Is He Really Talking About Peeing?

Peeing in a cup is an abnormal experience, especially for men.

When males have a “full tank” there is a lot of pressure in there and it is difficult to turn the faucet on and off at will. If you want some medical evidence go here. Trying to gracefully dispense a half-ounce of fluid from a pressure-packed human spigot into a shot glass-sized paper cup is comparable to asking a fireman to hook up his hose to the fire hydrant and dribble the precise amount of water onto your prize-winning tulips: You’re asking for a miracle.

Toilet seat splatter is nothing compared to the potential disaster of peeing for a physical. One time I really screwed it up. The sinister nurse gave me two test tubes and a tiny cup, to fill. What a challenge! She must have known that she did not provide a holder for the test tubes so they had to be capped and laid on their sides after each one was filled.

That does not seem particularly difficult until you realize that it takes at least four hands to perform the basic procedure: The first hand has to hold two pair of pants and a zipper or the entire work area can get messy; the second hand needs to attend the dispenser itself, which is no simple task in that situation; the third hand is for holding the test tubes; and the fourth hand is for putting the caps on the little containers after they are filled. As I took the collection of receptacles, I was disappointed to realize nobody was going to lend me a hand.

First, I tried to empty my reservoir a bit to relieve some of the pressure, but I didn’t want to run out of fluid so a confusing game of stop and start ensued. Drip, squirt, dibble, splash, squeeze! Then the real fun began.

The next thing to do was figure out which hand was going to do what. Since there were so many jobs to do, and only two hands to perform them all, there were several possibilities; but, none of them makes sense unless you happen to be a juggler. Eventually, a half-baked strategy was adopted. Then it was time to assume “the position.”

I stood there, nearly-straddling a porcelain God, in an attempt to prevent any overflow from flooding the floor and creating yet another embarrassing problem. I thought about magicians who tell us that the hand is faster than the eye, and I was hoping they are correct. I summoned all of the concentration I could generate and began the impractical mission.

Once the process was underway, it was nearly impossible to dispense the proper quantity of liquid into the shot glass-sized cup. If you release the pressure too suddenly, your cup might runneth over and produce a big mess. On the other hand, it is equally difficult for men to ooze on demand, unless they have a prostate problem, but that is a different matter.

I grabbed one of the test tubes and filled it completely; too completely. Just then I thought I heard giggling out in the hall. I wondered if I was the subject of one of those TV shows that takes pleasure in catching people off guard.

Somehow, I eventually accomplished the goal, but I “had to” wash my hands and clean off that first test tube. I examined my clothes, and all was well, so I handed the containers to the nurse. I wanted to wash my hands again. I wondered how often she washes hers.

I did learn one important lesson from all of this: The next time I have to perform this unseemly ritual, I will take a feminine approach and sit down.

Contrary to what you might think, I tell you all of this for a reason. Prior to today, I would have never guessed that I would have a weirder story about peeing than the one I just shared. But today my wife and I actually attended a joint-venture peeing party…with somebody else.

Our job was to observe our third partner while she was in the act and upon the predetermined signal we converged on our victim. I held her still and Patty made her pee…you guessed it in a cup.

You see we have just adopted a beautiful Golden Lab/Golden Retriever mix named Gracie. We took the 3-year old young lady to the vet to make certain that there are no heart worms or other hidden problems. The first thing the vet needed was a urine sample.

So there we were, the three of us: A golden dog on a very short leash, a fat old dude following her around the yard and the old dude’s favorite female…cup in hand, poised and ready. Our little exercise would have won the grand prize on America’s Funniest Home Video. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long. The unsuspecting canine assumed the position and Patty seized the opportunity.

A couple hours later all of the necessary samples were delivered to the vet and it appears a new phase in our lives has begun. More about Gracie to follow.

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91 and a Prisoner in His Own Home

The feeble old man reached out his thin and quivering hand; black and blue from his tired and ailing circulation system of 91 years. He is confined to a wheelchair now because his right leg was amputated just above the knee following a recent incident with a blood clot. The worn out old-timer has few pleasures anymore. Weak and somber, he has outlived two wives, eight brothers and sisters and one of his own children. His body and mind are so tired they belie the man he once was.

Decades earlier, a dozen talented men worked for the old timer and they were happy to do so because he treated them with respect. He was their leader, their provider, their friend. After work his crew and their families gathered at the boss’s home to wash down a few beers. Occasionally they would fetch pizzas from their favorite neighborhood eatery, but more often than not, the old man’s wife cooked Italian food or burritos for them all. They talked and laughed away many fun-filled evenings. The following morning the men would return to begin another day’s work and the pattern would be repeated. This went on for at least a generation, and so, without even trying the old man and his wife created a lifetime of memories for a parade of grateful followers.

