The 50 Plus Male

• Fix him breakfast—check
• Make sure he wears clean clothes—check
• Tidy up his bedroom—check
• Clean his bathroom—check
• Vacuum his favorite seating area—check
• Clean-up the kitchen floor after he’s finished breakfast—check

Typical morning to-do list when your child wakes-up, right? Wrong, because in this case, I’m talking about my seventy-eight year-old father-in-law. He’s staying with us for two weeks while my sister-in-law, back in Dover, DE where she lives with him, attempts to “de-clutter” a portion of their house. I’ll provide you some background to clearly illustrate the plight of their overall situation…

My father-in-law is an intelligent man; a former chemical engineer/inspector who ably served his country in the Air Force for a twenty-six year period spanning the Korean and Vietnam conflicts. He’s originally from Aruba and has travelled the world more than I can ever hope to in my lifetime. Divorced some time ago from my mother-in-law, he has never remarried. Most importantly, he’s a sweet man with a good heart. Sounds great so far, but there’s one glaring hitch to this picture—my father-in-law is a world-class hoarder.

My wife and I occasionally watch “Hoarders” on the A&E network. I do not exaggerate when stating  my father-in-law easily out-distances ninety percent of the people featured on the show. His house has already been condemned once by the local fire department (the violation was lifted once some minimal cleaning was done), and he and my sister-in-law are the bane of the surrounding neighborhood.  He also owns nine cars clunkers that are stuffed to the roof with some of his belongings. (I’m earnestly trying to be polite here by not using the word “junk”). Entry into their home comes with a caveat—prepare to walk diagonally through the living room on the narrowest of clear paths that are not littered with clothes, utensils, tools, books, food, trash, etc. Suffice it to say, the home’s spider webs are probably older than me. Want to see the living room couch or dining room table—lot’s of luck, as they’re both hidden under piles of debris. When my wife and I endured three straight weekends of travelling down to Dover a couple of summers ago to help clean, we wore surgical masks in the ninety degree heat for fear of breathing in any intoxicants from the mouse-eaten carpet and accompanying droppings.

OK, typical hoarding scenario, so why the world-class designation? Simple, the hoarding doesn’t end with their home or cars clunkers. My father-in-law also owns approximately three acres of land some twenty minutes from the house that has a corrugated warehouse measuring 75’x50’x20’, and it’s full!! I mean full in the truest sense—a twenty foot high pile that almost prevents one from walking into and around the premises. Still not impressed? OK, let’s add the four surrounding garages that are all bursting at the seams.

We recently were in Dover on another cleaning foray, and unfortunately experienced a true day in hell. All of these years we thought my sister-in-law was encased in her father’s world of hoarding without having the fortitude to rectify the situation (again, I’m trying to be polite by not discussing her own serious problems); instead we made a startling discovery—she too has a serious hoarding problem. During our clean-up, she became extremely agitated that we were throwing away her “cream-of-the crop” belongings. We tried explaining there was no “cream-of-the crop,” only crap! This remark set her off to such a degree that when my wife tried to intervene and calm her sister down, a physical altercation ensued between the two of them—the first time I’d seen that in the twenty-five years my wife has been a part of my life.

My wife and I cannot adequately express the depths of our despair over their living conditions. Despite our best efforts and suggestions, the nightmare in Dover presses on. We encourage both my father-in-law and sister-in-law to stay with us for a few days each month; thankfully they have complied. My wife and I know  their trips to visit us present more than a brief respite from their deplorable daily existence; they are literally like vacations for the two of them. For us, it’s a chance to offer them clean, sanitary living along with (hopefully) a calming environment to ease the mental stress they each face.

Caring for one’s parents/relatives is a common part of the lives of many of us who are fifty-plus. I discussed this phenomenon in an earlier post, ”Caught in the Middle,” in October 2009 when discussing The Sandwich Generation. In our case, it’s done out of love, not just by need. I try to take much of the burden away from my wife, but it’s her father and sister, so the resultant emotional toll is quite high. We’ve never faced as dire a situation that called for us to be partners-in-crime and always be there for one another’s support.

