A Failure of Courage, Part 1

I go far into my childhood for a sense of a failure of courage when I felt victimized for not responding willingly to my parent’s urgings and downright directives that I become a medical doctor. When I resisted--as in not getting top grades in science and math (prerogatives for medicine) in elementary and high school--I was mistreated by them in some way. I was yelled at, they entered disparaging responses in my report cards returned to my teachers or I just got the silent treatment.

I endured an atmosphere of worthlessness so long as those grades were low. I couldn’t tap my courage as a seven year old or even eleven years later on leaving high school to say med-school was no place for me. I felt abandoned by my parents, so long as I could not please them in their only request of me: “…become a doctor so you can make us proud.”

Those subjects that required creativity such as English Composition, Sociology, Psychology or reports in Modern History gained me excellent grades. Those subjects didn’t matter to them and as a result, I spent most of my time feeling insecure and mistrusting of my ideas and dreams. Any family discussions of these were immediately replaced with questions about my sincerity toward becoming a doctor, the only goal from them for me.

The result was I hardly ever spoke about what I really wanted to do—be creative—with anyone. I shunned intimacy with best friends, girl friends and even trusted teachers or athletic coaches. I spoke the family line: “I’m going to be a doctor!”

I knew more about my acquaintances’ aspirations and how they were going to achieve them than I did my own. I carried an empty feeling inside me whenever I thought or talked about becoming a doctor. I had all the medical books money could buy, primarily as Christmas and birthday gifts from my parents. Gray’s Anatomy weighed in at several pounds but, the only thumb-worn pages were those picturing external female body parts. That book sat on my bookshelf with others of that ilk surrounded by dozens of model airplanes I built and painted—creativity on display? I should say so.

I’ll admit that my “inner child” was being slowly smothered as I grew up. All I wanted was for someone to ask me “…what did I really want to do?” All I wanted was to have my ideas and thoughts acknowledged and embraced as genuine and original. Yet, anything I originated was ignored or “pooh-poohed” as insignificant or unworthy of discussion in the family.

When I was with others, I was fun-loving and free spirited, a pixie, an elf, a “Pied Piper” bringing others to all sorts of activities. I led people on cave explorations; “spelunking” as it’s called. I formed a band with me playing my dad’s trumpet, having no idea how to play it but, sounding pretty good anyway. I created war stories and used my family’s 1954 Buick as a four engine bomber, even “bailing out” over Germany and evading capture. I turned a tree-hung rope swing into an aircraft carrier catapult, only releasing a “pilot” for take off when he had run up his engine (his voice) to my satisfaction. I got my friends to dig holes in the forest, cover the holes with boards we found at constructions sites and created underground forts for ourselves with small, smoky fires for cooking hot dogs.

But, get me home and I was neglected and ignored unless I was talking medicine or “operating” on my sister’s dolls. I tried being humorous and joyful at home but, that usually was met with distain or long stares. If I wasn’t practicing my piano (“We’ve paid a lot of money for those lessons”) or my penmanship (“See, your handwriting is so bad it’s obvious you’ll be a doctor”) or sitting at my student desk staring at books, then love was withheld, diminished or diverted somewhere else. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” was a common utterance.

I was criticized and chastised for anything not measuring to their standards. “If you don’t get your elbows off the table, then I’m gonna insert razor blades, sharp side up on the table edge to teach you a real good lesson you’ll never forget!” “Sit up straight!” and the classic, “Children are to be seen and not heard!” was literally beaten into me. It wasn’t long before I began admonishing and punishing myself for my transgressions.

I remember hearing, “BOY?!” shouted up to me by my dad from the bottom of the stairs and feeling my heart leap as I scurried out of my room to find out what I’d done this time. Maybe I’d forgotten to take out the trash or left a can of paint open or missed a spot in the two acre lawn I mowed or left water marks on one of the car’s tires when I washed it. Whatever I did, I was afraid of the consequences.

I wasn’t physically beaten in those days; it was the mental anguish I feared the most. “How could I have… (insert here any manner of actions? Why was I so stupid? How could I miss something so small?” were thoughts that raged within me. It wasn’t enough that I was called “Dumb head” or Knucklehead” or told “You’re not going to amount to much” if I didn’t get these things done right.

To ensure I wouldn’t forget my lesson this time, I found ways to inflict pain on myself as physical punishment. For instance, in returning to my room, I would deliberately slam my knuckles into the sharp edges on the door jamb, causing blood to issue forth, swellings to rise and bruises to be left behind. Or, I might kick my toes into the bedstead. I might even slam my fingers in the drawers of my desk. I just wanted some physical pain to match the mental and spiritual pain inflicted on me. It made sense for my body to hurt and make me cry rather than just having words do me in.

