Falling Down

I guess you could say that I am a guy who fell down the hole.  16 years ago in the summer of 06, we were just discovering the depths of my 6-month-old Noah’s chronic asthma. Those days were like learning that there was a threat and then later you learned the threat belonged to you. During those early late-night ER runs to DHMC, I noticed that there was something wrong with me. I had pain, I was limping and some of it seemed to be lower back related. I blew it off because I figured this was something residual from when I had back surgery back in 2000. Noah had something serious to deal with. This needed all of our attention.  I wanted denial to make it go away but it was becoming clear that it was not going to happen that way. 

The summer progressed and things began to get even weirder. There was an ill-fated trip to camp in Maine (without reservations) that did not work out.  We ended up driving all the way back home through the night.  I recall having to stop for 20 minutes at one point and noticing this strange almost tendril-like resonation wrapping like fingers around my skull that started at the back of my neck. so many of these oddities I kept dismissing since raising a seven-month-old and a three-year-old was distracting enough. I started to notice that my fingertips to halfway up my arms I had this tremendous pain as if I had my arms submerged and 200° water. It grew and became center stage. I began to wonder if carpal tunnel was like this and if it was, then I have not understood how severe it was or taking things seriously enough! As the weeks went by, all of my joints began to burn and swell. I started to suspect that I had Lyme disease. I made a VA hospital appointment. They referred me to rheumatology, six weeks out. They took blood and sent me away to fend for myself for the next six weeks. 

As we crossed into the fall of 2006, I could not exist in a day unless I ate ibuprofen like it was candy. My range of motion quickly closed in on me and before I knew it, I could not move. I REALLY could not move! It took tremendous effort to get out of bed. I had to take a steaming hot bath to start my day. I could not dress myself anymore. My joints would dislocate with minimum impact. I was just about to turn 41, and my life was over. We had a baby and now, I was going to be this huge burden.

 I worked on a dirt road in Weathersfield Vermont. On a crisp clear fall day, you could look east from that road and across the river at Claremont New Hampshire. I could actually make myself walk 3 miles during lunchtime. At first, I could not walk at all, but each day I would force myself to walk as normally as I possibly could. After a while, my stride and range of motion would open up and for that hour in the brilliant autumn sun, I was normal again. The fall colors and the smells surrounded me. Sadly, 20 minutes after I sat down at my desk, I was 110 years old again. 

When I look back on this, I think I took some chances, like hiking my little family down to Silver Lake up in Goshen Vermont where my family and I used to camp in the late 60s and early 70s in an old bus. 

Finally, six weeks passed of me dealing with this mess every day. On that day of my appointment in rheumatology, I wanted them to see it for what it really was, without any painkillers, or anti-inflammatories. I brazenly did not take any of these things and even worse I was told to fast after midnight. I spent the day up there, full-on flare from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. It was brutal! We had to wait for results to come in from the lab and then meds. 

It was confirmed that I had rheumatoid arthritis. I was to immediately start steroids and then a cancer drug called methotrexate. RA is when your immune system malfunctions and your white blood cells get overactive and identify your joints as a threat and eat away at them like acid. You were left with degraded joints, bone on bone, crippled and disfigured. Methotrexate suppresses your immune system, makes half your hair fall out, and makes you more susceptible to catching viral infections. 

After doing everything I needed to do at the VA, my body was one giant scream, like the painting. Of course, I did not have any money on me and with my sugar levels in the basement, I needed to find food fast. My careful scientific analysis determined that a #2 value meal at McDonald’s would probably fix this quick, fast, and in a hurry. I also needed ibuprofen and water. My plan was fairly simple. I went to Walmart in West Lebanon, got a bottle of Dasani, and wrote a check for $20 over the amount. This would buy the food I needed and put something into my stomach with the ibuprofen. 

I got out 800 mg of ibuprofen and went to open the bottle of water. My compromised joints just hurt and flexed in unhealthy ways. I was this close to the first step of not wishing I would die right here and right now. I could not even open a simple bottle of water!

 I found a young cashier. I felt very odd asking for help. At face value, I looked like I was capable and still looked like I was in my 30s. I held the bottle out to her, “I know this seems like a strange request, but could you please open this?" She opened it right up and I was so grateful. I then went on to McDonald’s and by the time I got home, I was pretty close to my usual in-pain self. I started the steroids at night and within a couple of days, it was like the thing never happened to me. 

