Take That, Mr. Tick

Two mornings ago, I woke up with tenderness in my right shin. Sleepily, I reached down, felt a little bump and assumed I'd scratched myself and it was only now beginning to hurt. Drawing my leg closer to my face, I noticed the "scab" shifted as I rubbed my finger across it, and when I pulled it away, realized it was a tick. Drat, I thought, a blasted Ixodes tick, the notorious carrier of Borrelia Burgdorferi, the bacteria that causes Lyme Disease.

Curiously, the little guy looked dead; he wasn't moving, nor had he managed to engorge himself with blood, as one might expect. Still somewhat groggy, it took a second for me to remember I actually do have blood coursing through my veins, so why he failed to get breakfast was a mystery. I got up, put the carcass aside for safe-keeping, wiped the spot with alcohol and applied bacitracin, a topical antibiotic, thinking I'd watch it for a few days and see what developed.

Fast forward to this morning. I was taping The West Wing as usual, when I glanced at my shin and saw the bite mark had developed the appearance of a small target -- bull's-eye rash or erythema chronicum migrans, the initial telling symptom of Lyme Disease. It wasn't as obvious as the examples we'd been shown in bacteriology, but close enough to make me uncomfortable. So, I wasted no time in arranging a quick visit to the doctor who agreed, it looked sufficiently suspicious to warrant empirical treatment with doxycycline, the drug of choice for adults.

The remaining question, however, is where did the little guy come from? I think it's likely he hitched a ride on my dog -- a fatal error in judgment. You see, my dog wears a potent flea and tick collar while we're walking, and I think Mr. Tick got a good dose of canine hemlock. Nauseated, dizzy, and delirious, he fell into the bed during the night and staggered toward my leg, muttering, "Must...bite...human, fulfill...purpose...must...bite...human."

With an effort that would make Shakespeare envious, he heaved himself onto my leg and thrust his fangs (or whatever ticks have) as far into my skin as he could. It reminds me of a scene from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn. Ricardo Montalban aka Kahn aka Mr. Rourke from Fantasy Island, attempts to destroy Captain Kirk one final time. As he reaches for the button to engage the Genesis Device, he says, quoting Moby Dick, "To the last, I will grapple with thee...from hell's heart, I stab at thee...for hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee."

Yeah, well, here's the thing. Poetic or not, you're dead, I'm alive and starting doxy. Take that, Mr. Tick.


(Creative Commons image of Ricardo Montalban as Kahn by MHJohnston via Flickr)

To Have Loved and Lost

"She said she was leaving because I loved myself more than her. How could she do this to me? She's the one who's selfish."

"It sounds like you're angry; anger is part of our normal response to loss and the experience of grief," I told him.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I'm not nearly as angry as I am disappointed. I chose her carefully, thinking she could appreciate being treated like someone 'special.' Obviously, I made a mistake, and it's one I won't make again."

"You feel let down by the breakup, naturally. Surely, this must hurt a great deal."

"Not really. It's mostly that she refused to live up to my expectations. I really thought I'd picked the right one this time."

This is an imaginary dialogue that reflects conversations I've had with narcissistic persons of both genders, who've gone through the breakup of a relationship. What has baffled me, consistently, is the way they respond. While most persons feel sad, heartbroken, or become emotionally distraught, they seem to be offended. It's as though a breakup is perceived by them more as an insult than a loss.

I've wondered if their anger isn't defensive, an attempt to protect themselves from the emotional impact of the breakup. It certainly functions like that for most people to some extent. Lately, however, I've begun thinking the problem isn't that they don't wish to feel pain, but rather that they can't. For a loss to be painful, one has to have a sense of attachment to something or someone else. If an individual is unable to form emotional bonds with another, however they describe the experience of loss, it's not going to be painful in the same way most of us conceptualize it.

Depending on the role of the significant other -- a decoration or a resource -- their absence will be experienced, more or less severely, as a blow to the narcissist's self-esteem, suggesting s/he is somehow unworthy of undying adulation or unlimited support. And their response is, how dare someone deprive them of that to which they feel entitled? The inability to put themselves in the place of another, renders them unable to imagine how that individual might think of them differently from how they think of themselves.

This is not to say narcissistic types are unfeeling, but they do appear to feel differently about interpersonal losses. In a sense, one could say, it's not that they don't hurt, but they hurt for reasons that have less to do with being deprived of love than experiencing a wounded self image. Reflecting on this, it occurs to me how much more fortunate one can be, to have loved and known the distress of loss, than to never have realized what was before them. Perhaps, not even after it's gone.

