Tuesday, December 26, 2023

“Health is our greatest wealth…

(Warning: This is a post about Aging. Bodily functions are mentioned and described. For these reasons and others this Blog has been banned in Florida and Texas.)

Is a cliche often heard whenever “Alte Kakers” (pleasantly translated from Yiddish to mean Old Timers. Unpleasantly translated to mean  Old S—ters) are gathered. The phrase is self evident. Consider Steve Jobs the founder of Apple Inc, a victim of pancreatic cancer at the age of 56. His net worth of 10.2 billion couldn’t save him from the ashes to ashes, dust to dust route.

 Being and staying healthy is truly what matters.



Up to a few months ago, if asked, I rated my health as above average. (At least the physical aspect). Sure, I have aches, pains and muscle soreness. That’s all easily treatable with massive doses of aspirin, IPAs and some reading/rest time. I lead a consistently consistent lifestyle centered around hiking, outdoor time (in warm places), eating a mostly plant based diet, drinking plenty of fluids, (the trifecta of coffee, a gallon plus of water and IPAs.) . At bedtime, I hope for a decent night’s rest minus the nightmares.

Health wise I was rolling along until July 3rd. That’s when the glitches began. I was hustling up a steep trail near Durango while schvitzing (sweating) profusely. The forecast was for heat followed by more heat. I was having no issues on the ascent. Not so much on the downhill return. Three miles from the trailhead, I felt my heartbeat go into tachycardia (too many thump! thump! thumps/minute). Mayday! Mayday! Sambini One is going down! In other words I was about to faint. I voluntarily hit the deck and propped my legs above my head. I drank water and nibbled on a Clif Bar. Eventually I stood up and stumbled down to my Subaru. All while doing my best to stave off a strong desire to pass out.



The above scenario occurred two more times within three months. I ended up seeing a just- graduated from Med School cardiologist. Jeffy! How recently did the Doctor graduate from Med School? Let’s put it this way, when I accidentally brushed by his medical diploma, I smudged the ink. Needless to say, the thought of him performing open heart surgery on me was off the operating table.



Here was my  ❤️ solution. After Googling aging, dehydration, heat, fainting and tachycardia. I chose to drink more water and  ignore the former almost horizontal episodes while hoping it won’t happen again.



I began guzzling more water which of course led to an increase of potty breaks. However the overall liquid output seemed to be a Great Lake more than the input. Plus the frequency became similar to my breaths per minute. Things were getting out of hand. Once again, I went to the source of all knowledge. Google.



Here’s what I found. As we age our noses and ears continue to grow. (As if my nose isn’t large enough to begin with.)  For senior men, our prostates continue to grow as well. Which impacts men’s  bladder function and retention in a bad way.



During my research I learned about some outpatient procedures that might alleviate my fluid condition. I called the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix and miraculously scored an appointment for an evaluation at their urology department.

There I was met by a stunningly beautiful (think Miss Universe minus the sash) Nurse Practitioner. This being the Mayo Clinic she quickly got down to business in a professional no nonsense manner. She asked many private questions concerning my “privates.” I assured her that “ALL MY PARTS WORK FINE.” She made a note of that. 

She went on to explain the tests required to fully assess which medical course of action to take. With each vivid description of what each test would entail, I instinctively crossed my  legs and squeezed down harder. My face contorted into a look somewhere between revulsion and nausea. 

After she was done she asked, “Any questions?” 

“Yeah! Can’t you just toss me into an MRI to figure this out?”

“Sorry. No!”

“Well in that case, I think you left out “water boarding” as the final test.”

She gave me a few pamphlets which described the torture regime. I thanked her for her time and patience. When I returned to my Snobsdale rental, I pitched the offending publications into a corner of a closet, never to be looked at again. 



My solution: Drink less fluids, but not to the extent of causing possible dehydration leading to fainting spells. I’m now taking saw palmetto and lycopene supplements in an attempt to reduce the size of my prostate naturally. Once again, I’m avoiding and ignoring the underlying problems.

But the aging hits kept right on coming. While shlepping two water containers to my condo, I rolled my knee. Of course it was the arthritic already damaged one. Instant swelling and dull pain. I began making  phones calls to the billions of orthopedic dudes in Snobsdale. Purpose? To secure a shot of my favorite steroid AKA cortisone.



Cortisone and me. I estimate I’ve been jabbed with that magic elixir more times than most professional baseball players. You can say I’m a cortisone connoisseur. I know instantly when the Doc nails it. Like the time I was stuck in my lower back and an hour later was off on a 70 mile bicycle ride. Or when I was jabbed in my knee and two days later backpacked into the Grand Canyon. Yeah, the stuff is that good.  I reckon getting steroid injections is the price I pay for trying to be an athlete with a body that was bred to be a merchant or accountant.

