First Kiss (part one)

May 1963 - A simple newspaper could bring so much joy.

When I was ten years old, I had crush on a classmate of mine. To my eyes, Iris was as cute as the day was long. My fantasies ran from us laughing together in class, to us even holding hands while we were walking. None of this blossomed into reality though because I was just too shy. Fear of being rejected was the biggest problem. Coming in as a close second was not knowing how to approach the whole subject of "achieving a girlfriend." It all seemed so easy for my parents. They always seemed so happy. "Where was my second half?" I'd say to myself. As the bell rang and everyone walked out of class, I found that Iris was getting ready to pass close by to me. I drummed up all my courage and dared to smile in her direction. She kept her eyes down and walked right by. Could it be that she didn't notice or maybe she just didn't like me. I watched as her ponytails walked out of the classroom and she never turned around. At first, I was disappointment but soon it didn't matter. I found myself to be totally smitten and there could never be another. Or so I thought.

One Saturday afternoon, my mother took my brother and I to visit a lady that I had never met before. This new friend and my mother sat at the dining table and they proceeded to laugh and run their mouths a mile a minute. In contrast, I sat uncomfortably on the couch between my eleven year old brother, Louis and this mystery girl who had to be the daughter of my mother's friend. M.G. (mystery girl) was sitting close by on my right and of course, I was feeling awkward. The thing that saved me from embarrassment was the three coloring books and giant box of 64 Crayola crayons on the coffee table in front of us. Lou and M.G. were making a natural mess of their pages but this situation was child's play for the artist. As the two of them spent most of their time attempting to choose the right colors, I showed then both how to use a darker color crayon to outline around the lines to add more definition and then how neatly I colored within those new lines.

"That's nice" M.G. said. "How do you do that?"

I proudly gathered my thoughts and prepared to give a smart sounding answer but my more experienced brother was much quicker on the draw.

"Oh, he always colors good" Lou said. That's because he knows how to draw.

"Please draw me something" M.G. begged while she pulled on my right arm.

My ego was thoroughly inflated now. I felt like I had a new fan. In the clear corner of the page, I drew a picture of a little girl holding a pot of pretty flowers. I then quickly added colors that seemed to match. M.G.'s eyes got big as I finished and she grabbed my arm again.

"That is so cute" she said and then she gave me a quick peck on my cheek.

I'm not sure which shade of brown I was turning but it felt like beet red. I nervously glanced over to my mother but she nor her friend seemed to notice what had just happened. My brother did though. He thought the whole thing was hilarious. He kept one eye on the two women who were talking about dress patterns or something and the other on us. He quietly spoke.

"I think she likes you, Lloyd" he chuckled. He then picked up a newspaper that was also laying on the table in front of us. He proceeded to hold up the paper wide so that it blocked the view of the three of us from the parents.

"Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss" my brother kept saying to the both of us.

I turned my head to look at M.G. and to my shock, she pecked me flat on the mouth! I gathered up my courage and decided to pucker my lips. With my brother urging us on, we pecked about six or seven more times. By this time, Lou was cracking up with laughter and trying to hold the newspaper as steady as possible. This caught the attention of my mother.

"What are you boys doing? Stop acting so silly. We're getting ready to leave soon so behave."

Louis put down the newspaper and we all giggled at each other. Five minutes later, the three of us were headed home. As we walked through the cool, fresh air, I had only one thought. "I was in love!" I had had my first kiss and she was truly my girlfriend." This feeling of floating lasted for about two weeks until me and my mother bumped into M.G. and her mother on the street. To my shock, M.G. didn't say a word to me. It was like she didn't even recognize me. As the two mothers said goodbye, I felt crushed. How could my girlfriend treat me like this? Funny how that crushed feeling only lasted for a day. Iris began to look cute again but then again, so did a lot of other girls. Growing up was beginning to be fun.

To be continued......

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Trip to Museum of Natural History

April 1994 - I Want To Hold Your Hand

Being blessed with two wonderful and healthy daughters helped me to appreciate how fragile and precious life is. Being blessed with two daughters that actually listened to what I had to say is where the second miracle started. They were growing up with no problems (well, few anyway) and were always respectful of adults. It was hard to hear stories of how many issues occurred between other parents and their children. Sometimes, a bit of love and understanding can make a world of difference in the child's future. This is my simple story of how I found that to be true.

