Tag Archives: disease

Cemetery

Cemetery: (n) a burial ground; a graveyard

No racial tension.

The same space available for everyone.

No complaints.

No gender bias.

No discussion about sexual preference.

No religious distinction.

No hurry.

No worry.

No flurry to scurry.

No argument.

No political debates.

No special treatment.

No punishment.

No ego.

No money required.

No need to tout your resume.

No disease.

No more death.

Welcome to the cemetery.

Come and spend a spell.

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Bubonic Plague

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Bubonic plague: (n) the most common form of plague in humans, characterized by the formation of buboes

I suppose I could sit here and rattle off information about the bubonic plague based upon what I know, and try toDictionary B illuminate you on the dangers of a sickness that has not infested the Earth for hundreds of years.

Rats.

I mean–rats, I’m not going to do that.

Or you can assume I mean, rats are what caused it.

And since rats did spread the bubonic plague, somebody eventually stopped the human death toll by increasing the death toll of rats.

Wherever there are rats, there is the danger of sickness. And what are the characteristics of rats?

They hang around foul and vile substances, nibbling on them until they, themselves, become filled with the venom of disease. So when they interact with others, they spread their infection, even though for some reason it does not kill them.

Rats are immune to their own “rattiness.”

So even though the bubonic plague still exists–and I’m sure they have samples of it in laboratories where they study its composition and dangers–there are other rats we should watch out for. These are the creatures who claim to be human, but nibble on nastiness and bite people, inflicting them with indifference.

Let me just say–damn it to hell, people are just not generous to one another any more.

The rats have gotten to us.

So even though it’s unlikely that any of us will get bubonic plague, it’s still a good idea to dodge the rats.

You just never know what they’ve been slurping up. 

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Bruise

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Bruise: (n) an injury appearing as an area of discolored skin on the body

He had an unusual name: Page.

He was a boy. So he took a lot of crap for it.

I think his parents thought they were clever–because his whole name was Page Unus McCloy.Dictionary B

In other words, “Page One McCloy.”

I liked him.

He was a simple little fella. He tried really hard to do everything that everybody else did, but he was sickly–that’s what the teacher said–had a difficult time keeping up.

He also had a problem when playing, because the slightest little bump could cause a bruise. So you can imagine, there were times that Page came from home black and blue. The cops would be called and then everyone would realize it was just due to his…you know. Sickly.

So physical games were pretty much impossible because he always ended up looking like he had been beat up in a bar fight.

One day we found some crab apples in his backyard, rotting on the ground. We decided to throw them at each other. Apparently one of them wasn’t quite rotted enough, and it hit him square in the middle of his forehead, knocked him down and left a huge bruise.

His mother was really mad at me, so I wasn’t allowed to play with Page for a couple of weeks.

But when I returned the friendship was as sweet as ever, and we continued to carefully carry on as young boys do–dodging injury.

Christmas vacation arrived, and I told Page that I would call him over the holidays and that I was looking forward to seeing him “next year.”

When January 7th arrived and we returned to school, I couldn’t find Page. A teacher took me to the side and explained that he had passed away over the holidays, from complications due to something called leukemia.

My first thought was that I must have killed him with the crab apple. That idea haunted me for months.

Matter of fact, it wasn’t until we were in biology class two years later that I understood the type of disease that caused Page to bruise.

Whenever I think of bruises, I think of Page.

Then I think about how important it is, if you love someone, to be tender to their condition … and try not to leave any kind of bruise.

 

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Boring

Boring: (adj) not interesting; tedious.

I used to be deathly afraid of being boring.Dictionary B

Because of this phobia, I almost accidentally became friends to my children instead of a good parent, denied my faith rather than creating a backbone for my principles, and attempted ridiculous entertainment projects to prove I was youthful and alive.

I don’t know why “boring” scared me so badly–except in our particular American culture, it is the word that ushers in the “last rites” for misunderstood ideas.

In other words, if something is determined to be boring, it is soon abandoned and left to die in the field of forgetfulness.

But then one day it struck me–every great notion and progressive invention in the history of our race was at one time considered boring.

Can you imagine Thomas Edison explaining to all the people who deeply loved candles and gas light lamps how his incandescent bulb might be able to work better, and ultimately even be cheaper?

Boring.

Or how about Abraham Lincoln, stumping to his Cabinet and Congress, how the addition of the freed slaves to our everyday life would give us a great brotherhood to exemplify the idea of liberty?

Really boring.

Or the guy named Salk, who came along and said that just weeping over children with polio was not enough–that maybe we could come up with some sort of vaccination to protect them from the disease instead of just praying for them and telling stories about their hideous struggles.

No thanks, Jonas.

Boring is not what is truly misplaced or ill-timed. It is the piece of truth that we do not yet understand, which we decide is meaningless because it mystifies our limited reasoning.

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Biopsy

Biopsy: (n) an examination of tissue removed from a living body

Dictionary B

I got sick.

I mean, really sick.