I know many of you face similar circumstances and I’d like to hear from you so the discussion can continue…

-Neal

P.S. Exact detail of what we found and threw away during our cleaning trips to Dover has purposely been spared from this post. This was done out of courtesy for my father-in-law and sister-in-law, and quite frankly would not make for pleasant reading. Those of you who are experiencing these circumstances are well aware of what I’m talking about here.

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you

If you’re young at heart.

For it’s hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind

If you’re young at heart.

-Lyrics from “Young At Heart” by Frank Sinatra

A month ago I had the pleasure of attending nuptials for the son of my dear friends, Paul and Beth. Paul is a charter member of my esteemed  Boston University Rat Pack and met Beth while attending college. One of the many benefits of gatherings like this is they serve as yardsticks for the longevity and strength of everlasting friendships. The weekend was ripe with reminisces and laughter, and we quickly lost count of how many instances we uttered “I can’t believe we did that” while discussing our college years.

The kick-off to the wedding weekend was the Friday night dinner hosted by Paul and Beth for all of the out-of towners in attendance. In the midst of (admittedly too many) drinks and all the merriment taking place at the Rat Pack table, I commented that while all of us were turning fifty-eight years of age, I still thought of myself as twenty-five (now pointing to my forehead) up here. Quick, common agreement around the table caused a discussion to ensue on this “phenomenon” so often felt by many other fifty plus men and women. Is thinking of oneself as being younger than chronological age purely an exercise in mental delusion? Or, does this feeling have real emotional grounds, based on your current life circumstances or other criteria?

Don’t get me wrong here; I’m not suggesting the feeling of immortality we felt in our teens and twenties. At this stage of the game, every day must be savored. We’re living in very tough economic times now, as detailed in a previous post, Half Full or Half Empty, and many fifty plus couples have seen their savings devastated, find themselves unemployed or underemployed, and regard “retirement” as merely a word in the dictionary. Mix this with increasing health concerns/costs for our age group and you might think it’s enough to “drive one into the grave” as opposed to feeling sprite and chipper.

The real trick, as I see it, is to realize how family and (in this case) friends can provide a circle of support capable of lifting you from the doldrums even in the worst of times. Sometimes, it just takes a “kick in the pants” like a rowdy dinner with friends recalling good times past and those yet to come. During the Friday night festivities, all daily concerns and troubles evaporated; the camaraderie formed by friendships spanning almost forty years took firm grasp of the evening and laid a foundation for one of the most enjoyable weekends of our lives.

There are countless boomer generation articles on how to feel young at heart offering prescriptions  revolving around pursuing hobbies, supporting pet causes, travelling, staying physically active, etc. There’s certainly nothing wrong with this advice, but it needs to defer to the more basic elements inherent in this discussion—levity, laughter, family, friendship and most importantly, the genuine ability to really care for those around you. In the end, you’ll experience levels of happiness that are multiples of what you give of yourself…

-Neal

Roughly three years ago, when I turned fifty-five years of age, I became enamored with a facet of Americana that most people associate with those in their teens and twenties…tattoos!! This new fascination began with the plethora of tattoo-artist inspired TV shows (ex. LA Ink, Inked, Miami Ink) found on cable channels such as TLC and A&E. Having long been widely-regarded amongst their peers, practitioners such as Ami James. Chris Garver, Kat Von D, and Corey Miller have now become household names.

(I know, you’re already thinking I’ve lost my marbles…just wait.) 

My newfound interest in the art is shared by many others…if you’ve viewed any of these TV shows, you know that tattoo conventions showcasing many well-known tattoo artists are attended by thousands, and their popularity continues to grow. If you want to get a tattoo by some of the major artists, you had better be prepared to book an appointment, through the artist’s website, at least one year in advance!

What really hooked me was when I saw the cubist artwork by one of the world’s foremost tattooists, a gentleman simply known as “Bugs.” Before we delve into his work, let me provide you a bit of background: Cubism is an art movement that was started in the early 1900’s and is perhaps best-known through the works of Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque. The style is one where various objects are broken up and reassembled in some abstract manner, thereby allowing the artist to present multiple viewpoints of the painting’s subject matter, offering you the viewer greater context in however you choose to interpret the piece. Woman with a Guitar by Braque, shown here, is one  of the better known examples of cubist art.