When my youngest daughter was about six years old, she and I went on a trip to the Museum of Natural History with a few of the classes at her school. Myself and other parents were the extra staff who were watching over the little darlings. The bus ride to the museum was happy and conversational and I felt like the world's greatest dad being able to participate in this part of my child's life. Little did I know that the party would be a bit different than expected.

Soon after we arrived there, we broke up into groups of five kids, a parent and a teacher. In addition to my lovely daughter and three other adorable children, I had been selected to watch over a five-year old boy who had more energy than all the other children combined.

As we walked pass the bull elephants of North America, he made it clear that his curiosity was more important to him than his safety. I was helping my daughter to read the nearby plague when I realized that he was trying to see if the pachyderms were real. I lifted him back over to our side of the guard rail and explained to him why his actions were not appropriate. He looked up at me with a huge grin, shook his head and gave me a big "Okay." It was obvious that he was not taking me seriously. I was glad that he was safe and we walked on.

The well informed teacher in our group recited amazing details about the 94-foot long, 21,000 lb. female blue whale, as we walked underneath. All of the kids were attentively listening, that is, except for Mr. Mischief who thought it would be more entertaining to run around in circles, as he made airplane noises. I found myself chasing him instead of assisting with the other kids. This time, I let him know that ice cream would be waiting for him if he settled down.The thought of it did calm him for a short while but my reminding him soon made little difference.

We made our way up to the second floor, to the South African section.  My attempts to slow him down by holding  his hand, only made him quickly pull away in order to get loose. My smooth talking and bribery were not working. Frustration was rising. I'd hardly said two words to my own daughter. She seemed to be having fun with the other kids but this was not how I had planned to spend the day.

As we grew closer to the assortment of antelopes who seemed to raise their heads as we approached, the devil's spawn announced that he was going back downstairs to see the whale. I was by now fed up and I resorted to a tactic that I never had to use with my kids. I told him that I was going to hold his hand and that he was going to stay with me, like it or not. He laughed as I took his hand but stopped laughing when he realized that I wasn't letting go. For the first five minutes, he squirmed and complained but I would not release my grip. As we continued to walk with group, he slowly calmed.

After a half-hour of peace and quiet, I was feeling stunned but tried not to show it. I even let his hand go as a test and he actually took it back. This shocked the crap out of me but I was happy that my reasoning had worked. Seemed like he just needed someone to do what they said they would, meaning stricter rules, promises being kept and all that. For the rest of the afternoon, he stayed at my side and followed my directions. He turned out to be a nice kid (at least, as long as he was with me, anyway).

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The Hernia (part three)

The Pain Isn't Over 'Til It's Over

I was very happy to be lazing around in bed, after my minor (major) surgery. The insidious bump had been cut away. All that was left was a one-inch scar which hopefully would not be visible, once my pubic hair grew back in.

The warm quilt gently grabbed my side and helped me to sleep through the afternoon. My wife took the evening shift, watching over my recovery and my dear mother-in-law made certain that I was comfortable through the daytime. But as the days of my one-week convalescence rolled by, there began to be a problem. I was feeling better and I wanted to get up and move around. Peeing sideways into a bowl was getting old and I was beginning to feel helpless. I craved for the adventure of fully using the bathroom on my own.

It was about the fourth day and my mother-in-law was away in the kitchen making me lunch. I had made the decision that I was going to take my first baby steps. I removed the blanket from my left side and slowly slid my leg towards the edge of the bed. Everything went well until my left leg was hovering off the side of the bed. The pain began at the point of the bandaged incision and then hit me like forked lightning, making a path throughout my torso. I used my left arm to push my leg back to the mattress and I finally had relief. It was now obvious. I could not do this by myself. I decided to wait for the evening shift so my wife could lift my leg, lower it to the floor and then assist me in hobbling to the warm, awaiting bowl, which actually, was only a few steps down the hall.

About two weeks later, I felt totally healed and things seemed to be returning to normal. I was finally able to get around the apartment on my own. I had learned to be cautious with my movements because slight pangs of pain would bring me back to reality. I had come to terms with not moving my mid-section more than I had to. The thought of going back to doing my regular exercise routine, which included sit-ups, made me nervous, so at this point, slow was good for now.

