Church of the Mighty Alrightness

We And Our Beemers

2009 was a really tough year for almost everybody I know. 

For us, it started when my wife lost two jobs. When she got to feeling down about that, I used to remind her that she was one of the very few people I knew who got up off the floor both times and went out and found new jobs, each paying 50K, right smack in the middle of a horrible recession. In 2010, she hung on to the second one. Now she loves her work, her work loves her, and the work thing is working out just fine.

It was also in 2009 -- September to be exact -- that I was diagnosed with a benign brain tumor. Knowing the expenses that lay ahead, we started selling stuff.

First to go was my beloved boat. I caught huge numbers of fish on that boat over the ten years I had it. I spent many hours with Betsy and the dogs on the river, went fishing at night with friends. The boat was my favorite 'thing' in life, and it had to go. I sold it for a pittance, but at least we no longer had to pay the price of operating and repairing it.

Once the boat was gone, we looked at each other one evening and almost in chorus chimed: "Now that the boat is gone, we don't need the big gas-guzzling SUV to tow it anymore." 

Betsy was driving a Honda sedan at the time, and we launched a search for a station wagon to go with it - a smaller, less costly replacement for the Xterra SUV.

When we search, it's a science. 

We cruised every lot we could find, went on the internet until our eyes stung trying to decide what would work. We read every rating for a wagon in Consumer Reports. Most of them either had dismal mileage or horrible reliability. We looked at Small SUV's. Same thing.

During the weeks we searched, CAR became the biggest word on my radar, and I looked at everything attractive with a calculating eye.

I pulled into a business meeting one day, and one of the other people who attends pulled up next to me in his BMW sport wagon. So slick, so very cool. 

I mentally slapped myself for even thinking about it. We had a budget of $17,000 for our next car, and we weren't budging. "Someday we'll have a beemer like that", I told Betsy. And myself.

The mind is a sneaky device, sometimes behaving just like that biblical snake.

"What would it hurt", said my mind, "If I just pull into that BMW lot over there and test drive one. After all, it's good to have a real experience and image of what I want someday." 

Slither, slither went my mind, and off I went for my first ride in a BMW wagon. 

Oh. My. God.

I had never experienced anything like the way that thing drove, the incredible performance and feel. Pant, pant, drool.

So my mind (which I had now named 'Mr. Wheedle') also seized control of my right hand the next time I was looking at used cars on the internet and started calling up BMW wagons. What could it hurt, after all? No way we could afford one of those, and used ones were very scarce.

Until I found one, in Schaumburg, Illinois, a 2004 model, spotless, with 47,000 miles on it. Listed at $16,950!

We bought two $72 dollar airline tickets and flew to Chicago, then drove a rental to Schaumburg. We had made the deal on the phone; we just walked in, signed the papers (for $500 under list price) and hit the road. 

Betsy looked at me after several hours of driving and said, "It's my car. I'll let you use it, but ultimately it's mine." I was puffing up for a retort until she said, "That means you'll have to go find a newer bargain Beamer for yourself and pass this one on to me." Well, OK.

The doctors took care of the brain tumor in May of 2010. I recovered, and I gave her the wagon for Christmas in 2010 because she has been such a rock for me all the way through the surgery, and through our marriage.

, we found me a 2005 BMW X-3 in mint condition, low mileage and again a great bargain. It is the four-wheel-drive vehicle we found out we do need when it snows, because we live down in a swale where all roads out are up, and neither the Honda or the BMW wagon have four-wheel-drive.

So now we both drive Beemers, and I have found out that BMW's are quite a test of other people's preconceptions. 

Preconception #1: They think you're rich (which we're not): I drove up to a store that sells vacuum cleaners one day because I needed a new one, and I could not get that salesman out of the premium model section. "This will give you lasting value, sir, just like your fine BMW automobile out there." 

I've learned to hide the car somewhere if I'm going to negotiate for anything.

Preconception #2: They assume you're a jerk. People give you disdainful looks, cut you off on the road, don't let you out into traffic as much. I have to be aware of my attitude when I'm driving so I don't fall right into that preconception.

Big reality check: One speeding ticket for each of us in the following year also reminded us that those cars make us delicious fair game for policemens.

So now I'm working on correcting those preconceptions in a very practical way; I went out and got a hitch put on the cars so we can tow the canoe trailer with them.

