fear.  Stress management can be taught in a classroom, at work or at home.  There are hundreds of books and programs on stress management.  Is it time for you to get an education? The answer is YES!

There is not much I can guarantee in life but I can guarantee that, if you take a course in stress management, you will be glad you did.

Here’s your music and joke.

1. Picture yourself lying on your belly on a warm rock that hangs out over a crystal-clear stream. 
2. You can feel both your hands dangling in the cool running water. 
3. Birds are sweetly singing in the cool mountain air. 
4. No one knows your secret place. 
5. You are in total seclusion from that hectic place called “The World”. 
6. The soothing sound of a gentle waterfall fills the air with a cascade of serenity. 
7. The water is so crystal clear that you can easily make
out the face of the person you are holding underwater.
See? It really does work. You’re smiling already!

69

I’m 69 years old today.  I graduated from high school in 1969.  The 69 Camaro is my favorite car. Sixty-nine has always been my favorite number.  In previous articles, I’ve talked about the importance of keeping your inner child alive.  It used to be the mere mention of the number 69 that woke up my inner child.  Now, at 69, I’m not sure why that number was so magical.  My inner child died from CRS and/or the reality of aging.  Either way it sucks.  (Nice play on words).

As you know, I’m not happy with the aging process.  I fear 69 is going to blow (there I go again).   Renee and I are committed to biking daily. I’m starting to eat better although I’m not convinced it will make a difference.  My job search is not going well.  I’m overqualified for most and don’t have the credentials I need as a medical editor for for the Sex magazine I talked about earlier. I stopped at the question, “Tell us about your experience.”  There was no way I was answering that other than to state that I was 69.  For a second, I though that query had resuscitated my inner youth, then it fizzled.

North Carolina is hot!  Covid-19 is driving me crazy.  I want to sit in a restaurant and have a nice meal.  I want to have the neighbors over for a drink and appetizers. I want to go swimming.  I want to go fishing.  The reality is I’m stuck indoors like you and the rest of the world.

Writing about this is like puking; you feel better after the foul stuff comes out.  Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe 69 will be a good year.  Only time will tell.  It’s 9 am and I have the rest of today to find something to do. Actually, once you are retired, every day becomes the same.  

Hopefully, a vaccine will be available by January and then we will be able to do more.  We’ll see!  Until then, I’ll just have to come up with something to do each day and so will you. Renee, this is my 69 year!

Here’s your song for the day and a joke.

Whatever you look like, marry a man your own age.  As your beauty fades, so will his eyesight.  Phyllis Diller

GOOD NEWS IF IT’S TRUE

The following is a podcast by Zdogg that is well worth listening to.  It’s so important that he doesn’t even drop the F bomb.  Please watch it to the end.

Hopefully, it’s true! It’s the first good news I’ve heard, and it supports wearing masks, social distancing and handwashing.

His last comment is shockingly true.  Americans are anti-science and pro-conspiracy, and that’s a pity. I also believe it is directly related to the internets ability to make the most outrageous lie into the gospel.

Yesterday, I saw a podcast in which the commentator used two studies to back up his premise that masks were worthless.  While I only saw the summary of the studies, it was apparent the commentator misinterpreted the results.  He claimed the studies showed that masks did not work because there was no statistical difference when wearing a mask.  He sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

In reality, the studies compared cloth masks with standard surgical masks and found no statistical difference between the two masks.  As far as I can tell from the part of the study he broadcasted, the authors did not comment on the overall effectiveness of the mask.

I’ve spent a lifetime interpreting studies, looking for bias and study design errors.  Interpreting data is not easy, yet every Tom, Dick and Harry can now use the internet to claim anything they want to.  Please be cautious when ingesting raw internet material.  It may be sewage.

Here’s today music and a joke.

What’s the square root of 69?

Eight something.

BROKEN PROMISES

Has anyone ever told you, “Work hard and one day you’ll be rewarded for your hard work?”  I’ve heard it more than once!  My parents and teachers reinforced this mantra repeatedly as I was growing up.  So, I worked hard for 40 years and here I am today.  I’m not convinced that my parents were right.  As a matter of fact, I no longer believe it to be true at all.  I think success is decided by luck!

Emotionally, my family, friends and patients continue to make me a rich man.  Physically, I’m broke!  Today was the fifth day in a row that Renee and I biked and my legs are killing me.  No matter what I do, my health is going to get worse.  Hopefully, exercise will slow the process.  Financially, well, we won’t go there.  Owning two houses is a killer! Retiring too early doesn’t help either.  Spiritually, I’m in a better place.  I no longer blame God.  

I always planned on my house in Long Grove being a major part of my retirement fund.  I didn’t realize that my plans had several glaring problems.  In North Carolina, houses are selling like hotcakes.  Taxes here are relatively low. In Illinois, your real estate taxes are the equivalent of a second mortgage and that, unlike a bank held second mortgage, is one that can never be paid off. The housing market is apparently dead. Yet, in November, Illinois will re-elect the same politicians that have bankrupted the state.  What a pity! 