Since I was doing so many things wrong—household chores and poor grades—I was questioning my existence. I even went public in eight grade geography class when my teacher made a statement about some mystery regarding my birthplace, Brazil. I raised my hand and said, “I know another Brazilian mystery, Mr. Robertson. Why I was born…” I hung my head as he calmly looked away and called on someone else. At fifteen, I wrote a suicide note, “To Whom It May Concern,” stating simply that since I could not feel any emotions at all, life wasn’t worth living anymore. Obviously, I never carried through with that as I am here today. The real problem was I just knew I would screw that up just like I had everything else.

A Failure of Courage, Part 2 follows soon

This is who you are

This is who you are;

A timeless beauty.

A sweet and tender soul is how I know you.

A wisdom of the ages;

Feelings revealed only by you.

Eyes of a depth known only with you.

Love that envelopes,

Joy that swept me in a rushing tide

To heights unimagined,

As you unwrapped the gift of my heart.

I am yours,

Forever…

Never Have I Fallen

Your lips speak soft sweetness
Your touch a cool caress
I am lost in your magic
My heart beats within your chest

I think of you each morning
And dream of you each night
I think of your arms being around me
And cannot express my delight

Never have I fallen
But I am quickly on my way
You hold a heart in your hands
That has never before been given away

- Rex A. Williams -

A Failure of Courage

When I married a second time, it was with reluctance. I didn’t really want to follow my first marriage with another so quickly. In the first, I was married from 1972 to the divorce in 1981. I met my second wife in 1979 and we moved in together shortly thereafter. Although I proposed marriage in late 1980, I was not yet even divorced. Our wedding date was to be in 1981 and we even sent out invitations. These all had to be called back when I averred, saying I wanted more time than just six months from the divorce decree to new wedding vows. I caused much embarrassment and expense for this family though they stuck by us during this upheaval. We finally married in 1982.

This was a way stop on the path that led to my suffering diabetes and prostate cancer. After two years of study and reflection, I have determined the sources of these two maladies as something else rather than any environmental or genetic issues.

I am of the belief now that disease is easily explainable in terms of one’s internal emotional state rather than pointing elsewhere. As startling as this seems—that it’s our fault and responsibility that we get sick—an open examination of our emotions and our body parts, their functions and any detrimental actions on their part clearly shows just how much we control our destiny and health by how we feel about ourselves.

In my case, and I think in the case of anyone suffering from anything but, say, the effects of an accident, it is a failure of courage that put me squarely where I am today—laboring under the “double deadlies,” diabetes and prostate cancer. In sharing what I believe I failed to do, what I felt about myself and others, I may do more than just tell my story, I may strike a chord in somebody else.

If my thoughts run true, then it is a failure of courage that purposely got me sick. Since I failed to raise my courage, described as “grace under pressure,” while facing my life circumstances, then what I propose is that I actually got sick on purpose. I deigned it, desired it, designed it and felt deserving of it even though I denied having any logical reason for catastrophic illnesses to envelope me. If I’m right about how all this happened to me, maybe my example serves others.

I used to think that helping just one person to get better was ridiculous. Why put so much effort into an enterprise if not to serve many? Now I understand that in the grand scheme of things, just the intent to help someone else is really enough to reap great rewards. The universe sees the intent as a positive energy release and much comes back to the sender. More about that some other time but for now, I see my effort as much like a butterfly flapping its wings in the Amazon yet, causing a major weather shift off the coast of Maine. These word-shaped thoughts issued from a small room on an island in the middle of the Pacific may well cause a thought shift of immense proportions somewhere else. If I can clearly define what has caused these illnesses to descend on me, then surely there is a way back to optimum health for me. As well, if there are parallels in the dear readers' lives, then perhaps I will have served my true purpose on earth: helping others heal themselves naturally and do so without extraordinary outside measures.

To start, I’ll break this treatise into parts. I’ll cover my childhood and early adulthood to my second marriage. The next part will be the effects of that second marriage. If there is a finale, I will wrap up my thoughts there.

I think this process will take several issues. It’s not that I’m a slow writer. I’m a careful writer these days, editing as best I can. Too, distilling my thinking about the emotional causes of my illnesses will require some letting go and a willingness to share some fairly deep, personal issues. I may stare at the PC screen for long periods deciding what is appropriate or better yet, how to say what I want to say.

