In praise of Palestinian steadfastness | csmonitor.com - "…it is a mistake to consider the past 60 years as simply a story of unmitigated disaster for the Palestinian people. There have also been significant successes and achievements ? and it is a story worth telling."
Tomgram: 12 Reasons to Get Out of Iraq - "[H]ere, in an attempt to unravel the situation in ever-unraveling Iraq are twelve answers to questions which should be asked far more often in this country"
Scientists Flesh Out Plans to Grow (and Sell) Test Tube Meat - In five to 10 years, supermarkets might have some new products in the meat counter: packs of vat-grown meat that are cheaper to produce than livestock and have less impact on the environment.
Up and Then Down - Nicholas White walked onto an elevator one night, with his life in one kind of shape, and emerged from it 41 hours later with his life in another.
Today we had to euthanize Ranae, our 15-year-old tuxedo cat.
Plato’s Cave
A little over a year ago she was diagnosed with diabetes. We guessed at the time that she’d had it for a while, since, when we put her on “kitty Atkins” (Fancy Feast cat food) and Glipizide (an oral glucose-control medication), she changed from a sedentary cat with tendency towards nasal infections to a much more active and healthy feline, chasing around the house at high speed with Cleo, our other cat.
Then, two days ago, she stopped eating, and her belly felt taut. She’d always been somewhat overweight, but this wasn’t right, and she was obviously uncomfortable, so we took her in to the vet. An x-ray showed an enormous mass of some sort almost filling her abdomen. Since she didn’t have “the look” that cats get when they’re ready to give up, we decided on exploratory surgery (laparoscopic). The vet was astonished at what she found: an enormous malignancy, no trace of her pancreas, one kidney compromised, and metastases everywhere. Her guess was pancreatic cancer, the probable cause of her diabetes. But she had never seen so advanced a tumor in a cat who had been apparently healthy until only days before.
So, as we’d discussed, Ranae never woke up from the anesthesia. We’ll get her ashes in a couple of weeks, to join the other cats in the little kitty cemetery at the side of the house.
How to Disagree - A guide to the disagreement hierarchy, from name-calling to refutation.
A Tiny Revolution: Oh Noes!!! - "…watch out, world: you having the power to deter us from attacking you is the same thing as you attacking us. Not only that, but if you may be able to "attack" us like that in the future, we’ll attack you for real, right now."
Links of interest for February 25th, 2008 through March 28th, 2008:
Why voting is wrong - "For most people, the electoral charade provides a kind of relief valve for angers and frustrations that might otherwise seek a more effectual outlet."
The Reality-Based Community: How fair was that trial? - James Wimberley compares the trial of Jesus with the trials of Guantanamo detainees using the Human Rights First list of criteria for a fair trial and concludes that the Gitmo trials are less than half as fair as that of Jesus.
Make the World Safe for Hope - After eight years of Bushâs military meddling in the Middle East, if you want more war, vote Obama.
Halloween - Samhain Teach Us To Overcome Fear - America appears to be one of the most frightened places on earth. Samhain gives us an opportunity to be mindful about fear and confront what frightens us.
Yesterday evening I saw a dead man for the first time.
It was my father.
I. O, Fortuna
I am both fortunate and unfortunate in being able to say that. Fortunate in that, for much of the rest of the world, the sight of death is likely to come both too early and too often, and certainly not in the relative comfort of a skilled nursing facility, or at home under hospice care, as had been our plan.
Unfortunate in that, as a member of a society devoted to denying age, dying, and death, I really have no place to put the experience—or rather, it will take me a lot longer to encompass the reality than it would had I grown up in a culture where dying is understood as a part of life. I saw this with particular poignancy among the Latino women who served as drop-in caregivers for my father during his sudden, final decline. Many of them had grown up caring for their elderly parents or grandparents, and they evinced a matter-of-fact tenderness and competency that was both reassuring and shaming. If this is what “multiculturalism” brings to our country, I want more of it.
II. The Paths of the Dead
The curtains were drawn about his bed when Deborah and I walked into his room about an hour after his death. One of his roommates was outside in the hall, the other sitting in bed. I half-smiled and nodded at him as he silently indicated his condolences. My father had only been in that room for a day; he had been transferred from a transitional unit when he refused to continue radiation treatments. So I don’t know the man’s story. Is he waiting for death to find him there, or does he hope and expect to go home? What was it like for him to hear that death had visited so close, to wait there until the mortuary came to take away the body?
Another first for me came when I pulled aside the curtain and saw the white-shrouded form upon the bed: a visceral understanding of what the word “uncanny” points to. For just a moment I wouldn’t have been surprised to see it sit up or float into the air. Terrified, of course. But not surprised.
It was hard to draw back the sheet from his face. The woman who called on the phone had said he looked “peaceful.” I suppose so—there were no signs of pain. As a child I was fascinated by the illustration of Jacob Marley’s ghost in A Christmas Carol, for I didn’t understand why he had that band of cloth under his jaw and over the top of his head. Now I knew, for my father’s gaping mouth opened on the darkness that awaits us all, and his eyes, half-lidded, gazed with milky unsight upon the undiscovered country. As I am, so shall you be. And there was nothing left of the handsome, powerful man I remembered from my childhood.
