Head To Toe

HEAD TO TOE Eyes, Ears, Nose and Throat

 

 

 

I have always been keenly aware that diabetics can

run into eye problems, so I try to take care of myself the

best I can, and I think I’ve done pretty good.

I had since become a patient of Dr. Doreen Fazio,

and in May, 2019, I mentioned to her that I was having

trouble focusing with my left eye, and after a few tests,

she suggested I see a retina specialist. An appointment

with Dr. Michael Javaheri confirmed what I really didn’t

want to hear: Age related Macular Degeneration (AMD)

and what his plan for treatment was. The retina was

swollen and leaking (making it “wet” AMD) and if I

didn’t have the treatment, I’d go blind.

The treatment involves injections to the eye that

will help the swelling go down so I scheduled an

appointment to have the treatment done. I was told the

treatment may have to be once a month…for the rest of

my life. This was a scary prospect but I really had no

choice.

 
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Seeing through a “macular degenerated” eye is like

looking in a fun-house mirror without the chance of

escaping. Straight lines are wavy, writing is slanted. I

would have failed A DMV eye test. Reading is out.

So far I’ve had 5 injections and slow as it may be,

the healing is happening. Will I ever STOP the shots?

Probably not, but instead of once a month, perhaps once

every two. The last doctor’s appointment cleared me for

2 months follow up so there is hope. That’s all I have, is

the hope.

How in the hell did I manage to get through this

ordeal with my eyes? Certainly the love and support of

my family, Carlos, of course, and people like Michael

Graham. Good people caring for good people. That's

what it is about.

My last treatment was October, 2019. I was

scheduled for a 2 month follow up and in January, he told

me everything looks good and another 8 weeks follow up

 
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in March. The appointment for March was canceled

because of the coronavirus that has attacked the world, so

another follow is scheduled for May. That visit with Dr. J

showed no further treatments at this time, and to come

back in 3 months.

 
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HEAR, HEAR!

(I wish I could)

So the news about my eyes really did bring music

to my ears. Funny how some idioms work their way into

segues, huh?

And music. I have always depended on my

music...either listening or singing or performing...to see

me through dark times.

A lot of credit goes to the chorus as well because

with music, nothing can go wrong. Ever.

And speaking of music: If someone says, “That’s

music to my ears”, truly it is saying that you are

experiencing something pleasant.

One of the five senses of the human body is

hearing. The body is a remarkable machine. It amazes

me that all of the years that the body functions it does so

with a minimum amount of care or repair. I believe that

when something does go wrong, and I mean really

 
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wrong, it is devastating to have that body part repaired or

replaced.

As long as I can remember, music has been my

life. You can only imagine how I would have gone

through life unable to hear. I suppose that if I was born

deaf it would be a different story. Luckily, that was not

the case. I remember when I was about five years old,

my aunt gave me an accordion that I’d just loved to hear.

I can close my eyes and picture me playing that

accordion so many years ago. The first song I ever

learned on that 12 bass accordion was “My Dog Towser”.

I didn't even know how to read music at that time, but I

do remember the beautiful sounds that the accordion

made.

As I grew older, my mother and father and my

grandmother all pitched in to buy me a red and white

accordion that was full size. I guess I showed some kind

of interest in that instrument because I played it for many

 
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many years.  

I would hear a song on the radio and try to

imitate the song on the accordion. I liked to play things

my way and not the way the music was written. They

say I had an ear for my music.

I can remember when I was in the third grade and

there was a show-and-tell it in my class, and my teacher

allowed…nay, encouraged… me to bring my accordion

to school and play. I don’t know what I enjoyed more:

the music that I would play or my showing off in front of

the class. Maybe a little of both. During that time of my

life, I believe I wanted to be the center of attention and

one of the ways I knew how to be the center of attention

was with my music.

I really enjoyed playing the accordion because I

think it is one of those instruments that people say, “God,

how do you play that thing??” because that showed an

interest on their part and drew more attention to me

which I ate up. I don’t know if I wanted all that attention

 
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because I was lonely or because I was a ham. I really do

not remember being lonely as a child but I do remember

wanting to be the center of attention and being a ham as

much as I could.

I guess from the time we are born we learn to take

things for granted in our lives. We learned to accept the

way we are through training and through self assessment.

I remember as a child I always wanted to be taller than I

was that but as the years progressed I learned that I

wouldn’t be. I learned to accept my disease as being a

diabetic, I learned to accept the fact that although I was

not ugly, I wasn’t extraordinarily handsome, and I believe

that taught me to accept other people the way they were.

I have never had problems with my hearing

throughout my younger years, my adolescent years, and

my adult years. It seems that I never had a problem of

hearing, but sometimes I had a problem listening. Don’t

we all?

 
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I remember in grade school and in junior high

school I sang with various ensembles and it just seemed

that music took my troubles away if only for a brief

moment or two. And then when I went to high school,

the first thing that I wanted to do was to sign up for the

high school a cappella choir. As I was growing up, I

remember listening to Mitch Miller and his band, Fred

Waring and his Pennsylvanians, and the Johnny Mann

singers. The rich deep tones that these choruses were

singing were something that I really wanted to be a part

of. Since I could not join any of these groups, the high

school choir was my next best thing.

