Dispatches from a medical piece . ..

of kosher meat. Part II.

The Saga continues. 

You may recall my previous medical sing the Yiddish Blues rant. It’s the one where our hero (that’s me) was lying supine on an operating table while a “invasive radiologist” injected minuscule metal beads into my prostate arteries. The brainchild behind this sci-fi procedure was to partially occlude the blood supply to my supposedly enlarged prostate, thereby shrinking the organ.

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2024/04/dispatches-from-medical-piece.html

The final result was yes, my prostate shrunk but there was no relief for the multiple midnight and beyond potty breaks. Sort of along the lines, the surgery worked but the patient still died. For  three months leading up to seeing the prostate doc, I spoke often to an array of nurses at the clinic. I told them of my stranger than strange side effects. They brushed it off as if saying, that’s normal. Well it wasn’t. 

That Doc wrote a final assessment of my situation. There were a lot of “hypothetically this should alleviate itself” followed by more “hypothetically’s.” I’m not a Doctor nor do I play one on Facebook (as some people I know do. Yes! I’m talking about you JJ!) but I know medical hooey when I read it. 

That Doc referred me to a Durango urologist. I scored an appointment three months later after discovering the secret phone number to actually speak to an appointment scheduler. That date was one day short of me turning 70 years old. Do I know how to party or what! When I arrived a nurse took a sonogram of my lower belly before handing me the obligatory cup for a urine sample.

A little later on, the Doc appeared in the exam room. After a very brief introduction, he quickly got to the point. “What are you here for?” This took me by surprise, “didn’t you look at my referral or previous medical history?” 

“No!” Was all he said.

Doctor # 14 (the number of physicians I’ve seen in 1.5 years) lost instant style points with me. 

Foreseeing this moment, I fortunately copied the prostate doc’s final report on my iPad. Doc 14 read it while vigorously shaking his head. He then looked up and said, “I disagree with everything written in this report.” I chimed in, “that makes two of us.” 

He went on to state, “Jeff, your prostate wasn’t that big to begin with. You weren’t a candidate for that procedure.” He then glanced over at the photo from my sonogram. “Jeff? Do you need to go to the bathroom?” 

“No” was all I said. 

“This sonogram indicates you are retaining about 600 cc of fluid in your bladder. You never had benign prostate hyperplasia. You have a bladder problem.” 

He went on to explain he needed a closer look into my bladder. An invasive exam I compare to the torture regimes handed out at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. 

I asked a reasonable question, “what are some of the possible problems you’ll be looking for?”

“I won’t know until I do the exam. But what I do know is worst case scenario this could lead to renal failure.”

I wasn’t mentally prepared for a Fox Fear Network medical possibility. In his report the urologist summed up my reaction this way. “Patient seemed distraught.”

Duh…

Two days later, I received an email notification from the urologist. After going through several security checks (I believe the nuclear launch codes are less secure), I opened the message. “Urine sample ABNORMAL.” It turned out that prostate doc not only introduced metal beads in me but a nasty E Coli germ too.  For six months, I’ve been feeling off. Apparently all those UTI signs and symptoms I spoke about fell on deaf medically trained ears. 

I was then placed on an amoxicillin regime for ten days. Those germs snickered at this lame attempt to murder them. Next I was on a mightier antibiotic which could cause “spontaneous ruptures of the Achilles or calf tendon.” Of course, I presented with this side effect, without the full on tendon tears fortunately. 

The follow up urine samples came back “mixed flora” which sounds to me like a bouquet of bacteria. The staff at the urologist assured me I had no infection, just ignore the new report. Easy for them to say. 

Now I understand it when folks say “our health care system is broken.” For the vast majority of my life I’ve been pretty much A-OK. Most of my past health issues have been orthopedic in nature. Now my insides have gone awry and all I score are confusing answers to my questions. Doctors and nurses don’t seem to have the time to pay attention when a patient is handing them a litany of medical signs and symptoms. I’m not sure where their mindset is, but with me it wasn’t in the present. If you are detecting frustration on my part, you are correct. 

In a few months, I’ll nervously allow myself to lie still while I’m being medically violated. The Durango urologist has one chance at this. It’s not a test I wish to repeat. Obviously I’m hoping to limp out with a prescription for a miracle medicine. If not I’ll find another urologist who will grant me a true questions and answers period.

I’m old enough to remember a time when doctors still made house calls. American healthcare has come a long impersonal way since then. From my point of view this isn’t a good thing either.

 My advice. STAY HEALTHY!

It’s always something…

Jeff 

Frankly my Dear

I’d rather be camping.

It was in mid-March 2024 after Sanctuary One and I returned from a quick outing when a friendly neighbor asked.

“Will you be camping a lot this year?”

