Over The Years

Watching the pre-Oscar show tonight (I guess it’s called the Red Carpet Show), I heard an actress (I assume; I don’t recognize who 90% of these people are anymore) spout drivel about how she was so happy to be able to meet up with people she’s worked with “over the years.” She couldn’t have been 30 years old, 35 tops, maybe 25 (TV and makeup blurs actual age). It should be against the law for anyone under the age of 50 to use the phrase “over the years.” If you haven’t lived to be at least 50, you haven’t lived enough years to be over any yet.

Great Horned Owl

I was out walking on the Root River Trail in the early morning east of Preston, Minnesota, passing under a canopy of thin trees, the sun ahead of me, when I saw on the trail at my feet the shadow of a massive span of wings. I stopped and looked up into the trees, and there above me, directly in front of me, staring down at me, was the first great horned owl that I have ever seen in the wild. It was as big as a terrier, and I thought it looked at me as if I might be potential breakfast. I don’t know how long the standoff was, probably no more than a minute or two, but I just stood there in the trail, staring at the bird, the bird staring at me, neither knowing what the other was thinking. Finally, I called it off and proceeded on with my walk, passing beneath the great owl in silent awe. About half an hour later I passed again by the spot, heading the other way. But the bird was no longer there (of course). I’ve passed that shade of trees any number of times since, and each time I slow and look around through the limbs, hoping to see the giant again eyeing me. But it has yet to happen. And probably won’t. But it did once. And that’s firm in my memory, and enough.

Listening to Spring

Two inches of snow fell overnight, and this morning I cranked up the snow blower and in short order cleared the drive and walks, though I probably could have done it just as easily and in only a bit more time with a shovel, it being a light snow. But this afternoon I’m thinking of spring, listening to spring, listening more specifically to Spring Training, listening to the first radio broadcast of the season, appropriately the world champion San Francisco Giants against the Arizona Diamondbacks, John Miller doing the play-by-play for San Francisco’s KNBR 680. John says the sun’s out in Scottsdale, only a few clouds, but cool at 62°. It’s a cold 27° here in Iowa City. But it sounds right now very much like spring.

My Colonoscopy

My discharge instructions include: YOU SHOULD HAVE A REPEAT COLONOSCOPY IN 10 YEARS. That’s not likely to happen. It might, should I have some specific reason to have it done. But I’m not going to do it just because that’s what our goliath healthcare industry deems a good thing to do. My doctor first suggested I have a colonoscopy 12 years ago, when I turned 50. That’s the age when all men are supposed to undergo the procedure. I had my doubts. I wasn’t all that concerned, as many men apparently are, about having a roto rooter shoved up my butt. I knew I’d be sedated, and besides, I’ve been through much more painful procedures (sinus and knee replacement surgery come to mind, as do hemorrhoid surgery and a vasectomy). I was more anxious about the day before, when you have to drink 32 ounces of a foul concoction (sodium sulfate, potassium sulfate, and magnesium sulfate), followed by more than twice as much water, and then sit on the toilet as everything in your body that isn’t attached goes shooting like a fire hose into the commode. Oh, and you can’t have any solid food that day, only clear liquids (vodka’s a clear liquid, isn’t it?). Actually, that day went all right; it was uncomfortable, a hassle, but there were no embarrassing accidents or any of the side effects listed on the expunging solution package (seizures and death struck me as most worrisome; vomiting, nausea, bloating, and dizziness seemed almost tame). It was the morning of the procedure that turned out to be the worst part of the experience. The purging of my body of solids and liquids the day before had left me dehydrated and weak. I’d slept nine hours. My mouth was dry, but I wasn’t supposed to drink anything. I took a shower, shakily making my way down the stairs, but had to lie on the bed for a few minutes afterward to regain some strength. Walking into the hospital, I felt like the old man I guess I am. The procedure itself was routine; I was another widget on a colonoscopy conveyor belt (my doctor was doing nine that morning). Everything went smoothly. There was no pain, no real discomfort. Thankfully, when it was over, the nurses gave me three cans of orange juice, and that, combined with the IV that had been stuck in me for an hour, helped with both my dehydration and strength. The doctor deemed me “very healthy,” and I left the hospital for a late, large breakfast of scrambled eggs, hash browns, ham, an English muffin, and two cups of very welcomed coffee – the first solid food I’d had in 40 hours.

So if the whole process went pretty much as I’d expected, without problem or pain, why would I balk at doing it again in 10 years? Aren’t I relieved to know that I don’t have colon cancer? (That’s the rationalization for the majority of us who go through the procedure in the clear.)

