Archive for the ‘Health’ Category

Breathless

¶According to my blog’s statistics page, I have 177 “followers”. That is not nearly as many as most other WordPress bloggers, unless you consider that I don’t use any of the social media venues. Followers come and go for a variety of reasons, but even if they go they don’t always remove themselves from the “followers” list, so I take the 177 figure “with a grain of salt”. Anyway, those of you who remain will probably see this post.
¶Primarily, however, it is the non-followers that I want to address here. They are the ones who constitute the vertical lines on my statistics page graph and whose homeland flags I see beside the post page titles below the graph. I wish I knew who they are, what drew them to my site, and how they reacted to what they read. Yes, it is they I wish to speak to here, to apologize to …nay, just explain why I haven’t posted anything for 19 days now.
¶You see, I woke up one morning about the middle of this month with a feeling of constriction clear across my chest at the sternum level and a severe crick in my neck. I thought I must have had a mild heart attack, so I had someone drive me to the VA hospital 210 miles from here. The VA staff did their routine of x-ray, ekg, and bloodwork. The final result was not a heart attack (which, frankly, had been my hope*) but COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease).
¶COPD is an “umbrella term” that covers emphysema, asthma, bronchitis, and some forms of bronchiectasis; most of its sufferers are victims of emphysema. However, although I smoked a few cigarettes in high school and puffed a pipe occasionally in college, my indulgence was mostly for show—I was posing as an intellectual…well, and to keep my hand warm in the fall. But I never consciously inhaled the tobacco. Still, since I frequented smoky pubs for hours on end in my college years, it is quite plausible that I was affected by second-hand fumes.
¶Now, what I have read about COPD lately has led me to believe that my nearly constant state of tiredness and low concentration level were symptoms of the COPD. What I gathered in my reading informed me that it cannot be cured; that I will be extraordinarily vulnerable to colds, the flu, and pneumonia; that it will shorten what would have been my life span; and that all I can do to control it is avoid contact with people who are ill, wash my hands frequently, drink lots of fluids (especially water), eat healthy foods, get pneumonia vaccines and a yearly flu vaccine, and engage in mild to moderate exercise.
¶So, dear readers, that is primarily why I have been absent from these pages. My low energy level and difficulty in concentration make writing a worthwhile post not very appealing. I wanted to tell you all of this because I appreciate you and because I don’t want you to feel frustrated when you pull up my blog and find nothing new there. I don’t know when I will create something fresh and worth reading.
¶Thank you for your faithful attendance.
Bob Litton

* See the reason for this preference in my blog post of 12-29-2014, “Diamond Anniversary”.

Mama’s Medicine Cabinet

©2017 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.

 