I remember taking great pride in being a part of the

high school choir at William Howard Taft High School in

Woodland Hills. I can remember excelling in choir,

always receiving an “A” every semester. Somehow I had

found my niche in school. I sang with approximately 100

voices and the sounds that we made were absolutely

 
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incredible.  

You would never know that what you are

listening to was a high school choir of students who were

no more than 17 years old. We would put on productions

several times during the year for the school. We would

assemble in the auditorium and put on musicals and sing

songs from different Broadway shows. It was probably

one of the fastest classes I had all day. When class was

over at 10 minutes after 10:00 AM, I could not wait for

the next day to come back and do what all over again. I

remember our choir teacher, George Turner, who at that

time must have been in his sixties. I say that looking

back realistically; although when I was in school I

thought he must’ve been 85 if not older. I don’t

remember how many kids in the class liked him or not,

but he was very musical and always knew what he

wanted. That class just seemed like a natural for me.

 
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Grab the wheel, Mike. You’re swerving. I know

this chapter is not supposed to be about music, but I’m

leading up to things.

After I graduated from high school and entered

college, the first class I wanted to join was the college

choir. Even though I was only 18 when I started college,

the choir just seemed to call out to me. I remember my

first day of college choir. The instructor was Marian

Vree... I will never forget that name because the way she

put it to us the first day of class was “if you have trouble

remembering my name, just remember ‘the best things in

life are Vree’ ”. That would have been the time for me to

say, “Uh….I work alone…”

She was a brilliant lady who also knew what she

wanted. Now I am starting to see something in

musicians: Perfection and meticulous performance.

I remember during college choir at Christmas time

we learned Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” and when we

 
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performed that with a full orchestra, I could not believe

that I was in a choir like this being a part of the sound

that we produced.

As I left college and went out into the real world,

my music and my performing were a very big part of my

life.

During my early years of being married at 22 years

old, there were times that I literally ached for people to

sing to. I learned how to play the guitar, and I got

hooked on something new called karaoke. Unless you

lived under a rock, you know what karaoke is. For those

of you who do live under a rock, karaoke is musical

backgrounds for songs that you enjoy singing and

particularly in the arrangements you are used to.

I started to accumulate karaoke music to the point

where I now have probably 600 different songs many of

which... most of which... I have sung in public or

recorded in a studio for the 15 albums I have made.

 
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I can remember being in the recording studio with

headphones on, listening to the music, and singing along

with it. I felt like I was in a concert hall performing to

1000 people. I remember the deep rich tones that I could

hear in the headphones and the engineer would mix my

voice with the orchestra and at times it felt like I had died

and gone to heaven.

Over the years, I have recorded 15 albums. Those

albums range anywhere from rock and roll to religious to

country and every time I went into the studio to record, I

would usually cut an album in a day. I did not eat, I did

not drink, I did not go to the bathroom. OK so maybe I

did drink a little bit to keep my voice lubricated and

relaxed.

I clearly remember in 1992 when a friend of mine

from church wanted to be a part of a barbershop quartet

for a social that the church was having on the church

lawn. His love of music was equal to mine and we were

 
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able to locate a barbershop chorus through his uncle who

sang barbershop. We drove one Tuesday evening to

Newhall to see if we can recruit somebody to sing the

other two parts that we needed for this social.

When we got the chorus that was made up of

around 45 people and we heard the sounds that they

made, we were hooked. Once again I felt like I was in a

place where I belonged. We went up there to find two

people who would sing barbershop quartet with us and

we ended up joining the chorus. We managed to find

those other two people who would sing a quartet with us.

We loved it so much that four of us got together on a

regular basis and we had a barbershop quartet named

“What Happened to Bob?”

As the years went on, we ended up leaving the

chorus. I joined another chorus down in the San

Fernando Valley. Throughout the years I spent with the

Valleyaires, I became an integral part of the chorus and at

 
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times I served as board member, section leader, assistant

director, director, and attended many functions. Once

again I found my niche and was a well respected board

member, director and musician in the chorus. Since all

my life I had such high regard for the music that I heard

and music I made, it was only natural that when I was a

director of the chorus, I insisted on perfection. All that

perfection paid off because we won many awards for our

sound; to sometimes as a member, sometimes as their

director.

In just a few short pages you can see what music

has meant to me all my life. Of course, you depend on

your hearing to be involved in this much music.

Here is where the music stopped: In April, 2001,

the 5th of April to be exact, I woke up with what I thought

was an ear infection. I did not panic because I have had

ear infections before, so I called my doctor first thing that

morning and told him what was happening. Rather than

 
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having me come in to see him, he called a prescription

for amoxicillin to the pharmacist because what I

described to him sounded like an ear infection. Because

he was my doctor for so many years, he didn’t feel the

need for me to come in for examination.