Tow vehicle camouflage.

People's reactions to that should be Mighty Alright.

- The Acolyte

 

A Deeper Christmas

"If, as Herod, we fill our lives with things, and again with things; if we consider ourselves so unimportant that we must fill every moment of our lives with action, when will we have the time to make the long, slow journey across the desert as did the Magi? ... For each one of us, there is a desert to travel. A star to discover. And a being within ourselves to bring to life."

                                          ~ Author Unknown

 

Thinking Small

I think we've gone from thinking big to thinking small, and that's not such a bad thing. 

As a couple, we have certainly paid more attention to the basics during this economic challenge; paying the bills more with cash instead of cards, looking for ways to shave dollars off our lifestyle wherever we can, treasuring our small (1,740 square foot) house with its attendant reasonable mortgage. 

There's a comfort to taking life in small bites right now, a reduction of anxiety that comes with exerting control over what we can -- our house, our budget, our relationship -- when so much of the world is in craziness and hard times.

It's a bit like walking up a steep hill in the dark with a dim flashlight; you slow down and place your feet very carefully.

Our house was built in the fifties. Most of the houses in this area were also built in that era, and
are about the same size as ours. Houses were smaller then because they had to be affordable. No McMansions, no credit cards, not many expensive toys and no internet - far fewer ways to get into debt easily. You qualified only for the mortgage you really could afford, and fancy cars were for people who really had a lot of money.

Upside-down was not about mortgages, it was about pineapple (upside-down) cakes and how children play.

We recently spent a week at a cozy mountain condo in the Blue Ridge mountains. We went because we were totally run out of energy and needed the rest, but once we perked up a bit, we holed up for two whole days of the vacation to sit down and look at our lives from top to bottom and make some goals and plans.

We sat there with the rain pounding down outside, in front of a warm fire, putting together a guiding document for ourselves to take back into the world. It is our 4-page personal strategic plan, and it covers our lives individually and our lives together. It makes sense of what we are working for, living for, hoping for, and maps out paths of fulfillment for each goal.

Not everything in it are small. Some of our goals are big, and some of the rewards we give ourselves are big (new 'used' cars this year!), but they come from a context of smaller, more careful steps in such uncertain times.

We look at the plan, talk about it, and measure ourselves against it weekly during our Saturday night 'Date Night'.

We have been through so much in the last two years. Two lost jobs for Betsy, three major surgeries for me, all with resulting financial pain.

Yet at the end of the day, when I snuggle up to my wonderful, courageous, loving wife, in our small, cozy house in the woods, life is very, very good, and it doesn't have to be big. 

We're here. We've got plans. We take life in small bites and cherish the flavors.

- The Acolyte

 

 

Down By the River

We arrived at the Richmond Folk Festival downtown by the river early yesterday. 

From previous experience we knew which of the music stages had the most of our favorite music, so we stopped under a tree just outside the large tent that covered the dance floor and unloaded our minimal gear. As we were setting up our two rickety collapsable chairs, another couple arrived under the tree and set up their two chairs next to ours. 

Their chairs had our chairs beat hands-down.

Ours were old, theirs were new. ours were canvas and metal, theirs were aluminum. Ours were platforms to sit on, theirs were party centers; cup-holders, adjustable backs, and even a complete top that could rise up and over to protect them from the sun. 

The kind of chair that almost made you want to attach balloons to it and see how it would fly.

So we sat, and they sat, and we introduced ourselves. They were both short and plump, and Tina (made-up name to protect her privacy) sat next to me. Betsy on one side, Tina on the other, and Tina's guy Art next to her on the other side. 

Art was smoking a cigar, and Tina would occasionally reach out, take it, toke it for awhile, and then return it to him. Now, I cannot abide cigar smoke much, and would usually have moved, but our conversation about music and their warmth as people caused me to make a snap decision to tough out the smoke in favor of the connection. Kind of like what happens in marriage on a much bigger level.

Art is white, and Tina is black. They met sixteen years ago at the manufacturing plant where they both worked, and have been together ever since. They share a passion for music, especially the blues, and they pack their chairs and roam away to music festivals wherever and whenever they can.

Comfortable together, sharing cigars, music and travel. A good life.