Chuck Trowbridge with his children, 1956
III. Time Enough for Love
What killed my father was prostate cancer, which metastasized into his spine. While his doctor had no hesitation in prescribing whatever level of opiates was necessary to control his pain (fentanyl patches and hydromorphone), his sudden death was nonetheless a mercy. There was nothing to look forward to except increasing pain, higher doses of opiates, and decreasing awareness of his surrounding. His collapse was quite sudden, from “independent living” to the hospital to death in the skilled nursing facility in about two weeks.
But there was time enough for love. Our relationship had not been good for many years, for he could never acknowledge the damage my mother’s alcoholism did to him, my sister, and me—not, at least, until she died in December of 2006. Then, slowly, faint signs of who he might have been without her—the merchant mariner who gave up the sea he loved when she told him to choose—began to emerge, even though he never stopped loving her. And I had a little time to discover the man I could have loved far more than I did, and understand how much he gave me.
Just four days before he died a memory surfaced, of a song I’d heard years before. I didn’t know the title, only that it was by Mike and the Mechanics. It was, of course, easy to find: The Living Years. I listened, weeping, and two days later finally told my adoptive father what I needed to say, and what he needed to hear:
I learned a lot from you, Dad. I was lucky to have you as a father.
Ezra Klein joins Jason Zengerle in defending Barack Obama against the silly plagiarism charge leveled by Hilllary Clinton, and in the process reveals some confusion about what ghostwriters actually do:
“Moreover, as Jason Zengerle reminds us, Clinton has written two books, both with ghostwriters, one in which she didn’t even credit the ghostwrite in the acknowledgments, which seems like a rather worse sin than Obama grabbing a line from his buddy.
I’ve done more than a little ghostwriting in my career as a professional writer, and I can tell you that’s a complete non-issue, and in no way a “sin.” Ghostwriters exist because many people, perhaps most people, can think better than they can write. The whole point of hiring a ghostwriter is to have a professional put your thoughts into readable prose. He or she is not in it for the credit, but for the money. Yes, it’s nice if you get a mention, but it is not something a professional expects.
And anyway, haven’t we had enough of the “yeah, but the other guy did something worse” style of political argument?
cityofsound: The street as platform - A science-fictional look at the clouds of data surrounding a typical street in the near future, based on technologies already available and in use. Fascinating!
American Leftist - The skull beneath the skin of the nation-state shows its teeth in a proposal to stop nuclear proliferation by pre-emptive nuclear attacks.
Last Tuesday I had my prostate vaporized. Here’s a photo of an early, not-very-successful version of the procedure:
Early PVP with too much laser power
The surgery is called Green-Light Photo-assisted Vaporization of the Prostate (PVP). It uses a 120-watt laser to vaporize prostate tissue, and cauterize at the same time. I requested a spinal anesthetic, so I was able to watch the procedure. Rather interesting: the probe looks like a large glass needle and the laser light comes out the side. All you can see are a series of flashes, and bits and pieces of tissue (looks like cheese) coming off and whirling away. There’s very little blood. Unfortunately, I was unable to get any photographs, although there are several examples on the intertubes.
The procedure took about an hour. About 45 minutes in I started to feel the probe–no pain, at first, just an odd tugging sensation below my navel. When it started getting uncomfortable I mentioned it and the anesthesiologist knocked me out with gas. The next thing I knew I was in the recovery room. I was at the surgery center about 6 hours, much of that waiting for the surgery room to become available, as they were running behind. (It was the Sutter Maternity and Surgery Center in Santa Cruz. I recommend them, and my surgeon, Joseph Franks, very highly.)
Recovery has been quite rapid. There was only a little pain at first, and I stopped taking pain medication the next day. The catheter came out the second day after surgery. I was very happy to get rid of it, as the usual male morning salute is, as you might imagine, quite uncomfortable when there’s a tube running up into your bladder! I was able to urinate about an hour later. Deborah laughed at the expression on my face when I came out of the bathroom–I haven’t been able to pee like that for 15 years or so! One interesting side effect, not of the surgery but of the anti-spasmodic I’m taking to relax my bladder (Pyridium), is that my pee is bright orange.
When I researched the procedure on-line, there were a number of horror stories (the intertubes tend to select for that, of course), as well as enthusiastic endorsements of the procedure. So far, add me to the latter. Although I still can’t sleep through the night (it will take time for the trauma to heal and my bladder to re-learn retention), I’m a lot more comfortable, and I’m looking forward to being able to travel without wondering where the next restroom will be.
(BTW, the title of this post was suggested by the scene with the ogre, Winston, in one of my favorite movies, Time Bandits. “I can cough. At last, I can really cough.”)
...be patterns, be examples in all countries, places, islands, nations wherever you come; that your carriage and life may preach among all sorts of people, and to them; then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone; whereby in them you may be a blessing, and make the witness of God in them to bless you..
