“Time Has Come Today…

Young hearts can go their way

Can’t put it off another day

I don’t care what others say

They say we don’t listen anyway

Time has come today”

Lyrics by the Chamber Brothers 

Tick Tock Tick Tock…

On July 11th, 2011 I came to close to meeting my 100% Kosher Maker. Apparently it wasn’t my time, although my estimated 15-30 minutes of unconsciousness seemed so heavenly peaceful. 

While I was convalescing from the eleven broken vertebrae and a busted sternum, family, friends and acquaintances reached out to me. Texts, emails and yes even phone calls and flowers poured in. Most folks wished me a speedy recovery, while some asked if I required any help. I experienced genuine feelings of concern for my welfare. 

Then one day, I got a call from an Old Flame. As usual she got straight to the point. “Now maybe you will take your own mortality more seriously.” (There’s a reason she was an Old Flame). After a few more awkward minutes, we hung up. Of course I thought about what she said, Of course I knew how wrong she was.

Anyone involved in emergency services are experts in the intricacies of mortality. That is unless you spent an entire career doing nothing more than getting cats out of trees, writing citations for littering or applying bandaids to paper cuts. 

As a firefighter/EMT I quickly discovered how Doctor Death can appear suddenly, unannounced and without warning. No one is immune. Certainly not me. 

This made it more miraculous that somehow I survived a bicyclist (me) vs. inattentive driver in a speeding sedan rear-end collision. Since July 11th, 2011, I’ve become more risk adverse. I slipped out of the bony grasp of the Grim Reaper once. My personal WD-40 might not be as efficient a second time around. From that moment on  I’ve dodged most major physical pitfalls and owwies.

My health was on cruise control until…

July 3rd, 2023 when I had a near syncope (feinting) episode while hiking. Since then I’ve experienced four more. Sure I sought medical advice. A two week heart monitor application. Results? Nothing conclusive. Two EKGs. Results? Nothing conclusive. Two blood tests? Results? Nothing conclusive. I did my own doctoring and figured out it was dehydration related. So I drank more water. Which made me go  potty more. A LOT MORE! Then came the diagnosis of BPH. Benign Prostate Hyperplasia. In non-medical terms. A BIGLY prostate.

This led me to try an outpatient procedure to shrink my Texas-sized prostate. It’s named PAE or Prostate Arterial Embolization. (Why can’t Doctors just speak English?) Google it. To say it’s similar to science fiction would be an understatement. I’ll briefly describe what it was like.

After a dose of versed, (which helps you sleep or relax before a medical procedure) I was placed on an operating table. In my right arm was an IV to inject fluids and dyes. In my left arm was a “working” IV. I came around once and glanced over my left shoulder. The Doctor was staring intensely at a TV screen displaying my pelvic girdle and the gray blobs of my organs. In his left hand was a tube. In his right hand was a thin wire, which he was ramming into the tube which was leading into MY BODY! At that point I decided it was best to go back to sleep.

It’s been almost four weeks, and the my potty breaks are like an RTD bus schedule. Every hour on the hour. Maybe the Doc thought I said, “I’m a competitor. I want an Alaskan-sized prostate over a pipsqueak Texas-sized one.” 

Oh yeah and my high blood pressure issue hasn’t been resolved either. 

Plus I now haul an extra liter of water to stave off hitting the deck in an unexpected manner. 

So once again I’m pondering my mortality. But now the Barbarians at the Gate seem to be internal instead of evil external forces. I’m aging and not like a fine wine (whine). 

Now as the medical bills pour in like the summer monsoons, my mental lightbulb (which can be a bit dim) has come on. I’m going to run out of time before I run out of things to do. If you haven’t figured it out by now, it’s the movement that makes me happy. 😃 

With this in mind, I’ll be on a mission of wandering, wondering and exploration from now until late October. (Full on camping and hiking seasons). 

Photos and blogs will be coming forthwith. 

The clock is ticking, can’t stop now.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. 

Cheers and stay young.

Keep moving!

Jeff

Basecamp by Choice…

Back in the day when I didn’t possess a physical address, I named my unique lifestyle “Homeless by Choice.” 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/08/in-america-if-you-dont-have-address.html

For 6.5 years, there were no monthly rent or mortgage payments. I spent my money wandering around the world. To be frank, (but don’t call me Frank) I’d still be out there if I were able to script the weather and length of daylight hours. (Low 70s with a few cotton-ball clouds accompanied by 12-14 hours of sunshine). However I lacked those superpowers to make it so. 

Plus, honestly I began to feel lonely “out there” too.

In that handful plus of years I was always on the lookout for possible places to settle down. I deemed Idaho, Wyoming and Montana too far north (long winters) and too far right-wing conservative for me. 

I previously attempted Tucson, Arizona  but it turned out to be my four years of discontent.