As I watched them being so relaxed and so obviously happy together, it struck me that love is like water; it will settle in any container, given the chance. It doesn't matter what your station in life is, what you look like, the color of your skin, your gender or pedigree, love is just fine inside you if you allow yourself to be a container for it. Then another loving person comes along and the container gets bigger.

And then one happy couple sits down at a concert next to another happy couple, and the container gets bigger again, even if it's just for a little while. 

We boogied, we talked, they smoked and drank beer, we ate Indian food and a funnel cake. We all decided that the 'cake' was really leftover donut batter drippings, and Art told us about a great blues festival that happens every spring up in Annapolis.

And when the music was over, we said our goodbyes and wandered back to the car, somehow all filled up by the day, and especially by Tina and Art.

Once again we learned that true connection between people can happen anywhere, anytime, like a great big birthday present dropped into our laps. 

We accept the gift with gratitude, and we're keeping our eyes open for more as we make our way.

- The Acolyte

 

 

 

12 Rules About Horses That Are Good for People, Too

My wife Betsy and I used to live on a horse ranch in Santa Fe, New Mexico. That's the house, there on the left, at dawn, out on the high mountain desert where we used to live.

I grew up riding a horse in rural New York state, and Betsy spent her life after the age of fifteen on horses at her mom's resort, Rancho Encentado, a gorgeous place in the foothills outside Santa Fe. We both love horses, and miss them over here in Richmond, Virginia.

Chorus of voices... WHY DID YOU MOVE TO RICHMOND, VIRGINIA?, but that's another long story.

Thing is, we think of our mountain home -- and horses -- a lot. We miss them, even though life here is good.

So my mind was wandering -- it's Saturday and it's OK for it to do that today -- and the title for this blog popped into mind. From there it was a short hop to Betsy and I brainstorming some rules that are smart to apply around horses that might also have meaning when it comes to people. Here goes.

12 Rules Around Horses That Are Good for People, Too  

Co-created by Doug & Betsy Hickok

1. When selecting a horse to buy, look for good conformation, the way the horse's body fits and flows together. The horse's body should have good lines and please the eye.
2. Look in a horse's eye before you buy. You need a horse with a "kind eye". a look that suggests that the horse is willing to bond with you.
3. When working with a horse, don't beat on it.
4. Feed a horse well, but don't let it get into the grain by itself, or it will literally eat itself to death.
5. Horses need good shoes. They're expensive, but they are necessary.
6. It costs a lot to maintain a horse. Hay, grain, shelter, equipment, vet fees. They're worth it, though.
7. Don't make a horse go where you wouldn't go. 
8. Don't try to go where the horse won't go. If the horse shys away, won't cross water or pass an object, stops for no reason, be patient. Figure it out from the horse's point of view. Wait a while. Might there be a snake behind that log? Bad footing under the water? Trust your horse.
9. Don't be stupid and make the horse save your sorry ass. A guy at a party was telling me one time how much he rode horses, and how experienced he was with them. He mentioned a night up on a mountain where he was all boozed up and decided to ride his horse. He jumped on the horse bareback and went blazing down a power line easement as fast as he could get the horse to go, in the total dark. The horse suddenly veered at high speed and the guy hung on for dear life. Once the horse stopped, the very lucky rider looked back and dimly saw a wide, deep gulch carved by water that ran all the way across the easement. Both horse and rider would probably have died if the horse hadn't been smarter and had better eyesight than its rider.
10. When you want to mount a horse, approach her with eye contact and get on with confidence. Use your legs to guide her, and the reins gentle on the neck simply to indicate direction. Be gentle but firm. Don't always be pulling on the bit when she wants to run; let her go sometimes.
11. Be sure you have more than one horse. They are very social creatures, and need the company of their kind. A horse kept in the barn all the time is an unhappy horse, and a horse alone all the time will start resisting you and making it hard to catch her.
12. Be kind to your horse. Love your horse.

And there I am, sitting tall on Freckles on a fine New Mexico day (the kids named him). As we were sauntering along about ten minutes after this photo was snapped, Freckles spied a dog jumping out of a water trough, which made him (the horse) jump straight up, twist in the air, and come down traveling fast the other way.

Which leads us to the most important rule of all: When it comes to horses, keep a leg on one side, a leg on the other, and your mind in the middle.