Scouting Surgery

Little did my grandmother know what she was doing when she placed needle and thread in my hands, saying, "Some day you'll be glad you know what to do with these." She thought she was enabling me to take care of myself as an adult, by showing me how to repair torn clothing and darn socks. What she really did was get me ready for this morning's clinic on suturing techniques.

Now, it's true that stitching together two halves of an open wound or surgical incision isn't quite the same thing as hemming a pair of pants or applying decorative buck-stitching to saddle parts in my father's shop, but at least the concept is familiar. And, fortunately, you don't have to run a tiny piece of nylon monofilament through an even tinier needle's eye first, or patients would bleed to death before we even got started. Can't you see it? Some poor guy's lying on a gurney, crying, "Doc, you gotta help me!"

"Yes, yes, I know. Just be 'patient' -- pardon the pun -- it will be a few more minutes while I get this thing threaded," replies the doctor, squinting and poking with gloved fingers at a target s/he needs a magnifying glass to find. No, sutures come ready-made with nice, curved needles that pierce the skin easily -- including yours, if you're not careful.

The trick involves learning to place them while clamping the needle with a pair of forceps in one hand and holding the skin with tweezers in the other. It's like standing in the batter's box with a bat in each hand, trying to hit the ball with both as it passes over the plate. Ambidexterity would be helpful at a time like this and the truth is, when coordination was passed out, my left hand was out to lunch. Obviously, I need practice -- a lot of practice.

Knot-tying is easier and I have Boy Scouts to thank for that. The technique is slightly different, but a square knot is a square knot, whether it's connected to a bridge constructed of rope or securing a suture in place. They don't give out merit badges for the best surgical knots, but after banging my head against the wall through three years of basic science, it will be fun playing "Scoutmaster," once again. Don't tell my surgical preceptors I said this -- they'll probably expect me to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together and that's just too much like work.


(Creative Commons image of Square Knot sculpture by jcarwash31 via Flickr)

You Don't Look Like a Puppy

There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face. ~ Ben Williams

"I thought you were supposed to make me feel better," he said, with a twinkle, but his tone suggested he meant more. "How come I feel worse when I leave than when I got here? I know, what do I think is the reason for that. Humor me, why is it that way more often than not?"

"Because, for the last hour, you've been breaking down some of the illusions you have about your life. They worked pretty well for you at one time, but lately, as you know, they haven't been working at all. It's one of the reasons you're here. Now you're confronting what you used to conveniently ignore, and so you feel worse afterward. Sometimes we have to feel badly for a while before we can begin to feel good again."

He nodded and, as he rose to leave, added, "Ben Williams -- you know him? It doesn't matter. Anyway, he once said, 'There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face.' You don't look like a puppy."

"No, I guess not," I said, chuckling, "and I seem to remember my training supervisor advising me against face-licking. But you're getting better; there was a time, not too long ago, when humor wouldn't have been something you used to help you cope. I'll see you next week."

Williams was right and so was Linus when he said, "Happiness is a warm puppy." Facing our demons and breaking through the deceptions they've thrown up to prevent us from seeing them for what they are, is far from easy. When we seek help doing so, we're going to have days when we feel lousy because we're eliminating the comfort denial creates. And that's what we have to do if we're going to live meaningfully. And for some, that means really living for the very first time.


(Creative Commons image by Soggydan Dan Bennett via Flickr)

Someplace In Between

I think I know why I'm not a fan (gasp) of American Idol. It's the idea that a person can start at the top and essentially circumvent paying their dues by playing in the bars and chasing that neon rainbow. This is not to say there's no scratching and clawing, grasping and holding onto what remains of one's self-esteem in the process of competing, because there is. What comes about the other way, however, is growth. I'm fond of growth. Growth is a good thing and short cuts to obtain it, like taking anabolic steroids to build muscle, usually have unpleasant side effects.

For one thing, starting at the top doesn't leave a person anywhere to go but down. Down isn't always bad, but I've been there and I'll tell you a secret: up is better. Even if you're on the way up, it's still better than being down, because at least you've got direction.

For another, starting at the top has no memory associated with it. One minute you're nobody and the next you're a household word and all you can say about how you achieved it is, "I won American Idol." It's like the lottery. We'd all like to win, but many who have, have also gone broke. Climbing up the hard way brings with it the reminder of all that we learned in the process. What to avoid, who to trust, and what it's like to be at the bottom.