In the weeks, months, and years that followed, I learned how to manage this alien thing that had control of me. I played with medication times and days. There are so many people who cannot handle methotrexate. My new limitations were something that I had to come to terms with. In my first year, I could not imagine making it another 20 years. There were not a lot of long-term studies about RA so it all seemed pretty hopeless. I really thought that I was doomed and this was not going to end well.  The meds scared me and I had to really force myself to start them in the first place. I observed other people who had what I had and tried other methods of dealing with it and even some who chose surgical options. It was really not a good thing. 

I decided a couple of years into this thing that the only way that I was going to live with this was to handle it the same way I handled all serious challenges. Anger and rage beat my greatest demons. I knew this was how I would survive. I would not lie down and just let it take me. 

In my life, I have gleaned some of the best methods from the most abstract of sources. For me, it was the words of the outlaw Josey Wales that made such a difference in my life.“When things look bad and it looks like you’re not going to make it, then you got to get mad, I mean plum mad dog mean, because if you lose your head and you give up then you neither live nor win. That’s just the way it is."

 With those words, I made it out of my 20s alive, I quit smoking for good and they are what allow me to do anything even when I feel that I cannot. When the pain is too much for me, my rage pushes me hard to move on through it, like a car driving through a showroom window. It may not be the most eloquent solution, but it has allowed the 16 years with RA to be possible and on my terms. Most importantly, it has allowed me to not be a burden on my family and for my sons to have a father.  I cannot put a value on that and I would not change it for anything.

Much more to an old comfort

 Day four of Covid. I have watched half seasons of TV shows just simply to make them go away. But the real comfort is found in what I always do when I am sick. I watch old episodes of M*A*S*H.   Watching each episode is like finding pieces of myself that I have not seen in 40 or 50 years. Like a large glass vase that shattered into hundreds of pieces. These pieces of me lay on a desolate floor that is untouched by the passage of time. The theme music, sounds, and visuals were such a peg in the contemporary consciousness of who we were in the 1970s and 1980s. I have an associative memory.  My memories of every moment of my life are stored secretly in the things I was seeing and the sounds that I was hearing.  This causes so many things to start coming back to me. The shards of my young self are in these pieces of glass, the sounds, the images, and my associative memory take me back in time to my grandmother's house.  I can hear her talking with my sisters in the kitchen.  I can smell the food she is cooking.  I see my dad‘s and my mom‘s young faces. I feel closer to my 15-year-old self than I have in years.  I know deep down that I am given a second chance at a memory that I have not had of Dad or Grandma in decades. Of all the gifts one can receive, this is priceless. I don’t really know what I am going to find but I know that I look forward to it.

 An interesting observation regarding M*A*S*H back in 2020. I recall a Facebook post about the show. So many people chimed in with very heartfelt sentimental memories. One person replied, “I have never watched it and I never will. I do not think war is funny!“ Of course, I bristled at this statement. He was putting M*A*S*H down for glorifying war or making fun of the suffering. Of course, M*A*S*H was the exact opposite of that, and it made its anti-war statement with such craft. So I responded that had he ever watched M*A*S*H he would know that it was actually the all-time anti-war show. They used its incredible popularity to show the absolute senselessness of war. How politicians and generals mastered sending young people away to die in war and that outcomes were measured in mathematical equations. It showed the innocence of those involved, a stark human view, stripped free of all the facade.  In a television show that lasted 3 times longer than the war it depicted, the creators of this masterpiece had the opportunity to take war apart with molecular honesty. The angle at which its story was told was beautiful as well. The story shifted to interesting perspectives in so many creative ways, but over all, it was told by a bunch of people who never asked for any of this and had placed before them a conveyor belt of young boys on the edge of death. What came next was the incredible sacrifice of everything that made up these doctors and nurses in an effort to not lose another one. I can recall instantly two episodes in which the war was infiltrating their dreams. I have no doubt this would happen to me if I were in the shoes of those doctors. I once got to see one of these units in Saudi Arabia. They are actually called CASH units (Combat Army Surgical Hospital). I delivered a truckload of supplies from Log Base Alpha. 

I’m glad I responded to the Facebook commenter this way because I received a reply from him that said “I did not realize this. I will have to give it a try sometime.