The second glaring problem I failed to account for are generational differences. Generational differences have always been the norm but I could not possibly have anticipated how strongly the younger generation would feel about having an open floor plan.  Frankly, I think they are nuts.  I liked having the kids playing in the “other” room.  It allowed them to be somewhat independent, yet still under my control.  It allowed Renee and I to have some semi-private time together. Covid-19 has taught us that too much together time is not necessarily good, and an open floor plan is like going back in time to the days of a one room cabin.  Talk about cabin fever.  I’m glad I’ve spent my last winter in Illinois.

There was no way to account for the third problem.  Even Steven King would have problems imagining Covid-19 and its impact on the world. I always told Renee that, at retirement, we would have to do lunch and dinner at Costco.  You can’t beat $1.50 for a hot dog and drink.  Thanks to Covid, we can’t even do that.

Now, I’m not complaining.  I don’t know anyone my age who is totally happy with their circumstances.  As a younger, more optimistic man, I came up with the concept of “Wellthy.”  I, like my parents, stressed that investing in your emotional, physical, spiritual and financial accounts would lead to good health and happiness.

I still believe in “Wellthy” but now believe that luck plays a major part in actually achieving “Wellth.”  Unfortunately, luck is not something you can manufacture.  A few days ago, I asked, “Whose fault is it?”  Today, my answer is it’s no one’s fault. It’s a matter of luck!  Sometimes it seems that if I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.

I’ve been trying to stay positive but some days it’s impossible.  As I approach my 69thbirthday, I don’t feel very “wellthy.”   It’s time to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again. The older I get, the harder it is to start anything new.

“For a long time now, I have tried simply to write the best I can. Sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.”

Ernest Hemingway

This time around, I’m going to concentrate on writing better than I can.  I know I have a story in me, I just need to find it, and I need your help.  Please send me your best Doc Segal story.  Sometimes I amaze myself as prior patients remind me of my role in their lives.  Email me at ssegal@lztc.com with any story and your permission to publish it. 

Here’s your music and a joke.

Joe wanted to buy a motorbike. He doesn’t have much luck until, one day, he comes across a Harley with a “for sale” sign on it.

The bike seems even better than a new one, although it is 10 years old. It is shiny and in absolute mint condition. He immediately buys it, and asks the seller how he kept it in such great condition for 10 years. “Well, it’s quite simple, really,” says the seller, “whenever the bike is outside and it’s going to rain, rub Vaseline on the chrome. It protects it from the rain.” Saying so, he hands Joe a jar of Vaseline.

That night, his girlfriend, Sandra, invites him over to meet her parents. Naturally, they take the bike there. Just before they enter the house, Sandra stops him and says, “I have to tell you something about my family before we go in. When we eat dinner, we don’t talk. In fact, the first person who says anything during dinner has to do the dishes.”

“No problem,” he says. And in they go. Joe is shocked. Right smack in the middle of the living room is a huge stack of dirty dishes. In the kitchen is another huge stack of dishes. Piled up on the stairs, in the corridor, everywhere he looks, dirty dishes. They sit down to dinner and, sure enough, no one says a word.

As dinner progresses, Joe decides to take advantage of the situation and leans over and kisses Sandra. No one says a word. So he reaches over and fondles her breasts. Still, nobody says a word. So he stands up, grabs her, rips her clothes off, throws her on the table, and fucks her right there, in front of her parents. His girlfriend is a little flustered, her dad is obviously livid, and her mom horrified when he sits back down, but no one says a word.

He looks at her mom. “She’s got a great body,” he thinks. So he grabs the mom, bends her over the dinner table, and has his way with her in every position right there on the dinner table. Now his girlfriend is furious and her dad is boiling, but still, total silence.

All of a sudden there is a loud clap of thunder and it starts to rain. Joe remembers his bike, so he pulls the jar of Vaseline from his pocket. Suddenly the father backs away from the table and shouts, “All right, that’s enough, I’ll do the fucking dishes.”

A GLASS HALF EMPTY?

Are you a glass half empty person or are you a glass half full person?  Does it really make a difference?  Personally, I see a half a glass of a blended drink.  In my glass, I’ve got the sweetness of my family and friends blended with the bitterness of Parkinson’s and the aging process.

Most people look at life from a more simplistic viewpoint: half empty or half full.  As I drink from my half glass, each gulp provokes a different reaction.  Right now, the drink is bitter.  I’m in one of my off stages, having trouble walking and feeling punk.  I’m sick of this drink but have no choice other than dealing with it.

This am, the crap had settled to the bottom of the glass and the sweet nectar of life was on the top. Renee and I went further and faster on our bike ride.  It felt good.  We went on a healthy walk through the local mall/ghost town and my glasses got fixed.  I even made it back to the car without difficulty.  I was almost normal.  How sweet it is!

Renee and I picked up lunch from a new barbeque restaurant and dined together in our new home.  Unfortunately, something always shakes up the content of the glass and today’s most sour concoction bubbled to the surface.  We had to deal with the damage the movers caused.  If you research movers on the internet, you’ll find horror stories.  Our move does not rise to the level of a horror flick but we lost a refrigerator and one of our favorite pieces of art was damaged.  The mover refuses to take responsibility despite the fact that we bought insurance to cover the move.