syrup-of-pepsinad

Image Source:  antiquebottlesglassplus.com

¶Yeah, I know “Mothers’ Day” is still more than three months away, but I might abandon this blog before May 14 and there are still a few things about my mother that I want to record.
¶Mama was in some ways acutely alert to health matters and in other ways indifferent to them. I remember when I was hardly more than a toddler she took me to be examined by Dr. Fred S. Brooksaler (1901-73), a Dallas pediatrician who later became a professor of pediatrics at Southwestern Medical School in that city and who is still remembered there by an endowed professorship in his name .
¶Once, Dr. Brooksaler performed an in-office operation on my neck just below one ear, but what he removed I do not recall, if indeed I ever heard him say. I liked him a lot because he gave me a little toy every time I visited him.
¶One of the medicines Dr. Brooksaler prescribed for some forgotten ailment was a roll of flat, circular, chewable lozenges that tasted like candy. I liked the flavor, naturally, but Mama said I could take one only after a meal. I had a very broad concept of “meal” in those days, so one day while Mama was away I ate a couple of saltine crackers and then chewed one of the “medicinal candies”. Then I repeated the process from saltines to medicine two or three more times. Later, as I was walking down a sidewalk a few blocks from our apartment, I became violently ill. Fortunately, a lady sitting on her porch across the street noticed me and came over to take me to her porch, where she provided whatever aid she could, not knowing what was wrong. Obviously, I survived.
¶Mama also had me examined and fitted for eyeglasses, although she probably did so at the elementary school’s bidding. They were wire-rimmed glasses, which I hated. (That was back in the days before the Beatles, when “granny glasses” weren’t yet “cool”.)  I refused to wear them one spring while I was staying with an uncle down in the Rio Grande Valley. After I got sick at school one day, the nurse concluded it was because I hadn’t been wearing my lenses, so I had to dig them out of the sandy loam of the grapefruit orchard where I had buried them and don them from then on.
¶I don’t recall Mama ever taking me to a dentist’s office, and now I don’t understand that. Dentists are, in my experience, the least expensive of health care providers. How my teeth managed to stay in good condition until age thirty-five (when I underwent a periodontal operation)  I’ll never understand. I sure miss those three gold-crowned molars I gave up last year because of all the suckers I used to poke into my mouth.
¶Now to the medicines I started out to discuss.
¶First, there was the Campho-Phenique which was a regular staple in Mama’s medicine cabinet. I often enough required its application because I spent hours on end running around barefoot in the neighborhood lawns, which were the chiggers’ habitat. I haven’t had a chigger bite since I was little, yet, in my earlier adult years, I used to stroll or sit on friends’ lawns or in area parks where the grass was plentiful enough. Nary a bite! Are chiggers extinct? I just can’t believe that!
¶Also in Mama’s cabinet one could find a jar of Mentholatum or VaporRub. These salves were developed in the 1890s and are still used today to aid breathing while a person has a cold or cough. Recent research has indicated that the salve doesn’t actually improve breathing but that its camphor aroma fools the brain into thinking that it does. (What’s the difference?) It ordinarily is applied to the chest and the back. The ill person inhales the cool camphor smell, which has an odor that I like. However, since the positive effect is supposed to be derived from breathing, I fail to understand how applying the salve to one’s back is going to be effective. Anyway, when I was a child Mama applied it to my chest many a time.
¶Another antique medicine was Dr. Caldwell’s Syrup Pepsin. Many benefits from its intake were claimed back in late 19th century when it was developed, as can be seen from this quote from a 1904 ad in the “St. Louis Republic”: “The manufacturers claim that the remedy will relieve any case of Indigestion; cure any case of Constipation; remove the cause of Headache, Biliousness, Dizziness, Foul Breath, Sour Stomach and Flatulency; and dispel Colds, Fevers, and Ills caused by bad digestion, torpid liver, and sluggish bowels.”
¶In 1906, Congress created the Food and Drug Administration to investigate exaggerated and fraudulent claims by patent medicine makers, including Caldwell’s company. Digger Odell’s website Bottlebooks.com, reports that, despite the federal government’s actions, Dr. Caldwell’s Medicine was still misleading the public about the worthiness of its product. This no doubt was accomplished by well-placed donations and lobbying.  With the owners making millions each year they would have been a formidable opponent for the government lawyers. So much so that the product was made continuously from 1889 until 1985.” So, about all that is left of Dr. Caldwell’s Syrup Pepsin are collectible antique bottles and ads. Oh well, I sure did like the taste of that stuff, containing as it did pepsin, one of the ingredients that now goes into Pepsi-Ćola.
¶That pretty much concludes my inventory of Mama’s medicine cabinet. She remained a devotee of patent nostrums, although she used doctors and hospitals whenever she figured they were needed. She even enrolled in a night course once to become a licensed vocational nurse but never completed it. However, she did occasionally tend to bed-ridden folks. When her final days came she complained about spending them away from home — in a hospital. “Bobby,” she said to me then, “why are they doing this to me? They’re going against nature.”

Finis

Another Twist of the Kaleidoscope[1]

Greek Amphora

An ancient Grecian amphora: Image Source > Bing Images

© 2016 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.

I am in a strange position right now. On the one hand, I have three topics in my noggin, each deserving extended composition. On the other hand, they all require more research than I have devoted to them thus far, if they are to be “done up” right. Yet it has been eleven days since I published my last post, and my ego is supposing that some regular — but non-“Following” — readers are getting a bit antsy after returning often to my blog site and finding nothing fresh. So, my only recourse is to compose a potpourri of short opinions/insights. (Well, actually there are a couple of other options, but I don’t want to go down that “rabbit trail” right now.)

I

About twenty years ago, in Dallas, I bought a set of classical Greek language texts published by Cambridge University Press. I purchased them because I had been reading translations of the early Greek tragedies and Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War and wanted to read them in the original language. I had noted some editors’ comments that the playwright Euripides, the historian Thucydides, and the philosopher Plato, were superb stylists. I had been a good student of Spanish, French, Chinese, and Old English (Anglo-Saxon), so I did not anticipate much difficulty with Greek, although I figured that the Greeks’ odd-ball alphabet would annoy me for a while. By Zeus, was I wrong! All the diacritical marks, the dizzily varying declensions and conjugations, and the swamping mass of vocabulary to learn frustrated me. I got as far as Section VII (out of XIX), laid my books aside, and went on to other interests. Twice over the next two decades I started the Greek again — at Section I. (I got that one down pat, by the way!)

A couple of months ago, I dove back into the translation of Thucydides and was freshly astonished by the parallels with current events. If you read the Greek statesman Pericles’ oration at the memorial service for the first Athenian warriors killed during the Peloponnesian War, you too, I believe, will be struck by the similarity of Pericles’ claims for Athens’ “exceptionalism” to American politicians’ claims for our homeland’s superior qualities. Thucydides also lays out in bold yet unbiased descriptions the virtues and faults not only of Athens but of Sparta, Corinth, Thebes, Corcyra and other city-states as well. He also analyzes the characters in their actions and their motives. The people as a whole are scrutinized with equal clarity. The acts of heroism and of treachery are rendered vividly.