For some unknown reason, I had lost my hearing

in my left ear. Not only did I lose my hearing, I

developed tinnitus. Now for those of you who do not

know what that is, it is a condition that produces a

ringing or buzzing in the ear when no outside source is

present. Some people have this condition so severely

that they contemplate suicide. I suppose I’m not at that

point yet otherwise I would not be writing this.

The many weeks that passed showed me that this

is not going to go away. After a week of no response to

the antibiotic, my doctor arranged for an appointment

with an ear specialist. Three weeks later, I was at a

 
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specialist’s office in Glendale. I had become worried

about this that the problem wouldn’t go away.

I was diagnosed with a permanent sensorineural

hearing loss. The cochlear hairs in my ear had become

destroyed and it didn’t appear they would be corrected. I

was doomed.

FAST FORWARD: It had been 14 years since I

developed this hearing condition. You can imagine what

it has done to me all these years not to be able to hear

properly, not to be able to participate in musical

situations. My hearing and listening and singing days

appeared to have come to a close. As much as I love my

music, that stopped, and very abruptly. I could no longer

enjoy conversations, television, movies…you know, the

things in life that everyone takes for granted. Hearing

aids were out of the question for several reasons: I was

very self conscious about wearing them, and really all

 
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they did was amplify sounds and that was more irritating

than the tinnitus. It really wasn’t an option at this point.

I had not been in a recording studio for many years

and wondered if that would ever happen again.

It didn’t.

In 2014 I got the bug to record again. I just had to

bite the bullet and try as best I could. I still had my right

ear that wasn’t causing any problems. I was afraid to put

a set of headphones on for fear of what I’d sound like or

what music sounded like to me.

I started searching for some music, an album title,

photography, etc. I wanted an album of songs that I didn’t

have to learn, and songs that didn’t require much in the

way of preparation. I had not recorded since 1998 so this

was a big step for me. I love recording, I love

performing.

 
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The album was titled, “When Sings The Heart”

and included a mixture of love songs that I had learned

throughout my life and were meaningful to me.

I had commissioned a friend who I’d known for a

number of years who had a studio in his home. I met with

him several times recording a couple songs each time I

went over. I decided to stop using him because it had to

be on his time, even though I was paying him for this. He

had schedules to keep and we just couldn’t make it work.

When I wanted to record, he wasn’t available. When he

was, I wasn’t.

The final decision came when I listened to one of

the mixes on “How Deep Is The Ocean” which I had

chosen to open the album…to set the pace for everything

else. He mixed it in such a way that he took the entire

introduction out, thinking it “sounded better” which of

course was not his prerogative nor decision to make.

 
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I decided to spend some money on equipment and

software and do this totally on my own. I felt I was

intelligent enough to do this, to manage the microphone,

to learn the software.

I had set everything up in the kitchen, and about

11:00 one Friday evening, began to record. There were

several songs I knew wouldn’t make it to the album but I

was using them for testing purposes to be sure I was

doing everything right.

One of those songs was “Cry Me A River” and

when I finished it and mixed it down, I thought it

sounded pretty good. I listened over and over again, until

I was sick of the song. I sent it to several friends, and also

to Carlos for their opinion, for the proofing, if you will,

and everyone came back saying it sounded really good,

especially the crickets in the background for the “river”

effect.

There were no crickets in the background!

 
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Well…yes there were. I sent only the music tracks

to them, then only the vocal tracks, to see if the sound

they heard (and that I did not because of my hearing) was

on the music track or when I did the actual recording. It

turns out it was on the vocal track, which told me that

when I recorded so late at night, the sensitive microphone

picked up the sounds of crickets in the backyard!

Funny as it may sound now, it wasn’t then, and it

disturbed me that I was not able to hear it. I decided that

any further recording would have to be done in another

part of the house and not late at night.

I brought the laptop (my “studio”) into the

bathroom, set up shop, and began trying to record from

there. Oddly enough, it seemed to work, so the entire

album was recorded in the bathroom. This was my new

recording studio and I felt comfortable enough that more

albums were on the way.

Key word: “were…” Keep that in mind.

 
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It’s very difficult, nearly impossible, to adjust to

the loss of one’s senses. I really tried to adjust to my

hearing issues; the loss, the tinnitus…so it was important

for me to try and make music. I had to. When I

discovered that the album was coming along, it made me

feel good about myself and that not only could I produce

a sound that was ok, I was able to learn the hardware and

software with no teaching…and no instruction manuals.

This album wasn’t an audition for anything and I

wasn’t doing it for anyone but myself. I succeeded in

that, and of course, it made me hungry for more. I started

planning for the next album, “Live From The Bathroom”

which would actually be a “rock ‘n roll” album, volume

2. Volume 1 was recorded back in the 80’s with songs

from the 50’s and 60’s that I really enjoyed. It just

seemed like a natural place for me to be: Inside a

recording studio, or in this case, inside a bathroom.