- The Acolyte

Kindness is...

I'm getting older, married for the second time, owned four companies, moved all over the country and survived the sixties. I've seen a lot of life and known many people.

There are no newspaper reporters asking me (yet) what the secret of my longevity is, but if there were, I would sum it up in one word: kindness. I've learned that kindness given and received is a daily ingredient of life that takes the sting out and puts the smile on.

As you know if you have read this blog before, I recently came through a successful 12-hour surgery to remove a large, benign tumor from my brain base.

I learned long ago how precious kindness was, but that lesson came into focus at a whole new level when I was tethered to machines in ICU, drugged at all hours, interrupted throughout the night for needle sticks and instructions, and presented with totally inedible food every day.

Kindness made all the difference; it got me through.

So in thinking about that, I remembered a poem I found a long time ago about kindness and thought I would share it with you, maybe extend your patience and good intentions so we can all increase the kindness level in the world.

The author is not known.

Kindness

     

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose everything,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride,

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out of the window forever.

 

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white pancho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he, too, was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

 

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak it ‘til your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows,

and you see the size of the cloth.

 

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head out of the crowd of the world

to say, “It is I you have been looking for”,

and then goes with you everywhere, 

like a shadow or a friend.

Mighty kindness. Mighty Alrightness.

- The Acolyte

It's All About the Ice Cream

I hadn't had much of a real appetite for quite a while.  

Before my brain surgery, whatever eating I did was dutiful (stay healthy for the surgery) or compensatory (I'll just stuff all those feelings down with more food!). Weighing in at around 200 pounds, I was also heavier than I ever had been before. Bloating from hormone imbalances had swollen me up like a Pufferfish.

When I woke up at Johns Hopkins hospital in Baltimore in the middle of the night after a marathon twelve hours of surgery, they wouldn't even let me have water for quite a while. Once I could eat, I mostly didn't want to.

I spent the first two nights and days in the Intensive Care Unit. What you don't know about being in an ICU unless you've been there is how UTTERLY NOISY IT IS!! 

I was hooked up to six different machines, all of which sighed, beeped, chirped or chuffed, and all of which have alarms that go off if you look at them wrong or start to fall asleep. 

I'm not kidding about the sleep part.

I was tubed to the bed by IV's and monitors, and the bed was kept at a constant angle of 30 degrees. I was always on my back, with an oxygen thingie hanging off my face that didn't fit. The surgeon went up through my nose for the surgery, so the standard oxygen canula tubing that fits over your ears and under your nose wasn't an option. Instead, they just hung this big plastic oxygen cup somewhere south of my mouth, with not much benefit to my blood oxygen level. So when I would start falling asleep, the little clamp on my finger would sense my shallower breathing and set off an alarm... BEEP!...BEEP!... BEEP!!... until I was completely awake and cursing and a nurse came to shut it off.

Repeat every fifteen minutes, all night long, two nights in a row.

Bottom line, I spent twelve hours in surgery, followed by two nights and days in ICU with NO sleep at all!

So when they finally told me on day two that I could have a 'regular diet', I laughed at them through my hallucinations. 

I was also experiencing a nasty little hormonal syndrome at the time called Diabetes Insipidus, where your mouth feels like sand no matter what you put in it. They brought a tray in the morning with cereal and milk, and it's the only time in my life when a half cup of cereal swimming in a cup of milk felt so dry I couldn't swallow it. 

Pain also squashes appetite, and I had a lot of that, too, so with all that was going on, my desire for food was a distant memory. I told Betsy I was on the Johns Hopkins Brain Surgery Weight Loss Diet. 

On day three they moved me off ICU, up to the neurosurgery floor into a double room without a roommate. Shortly after I arrived, in came a nice lady with a lunch tray who I learned would always talk to me in endearments: "Here, Sweetheart...", "Food for you, Love...", "Here you go, Darlin'". The trays she put in front of me had the absolutely most awful hospital food on them I've ever tried to eat, and I am a veteran of hospital food. Canned meat, instant potatoes, tired vegetables, big chunks of sugary dessert, and caffeine of some kind with every meal. Yuk!

Fortunately, Betsy was staying at a hotel with a Whole Foods Market right across the street, so she started smuggling me in some lunch and dinner foods. She learned to bring them in doll-house portions, because that's all I could eat. A spoonful of this, a fork-full of that, I'm done. I had a hard time getting it down even when it was good.

