Lewis – Page 7 – Sage Telling Your Story

May 21, 2014February 26, 2019

Camping by Lewis

Ah, fresh air, the sounds of nature’s myriad creatures, the vast array of nighttime stars, the perfumed air, stillness, the sleep of angels–all are reasons that the urban heart is beckoned to forsake convenience, connection, and comfort for the ruggedness of pitching a tent against the wind and rain, digging a trench around it to channel any rain water harmlessly away, inflating those cumbersome sleeping mattresses, getting out the propane tank and stove, finding firewood for toasting marshmallows, and making a practice-run to the bathrooms and showers in hopes of avoiding discombobulation in the dark of night.

To a boy of 12, it seems not to matter whether the tent is pitched on the north rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison or the back yard. Tenting means adventuring into an environment that, even though it may be as familiar as one’s own porch or yard, invites the imagination to blossom, the inhibitions to fall away, and perceptions of possible danger to usurp the bounds of reason.

A couple of cases in point–

It was the occasion of a visit from my dad’s youngest brother and his family. They lived in far southeastern Kansas, a largely rural area not far from the border with Missouri. My aunt and uncle brought their young son and daughter with them, as expected. The son, Dana, was about 8 or 9. I was around 11 or 12. I was preparing to spend the night sleeping in our tent in the backyard. Dana wanted to join me. My dog, Skippy, a toy fox terrier mix, would be with us, too.

We had two Army surplus cots and blankets and all seemed settled in for the night. Dawn came and I stood up fully rested and ready to face the day. My feet felt something on the floor of the tent that was cold and wet. Even against the pale green of the tent floor, I could tell it was piss. I’m sure that some exclamation came out of my mouth, which roused a sleeping Dana. I asked him if he knew anything about the noxious liquid. He blamed Skippy. Well, I knew Skippy sufficiently to know that he would never do something so uncouth. I accused Dana and he confessed that he had had to pee in the middle of the night and was afraid to step outside of the tent. The esteem in which my eyes had held him was significantly diminished from that night on.

To my utter amazement, Dana later became a member of the military police. That fact, coupled with my learning in early adulthood of a young man–the son-in-law of my landlord–who was a member of the police reserve in Dearborn, MI, and, while on duty on a Friday night and riding shotgun in a cruiser on its way to break up a bar fight, also found it necessary to evacuate his bladder at an inopportune moment, has led me to believe that some men–probably a small minority–seek to reassure themselves that they are, indeed, men by signing up for jobs almost certain to test that hypothesis.

My other story also involves a planned overnight backyard camping adventure, only this time with Eddy and Donnie, the brothers very close in age to me who lived next door, on the other side of a drainage ditch (what we used to call a “slough”). I was about 13 and Eddy was a year older than I and Donny a year younger. This time, we were going to sleep on the cots but without the tent.

When the appointed hour for the brothers to come over came and nobody showed up, well, if it had happened today, I would have simply called one of them on his cell phone. As it was, I waited what I thought was a sufficient time and then decided to teach them a lesson. I crossed the slough, which had no water in it, and crept up to the window of the boys’ bedroom, which was separated from the slough
by a bit of lawn and a hedge. The boys were in their bunk bed, apparently asleep. Using my fingernails, I scratched the screen covering the open window, much as I’m sure I had seen in some horror movie.

I couldn’t have been more delighted at the result. Donny, in the lower bunk, sprang out of the bed as if dismounting from a trampoline and ran screaming into the living room, which was lighted. Realizing my danger of being exposed, I rushed behind the hedge and crouched down, so as to be able to see if anybody emerged from the house.

I had barely gotten into position when the father emerged from the house with a flashlight and headed directly toward where I was hiding. Too afraid to move a muscle, I soon found the beam of light pointing at my head like the finger of doom and Mr. Nunn calmly explaining to me that, if I ever did something like that again, he would be happy to inform my parents. I sheepishly stood up and apologized for my misbehavior and ran the short distance home. I spent the rest of the night sleeping alone in the yard after a brief period of introspection after which I’m certain I decided that I had just had an adventure which neither Donny nor I would ever forget.