Technology advances, you know…

 
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“When Sings The Heart” was released on June 21,

2014, on my mom’s 93rd birthday. She was living in an

assisted living complex by then, and she was still able to

hear the album and enjoy it. The last song on the album

was “You’ll Never Know) and when I played that for her,

she sang along. (Sang. That’s a good one. Mom couldn’t

carry a tune if it were in a basket.)

Months would go by with my getting ready to

record again. Songs were being chosen, pictures were

being decided upon for the album cover. I was well under

way to start another project after the holidays. I felt good.

On January 22, 2015, my 68th birthday, I once

again woke with another hearing issue, this time in my

right ear. Once again, overnight, and severe. Worse than

the left side 14 years before. I panicked because it was

my only good ear; the one I depended on for everything.

Music. Television. Telephone. People. Life.

 
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A quick call to my doctor to arrange an urgent

appointment with an ENT found me in an ENT office

within a day. I visited Marc Cohen, the ENT doctor who

has since become my specialist of choice with my

hearing. He said also that this is the same condition as

my left ear so many years ago. He offered little, if any,

hope for a recovery. Sounds became muffled; music

became noise. Movies with explosions were unbearable.

Television was out of the question. Closed captions

became my best friend.

I received an authorization to see the House Ear

Clinic in Los Angeles and visited with Dr. John House (I

always went for the top guy….) and he said basically the

same thing. Nothing can be done. At one point he

suggested a cochlear implant…if I was a candidate…but

the idea of surgery and a clamp-type device on my head

was not appealing to me. Besides that, he said, it may not

 
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work, and may even cause further damage. I’ve since

decided no.

I was fitted for hearing aids at Costco a couple

years ago, and to be honest, I hate them. They amplify

the sounds, yes, but everything is distorted and muffled

to the point that it’s disturbing to even try and hear with

them. I don’t feel at all intimidated by saying I have a

hearing loss, especially when talking on the phone. I have

to speak through the handset speaker in order to hear

anything at all.

Look at this chapter: Well over 50 pages and we’re

just on eyes and ears!

 
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WHO NOSE?

There really isn’t much I can say about my nose.

Well, there is, but we’ll let the nose jokes alone.

I was probably a teenager when I was busy making

my skateboard out of a 2 x 4 and roller skates. Picture a

two foot 2 x 4, completely raw. Then you take a

shoe-skate (the kind with the metal wheels and the crank

on the side that only a skate key would tighten and loosen

them. Not like the skateboards the kids have today; the

streamline model with the fancy paint jobs and the

custom made wheels. I remember lining the skates up

with the edge of the wood, and taking big ole’ nails and

pounding them into the wood, and when both ends of the

2 x 4 had skates on them, it was done. I wasn’t getting

the wheels on the wood right which meant I had to take

my trusty hammer and remove the nails, reposition the

skates, and start over.

 
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I wasn’t terribly bright when it came to tools so

when it came time to remove the nails (and we’re talking

big nails, not “picture hanging” sissy nails. We’re talking

big, mean MAN nails) I had to remove them with the

claw end of the hammer. You all know what that is.

These nails were about 2” long and very thick. They were

typically used for construction and not really designed to

hold skates on a piece of wood for a kid to use as a

skateboard.

Once a nail that size is embedded in a piece of

wood like that, the best thing to do would be to cut the

end off and start over. But I didn’t know that then, so I

take the end of the hammer (designed for nail

removal…the “claw”) and try like hell to take out the

nails. The first couple of nails came out pretty good. I

was getting confident about this, so when I went to

remove the other nails, not realizing how deep they were

and how strong those nails were, I started to struggle with

 
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that pesky claw end of the hammer and the resistant and

reluctant nail.

I pulled; I twisted, I struggled. Nothing.

Just as I am getting the upper hand of this, the

hammer slips off the head of the nail, and I pound that

hammer directly into the bridge of my nose.

I believe I cried at the pain I just caused myself.

Nose bleeding, me screaming, I ran into the house to an

angry mother who wanted to know what stupid thing I

did that caused this.

I explained the skates, the wood, etc, and she

wasn’t really happy about deciding that I need to go to

the doctor.

X-rays showed that the blow to the nose (I

know….blow…nose…) caused the nose to break at the

bridge. I know the nose is cartilage and not bone, but

nonetheless, I had a broken nose. Insert “smell” jokes

here.

 
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I know that broken body parts generally require a

cast, so you can imagine the questions I had for the

doctor as to how they’re going to put a cast on my nose. I

didn’t know better. He explained to me that they don’t

cast “noses or toeses”…and with that, he taped my nose

and put gauze in my nostrils (to stop the bleeding) and

off I went.

Needless to say I looked absolutely hysterical.

That tape stayed on for a couple weeks while my nose

healed. I wonder what taping a nose really does to

encourage healing…I wonder.

 
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SWALLOW…..

Not much has ever happened to my throat other

than occasional colds and sore throats, and the infrequent

(but so welcomed by others…) laryngitis. People used to

love it when I couldn’t talk. I never knew why…though I

do now.

