Magic

When I was a student at the school of theology in the mid-1970s, I lived in a big house with seven other students. Penny, who lived in the basement apartment, made some magic brownies. I had never had magic brownies before so I was a little fuzzy as to their magic qualities. Most of my contemporaries had lots of experience with marijuana and hashish, and related herbs. But I was something of an herbal novice. We all ate one brownie and headed to the movies to see the new film called “Star Wars”. As we sat in the theater before the movie began I leaned over to Penny and whispered "I think I need another brownie, I'm not feeling any effect yet". Penny looked at me carefully and then reached into her oversized macramé purse from which she procured another brownie. After eating my second brownie I began to feel a little tingling in my feet. As I remember it, “Star Wars” was a fabulous film. When it was over my friends ushered me out of the theater because I was shooting storm troopers with my ray gun.

When we got home I watched TV with wonder and amazement. The program called “Fernwood Tonight” looked something like a late night talk show, but it was a little askew. And in my altered state, I couldn’t tell what was going on. So I went to bed and lay in the dark watching red and white pinwheels spin behind my eyelids. I was due at school the next morning for the first day of classes. Already a little late, I hurried to my Old Testament class. It was nearly full when I arrived- the only seat available was in the front row. So I took it and sat through the full hour not more than 6 inches away from Dr. Knierim, who had a habit of spitting when he lectured. It was just as well- I hadn’t had time to shower before I left. But I was still a little under the effect of the brownies from the night before. And I must say the herbal haze combined with the tall German professor shouting in my face, “VAT SEZ ZA TEXT!” created a very scary foreign film effect.

catheter anyone?

I’ve had more interaction with medical professionals in the last month than I like. It all began three weeks ago when I found myself unable to urinate. As you might imagine my bladder began to fill to overflowing, but it didn’t overflow. After eight hours of this situation my husband tried to catheterize me. When that didn’t work, he called for emergency medical attention, and they sent us two young emergency medical techs, Rhonda and Eileen. They were 22 and 25 years old respectively. I’m not sure how many penises they had seen in their lives. Eileen decided to try her hand at the catheter. So she pushed it on in, then to the left a little, then to the right, but she ultimately had no success. Everyone decided I should go to the emergency room. So I was loaded into the ambulance and off I went.

In the emergency room, five more people, nurses and doctors, tried to catheterize me. I imagined myself sort of like a carnival game. There was probably a sign outside my curtained alcove that said, “win a giant panda, catheterize the rube inside”. After four hours of this, a urologist showed up. He said, “I’ve got a little trick to this; it will only take a minute.” 10 minutes later he too gave up on the catheter. So he made a tiny incision in my abdomen and inserted a tube directly into my bladder. Finally, there was joy in Mudville again. He collected A LOT of urine.

I was discharged to home with the tube coming out of my belly and emptying urine into a clear plastic pouch. I went back to the urologist’s office four days later to see if the trauma had cleared enough in my penis for him to insert a scope and look at what was going on. No success. So we made arrangements for me to go to the hospital the next day and have a catheter surgically implanted into my bladder through the penis, under general anesthesia this time.

When I awoke from anesthesia, the little incision in my abdomen was sewn up, and there was a catheter coming out of my penis and connecting to a clear plastic bag. Ah, what a beautiful ignorance anesthesia provides. The urologist told me that the catheter was held in place by a small balloon that had been inflated inside my bladder. Now I could definitely qualify as a circus sideshow with balloons and everything. The next morning as Tom was digitally cleaning the tip of my penis and the area around my abdominal surgeries, the catheter slipped out and fell on the floor. Tom shrieked. Then he called for emergency medical assistance again. This time the entire crew from firehouse 11 showed up. There must have been 15 firefighters in full regalia wandering around our apartment looking at the art, evaluating the furniture. I wondered to myself: are these actually realtors dressed like firemen? Eventually they got me to the hospital where the urologist inserted a new catheter.

Today after three weeks, my penis has finally stopped bleeding. I’m still connected to a clear plastic jug and will discover this Friday if I ever get to have it removed and return to the more typical urinary configuration. I’m sure my little story here has made many men wince as they read it; I’m sorry for that.

My Father Loved Basketball

My dad played high school basketball and while he stood only 5’9” tall, he even played a little college ball after the conclusion of WWII. When we were kids, he mounted a backboard and hoop at home so we could shoot hoops anytime we wanted. He was an elementary school principal and his students told me that he left his office sometimes to join the kids on the playground, and play a little b-ball if a game was in progress.