Well, I pretty much knew going in that I didn’t have colon cancer. I’m relatively healthy. I eat well. I exercise regularly. I have no history of colon cancer on either side of my family. I’m all for preventive medicine. I go to the dentist twice a year. I see my eye doctor once a year. I go to my dermatologist at least once a year. But I go regularly to my dentist, my eye doctor, and my dermatologist because I have a history of tooth, eye, and skin problems (including skin cancer). Also, all of those visits probably wouldn’t add up in ten years to what this colonoscopy is going to cost (my insurance company, not me). Our health care system is one of the most sophisticated, technologically advanced in the world. But the working philosophy seems to be, use it if you’ve got it. We test because we can. But I’ve tried, and I can’t find the cost-benefit ratio of testing the entire population over the age of 50 for colon cancer – how many cases of colon cancer are found and treated by colonoscopies that wouldn’t have been found and treated at some point down the road from symptoms? Are we being tested because it’s efficient and effective, or because all the technology is in place and so is there to be used (and often owned by the doctors who order the tests)? Couldn’t there be less complicated (and less expensive) screening tests to determine the degree of propensity to any disease or condition before moving to expensive procedures like colonoscopies? That’s how I’m looking at the next 10 years. If someone in my family is diagnosed with colon cancer, then yes, I’ll have another colonoscopy. If my doctor has good reason to believe, through some more simple screening test, that I might be susceptible to colon cancer, then yes, I’ll have another colonoscopy. But I’m not going to have another colonoscopy just because it’s what everyone over the age of 50 is supposed to do every 10 years. That’s the kind of waste that has made our health care system the most expensive, yet one of the least effective, in the developed world.

Kanheri Caves Celebrities

We never imagined when we went to India that we would, however briefly, become celebrities there.

On our last day in Mumbai we visited the Kanheri Caves in the Sanjay Ghandi National Park, at 64 square miles, the largest park in the world within a city limits. The caves are not natural caves, but, like the Elephanta Island Caves (which we also visited early in our trip, an hour’s ferry ride off the coast from Mumbai), were chiseled out of the volcanic rock at the top of a mountain by Buddhist monks from the 1^st century BCE through the 7^th century AD. Most of the 109 caves (we didn’t begin to see them all) were “houses” for the monks, small chambers, most no larger than about ten-by-fifteen feet, some with side rooms about six-feet square. Others served as small shrines for meditation, and other larger and deeper caves with elaborate columns and statues were used for communal gathering and worship. The hike up the mountain, mostly on carved stone stairways, is arduous but interrupted regularly by various caves, dark and relatively cool inside. And outside an occasional breeze helps to stem the sweat. But it’s hard to imagine, and easy to admire, the effort, dedication, and, yes, faith that must have gone into this ancient monument. In its own modest way, it’s as grand as the Anasazi pueblos or Mayan temples or much later European cathedrals – awe inspiring, inspiring awe.

But that has nothing to do with our becoming celebrities.

After buying our tickets and entering the site, as we stopped to get our bearings and a sense of the place (monkeys dashing about, fighting, scrapping for bits of food), a group of fifty or so Indian students (“college,” our driver with limited English speaking ability told us, though they looked more like secondary students) passed us noisily with the enthusiasm of any school group out on a field trip. We didn’t think much of them, except for the elegant, brightly colored clothes – I almost want to say costumes – that they wore, indeed that we had seen worn just about everywhere we’d been in India.

They went on ahead of us, and we didn’t see or hear anything of them until a couple of hours later. We were at the base of the carved steps that went up to the top of the mountain, and they were just beginning their descent. We considered whether we should pass through the large group of teens on such a precarious path – perhaps they would barrel into us, sending us rolling down the rock to an accidental Buddhist sacrifice into the next life. But our driver assured us that it would be fine, and we began our climb, single file, our driver in the lead, followed by me, followed by Jac. We met the throng of students about halfway up the stairs. They parted for our driver to pass, but when they saw me and Jac, they excitedly pulled out their cameras and cellphones and began wildly taking pictures, fascinated by these strangers in their strange land. They asked us (by gesture, not language) to pose with them, the boys with me, the girls with Jac. We were clearly an unexpected bonus to their field trip.

I’m not sure what fascinated them so. I would think that they had seen plenty of Caucasians on a regular basis, as this was for some time a British colony, and there are still a lot of British tourists (though most seem to go to the beaches of Goa rather than the streets of Mumbai). But maybe these teens don’t see that many westerners, with our strange skin and hair and clothes. We’d noticed throughout our trip the interest taken in us by mostly younger children, sitting next to us, staring at us on a boat ride, curious as we waited for a light to change on the street. Perhaps they don’t come into contact with that many westerners. Most tourists and business people probably don’t intersect with the majority of Mumbai-ites, particularly not the children. So we were something surprising, unusual for these kids, not so much celebrities as curiosities, maybe even freaks.