California in my opinion is the most diverse and beautiful state in the country but 39 million other people think so too. 

Oregon and Washington are nicknamed the “Great Northwet” for a reason. 

The Mormon influence in Utah makes getting an IPA or just chillin’ at a brewpub too challenging and limiting. 

I love New Mexico and truly believe it’s the “Land of Enchantment” but never heard a town or city calling my name. 

That left  Durango, Colorado and its epicenter location to the incredibly interesting and scenic Four Corners region. Being here is equivalent to winning the Powerball of natural wonder.

It’s been nearly five years since I’ve been paying rent and utilities in this small city of 19,000. Guess what? It hasn’t been a panacea for my feeling of loneliness.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2023/10/i-know-that-man-aint-supposed-to-cry.html

I’m not sure if it’s me or a sign of the times, (or both) but meaningful relationships are hard to come by here.

This leaves me with the option of hanging full time in Durango and experiencing social deprivation or heading out and exploring the four cardinal directions of the Four Corners. Right, left, in front of me and behind me. Hence, now I call my in and out (mostly out) of Durango lifestyle “Basecamp by Choice.” 

CLARIFICATION!!

I’m still residing in Durango. Just not that often! I do have a physical address there. Been there done that with the Homeless by Choice lifestyle. No mas.

Remember the name of my blog is the Wandering Wondering Jew, not the Wondering Homebody Jew. 

If you were given two solo Happy Hour views, which would you choose?

There are times during my campouts where I’ll speak out loud just to make sure my vocal cords still function. There are days in Durango when the only words I’ll speak is “Yes Please! I’d like another IPA” I prefer the former instead of the ladder. 

The Wandering Wondering Jew rest his case.

Stay safe out there and keep exploring,

Cheers!

Jeff

Dispatches from a Medical Piece…

of Kosher Meat.

If you’re been following the WW J blog you may recall the “Health is our greatest wealth” post. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2023/12/health-is-our-greatest-wealth.html

In the blog I described a half year of medical discontent. I went from aging incrementally to seemingly aging exponentially. With this in mind, I reckoned it was time to score a nearby general practitioner or now  what’s called a primary care provider. It was time to go local for my yearly blood pressure medicine supply and occasional specialist referrals. 

In Durango, I quickly discovered you don’t select docs as much as settle for one. Most docs had full case loads and weren’t accepting new patients. One doc said he wasn’t taking patients over 65 years of age. I guess if I wanted to press the issue, I could have sued him for age discrimination.

I booked an appointment months in advance for an internist chosen for me by the scheduling folks. When that morning arrived, I was ushered into exam room where a nurse took my vital signs. 

Now my medical saga begins. 

I’m the type of guy whose blood pressure begins to spike just by seeing a BP cuff. Hypertension runs deep in the Sambur clan. As a firefighter/EMT I saw many a patient suddenly afflicted by a stroke caused by high blood pressure. Having a CVA (cardiovascular accident) was a club I didn’t want to join. Of my medical fears, strokes rate in the cosmos on my list. So of course my BP was high.

When the dowdy 40-something year old Doc appeared it was like two ambulances (with lights and sirens on) passing in the night. My primary concern was getting another year supply of BP meds. Her concerns was for a generic almost seventy year old male patient. It went something like this.

“I see you haven’t had a colonoscopy since 2008. Colon cancer is on the rise, ya know.” 

She didn’t ask me about my rainbow colored diet consisting of mostly fruits/vegetables, with a lean protein tossed in for good measure. I consider the chance of me getting colon cancer to be on the low end. She pressed the issue a bit more. I came close to telling her to mind her own colon.

Next she lit on vitamin D.

I answered. “Vitamin D? Isn’t that the sunshine vitamin?” Saying this as I pulled up my sleeve exposing my 365 day a year mahogany tan. 

“Well, the sun is less effective for vitamin D production the further from the equator you get.” 

She didn’t ask about the  D supplements I take each morning either. Vitamin D deficiency is low on my worry list too.

When she asked about my sleep pattern, I honestly chirped, “Lousy. Apparently my prostate has grown so large the US. Postal Service issued a Zip Code for my organ. I wake up often to go potty.”

She didn’t laugh at my attempt at prostate humor.

“Well! It might be your sleep is off because of the altitude. You might be experiencing sleep apnea. Durango is 7000 feet in altitude, you know.”

I corrected her. “No, it’s 6512 feet.” 

I didn’t bother to tell her about the great sleeps I’ve had while camping at 11,500 to 12,000 feet. Far, far away from the Texan tourists below me. 

Eventually she decided to retake my BP. “Whew! It’s higher than before. I’ll need more readings before I give you another BP meds prescription. Get a cuff at Walgreens and start taking your own readings three times per day.”