OK, back to Bugs. A native Frenchman, who has been practicing his art for some twenty-five years, Bugs is regarded as a “master” in the tattoo world, and has carved an equally creative niche on canvas as well as skin. He actually began as an art student before turning tattoo artist, and gained fame through his illustrative cubist-style tattoos while practicing in London. While continuing to travel the world, he is currently based in the Los Angeles area at The Tattoo Lounge. His work, in my opinion, is absolutely breathtaking both in scope and design. Here’s a link to his personal website so you can independently judge his art.

By now you’re probably asking why I haven’t followed-through with my desire to get a tattoo. Surprisingly it has nothing to do with the preconceived notion held by many that tattoos are only for the criminal element, athletes and flaky Hollywood celebrities…nothing could be further from the truth. No, my two obstacles are based upon two of society’s bedrocks:  religion and marriage.

I’m Jewish and my faith has long held that because the body is a gift from the Lord, and therefore sacred, making any markings is a distinct sign of disrespect. Now while I’m not very religious, I do try to adhere to some of my religion’s basic tenets. I have to admit, however, that my new-found level of respect for the art of tattooing is gradually allowing me to “deal” with this problematic doctrine.

It’s the second obstacle that poses the greater long-term difficulty; namely that I dearly love my wife and wish to remain married! I have been told in no uncertain terms “get a tattoo and you’re out the door!” One tattoo would immediately turn me into Rodney Dangerfield…hey, I tell ya’ I get no respect! Sheesh, what’s a guy have to do? In my case, the answer is to temporarily shelve the idea of getting a tattoo so I can still gain entrance to my own household. Best not to disturb the Gods and my wife (not necessarily in that order), lest I find myself (you got it)…done and done.

-Neal

I never like to start with an apologetic tone, but as it’s been too long a time since I wrote to all of you,  please know that I’m regretful for this and thankful my readers have “hung in there” between postings. So, let’s get right to it with some timely news that’s been bothering me of late.

As most 50 plus males know by now, sometimes sports serve as a metaphor for life. My hometown Philadelphia Flyers are currently proving this point. They didn’t qualify for the hockey playoffs until their last game of the regular season and have since shocked everyone by advancing through the first three rounds (two of which were against higher seeded teams), subsequently reaching the Finals against (once again) a must higher seeded team, the Chicago Blackhawks.

How  they have accomplished this feat was expounded upon by Phil Sheridan, a sports columnist for  The Philadelphia Inquirer. Simply put, the Flyers “are a relentless band of warriors.” This has entailed an increasing level of grit and determination while the playoffs have progressed; as their opponents have gotten better and stronger, so have the Flyers. Much credit has to be given to Flyers coach Peter Laviolette and his staff. They are, as Mr. Sheridan writes, hitting on all cylinders and pushing every button as motivators and leaders.

Lesson learned here: you have to be more and more prepared to meet rising challenges.

So why does an obviously intelligent, successful member of our generation seem to have totally dropped the ball? I’m referring to Tony Hayward, Chief Executive Officer of BP Plc, who recently turned fifty-three. Mr. Hayward (and we can’t excuse his support staff) has seemingly made one gaffe after another. His intonation of “wanting to get my life back” may have been the apogee of pathetic  remarks by a CEO, particularly in light of the eleven lives lost on the oil rig, not to mention the toll this oil spill is taking on local residents and wildlife.

The flak that BP has taken in response to the spill is justified, and the behavior of their leader has heightened the level of vitriol. It’s only now, after weeks of failures and poor corporate behavior that BP and Mr. Hayward are beginning to “hit on all cylinders.” Unfortunately, it’s too little/too late.