The Colorado Mountains provided many opportunities for the old man, his wife and their friends to enjoy ice-cold streams, natural lakes and man-made reservoirs. On most weekends a caravan of campers and used motor-homes followed the old man and his wife to their favorite fishing holes. The old timer was a skilled fisherman, but rumor has it, the old man’s wife was even better. After a day of Extreme Trout Fishing, the hodgepodge of characters gathered around the campfire for marshmallows, hot dogs and trout that were so fresh they nearly flopped around in the skillet. After dinner, a friendly game of penny-ante poker, near a campfire, provided the entertainment. Naturally, the old man and his wife provided a few beers to anybody who wanted them.

Even as the passing years stole pieces of the old timer’s youth, he could still pitch horseshoes like the city champ he once was. Nobody could beat him, except the kids for some strange reason. Occasionally, the old man or his friends would rent a boat or ride motor bikes, but mostly their greatest pleasures came from collecting friends like a powerful spring storm accumulates rain drops.

We all know that all good things come to an end and so it is with the “good ol’ days” of the old-timer and his wife. Now those wonderful decades are nothing more than a faded memory in the idle mind of one old man. He is the last one standing, or should I say sitting – in his cold, leathery wheel chair.

A long time ago the old man and his friends enclosed a long porch, with a tall ceiling, that was attached to the old man’s home. They had no idea that simple project would provide the receptacle for the December of the old-timer’s life. Now, he resides, if you want to call it that, backed into a corner of the elongated room.

A sturdy, custom-made wheel-chair ramp has been constructed in the middle of the room to provide access to the remainder of his old brick home. But, the narrow room and the landing at the top of the ramp are too small for the ill-fitted contraption, so it is clumsy and painfully ineffective. To compound matters, the old man lacks sufficient strength to negotiate the pitch of the ramp or the impossible left-turn into the kitchen that is necessary at the top of the climb. So, in an ironic twist, both he and his chair are held hostage by the very ramp that was intended to provide access to a life outside of what has become his personal prison not unlike that of real senior prisoners.

That damn ramp is much like an unfriendly drunk: Obnoxious and in the way. Surly and mean, it seems to take pleasure in tripping the old man’s guests. On several occasions unsuspecting victims have fallen off of its menacing sides and cursed it as new bruises laid claim to various parts of their bodies. Whenever somebody introduces the idea of removing the defiant ramp, the old man rejects the idea as if it might rise from its own grave to haunt those who played a role in its demise. So it stays there, in the way, provoking the sane.

Since he has no real freedom, he depends on others for any mobility. The old one has gathered a brass bell which he rings whenever he needs assistance. He looks upon his phone and his bed-pan as company. He has not taken a shower or a traditional bath in over a year; those being replaced by sponge baths in his hospital-type bed. There is an electric fireplace just a few feet away. He wears layers of mismatched, but warm, clothes and backs up to the fireplace because he is always cold due to his poor circulation, which is yet another deficiency, which he and many seniors cannot escape.

The primary entry door to the enclosed back porch is at the opposite end of the old man’s quarters. There is also a nearly-antique heat-stove that the old man installed when he and his friends enclosed the space. To this day that reliable old cast-iron stove works so well it could chase Satan himself away. The old man has always enjoyed throwing logs in that old wood burner. It had become a sort of entertainment and comfort for him, especially after the death of his wife.

Like so many other innate objects, that old stove has replaced the human friends in the old timer’s life: friends that the old man once gathered like dust on a windowsill…but, the evil ramp has ruined that too. It separates him from his pot-bellied buddy and prevents him from feeding it the firewood it very much craves. In desperation, the old one prods his visitors to stuff it for him as if it will die like a house-plant that is deprived of life-giving water.

But clearer minds realize that it gets so hot in that room it seems unsafe, so they will not always accommodate his wishes. Eventually, somebody always ends up uncomfortable: The old man cannot get warm enough and the visitors are at risk of succumbing to heat stroke. In the end, the old stove has also let him down.