The only thing I had an appetite for was those four little pills I got every four hours that would take away about 70% of the pain for a while. Those I could get down. I had terrible post-surgical pain in my head and my neck, and could not sit upright or get up. 

I started getting a little sleep in my new room, but it only came in catnaps because the staff was always on me wanting something. Many tests and procedures were scheduled for me at four-hour intervals, and if it had all been due at the same fourth hour, OK, but every item was off-time from every other item, creating nearly constant interruption. 

Follow my finger with your eyes. Stick out your tongue and wiggle it. Squeeze my fingers and pull. Push. Raise your leg. Give me your arm for a blood draw. I need to check the machine that is draining some of your spinal fluid. On and on, blah, blah, blah. All very necessary. 

Betsy was getting worried about my low food intake; for me it was still all about sleep.

On Friday, day four, the docs came in and said, "If your blood-work looks good today, you can go tomorrow." I also got a roommate who liked to constantly watch Fox news. Would I murder someone with my last sleepless breath, or would I be peacefully discharged? It was hard to tell.

We knew we had to get me out of bed and able to move if there was any hope of getting me out of the hospital, so I wobbled the long journey of two steps over from the bed to the chair and sat down. The crate of nails and nerves that was my head followed me there, and I sat with clenched teeth for an hour, counting the minutes until I could lie down again.

Back in bed, needles, voices, mini-naps, and here comes Betsy again, with "dinner". A salad this time, and they praised me the same way you praise your infant for each bite when he puts the food in his mouth instead of on the floor. O-o-o-o, good Doug! They even brought cookies that I coudn't eat.

Saturday dawned, and Betsy arrived early. Today was the day. We were going to spring my sore ass out of this place, even if I had to crawl.

Breakfast tray arrives, "Just for you lover..." from my tray server. It sits. "Oh, you didn't eat anything", she says when she picks it up, just like always.

The nurse comes in for what turns out to be my big discharge test; can I walk a circuit around the halls? If yes, I can go, if not, I stay. 

I smiled through the pain, called up every reserve I had and shuffled 63 steps (yes, I counted) around the nursing station and back to my room to qualify for release. Betsy helped me into shorts and a shirt, and they lowered me into a wheelchair.  

Every little bump in the chair was pain, but I was good; we rolled out the front door and I slid head-first into a Yellow Cab and lay down. Betsy got in front and prevailed upon the driver to drive extremely slowly back to the hotel.

When we arrived, hotel staff was lined up to greet me with smiles and nods. They had been getting updates about me (sweet people!), and were glad I was back. They rolled me into the elevator, and when my brain caught up with the acceleration of that, we were rolling off at the eleventh floor, into our room.

 So quiet. so clean and peaceful. A great big soft bed for me to slide into and pass out on after taking four little pills. All that lost sleep. Yes.

I would awake, pee into a urinal without getting up, wave to Betsy and go back to sleep. Twice the first day I would shuffle out to the living room for mini-meals; a little rice with an egg, a bite or two of fish with a salad. And I was way more stoned than I ever remember being in the sixties. Sleepy was all I could do.

Then in the middle of the night, I woke up tossed a little bit. Betsy, so sensitive in those days to what was going on with me, said, "What, Love? Anything I can do?"

"What time is it?"

"1:30", she said.

"I'm a little hungry for something, but I don't know what", I said.

"Wait here", she said.

I dozed off, then woke up again as she slid into bed. I heard the clink of a spoon on a bowl as she snuggled in beside me, and she said, "try this."

I dimly saw a spoon in front of me, and something sweet and cold slid into my mouth... ice cream! Mint ice cream!!

It was, at that moment, about the very best thing I had ever tasted. We finished nearly a pint (she got two or three bites) of Haagen Dazs Mint Chip ice cream, and my mouth was alive again.

In the morning, she went to Whole Foods and got me some strawberry kefir -- liquid yogurt. I poured it over fresh orange slices and thought I'd gone to heaven. She also brought back more Mint Chip ice cream, and we got into it again at 3:00 the following morning. 