My brother was having a birthday party and we all piled into the car that glorious Sunday morning. Getting in and out of the passenger seat was still a chore for me but as long as I balanced my weight away from the delicate area, it seemed workable. Once we reached our destination, my wife got out and was unbuckling our one-year old from the car seat. I had just opened my door to get out, when the unspeakable happened.

The cool air that rushed in as the door opened had tickled the hairs of my nose. I gave a hard sneeze and suddenly my world felt like it was coming to an end. The only way I can describe it was that the doctor was again making the first cut and he was ripping his way up to my brain.  Another sneeze was coming which I was trying desperately to muffle. My feigned attempt to stop this action, only caused a second jolt of pain. As I sat there seeing stars, I cried out loud:

"I've done it now! I've busted the stitches wide open! I've got to go back to the hospital!"

My wife walked over to my side of the car with our sleeping daughter in hand and leaned into the open door. Strangely enough, she had more perspective in these matters than I did. She had spent the past few weeks listening to me trying not to complain about my condition.

"Want me to call your brother out here to give you a hand?" she patiently asked.

The thought of my brother and who knows how many curious onlookers coming to the car, helped to calm me a bit. I realized that I was sore but the pain was going away. I guess my post-hernial incision had reacted to the sneeze, the same as if I had tried to do a sit-up.  It was too soon for that type of pressure. Apparently, the muscles down there wanted to work together but they weren't finished healing yet.

It's been many years since that day and I've learned my lesson in terms of not straining myself. I love to exercise and I've know how to pace myself. Even Superman has his limits.

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The Hernia (part two)

October 1984 - Surviving Embarrassment

I arrived at the doctor's office in pain but with an ever-increasing hope that soon I'd be on the course to feeling better. Little did I know, I'd have to first face some primal embarrassments.

The nurse soon led me to Doctor Urologist's examination room and this is when I saw it. I truly believed that only the female gender used those spread-em-wide stirrups that were connected to the foot of the table. As I changed into a hospital gown, I slowly realized this not to be so. Dr. U instructed me to lie down and put my legs up in the holsters. I understood that this is necessary so that a thorough examination could be performed but I was also pretty sure it was also to convenience the doctor. As he worked, the Doc let me know that there were many different types of hernias and that they could also occur in newborns or the elderly, be they male or female. I zoned out on the details of other kinds of hernia. I just wanted to know what was next in store for me and not a baby (I wonder if the mention of baby hernia was some kind of snide joke on his part, ? Naa. Couldn't be).

After the doctor was finished (thank God), I finally sat in his other office. Dr. U confirmed that I had an inguinal hernia and that a simple surgery would be necessary in order to repair it. Then, with a smile, he said that the bowel that was pushing through the membrane was reducible (or could be pushed back in place). In any case, with surgery it would be required. But if the hernia had been irreducible and can't be pushed back in place, then say a prayer. This could have turned into a medical emergency since the blood supply would have been choked off to that area. The development of dead (gangrenous) bowel is possible in as little as six hours. In other words, there was the possibility that had I waited a much longer time, before getting it taken care of, it might have killed me. That would have made for a bad day, so I agreed to the procedure.

About two days later, I'm sitting in a hospital bed, waiting to see what happens next. I was told by a nurse that I would have to be shaved down there as a precaution against infection. That didn't bother me much until the male nurse entered the room with the foam and blade. Isn't there some kind of rule that a FEMALE nurse is supposed to be handling the equipment? I guess not. At least the guy was professional and after a few uncomfortable minutes, I was now as bald as the day I was born.

After being given some pre-op medication, I was placed on a gurney. Someone wheeled me out of my room and the lights overhead crawled along the ceiling. I was joking with the pretty nurse, hoping that I was making some kind of sense. I was told by Doc U that I would be given gas and to please count backwards from one-hundred. I think I got to ninety-eight. I soon wished that that was all I could remember. As the merry-go-round was spinning,with me on it, I felt what I could only describe as a dull tugging in the surgical area. I moaned a bit, hoping that the volunteer worker that administered the anesthesia understood that I was trying to say "Hey numb-nut, I'm awake. I can feel that!" It seemed that they understood because a needle was soon placed in my IV and suddenly my trip to the circus became happy again.

When I finally woke, I found myself bandaged up. I was curious about the incision but I was pretty sore so I decided not to move much. My hope was that after the surgery, I would be a much happier camper but I did not understand that a brand new pain was on the way.

To be continued.....