Don't get me wrong, I'm sure some competitors have stories that would curl my hair and I don't begrudge anyone giving it all they've got. The gal or guy who was laughed at when they announced they were trying out deserves every break they can get. There are definitely different ways of paying one's dues and putting up with doubt and ridicule are among the hardest. The important thing is to keep them current and not forget what it cost to get where we are, because that's how we remain human. And remaining human is the most important thing, whether we're at the top, the bottom, or someplace in between.


Creative Commons image by mag3737 via Flickr; Chasin' That Neon Rainbow words and music by Alan Jackson and Jim McBride, copyright 1995, WB Music Corp.)

My Three Moms

That I've been learning to dance would delight two of my mothers -- the third would probably fold her arms, frown slightly, and tell me, "Well, you're a grown man, you can make your own decisions. Just remember to be considerate and a gentleman, and you'll make me proud enough." The first two were related by blood: my biological mother and her sister. The third was my paternal grandmother.

I never saw my mother or her sister dance, but I grew up hearing the stories of them tearing up the floor until the wee hours when they were younger. Those were the days of Glen Miller, Benny Goodman, and Harry James, and my mother loved to do the Jitterbug. My aunt preferred the waltz and she'd be thrilled to know that was the step I learned last night.

My grandmother was raised on a ranch in Montana by parents who lived well-nigh to the century mark. They were serious people, my great-grandparents, and took religion just as seriously. So did my grandmother and I suspect my sense of spiritual discipline comes from her. As far as I know, she never danced, except perhaps, at her wedding. The pursuit of "worldly pleasures" never had much appeal to her, but she loved life, and taught me to value stability.

My aunt taught me to have fun and God love her for it. She carried more responsibility than her small frame ought ever have had to bear, but if she couldn't find the silver lining in a dark cloud, she made one. I learned from watching her there are some things no one should tolerate and finding a way free is just as important as being able to endure. And how we do both is a mark of character.

My mother taught me to cook. "You may marry a girl who knows how and then again, you may have to teach her. In the meantime, I don't want you to starve." Thanks, mom, I got the message, especially when it comes to baking. She also taught me to stand up for myself and take calculated risks going after the things I believed in. "You'll never have any of them if you don't at least try."

I'm very fortunate to have had my three moms and I wish all of them were here to dance with, even if my grandmother typically blushed and wanted to beg off. They're not, and yet they are, and always will be.

Particularly on Mother's Day.


(Creative Commons image by Lab2112 via Flickr)

A Rainy Saturday Morning

It makes good fiction to say, "it dawned raining this morning," but the fact is, I wasn't awake to see it. All I know for sure is it's rainy now and the clouds were moving in late last night. Have you ever thought of all the different ways it rains? For instance, it's probably accurate to say we're having light rain at the moment, which is nothing more than regular rain without all the fat and calories. Sometimes it falls in sheets, at which point I get to replenish my linen closet, and when it pours I find out what a mug feels like, standing under a beer tap.

In any case, I'm glad I finished mowing the yard yesterday. Until I moved to Maine I'd never driven a riding mower. Growing up, those were the toys of the rich and famous. Here, if I had to depend on pushing Old Bessy, that's all I'd do from sunup to sundown. The one I have is a hand-me-down from the previous owner, replete with torn seat and manual choke. It's loud enough to wake the dead, tips eerily going sideways down the hill toward the hayfield, and it will never win a lawn mower race, but it gets the job done.

I've grown rather fond of that mower, actually, and I've taken to giving it a pat and "good job" at the end of the day. I don't suppose the encouragement will keep it out of the shop, but it makes me feel good anyway. Speaking of feeling good, I've noticed something the past few months.

When I moved here, I brought my Colorado tradition of waving to everyone who passes, with me. I figured country folk are the same everywhere and since this is the country, things shouldn't be any different. Well, it turns out they were and I was the only one who did it. At first, I felt like a fish out of water, but I decided if it was good enough for Colorado, it was good enough for Maine, and a little change never did anyone harm. So, I waved and pretty soon, everyone was waving back. If I'm driving down the road and forget, they wave anyway. It's not much, it probably won't change the world, but it makes people feel connected, a little less alone, and that feels good.


(Creative Commons image by matt.wagers via Flickr)