There are many more camping stories that I could tell, those with my parents in various parks in Colorado and elsewhere, but none give me the pleasure in relating as those I have shared today.

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

May 6, 2014February 26, 2019

Birth Experiences by Lewis

Since the title of the topic for today is “Birth Experiences”, that is, plural, I must assume that, as I have not been “born again” nor have I any memory of my own birth–the very thought sends cold waves of terror up-and-down my spine–I am confined to writing about those births which I have personally witnessed, of which there are but two.

The more memorable of those I have described here back on August 26th. For the benefit of those who may have been absent that day, I will reprise it, edited for brevity, now:

This is where the magic began. Not only did the fetus go to term but developed into a 9-pound, 5-ounce baby girl, Laura. The delivery was not exactly “normal”, however. Yes, we had taken the “natural childbirth” and Lamaze classes but there is no way to plan or prepare for a baby that resists all efforts to force it into the bright light of a delivery room. The obstetrician decided to use forceps. We had chosen a hospital, Hutzel Women’s Hospital in Detroit, that allowed the father to be present for the birth. I had planned for it but had not a clue as to the role I was about to play.

The birthing table, upon which Jan lay, was massive. I think it was made of marble or something equally heavy. The doctor was at one end, his forceps clamped on the baby’s head, a nurse was lying across Jan’s abdomen and I was holding onto the other end of the table. Nevertheless, the doctor was dragging the table with its cargo of three human adults across the delivery room floor by our daughter’s neck while Jan pushed as hard as she could. (Incidentally, my wife was about 5’8″ and 160 pounds.) I was afraid that our baby was going to be born in installments. But, no, she came out in one piece, her head a little flattened on the sides, slightly jaundiced, hoppin’ mad, and gorgeous to both her mother and me.

On my first visit to mother and daughter in the hospital, I donned the required gown. You know the type–they cover the front of you completely and tie in the back. Laura had been in an incubator for her jaundice. The nurse brought her in and handed her to Jan in the bed for feeding. After Laura had nursed for a while, Jan asked if I would like to hold her. I said “yes”, even though I had little-to-no experience with holding a live baby, especially one so small. After holding Laura to my shoulder for a few minutes, I handed her back to Jan.

As I was leaving, I removed the gown. There, near the shoulder of the dress shirt I wore to work, was a pea-sized spot of meconium, a baby’s first bowel movement. True, it’s sterile and has no particular smell, but I knew that I had been branded. My daughter had found an “outlet” for her anger at having to undergo such a rigorous birth and I knew she would have the upper hand for as long as we both lived.

Beyond any real-life experiences concerning birth, I confess that I have always thought there was something sexy about a pregnant woman. The idea of a incipient new and complete human being living, growing and kicking inside my belly gives rise to a state of being that I have carelessly branded as “fetus envy”. Many of you will remember the 1994 Arnold Swarzenegger movie, Junior, in which the star portrays a scientist looking for a way to prevent women from rejecting the fetus they are carrying. When their funding is cut, he resorts to offering his own body as the “test tube” and is somehow caused to become the incubator for the “lucky” child. Seeing this movie was the one and only time I’ve ever looked at The Terminator and wished I could be more like him. Short of that, I guess I’ll have to be content with the occasional spells of nausea that hit me from time-to-time.

About the Author

April 22, 2014February 26, 2019

Point of View by Lewis

This is a subject with so many ramifications that I hardly know where to begin. So, I will start from the only “point of view” that I can possibly defend–how I see the world through a lens that is mine and mine alone.

As I see it, “point of view” is somewhat misleading in that what matters is not what the eyes see–that is, one’s environment–but how that image is deconstructed in the mind of the observer.

I will not attempt to expound upon the reasons that one person might look upon an image of President Obama and see the Messiah and another Evil Incarnate. Still, it is nearly impossible to come up with a story that explains my truth on this question. I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to be a liberal. No; one’s political “point of view”–the only one that truly matters to me–is derived from the sum of decades of living, learning and being loved…or not.