I scored an appointment for the needle. The Doc missed the sweet spot. I believe it was wide right. I had a bad feeling about his aim when he refused to drain my swollen knee prior to the poke. At the time of my appointment my knee was so bloated it required it’s very own bar stool. 
That’s BIGLY!



But the really awful news was the X Ray displaying an almost bone on bone knee joint. Then the Doc (who missed the field goal) mentioned the two words I never wanted to hear. Knee Replacement.

The inability to be mobile is not something I can ignore or avoid. Hiking makes me happy! As a wise Catalan woman once told me on my first Camino de Santiago, “The secret to life is the motion.”



Which brings me to the point of this long post. By now you’re picking up my “look the other way” approach to personal health care. 

Why is that Jeffy?

Because aging is hard enough. Going it alone is far worse. 

The New York Times recently ran an article about solo seniors who blew off medical exams and procedures. The reason? They have no one they can count on to take them to the hospital if need be. Let alone someone who will help them through the convalescent and rehabilitation stages. This is something I can sadly relate to.  (My brother Mike and sister-in-law Robin stepped up to babysit me in case I need a knee surgery). 

But this is not how I envisioned my life to be. I figured by now, I’d have a girlfriend/wife in a loving quid pro quo relationship. As in “Hi Bubalah, could you please keep an eye on me as I heal ASAP and I’ll do the same for you if the need arises?” (Since I’m a Jewish Mother in a man’s body, it would be a  good deal for this mystery woman. Coffee in bed included.)  

Like so many other Alte Kakers I live in a perpetual state of medical denial. I fear slipping on that figurative and literal patch of black ice in which there might be no one nearby to pick me up. So we disregard the glitches and do our best to avoid the ice. 

This is why health is our greatest wealth.

For a poignant New York Times look at loneliness through the ages:


I wish all my readers a happy and healthy New Year. 
Cheers/L’Chaim
Jeff





















Wednesday, October 11, 2023

“I know that a man ain’t supposed to cry…”



Lyrics from “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” by Whitfield and Strong

My last verklempt moment occurred at a Sambur family gathering in Boulder, CO. We were hovering around the kitchen counter pre-Happy Hour time when my nephew Keith innocently asked, “So UJ (Uncle Jeff) how’s it going in Durango?.” 

Like a shaken, not stirred IPA my thoughts and emotions gushed out. “Well, it’s been over four years since I settled there. I really like the town. It’s progressive with a liberal vibe. There’s always community minded events going on. Most of them have been a lot of fun to attend. 



I’m still in awe of the interesting and beautiful places within the Four Corners region. It’s really superseded all my  wild lands expectations. It’s the most incredible  area I’ve ever seen or lived in. I love the campouts, hikes and my exploratory trips. Best of all, Durango is at the epicenter.” 



I sighed and continued with the glum part, “Socially it’s been a bust! Sure, I know a few dozen “Hi, how’s it going? Nice day if it don’t rain” acquaintances, but no real consistent Happy Hour/Dinner or hiking buddies. I spend most of my time alone and feeling lonely. I’m not happy about this. In fact I get depressed!” 



With that, I started to weep. Apparently, I looked so pathetic my nephew’s  daughters lined up to give me reassuring hugs.



On my long drive back home to Durango, I relived that sad moment. It was time for me to go introspective. 

“Face it Jeff! In Durango I’m an outlier. A harmless misfit. 



I’m one of the handful of residents without a dog/fur baby. (Or as I say, Durango is a  city of 19,582 people with 23,174 canines) Below is my dog Fido.



I hike instead of mountain bike. (Less chance of injury)



I’m  a small man with BIGLY opinions which I’m not shy about expressing. I ask a lot of questions too. Do you know what you get in a room of ten Jews? Eleven opinions. 

 In a laid back mountain town like Durango, where I’ve overheard, “I don’t give a shit about anything!” (Said while they were vaping from a product purchased at one of the over dozen dispensaries) I could come across as being a bit of a pushy New York Jew.. 



I’m  not a joiner or follower  in a “the more the merrier” type of town. I have a tendency to slide to the side, the bigger the crowd gets. 

I don’t possess a Polly-Anna or Pauly-Andy personality.. Unfortunately I’m too aware that bad things can happen for no apparent reasons or at anytime. Although I’m also aware that the same can be said about good things.



Throughout all this somehow I maintain a steady smile though.”



For whatever the reasons are, despite my volunteering gigs, helping to organize neighborhood get togethers (Like Durango’s first Kwanhanumas party) and holiday food drives,  being seen at festivals, fundraisers, concerts, movies, brewpubs, local hiking trails and coffee houses, I’m not meeting potential buddies or significant others. 