M*A*S*H gave us so much and I have a feeling that as far as my own personal memories are concerned, it has yet to give more.  But today, I want to just say thank you for the sick day comfort it provides.  M*A*S*H is like a warm familiar blanket.

Please Don't Pass the Potatoes

 Every now and then, I feel like I might be losing my identity.  It started innocently enough today while I was in my 8th hour of splitting wood this weekend. I was listening to the Splendid Table podcast episode 758: Summer Parties with Nicole A. Taylor.  She is the author of the new cookbook, Watermelon and Red Birds, and also The Up South Cookbook: Chasing Dixie in a Brooklyn Kitchen.

Her segment was on the foods of Juneteenth and took a turn into southern potato salad. Her enthusiasm for this beloved side dish came through with a fireworks-ish delivery. She points out that the supreme potato salad-making artist is a "special person" who can read flavors off the back of their hand. "And it always tends to be that very special person that's super funny, or super stylish, they have a personality because potato salad is its  own conversation and it tends to match that person." She sold me on the idea that if I go somewhere and I hear people asking, "Who made the potato salad?" Then I will know that I am in the presence of that "special person".

Ms Taylor, after hearing you describe how you create your potato salad, I believe I would have a difficult time not trying it.  This is where the conflict begins.  Potatoes and I, well to put it lightly, things have not been good.   My parents tried SO hard to get me to eat potatoes.  My father, unstoppable when determined could not win in the battle to get me to eat this starch at any age.  I was raised in the age before microwaves.  In the early 70's you were not American unless you served potatoes at seemingly every meal. I was not allowed to get up from the table, until the potatoes were gone, which meant, I never left the table, until bedtime.  This was before microwaves, so in the morning, the cold plate of potatoes was placed before me for reconsideration.  I did not yield.

My father told the story of the period of time in which I seemed to be eating the potatoes.  At least that is what he thought until the kitchen developed an odor. We had those old chrome-leg, vinyl-covered kitchen chairs that were popular in the 1950s.  Ours had cracks in the vinyl, which to a young person like me, offered a rare opportunity.  In retrospect, my father was pretty proud of me for my creativity.  At the time, I am sure there was probably some good old-fashioned spanking.

Flash forward to 1979, we were living on Earl Street in Bristol CT and my wonderful mom had been making a homemade beef stew from scratch.  A jar fell off the back of the stove and broke into the stew pot.  Because of the broken glass, we threw away the stew and drove down to the McDonalds in Bristol center and ate in the Dodge.  At the time, I felt it was the best thing ever since the stew contained potatoes.  The ungrateful fourteen-year-old self that I was, rejoiced. If you are reading this Mom, I am sorry.  I know you worked hard to make that stew.  It was a Thursday night and you worked all day.  I appreciate both, the home-cooked meal and the fast food.

People still just cannot understand how significant this is for me.  Even social media cannot comprehend my unique, by which I mean "correct" perspective.  How many times on Facebook do I see one of those inane scorecards that list like 50 foods and you have to count 1 point for every food you hate, except, there are NO POTATOES listed on this scorecard!  It is starting to feel political now! Because of this, I tend to score zero on these.

In a coffee pals survey at work, we were asked the question, "If you could only eat one meal every day for the rest of your life, what would it be?" My manager answered "Shepherds Pie".  It struck me as funny because his favorite basically is my definition of hell.

After years of marriage, my own wife called me weird last night and gave me that speech that I have heard a thousand times about "I have never met anyone before you who does not like potatoes." The years of resistance still do not sink in.  Is this that difficult to comprehend?  I have been pretty straightforward about this, well except for that strange Cravin incident in 2010.

In June of 2010, my son Noah returned to the ICU for 10 days, 18 months after his big stay there at the hospital for asthma-related treatment. I went down to Cravin's store in the hospital food court area to get lunch for Donna and I.  Donna stopped after the first bite of her mashed potatoes with a look of surprise.  "Wow!  These potatoes are great!" "Like that can happen" I murmured under my breath.  "No, seriously!  You need to try these!"  Something about her drive on this subject made me think, "I probably won't die!"