I possess the first two (of four) volumes of Harvard University Press’ Thucydides, with Greek printed on the left-hand pages and English on the right. However, I have delved into the first volume only as far as the first 70 pages. The version I read all the way through, years ago, and am perusing for the second time is the 1874 translation by Richard Crawley, heavily abridged by Sir Richard Livingstone for the Oxford University Press in 1943, during the hottest period of World War II. It is only 388 pages long (not counting two maps and an index) with the pages measuring 9×15 cm. Still, condensed though it is, Livingstone’s offering provides a full sense of the flavor and drama of that conflict — the “world war” of its time. Especially perspicacious is Thucydides’ analysis of the class warfare between the aristocrats and the democrats, which led into the general war. I have excerpted the sentences below from his commentary:

Revolution brought on the cities of Greece many calamities, such as exist and always will exist till human nature changes, varying in intensity and character with changing circumstances. In peace and prosperity states and individuals are governed by higher ideals because they are not involved in necessities beyond their control, but war deprives them of their very existence and is a rough teacher that brings most men’s dispositions down to the level of their circumstances. So civil war broke out in the cities; and the later revolutionaries, with previous examples before their eyes, devised new ideas which went far beyond earlier ones, so elaborate were their enterprises, so novel their revenges. Words changed their ordinary meanings and were construed in new senses. Reckless daring passed for the courage of a loyal partisan, far-sighted hesitation was the excuse of a coward, moderation was the pretext of the unmanly, the power to see all sides of a question was complete inability to act….

The cause of all these evils was love of power due to ambition and greed, which led to rivalries from which party spirit sprung. The leaders of both sides used specious phrases, championing a moderate aristocracy or political equality for the masses. They professed to study public interests but made them their prize, and in the struggle to get the better of each other by any means committed terrible excesses and to still greater extremes in revenge. Neither justice nor the needs of the state restrained them, their only limit was the caprice of the hour, and they were prepared to satisfy a momentary rivalry by the unjust condemnation of the opponent or by a forcible seizure of power….[2]

Appear familiar? Of course, history does not repeat itself in a symmetrically balanced manner; there are some differences from that situation in ancient Greece and today’s world; but I believe there are more analogous than non-analogous elements, both in our Congress and in the world entire. In fact, I am so enamored of Thucydides’ work that I believe our senators and representatives should be required to take a month-long course with this book as their text before they assume office, or perhaps even before they run for office, and attain a passing grade.

II

 Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God, and that you are not your own? For you were bought for a price; therefore glorify God in your body.
                                                                                                — I Corinthians 6:19-20

If there are any anti-spiritual types out there in Cyberland, I beg your pardon, but I feel a calling to preach a bit here. Oh, don’t worry overmuch; it’s not a fire and brimstone message; really more of an extended pet peeve with an ounce of theology sprinkled on to give it some authority. Although I matured in the Methodist Church and even considered a few times becoming a minister, I argued myself out of it by pointing at the Apostles’ Creed and grunting at the several elements I could not honestly adhere to. But that is all fodder for some later blog post; not now.

The above passage from Paul of Tarsus, however, resonates with me for two reasons. Firstly, it brings forward the image of my favorite pastor during those young years, Clark Calvert: he was my mentor, even a sort of father figure for me, and he used that verse to counsel me. Secondly, I appreciate the image conjured by the verse itself: my body as the eternal residence of the Holy Spirit. To be perfectly frank with you, dear reader, the Holy Spirit is the only Person of the Trinity I feel that I can comprehend and be comfortable with. God the Father is too abstract and paradoxical, especially when I consider the old conundrum about Evil; and Jesus of the New Testament — “The Son” — has too many faces and does and says self-contradictory things, like some protagonist in a Jacobean tragedy. The Holy Spirit, on the other hand, is definitely comprehensible to me; he has a definite, singular role to play: to act as our guide, comforter, and advocate. And I believe He/She/It has done all that for me many times. Naturally, I don’t always respond positively to the nudges, but I recognize my responsibility when I recalcitrantly plunge ahead at the suggestion of my impulses.

But let’s return to the image of the body as the temple of the Holy Spirit. Lately, like within the past couple of years, I have become inordinately conscious of my appearance and, even worse, of the appearance of others. Of course I realize that, aging as I have, I would become more aware of the changes in my body, particularly in my face; giving up three molars during the past twelve months certainly highlighted those changes! I really do not take good enough care of myself, and I cannot fathom why. Is it just laziness or perhaps a self-contempt expressing itself physically?

But it is my view of others that really bothers me. I judge people constantly, especially young people, who, to my way of thinking, have an almost moral obligation to keep themselves in shape and definitely to avoid tarnishing their features with rings in their noses and lips, and with tattoos all over their bodies. What are they going to do, I wonder, when they get older and suddenly realize how tacky they look. One can erase only so much. Enough people are ill-favored, even downright ugly, and I look on them with pity, thinking that Nature has been too unkind to them; but, ironically, many of them found mates, while I remained single.

Then there is the obesity epidemic which is affecting all generations. I am overweight myself but am gradually losing some of it; I can now get into half a dozen pants that wouldn’t fit six months ago. However, I can’t see myself as readily as I can others; and the external scene is downright shocking. Especially ridiculous is the sight of the many fat nurses — people whose jobs are to help other people get well and stay healthy. And now, in our small town at least, we have a number of peace officers and criminal justice students who look like balloons. Those people are supposed to be able to chase malefactors, aren’t they? Our modern mode of working is the central villain here: most of our jobs involve a lot of sitting; when I went into the county tax office recently to renew my license tag I was at once both shocked and amused at the sight of a dozen female clerks who looked like walruses on a beach.

