00 pdf complete book

DEAR CHILDREN Head To Toe…And Everything In Between

necessary. The attorney told me, “if it’s not written
down, it didn’t happen” so even if a doctor SAYS he
did it, if it wasn’t dictated and memorialized, it didn’t
happen. The third procedure simply said “closed with
one suture water tight” and mentioned nothing about

the removal of the Viscoat, as the first two procedures
did… and like the attorney said, “if it’s not written
down, it didn’t happen.”

The lawsuit came to an end in September 2012.
Certainly, I prevailed as I thought I would, but not for
the amount of money that I feel the claim was worth.
It really was not the money, it was the idea that when
someone makes a mistake, they must pay for it...or at
least have the balls to admit you made a mistake. Is
that what we learned as kids?

I guess not being a lawyer, I really don't
understand why it’s acceptable to lie. In his response,
he states, “Plaintiff’s complaint fails to state facts

sufficient to constitute a cause of action against the
answering defendant”.

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Huh???
“The answering defendant is immune from
liability pursuant to California Codes”.
Huh???
“Any injury, damage or loss suffered by
plaintiff was caused by plaintiff’s negligent or willful
failure to follow the advice and instructions of
attending physicians and nurses and in otherwise
failing to exercise ordinary care on his own behalf”.
Huh???
“Plaintiff was fully informed of the risks and
knew the hazards involved in the surgical and medical
treatment rendered to him”.
HUH???
Well, the plaintiff didn’t conduct the surgery.
Plaintiff did not ask for a wrong size lens to be inserted
in the first place. Plaintiff did not ask for the Viscoat
to remain in the plaintiff's eye.
But this is all the plaintiff’s fault.

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Isn’t it odd, though, that nothing was mentioned

by the doctor that he was negligent in performing his
duties by the preponderance of the evidence that
clearly shows he inserted the wrong size lens in my
eye. I guess I should have been more careful before he
started the operation by saying, “please remember to
put in the RIGHT SIZE LENS!

What he failed to realize though, was that I had
copies of my chart from his office that clearly showed
that he ordered one size lens and put in another.

Yes, that was clearly my fault.
Just as I thought the situation with my eye was
settling down, and that my life could get back to some
semblance of order, June 21, 2012, found me with a
major diabetic complication with my eyes. This is
something I have dreaded all my life. At
approximately 4 o'clock in the afternoon, while
driving home from the supermarket, I noticed my right
eye clouding over instantly. I saw visions of a fluid
type substance in my right eye. I knew what this was,

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but I did not want to admit it. I came home and I
panicked. This was my mother's 91st birthday and we
were scheduled to go out for dinner. Between my tears,
I was able to tell her that I could not make it for dinner,
and I had to go to the eye doctor immediately. There
is an emergency. I explained to her that I have gone
blind in my right eye.

I called the eye doctor's office and arranged to
go in to see a doctor immediately. I was in his chair at
4:45 that afternoon. The ophthalmologist had gone for
the day, but the optometrist was still there. In a routine
eye exam, he asked me to speak the letters on the eye
chart. Not only could I not see the eye chart, but I could
also not see the wall. He held up two fingers and asked
me how many fingers he was holding up. I told him I
could not even see his hand, yet he was only a foot
away from me. It almost reminds me of the scene in
“My Cousin Vinny” where Joe Pesci asks Mrs. Riley
(“and ONLY Mrs. Riley…”) how many fingers he was

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holding up. She said in her southern African American
voice and accent, “Foe”.

"You have a vitreous hemorrhage in your eye”.
I asked him what that was, and he explained that the
blood vessels in my eye have ruptured and the clear
gel in the blood vessels is leaking out. That's what was
causing the blindness. He assured me that they will
take care of me and everything will be okay.
Personally, I think he was telling me this blindly
(blindly…. get it?) but I had no way of knowing. They
suggested that I see the ophthalmologist first thing in
the morning.

The next morning, which was Friday, Carlos
drove me into Glendale to visit with a retina specialist.
I must say, I was an absolute wreck. I do not like health
problems as most people do not, but when it comes to
something like my eyes, that is a hotspot for me. I
guess we take our eyes for granted and when
something goes wrong with our vision, it's time to
panic.

