Sunday, August 28, 2016

Aging and the 'three Rs'...

“My life is but a vapor, here for a moment. Then it vanisheth
away, and like the flower of the grass, it shall fade away.”
– Billy Hooten music and words: adapted from
James 4:14, Bible

My friend Bill and I have been meeting weekly for a number of years. We have missed connecting from time to time, but for the most part, we keep in contact.

We began getting together when I lived in San Diego. In that day, it was Panera’s Bread for early morning coffee and hot chocolate. After moving to Arizona, the Panera's meetings ended. We decided the way to keep this going was over the Internet, so we began Skyping, Saturday mornings at 6:15.

The great thing about early morning video calls is that you don't even have to get dressed. Tee shirts and coffee cups are pretty much all that are needed. We hold our chats to an hour, mostly because Bill is a serious bike rider and needs to get on the road.

The conversations are never scripted. There are no agendas. We show up, nod to the muses of the universe and let ‘er rip. Once in a while we talk about professional things, but for the most part, our conversations are free-flowing, as ideas bounce randomly around the gray matter between our ears.

Our interaction is a little like writing these weekly pieces. They generally begin with an idea, but as the words appear on the page, they start to take a life of their own, going in directions you wouldn't imagine. When this happens, it is almost impossible to get back to the originating thought. Fighting the direction and flow feels like walking against the current of knee-deep water in a swiftly flowing stream. It’s better just to let it go where it wants to.

This is what happened with Bill and I a couple of weeks ago. Actually, it became a little more focused then. The threads of this conversation had been going on for quite some time.

The two of us are relatively similar in age age. He is older, but he looks younger (to me) and is much more nimble of mind. I hardly ever leave a conversation with him, where he hasn’t left me thinking for several days about something we discussed.

This chat revolved around three things that fellows our age think about with increasing frequency: Reality of life changes, Retirement from the work to which we have dedicated substantial life force, and whether the preceding two thoughts provided a life of relevance. More importantly, will our lives after the reality of retirement be relevant?

Reality…
It’s clear that all sorts of things change from the effects of time and gravity. The lost robustness of bygone years becomes abundantly clear. Perceptual senses diminish. Reductions in hearing, sight, touch, smell and taste, become noticeable. Strength, balance, endurance and flexibility slip away like the slowly incremental movement of the hour hand on a clock. Our ability to focus for extended periods of time becomes more difficult and requires more effort and work.

We can, of course, slow the course of Father Time, through diet, exercise, proper sleep, and management of life stressors, but decelerating does not mean stopping. Active life management just contributes to a more quality, yet terminal experience.

Retirement…
Bill is still at it full-time. He is one of the more dedicated professionals I know. After seeing patients all day, he takes home arms full of charts to complete in the never-ending cycle of work.

I, on the other hand, am in semi-retirement. I no longer have day-to-day clinical responsibilities. This allows me to consult when I want and speak professionally with a little more freedom. If, however, retirement means resting with feet up, and a cold drink in hand, I am far from retiring.

One of the reasons we keep working is that we are uncertain what we would do if we actually retired. Maybe it is the specter of the word ‘retirement’ that we resist. In our generation, it carried the idea of stopping work and with no life focus, drifting off into the sunset. Neither of us wants to go quietly into the night.

Relevance…
This brings us to the word, few guys our age talk about with each other, but weighs heavily on our minds. Have our lives been relevant and what about the time ahead?

Men are generally defined by the work they do.  It’s not particularly ‘what’ our job is, but rather that we are employed in the citizenry of the social body. There is comfort, safety really, in being able to say, “I am a <fill in the blank>.”

Like the identification we carry in our wallets, ‘work’ is an unconscious safety net. If you have ever lost your wallet, you will appreciate how ‘naked’ you feel when there is nothing that identifies you other than your word. Without identification, you can do very little. For example, try getting on a plane, opening a bank account, writing a check, or driving a car.

This is the feeling many men fear. Our jobs, family, projects, professional activities have been a metaphor for life’s ID card. What now that the card has expired? Once untethered, what will our lives be?