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The Hernia (part one)

October 1984 - The Price of Ego

Back at the turn of the century (the early 1980's), this young man was at the pinnacle of his physical condition. During that time, I had a job moving furniture. I looked like an ant moving five times my weight but I had a secret. I learned how to maneuver objects around (with a little help from my partner, of course) and I soon understood that even with the heaviest pieces, there was always a way to get it into the building without hurting myself

About a year later, I was asked by my supervisor if I could make certain that a container of laundry detergent was taken up to to the second floor. After all of my previous training, my ego quickly said yes and I rolled the cylindrical container to the edge of the stairway. Without assistance, the best way to get this thing upstairs would have been to flip it over from one end to the other. Not wanting to damage the cardboard container, I opted to pick the thing up and carry it up the fourteen steps. To this day, I can remember the stress and strain to my entire body, as I made the quest towards the far away landing at the top. Of all of the herculean stunts I had performed, none stands out more than the stupidity of that day. I mean, what was the problem? The container only weighed 100 lbs. It might have been the accumulation of all the past exertions but I truly feel that this was the antic that pushed me towards the dreaded consequence called the HERNIA.

By the middle of 1984, I began to feel a slight bump between the lower left side of my abdomen and my upper thigh. It would come and go and I tried to not give it much thought. Isn't it grand how the male ego works when you feel that you are indestructible? What could possibly go wrong?

What was going wrong was that the swelling became more regular and it seemed to occur mostly when I was standing. The blood would rush to that area and not recede unless I lied down or used my finger to push the little lump back into it's little home. Odd as it sounds, I became a master at doing this particular maneuver through my pants pocket. This seemed to be working fine until that dreaded day in October.

I had gotten a job as a manager of a group home and I was determined to make a good impression. I'd just gotten off the D train at 59th Street and was now standing on the subway platform to take the #7 train to Queens.  My left hand was in my pocket, pressing the little bump but it didn't seem to make a difference. There was no denying it. I was in a lot of pain. The train pulled into the station and I said a prayer. My prayers were answered and I was able to get a seat. I thought this would relieve some of the stress but as I sat there with my hand in pocket, I began to sweat. The pain was determined to follow me to my job. I now had no choice. I got off at the next stop and began the trek to take the two trains necessary to get me back home.

This was in the days before cell phones, so when my wife heard me come through the door and then I lied in a supine position on the bed, she was more than a little curious about what I was doing home. For the first time in a few hours, with my knees up, I finally felt some relief. Mr. Macho had no choice but to spill his guts about what I had been going through for the last few months. She called our family doctor and then she then got the number of a specialist.

The doc said what I described sounded like an  inguinal hernia. It was probably caused by strain on the groin. It seems that fat or a piece of small intestine pushes downward through a weakened space into the groin area. They are often painful and could become strangulated (this is when blood flow to the affected area is compromised). That could be life threatening, so whether I liked it or not, surgery was in order. So much for macho.

To be continued..........

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The Man with Two Eyes (part four)

Scream if you like, but that will only make it worse.

September, 2003, my sister-in-law, Lenore, was sitting with me in the waiting room of the eye doctor's office. I was told that it would be safer to have someone accompany me home after the procedure was completed. I soon found out why but I'll talk about that a little later. I had finally made the decision to get the Lasik laser treatment done. Hopefully, I would never again need lens of any kind in order to see the world. Mixed feelings of fear and anticipation moved me forward as the doctor's assistant called my name.

After I sat in the special reclining chair, the assistant attached the cold, metal contraption to my eyes. Okay, so I'm exaggerating about the cold part but my mind was beginning to make up things while I was waiting for the laser beams to start flying. This device (trying not to say a clamp) was holding my eyelids wide open  for safety purposes and this all seemed to make sense.

Even the slicing of front area of the eye (let's call it a flap) was not bad. I guess the best comparison is like peeling the skin back from a grape.This had to be done in order to gain access to the cornea. Now the world from this eye was a blur as I waited for Flash Gordon to begin. Joking aside, all of my questions about the procedure had previously been answered and most of what went on was a little frightening but calming at the same time.
 

