Saving the Fly That Went By

No, this is not a new Dr. Seuss tale.

It is my life. There are those--I know who you are--who will say, "She is strange.". Ok, so maybe I am. But who isn't when you get close enough. You know the saying, "A normal person is someone you don't know yet.".

I saved the life of a fly. And I am delighted.

It was this very fly.

The fact that I was able to get a picture of the object of my largesse is part of the story.

I love my little condo's terrace. It isn't perfect because most of it faces a wall, but that part has space enough for a table and chairs, overlooks the swimming pool and presents a snapshot of the sky that is often incredible, red skies as the sun sets, puffy clouds left over from some nearby storm that hasn't reached us so that our drought will be over, and hummingbirds quenching at the feeder I have put out for them.  I sit out there whenever I am home and the weather mostly provides.

The other day I was doing just that, in the late afternoon. I had this computer, a book and a lovely peach nectar concoction to drink. At some point I turned my eyes to that glass and started to put the glass to my lips when I saw a fly had managed to fall into it. My first thought was to run to the kitchen and pour liquid and fly down without further thought. Then it occurred to me, "Maybe he's alive. Maybe I can save him.". The reason is that once I saved a bee in my pool, by swishing him onto the landing and I watched him, for quite a long time, maybe ten minutes, allow the sun to dry him off, and occasionally shaking his wings and using his gossamer legs to do a little wiping of his striped body. After a while he took off.

So, it occurred to me that just maybe this little fly had not been long in the nectar and could revive, if I got to him in time. So, I dripped him onto the ledge of my terrace. Not clear if he still was alive. Then, he slowly dragged himself from the remains of the liquid that poured out with him and his wings began to whip at lightning speed. I could have sworn I felt a drop of something on my face.
And then, painstakingly, he began to wipe his body, with front tentacles and back. I wondered if he was afraid with me looming over him, but he had no choice but that before he could fly, if he could again fly, he would need to be well, unstuck. The peach nectar, although mixed with sparkling water, had to be a bit sticky. I watched for a while, and then thought to grab my camera. I knew this would take time. And so back I came while he was smoothing his bee buns with his back legs, removing whatever detritus was still restraining him.

And then, I could tell as he slowly turned around, a bit like an aircraft carrier, he was about to take off.  And so, he did.

I felt, as I had with the bee in the pool, felt incredibly happy. Why?  I don't know. Bees, flies, animals, both by human hand and nature, die in droves every day. What's one fly more or less?

It just seemed that once I thought he might be alive in that glass still it would have been cruel simply to let it happen. His life is short enough. If I, with dominion over him by God's gift, could give him the whole of his time, why deny him that because he is not a higher creature?

And so, the fly lives. I hope he is not attracted by another glass, another liquid.



 

You Know You're Getting Old When. . ..

I remember a time lo, probably some 36 years ago, or thereabouts, that I sat on a curb somewhere in Orange County after a visit to Disneyland with Lens Speaks, Malcolm Moran, now a well known sports writer and professor, and my cousin Angela, awaiting some help after Len's rented car had a bit of a glitch. And I had with me a fresh new People Magazine with a cover story about the latest James Bond movie, starring Roger Moore.  I had followed Roger Moore from the time he did the short lived series Ivanhoe, through The Saint, and The Persuaders. He was one of a series of actors and actresses whose work I enjoyed and about whom I enjoyed reading in the celebrity press. 

There were still some of the real old timers around then, like Jack Lemmon, or Lauren Bacall, or I think even Laurence Olivier was still alive then, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton, Liz Taylor.  Even Bette Davis and maybe Paul Henried, who'd shared a sexy cigarette scene in "Now, Voyager". Oh, Jimmy Stewart. Roger Moore was kind of a second generation star in this crowd of stars.

Year by year, they have passed away. And what has replaced them?  The Nicky Minaj types, the Kardashian, and the like.  Sensuality used to be presented by implication. Now it is literally, well, thrust upon us.

I used to hate the fact that my dad knew nothing about my generation's interests. He didn't know anyone on the entertainment shows. I mean, he thought I was an idiot for watching "The Monkees" on NBC. He was proud of his ignorance of all things post 1967.  I thought, "Well, he's old. He's still interested in Pérez Prado, and the Tango, and the Big Bands.. We are a different generation."

I still buy People and Entertainment and in order not to be completely out of the loop and become my father, in essence, I still watch programs I used to love like Access Hollywood, or Entertainment Tonight, but I know something has changed. Is it me? Am I just old now?  I cannot believe, like my parents could not before me, what passes for public consumption..

There she is, in the picture above, Jennifer Lopez, Jenny from the Block, a Catholic school girl, no less, over 40 herself.  I decided not to post the photos of her with her booty hanging out, but I think that is what did it for me, the "Yup I don't get it, I must be getting old" jumping the shark moment, the dueling shaking booty's of Jennifer and Nicky. 

