Dear Dr. Frankenstein

The moment I saw it, I knew I'd found the perfect gift. MicroMouse, the radio-controlled rodent for the cat who has everything. Not that mine is in quite that enviable a position, largely due to the fact that designers seem to think cats like "cute," and this little guy is bored with it. Toys loaded with catnip are also out because the last thing I need is to be awakened at three in the morning by a drunken feline yowling off-key renditions of My Wild Irish Rose.

Since he can't seem to get enough of the four-legged variety lately, I figured this would be a close second, kind of like a consolation prize at the county fair. Apparently, he thinks so too because not only is he quite happy with it while I'm running the controls, he's started looking for it on his own. Like your typical human, I took it for granted that I could leave it in the cupboard when we weren't playing. I forgot I was dealing with a cat who is smarter than your average bear.

You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. This is the one who practiced picking up pieces of food with his paw (right, not left) until not only could he do it easily, but now scoops up water with it, as well. Anyway, I heard some scuffling last night in the kitchen, followed by the sound of the cupboard door banging. Thinking this was a variant of his "come and feed me" signal and not a STAT page, I didn't rush. A few minutes later, however, instead of staring at his dish, I found him on the floor, pawing at MicroMouse.

The darned cat's observant. You and I knew that already because we've talked about how he tries to work the doorknob. But this is something else. He must have seen me place the mouse in the cupboard earlier in the day, and then searched until he found it. I think it's pretty safe to say he's at Piaget's sensorimotor stage. At this point in human development, rather than an object being "out of sight, out of mind," a child is able to form mental representations of the object, and when it's not immediately present, proceed to look for it.

When he began banging the cupboard door again at midnight, I decided the mouse needed a new home. So, I took both cat and mouse into the bedroom, and made a big show of placing his toy in the dresser drawer. Like that was going to make a difference. As soon as I put him down, he was back at the cupboard as if the witness of his own senses wasn't enough to convince him. Either that, or he thought where there had been one, he might find another. Fortunately, he left off about ten minutes after the lights were out. And of course, he was back at it this morning.

It's obviously time to call in an expert. "Dear Dr. Frankenstein, what should I do? I think I've created a monster."


(Photo by the author -- sorry for the blurring, motion is hard to capture)

The Psychology of Tailgating Part One

I've always marveled at the 
nearsightedness of some drivers on the road. What I mean is, they seem to need to get as close as they can to the rear of my car. I can only assume it's based on the desire to read the fine print on my medical school bumper sticker. Though, of course, there may be "other" reasons for their behavior and the effort to unravel the psychology of tailgating is what inspired the following lyrics. I hope they give you a smile.

"Tailgater"

Verse One:

I was cruisin' down the highway,
a-mindin' my own biz,
when in my rear-view mirror,
I see my nemesis.
His license plate says "tourist,"
some guy from out of town,
he's talkin' on his cell phone,
and about to run me down.

Chorus:

He's a tailgater,
Hell-bent on being best,
his ride's a Beemer rocket,
and he looks just like success.
He's got gold in his gastank
and status to maintain,
but with the pedal to the metal,
he ain't got shit for brains.

Verse Two:

So, I checked on my old speedo,
and I'm right there on the mark,
stayin' out of trouble,
it's like walkin' in the park.
But no matter what the limit,
he's right there on my rump,
sniffin' at my bumper,
like he wants me to speed up.

Chorus

Yep, he’s a tailgater,
Hell-bent on being best,
his ride's a Beemer rocket,
and he looks just like success.
He's got gold in his gastank
and status to maintain,
but with the pedal to the metal,
he ain't got shit for brains.

Verse Three:

Oh, I could race him down the highway,
zoom on up the road,
wave my middle finger

and blow off that little toad.
But it ain't more speed,
he’s got a deep-seated need,
he thinks life is competition
and he always has to win.

Final Chorus:

Yeah, he's a tailgater,
Hell-bent on being best,
his ride's a Beemer rocket,
and he looks just like success.
He's got gold in his gastank,
and an achin' in his heart,
his ambition always fails him,
and it's tearin' him apart.

(Copyright 2025 by the author, all rights reserved; Creative Commons image entitled "Tailgating" by tommaync via Flickr)

The Risks You Take

Image via Wikipedia

The first time I saw Back to the Future, when George McFly opened a box filled with copies of his new book, I wondered what that must be like. Now I know. Yesterday morning I was about to take my dog for his morning you-know-what, when I noticed a package. Too large to fit in the mailbox, it was sitting face up on the open lid like hors d'oeuvres on a serving platter. With butterflies in my stomach, I searched the address label for the tell-tale sign this was the one I'd been waiting for.

Sure enough, it read Rowman & Littlefield, Publishers. I rushed back in the house, my dog no doubt wondering why his walk had been cut short, and with gloved hands, fumbled for the scissors. Someone packed it well because it took a few minutes to break through the layers of tape and cardboard. Once I had laid it open, inside were two copies of a cobalt blue, hard bound book with my name on the cover, along with those of my very good friends.