The next thing I knew, I assimilated the taste and texture (both of which I was born to hate), and then I took another.  "I actually don't hate this!"  2 more spoonfuls.  "I might actually like these." Suddenly, Rod Serling was standing there facing the camera talking about a man who had just taken a hard right turn, into the Twilight Zone. "I feel like everything I ever knew was wrong!" Donna definitely enjoying my joining the potato drones of the world.

Later when I inquired about the potatoes at the store I found out they came from one of those Sysco food service squeeze bags.  I felt so violated until I talked with another guy at the store later on who assured me some serious "doctoring-up" was happening to make them taste like they did.  

I don't know who that guy was from temporary insanity land that day, but I can tell you now, he scared me.  If you can't trust yourself.

I know the struggle to help people understand that I must come from a parallel universe in which potatoes either do not exist or they are an invasive species.  Even tonight, Donna asked me if I wanted a potato pancake that she engineered from leftover mashed potatoes.  I declined of course.

I can honestly say that I cannot remember ever tasting potato salad. I am sure that I was forced to perhaps in a dental-style chair with belts restraining me, or was that a dream.  Anyway, Nicole A. Taylor your description of potato salad, the people who make it, the art that it is, and most profoundly, your potato salad, I promise to try your recipe if I ever have the pleasure of meeting you.  I may be from a potato-hating parallel universe, but what could possibly stand against the heart and soul of what you described when talking about potato salad.

Until then, please don't pass the potatoes.

Just Another Brick in the Flavor Wall

 Dropping Noah off at school on a beautiful June morning, I've returned to face the ten dump truckloads of dirt that I volunteered to take. I need them, but I need them to take the forms that I need them to. That is okay. It is my famous "Give a Mouse a Cookie From Hell" scenario. This needs to happen, but you can't spread dirt till you stack firewood in the shed, you can't do that until the rest of the splitting happens, you can't do that unless... And So It Goes. I suspect that deviously, my garage is probably involved, I just know it is! 

Work time begins soon. I could sit and watch the news, but I don't want all that negativity in my life on such a beautiful morning. Lately, for me, it is been about understanding that I can finish things.  I have learned that having too many unfinished projects damages me into thinking that I am succeeding at nothing. It is a house of cards. 

So what about the kitchen? I am years beyond just going to stores and buying ingredients that become fantastic meals later on. In fact, with many composite ingredients, I have learned to create many myself. Chili crisp and chili oil for instance. Yes, I can buy this off the shelf and just crack open a new jar. It's convenient, delicious, fast, and comes with a price. What about Mirin? Same deal. I do not use Mirin too much, but when I buy it, it seems like I am always on the last ounce of it in the bottle. Money again. So what do you do when you have 15 minutes to burn in which you can do something to remind yourself that you are capable of completing SOMETHING?  Just a little sense of accomplishment that uses that time block wisely investing time and resources. 

The brown sugar is low. Downstairs to retrieve a 4 lb bag of sugar I go. By the way, when did they change these bags from 5 lbs down to 4 anyway? Deception lives everywhere, especially in Commerce. Food processor, molasses, and half of the 4 lb bag whirl their way into brown sugar. Then it is time to go to work for the day.

 

You may wonder why I put myself through all of this. To start with, a penny saved is truly a penny earned, right? My $20 tire changer and $59 balancer have saved me about $1,000, with more savings to come. This is real money.

Brown sugar though? I buy staples and turn them into things that modern society is brainwashed into thinking that they have to buy at a store, inadvertently I'm elevating the experience. You eat at my house and there are all these differences in small places such as chili oil and mirin, brown sugar, fried shallots, pickled onions, homemade teriyaki sauce, homemade rubs, vinegar, and sauces that are otherwise packaged and bottled, you crossed the line from black and white to Technicolor to your senses. The end result cannot be duplicated just by telling someone to marinade or brine before composing!  It's more granular.  In this way, the flavors make a grand entrance. This is a far cry from going to Dunkin Donuts and getting a breakfast sandwich that tastes more like cardboard and it does actual food that its appearance suggests. 

When you give it a chance and make use of things you have, you just might find that you have crossed over into the flavor zone that you did not know existed.  The food blasts colorful flavors at you like that autumn day that you know as you take photographs of it, that the end result will never truly capture what you are seeing right now.

I highly recommend this.  No one has the time to make everything, but pick something you love, research it, and give it a try.  I just know you will find joy in doing so.