I’ll be back soon with more of “Brittleliquid’s Journey.”

Bringing You Up To Date...

In the last short while since I wrote, some issues are notable and some are just laughable. I’ll do my best to be serious about some and work at not guffawing myself off the page. You be the judge…

My doctor appointments were, at best, barely satisfying. I saw my primary guy early this month and he continued to admonish me for my weight gain and my elevated blood pressure. The weight gain is astonishing as I changed my diet to salads, vegetables and small amounts of chicken. Okay, maybe I do have a toasted bagel smeared with cream cheese every morning accompanied by mostly black coffee but, that can’t be creating this weight change. I think it started when I began the diabetic insulin shots which did improve the digestive process somewhat. My doctor agreed. So, I began a different tack.

I needed to start exercising and so, I did. I began walking in the mornings. The first week was seven to eight minutes a day but, it was every day. I hadn’t so much as put my running shoes on since before this cancer “unpleasantness” descended in October of 2006. I came back not winded but, certainly tired. The next week I resolved I would double my exercise time and I did—to 15 minutes per day. By now, not exercising daily meant I felt I was missing something in my day, like missing a meeting with a close friend. By the third week, I doubled my walking time to 30 minutes and added an incentive. I walked from my house, along the highway until I reached the local supermarket, “Sack ‘N Save.” I would usually arrive about 7:15am just in time to find day-old bagels at sale prices.

I’ve kept up the walking for these last three weeks and the expected and unexpected benefits showed up. A second doctor’s appointment three weeks into my program showed me at a weight loss of six pounds, a huge change. I was also sleeping better in that I would go for up to four hours a night without waking to make a liquid donation to the toilet. The walking was just tiring me out enough to create a pleasant slumber for the first time in many months.

Surely, the weight loss and the better rest were satisfying to my body and spirit. I proved to myself that my decisions were right, that improving my diet was a good thing, additional powdered fiber intake was moving that food through me more rapidly and getting my heart rate up through the walking was providing rewards in weight change and restful sleep. A surprise benefit was relief from a consistent, deep pain centered in my left hip.

The pain was unendurable at times, keeping me awake at night and preventing me from sitting at my PC during the day. It was right in the pelvic joint and while I couldn’t figure out if yoga-like stretching helped or made the pain worse, occasionally my entire left leg throbbed with pain. I started taking Tylenol regularly and that helped though I didn’t want to rely on that for life-time relief. I drank more water, thinking that would help as water intake helped with neuropathy, a painful muscle cramping associated with diabetes. It helped some. I even told my primary care doctor about it and he ordered an x-ray to see if my cancer had spread into that hip. (He called back later to say that the x-ray “lit-up” in that hip indicating a possible cancer spread. My oncologist told me in another appointment that if the cancer had indeed spread then he would see a hollow space in that ball joint and he didn’t. So, just what was causing this pain, arthritis?)

In any case, the more I exercised, the more the pain went away. I was amazed! There might be a few twinges from time to time but, in the main I was pain-free. My Tylenol intake dropped to maybe one pill every three or four days instead of two a day. My sleep was uninterrupted by pain. Life was good, indeed. My shorts were already getting loose and I had to tighten the wrist band on my watch. Watch this space for the continuing improvements… Tomorrow, I start trekking one hour a day, everyday.

A second medical appointment was with another oncologist or cancer doctor. My interest in connecting with him was because he was the head of a “clinical trial” researching the effects of a new prostate cancer (PC) treatment. This regimen involved twelve injections a week for about 12 weeks. It was a vaccine that triggered the immune system to chew up the cancer cells. Typically, the immune system won’t attack its own human body cells only foreign bodies, like viruses. This stuff makes the cancer cells look like foreign invaders so the immune system goes to work. He reported some success although there is a time limit of sorts. It only works for a little while in terms of the immune system eating up the cancer cells. The good thing though is that once diminished, the cancer stays diminished. My only disappointment was he wouldn’t admit me into the program because I’m not far enough into my current hormone treatment to qualify me. He did prescribe some medicine commonly used to reduce my PSA count (a measurement of how bad is the PC.)