Mr. Hayward’s utter lack of exuding competence and leadership will only add to the incalculable cost that BP will have to pay over time. He has already confessed that “they did not have all the tools you would want in your toolkit.” In other words, they weren’t prepared to deal with a deepwater oil leak. Now I fully understand that BP’s objective, as with any corporate entity, is to maximize productivity and accompanying profits. But, as Dick Polman, a highly regarded political columnist notes, they should have first done due diligence on all precautions that would have allowed BP to “act as a steward for the public interest in a fragile ecosystem.”

Proper preparation encompasses three ingredients: advance planning, the wherewithal to adapt, and the ability to adjust. Mr. Hayward and his organization have miserably failed on all three counts. Unlike my Philadelphia Flyers, they simply don’t have the look of a champion…

-Neal

The past few years have unveiled a slew of very disturbing news that while confined to one area, will naturally continue unabated as time progresses. My mother, who turned 80 a few months ago, has seen some very dear friends succumb to disease, injury and advanced age. Accompanying the overwhelming sorrow is a profound sense of her own mortality, and I expend great effort, as any loving son would, at bolstering the knowledge that she thankfully enjoys very good health and looks fantastic.  Much of this is due to my mother’s almost religious devotion to her diet and thrice weekly visits to a local gym where she participates in a seniors exercise regimen.

Here’s the rub…even more astonishing is how many of my own family, friends and acquaintances have recently passed away. A cousin, childhood friend, along with high school and college classmates, all in their fifties, have sadly departed at what we 50 plus males regard as a vital phase of our lives. I’ve never been a devotee of the obituaries in my local paper, but the ever expanding lists of the deceased noted in my high school class web site and quarterly college alumni publications produce agonizing projectiles to the gut that eliminate any attempt on my part to have these notices remain inconspicuous.

So here’s a fundamental life question raised by this news…do I continue to follow my heretofore unwritten edict of always “planning for tomorrow” or should I finally learn to “live for today?” I’m fully aware it’s possible to straddle both philosophies, but the question of applying equal weight to each choice versus favoring one over the other must be addressed.

There isn’t any right or wrong answer; it’s strictly a personal matter based on your particular circumstances. I’ve always been a believer that “today will take care of itself,” therefore focus on planning for a better tomorrow. At work, I’ve always had the habit of going a bit overboard in trying to plan for every possible ill-advised scenario that could arise before a new project began, not only to have pre-arranged solutions at-hand, but more importantly to help prevent the actual occurrence of  the problem. In my personal life, I’ve always been a saver rather than a spender…who knows what tomorrow will bring, so best to be prepared. Now, having the perspective of too many untimely deaths within my social sphere, my once solid foundation built by sheer determination to seek a better tomorrow is beginning to show cracks.

One of my closest friends has always been a “live for today” practitioner and I have repeatedly berated him over the years for feeling this way.  Well folks, not only do I no longer question him, I find myself appreciating my friend for effectuating this lifestyle much earlier than I ever dreamt to follow this path. If you’re sensing a gradual sway on my part to joining the “live for today” club, you’re right…instead of selfishly theorizing there will be many more “tomorrows,” I  increasingly focus on fully actualizing each “today.”

Like many of my brethren when I was in my twenties, thirties and forties, I always thought of myself as invincible; this is no longer the case. Our health, much like good fortune, can no longer  be taken for granted. We’ve all heard “you could be hit by a bus tomorrow” and “the world does not owe you a living.” I always used to casually cast aside such broadsides, but now, I’m listening…

-Neal

Being a 50 plus male and having “been around the block” a few times engenders a requisite amount of seasoning. By this age, naiveté has pretty much flown out the window and we feel like life has few surprises left to offer. Even devoid of having personally experienced a given situation, we’re so bombarded with others’ tales through our profusion of media outlets that we at least think we can easily wrap our hands around a remedy should we ever find ourselves as a principal.

Or so I thought…

I was notified in February that I was liable for possible jury service in Federal Court beginning in late March. When the appropriate time arrived, I made my required phone call to see if my assigned number was selected to attend the next day’s jury pool; it was, and so began my brief, but startling journey into “another world.”