I held my tongue about her nudging me about medical issues which were a low concern to me while ignoring the purpose of my visit. To replenish my supply of BP meds. In essence, I left the office thinking she was holding my meds hostage.

Hmmm! That office visit didn’t go well. Essentially she planted a tiny Redwood seed of BP/stroke fear and angst in me. Over the course of a few days it sprouted and achieved top ten tallest Redwoods in the world 🌎 status. Each time I took my BP it was high. I might as well have been pounding bamboo shoots beneath my fingernails.i wasn’t doing myself any favors. I decided to go the medical ignorance is bliss route. I pitched the BP cuff into a closet. 

But yet I still didn’t feel right. I was nervous and anxious. It was the weekend so the med clinic of my discontent was closed. I found an Urgent Care for a virtual visit! Promptly on Sunday at 10 am, I had my first and hopefully last FaceTime doctor’s visit. 

He was a young man with nice manners and a dude beard. He asked a few questions and told me to retake my BP again. Of course it was high. He wrote a new prescription before we disconnected. A minute later he called back. Apparently the medical malpractice alarm went off for him. He was probably nervous and anxious. The doctor’s order was direct. “Go to an ER NOW!” He specified one nearby and told me he’d call ahead. He didn’t. 

When I arrived, the first words I heard from a receptionist behind a plate glass window was this. “You know this is an ER? This will be an expensive visit. Are you aware of that?” 

Nice bedside manner which of course did wonders for relaxing me. NOT! 

I filled out the paperwork before being admitted. There I semi-reclined for two hours with an EKG monitor attached to my chest. Results? no big deal. Blood was drawn for lab work. Results? no big deal. A Doctor darted in and out of the room. Mostly out.

All this commotion while being nagged by a hardened ER nurse. 

“You might want to stop salting your food.” I gave her my “Duh!” Look.

“You shouldn’t drink Gatorade either. It’s high in sodium.” That warranted a double Duh look. 

Once the ordeal was over, the Doc wrote me a prescription for my original BP meds for 15 days. Durango docs are sure chintzy when it comes to prescribing long term meds. My total out of pocket cost? $1111.00. Ouch. That hurt.

On Monday am, I still wasn’t feeling right. Then my phone went ballistic on text messages from the virtual doc and the high priced ER. “If you’re not OK, call your primary care provider.” Talk about passing the buck.

However the dowdy Doc was booked until Thursday. I decided to go to the clinic just the same. I was pretty stressed. I spoke to a nice receptionist. “I was here last week. My blood pressure is still high. I’d like to see a doctor please.” 

With those words of medical desire, I was quickly led into an exam room where once again a nurse took my BP. Still high. 

Then I said, “I’m scared. I don’t want to have a stroke. Please help me.” Then I lost it. I started to weep. 

It wasn’t just my high blood pressure which created this dramatic moment. It was my obsession with my whole medical and mental Megillah.

A) The hope that the four congealed chopped chicken liver injections into my arthritic knee would provide the relief I desired to get me through the spring, summer and fall of my high octane activity seasons. What I refer to as my calendar time to thrive.

B) The memory of a recent dehydration caused almost fainting episode on a hike. This time within  sight of my Subaru. I sat down before I fell down, finished off the rest of my Nalgene bottle and walked away like nothing happened. Except the memory.

C) The possibility of a medical out-patient procedure to reduce my Alaska sized prostate to a more manageable Texas sized one. The Doctor assured me the procedure would “improve your quality of life.” Meaning? The chance that I could sleep many hours in a row instead of my present minutes in a row. A true miracle. 

D) Lastly but hardly the least, after nearly five years of residency in Durango, I still feel isolated and alone here. My dream of meeting a possible girlfriend/wife, feeling a sense of community or simply knowing a few Happy Hour buddies to schmooze with has evaded me. This makes all the above health issues worse since I lack a local to share my Kosher whine with. I have no one to vent to. No bueno. The aging process is rough enough, going it alone is the pits. 

A few hours later I saw another Doctor. He’s youngish, fit and possesses a military bearing. (There’s a reason for that. He graduated from the US Army Medical School). He listened to my BP worries, wrote me a prescription for another BP med and wished me “Good Luck!” There was no talk about my colon. I guess I found my new GP. He advertises on Facebook too. 

Throughout these weird weeks of seeing or speaking to six different physicians and being jabbed multiple times, I heard a voice inside my head. “Jeffy! You have to be your own doctor.” Yes. Those words of wisdom were from my father Sid. 

After the last office visit was done, the last blood sample taken and another medical bill paid; I loaded Sanctuary One for a nine day campout in Utah. There I luxuriated in the silence, the solitude, the beauty, the hiking, the cold beers and two books to relax and recover.

Turns out Sid Sambur was probably the best Doctor I ever had.