This was getting to me in a bad way. I felt depressed about my social situation. 

Sure, I’ve read the studies about senior loneliness. That spending this much time alone is poison  for my physical health (I just had a heart monitor glued to my chest for two weeks) and well being. But this much I know. Being depressed/unhappy about it is far worse.



I knew about the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I had been unhappy about the my social scene for awhile. It’s  time for me to move on.

So I took a deep Zen-like breath, and I decided to accept my fate. I’ll cease stressing about my lack of Durango human interaction. I’ll stop forcing the issue of trying to meet people and allow situations to develop  organically. All the while continuing to pursue scenery in the Four Corners region while utilizing Durango as a basecamp. 



I’ll run this chapter of my life as long as my Mojo, muscles and innate wanderlust allows me to. 

Then who knows? Maybe by then, I’ll meet a few people to hang with. If not I’ll move to Boulder where there’s heaps of Outliers and weird people. 

All the photos were taken within a long days drive of Durango. 

See why I live here? 

Cheers,
Jeff

For extra credit readings on senior aging, please check out:








Sunday, September 24, 2023

My Too Extreme Four Corners Labor Day

 Motorcycle Rally Escape.

When I moved to Durango in August 2019, I chose to hunker down for the long Labor Day Weekend. The same weekend as the Four Corners Motorcycle Rally. After all how bad could it be?

 It was bad. Over three days of excessive noise, excessive machismo/testosterone and too many red MAGA hats on Main Avenue. I made a silent Sambini vow. “Never Again!”

In 2020, I drove across the state of Utah and settled down in Nevada’s Great Basin National Park.


In 2021, I won an online auction item for a ticket to the “Yampa Valley Crane Festival.” 


In 2022, I made a repeat performance at Great Basin NP.


This year with gas prices hovering over $4 plus/gallon, I decided a getaway closer to home was economically speaking the correct escape plan. 




That’s why I signed on for a volunteer trail maintenance gig on a nearby over 14,000 foot mountain. (Depending on the source, there’s between 53 to 58 of these stoney behemoths in Colorado). In this post, I’ll leave the mountain and the non-profit organization unnamed.

About a week before the gig, I received an email from the non-profit on where we’d meet followed by a rudimentary game plan for the Labor Day weekend. The message turned out to be classic hooey/Fake News. The note was a far cry from the reality of what transpired on that long weekend.



Me being me, I arrived 1.5 hours before the starting time. I figured this would be a great way to meet my fellow volunteers and organizers as they drifted in. Here’s what happened:

Two volunteers were surly, the rest were friendly and all were incredibly younger than me. (Fourteen years separated me from the next “light senior.”) The three crew members representing the non-profit were half an hour late. 



A bad omen.

We gathered around the late arrivals, who dispensed little information except for “Wear lots of sunscreen!” 

I glanced at my watch and realized we were getting dangerously close to Happy Hour. It’s then when I blurted out, “Are we camping here or camping to our work site?” 

“Find a place to camp nearby and meet here at 6am tomorrow” was the reply.




I popped my camper up while popping a can of IPA. All volunteers and crew members retreated to neutral corners. So much for the social aspect of this campout. (I even packed extra beers and boxes of cookies for sharing.) I this point I began to have serious misgivings over my choice of volunteer gigs. 

It was a crappy nights sleep between the night owl ATVers and the 14er hikers slamming vehicle doors at 3:5O am. There were more sleepless nights to follow. That first morning  I became conscious, somewhat oriented and alert around at 5 am.I figured the crew was late for the meetup so a 6 am start was a Jewish 6ish. OY! Was I wrong. At 6:03 we were told to “load ‘‘em up, and move ‘em out.” This was quite shocking to me.



At the worksite trailhead, we met the crew leader for the first time. (You didn’t need to be a management consultant or play one on Facebook to realize there was dissension in the ranks). 

We were told to grab some tools and amble up the trail. Which we did. Eventually we got to work. The gig was both Herculean and Sisyphean at the same time. Let’s just say we moved a lot of rock (including an estimated 640 pound hernia inducer. ) On the first day in the first hour, I made a vow to myself. “Self! Don’t get hurt! Self! See this gig through and don’t EVER think of volunteering for these guys again.” 




And that’s how I spent my Too Extreme Four Corners Labor Day Weekend Escape. Good thing I had a hefty supply of aspirins and IPAs. 

All in all we created three steps, and one nice retaining wall. My advice. Read the fine print before you volunteer. 

All in all I’d rather be a Forest Ambassador or a Trail Angel.

Cheers,
Jeff