I got clean, sitting in the unplugged tub while shower water poured over me, for the first time since before the surgery. Betsy washing away at the blood-stiff hair around the three holes in my scalp where they had screwed my head into a frame to keep it still during surgery. Washing my back, so sore from just lying on it for days. 

I slept, rested, ate, and on Wednesday morning was strong enough for Betsy to drive us back home to Richmond. 

Home: arguably the most powerful word in language.

And yesterday -- Sunday -- I cooked food for our Memorial Day weekend. Cold Macaroni Salad with vegetables, big, thick, bone-in pork chops on the grill. New corn on the cob, steamed just right.

And for dessert, Haagen Dazs Mint Chip ice cream.

Life is so very good, so Mighty Alright.

- The Acolyte

Brain Surgery = Spa Week

In my last post, I talked about how the doctors discovered that I have a large brain-base pituitary gland tumor (non-cancerous), and that I'm having surgery for it this coming Monday morning. It's been a big piece to swallow, and I've been up, down and all around emotionally about it. I kind of know how those convicts feel when the big bad night-time event is coming closer and closer.

But today that all changed.

I was sitting on the deck having some wine this evening after another overly-insightful day, kind of sick of myself and my situation, and this little jolly person popped up in my mind and said, "Think of it this way; you're not having brain surgery, you're having a spa week. You're going away to have a few things tweaked, and the only difference is that they're in your head."

Dang. Makes perfect sense to me. After I stopped guffawing, I felt much better. 

 Let's see... coming up, we have an eleventh-floor corner one-bedroom suite in the Homewood Suites by Hilton overlooking the Baltimore harbor at a bargain rate, courtesy of Johns Hopkins hospital. Here's a picture I took of the harbor area from our window last week when we were there for all the pre-op stuff.

It is a superb place -- Whole Foods across the street, a plush health club with a hot tub with a waterfall next door, free breakfast and dinner included, cab vouchers to and from the best hospital in the world, wonderful world-class doctors who call me personally to ask how I'm doing. 

Hello spa experience! 

I could go on.

I will have a medley of the best drugs in the world to make me sleepy, put me out, keep me out, make me feel good when I get back. 

Poor Betsy is sitting out there biting her nails for ten hours while I'm in nirvana.

We get to see son Chuck and dear friend Fila. Literally hundreds of people have sent me messages of support and love. I will have time off from work to lie around and read books for a week and take more drugs if I feel anything but good. I will be on hormone replacement therapy for the rest of my life. Think ENERGY!. Think YOUTH. Think GREAT SEX. 

Spa.

Most important, I will be rid of a dark undertoad (undertow) that has caused me dozens of large and small health problems over the years. I will have a life on the other side that is healthier and stronger than ever before.

Subtract the tumor and it's a total spa experience.

So I don't know what will be happening in my physical head while I'm 'under', but I intend to robustly enjoy every moment of my spa week.

Let the music play.

- The Acolyte

So They Found My Brain Tumor...

OK, so it's not technically a brain tumor, It is a brain-base tumor -- a pituitary tumor. In this picture, it would be in that structure hanging down underneath the brain. That's where all the control panels (glands) are that run everything in the body.

It is not a cancerous tumor.

Even though though it is not a cancerous tumor, it acts like one in most ways except for the important fact that it doesn't spread elsewhere in the body through cell migration. It is sticky. It strangles what it touches, and presses on the rest, and it can come back after removal, but just in its original place.

It is a cystic tumor, it is very rare, and I've had it all my life. 

The docs tell me it started in my mother's womb. It has grown slowly over the years until it has squashed the hormone-producing pituitary gland and attached itself to other critical areas -- optic nerves, the hypothalamus. 

If it eats my optic nerves, I'm blind. If it eats the hypothalamus, I am dead. 

I am having surgery to remove it next Monday, May 17th. They tell me I have an excellent chance of coming through it healthier than before, but there are also major risks of surgery to surmount before I get there.

Why am I telling you about this now?

The purpose of this blog, this 'church', has always been to write about what is authentic, in the world,  in my life and in my relationships. I considered not writing about it at all, but that didn't feel right. This is one of the biggest things in my life, and to leave it out and write around it doesn't work. I need to write it out, and almost a thousand subscribers need me to post about real life, not just the fun stuff.

I was diagnosed in late September, and have gone through the mill of diagnostic scans, hormone replacement therapy, physical reactions to the hormones and strong emotional reactions to my situation.