Unfortunately for us both, my growth spurt came fast and early, and I was lucky to be able to walk without falling over. I’m afraid dribbling a ball and running simultaneously was out of the question. I’m sure it must have been a little disappointing for him to have a son incapable of the game he loved, although he never stated as much. He did seem happy that I found a high school sport in swimming, where I couldn’t hurt myself or anybody else too badly.

Because I had friends on the basketball team, they encouraged me to try out for the final season of our high school years. They reasoned that even if I didn’t play much, I could earn another letter and we could have a good time on road trips. So I turned out for three weeks of conditioning; running endless drills up and down the court. At the end of the try-out period, Coach Wood, always a thoroughly considerate guy, invited me into his office. We sat on either side of his banged up wooden desk and he said: “Tomorrow I’m going to post the names of those who will be cut before the final roster is complete. I wondered if you might want to withdraw today and then I wouldn’t have to put your name on the cut list.” I don’t think I would be accused of being the dimmest bulb in the box, but it still took me a good 20 seconds. Then I realized he was offering me, a senior and a leader in our class, a graceful way to exit the tryouts without my name appearing on the cut list for all to see. I accepted his kind offer.

In the last months of my final year of high school, we stumbled onto a venue where Dad’s love of the game coincided with my limited talent for it. He was a Mason and I had joined a Masonic related organization for teenaged boys. In May, our chapter entered a six game basketball contest with other chapters in the region. Our ragtag band of boys could rustle up at least five players per game, (except one we had to forfeit). We played hard, and although probably the worst on the team, I played regularly. I don’t remember how many games we won or lost, but I remember the final 2 minutes of the final game. With Dad as our coach, we managed to keep up with the other team, a few points ahead, and then a few points behind. With the score tied and as the second hand on the clock swept toward the 12 for the last time, I found myself with the ball at the top of the key and my teammates said almost as one, SHOOT! I shot, and held my breath, and it whooshed through hoop and net without a bounce. Everyone was a little shocked, I more than most. I got lots of cheers and backslaps from my teammates for that shot. They hoisted me to their shoulders and carried me around the gym. (That last part about being on their shoulders is, I’m sure, a figment of sweet memory enhanced by imagination.)

One part of that day’s memories that I hold close and take out from time to time probably has to do with the fact that Dad’s been dead a few years now. And I miss him. As we prepared to get in our cars after that momentous game, my father put his hand on my shoulder and looked up at me. “Nice shot son”. Some words of appreciation come from the right person, at the right moment and last a lifetime.

My Sister's Drawer

When I was 12, my older sister had a room of her own. My younger brother and I made it our avocation to torment her. We put tiny Radio Shack speakers under her bed and wired them to a microphone in our room, so that we could make spooky sounds and frighten her in the night. The speakers were so small, she never heard anything, but we felt devious nonetheless.

I was at that awkward age when nothing fit. Even the teeth in my mouth. They were what could be called "buck-teeth". And so my parents had the foresight of taking me to an orthodontist. He decided that the only way to rein in those buck-teeth was with a head gear. You’ve seen them: a wire apparatus that fits into the mouth and then connects to a headband around the back of the neck. I was supposed to wear it all the time. But sometimes in the middle of the night it would come unhinged from one of its rubber bands and go flying across the room.

One night when my parents were having a dinner party, and my sister had joined them in the dining room, I decided it was time to explore the locked drawer in her dresser. I had no idea what the drawer contained. But it was locked, so its contents must have been juicy. I decided that my headgear was the perfect device to pick the lock. I inserted the curved end of the wire apparatus into the keyhole of the drawer and twisted it to the right, then to the left. The drawer was not unlocked, but my headgear was stuck. I tried every way of removing it short of wire clippers. Finally when the MacGyver excitement was too much for me, I crept into the dinner party and whispered in my dad’s ear. He quietly rose from the table and walked the length of the house to my sister’s bedroom. Of course everyone else at the table also rose and followed. I stood red faced in front of the room full of people as my dad extracted my headgear from the lock. “Shall we finish our dinner?” And he escorted the crowd back to the table.

Dad never said anything about the incident to me. He never had to. My future as a professional thief had been thwarted forever.