I am Cyborg

cy·borg [sahy-bawrg] noun
a person whose physiological functioning is aided by or dependent upon a mechanical or electronic device.

Origin: 1960–65; cyb(ernetic) org(anism)

* * *

For a long long time I've had bad vision. I had always chalked it up to simply being my eyes, which had an horrendous amount of astigmatism.

About 14 years ago, I looked into the option of LASIK vision correction, and while I was apparently a candidate at the time, the doctor refused to preform it because, in his words, I would not be "20/20 happy." (I supplied him with a laundry list of questions about the procedure, and that must've scared him off).

In retrospect, that was a blessing in disguise because a few years later I heard a dreaded "C" word…cataract.

By definition, a cataract is the condition where the lens of your eye starts to turn cloudy, thereby blurring your vision. In extremely circumstances it can go completely opaque, effectively rendering a person blind in that eye.

While I wasn't completely blind, my vision was pretty bad. Uncorrected, it was something like 20/500+, and even with my coke bottle glasses it had devolved to a point where it could someday become a hindrance to driving.

As I haven't had vision care for a long time, surgery was out of the question. Out of pocket could be upwards of $7000, or more, per eye.

However, thanks to Obamacare, I was able to finally get my eyes taken care of. I cannot stress enough that had the president not pushed for his changes in health care, I would not have been able to do this.

(And on a side note, I find the earlier comments by opponents that there would be less choice in health care ludicrous as I see more and more advertisements on TV for health care options I've never heard of until recently.)

* * *

I arrived at my appointment mid-morning last Friday. People asked me whether I was nervous? (How could I NOT be?!?). I said, "No." But, the truth came out when they took my blood pressure as it was all over the place. Not enough to abort the surgery. But, enough to make me take pause.

After copious amounts of eye drops, including some type of "cane" drug to numb the eye, as well as a mild sedative, it was time to wheel me into the operating room.

I was bummed that it wasn't equipped with a recording system, as my grandmother's surgery center had been. But, then I would be "the main event" so it didn't really matter.

The overhead light was all a blur. But, it kept moving all over the place and  so I eventually asked, "Have you started yet?"

Turns out he was already several minutes into the operation already when I asked.

Basically, they make a couple of small incisions in the surface of the eye and then use an ultrasonic wave to liquefy the natural lens of the eye. It's then sucked out and debris cleaned up, before the artificial lens is inserted; unfurling similarly to the solar wings on the International Space Station.

After a bit of tweaking to get the lens properly placed, they covered the eye with a shield (what you see in the photo above), and wheeled me back to the recovery room.

All told, I think I was in the operating room for 20-25 minutes. In fact, I was easily on my way home under two hours from when I first got there. Probably closer to 90 minutes!!

I had my first follow-up appointment the next morning and was shocked! I nearly aced the eye chart; missing only one letter on the 20/20 line. Granted, it wasn't crystal clear. But, it was pretty discernable.

Now, at today's second follow-up appointment, I basically slammed the 20/15 line with no problems, and my astigmatism is completely gone! Plus, I got the great comment that I healed a lot quicker than the doctor expected (which accounts for the ultra-high distance vision).

Perhaps the only downer is that I have to wait until June 13th to get my right eye fixed, and so watching TV and using the computer can be a chore at times.

I can either use my old glasses, which render my new eye a total blur, or I can use a cheap pair of reading glasses, which then totally blur out the right eye due to its astigmatism.

It's kind of strange to think that I will have a small piece of plastic in my eye for the rest of my life. But, in this day and age, where it's commonplace for people to get knees and hips replaced, why should my eye lenses be any different?

Plus, I now have the advantage that these lenses are better than the best sunglasses when it comes to blocking out harmful UV light.

About the only negative thing I will come away with is they are not multi-focal, like the natural human eye so I will be doomed to reading glasses for the rest of my life. But, that's certainly better than not being able to see.

What was Old is New again

A couple of days ago I found out that my childhood home is up on the market again. This is the one we sold last August.

At the time our real estate agent thought the buyers were getting it because it was so close to the Pacific East Mall, in Richmond. But, it turns out they must've been nothing but a couple of flippers.

I guess it was providence that I Googled the address on Friday as the first Open House took place today. Considering the brisk seller's market, It was likely now or never to see the transformation.

* * *

I use transformation akin to a transformation from a caterpillar into a butterfly.

They'd basically restuccoed the entire outside, because they had a whole bunch of wood rot to deal with, and all the windows were replaced, with all but two being moved from their original location.