At first I was reticent to pick one up, fearful of getting fingerprints on it (I'd removed my gloves by this time). Then I couldn't resist touching it, turning it over to read the back cover, and carefully stroking the porous surface of the first few pages. I was surprised that it didn't have a paper dust jacket like novels in a bookstore. Instead, the cover was slick, glossy, and reflected light readily, like those you see on textbooks. Books that teach, guide, instruct, and make you want to keep them for reference long after final exams have come and gone.

While George McFly seemed accustomed to all of this, I'm a novice. I've tried to imagine what my reaction would be and joked with friends about breaking out the champagne. Now that the moment had arrived, I wasn't sure what I felt, so I took the dog out a second time (to his relief), shoveled the remaining snow from the walk, and tried to let it all sink in.

It's sobering, getting a first book in the mail. I thought about Lynn and all we'd gone through in the course of six years -- the long hours of writing, editing, the rejection letters and the waiting. Writing partnerships can be hard on a friendship but it solidified ours. I thought about what it means to have ideas you believe in, and the risks you take putting them on paper. The risks you take if you don't.
In the film, The Rookie (2002), Dennis Quaid portrays real-life Texas high school chemistry teacher Jim Morris, who has dreamed since childhood of being a big league pitcher. To the surprise of everyone, he is recruited by a minor league team because, rather than his pitching slowing down with age, it's gotten faster and he's gotten better. Eventually he finds himself in the majors and you realize it's only too late to achieve a dream when you stop trying. That image came to mind yesterday. We're in the big leagues, now, I said to my absent friend, and there's no turning back.

)

Making a Difference

Image via Wikipedia

"What motivates substance abuse, anyway? How did I get myself in this position?" he asked.

"Well, how much time have you got?" I responded, because it's like that. To begin with, I don't think there's a person alive who sets out to become substance dependent. "Wait a minute," you say, "what about genetics? Doesn't that have something to do with it?" To a certain extent, yes, but it's not like having blond hair -- you're born with it so either deal or get acquainted with Lady Clairol. Instead, it's a case of a genetically-vulnerable individual being more susceptible to addiction when they expose themselves to a given chemical agent.

It's not automatic -- the nurse swabbing your arm with alcohol when you get a flu shot isn't going to turn you into an alcoholic. One current theory suggests that alterations in the enzyme that breaks down alcohol may permit some persons to imbibe greater amounts before experiencing adverse effects. People who seem to have low levels of this enzyme (see post of 5/23/09) are less prone to alcoholism because they experience those effects more easily. Drinking for them, especially to excess, turns out to be not a lot of fun.

Choice is definitely involved, but if a person is raised in a family where alcohol dependence is rampant, for example, their choices are highly influenced by parental/sibling modeling. Where there is chronic stress, psychiatric illness, or the message that drinking is appropriate and expected, it becomes more difficult to "just say no." And in some cases, "no" isn't even part of the vocabulary.

At the same time, I've known people who came from alcoholic families and never touched a drop. They'd experienced so much pain as a result of mom or dad drinking, they determined it would never happen to them and it didn't. They may have attended Al-Anon or Alateen, associated with non-drinking friends, gotten involved in spiritual groups, or a combination thereof. Just like attaining sobriety, avoiding dependence is easier with support.

I've been referring, mostly, to alcohol and, honestly, there are a number of theories out there to help explain who, when, how, and why substance abuse and dependence of all types develop. None of them are universally applicable but they don't have to be in order to be useful. We don't have to know everything to do something meaningful nor do we have to do everything right to make a difference.


(Image of DNA molecule via Wikipedia)

A Place in the Colony

It's often assumed, particularly by patients, that if someone's working in addiction medicine it's because they have a history of chemical abuse or dependence. As a result, I used to get the question, "Are you in recovery?" quite often. And, as a beginning therapist, I wasn't sure how to go about answering it. For one thing, I didn't want therapy to revolve around me when it was supposed to be about the patient. For another, I'd learned as a teenager (you never know where the lessons of therapy are going to come from) that giving advice could very easily blow up in my face.

It was a pretty serious dilemma because trust is the critical element in any helping relationship and I'd been informed that many substance abusing patients wouldn't engage with a therapist who hadn't "been there." I wasn't about to lie and yet I had to find a way of communicating that I knew what it was like to have been kicked in the teeth without spelling out details. One day I tried a little experiment. I was leading a therapy group when I got "the" question, so I looked the patient in the eye and said, "I'm in recovery from life, how's that?"

To my surprise, it went over very well. Not only was he satisfied, many group members smiled, nodded their assent, and we went on to talk about what it meant. As I attempted to explain my own perspective, it became clear it was more important for them to assign their own meaning, having discovered I wasn't an outsider after all.