My father was born in 1911. The only time I saw him cry was when he was describing how his parents had lost their farm–their four sons’ legacy–to foreclosure during the Great Depression. He was an ardent admirer of President Franklin D. Roosevelt and spent most of his adult life assisting farmers to obtain loans from the insurance company he worked for so they wouldn’t lose theirs. His work helped him to feel of use to society and he understood the important role that government can play in lifting people out of despair. Despite having been dealt a bad hand himself as a victim of polio at the age of 20, he was a lifelong Democrat.

Mother, on the other hand, usually played the role of victim. I don’t want to say too much about her, since “Mom” is the subject for next week. Suffice it for now to know that she was never comfortable in the role of mother and housewife and felt that Opportunity had walked right past her door without so much as a nod in her direction. She could never share in the joy of my little successes, nor could she even stand to hug or be hugged. She was racist and took no particular interest in politics, though I’m fairly certain that she usually voted Republican.

Theories abound as to why liberals and conservatives are the way they are. I agree with people like George Lakoff who think it has something to do with early home life. He believes that conservatives tend to have grown up in homes that are dominated by a strict, disciplinarian father, where punishment for nonconformance is swift and painful. Liberals, in contrast, are raised by nurturing parents who believe that honorable behavior can be modeled and taught through example.

I grew up in a household with one nurturing but passive parent and one who was strict but also passive. How I turned out to be an activist lefty I cannot explain other than to observe that I identified with my dad’s sense of compassion and general love for people. He, at least, could hold me on his lap and read the Sunday comics to me while pointing to the words so that I could learn many of them by the age of four. I admired him. I feared her.

My point-of-view most likely comes from my assimilation of my dad’s politics through association. As I have aged, my politics has evolved far to the left of anything my father could imagine, even as the politics of the Right has moved just as far in the opposite direction. Perhaps if he had not succumbed to a stroke in 1990, he and I would still agree on most political issues. At the very least, I would like to be able to tell him how much he had influenced my point-of-view. I think he would take some satisfaction from knowing that.

© 25 November 2013

About
the Author

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

April 9, 2014February 26, 2019

A Visit to the Doctor/Nurse by Lewis

This story is not just about one visit to a doctor or nurse. It involves multiple visits to several doctors. But it is all just one story. It does not have a happy ending. Nor does it paint a particularly flattering picture of the state of the health care industry in the U.S. today. The names of the medical professionals have been abbreviated to obscure their true identities. The source material was not my personal recollection primarily, though I was present for each of the events, but was taken from my late husband’s personal journal, written at the time of the events in question.

In the summer and fall of 2003, Laurin’s PSA level began to rise. He was 77 years old. At one point, his PSA level was measured at 19–almost double what was considered to be on the high side of normal. His doctor, Dr. S, recommended a biopsy of his prostate. On this particular visit, Dr. S. was accompanied by a young female intern, who was “shadowing” him. Dr. S. asked if it was OK if she was present for the visit. Laurin consented.

In the corner of the doctor’s office was an unusual type of lamp. It rested on the floor with a long neck that curved from vertical to horizontal and had a small, elongated but high-powered lamp on the end. I asked Dr. S. what the lamp was for. He said, “I’ll show you”. He asked Laurin to lie back on the examination table and pull down his underwear. He placed the light at the end of the lamp under Laurin’s scrotum and turned it on. With the light behind it, the scrotum became translucent. Dr. S. said, “See that? That’s water.” I could not begin to imagine what his point was.

Our next appointment was even more bizarre. It was a Monday. Apparently, Dr. S. was intending to perform the biopsy on Laurin’s prostate. However, Laurin and I were both confused on that point. Consequently, we had not done the necessary prep. In addition, Laurin (and I) had a number of concerns about possible adverse effects of the biopsy. (Biopsy of the prostate involves inserting an instrument through the anus. Triggering the device causes a hollow needle-like device to penetrate the wall of the rectum and snatch a bit of tissue from the prostate gland. If any procedure is likely to invoke queasiness in a male patient, including me, it is this one.)

Dr. S.’s response was to basically go ballistic. After assuring us that complications have arisen from less than 0.1% of such tests he added, “If you (meaning Laurin) were a 5-year-old, I would simply tell you to lie down and take it.”