Maybe when I was ogling Roger, whose movies had him discretely under the sheets with the latest Bond girl, I should have realized that we were on the slippery slope to the full Monty in every movie, in every photo, in every description, in everything, but I didn't expect this level of how do I say it in my old age, this level of visual debauchery to which every generation is now subjected on a daily basis.

I was laughing the other day when some parents were upset that a middle school had a book called "Rabbit is Rich" by John Updike which some enterprising kid discovered had sexual content. For the life of me I cannot understand why they would be upset.. Every billboard has something sexual on it in one way or the other. Network television has sex and violence as their primary ingredients. Middle schooners have required sex education in classes, whether their parents want it or not. Cut the proverbial crap, folks. The only thing free about this society is the availability of sex and violence, but mostly sex.

My dad used to say, "I don't belong in this world.". I know I must be getting old, because I find myself on the edge of saying the same thing.

Maybe our parents' generation was right when they were horrified at the shaking of Elvis pelvis.  It was a precursor to a world that looks depressingly like the set in "Blade Runner". 

I remember suddenly another moment. I was about fifteen and I was in a theatre watching Joel Grey, in full makeup, especially the ruby red lipstick, singing "Cabaret" in the movie of the same name to an audience that looked hard, and sleazy, and violent. The movie was depicting Germany in just pre-Nazi days, from a book written by Christopher Isherwood (Berlin Stories). 

I felt so depressed and even a little afraid as I watched the scene. But I could leave the movie behind me, all the sleaze and hopelessness it depicted. 

It's hard to leave the ugliness of Jennifer's booty behind, because it represents a cultural phenomenon. Nothing is left to the imagination. 

Maybe it's better if I do take myself out of the loop. I know I'm getting old because I find myself in despair of the society in which I live, and hope that I won't live to see its worst, its predictable worst, for mankind just never learns from its prior mistakes. As long as man thinks he is the measure of all things he will always destroy himself. 

But then what do I know?  I know.  I'm getting old.

Maybe I'll watch an old movie tonight.

Out (with the) Patient

Joan Rivers will be buried tomorrow, eleven days after her last performance. By next week, or so, we should begin to hear more about the outpatient procedure during which something happened that ended her life. 


Some might say, that at age 81, such things are inevitable, well, death is inevitable. That was true of my dad at 91. But both, in my view, were victims of the societal need to push way too many medical procedures into the out patient arena.  I have wondered whether there are any statistics on how many people, and in what age ranges, are lost because they should have had their medical treatment in the hospital, or, if they made it through the procedure, were sent home and then developed a crisis that got treatment too late. 

Had Joan survived the procedure proper, she would have had enough folks around her to care for her at home. But there are many people who either don't have that safety net, or if they have a family member or friend, the designated person is not skilled enough to spot a problem or to handle the intricacies of say, changing a dressing, or a catheter. Yes, you can get someone say, through Medicare, but with all the paperwork and the restrictions, by the time you got someone, the patient is no longer in need, assuming survival. 

Over the years, for myself and others, I have uttered the phrase, "You're kidding me. That's out patient?". In 2007 or so, I had to have a salivary stone taken out through my neck. I have a more than two inch scar. The number of nerves in the neck and face, never mind the proximity of the carotid artery, made the consent for this "simple" procedure as scary as the idea of having to do it in the first place. But I was in pain, the inside of my mouth and tongue were swollen, and I sounded like a person with cotton balls in her mouth as I yelled at my internist that I couldn't wait for him to bring in an "in network" doctor to do the surgery.  (Another long story).  This was my first anesthetic experience and I woke up, apparently after some difficulty although I was never given the details, crying.  I had a lift home from a friend, and my dad, who no longer drove, came over with various provisions (he had worried through the whole procedure sitting with my friend in the waiting room), to make me comfortable. But I had to sleep sitting up with a drain in my neck for several days.  As I live alone, any emergency was between me and 911.  Seemed to me that an overnight stay in a hospital would have been a good idea. But as things worked out for me, I wasn't really worked up.

Then my father had an outpatient procedure to replace kidney stents which to this day I do not believe he needed in the first place.  He did have a slow growing bladder cancer, but once the original stents were put in (in an outpatient procedure), he started to lose weight. By the time of the need for the change of stents, he was skeletal. I tried to warn the doctors that I thought this "procedure" he would not survive.  But the doctor said it was necessary, because of potential infection, and so in he went for the out procedure. Now, to be fair to the doctors, which I am not inclined to do truth be told, my dad wanted to go home. But both before the procedure and after, he was cold, which, if you are a doctor, should raise the red flag of infection. And his blood pressure was low. And given my concern over his weight and frailty, and the fact I yelled at dad's internist about his manner of doing business and demeanor (arrogance personified), you'd think they would I picked the up, but I don't recall in the few hours in which things changed dramatically, if he got to take them. Had he been in a hospital overnight, they would have been intravenously provided. I changed and checked the catheter (a distressing event for both of us) and dad fell asleep, something he had been unable to do in the days before his surgery.  He seemed disoriented. I called my uncle but since dad was sleeping there appeared to be no emergency. But of course, one was in the making, and when I checked the catheter a few hours later when I heard dad stir, there was indeed a problem. And I called 911 for him as I had not  They had to do for myself.  Four days later, after aggressive antibiotic treatment, he died.  He had had a fever of 104 when I brought him in the night of the outpatient procedure that I had worried dad would not survive.  He didn't. 