I was selected for the second voir dire (French for “to see/to hear”) call of the day, a rather large one where fifty-five of us were chosen. For those of you not familiar with the concept of voir dire, you are escorted to a courtroom and given a very brief overview of the case by the presiding judge. The judge then proceeds to weed out possible jurors from the group through an exhaustive series of questions that can expose bias towards the prosecution or defense, along with a host of other reasons why you should not be selected for the jury. Once the judge is finished, the respective lawyers get their chance for questioning the assembled pool, with the intent of selecting those people they feel are most apt to side with them once the trial begins. After the lawyers exercise their allotment of preemptive strikes, a jury consisting of twelve members and two alternates is finally selected to hear the case.

Guess who was the last person picked, as Alternate #2? 

The case was drug-related (cocaine powder and crack cocaine to be precise). The two male defendants were each charged with three counts involving possession, intent to distribute, and possession of firearms. Each defendant was in his early twenties, but could have easily passed for eighteen—baby-faced complexions, fresh haircuts, shirts and ties—every attempt having obviously been made by their lawyers to dissuade us from thinking they were street-wise and hardened individuals. After being given precise instruction on how to conduct ourselves from the judge, the prosecution (representing the government) began their opening argument.

To say it was compelling is an understatement; we learned there were actually five arrests made but the other three parties had pled guilty and were going to testify for the prosecution against the two defendants, thereby hoping to lessen their own jail time. My fellow jurors and I were drawn into what can only be described as the seedy, sordid underworld of a drug-infested existence. Remember, no opinions were to be formed about guilt or innocence until the trial ended (the judged had told us to expect six days of trial time before deliberations could begin), but I soon realized TV shows and movies ain’t nothing like this folks! After hearing opening statements from the defense, who agreed the prosecution had followed correct procedural manners in forming their case, but were arguing against the defendants’ level of involvement, the first witness was called. He was the lead detective in the case and was put through three rigorous hours of examination and cross-examination by the lawyers. The other detective and fellow officers in the case followed him onto the stand, albeit for much shorter questioning.

The second day was the real show; the first of the other three arrested parties made his appearance, in green jail fatigues with a sheriff escort always remaining by his side, as a witness for the prosecution. I won’t delve into every detail, but I learned more about cocaine, both in its raw form and in its “cooked” form as crack than I ever cared to; as well as how a sweeping cocaine business operated on a daily basis. I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the unnerving feeling of having the three firearms gathered as evidence a mere ten feet in front of the jury box—a .45 caliber Taurus Millennium pistol, a .44 magnum, and a 12-gauge shotgun, all of which had been kept constantly “hot” (i.e. ready to be fired) and within arm’s reach in one of the defendant’s apartments. The only “amusing” facet of the proceedings was that this witness, both a customer and accomplice of the defendants, was 45 years old and was thus called “Old-Head” by all of his associates.

When the fourteen members of the jury returned from lunch recess that day, we were told there would be a delay in allowing us back into the courtroom, as there were many details being sorted-out by the lawyers and judge. Two more hours passed and we all began thinking this “delay” was plea-bargaining by the defendants, who, in my opinion, had been buried earlier by the testimony of Old-Head. It was obvious the police and prosecutors had done a credible, thorough job and the defense was facing an uphill battle. Once we finally were able to re-enter the court, the defendants were no longer present—the judge told us they had decided to plead guilty and their pleas was accepted based on the overwhelming evidence presented to that point. We were graciously thanked by the judge, who told us that while we were no longer needed to decide the case, our mere presence helped produce the outcome and we had performed our civic duty at the highest level.

The train ride home was a blur.  First, I could not stop thinking about the two young lives gone to waste and the effect on their families. Second was much more personal. My father passed away over forty years ago; I was only fifteen at the time and was suddenly thrust into the role of “man-of-the house” (my brother was only eleven). I had to grow-up in a hurry, becoming mature and savvy for my age.  Ever since that phase of my life, I’ve always regarded myself as wise and street-smart. This trial, even in it’s shortened state, made me realize, however, that in certain social circles I’m literally a “babe in the woods.” Here I am in my fifties, seemingly immune to anything else life can throw my way, but in the world inhabited by the defendants, I’d be nothing more than “fresh meat.” Scary, scary thought. Best to start walking around with a fresh set of eyes starting right now…

-Neal

A couple of years ago, my wife Nita got smacked with the realization she was beginning to go through “the change,” i.e. menopause.  God bless her, she’s been riding out this storm with the grit and grace of an America’s Cup skipper. Some days are worse than others, but the mood swings have only been semi-alarming  rather than outright menacing…think of  the difference between sitting on a merry go-round versus riding a roller coaster…it may be an up-and-down journey, but at least there aren’t any wild plunges and turns.