Well, that was the end of our doctor-patient relationship with Dr. S. We started seeing another urologist, Dr. H. He informed us that Laurin’s PSA was at 9. No explanation was given for the apparent sudden drop. In addition, Laurin’s Gleason Score–a measure of the aggressiveness of the cancer–was 7. These numbers are borderline-positive for Stage IIa prostate cancer.

The recommended therapy for Laurin was radioactive seed implants, also known as internal radiation therapy. This involves inserting a large number of tiny pellets of a radioactive isotope, such as plutonium, into the prostate gland. In Laurin’s case, approximately 70 of these tiny pellets were placed, one-at-a-time, into his prostate by a radiological oncologist, Dr. T. The patient is given a local anesthetic and the process takes less than an hour. The after-effects are mild and short-lived. I was in the waiting room of the doctors’ clinic the entire time. Eventually, the prostate dries up–I won’t say is fried–so that it looks like a date…or raisin, I’m not sure which.

On one of the follow up visits with Dr. H., Laurin was in the examining room waiting for more than a few minutes. When Dr. H. came in, he couldn’t find some instrument that he needed and in a pique of righteous rage at the negligent nurse, with his arm swept everything on the counter onto the floor. I could hear the commotion in the waiting room. Time to look for urologist number three. (Some time later, I asked Dr. T, the radiological oncologist, who was really quite civil and was himself suffering from a rare form of bone cancer, “What is the deal with urologists, anyway?” He answered to the effect that urologists are notoriously emotional creatures, which I interpreted as, “When it comes to your dick, don’t get sick.”

Recently, medical researchers have been telling men that they should stop getting routine PSA tests if over a certain age. They tell us that a very high percentage of us will develop prostate cancer–somewhat like Alzheimer’s Disease–but that it is very slow growing and we could very well die of some other cause first. Laurin was given similar counseling by Dr. H. early on. Yet, doctors don’t put croissants on the table by not treating disease. I don’t know what Laurin’s life would have been like had he not had the internal radiation therapy. I do know what his life was like for years after the treatment, however.

Fecal incontinence, according to Dr. T., affects only about 5% of men who have had the seed implants. Just another seemingly inconsequential factor in balancing prostate cancer treatment against letting it run its course. Other friends of mine who have had surgery to remove the prostate ended up with a perforated rectum or lifelong impotence. In terms of the impact upon a man’s quality of life after age 75, I would have to say that fecal incontinence must be the worst of the three side effects. The horrors Laurin and I went through are too embarrassing and humiliating to attempt to describe here. Let me just say that they led to him having to put severe restrictions on his social life, undergoing a colostomy, and suffering the complete loss of his self esteem.

Let me end this diatribe with this caveat: the medical profession will never say “No” to a decision to fight cancer with everything you’ve got. Medical costs during the last year of life account for an enormous chunk of Medicare dollars expended. In America, we tend to believe in “fight to the last ounce of your strength” or, as Dylan Thomas wrote:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light”.

However, if the light has faded to a dung brown, perhaps it’s dying be a blessing.

© 22 June 2013

About the Author

February 24, 2014February 26, 2019

All My Exes Live in Texas by Lewis

[Disclaimer:

I sincerely hope that I do not offend anyone by what I am about
to say. If Texas is the state of your
birth, please forgive me. I understand
that you had no choice in the matter and would naturally feel somewhat defensive. I apologize in advance for my unbridled
antagonism toward your home state. If
Texas is your adopted state, however, then we must simply agree to disagree. Since you are gay and because Texan’s in
general are about as homophobic as you can get, I have no desire to add to your
mental anguish. I hope you can get some help.]

It’s safe to assume, I
suppose, that by the term “ex” is meant “erstwhile”. It would also likely be safe to assume that
the “erstwhile” refers to lovers.
Since I have had only two lovers in my lifetime and one of them is dead
and the other lives in Michigan, there is very little I can say about this
subject directly. However, I do have a
few things to say about the state of Texas in general.