Is there a point?
One of the things about friendship is the therapeutic nature of talking. In particular, talking about things that trouble or concern us. It is in communion, we realize others have similar feelings, doubts, and fears…that we can comfort and strengthen one another.

There is nothing we can do to stop time and gravity. Talking about these issues, however, has a way of putting them into perspective. It brings front and center the notion that while the parts we have might be different, the 'play' ends the same way for all of us – resistance futile. Open communication is a calming tonic. After all, it is all about attitude. Embracing what is ahead, rather than fighting it is the key. Like the birth we had and the air we breathe, it is just the cycle of life. And that is relevant!

- ted

Sunday, August 14, 2016

The mentor I missed...

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled,
but a fire to be kindled.”
– Plutarch

If I had his mind to explore, I would have unlimited questions. That is the burden of the son who matures too late to plumb the depths of a father’s mind.

I’ve been thinking about my dad lately. He doesn’t come to mind frequently, but when he does, his energy and drive come in full force with the thoughts. It is sometimes surprising that his image appears with crystalline clarity. While he died in his early 70s, succumbing to the rigors Parkinson’s Disease, and in the end, pneumonia – the ‘old man’s friend’ – I generally see him as a robust man in his 50s.

His early years in Toronto, Canada, were challenging, but he was a tough, resilient kid who believed in two life-advancing principles.

The first was education. No one in his family had gone to university. To him, learning was the great equalizer and pathway of escape from the life into which he had been born. He attended and graduated from McMaster University. 

The second was embodied in the words of Winston Churchill he often quoted:

“Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never ­ in nothing great or small, large or petty – never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense.”
– The Best of Winston Churchill’s Speeches

These words were a foundation that guided his life. Other than the Biblical Scriptures upon which his ministry was based, and the seductress of his life, Churchill’s words provided a guiding light for everything that he did. To my father, it was pretty simple. If you start it, finish it. If you do it, do the best you can.

My early life, as a preacher’s kid, was, I suspect like a lot of other youngsters brought up under congregational scrutiny. Sunday school was a must, and attendance in services, mandatory. In those years, my place, along with my sisters, was in a pew next to my mother as the elements of a Sunday morning’s church service unfolded.

While I didn’t understand much of what my dad preached, nor for that matter reasons for coming to church in the first place, I had to admit he was dynamic in the pulpit. He prepared compulsively, tucking thoughts away throughout the week between hospital visits, deaths, births, weddings, potluck dinners, mid-week prayer services and church business meetings.

Saturday evenings, he would disappear into his study, pulling together thoughts for Sunday morning’s sermon. How he ever read the notes he made was a mystery, considering his hand writing made hen scratches look coherently understandable.

From his hieroglyphics, came his final draft on a manual typewriter, single-spaced. A child of the depression, he learned the importance of conservation, so there were no margins. Type began and ended at the edges of the sheet of paper.  There were nights, when not satisfied, he worked straight through until it was time to shave and get ready for church.

Everything he did was with focus and determination. I saw his example, but truth be told, had little idea of what he thought about or the way he processed things.

His work ethic was mind-numbing, but I was so busy with my own life, I did not…could not understand the passion that drove him. I was a bystander, a passenger, in the day-to-day vehicle of family life, oblivious and without an appreciation for the giant with whom I shared a home.

Several years after his death, my mother made the decision to sell her house in Ohio and come to Missouri to live with my sister Nancy.  The girls and I headed home to help Mom get the house ready.

As it turned out, my father had kept quite a few of his sermons in boxes in the basement.  I pulled some of them out to read, and was amazed. There they were, in all of their single-spaced glory, with notes scribbled between the lines as he rethought or added an idea.

It was, many years after his death that I met my father for the first time.  His writing was clear and in the fashion with which he spoke. I could hear his voice in my head as I read his words. In some ways gratifying, and in ways it was disappointing.

Reading his work, was like reading short essays on religious, social, and spiritual topics. That was the upside – getting to know my father better. The downside was not being able to have a dialogue with him to understand better the things that led to the shaping of his thoughts.