Just very recently (well, 2012) I had planned to

sing at my step-father’s memorial service, and the

Monday before it, I started coming down with a cold. I

thought it was a cold. The memorial service was to be

held on the following Saturday in our backyard, hosting

about 75 people.

As the week went on, I thought it would be best to

see a doctor and get some antibiotics before the weekend.

That Thursday, the doctor confirmed that my now totally

silent voice was in fact bronchitis. When I say I couldn’t

speak, I truly could not utter a word. I was loved by the

world.

 
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It was important to me to be able to sing at his

gathering. I loved to sing, I loved to share my music with

anyone. Now I’m being silenced by a viral infection that

left me voiceless. Not only could I not sing, I could not

speak, and I was the one conducting this memorial. I

really felt like I had let him down. I had the microphone

all set up, and the sound carried well in the backyard. But

I couldn’t utter much, and singing was out of the

question.

The best I could do was play a pre-recorded

version of the song I wanted to do: “Till

Tomorrow”…and I thought perhaps I could lip-sync it.

But people would have known.

Instead, I played the pre-recorded version and just

sat down. It was very disappointing because I really

wanted to do this for Mom and the guests, but mostly for

myself.

 
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So here we are: 2020, no hearing, no further

enjoyment of the sounds that bring the world closer

together. Without the hearing aids, I live in a world of

silence. When I tell people it’s devastating, they say,

“boy, I hear ya!”

But I don’t.

 
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HEAD TO TOE The Mind Is A Terrible Thing to Waste

 

I  often  wondered  how  my  mind  would  age.  I  am 

finding  more  often  now  that  as  I  age,  I  am  forgetting 

things.  Nothing  Alzheimer’s,  mind  you  (but  don’t  think 

that  hasn’t  been  thought  of)  but  things  lately  have 

bothered  me:  Am  I  going  to  suffer  another heart attack? 

A  stroke?  It  happened  to  both  my  parents  in  their  late 

years and I watched them suffer. Something I don’t want 

my family to have to do, and certainly not my husband. 

When  I was younger, and considerably healthier, I 

really  never  gave  my  mind  or  my  brain  much  thought. 

They  were  just  there,  doing  what they’re supposed to be 

doing  and not causing any problems. You know, the way 

life should work. 

I used to work in my younger years; Orange Julius, 

a  few  banks,  a  department  store,  a  donut  shop,  large 

companies  and until I retired, I really gave no thought to 

how my brain and mind was working. 

As  I  age,  though,  now  into  my  70s,  I  get 

concerned.  Maybe  it’s  a  normal  thing  at  this  age,  but  I 

 
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seem to forget things I shouldn’t be forgetting. Oh, I still 

remember  friends  and  their  names  and  I  still  remember 

how to drive and where I’m going. 

Sometimes. (insert LOL here) 

There  are  times  when  I  am  out,  I  forget  what  I 

went out for, and where I’m going next. Normally I don’t 

write  things  down  but  lately I’ve found that I need to do 

that  or  else  I’ll  forget.  Sometimes  I’ll  forget  where  I’ve 

gone; sometimes I’ll forget to fix dinner, or what there is 

to  fix.  So  far I’m just calling this Old Timers rather than 

Alzheimer’s  but  it  does  concern  me.  My  dad  suffered 

from a stroke many years ago but all it did was leave him 

blind in one eye and no other issues. My mom had some 

mini  strokes  in  2008  and  recovered  nicely.  In  2011  she 

had  a  major  stroke  that  left  her  another  woman.  One  I 

didn’t  know.  She  was  left  a  woman  who  was  very 

combative  with  people  who  were  trying to help her. She 

wouldn’t buy into the stroke; she felt nothing was wrong. 

Nothing  wrong  with  her  mental  status,  nothing  wrong 

 
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with  the  way  she  was  treating  people.  I  am  not  feeling 

those  pangs  that  she  felt  and  I  think  I’m  still  in a stable 

mode…but I worry about what can happen. 

I  had  a  heart  attack  and  4  way  bypass  surgery  in 

1996  with  no  issues  since  then,  but  with  my  heart 

weakened  and  my  chronic  diabetes,  there’s  no  telling 

what can happen upstairs. 

I  often  go  to  bed  at  night  wondering  what  may 

happen  during  my  sleep…especially  when  I’m  alone 

without  Carlos.  It  scares  me.  To  the  point  that  I  take  a 

5mg  of  Ambien  each  night  to  ease  me  into  sleep  and  it 

seems  to  work,  even  though  I  do  wake  up  during  the 

night.  I  don’t  remember  the  last  night  I  had  a  full 

complete night’s sleep. 

At  times  I  think  to  myself,  “what  happens  if”? 

How  will  I react? Will I be able to summon help? Will I 

remember  what  I’m  supposed  to  remember?  Will  I 

remember  who  Carlos  is?”  Towards  the  end  of  her  life, 

Mom  didn’t  know  who  we  were;  she  would  think  I was 

 
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her father; she didn’t remember her children’s names, and 

even with me looking at her face to face, she had no idea 

who I was. That was such a blow. 