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The doctor examined my eyes and confirmed
what the optometrist had said the day before, that I am
suffering from a vitreous hemorrhage. He said there
was an injection he could give me that would stop the
growth of new cells and prevent more problems. I was
desperate even though I knew that the injection would
be in the white of my eye. He assured me that there
would be no pain involved with this injection because
he would number my eye with an anesthetic. I really
don't care what they say about “no pain” when they
"stick a needle in my eye" so I was extremely nervous
about this.

As I felt my eye becoming numb, he brought his
medication in, asked me to open my eye as wide as
possible, look to the left, and in went the needle. The
whole process was over in less than 10 seconds.

He explained to me that I will more than likely
need a surgical procedure called a vitrectomy which is
a procedure where they anesthetize you, put a needle
in your eye, and drain out the fluid that has leaked out.

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My primary care physician said that if I had this done,
it would be an instant fix. "By all means, do it," he
said.

Actually, I felt like I was cheated a little bit
because my eye was still blinded. He said this type of
condition could last for months and months. Is this
what I must look forward to? I have a life that must
continue, and I must continue with two working eyes.
That’s the way I was brought into this world, and I
wasn’t quite ready to leave it yet, so I needed both of
my eyes.

This was chorus concert weekend. This was not
a time for me to have a health issue. That evening was
dress rehearsal at a theater in Beverly Hills with the
entire chorus and our guest artist LeAnn Rimes. This
was not a good time to get sick.

LeAnn and I had met earlier during the week
when she came to our rehearsal. That evening on
Friday, when I went backstage to see some of my
friends in the chorus, she came up to me and asked me

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if I was okay. I guess my despair showed on my face.
I explained to her what had happened and asked her to
dedicate a song to me. She said, "Mike I cannot do that
because I will start to cry." She genuinely felt bad that
this had happened to me and hoped that everything
would be okay.

I have never felt so much love from so many
people at one time as I did from the chorus. One of my
best friends, Michael Graham, knew about this
situation because I had told him earlier during the day.
When he saw me come backstage, he came over to me
and gave me one of his famous hugs and I felt so warm
in his arms that somebody was treating me like this.
He nestled my head on his shoulder, stroked the back
of my head, and just let me cry. He told me that we
will get through this and not to worry. You simply
can't ask for anything better than that.

The chorus concert that weekend helped ease
my pain a little bit as it was distracting from my own
health problems.

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The days went by, the weeks went by, and
within three months I went back to the
ophthalmologist for another exam. When this first
happened, I was blind. I literally could not see out of
my right eye. Nothing. Two weeks later, when I went
back to the eye doctor, my vision was 20/400. 20/200
is considered legally blind. A month later, my vision
had improved to 20/70. This told the doctor that the
surgery would not be required. I breathed a sigh of
relief and wondered how long it would take before my
vision got back to normal. He told me that my eyes
were healing as though I was a man of 35. That was
good to hear because that tells me that my diabetes is
under control as best as I can do it.

My final visit with him was in November 2012
and he told me that I did not have to come back to see
him for another year. That was music to my ears.
Although I still suffer from the effects of it, my vision
has returned to normal.

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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 fairly 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 Javakheti 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 in March. The appointment for March was
canceled because of the coronavirus that has attacked

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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.

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One of the five senses of the human body is
hearing. The body is a remarkable machine. It amazes
me that all 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
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 were
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.

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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 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

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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 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

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problem of hearing, but sometimes I had a problem
listening. Don’t we all?

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

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approximately 100 voices and the sounds that we
made were absolutely 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 performed that with a full orchestra, I could not

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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.

I can remember being in the recording studio
with headphones on, listening to the music, and

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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 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

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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 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

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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 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.

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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 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.

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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 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

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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.

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.

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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.

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

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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!
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

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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.
It’s 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

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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…
“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

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it was my only good ear; the one I depended on for
everything. Music. Television. Telephone. People.
Life.

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

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that, he said, it may not 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 must 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

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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.

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

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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 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

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the bridge. I know the nose is cartilage and not bone,
but nonetheless, I had a broken nose. Insert “smell”
jokes here.

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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Oh, THERE’S Jimmy Hoffa

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 stepfather’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

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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.

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

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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.

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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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 never gave my mind or my brain much
thought. They were just there, doing what they’re

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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
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)
Isn’t it odd that I can remember the words to
every song from the 60’s but I can’t remember why I
went into the kitchen.
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

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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 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

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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
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”

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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 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.

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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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ALL HAPPENS ABOVE THE WAIST

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.

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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
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

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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 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.”

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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.
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 x-rays, 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.

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“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 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

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