There are so many times that we are convinced that we are ill or have contracted some mysterious disease, or contend that we are presently “under the weather” that we fail to recognize what it means to be in trouble.

The body is a great megaphone of its own condition.

In other words, when you’re ailing, every single part of your anatomy sends a memo, an email, and even tweets, “Danger.”

There’s little doubt.

I found myself in the hospital under the care of a lovely female doctor from China. She was beautiful in all ways. We immediately struck a chord of friendship, even though by cultural standards we had little in common. For some reason, she liked me, and I certainly appreciated and loved her for her soul and gifts.

She scheduled a series of tests. I could tell by her demeanor that she was worried that I had cancer and that we had caught it too late.

I will never forget lying on my hospital bed the night before my colonoscopy, alone in the dim lights with a few machines whirring and tweaking in the background.

It was just me…and me.

I thought about my own death.

I thought about dying soon.

I realized that to a barbarian fighting in Gaul in 32 B. C. that my death was insignificant, whether it happened next week or forty years from now. After all, what’s forty years to a Gaelic barbarian who’s been dead for over 2,000?

Of a certainty I was going to die. The question was, which ailment, disease, condition or speeding bus was going to perform the task?

Gradually, peace settled into my soul. It was a peace accompanied by an unexpected comedic, jovial sense of well-being.

For certainly, unless an angel of God was going to enter my bowels and produce a miracle overnight, what was in me was soon going to be made evident–and all I had left was the class and style that I could muster, to deal with the biopsy.

As it turned out, there was no problem and my young doctor came bouncing into the room with tears in her eyes, speaking half English and half Chinese, which I translated as “all is well.”

Yes, my friend, all is well until all isn’t well.

Between those two stations lies the possibility for some beautiful living.

 

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Bacillus

Bacillus: (n) a disease-causing, rod-shaped bacterium.Dictionary B

Bacillus is certainly one of those words that you don’t want to hear very often in your life. Others would be bankrupt, sexually transmitted disease, and agony.

But I have heard “bacillus” once–and as they say, if you do it well, once is enough.

I was admitted into a hospital because I allowed an infection in my foot to get out of hand, thinking I could control it through home remedies and the power of presumption.

They took a specimen of my infection and discovered that I had two roaring types of bacteria annoying my well-being.

After spending two or three days in the hospital, they took another sample and discovered that I now had three–having added a new bacillus. So coming to the hospital afforded me the opportunity to gain an additional partner to the crime being perpetrated in my toes.

I questioned this, and the doctor explained that even though they try to keep all medical facilities clean and free of disease, it is, after all, a hospital, which is inhabited by unclean people with disease.

So that is my memory of bacillus.

It is something I acquired during my hospital stay… other than a bloated bill.

 

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Antibody

dictionary with letter AAntibody (n): a blood protein produced in response to and counteracting a specific antigen.

I know I encounter futility when I come across someone who tells me that life is complicated.

Actually, life is amazingly simple–as long as you’re willing to accept how it has progressed instead of creating your own “revolution against the evolution.”

This becomes evident to me when I realize that in order to build up resistance to disease, you actually have to encounter the vermin and have your body react with the positive energy to reject the infection, and make sure the varmint doesn’t return again.

Why wouldn’t the parallel be just as true in our emotional, spiritual and mental lives?

Emotionally, if I don’t encounter all sorts of personalities and even struggles, do I not become a hermit–or worse, a bigot?

Spiritually, if I don’t understand how my faith stacks up against other ideas, realizing where there are similarities and also aware of the differences, how will I ever have the endurance to achieve the end and be saved?

And mentally, if the ideas shared by my upbringing are not challenged and questioned, so that I can derive the best of the precepts for future use, will I not become a mere provincial buffoon?

I love antibodies.

It’s physical evidence that we have been through the battle and we have won.

Stop complicating life and realize that it comes down to simply being willing to place yourself in the mix and trust that your ideas, your spirituality, your feelings and even your immune system … are strong enough to survive the competition.  

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Anatomy

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Anatomy: (n) — the branch of science concerned with the bodily structure of humans, animals and other living creatures, especially as revealed by dissection.

“To thine own self be true.”

I think the quote is attributed to Shakespeare.

Pursuing that path of candor, let me tell you that I often do a terrible job keeping up with my own anatomy.

For a season in my life, I went to the doctor regularly, as good Americans should do. It is also the only passage of time when I went to the hospital, took tons of medication and became overly concerned about my mortality.

It is also my understanding that normal people go to the dentist every six months for a good check-up. Fearing your condemnation, I must honestly inform you that I go to the dentist if I have a toothache.

It’s not that I fail to respect the complexity or fragile nature of my human anatomy. I am fully aware that disease, conditions and difficulties can arise without my knowing it from merely peering in the mirror. Cancer can even be growing in my body at this moment without me having placed an order or granting permission.

It’s just that I’ve reached a certain age … where I’ve reached a certain age.