I feel guilty judging others as the above remarks evidence. I can’t change the world to fit my aesthetic and moral values; yet the impulse to judge is almost constant. Sometimes I wish I were blind.

— BL

Postscript:  Parenthetically speaking, Paul of Tarsus was not commenting on the Corinthians’ appearance. He was chastising them…actually even condemning some… for the immoral physical actions, such as fornication, that they were guilty of. I think Paul was a bit harsh with the Corinthians, when you consider what he confessed to the Romans:
I don’t really understand myself, for I want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do what I hate.
                                                                                                                    — Romans 7:15

Finis

[1] If you are interested in my first “kaleidoscope” post, look in the archives for “Off My Head”, July 29, 2015.

[2] Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, trans. Richard Crawley, ed. Sir Richard Livingstone, (Oxford University Press:1943), Book III, ¶83.

NOTE TO READERS: For some reason I don’t know, WordPress.com (WP) does not allow non-WP bloggers to register “Likes” on my or other WP bloggers’ posts. However, anyone can enter a comment in the “Comment” box and it will be published, after I have “moderated” it. I am inviting non-WP bloggers to comment. And, although I prefer positive comments, disagreeing or critical remarks are fine, too, especially if they might help me improve my writing; but no snarking, please: that’s rude!
— BL

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

© 2016 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.
When a person reaches the 76th year he can develop the notion that, because he has lived through — even studied — much history, he has accumulated a dense patina of knowledge in his brain; yet he also feels afflicted by the suspicion that he does not know how to apply it. I recall in my youth enduring various puzzling illnesses and mechanical problems which, after healing or correcting by learning the causes and applying the proper treatments or techniques, I have said to myself, “There now, in the future when I come across this situation again, I will know what to do!” The only problem with that assumption is that the illness or mechanical failure  seems never to repeat itself. There is always a new puzzle to ponder. Because of a few such episodes in my recent past, the idea of composing this essay flowered in my brain.

Past:

Einstein said that time and space are the same. I take that remark to mean that if I get up from this chair and walk over to my bookcase, about fifteen feet away, I will be walking into the future; and that if I turn around and walk back to my chair, I will be walking into the past, because I am going the same distance, over the same area, over the same period of time, only in reverse — just like the “rewind” device on my VCR. But I don’t feel that to be the case, for I have aged infinitesimally during both transits. (I wonder, to render this example valid, would it be necessary for me to retrace my steps backward rather than doing an about-face and proceeding forward again but in the opposite direction?)

I’m a very time-sensitive person, and the only place I feel that I am delving into the past is in the memory sections of the brain (the pre-frontal lobe [short-term] and the hippocampus [long-term]). Of course there are extant, exterior entities, such as an old photo or a “golden oldie” sound recording, even a scent, that can stir and augment memories.

A strange aspect of some memories is that they have made me imagine that the events which they relate still exist. Those particularly vivid memories, though very transient, are so palpable as to make their events’ extinction seem improbable. When I had such a memory unfold in my mind one day recently, I wondered where I would have to search to recover the event itself; but I quickly shook off that notion after realizing that every event has preceding and subsequent events, and I could not bring back that singular, desirable scene without also summoning its past and future. That enterprise would require a time machine.

Before you summon the guys in white coats, consider a few sentences from an article in last January’s Harper’s magazine. Titled “WHAT CAME BEFORE THE BIG BANG?”, the essay was written by MIT physicist and novelist (what a combination) Alan Lightman. Actually, in the sentences I will quote here, Lightman is referring not to his own cosmological theory but to one being investigated by another MIT scientist, Alan Guth, and California Institute of Technology physicist Sean Carroll. Their hypothesis, known as the “Two-Headed time theory”, according to Lightman, proposes that the order of our universe, then much smaller than an atom, “was at a maximum at the Big Bang; disorder increased both before and after…. (T)he forward direction of time is determined by the movement of order to disorder. Thus the future points away from the Big Bang in two directions. A person living in the contracting phase of the universe sees the Big Bang in her past, just as we do. When she dies, the universe is larger than when she was born, just as it will be for us. ‘When I come to understand that the reason I can remember the past but not the future is ultimately related to conditions at the Big Bang, that was a startling epiphany,’ said Carroll.

Lightman compares the expansion and contraction phases of the universe to that children’s toy, the “Slinky”, which, as he points out, “reaches maximum compression on impact, and then bounces back to larger dimensions. Because of the unavoidable fluctuations required by quantum physics, the contracting universe would not be an exact mirror image of the expanding universe; a physicist named Alan Guth probably did not exist in the contracting phase of our universe.” Still, there is always that wiggle room left by “probably”.

Lightman describes a few other theories of the “origin” of the universe, none of which allow for the notion of time and therefore do not consider “before” and “after” and therefore are outside the province of my essay here. However, I do want to bring in one more analogy that Lightman uses to characterize the expanding/contracting phases of the universe: a movie of a glass dropped on a tile floor, shattering, then recombining and flying back up to the table top from which it fell. If I think of the glass shards as events in my life, and of the possibility that they are scattered now out there in the vastness of space/time, and that they might someday in the far-off future recombine to become those events again, then my dream, as I related above, of summoning memories is not so absurd as you readers might have judged earlier. Heh?