That’s  what  I  don’t  want.  I  don’t  want  to  go  that 

way.  I  don’t  want  my  children  to  come  and  see  me  and 

have  me  go,  “who  are  you?” or God forbid Carlos visits 

with me and I ask who HE is. 

So  far  I  seem  to  be  doing OK, but like the title of 

the  chapter  says,  “The  Mind  Is  A  Terrible  Thing  to 

Waste” 

Sometimes when I’m out driving I visualize having 

a  stroke,  all  by  myself,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do. 

What  will  a  stroke  do  to  me?  Will  it  be  mild?  Strong? 

Disabling? Will I be able to talk? Write? Think? Live? 

Last  night  I was telling Carlos that my life isn’t in 

a  real happy place right now. I can’t do the things I used 

to  do;  I’m  older  now  and  sometimes  I  feel  my  health  is 

deteriorating  to  the  point  that  I  may  not  make  it  much 

further.  Other  times  I  feel  on  top  of  the  world.  But  last 

 
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night,  I  just  felt  like  my  health  was  taking  over.  I  don’t 

have  fun  anymore;  I  can’t  get  around  like  I  used  to.  I 

spend a lot of time in my room watching game shows on 

TV  with  the  sound  streaming  into  my  hearing  aids.  The 

sound  is  tinny,  sometimes  distorted,  certainly  not 

enjoyable.  I  can't  enjoy  music  anymore  because  of  my 

ears.  I  can't  enjoy  concerts.  Movies.  Conversations. 

Sometimes  I  even  wonder  why  I’m  still  around,  to  be 

honest.  

I’m  not  feeling  sorry  for  myself  or  getting 

depressed,  though  you  couldn’t  tell  that  from  what  I’m 

writing.  Sometimes  I  think  we  all  get in frames of mind 

like  that and just wonder “what’s next?” or “when is this 

going to stop?”  

These  are  fears I have, and have had for a number 

of  months  now,  and  the  thought  of  mental  incapacity 

frightens me.  

It scares me to death. 

 
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This getting old crap is for the birds. Whoever said 

these  were  “golden  years”  should  be  shot.  All  I  can say 

is, never get old. 

It’s a trap. 

In  the  early  90s,  I  developed  a  pain  in  my  right 

shoulder.  A  dull  ache,  and  after  seeing  an  orthopedic 

doctor  at  Kaiser  (David  Kull,  M.D.)  he  diagnosed  it  as 

“bicep tendonitis”. We tried several treatments, exercises, 

any  type  of  non  surgical  means  to  help.  I  got  very  little 

relief from those treatments, and when it got bad enough 

that  I  couldn’t  put  a  shirt  or  jacket  on,  we  decided  the 

best thing to do was to bite the bullet and do the surgery. 

The  procedure  is  called  “bicep  tenodesis”  and  is 

performed under general anesthesia...a real operation...for 

the big boys. 

I  don’t  even remember the year, and it’s really not 

important  but  after  this  was  done,  I  was  no  sooner 

recovered  when  the  other  arm  started  acting  up.  I  knew 

fully  what  to  expect,  and  away  I  went  for  another 

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procedure.  These  were  probably  several  months  apart. 

These surgeries are pretty routine so I went through them 

well and recovered without a hitch. 

In early 1996 I began to not feel well. Could it be I 

was  stressed?  Could  it  be  work?  Could  it  be  the  flu? At 

that  time  I  was  being  seen  by  a  new  doctor,  Dr.  Jay 

Iinuma,  who  was  assigned  to  me  through  Cigna 

insurance. Jay and I seemed to click from day one. It was 

always a pleasure to go see him and speak openly. 

I  hadn’t  been with Dr. Iinuma for a long period of 

time  when,  on  April  3,  1996,  I  was  taken to urgent care 

suffering  from  what  I  thought  might  be  the flu. I was so 

ill  I  could  not  get  out  of  the  car  to  go  inside.  A 

wheelchair  was  brought  to  me,  and they hustled me into 

the office.  What happened went all too quickly. As I was 

being  examined  on  the  table,  I  started  having  extreme 

heartburn, followed by severe vomiting. 

I was diagnosed with RLL Pneumonia (right lower 

lobe,  I  find  out)  and  needed  to  be  hospitalized.  I  was 

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taken  to  St.  Joseph  Medical  Center  in  Burbank  for 

antibiotics  and  care.  I  figured  I’d  be there about a week, 

and could leave when I got better. 

Think again. 

While  there,  I  experienced  more  heartburn  and 

vomiting,  and  the  next  day,  a  doctor  I  had  never  seen 

before  came  in.  He  sat  down  calmly  and  said,  “the 

episodes of vomiting and heartburn are indicating a heart 

attack.” 

“A heart attack?? Are you sure??” 

“We  are.  And  we  are  transferring  you  to  Good 

Samaritan Hospital when you are stable enough to go.” 

This  started  to  concern...no,  worry...me.  What 

could Good Samaritan do that St. Joseph couldn’t? 