As far as the swings  in Nita’s body temperature (which generally occur at bedtime), well, let me describe this from the male viewpoint by quoting one of my best friends: “Fan on/fan off; windows up/windows down; blanket on/ blanket off.”  Hey, I’m not complaining; these temperature fluctuations can be hellish to constantly bear. Nita and I have come to naming these sudden strikes as “surges,” and if a surge has her on the ascending phase of the peak (guys, that means the mercury is rising), I have quickly learned this isn’t the time to get cuddly; better to remember the old driving axiom of remaining one car-length behind for every ten miles/hour of speed.

(Talk about surges, wait until she reads these introductory paragraphs!)

This got me to thinking about changes men experience beginning in their fifties, kind of a “male  menopause” if you’ll allow me some wiggle room here. It’s every bit as personal a journey on our side of the ledger, and as I’ve taken some “not insignificant” liberties with my wife’s travails, it’s only right to divulge my mea culpa…

1. My nose hairs and ear hairs need to be cut more often than the scarcity remaining on my head.

2. I remember  celebrating with my friends at their kids’ communions and bar/bat mitzvahs…they’ve grown too quickly and are getting married now.

3. Receiving a low PSA score from my annual testing is cause for elation.

4. A Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin song plays on the radio, and I no longer change the station.

5. I think of the joy felt when I became an uncle for the first time; now my nieces are driving.

6. I still possess some level of athletic ability, but I’ve come to grips with the fact I’ll never be on a box of Wheaties.

7. With all of the wondrous fiber benefits, I can’t understand why I waited until turning 56 to begin taking Metamucil…gee, maybe it’s not just for “old” people.

Guys, for us “the change” is both a ride taken in a supportive role with our wives, as well as a solo  journey. Don’t fight the inevitable—it’s best to adhere to the great Gospel-oriented song by Curtis Mayfield and The Impressions, “People Get Ready.” It may have been written by Mayfield  to offer a spiritual message of redemption and forgiveness, but the opening lines echo my thoughts:

“People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’                                                                                  You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board”

(Note: Nita still hasn’t come home and read the first two paragraphs—I remain among the living.)

-Neal  

In an August 2009 post, Nothing Like The Sun, we began addressing health concerns pertinent to the 50 plus male (in this case, melanoma). It’s time to discuss another health matter just as relevant to us since doctors generally don’t broach the subject until you turn 50 years of age—the importance of undergoing a colonoscopy.

Colonoscopies, based on personal experience, are unduly dreaded; neither the prep work nor the procedure warrant the fingernail-chewing, raw-nerve reaction experienced by so many people when the subject arises. I’m not suggesting the prep and procedure is particularly pleasant; just rest assured your doctor will sedate you so you’re in la-la land while an invasion into the deep unknown takes place…it’s a journey where the good doctor so boldly goes forth where no man has gone before, well guy, it would make Capt. Kirk proud.

Let’s educate you on the basics: a colonoscopy is a procedure that allows doctors, typically either a gastroenterologist or a proctologist, to look inside the colon and rectum (note: the colon and rectum are the two main parts of the large intestine). The purpose is to detect early signs of colorectal cancer and diagnose any bleeding, changes in bowel habits, or pain emanating from your anus or abdomen.