There is was one minor detail which I found unnerving though. The patient (that would be me) had to be awake and alert throughout the operation. I had a slight problem with what the doctor next told me. She said that I should stare at the fixed point of light that was behind her while the laser was doing its work. If I were to look over to the right or left, I would do damage to my eye. Of course, I don't mean that my eyeball would get sliced in half but the level of eye correction might not be as accurate. As I lay as still as possible, there was the ominous click, click, clicking sound of the laser as the cornea of my left eye was being reshaped. The doctor moved the thin flap back in place and then the same procedure was done for my right eye. Amazingly enough, the flaps heals back on the the eye by themselves, sans stitches.

I was told that I could get up from the chair and the assistant then walked me to the nearby waiting room for a few moments. I was shocked to be able to see my sister-in-law but when I glanced out the picture window and clearly saw the lettering of the bill board across the street and the people passing by, tears were welling up in my eyes. I could see again! Lenore, whose vision was as bad as mine was, said she was happy for me and I knew she understood. Forty years of finding ways to adjust my sight and now at age fifty, I was able to view the world normally again, with my own eyes.

The assistant took me back to the sitting room where I had to have clear, concave cups taped to each eye. This was to prevent me from touching and damaging my surgery. On top of this went large, plastic shades for a more natural look. I looked as natural as a bug-eyed monster but it was better to wear the dark shades than to just walk around with the suction cups over my eyes.

I was discharged to Lenore's care and we found our way to the Metro North train station. Actually, I could see through the bubble lens and dark shades but it was safer to be with someone. As we brushed pass the curious masses, I looked like a blind person but I felt far from it. She deposited me home and I took the apparatus off my eyes. There was little discomfort and everything was crystal clear.While I slept, I wore the bubbles taped to my eyes for about two nights . Had to make certain that I didn't accidentally rub my eyes while they healed.

I know that there are others who have had problems with their surgery but it's been eight years since my mine and I've had no regrets. I'm glad that I live in an age where I can get my eyes back and the world looks beautiful. That's my story with a happy ending.

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The Man With Two Eyes (part three)

I can see clearly now but not forever

Previously, I spoke about the crush to this author's self-esteem to have to wear glasses and then how it hurt more than my ego to wear "hard " contact lenses. I'm not going to bore you with the exaltation of discovering soft, extended wear contact lenses but I will mention that I wore them daily, for about two decades and life was problem free. I would keep them on, day and night and then after a month, I discarded them and then put in a new pair. This arrangement was great as long as I didn't do anything stupid like go swimming without goggles. Of course, like everything else in life, the good times have to finally come to an end.

Let me first let you youngsters in a little secret. No matter how good your 20/20 vision is, by the time you are about 45 years old, the old headlights begin to weaken. This means that almost everyone will have to wear at least low power reading glasses when they get older. I mentioned this sad truth because it also occurs to those (like myself) who never had to wear glasses in order to read a book.

In terms of options, first I was faced with wearing bifocal glasses. You know, the ones invented by Benjamin Franklin around 1750. With these glasses, you can read through the bottom of the lens and also see at a distance through the upper portion. The old fashion ones just looked plain weird but that's hardly the case with the newer"seamless" ones. It's a lot harder to tell that the newer ones have two sets of glass melded together.

My biggest gripe with buying eyeglasses in general is that the more features you add (bifocal, scratch resistant, tinting, etc.), the more you have to pay. You could plan to spend about $100.00 but after all the lens  features and the designer frames have been added up, you're forking over more than $500.00 and I'm not exaggerating.

And did you know that the "bifocal correction" also comes in contact lenses? I did try these things for about one day. They have to give you a free test pair in order to see if you can bear keeping them in your head. I felt so dizzy and disoriented that the next day, I had no choice but to return to the doctor.  I opted to just fill a prescription for my regular distance contacts. Unfortunately, after speaking to the dear doc again, another crazy truth was apparent. I could wear my contacts but to read clearly, I would have to put on reading glasses. I fought wearing glasses for decades and now I'd have to put glasses on top of contact lenses! This seemed like some sort of cruel joke.

And why not throw another negative in for good measure. As one gets older, one's eyes tend to get a bit drier. I've had more than one occasion when I was driving, that my contact actually popped out and sat on my cheek. I had no choice but to pull over and find a way to cleanly place it back in. It had become sadly apparent that my eyes were rejecting this foreign body that they had clung to for decades. What would this eventually mean for the future of my vision? Was I forced to return to glasses? I had gotten so used to the freedom (not to mention the vanity) of contact lenses, so this did not seem fair. But there was another alternative, though it was scary at first. The answer came in the form of eye surgery.

To be continued.......

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