My next appointment that same day was with an MD dispensing what is called “integrative medicine.” He was a Western-trained doctor that was integrating Eastern medicine with contemporary medicine with some remarkable results. Even the local medical insurance company, HMSA, was impressed enough to include his clinic in their payment programs. He went through the normal questions asked of a new patient and then started applying the Eastern methods on me. He took my pulse in both wrists not so much to count my heartbeats against a clock but to read what their strength or weakness was telling him about my general condition. When he finished with that he started asking other questions of me. “What was I most proud of?” I said my daughter. “What did I do for fun?” I said my art was so engrossing that I hadn’t found anything else of such a level. “Why did you divorce?” I explained that I thought my wife had tired of my behavior and decided to lay down the marriage. When he asked what that behavior was, I started to choke up. He asked me what I wanted accomplish from here on out and I started to bawl. I don’t know why I started crying; perhaps because I had never been asked these questions in a medical setting. I felt as if a professional really cared about was important to me as a part of his determination of what was the right treatment for me. This interview was so different from the “Where does it hurt?” routines of previous medico’s. I felt at home in a way probably more because I felt as if someone was actually listening.

In the end, he prescribed acupuncture as a way to “balance” me as I handled the double diseases of diabetes and PC and my work to make my artistic talents pay off into a wealthy lifestyle.

My last appointment was with the oncologist who last saw me almost six months ago when I was in hospital. I thought he wanted to see me because my PSA count was of concern.

In October, my PSA count was 48.5, incredibly high. When I left the hospital it was down to 5, still high when a normal PSA reading is >.01. By February, it was t 7.4. In March, it had risen to 7.9. In PC, the rate of increase over a specified amount of time is the critical measurement. While mine was of some concern, it wasn’t too serious.

I arrived at his office about 20 minutes early for a 3:15pm appointment. My appointment time came and went and soon it was 4:00pm. A nurse called my name and hustled me into a lab to draw some blood. I went back into the waiting room and waited some more. By 4:45pm, I was in a deep nap when I was finally called in to get weighed, read my blood pressure and other vitals. It was close to 5 o’clock before my interview started.

Before he got going, I told the doctor about my days in the airline business. A physician’s conference ended in Hawaii and doctors, wives and families were aboard and ready to leave when some airplane part broke down. Departure time came and went and I was assuring the passengers of a time not far off when they would be on their way. When the delay extended to an hour and a half and the doors were ready to close for the last time, I took up the cabin microphone to speak to the sold-out airplane. I apologized for the delay and wished them an otherwise safe trip home. I then said, “And folks, we know you are doctors and specialists with us today. We thank you for choosing us to fly with but, we also hope you now know what is like to be stuck in your reception areas for hours on end waiting to be served. See you next time!” Whereupon the cabin’s occupants burst into laughter and applause as I clicked off the mike.

This doctor got the message and chuckled, as well. He apologized, saying that a just-prior patient didn’t want to leave and took loads more time than normally allocated. I asked him if my elevated PSA count had caused his office to make this appointment and he said, “What elevation?” He said he hadn’t seen my recent blood reports but he had set up this meet because he hadn’t heard from me these past six months.

It was my turn to pause and consider just what kind of care I was getting in terms of quality and quantity. I had assumed that the medico’s associated with my care were in contact with each other in some way, if not at least by sharing my reports, lab tests and x-rays with each other. They do that and they even sometimes read these things before this patient is at their doorsteps.

I then understood why it is critical to anyone in my position to keep, read and understand the medical reports issued. Once understood, it’s a lot easier to ask questions, even penetrating questions of what treatments should or should not be undertaken on one’s behalf. The internet helps immensely in this regard and I’ve begun to research more and more about what ails me. In time, I may know as much about these two “deadlies”--diabetes and PC--as my medico’s. It’s then I’ll feel confident enough to point out the direction my medical partners will take in my treatment.

Watch this space for more developments…

If I could have just one wish

If I could have just one wish,
I would wish to wake up everyday
to the sound of your breath on my neck,
the warmth of your lips on my cheek,
the touch of your fingers on my skin,
and the feel of your heart beating with mine...
Knowing that I could never find that feeling
with anyone other than you.

- Courtney Kuchta -

Online Soulmates

She was the yin to his yang.
He was the dot to her "i".

When she was black or white,
he was her colors in between.

He finished her sentence
she felt his thoughts.

They understood from the inside out
because that's how they began.

She was the words and he the notes
together, an endless song.

He was her real after surreal dreams
she the pier where he anchored his soul.

He was the rope when all else pulled her away
she was his lamp in the dark.

Hers were the blue that mirrored the brown
in the looking glass eyes of the heart.

She was the soft to his hard
and when the door had closed
oh, when the lights blinked out ...

they were as both fire and ice
blurring the lines
between the she and the he

until he was time
she the clock
and together, an eternity.

Written by CJ Heck