I wanted to wait to blog about it until some balance emerged, and now I'm there.

Here is what I have learned so far from this experience:

• Life comes into sharp focus when it is threatened. A sunny morning, the smile of a grocery clerk, the smell of my wife's neck. They all mean more.
• All the ambiguities and activities of life -- striving, gaining, losing, become pretty meaningless. It all narrows down to right now and what's in my life today.
• Love, connection and support are like water to a dry place.
• My relationship with my wife Betsy just gets better. She doesn't flinch, she just keeps loving me and loving me, and I keep giving it back, and the power of love just grows.
• This is a Ph.D program in character. You find out how much you've got and how strong you are. I'd recommend you be a hound-dog for integrity and inner strength while you don't have a brain tumor so you have a lot of it in the bank if you ever do.
• You'd better have some kind of spiritual life (not necessarily religious), or the weight of it all could become way too much to bear.
• Don't like roller-coasters? You won't like this. Good days, bad days, numb days. Come on down off the wall, Doug.
• People's reactions are interesting. They usually immediately think of Ted Kennedy, of brain tumors only as decline and death. I have to assure them that I feel better now than ever before (HORMONE replacement!!), and that my prognosis is great once I get on the other side of a long day of surgery.
• If I survive the surgery with no problems, they release me in three days. Three days!! Is that amazing or what? And they don't open up my skull, they go get it through my sinus. Ain't technology wonderful?
• My priorities are rearranged, and I'm a lot less willing to participate in things that are joyless. Life is short? Damn-skippy.
• Fun rocks. If there's not a lot of fun, recalibrate until there is.
• I'm not going to stop drinking, eating dessert, or swearing just now. Later. Maybe.
• This diagnosis is a huge gift. I have battled a string of health problems all my life, and had no idea a tumor was sparking them. Now I know. Now it goes away. 

So I'll be taking a little time off from the blog to -- har, har -- get my head straight. I'll be back soon.

One more thing I have discovered is, if you don't have a sense of humor when something like this hits you, fear rules. In that spirit, I thought you might enjoy some fun, because fun is a Mighty Alright way of dealing with stress and uncertainty and we all have enough of that stuff.

Enjoy. 

- The Acolyte

What My Vacuum Cleaner Taught Me

 I had a client on the way, and decided to tidy up the office. 

 I pulled out the vacuum and turned it on, and was immediately assaulted by its   usual SCREECHING HIGH NOISE and constant rumbling as I pushed the heavy thing around. I had bought this relic at a flea market twelve years ago, and tolerated the noise and the muscle strain because it still picked up stuff. Sort of. 

This got me thinking, as I recently expressed to my wife, that we should get a new one when we could afford it. I went out and priced them, and decent ones start at about $250, so we were putting that off while we were rebuilding our finances after last year and its unprecedented demands upon our resources.

On this day, while pushing the shrieking machine here and there, I actually mused out loud (not that anyone could have heard me!), "Lord, I know we can't afford it now, but at some point when we can, I sure would love to have a new vacuum cleaner.

In an instant, the machine banged once and was silent. A wisp of smoke arose. My mouth fell literally agape as I stared at the now-silent banshee machine. Prodded it with my foot. Unplugged it.

Was it wounded - just faking - or was it dead?

I plugged it in again. A groaning sound, more smoke. Unplugged it.

Well. Talk about the power of intention and the word. 

I'm a great believer in intention. I observe that when I really make up my mind about something and hold that intention, it happens. The result may not look exactly like what I imagined (six months more before getting a new vac), but it happens. 

There should have been a camera to record this incident. Would've been a big hit on YouTube.

Actually, there's probably no need for the camera. I think there's a huge stadium out there in the great beyond somewhere, and live-cam episodes of life on earth are shown on a big screen for everyone's edification and amusement. There must have been a great guffaw.

This was another important episode, a life snapshot with multiple lessons: "Be careful what you ask for", and, "Remember this demonstration of the power of intention and word when you're feeling stuck or helpless."

Now we have a quiet, easy-to-use new Hoover. His name is Herbert. I smile as I clean.

   And Betsy is using it everywhere. 

   Isn't it amazing what gets you off as you get older? 

   And that's Mighty Alright.

   - The Acolyte