You’ll get instructions from the nurse during the initial exam for performing a bowel prep prior to the procedure; this is to make sure that all solids are emptied from your gastrointestinal tract so the doctor has a clear view during this Invasion of Normandy. The prep will have you following a clear liquid diet for 1-2 days before the colonoscopy—fluids such as plain tea, bullion and certain sports drinks are allowed. The afternoon/evening before the procedure is when you’ll take a prescribed laxative (ex. MiraLAX) mixed with a 64 ounce bottle of clear fluid (such as certain types of Gatorade). You’ll generally be asked to drink 8 ounces approximately every half hour until the bottle is finished. Here’s a small hint—this is the portion of the prep that will drain you of any waste in your body, so it’s best to be home at this time. By the third intake of fluid, the gurgling in your stomach is about to erupt in a fashion that would make Old Faithful’s geyser pale in comparison! Wind sprints to the bathroom can become the norm. If people at work see you during this time, they’ll think you’re doing interval training for the 100m dash…

OK, the big day has arrived—here’s the good news—the worst is actually over. Once on the table (colonoscopies are many times an in-office procedure), you’ll lay on your left side and either be given a light sedative or you’ll be completely knocked-out (definitely my choice). The doctor will then insert a flexible lighted tube called a scope into your anus and slowly guide it into the colon and rectum. There’s a small camera at the end of the scope that transmits video images to a computer screen, enabling the doctor to view the intestinal lining and check for polyps, diverticulitis and other possible complications with your plumbing system. If necessary, a tissue biopsy can be taken and will be sent to the lab.

Recovery takes 30-60 minutes while the sedation wears off; once awake you may have some minor cramping or feel slightly bloated, but this quickly passes. Make sure you have a family member or friend along since you won’t be allowed to drive yourself home.

The general consensus among doctors is to undergo a colonoscopy once every 5-7 years after you’ve hit the big 5-0. Just like learning to ride a bike, it’s much easier the second time around. There’s no sense in fretting over such an important preventative health procedure. Like anything else in life, there’s always a humorous side…I was recently sent an email detailing some actual commentary to physicians from male patients at their colonoscopies that I’ll gladly share with you:

“Can you hear me NOW?”

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

“You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out…”

“Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?”

“You used to be an executive at Enron, didn’t you?”

“You know, in certain states, we’re now legally married.”

Finally, my personal favorite…”Could you write a note for my wife saying my head is not up there?”

-Neal

My wife, Nita, is often the recipient of a somewhat “left-handed” compliment from me. I throw it out  there whenever she asks a question that almost causes whiplash as I quickly turn my head towards her silently wondering “where did that thought come from?” Over the years I’ve come to accept these outlier queries as a by-product of Nita’s fertile creativity. She provides the right-brain qualities (intuitive, random thinking) of our union  while I  counterbalance with the left-brain (rational, analytical) component.

As a member of the boomer-generation, I like to think experience and wisdom ensure the capacity to adequately answer  anything asked by my wife. Sometimes, however, these surprise questions from Nita have a hidden aspect to them…they’re (unwittingly?) dropped as potential landmines if I don’t watch my step in how I address them.

I’m not alone in tip-toeing around these not-so-innocuous lobs from my wife; I’m willing to bet almost 100% of us 50 plus males continually find ourselves attempting to politely dodge any kind of consternation when these types of questions are asked by our wives. These instances call for aplomb and quick analysis, not paralysis.

There are obvious examples of these bombshell questions from our wives; one of the most common being “Honey, is it OK if my mother comes live with us?” This one is so potentially “deadly” that it warrants a blog post unto itself, so let’s temporarily shun it aside (whew!). We’ll stick with two that are a bit less volatile to deal with.

First up is the inevitable worry expressed by so many wives when modeling a newly purchased outfit for their husbands: “Does this make me look fat?” When I first got married and Nita asked me this, I immediately got that “deer-in-a-headlight” look in my eyes and stuttered “Ugh, ugh no honey.” Needless to say, that reply provided zero support and I received a raised eyebrow look from Nita that was countering with “What exactly are you saying dear?”  I had inadvertently stepped on the landmine and immediately knew that having sex that night was totally out of any realm of possibility.