What I mean is that in some ways I have exceeded my expectation for longevity, believing at one time that by now I certainly would have taken the “Great Leap” into the abyss.

But I haven’t.

And I do know that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life discussing medications, consulting with my doctor or going onto web sites to track my symptoms.

What do I want from my anatomy? What do I desire my body to do for me?

1. Respond to my actions.

If I eat a double pepperoni pizza, my body is allowed to have revulsion over the concept. But if I eat well, I certainly anticipate quid pro quo.

2. Help me to exercise sufficiently for a man my age without believing that a shot of testosterone will turn me into a twenty-five-year-old male stud.

3. Be so kind as to warn me before killing me.

Yes, if my body would just send an eviction notice, giving me thirty days to “raise the rent,” I would greatly appreciate that.

4. Help me learn how to do “me” better.

I’m not telling you I will never go to a doctor. But case in point: upon arriving at a car dealership, it is very difficult to leave with your old vehicle without somebody trying to either replace it or update it.

The same is true with medicine. They are good at what they do, so they find things wrong with us.

It’s just that if it isn’t a “sickness unto death,” well … maybe I don’t need to know.

 

 

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Alzheimer’s Disease

dictionary with letter A

Alzheimer’s disease: (n) a progressive mental deterioration that can occur in middle or old age due to generalized degeneration of the brain.

When you read the definition, there’s nothing funny about it.

But candidly, I think everybody feels a little nervous about taking this disease seriously.

It isn’t that we don’t have empathy for those who suffer from it. It’s just that the one-liners, comedic set-up and potential sketches available on the subject of older people becoming forgetful are so ripe with scenarios that it’s difficult to pass them up in favor of more sensitive profiles.

So when are we being callous?

I remember once in a show I joked about the fact that “considering my size, you know I’m not anorexic.” A lady walked up to me afterwards and complained about my choice of humor, saying that her daughter suffered from the condition and that it was not a jocular matter.

I apologized.

The reason I offered this remorse was that I had offended her. I didn’t do anything offensive, but because the subject matter was so personal and close to her, she was offended by my making light of the gravity of the situation.

But honestly, I do not know if we can progress the human race without learning to laugh at ourselves.

Would I think jokes about Alzheimer’s Disease were funny if I had it? Since I probably wouldn’t know–yes. (See? There are people who probably would find even that turnaround crass…)

All of us are going to get old, and that looming condition is both real and frightening at the same time. To approach it without some sort of good cheer is probably the greatest danger.

So I follow a simple philosophy: I try to find humor in everything, serious or not. It is not because I don’t care. It is because the only way to care is to relieve pain, not merely point it out.

We must be careful in a time when we are touting our personal feelings more than understanding our human need–that we don’t lose sight of the escapism of comedy.

I do not condone those who are rude and crude. I am not saying that any kind of disease is pleasant. I’m just saying that as an obese man, plagued with many of the complications associated with it, I have never gained ground by digging in my heels, weeping or looking for reasons to be offended.

The only light I’ve ever seen at the end of any of my tunnels … is humor.


Alley

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Alley: (n) 1. a narrow passageway between or behind buildings. 2. a long, narrow area in which games such as bowling are played.

Alleys give me the heebie-jeebies.

Even during the daytime, when somebody tells me to go back in the alley to unload or pick something up, I find myself suddenly surrounded by trash cans and stray cats–neither of which I like, by the way.

Maybe it’s the feeling of confinement. I am certainly a little claustrophobic. (You can tell when a writer’s claustrophobic because he hates short sentences and opts for run-ons.)

Seriously, alleys are freaky.

  • Is there any television mystery that does not start with cops discovering a dead body in an alley somewhere?
  • Was anything ever invented in an alley?
  • Did we discover the cure for a disease in an alley?

Matter of fact, it’s difficult to even use the word “alley” without adding the adjective, “back.”

I guess the only interesting thing about an alley is that since you can’t go too far frontwards and backwards, you’re always looking up.

I thought when I went bowling the first time, I could overcome my disdain for alleys by enjoying this fascinating game. But the reason they call it a bowling alley is that there is a narrow passage with danger at the end.

Case in point: my first bowling score was 52, which, as you may know, is very poor. And then I discovered that if I threw the ball down with wild abandon, with a crazy hook, somehow or another it would swing around and hit the head pin. This seemed to work for a couple of tosses, until I began to get a universal split, with two pins on each side, impossible to make.

So I peaked at 165, which is still what I say is my average when people ask me. I feel confident in misleading them because I have no intention of actually proving my prowess in front of them. For it’s been years since I’ve gone bowling.

The whole experience is similar to a back alley. You have the nasty process of sticking your feet in rented shoes that others have worn many times before you, having your inadequacy lit up above your head, as your failure in scoring pins is illuminated for all to see, and knowing that at the end of the experience of being in this alley, you will be humiliated and stripped of all your pride.

So I guess it is fair to say that I don’t like alleys.

(Matter of fact, I’m going to close now . I feel a little cramped and creepy.)