Drinking down the mover’s lies left a shitty taste in my mouth.

Before my nap, I called an old friend and enjoyed a lengthy conversation with her.  It was like rinsing out my mouth with strawberry juice. I wish I could fill my glass with people like her but I can’t; I have to share her with others. She lives many miles away.

During my nap, my half a glass, which had emptied a bit since this morning, had filled back up.  I’ve got to find a new Doc and that’s not easy.  My profession has gone to the dogs.  Every doc around here works for a corporation and I really want a private doc who will work for me.  While I was looking for a new doc, a very bitter, bilious fluid flowed into my glass.  I came across an article about Walgreens opening 500 doctors’ offices in their pharmacies. My dislike of Walgreens is well known and this new incestuous relationship between Walgreens and VillageMD makes me want to puke.  The Walgreens of the future will sell you the cigarettes that destroy your lungs in the front of the store, send you to the back to see the doctor whose job is to try to save your lungs by ordering medications which his partner then sells you.  Keeping you alive so you can buy more cigarettes is of paramount importance as is selling you the most profitable prescriptions possible.  But enough of my rant.

No matter what I do, I always seem to have a half glass of a mixture of life’s best and worst nectars.  As I’m wrapping this article up, I get a text message scheduling a showing to sell my house.  My beautiful house that raised my 3 children and many more kids over the years sits empty waiting for a new family to add to its heritage.  My house is full of good memories and sweetness, having been the summer watering hole for many in the neighborhood, no longer is wanted despite all the potential that it still has.

Ultimately, I have to drink down the bitter solution of a lousy real estate market and sell it far below its real value.  So, is my glass half empty or half full?  It’s a quarter full of life’s sweetness and a quarter full of life’s crap and my mood depends on what nectar is sitting on the top at the time I take a drink.  Regardless of how I look at it, I must keep drinking or die, so I’ll drink down whatever I have to in order to live.

My birthday is Sunday.  It seems that the in thing to do this year is to ask your friends to donate to a charity.  Please, assume you are the charity I want you to invest in and buy yourself a present.  Have a good time with your present and think of me while you’re enjoying it.

Here’s your music and jokes for the day.

An old man was wondering if his wife had a hearing problem. So one night, he stood behind her while she was sitting in her lounge chair.

He spoke softly to her, “Honey, can you hear me?” There was no response.

He moved a little closer and said again, “Honey, can you hear me?” Still, there was no response.

Finally he moved right behind her and said, “Honey, can you hear me?”

She replied, “For the third time, Yes!”

WHOSE FAULT IS IT?

I have Parkinson’s.  Everyone knows it.  They can see the steady deterioration in my ability to walk and function. It’s a shitty disease, slowly robbing me of my independence.  Last week’s bad days are this week’s good days.

What I want to know is whose fault is it?  Shit just doesn’t happen in this world.  Someone always has to take the blame!  So, who did this to me? Is it my father’s fault?  Afterall, it’s his gene I inherited.  Should he have carried the guilt of bringing me into this world of Parkinsonism?  No, maybe my grandfather is to blame.  He died from Parkinson’s also.

As late as the early 80s, docs didn’t think you could inherit Parkinson’s.  A world renowned Parkinson’s specialist at Rush reassured me that, since it was not a genetically transmitted disease, I could stop worrying

about it.  So, if my father and his father had no idea they would pass on this  lousy gene that would eventually destroy me, how can they carry any guilt or blame? THEY CAN’T!

If it’s not my ancestors’ fault, who else could have cursed me?  IS IT MY FAULT?  Obviously, I didn’t choose to be part of my parent’s gene pool. If I could have, I would have chosen the same parents.  Sure, they had their flaws, but they gave me a pretty great life. 

Should I have been in the gym everyday of my adult life? Certainly, exercise helps slow the degradation caused by Parkinson’s.  Should I have followed a different diet?  No, definitely not!  Besides, I’ve been on multiple diets, none of which helps.

That only leaves God to blame. Being a tad bit egocentric as are most docs, I blamed God.  Afterall, I must have been worthy of some personal attention for God to decide that I should be stricken with this disease.  I decided that God was rounding out my education as a MD.  That idea didn’t hold water as the disease removed me from direct patient care.

This must be another reason God chose me to carry this gene.  The only thing that makes sense is I that I’m supposed to write this article.  I’m supposed to tell those people who carry the guilt of having a bad gene that SHIT HAPPENS BEYOND YOUR CONTROL. CARRYING SENSELESS GUILT ONLY HURTS YOU AND THOSE WHO LOVE YOU.  YOU DIDN’T KNOW.

At the time I had my kids, I didn’t know, but I was suspicious.  I pray that one day they don’t start asking the question, “whose fault is it?”

By the way, it’s not God’s fault, either.  

Here’s your music for today.  Here’s the 20 things Parkinson’s patient excel at.

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