If I ever have a lover who
says to me, “Let’s move to Texas”, the next words out of my mouth
will be, “So long, pardner.
Remember to roll your pant legs up so they don’t get in the horse
shit”. I hate Texas so much that,
whenever I think of the Alamo, I’m overcome not with pride but with
regret. My most hated actor, John Wayne,
not only directed the movie, The Alamo,
but cast himself in the role of Col. Davy Crockett. As fate would have it, I had been planning to
watch the movie the very evening the call came that my father had died of a
massive stroke. That was not the cause
of my regret, however. No, that was
because the wrong side lost.

My daddy had a brother–the
youngest of four–who moved his family to Austin. He was a high muckety-muck with the state
school Board. When I say
“high”, I mean tall–he was about 6 foot 4. He was also the first of the four brothers to
die. I’m not going to say that Texas
politics killed him but the Texan he married might have been implicated had
there been an investigation. Not only
did she have a drawl that would have shamed the two Andy’s–Devine and
Griffith–into going back to acting school, she had a temper that had me hiding
beneath the dining room buffet in abject fear.

Oh, they sure do take their
football serious down there. I once attended
a game between the Texas Longhorns and the Aggies. It was the only time I saw a referee get
knocked out. I think the crowd made more
noise over that than any of the scoring plays.

During the OPEC-induced
recession of 1984, I and several of my co-workers at Ford Motor in Dearborn,
MI, were laid off. One of them moved to
Texas looking for work. He stayed less
than a year due to culture shock.

And what’s the deal with
“The Lone Star State” as their motto?
According to Wikipedia, “Texas
is nicknamed the Lone Star State to signify Texas as a former
independent republic and as a reminder of the state’s struggle for independence
from Mexico”. Sounds like a lot of
“Texas hooey” to me. I think
the motto is a way to remind the other 49 states how special Texas is and that
they just might secede at any time.

Secession is no idle threat,
coming as it did from Texas’ governor himself.
I would humbly suggest that the U.S. cede Texas to Mexico in exchange
for Tijuana. Not only would this overnight
raise the cultural and political intelligence of the United States as a whole
but also cure a good bit of our problems with border security.

As a boy, I was enamored of
the Lone Ranger. As a man, I’ve learned
that the real Texas Rangers used to take Mexicans out into the desert and shoot
them, leaving their corpses to rot, just as I’ve seen John Wayne do in the
movie, Red River.

Well, I don’t want this to
turn into a rant. If you’ve ever been to
Amarillo, you’ll understand why I think that the people of Texas have suffered
enough already. I’m just biding my time
for the day when the brown-skinned immigrant voters outnumber the knuckle-heads
that control the politics down there today.
Better the state turn purple than my face.

© 13 January 2014

About
the Author

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver,
my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in
October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility
is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there
to light the way.

February 10, 2014February 26, 2019

Endless Joy by Lewis

I have several thoughts on this topic–

1) Anything that goes on endlessly will eventually become Hell itself. This is why I have never been particularly attracted to the concept of Heaven. In fact, the promise often made to folks is that if they would only conform to whatever criteria a particular religion has established for admission, they will experience “endless joy”, albeit without any of those accoutrements of life on earth that generally make it enjoyable.

2) “Joy” itself is a nebulous and elusive concept. Attaining joy is not as simple as making a day trip to Disney World. It’s true that one of the most joyful moments of my life occurred while I was at Disney World. But the laser light show at Epcot Center, coordinated with the Finale to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, would not have been one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life without the lunar eclipse synchronized perfectly with the music.

3) “Joy” can be attained from the most ordinary of life’s experiences if the psyche is receptive. Even the realization that one’s days-long bout of constipation is over can be joyful if one has a receptive frame-of-mind.

4) “Joy” can be very difficult to recognize if one is in chronic pain, either physical or psychological. Joy is as much about the body as it is about the mind.

5) “Joy” is like chocolate–to partake of it excessively will lead to misery. Before long, you will develop an aversion to it.

6) “Joy” is often recognized best in retrospect. In reading Laurin’s journals from eight, nine, ten years ago, I can see how full and marvelous our lives were then.

7) The level of “joy” that I experience is symbiotically related to the way that I treat others. I cannot make others feel joyful, however. I can only let them know how much joy they bring to me.

8) “Joy” is not a function of where I am in the world or who I am with or what I am doing. It is a function of loving myself unconditionally.