Present:

We are frequently advised by gurus of various varieties to “live in the moment” in order to be happy. Who am I to argue with that formula? Only it doesn’t work for me. Why?

Well, I think it’s partly a function of Fate: I don’t have any choice but to live in the moment, yet the present seldom smiles on me, definitely not for more than a few hours. The present, in fact, seems like the target on a dart board where missiles are continually bombarding. I keep looking for that day when I can proceed from arising to retiring without some, at the least, irksome or, at the most, catastrophic encounter. I can’t recall the last time I gamboled through such a day, although I feel certain there have been some, quite likely many such. They were just too long ago. (And here, I see, I can’t even write about the present without bringing in the past and the future: depending on one’s definition of “the present”, it seems impossible to separate it from those periods. Is the present this day, this experience, or really just this “moment”? )

Another problem with the “live in the moment” prescription, not just for me but for every adult, I believe, is that even in our most positive moments we have to consider future events: college, career, possibly marriage, elections, and retirement funding. A host of other, smaller concerns requiring decisions are scattered through our lives. As one old humorist expressed it, “Why does any man examine the teeth of a horse he is thinking of buying and yet forgo checking out his prospective bride’s teeth?”

Laying all that aside, just how do I confront the present? That is too big a question. I mean, in this time I cannot ignore the fact that many of the problems I have to face also stand before almost everybody else: crazy politicians rattling their sabers, oncoming weird weather disasters and famines, fanatical gun toters, out-of-control medical and housing prices, etc. I can’t limit all those problems to myself. The conundrum, then, for me is: How can I separate out what affects only me from what affects everybody else? I cannot totally and sensibly demarcate those boundaries. Yes, there are a few somewhat private health issues which I have, but even they, as types, also afflict at least some small portions of the population; how I weary of hearing a “comforting” friend utter, “Oh, that’s just part of getting old!” or “Yeah, that stuff has been going around lately!” Why cannot my current problem be mine…individual…alone?

Future:   

My, how the calendar has shrunk! It used to be the case that when someone reminded me that some event took place last year, I could imagine an expanse of time with body to it. Now “last year” seems like what we once-upon-a-time called “last month”. I’m not sure whether this change is due to aging in me or to a more encompassing phenomenon which Alvin Toffler described as the perception of “too much change in too short a period of time” in his book Future Shock back in 1970. If the latter, then it is really weird how external events can cause one’s notion of a calendar period to shrink. There is now a whole “scientific” field of people — called “futurists” — who gather data from a large array of sources to predict what the future holds. Simple crystal balls and astronomical charts are passé.

When one reaches an age as advanced as my own, he or she is confronted with the reality that their options have greatly shrunk. There is no point in our seeking another academic field or degree, although we might have fun and benefit from taking a “continuing education” course occasionally. And we might look at our overloaded bookshelves, count the books we haven’t read, and resolve for the nth time never again to enter that bookstore a few blocks away. I swear! I must have bought all those books just because they are so decorative! Oh me, oh my!

Nor are we to get married…not sensibly anyway. Oh, if we are very wealthy and are seduced by a beautiful, young “honey-pot” into being her “sugar-daddy”, we might find ourselves wandering down that church aisle or into that Las Vegas drive-thru wedding chapel. Or, if we are much less affluent, we might marry someone nearer our own age just because we each anticipate the other will at least nurse us through our final days. The latter case is a little less contaminated by folly or predatoriness but does retain some of the strategical about it: no hot romantic blood there certainly.

But there are other issues that affect not just me and my ilk but many, many other Americans. The news media daily reminds us that we have several potential, horrifying fates lying in wait for us — climate change disasters; the threat of religious and political radicalisms; dissolution of welfare programs, including Social Security; Alzheimer’s disease; and Donald Trump as president. And those are just the severest ones. Although we should not let them overwhelm us to the extent that we can prevent them from doing so, we still have to pay attention to them in order to prevent, or at least defend ourselves against, them. So, in that very deep sense we are attached to the future.

Finis

 

 

Phobias Revisited

© 2013, 2016 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.

Dear Readers:  Due to several current physical and financial stresses (might as well include “political” in that group), I haven’t the inclination to write up a fresh blog post right now. Yet it has been a week since my last one; and, lest you develop a panic, I thought of resurrecting one of my very early posts (from November 2013). And, since most of my current “followers” were not even reading this blog back then, I believe the piece can actually be seen as a “fresh refresher”.  Moreover, considering the heavy nature of some of my recent posts, it might even be a welcome relief in tone, because it is humorous…mostly. The original title was “A Cornucopia of Phobias”.
Enjoy!
                                                                ◊ ◊ ◊  ◊ ◊  ◊  ◊  ◊

In the small town (Pop. 5,972) where I reside, we have a senior center, where old folks like me can enjoy a generally well-balanced lunch five days a week — excepting federal holidays.

For a few months, a couple of ladies dressed as clowns came to the center’s lunch room once a month to hand out balloon sculptures and josh with the diners. After sitting through a couple of those experiences I quit going to the center on the day the clowns were scheduled to appear.