I am sure you have heard the question, “If you could pick anyone in history to have dinner with, who would it be?” Over the years, I have thought about who that person or those people might be. There is, however, someone I would prefer above all others…my father.

- ted

Sunday, August 7, 2016

Taking the moment...

"Nearly all the best things that came to me in life 
have been unexpected, unplanned by me."
– Carl Sandberg

I thought the poster tube would be at the front desk. It wasn’t.

There is an axiom for presenting at professional meetings. Don’t pack your presentation material. Carry it with you. In the early days, there were stories of luggage – and slides – lost somewhere in transit. In fact, one year at a meeting in the Midwest, I discovered, much to my horror, that I had forgotten my slides altogether. Improvisation is the key. The ‘lemonade’ I made was a virtual description from a podium in front of a blank screen. Surprisingly, it worked.

At most scientific meetings abstracts of potential presentations are sent to a committee for review. If the submission is accepted, it is given a second look to decide whether it will be a podium talk, or given a poster slot.

Our abstract submission was accepted as a poster for the Miami meeting. Since it was large, I made the decision to send it by Federal Express. Feeling a little nervous, I dropped the poster off and hoped I would not need to find another print shop when I got to Miami.

When I arrived, I called the front desk – no poster! After the initial panic, and explaining there were specific instructions on the address label, I was told it was probably at the FedX office in the hotel, and I could get it at 7 AM the next morning.

Seven AM – Next Morning
When I walked in the shop, Jonathan and Servio were talking in the corner behind the cash register.  Both fellows looked Hispanic, but as I learned a little later, Servio’s heritage was Italian, Jonathan, maybe Honduran.  The good news? The poster was there. Servio went to get it.

The better news is that Jonathan and I had a chance to chat for a few minutes.  When Servio returned, the conversation led to life, a little politics and what a great country this is. Both of the young men were immigrants, and I shared with them, I was also an immigrant whose origin of birth was Canada.

There was a little more talk about culture and origins, and then I asked them a question I have found myself asking folks over the years. It usually happens with people, male or female, with whom I feel a connection. I definitely felt a resonance with these fellows.

As soon as you read it, stop and think for a few moments about the answer before you finish reading the piece.

Here comes the question.  

Why do you consider your best friend, your best friend?   Please describe them out loud. That’s right, even if you are by yourself, pause a moment and describe your friend out loud, not necessarily loudly.

If you have done this, you may continue reading.

The above question went to Jonathan and Servio. In his brief description, Servio’s gaze drifted away, his eyes sparkled and his face lit up with a smile. You could almost see him reacting to the immediate presence of this person in his mind.  His friend was curious, made him laugh and had a big heart. Jonathan described his best friend, as humorous, compassionate, loyal and smart. He finished by saying she had brought him into the world. It was a tender moment for the three of us.

What they said was touching, but what they DID NOT SAY is the point of asking.

They told me nothing about the color of their friend's skin, eyes, or hair. They didn’t say anything about height or weight. I did not learn a thing about their friend’s favorite music, or something they did together.

What I got, and what I always get, was a description of the person’s wisdom, humor, or sense of justice. Often I am told how kind or generous or loving or understanding their friend is. Often I’ll hear about how much character they have or how brave they are.

Sometimes I'll probe a little further by asking why they did not tell me about their friend’s physical appearance. Usually, people say it just didn't come to mind.

Take home…
Here’s the thing. What really matters is the way people make us feel, not the way they look. This is what makes for individual friendships and is the basis of a strong social fabric.

It is disappointing, that we often categorize people, NOT by the content of their character as Martin King said, but unimportant things such as appearance, gender, culture, education, race, income levels or social status. All of this is background noise.

In the ocean of humanity, attention to appearance is shallow water. The ‘what’ about any person is so far removed from the ‘who,’ as to challenge one’s sensibility.  

It was good to be reminded, within the confines of that small FedX shop, the human spirit is alive and well.


- ted