I never got to talk to his primary doctors after dad died, as they avoided me assiduously.  I considered my legal options, but I am the least litigious lawyer one might meet on personal issues, and given dad's age, and his lack of earning power at this retired stage, I settled for writing a couple of letters that outlined my thoughts on dad's medical care.  Naturally, I never heard back from them, as their own lawyers might well have advised. I do believe that had dad been in the hospital for the procedure or after it, he would well have survived into what would have been his 96th year. Dad had had many scares over the years and surgeries for things like bladder polyps. He had his first fairly major heart attack at 51. A couple thereafter and a quadruple by pass at 79,  It took an outpatient procedure to do him in.

About Joan. 81. We are hearing that she worried about some heart problem. Was that taken into account by the clinic and her doctors. They usually do. As one article said, with all that prior plastic surgery was she a good candidate for out patient procedures? 

On thing we know.  Joan had continued earning power. She might not have needed it, but she had the power, and was going to appear somewhere the day or so after the "procedure", relaxed to her vocal cords.  The first thing I heard was that it was an endoscopy. But I am not clear any longer. When the crisis occurred, it is clear they did not have the facility to deal with it, or they would not have had to send her to the hospital. 

What is the solution?  I don't know exactly but I think the medical industry (and that is what it is) needs to reconsider how many people are shunted and shuffled to out patient, and their ages certainly need to be taken into account, more, if it is at all now. And when someone doesn't have automatic professional home help, well, at least a day in the hospital seems reasonable. 

Out patient procedures for non-serious conditions or tests, that's a good idea. But as with all things in human affairs, we go overboard and what is serious is redefined, foolishly, as non-serious. That's the kind of things that have to be looked at in the days to come. Joan has certainly given the impetus to that necessary review. It is unfortunate that her death had to do that.

And when doctors say that a patient should ask his or her questions, they need to mean it, not look like they have someplace else to be. . . .


Here's a link to a Fox News article on such reconsideration of out patient clinics:

Www.foxnews.com/health/2014/9/05/joan-rivers-death-puts-spotlight-on-outpatient-clinics/

Joan Rivers: Wish We Could Still "Talk"

How many times did I hear her say, "Can we talk?!" both on the tube and in person,  and off she'd go lampooning some poor soul, but usually some high powered politician or celebrity, and as well herself.  Maybe that's why I did not object to her, even savored her admittedly abrasive comedy. 

I am told this is a photo from the last appearance she made on August 28, just seven days ago.

That's what I find I want to "talk" about here, because everywhere else it will be replays of her pieces, often involving plastic surgery.  Something like "She's had so much plastic surgery when she sits down her mouth opens.". Her guest hosting The Tonight Show for Johnny Carson, who never forgave her for not telling him that she had been given her own show. By the time she called him, he knew and he silently hung up the phone. He had given her the break in show business, and told her she'd be a star, but he cut her off with a cruelty that even now is hard to understand.

But then that is life, isn't it. One thing is happening and then it all changes.  There, a friendship ended abruptly and forever. And now, the woman who in this picture appeared healthy and prosperous is suddenly dead.  How many of us have had "out patient" procedures that were supposed to be simple and successful?  Joan's wasn't. Still not clear what it was, some kind of endoscopy (reminding me, never have one) or work on her vocal cords (should that even be out patient? "Don't get me started," I can hear Joan saying from her new digs in the Divine cosmos. 

I have heard so many phrases about life thrown about, "Life is short, and then you die.". "Life is just a breath," a bit more of a hopeful phraseology if you are inclined toward the idea of an afterlife as I am. But whether you believe in an afterlife or not, it is clear that our time here should not be taken for granted and our relationships either.  Funny, I was going to write today about how hard it is to love my neighbor as faith teaches.  I was going to give examples, from the British accented murderer of innocent American young men whom I fear, dear Lord, I loathe, to the young man on the Gelson's line who refused to move to let me by with my wagon, remaining on his spot like a lawn statue with a bad attitude.  But Joan's death has softened me, Joan that hard boiled, laser taunted comedienne, makes me feel like I should be softer toward my fellow man and woman, and not become a hermit.

Our lives hang indeed on gossamer threads. Here; Then gone. We need to make the most of every day and most especially with each other.

Joan certainly did. I don't think I'll ever laugh that hard again.