I stayed away for two reasons: one, I do not like to see elderly folks treated or spoken to as though they are the same as children; and, two, I have had, since early childhood, an aversion to clowns and to absurd appearances or speech in general. When I was six years old, I contracted measles and the small apartment where my mother and I resided was quarantined. Mother bought some 78rpm record albums to entertain me during my isolation. Most of them were very enjoyable, but one — a “Bozo the Clown” album — I could not stand; yet, I did not reveal my distaste to Mother because I knew she had meant only to amuse me.

At the time, naturally, my cognitive powers were not developed enough to connect my aversion to that album with a congenital aversion to clowns as a genus. As the years passed, however, and I showed a similar dislike of stories such as Alice in Wonderland, I began to suspect that my aversion practically amounted to a phobia. My recent emotional experience of clowns at the senior center caused me to face that reality in my psyche.

I characterized my reaction to clowns as “clownphobia” (the psychiatrists’ term for it is “Coulrophobia”); and I also realized that I have perhaps an excessive sensitivity to others touching me (Chiraptophobia, also Haphephobia), whether they are clowns or not: I have a very narrowly circumscribed “comfort zone”.

I wondered if everyone has at least one phobia, so I researched the matter. What I discovered was that the scientists prefer to restrict the term “phobia” and all its combined forms to perceptions that cause a disabling of the body, a paralysis; for the less affecting reactions, the scientists prefer the less clinical terms  “fear” and “aversion”. Also, I read where other persons had asked the same question about how universal phobias could be: the answer was that it is impossible to know absolutely because there are too many people in the world who live in inaccessible places, but that many people, if they do have phobias, do not admit as much. Do they really not have phobias, or do they suffer from fear of phobias (Phobophobia) and therefore deny any phobia’s presence?

Further into my research, I found that there are long lists of phobias, valid or not, on the Internet, and I was astounded at the extreme plenitude and variety of these reactions. I photocopied thirteen pages from one list so that I could study them easier. I did not try to count them, however, because one “phobia” could be denoted by more than one term; for instance, Domatophobia – fear of houses or of being in a house – is also referenced as Eicophobia and Oikophobia.

One of the most surprising aspects of the list I saw was that so many of the phobias related to such basic elements of civilization, Nature, and our own bodies that I could not imagine how people who suffered from them could continue through their daily lives. Consider, as examples, these: Agyrophobia – fear of streets or crossing the street;    Asymmetriphobia – fear of asymmetrical things; Bibliophobia – fear of books;  Chronophobia– fear of time; Dendrophobia– fear of trees; Eosophobia – fear of dawn or daylight; Epistemophobia (and Gnosiophobia) – fear of knowledge; Ergophobia – fear of work;  Heliophobia – fear of the sun; Kathisophobia– fear of sitting down; Lachanophobia – fear of vegetables; Microphobia – fear of small things; Noctiphobia – fear of the night;  Nomatophobia – fear of names; Ombrophobia – fear of rain or being rained on; Phronemophobia – fear of thinking; Euphobia – fear of good news;  Selenophobia – fear of the moon; Sitophobia (also, Cibophobia) – fear of food or eating; Somniphobia – fear of sleeping; Trichopathophobia (also, Chaetophobia, Hypertrichophobia) – fear of hair; Cardiophobia – fear of the heart; Geniophobia – fear of chins; Genuphobia – fear of knees; Ommetaphobia – fear of eyes; and Omphalophobia – fear of belly buttons.

There is a bunch more of those. However, let’s move on to phobias that I would not classify absolutely as “phobias” but, depending on the occasion, as justifiable fears or aversions. Under this heading, we can list: Arsonphobia – fear of fire; Atomosophobia – fear of atomic explosions; Ballistophobia – fear of missiles or bullets; Cnidophobia – fear of stings; Cynophobia –  fear of dogs or rabies; Herpetophobia – fear of reptiles or creepy, crawly things. Hoplophobia – fear of firearms; Iophobia – fear of poison; Lilapsophobia – fear of hurricanes and tornadoes; Acrophobia (also Altophobia) – fear of heights; and let’s not leave out Ephebiphobia – fear of teenagers; and Gynephobia (also Gynophobia) – fear of women.

A few phobias on the list puzzle me because I cannot fathom how anyone could comprehend them enough to feel threatened by them. In this category I include Amnesiphobia – fear of amnesia; Apeirophobia – fear of infinity; Astrophobia – fear of stars or celestial space; Barophobia – fear of gravity; Cometophobia – fear of comets; Dikephobia – fear of justice; Eleutherophobia – fear of freedom; and Kosmikophobia – fear of cosmic phenomena.

There is even a diagnostic for fear of everything: Panophobia (or Pantophobia). O Brother! If you suffered from that one, you’d want to dig a hole in the ground and have some friend cover you….But then you’d go berserk from Bathophobia (fear of depth) and Molysomophobia (fear of dirt) or from both together. That’s a “no win” situation. Let’s hope you don’t contract Panophobia.

Fortunately for me, it is not often that I encounter clowns, and they are usually easy enough to remain clear of. The Chiraptophobia (fear of touch by other people) is a bit more problematic; I don’t even like to shake hands. (Does anybody?) Many people think I am antisocial, which is not the case at all; I just have my “comfort zone” which I allow only adorable women to enter.