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

January 29, 2014February 26, 2019

Still Learning by Lewis

After over six decades of thinking of death’s impact on me as being akin to getting a bad haircut–ugly for a few days but quickly grown out of–it now seems that I am constantly reminded not only of how bald I am but also how closely death looms, as if I am being followed.

Perhaps, it is the numbness that occasionally settles into the tip of my big toe. Or the odd, sudden tingling bursts of heat that explode down my calves and feet. Or the ever-increasing level of concentration it takes to relieve my ever-less-frequent sexual urges. More likely, it is the feeling that death has taken residence on my street and is dropping in on some of my closest friends, one-by-one, as it makes its way toward my particular residence.

I spend more time reading the obituaries than the comics. I divide the recently-departed into two classifications: those born before me and those born after. Why do I not take comfort in the observation that there are usually four-to-five times more of the former? Is it because I don’t think I’ll ever make it to 90, as so many others have?

A better question to ask myself would be, “Do I even want to live that long? What is the upside? What haven’t I learned that I want to learn? What sight haven’t I seen that I want to see?”

Every time I read of a child or youth dying, I think how much I have seen that they will never see, how much life I have experienced that they will never know and I ask myself, “What is it that makes me enjoy living?” I’ve already ruled out wealth, status, and driving a Porsche around the streets of Capitol Hill. Still on my short list are making everyone’s quality of life better, staying relatively healthy through exercise, seeing every ‘Best Picture” Oscar-nominee before the end of February, making new friends, and dying before I run out of money.

All of these have something in common for me: they are about LOVING–love for life, love for justice, love for my others, and love for my family. Of all the things that I have learned throughout my life, the one that stands out is this: no stock or commodity ever yields as high a return as love well-invested. It is my truth that, though the brain can learn, only the heart can teach.

November 16, 2013 (Laurin’s and my 10th Anniversary)

About the Author

January 15, 2014February 26, 2019

Solitude by Lewis

Solitude is not a condition of being but a state-of-mind. Sometimes, all that is needed to achieve solitude is to close my eyes and turn my focus inward, much like meditation. It can be done in elevators, doctors’ offices, and even in the waiting room of the Bureau of Licensing office for the Secretary of State. About the only time I don’t engage in the practice is when driving. (Solitude and traffic do not mix well, whether you are driving, biking, or walking.)

There is a womb inside of me where my feelings go to grow. Feelings need nurturing, much as a baby does. When ignored–that is, not cuddled, stroked, doted upon–they fail to thrive and even fester. When listened to, coddled and swaddled, they can provide a ray of light to penetrate the forest of everyday existence. When deprived of such nurturance, they cause me to lose focus, feel disconnected with what really matters, and can even lead to self-abuse.

There is no external salve for the soul that can substitute for solitude–not alcohol, nor drugs, nor hyper-activity. Jesus said, “When you pray, do not stand on a street corner and make loud noises; instead, go into a closet and do it quietly.” It is when I am alone with my thoughts and feelings that I feel closest to the divine.

September 23, 2013

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

January 2, 2014February 26, 2019

Feeling Loved by Lewis

[Let me preface my remarks by saying that I am not a psychological expert. What follows are the opinions of a lay person with 67 years of living experience.]

For a person to feel loved, I think there are three prerequisites, three questions that they or I have to answer in all candor:

The first question is: Do I love myself?

The second question is: Am I capable of recognizing and accepting without question the love of others?

The third question is: Am I capable of loving others?

I will deal with the three questions in order—

1. Do I love myself?

If I feel unworthy of love personally, then I have a very real problem in believing that others could love me. In fact, I might even feel anger toward them for having such poor taste. It is quite common to hear of men who abuse or even murder their lovers or spouses. I suspect that such men feel so badly about themselves that they blame those closest to them for not understanding that they are unworthy of love. Because they feel victimized and worthless, they feel justified in taking out their frustration on those closest to them, after which they can penalize themselves further.

To feel loved, I must feel that I am worthy of love and that I am able to give love in return. I must be able to see what love is, what it looks like in all its forms, which brings me to the second question.