Sometimes family members will assist the old-timer so that he can temporarily visit the rest of his home for a few minutes, but the worthless ramp is nearly as difficult for them to ascend as it is for him. The upstairs, which is the destiny of the climb, is barely worth the trip. The home has not been remodeled, or even painted, for nearly two decades. Old fixtures, knickknacks and mementos fill outdated tables and walls. The curtains are both too dirty and too old. The living room carpeting was tired long before the old man’s wife died, which was nearly eight years ago. The bedroom in which they once slept is lonely, sterile, and dark. The bathroom, once colorful, bright and cheery, has become sadly gaudy.

Each time the old timer takes that short trip he is confronted with sad disappointment. Once upon a time, the upstairs area of his home was filled with the hustle of activities but now it is like an old train station that once escorted the masses to-and-fro, but has become nothing more than a faded ghost of its former purpose. Realizing there is no joy to be had upstairs, the old man hangs his head and resigns himself to the fact he must return to that cold enclosed porch back down the ramp; his cell.

The old-timer does not like the television or radio and his eyesight makes it impossible to read. He just sits there behind the menacing ramp, staring. Nobody knows what he is thinking. Is it the glorious past, the dubious present or is he secretly yearning to join “his people” in the afterlife? Or, is his tired old mind just floating aimlessly on cruise control? Whatever his thoughts, there can be no doubt: He is hopelessly bored and lonely like so many others like him. Naturally, his family has offered to relocate him to friendlier surroundings, but he would rather cling to the uncomfortable remnants of his past than face the uncertainty of a new enviornment.

Sadly, the old man’s story is not unique. It is the journey of many seniors. They either die or become lonely as all of their friends disappear around them, one by one. Where eyes once sparkled, sadness takes over. Aches and pains and doctor’s appointments have replaced the pleasant activities of their former lives. Worse yet, they have forfeited their future.

They like to talk about the good old days because that allows them to take temporary refuge both from their bleak present moments and their scarier future. And so it is with this particular old man. He sits there, confined and lonely, yearning for the good ol’ days.

About all that matters to him now are the occasional visits from his younger family members and keeping that fire going. These are among the few things that still give him a hint of pleasure.

As I shook his quivering hand all of these things raced through my mind as they do most times when I visit him. I tried to act cheerful because it seems to perk him up.

I know the above to be true because I have been bringing this man his firewood for many years. I do not charge him for the wood because I owe him a great debt. Besides, I love him. For you see, the old man is my step-father. Not surprisingly, he has always treated me much better than he has to, just like he treated everybody else.

His wife was my mother.

I am forever indebted to them both.

Comments Welcomed

This Is Hannah

My wife, Patty, and a small group of her high-school buddies have formed a quilting club. They have been getting together once per month for several years. Sometimes they compare what they have been working on, other times they all work on one project. Occasionally they each make a baby quilt which they give away to needy families, and sometimes they just enjoy each other’s company.

About a year ago, one of the women read a book about Hanna, who was an infant in a concentration camp during WWII. Many years later, Hannah had lived a remarkable life that has proved a great inspiration for others. The book was about her marvelous journey.

One of Patty’s quilting pals got a copy of the book and discovered that Hannah lived in a nearby Colorado town. After a little research and effort the group made contact with the elder Hannah. A meeting was set up between them and a fh was antastic idea was hatched. The quilters wanted to make a memory quilt which would identify all of the fascinating experiences she had. Naturally they wanted to give Hannah the quilt as a symbol of their respect.

Once that was agreed, the quilters wanted to know everything about Hannah. They were honored to take her to lunch to discuss the details. Once the story was clear the gifted quilters went to work, each one taking on a different role and a different part of the project. One of Hannah’s primary homes was a common theme depicted.

Eventually, the one-of-a-king piece of art was completed and the ladies entered it ina quilting contest about quilts with a story. They all gathered to share the glory of their combined efforts. Hannah had a brand new hand-made quilt as a symbol of her life and the new friends that she had made.

A few months later, a weird phone call was received. It revealed that the charming Hannah had accomplished a lot more than the ladies ever knew, but not the particular things they thought. She was even a a part of the activities at Holocaust Week at the Universit of Colorado. (April 22) She had been convicted of fraud. She never was in a concentration camp and her whole story was a giant lie. Before anybody could catch up to her, she packed up her bags and disappeared into the night with a brand new quilt - a quilt created by truly extraordinary women.

Hannah’s real name is Rosemarie Pence. The writer of the book, Jean M., can’t help but feel partially responsible for perpetuation the lies about the 71 year old con woman: but Jean is just one of many who followed the string of lies. For more details visit the story as told in the Longmont newspaper, the Times Call.

whaddya think?