Adorable women. Of course.

Finis

Goodbye, Tooth Fairy!

Tooth Fairy

©2004, 2016 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.

NOTE TO READERS: The article below was written back in 2004.  At that time, I submitted it to one of our local weeklies. The publisher/editor never printed it. I did not ask him why, but I supposed, with substantial grounds, that his reason was that it was “soft news”; i.e. material that had no immediate relevance for the populace but was a rather small matter that yet could in fact disturb them— they might avoid their local barbers and dentists. Also, while he puts out the best chronicle in the three-county area in the sense that his reporters cover ”hard news” (governmental, political and social events) more fully and accurately, he doesn’t have much appreciation for feature articles or what used to be called “familiar essays” (a common element in the “Talk of the Town” section of New Yorker magazine), which are my forte. So, this article has been stuck in my files all those years, yet I believe it still makes engrossing matter for the intellectually curious reader.

     I have altered the names somewhat, reducing them to initials, because I did not have permission from the subjects to include their full names, although they knew I would publish the article sometime, somewhere. Also, the barber retired half a dozen years ago.

    Enjoy!
—BL

◊  ◊  ◊  ◊  ◊  ◊

There’s new news and there’s old news—but they are not always so simply distinguishable.

Take for example a recent trip to the barbershop for my monthly trim. I went to K. N.’s barbershop. Usually, one of the other barbers cuts my hair, but on this day I had the honor of K. N. himself shearing my mane. After he had done the basic work, he pressed out a palmful of lather and smeared it on my neck. It had been I don’t know how many years since anyone had done that.

“Since when did you start shaving the neck?” I asked. “I thought shaving was out ever since the AIDS scare happened.”

“Oh, we’ve got these stainless steel razors now,” he said. “I used to use Solingen steel blades from Germany. Other barbers used Sheffield steel from England. But they both had pores in them that retained blood. Now I use stainless steel. And I use it only one time.” The stainless steel blades, we discovered after looking at a box, are made in the U.S.

The State of Texas Barber Board, K.N. told me, sent out new regulations about ten years ago ordering barbers to quit using the porous razor blades. They also had to get rid of their strops and hones.

K.N. said he doesn’t offer shaves, even though they would be allowable with the stainless steel blade. He quit shaving years ago, he said, “because people have skin blemishes—like moles. And when you lather a customer up you can’t see the moles.”

About ten years ago was also when the Center for Disease Control, or CDC, sent out regulations telling dentists to modify their practices in the interest of reducing the potential for transmission of HIV, according to local dentist J.F.

The regulations were a response to the case of a dentist in Florida who a decade ago allegedly infected five patients with the AIDS virus, J.F. told me. However, he said, all five cases involved different strains of the virus.

My conversation with the doctor about AIDS developed when I went to see him about tender gums. As I sat in the chair I noticed that the ordinary chairside spittoon was missing.

“Where’s the spittoon?” I asked the dentist’s hygienist as she was sticking a tube in my mouth.

“Oh, we can’t use those anymore,” she said, “because of AIDS.”

What she had stuck in my mouth, J.F. later told me, is called a high-speed suction tube. It removes all that saliva and blood we used to spit into the spittoon. Also, J.F. said he has a line separator in his alley so that there is no possibility of backflow.

The doctor told me the amount of regulations controlling dental practice these days is voluminous. And some of them are ridiculous, he added.  “The virus lives only minutes—some people say less than a minute—out of its moist environment,” he said. “But the regulations are so stringent; we can’t even give a kid his tooth to leave for the Tooth Fairy*. That tooth has to be treated as ‘medical waste’.”

While I was still there, J.F. called up the CDC to get a more definite fix on how long the HIV can live outside its fluid environment. However, they refused to give him a specific time period and said only that when the virus dries out it dies. They added that the hepatitis A virus could live several weeks in the open air before dying. (They obviously didn’t want to give the Tooth Fairy any wiggle room.)

So you see how a news story that began back in the early 1980s, when Ronald Reagan was president, continues to ripple into the 21st century. And how our daily lives are continually and probably forever changed in the minutest of ways by the event that created the story.


*Fairy: I don’t know how widely the folklore of the “Tooth Fairy” extends, so perhaps I should relate it briefly here. Children’s “baby teeth” begin to drop out at about age six. Generous, loving parents sometimes tell their child to put a dropped tooth under his/her pillow so that the Tooth Fairy can remove it and replace it with a small coin, such as a dime.

                                                                            Finis

Blossoms, Death Watch, Bread & Circuses

Trees Blossoms Full View

NON-BEARING PEAR TREES with their snow-white blossoms started their annual decoration of the drive at my apartment complex in late February. (Photo courtesy of Chris Ruggia)

© 2016 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.

It’s one of those days, people, one of those days when I have nothing solid enough in my noggin to offer as a single, coherent essay or poem. But I have to prove to you that I am still alive, even though each morning I am filled with wonder when I rise out of my bed that I am still here.

Death becomes a preoccupation for many of us humans when we pass the 70 mark, which is probably a primary reason for my current interest in American poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), many of whose 1,775 poems were meditations on death and immortality. I bought a paperback volume of Emily’s poems last month and a much smaller hardback volume of selected letters she wrote. I am absolutely determined to learn to understand her poems, some of which even Dickinson scholars acknowledge are tantalizingly obscure.