2. Am I capable of recognizing and accepting without question the love of others?

A person may be able to love themselves but not perceive love from others directed toward them. They need not have disordered personalities but may have been so without compassion and love as children that they tend to distrust the motives of those who do demonstrate love toward them. They may feel that they are being set up for disappointment later or they may not even recognize love in some of its multitudinous forms.

If I am sitting on a stool in a gay bar and a man puts his hand on my knee, is that a sign of love? If he looks into my eyes with passion, is that love? What does it mean if he buys me expensive gifts? What if he offers to water my plants while I am on vacation? Or to give me a free back rub? Or to buy me a drink? My 35-year-old son tells me that I should call him every time because I am the father. Is paternal love a one-way street? These are hard questions for anyone to answer.

3. Am I capable of loving others?

Sociopaths and narcissists are incapable of empathy. They are so disassociated from the feelings of others that they are unable to perceive the need for love in others and have no love left to give away. They are not capable of perceiving love when it is shown to them because they think it is their “due”. They cannot give love to others because they think it will diminish themselves. They can “feel love” only so much as it reinforces their already ingrained opinion of themselves.

In conclusion, in order to feel loved, I must feel that I have room for improvement and am flawed enough to warrant criticism. Only this quality makes it possible to appreciate those whose love is showered upon me despite my imperfections.

Unconsciously, I ask myself every day, “How much love do I need?” and “How am I going to get it?”. One way I get it is by coming here. I can feel it and it is good.

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December 18, 2013February 26, 2019

Sorry , I’m Allergic by Lewis

The first naturally-occurring object that comes to my mind when I think of allergies is the cat. It’s not that I’m OK with house dust, pollen, molds, and serums derived from horses, such as the old tetanus serum, it’s just that my cat allergy has most inconvenienced my friends.

I even had a pet cat once. Or, perhaps, it was just a stray cat that hung around our house a lot. I don’t remember it ever being in the house or sitting in my mother’s lap or feeding it.

Unfortunately for the cat, I was an only child. As I had no younger siblings upon which to take out my frustrations, it was the birds, insects, and other living creatures in the neighborhood who suffered the brunt of my repressed anger. The cat fell into this category. Perhaps I also blamed cats for the ringworm that had scarred my scalp a year or two before.

Anyway, on this particular summer day, my job was to expunge dandelions from our rather vast–to my four-foot-tall way of thinking, anyway–lawn. The appropriate implement for this task was a long-handled dandelion digger. Perhaps I was contemplating how it was that the dandelion got its odd name when this particular cat made an appearance in our front yard. Naturally, I associated the word “cat” with “lion” and wondered how effective the dandelion digger would be as the means to rid our property forever of this furry intruder. With my make-shift spear raised over my head in the fashion I’m sure I had seen some aboriginal hunter use in spearing fish on the pages of National Geographic, I began to chase the cat across the lawn. Just as the cat was about to round the corner of the house, I let fly from about 20 feet away. The “spear” went exactly where the cat had just been a second before but instead of a cat, the spear embedded itself in the trunk of one of the shrubs that formed a hedge along the edge of our property.

I was instantly struck by the lethality of the act I had just done and how awful I would have felt had the weapon found its target. Instead, I felt elated at how nicely things had turned out. “Cool,” I think I said to myself.

Forty plus years went by before I gave much thought to cats again, that is, aside from the allergy shots and antihistamines that kept my symptoms, from a myriad of sources, in some measure of control. That was when Laurin came upon the scene. Laurin loved cats. Living alone in his “Hobbit House” outside Flint, MI, he had two of them. One day, he found one of them dead, apparently of a heart attack, after its claws became tangled in the fibers of the shag carpet on his staircase. He was broken-hearted. I don’t remember what happened to the other one but, obviously, he had to get rid of it before he could move in with me.

After we moved to Denver, we lived in an apartment building that did not permit cats or dogs as pets. One Christmas, I spent some effort in finding a stuffed toy cat that Laurin had suggested he might like. Turns out, it just wasn’t the same thing for him and I returned it.

Now, I actually like the concept of cats. I admire their independence, their cleanliness, their beauty–all from a distance. I find that they are much easier to keep from jumping up on my lap than dogs. Usually, they don’t even try. Perhaps, they are allergic to me, too.