I thought about it for a short Trump attention span moment before saying. “Yes! I’m happier when I’m camping. I’ve lived in Durango for over five years and haven’t made many connections. I get lonely and bored here. I’d rather spend my time in the Four Corners region. It’s such a beautiful area.  Best of all, I don’t feel so lonely out there.”

And that’s what I did. I ventured out for longer periods and explored, hiked and discovered incredible campsites/hideaways. I was content, calmer and happier. All around, it was pretty wonderful.

I spent most of the spring in Utah, with one New Mexico jaunt interspersing it. The trips were of varying lengths of time. The fickle spring weather chased me to and fro from Durango and back. 

On one April outing, I chose to ignore the Weather Channel warnings of colder temperatures and jet stream winds at ground level! That night Sanctuary One proved to me what the salesman said, “this camper will hold up in 70 mph winds!” It did. But the seller failed to mention the raw violence and noise of turbulence trying to separate a pop-up camper from its truck.

This buyer didn’t sleep at all that night. 

In the morning and three strong coffees later, the wind subsided to a “small dog warning” level. Meaning a chihuahua would be flung around in the tempest. Plus there was horizontal snow. I braved an eight mile hike rationalizing it this way. “Surely, this system will blow itself out and peace will prevail.” It didn’t. 

I retreated back to Durango despite paying for a now vacant campsite. 

Gee! I wonder what’s causing that strange weather.

That was my pattern until the weather Gods green lighted a three week trip far and away beyond the Zion Curtain. I barely brushed the desert varnish of Utah’s canyon country when I knew I’d return in the fall for a more intimate look. The idea being to hike in what a guidebook author described “There are no trails. The hikes are in the creeks. Best time to attempt these hikes is in the fall when the water level is ankle deep.” 

So no wading through thigh high cold water this go around. But like General MacArthur said after skedaddaling  from the war ravaged Philippines, “I shall return.” Which is what I eventually did.

By lateJune the white stuff was melting off in the Rockies. All those hours of canyon hikes and campouts would be switched out for above tree line campsites featuring views of monstrous mountains and endless valleys. The first few weeks of July brought near record high temperatures (mid 90s plus) with the threat of crimson sunburns. 

Gee! I wonder what’s causing that?

Then from mid-July on it rained and rained and then decided to rain some more. Sometimes there was a break. It hailed. While volunteering as a trail ambassador for the San Juan Mountain Association. I hiked the most popular trail in the San Juan’s. The forecast was “not if but when” for sure thunderstorms. I left early with the intention of not becoming a statistic. 

Along the trail I spoke to Forest guests about “Leave no Trace” ethics, essential gear to carry in the high country and answered lots of questions with at times goofy yet serious answers. All the while keeping a tally of the number of hikers. It’s a gig I enjoy doing.

 After topping out, I inhaled my PB&Boysenberry sandwich and washed it down with a few slugs of water. I glanced up. It was a full on no bueno sky. I started hustling down. On my way, I kept meeting the wake up and start ambling at the crack of noon hikers. I urged them to be cautious.

“Sure you want to continue? There’s no places to hide from lightning once you get above tree line. You’ll be the tallest thing out there!” 

Yet, these cotton clad,  sans rain gear, (some without any gear) Converse sneakers wearing neophytes kept trudging uphill. Despite my imploring, cajoling, pleading with a bit of groveling thrown into the mix. They ignored me. After all, they’ve seen their friend’s Facebook selfies with the upcoming awesome scenery as a backdrop. The desire was there, despite the risks.

Just as I pitched my backpack into Sanctuary One, the rainstorm/hailstorm struck. I made it! This was a hailstorm with a bad attitude. I’ve never seen such fury packed over a multi-hour squall in all my years of mountain play. My thoughts went out to all those exposed hikers. Much later on when I had WI-FI service, I checked local news sources. Fortunately there were no rescues performed or rescues required. However I’m sure if a wise cracking little old Jewish guy ever gives them a weather warning, they’ll take heed.

Gee! I wonder what caused that malevolent storm?

The rains continued to the point where mud and damp were my constant companions, trails became wannabe creeks and worst of all my solar charged marine batteries were given last rites at a Gunnison, CO Autozone store. Oh don’t get me wrong, I had at least three hours in July and August where the weather cleared to perform my Trail Angel and Pika Patrol duties. (If you haven’t figured it out by now, I prefer the company of pikas over A LOT of people).

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2024/08/im-old-hippy.html

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2024/09/this-is-psa.html

Using the old Polly Anna philosophy  “we sure could use the moisture” during this monumental monsoon season I shouldered on while camping, hiking, exploring and reading (inside).

By the end of August I was ensconced in the second best mountain range in Colorado. Creeks were running fast, furious and topping over their banks. It was all too similar to  spring runoff. Crossing the surging waters scared the poop out of me. I was taking icy water up to my thighs. Admittedly there were days I couldn’t submit to the onslaught and found a cozy hideaway campsite and just read. 