Tree Blossoms Closeup

BLOSSOMS IN MORE INTIMATE VIEW will soon entice the bees, who will loudly hum among them. And in a few days the blossoms will begin to fall, covering the ground like snow. (Photo: Courtesy of Chris Ruggia.)

Mortality is always closely evident in this housing complex, where all of us are either aged or severely disabled. The neighbor on my right, a blind fellow who writes a witty column for one of our local weeklies, has dubbed the complex “Mausoleum Manor”.

The neighbor on my left is dying very slowly of lung cancer. All of his meals have to be created in a blender because his esophagus has shrunk. Last night, just after I had settled in my bed, I heard a racket out on the front porch. I could guess what was going on, because similar noises — rollers passing over the rocks under the evergreen hedge — have happened three times before. The sound of a police radio-phone cinched it. They were wheeling my neighbor off to an ambulance and then to the hospital, probably because he was having trouble breathing again. But then, they might have been taking him off to the funeral home or to a distant hospice, which I consider a better option than the hospital because he had turned away from chemotherapy weeks ago. He needed to go somewhere that he could get attention day and night; otherwise he would die of suffocation.

The only other tenant in this unit (each of the nine units has four apartments) is a woman at least a couple of decades younger than we three males. Her affliction is fibromyalgia. I haven’t really met her; she stays in her apartment practically all of each day’s twenty-four hours, so I have only saluted her on the sidewalk a few times as one of us goes to our vehicle or the mailbox. I don’t make any special effort to introduce myself to people who live so near to me, for there is always the strong likelihood that some event, attitude or word will eventually cause an argument. As one of Robert Frost’s characters in his poem “Mending Wall” says, “Good fences make good neighbors.” (I don’t believe Frost himself held that view, but I do.)

So many things on my mind, so many that I have a difficult time focusing on more creative ideas and projects. Politics also beleaguers me, as I imagine it presently does most adult Americans. Many of us are worried that some of the candidates would make a dangerous president either by becoming a totalitarian tyrant in the style of Hitler and Mussolini or by chopping away at the socio-political structure that has taken more than three hundred years to build, and institute a theocracy.

But perhaps we deserve such a collapse, since, without even being totally conscious of it, we have weakened the substructure of our national unity. For too many years most of us have been so secure and comfortable that we have become complacent. We ordinarily have exceptionally low voter turnout.

Also, since 1968 at least, we haven’t had any presidential candidates that struck us as either crazy or extreme; now we have a passel of them. I hate to admit this, but one of my primary criteria for gauging a presidential hopeful is his/her demeanor…his/her stage presence. And remember, folks, we are going to have to watch the next president on TV often during the next four years. It is incredible how obnoxious in their various ways most of the Republican candidates were. I won’t take space here to caricature the top three vote-getters, but I will acknowledge that John Kasich is the least objectionable. Kasich is not handsome, certainly, but he doesn’t pose or bellow or whine or over-talk his opponents’ remarks.

On the Democratic side, Hillary Clinton has good stage presence, immense experience in government, and acute intelligence. On the other hand, she has associational baggage, a taint of dynasty, and an FBI investigation dogging her: I have bad mental images of her being led away from her inauguration stage in handcuffs.

Still, I agree with as many of Hillary’s proposals as I can understand, just as I approve of Bernie Sanders’ socialistic bent. But Bernie has a slight problem with stage presence, too: he stands up there with his shoulders bent, waving a finger in the air like a scolding school teacher; he needs to modulate some. Also, Bernie is only two years younger than I; I don’t think he realizes how the presidency ages a person; just look at photos of Bill Clinton and George W. Bush from the days of their first and last years in office; ditto for Barack Obama. I doubt that Bernie could survive four years.

But it is we the people that worry me most. If the crowds at Republican primary debates and the number of their voters going for Donald Trump and Ted Cruz are a true indication of the mood and intelligence level of Americans overall, we are in for a major disaster.

Too many Americans are believers in “pie-in-the-sky”. They are addicted to get-rich-quick gimmicks such as the various lotteries. The politicians — of both parties — frequently use the phrase “hard-working Americans”, when the fact is that few of us work hard enough to break into a sweat, and too many young people dream of becoming rock stars or outstanding athletes (which I concede will bring up the sweat for a few fun hours) because that is where the big money is. We import Latinos and Asians to do the truly menial work and then we accuse them of stealing our jobs. What we want for ourselves, just like the ancient Romans, is bread and circuses.

♦ ♦ ♦

P.S.:  I went to visit my neighbor at the hospital this afternoon. He appeared to be in much worse shape than the last time I saw him, in his apartment two days ago. Moreover, it was difficult to understand what he said because his head was enveloped in a complicated device to aid his breathing; it was similar to that nosebag that Hannibal Lecter wore in “Silence of the Lambs”. But I did get enough out of our conversation to discover that the hospital will keep him there as long as necessary and that he can shorten the period by telling them to “pull the plug”. Not a good prognosis, of course, but certainly better than one of us entering his apartment to find him in his bed, dead from suffocation.

Finis

 

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