“It’s  one  of  the  finest  cardiac  hospitals  in  the 

country.  You’re  going  to  need  an  angiogram  to  see  how 

much damage this has caused.” 

I could NOT believe what I was hearing. 

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I  was  transferred  by  ambulance  to  Good 

Samaritan,  a  ride  that  lasted  about  45  minutes.  When  I 

got  there,  I  was  visited  by  yet  ANOTHER  doctor (gees, 

where  do  they  all  come  from??)  and  said  based  on  the 

tests and xrays, he is recommending an angiogram of my 

heart.  

Google  cardiac  angiogram  so  I  don’t  have  to 

explain it. 

I  was  able  to  watch  the  procedure  on  the  screen 

they  were  using,  and  the  doctor  was  pointing  out  the 

areas  he  suspected  were  blocked.  3  arteries  were  90% 

blocked, one artery was 75% blocked. 

“I  am  going  to  recommend  immediate  bypass 

surgery on you for at least 3 vessels, probably 4.” he said. 

WAIT  A  SECOND!  WHAT???  OPEN  HEART 

SURGERY? AT 49 YEARS OLD?? 

This  can’t  be.  It  just  can’t.  The  panic  set  in  and 

while  you’d  think  I  was  fearful  for  my  life at that point, 

the only thing I could think of were explicit stories I had 

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been  writing  and  that  if  I  died,  those  stories  would  be 

revealed and the whole world would know of a secret that 

only  I  knew.  I  was  more  concerned  with  that than I was 

about the surgery. 

The doctor came into my room that afternoon, and 

said  that  I’ve  been  cleared  for  a  4  way  bypass,  called  a 

Coronary  Artery  Bypass  Graft  (CABG)  for  4  vessels, 

(medically known as CABGX4). I was scheduled for this 

open heart surgery for 7:00 the next morning. 

That  evening,  my  hospital  room was overtaken by 

visitors:  My  mom,  Georgia,  my  mom’s  stepdaughter, 

Jeannette,  and  my  best  friend  Marla.  It  was  a  crowd  for 

such a small room. 

Thursday  morning,  April  11, 1996, I was wheeled 

into  surgery.  I  must  have  peed  my  britches  at  all  this.  I 

don’t know. Who cares? 

Surgery  lasted  till  about  noon,  and  I  was  taken  to 

intensive  care  for  recovery  and  recuperation.  Thursday 

afternoon  became  a  blur.  At  one  time  I  remember  them 

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getting  me  up  out  of  the  bed….the  day  of  surgery...and 

putting  me  in  a  chair.  My  brother  had  come  up  from 

Orange  County  to  be  with  me  because  it  scared  him  to 

death.  I  remember  sitting  in  the  chair,  literally  drooling 

and  being  so “out of it” I couldn’t function. Allen, Mom 

and Georgia were there seeing me through this. 

Saturday  morning  I  was  transferred  back  to  my 

room  and  to  continue  to  heal.  Sunday  I  remember  Rose 

Salter  and  Sharon  coming  to  visit me and we all walked 

down the hallway to the visitors room. 

The  staff  and  doctors  were  impressed  by  my 

recovery that they decided it was OK to go home the next 

day. 

I  came  home  Monday,  April  15  after  this  whole 

ordeal.  It  was  a  struggle  to  walk  up  the  3  steps  to  the 

house and start regaining my strength. 

That  week,  one  evening  during  the  night,  I had to 

get  up  to  go  to  the  bathroom,  and  when  I  came  back  to 

bed, I apparently looked into our closet door mirror (floor 

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to  ceiling  mirrored  doors)  and  saw  my  reflection,  and 

forgetting they were mirrors, thought someone was in the 

room with me. I almost had heart attack #2. 

As the weeks went by and I was in recovery, I was 

reminded  by  the  doctor  that  I  need  to  keep  active  and 

continue  to  walk.  I  knew  how important this was so one 

beautiful  spring  day,  late  morning,  I  started  on  my  trek 

around  the  neighborhood.  I  walked  to  the  corner...then 

walked  to  more corners down Wentworth Street. When I 

got to the end of the street, instead of going back home, I 

continued.  I  walked  another  few  blocks  to  Tonopah 

Street...I  continued  the  many  blocks  until  finally,  at  a 

point  of  no  return,  I  sat  on  someone’s  lawn,  crying.  I 

didn’t  know  what  to  do.  Do  I  go  back  home?  Do  I 

continue?  What  lay  in  front  of  me  was  the  pedestrian 

underpass  to  the  freeway  and  I  knew  that  if  I  took  that 

route,  I’d  end  up  on  Laurel  Canyon  Blvd,  by  now  far 

away  from  home.  It  was  closer  to  push  on  than  to  turn 

around and go back. 

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I  walked up Laurel Canyon Blvd. to about a block 

before  my  next  turn  that  would  have  taken  me  home.  I 

thought  this  might  be  the  time  to  go  to  Georgia’s  office 

that  was  within  eyeshot,  and  have  her  take  me  home 

which was literally around the corner. 