I still like the phrase because it relates the essential truth that no one gets through life cleanly. Everyone picks up some dirt along the way. As bumper sticker philosophy maintains, @#%$ happens and it happens with disturbing regularity. Recovery doesn't involve ridding ourselves of the filth as much as it helps us learn to live with it. That's a disappointment to some who are new to sobriety because they fear their past behaviors have rendered them untouchable, like lepers in a new disguise. Once they realize we are all lepers, in one form or another, with our own baggage of doubt and fear, self-acceptance becomes easier.

It's really a matter of finding one's own place in the Colony.


(Creative Commons image by Saynine via Flickr)

Simple Gifts

In case anyone's counting, we've gotten about four inches of snow since last evening. I shoveled two at midnight and now there's two more. What possessed me to shovel snow at midnight? Well, I took the dog out for his last "business trip" before bed and seeing how much had accumulated, I figured a head start wouldn't hurt. There was no telling how much additional there would be by sun up.

Keeping track of this particular snowfall is important because I have a friend who has been kidding me about the extent of my foul weather preparations. I've been more diligent than usual because we're supposed to get up to sixteen inches by tomorrow night with a potential for power outages. Now, it's true that reliable weather forecasting lately has taken on the quality of a Las Vegas casino game, so I could just as easily end up "broke." If not, then I want to be able to kid him back.

That said, last night held an unanticipated surprise. It was peaceful, as you might imagine, so much so that I actually "heard" the sounds I make for the first time. The shovel sliding under the snow coupled with the crunch of my heavy hiking boots while moving forward, then the more rapid thump-crunch walking back to my starting place. Sometimes a metal-against-blacktop scrape if I went too deep and the shush of powder when I shoved the new snow into a the rapidly forming bank. John Denver once said, "If we would only listen," and last night was one of those times I'm glad I did.

If this was Colorado, I'd be eager to drive up into the mountains this morning. There's something wonderful about being in the high country and watching the snow tumble down against the shadowy backdrop of the spruce forests. Clouds drift low until the boundary between them and the peaks looks like a huge, diffuse grey-white snow-making machine, kicking out flakes faster than the wind can catch them.

At the moment, the cat is exploring the magic of sack filled with Christmas tissue, his head barely peeking out of the opening like a camper snug in a sleeping bag. Composer Aaron Copeland's Appalachian Spring draws upon the Shaker hymn, Simple Gifts, and both last night and this morning are like that. No fanfare, no grandeur, just the quiet, continual, gentle falling of new snow, the sounds of life going on, and the playful delight my cat has discovered in an ordinary brown paper bag.


(Image of a Steamboat Springs, Colorado blizzard by gregor_y via Flickr)

Out There, Thataway

This is the year we were supposed to make contact and if we had listened to Arthur C. Clarke we'd either be on our way or packing for the trip. To Jupiter, that is, where the monolith awaits. Sure, that's science fiction, but so what? Weren't we supposed to be living in the real life equivalent of Walt Disney's Tomorrowland by now? This is the future, isn't it?

Sometimes I wonder. We're still fighting wars over religion, energy is neither cheap nor abundant nor clean, cars continue to run on gasoline for the most part, and we're no closer to colonizing the moon than we were in 1969. It seems to me a lot of things were going to be different. What happened?

For one thing, the Cold War is over. In the 1960s, we were terrified the Russians would place the bomb in outer space, so we had to get there first. Exploration was never really the main point. Sure, it was a part of it, but once we'd taken that small step for mankind, the air began rapidly leaking out of the balloon. We shouldn't be surprised, it's always that way when there's no vision driving our efforts.

And, ironically, that is where it all begins. Not with economics, not with realism, not with practicality. We've got more of those than we know what to do with. What we need is vision. Without it, the people languish. To transcend limits, to exceed expectations, to reach the unreachable star, we need an overriding sense of what is possible, of what can be achieved if we work hard enough, long enough, and we work together.

Negative thinking looks at political disparities, racial and social inequality, religious fundamentalism, economic restrictions, and tells us the obstacles are too great to hope for anything apart from symptomatic relief. One thing we can count on, as long as our problems are the primary focus of our attention, we'll never get beyond them.

Vision takes everything we face and puts it into perspective. Like bored siblings, we can't keep our hands off each other because we don't have anything else to do with them. We are long past the point where we can indulge our cosmic isolationism. We don't need to go looking for "little green men," but we do need a vision that unites and takes us, in the words of Captain Kirk from Star Trek: The Motion Picture, "out there, thataway."

Robert Kennedy quoted George Bernard Shaw frequently, "Some men see things as they are and say why, I dream things that never were and say, why not?" If the "future" is going to be anything more than literary fantasy we need to get busy asking the same question and then providing some answers.

Our own answers.


(Public domain image of Jupiter's great red spot taken by Voyager I via Wikipedi)