Still in a sick way, it was preferable to being home alone in Durango.

By September, Colorado was beginning to dry out. YAY! After a pleasant Labor Day weekend visit with the family.

Rapidly followed by a Green River raft trip with music! 

Then it was time to face another kind of off-key music. Health issues. It turned out to be a financial and medical set back. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2024/04/dispatches-from-medical-piece.html

BUT, I cheered up en route to back to Durango. I had to stock up for my most ambitious campout of the year. Six plus weeks in Utah.  The most challenging part of packing was finding room for three cases of IPAs, cause when I’m outta beer, I’m outta Utah. 

A short summary. 

Just as I promised in the earlier part of this post. I did return to those canyons where the trail is the creek. Where according to the guidebook the wet stuff should have been ankle deep by late September. WRONG! Apparently all that Colorado monsoon moisture hit the canyon country of Utah as well. It would have been a swim for me instead of a hike. (I’m the world champion doggy paddler too). Plus! Temperatures were 10-15 degrees above normal. It was so hot, I hit a Sanctuary One personal record of 91 degrees inside the camper. I spent that day in the shade of a thirsty cottonwood tree shvitzing over my Kindle. 

Once again, Gee! I wonder what’s causing that! 

The high pressure system of above normal temperatures, cloudless skies and Atacama desert dry conditions kept rolling along. It got to the point where I ceased looking at the weather forecast assuming it would never change. In the ladder part of October, I was at a NPS visitor center scoring intel on an area that was a BIGLY question mark to me. While I was honed in on what the enthusiastic NPS ranger was saying, I glanced over at a NWS forecast print out.  Wait! This can’t be right. Snow, rain, cold, lions, tigers and bears oh my! Was on the agenda. So much for heading to that question mark on this trip. I hunkered down in a RV park contemplating my next move. Hanging out in an Utah no bar town for three more nights wasn’t an option. The next morning, I scored the last parking spot at a popular trailhead and managed a magnificent five mile hike before the cold front hit.

Five hours later, I ascended my townhouse steps for the first time in five weeks. Most folks would think my first thoughts would be, “it’s good to be home.” Not so much. What I said was, “Back to four walls.”  That same cold snap hit Durango too. For three days I caught up on grown up chores, watched the Yankees embarrass themselves in the World Series and packed for one last end of the season campout. 

On the last morning of that short Utah outing, I woke at 5ish, brewed some coffee and took a seat outside. Once again it was unseasonably warm. Orion’s Belt and both Dippers greeted me. There was absolute silence coupled with a feeling of serenity. I felt happy yet sad at the same time. Happy that I had all this space and beauty surrounding me. Sad because I wouldn’t be launching Sanctuary One again until early spring of 2025. 

I have so much more to see in the Four Corners area. So yes my Dear, I’d rather be camping.

Cheers,

Jeff

I attended the La Plata county

Democrats Election Night Watch Party held at the Powerhouse. 

After a quick scan and survey I guesstimated there were about four dozen fellow liberals, mostly strangers to me. The vibe was library subdued. It clearly wasn’t a joy joy happy happy crowd.

I met an acquaintance en route to find an IPA. He wore a strained smile as we talked politics. 

I came New York style right to the point and asked. “What do you think will happen?”

He answered, “I’m nauseously optimistic.”

I retorted with. “I’m just nauseous.”

IPA in hand, I poked around the buffet table ignoring the healthy options in lieu of comfort food. Salty and greasy. I was so fidgety and anxious I ate standing up. While making small talk with a county commissioner, I glanced over at the big screen. “Oh Shit!” The vilest man on the planet jumped out to an 105 to 30 electoral lead over Kamala. 

I quickly took a seat when I felt my heart running at Daytona 500 speed. I gulped the rest of my beer, snagged a brownie and bolted for the door. It was time for me to leave this Election Night Funeral Watch. 

I drove back on dark and empty streets reminiscent of Covid times. When I got home, I popped another IPA and plopped down on the couch. My phone was buzzing from the Sambur family text chain, providing up to date and in your face election appraisals.

When my brother Mike texted. “Harris took CO. But The NY Times needle is moving toward a Trump win. OY!” 

Quickly followed by my nephew Keith’s “I think she’s cooked.” (Mind you this is the same nephew who texted me days earlier and assured me, “Uncle Jeff! Don’t worry! Kamala’s got this!”)

With that I shut off all my electronics and slowly sipped the IPA while staring at a blank and black TV screen. Eventually I trundled upstairs in a vain attempt at sleep. Many melatonin later, (after dreaming of a Harry Truman “Dewey defeats Truman” surprise win for Kamala). I flicked the coffee maker on at 5 am.  It was time to face the funeral dirge. We all know what happened next. A mandate W for the most despicable and deplorable President America has ever had. 

The people have spoken. Being a Democrat is now similar to being a Jewish American. We’re now all strangers in a strange land.