Nowadays, I calmly, coolly answer “it fits you just right, like it was made for you.” Momma didn’t raise no dummy guys, I’ve learned my lesson! This is not to say I don’t try to be honest with Nita; if I don’t find an outfit particularly appealing, it’s now broached with an “I like it but don’t love it” comment. Look-up the word “delicacy” guys, you’ll find it under “D” in the dictionary…

The second example of questions from Nita that signal “danger Will Robinson!, danger Will Robinson!” arises when she asks me anything that starts with “Honey, I was thinking, how would you feel if (fill-in the blank)?” I immediately know that any answer to these questions is going to cost serious money. More often than not, these questions are about home remodeling, such as “how would you feel if we knock-out this wall and replace it with custom built-in storage, a flat-screen TV, new lighting, and…(keep adding-up the $$$). In this case, wisdom has taught me to reply with “Hon, I never would have thought of that; it’s a great idea and we’ll definitely have to put it on our list once we can afford to do it.” At this point guys, I trust you still have that dictionary opened to “D.”

I have to give kudos to my wife; she constantly amazes me with her imaginative thinking, even with the inevitable possibility of brandishing an axe to our bank account. As for that “left-handed” compliment I mentioned at the beginning of this post…it’s short, sweet, and simple: “Honey, it never gets boring!”

-Neal

I’m in the middle of a lazy, overcast Sunday morning putting the finishing touches on breakfast. It’s the one day of the week I have our paper (The Philadelphia Inquirer) delivered, providing  the opportunity to “lose myself” for a couple of hours reading through its entirety. The Currents section, offering editorials and commentary, and the Local News section contain articles that are unwittingly related to one another and spark the idea behind this post.

One article, written by Bob Martin, a former Inquirer writer and editor, is entitled “We could go  a long way toward being brotherly,” with the subtitle “Our orneriness drags us down.” It details Mr. Martin’s description of an older work acquaintance nicknamed “Slim” who has since passed on; a gentleman known for his blue-collar survival skills and fierce “addytood,” who had  his way of doing the job and damn anyone who sought to introduce changes mentality. A colleague of Mr. Martin’s noted at Slim’s viewing that he looked more at peace than anytime he was alive. It made Mr. Martin wonder “if this hard edge that characterizes so much of our region serves any useful purpose or does it simply drag us down?”

The second article, by Jennifer Lin, an Inquirer staff writer, is entitled “Flap over Specter’s ‘act like a lady’ comment spreads.”  Senator Arlen Specter (D., Pa.) recently participated in a radio talk show with Rep. Michele Bachmann (R., Minn.) and the discussion had turned to the health-care bill. Specter noted that Rep. Bachmann had said she voted for prosperity, and countered that prosperity wasn’t a bill. Bachmann, briefly talking over him, stated “Well, why don’t we make it a bill?” Specter immediately responded in a cantankerous manner, retorting “don’t interrupt me. I didn’t interrupt you. Act like a lady.”  A couple of additional barbs flew by, but you get the idea. Rep. Bachmann was taken aback by the the Senator’s arrogance and felt like he was essentially telling her to “just sit back and keep quiet.” National media outlets have since picked-up the story, calling Specter’s remarks “patronizing, demeaning and disrespectful.”

All of this begs the question of why civility isn’t exercised more often than hot-tempered, intractactable behavior in our normal discourse with one another?  I used to encounter this stark difference in my former job. I always enjoyed the easy-going, extremely polite cadence when speaking with clients located in the Southern U.S. versus what I encountered with some clients in the Northeastern part of the country. Mr. Martin’s article referenced similar instances of this type of pleasant demeanor experienced during a recent trip in Florida.

I’m not being naive…none of us have the capacity to always be “Mr. Happy.”  I’m merely suggesting, particularly as we 50 plus males age, it’s not a given that we naturally fall into becoming irascible old men with a “my way or the highway” mentality. Senator Specter could have courteously asked Rep. Bachmann to please allow him to finish before rebutting his comments. Thoughtfulness generally trumps sarcasm. This applies to many types of instances we confront in a typical day. I’m still in a learning stage, having recently been chastised by a couple of friends for my penchant of quickly saying “hello” when they phone and almost immediately turning the call over to my wife.

Guys, Mr. Martin is right…most times, exhibiting a hard edge can and should be replaced with genial behavior and respectfulness.

-Neal