Another time while recuperating, shortly after that, 

I decided to visit Universal Studios on a weekday when it 

wasn’t really crowded. I had been cleared to drive after 3 

weeks  of  post-op,  so  I  drove  to  Universal,  probably  5 

miles  away  from  home.  I  had  a  season  pass  that  was 

about to expire and I thought, well, why not? 

It was around 11:00 that morning when I arrived at 

Universal Studios Hollywood, and I knew I had to take it 

easy but I just wanted the fresh air and exercise.  

After entering the park, I wondered if this was such 

a good idea. 

I  was  wearing  shorts  and  a  tank  top,  and  the 

prominence  of  my  new  scar  was  very  visible.  I  guess  I 

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had  no  pride.  I  was  comfortable  and  that’s  all  that 

mattered. 

Once  inside  the  park,  realizing  maybe  I  shouldn’t 

have  done  this,  I  sat  down  at  an  outdoor  restaurant 

because  I  just  couldn’t  go  any  further.  It  was  not 

intentional  to  ride  any  of  the  rides  but  I  did  go  on  their 

tram  for  a  tour  of  the  studios.  I  was  sitting  down,  I was 

comfortable, and when they dropped me off at the end of 

the tour, I thought it might be time to go back home. 

This  happened  all  in  1996, and here we are today, 

May 28, 2020, and I haven’t had any issues since.  

And I hope I don’t. 

I really hope I don’t. 

 

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Alright, get your minds out of the gutter. 
Speaking of happening below the waist, in 2015

my nephrologist (kidney doctor) ordered an ultrasound of

my bladder because I was complaining to him about

excessive urination and not feeling I was emptying my

bladder. The ultrasound revealed that in fact I was

retaining urine - not a good sign because that can cause

uremic poisoning that could lead me to end up like the

proverbial doornail...dead.

He sent me to a urologist who, after performing a

cystoscopy, said that the previously presumed enlarged

prostate was not that at all. It was something called a

neurogenic bladder. We attributed it to neuropathy that is

caused by the diabetes, and the neuropathy has attacked

my bladder and wouldn’t let it function properly, which

was why I was retaining the urine. The nerves in the

bladder would not function properly therefore the urine

just sat there.

 
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It was then the doctor said that I would need to use
a catheter to pee...for life.

I was given the choice of either having a Foley
catheter inside permanently, and changing every couple
months, or an intermittent catheter that I use myself
whenever I had to pee. Peeing by myself was not an
option anymore. Before my eyes I was turning into an old
man.

And here we are 5 years later, still using the damn
catheter so I can pee, because of neuropathy in my
bladder. Thank you very much diabetes, for truly fucking
up my life.

Now, using a catheter 4-6 times a day really isn’t
as bad as you would think. It’s not painful, and I’ve
gotten used to it, and I’m pretty good at it. And while it’s
not painful, I told the doctor it’s a pain in the ass to have
to do it. He said, “A pain in the ass? Then you’re not
doing it right.”

 
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Every doctor thinks he’s a comedian.
I carry catheters everywhere. My bag, my car, my
luggage, bedside, bathroom. I go nowhere without them
because if I don’t use it, it’s possible for my bladder to
burst because the urine won’t come out. Whenever I have
surgery, I always ask for a Foley to be inserted so that’s
one less thing I have to worry about as I recuperate in the
hospital. How many other people ask to have a catheter?
Not many, I’m sure.
So what else is below the waist? Not much.
I’m OK back there.

 
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A little further south, though, around the knees: In
1963, I broke my knee cap while I was chasing my
cousin Mark across the street where he lived, and I ran
into my car and hit my knee on the fender. More on that
in another chapter.

Sometime during the 1980s while I was working at
the telephone company, as I was coming back from a
break I entered into the office and because the office was
in a maze type of a design, it was challenging to walk
through the entire office in a straight forward motion. I
proceeded to my desk but had to make a sharp right turn
next to someone's desk who had left the desk drawer
open. It immediately brought me down and I had to see
an orthopedic surgeon to find out why the knee was not
healing. The doctor told me that the collision had ripped
my meniscus ... The cartilage between the bones in the
knee. It required surgery to repair and I was out of work
for about 8 weeks after the surgery. On a scale of 1 to 10

 
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as far as surgeries go this was probably a 3. This was not
a serious or complicated surgery but yet it was still
painful.

Through the years and probably because of age I
have had many surgeries on my knees for a torn cartilage.
I know what to expect. It is more inconvenient than it is
painful.

Further down the leg I would be remiss in not
mentioning the neuropathy that developed in 1983. I felt
some tingling in my feet and in my toes. And while it
wasn't painful, it was concerning. I spoke to my doctor
about it not knowing what it was and he mentioned it
could be the start of what is called diabetic neuropathy
where your nerves start to die off. Over the years it could
turn out to be very painful.

No kidding.
The neuropathy never went away. It has settled
down a bit, but there are times, especially at night, that

 
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