Mind you this was a house built in 1949, yet they chose to use that rough stucco outside, which has been the trend on many buildings in the last couple of decades.

I was surprised they didn't put up the faux shutters around the windows, and the scalloped main living room window was replaced with a somewhat smaller cookie cutter square window, with no sill. Honestly, it looked unfinished.

On the bright side, the front yard was landscaped with fresh tanbark, and most of the foliage was gone, making it look a lot cleaner and bigger.

As we entered the house, the first thing we were greeted with was brand new flooring and NO wall between the living room and kitchen.

Truthfully, this is one of the things I'd pondered when I had visions of remodeling the house to live in. But, it was fascinating to see. I was a little surprised at the size of the kitchen window. With the great view of the Golden Gate Bridge, I would have went one size wider myself.

As we went room by room, there were newly sheet rocked walls, freshly painted a stark white, which brightened up the place considerably. Cabinets were supposedly all custom made. But, the ones in the bedrooms looked like standard laminated shelving, which could have just as easily came from Home Depot.

Downstairs finally got its bathroom; something that had been sorely lacking. I always hated having to make the trek from the very bottom of the house to the upper level every time I needed to use the bathroom or take a shower!

The lower "family room" had been turned into another bedroom, with the closet being exchanged for a slightly raised small alcove large enough for a full-sized bed. You still had the double-glass patio doors, which surprised me a bit.

The deck was downsized to half of what it was. But, the new one doesn't shake like the 1970s era one did, and has proper pier restraints to the ground.

Oddly, they only landscaped half the backyard, leaving the lower section by the freeway sound wall a small weed patch. I had to laugh as one of the grape vines I'd planted had poked through the fresh tanbark in back and was now a couple feet tall.

I scratched my head on why they didn't spend the extra money to install a solar electrical system, given there's such a large roof with unfettered access to the Sun, and they put a brand new roof on anyways?

Adding to all these changes mentioned were a sewer lateral and electrical wiring; basically meaning this was a "new" house compared to what stood there only eight months ago.

* * *

Leaving I said a silent "good-bye" to Tigger and the house in general. Unlike last August there was no crying and depression. OK so maybe a very little smidge of depression which was gone as soon as I walked out the front door. Perhaps it was more catharsis, than anything else.

It was good to see the transformation, even though I might not have done everything that was done. But, I think my sister and I left with a good feeling that whomever buys the house will have years of enjoyment before the next remodeling, 30 years hence.

(I was EXTREMELEY happy that they didn't chop it into two units, which was the fate for the houses to our immediate left and right.)

Click on the photo below to see the current RedFin listing:

Packing my bag and checking it twice

Had a really stressful night's sleep. Nothing transpired over the past few days that could account for it. But, it was probably brought on by a strange dream from earlier this morning, which I can still vividly remember.

Doctors suggest we forget 95% of what we dream.

Every once in a while I get a doozy where it's still going on despite my being fairly certain I'm awake in the real world.

The heart is running at an elevated rate, and when I fully wake up, I'm really stressed, as if I'd run a 5k the night before.

* * *

This morning's dream involved a return to playing ice hockey, and primarily about getting dressed to play.

(Most people reading this have no idea of how slow I was at getting suited up when I first started playing ice hockey.

I used to get to the rink 60-90 minutes before game time just to make sure I had plenty of time. Yet, somehow, it was pretty certain I'd be one of the last people to leave the locker room.

Out of necessity I cured that problem, back in the 1990s, when I went away to hockey camp.)

It is my first time back on the ice after a prolonged stoppage. I don't exactly remember why I had the hiatus.

WILL MY LEGS HOLD OUT?? WILL I ACTUALLY PLAY DECENTLY OR SIMPLY BE A PYLON??

(I went skating last December for the first time in about three years and it was also the first time since I'd hyperextended both knees the year before. I felt like I was learning to skate anew. Very unsettling and I almost wanted to cry. But, as in baseball, there should be no crying in hockey!)

I don't know any of the players, except one. Most have already headed out to the ice while I'm still getting ready.

My equipment is strewn all over the small white cinderblock room. I go to grab something. But, can't find it!

(I still vividly remember one game where I got all dressed. On my way out to the rink I realized I had forgotten to put my shin guards on. Thank God I didn't take a shot in warm-ups as I certainly would have broken something.)

The clock on the wall keeps ticking and pretty much everyone else is out on the ice for warm-ups already. Only one returning player remains; urging me to hurry up.

ANXIETY IS CLIMBING!!

Causing more frustration is the fact I'm not the only new player to the team. My sister is joining. She has no problems getting dressed.

(To the best of my knowledge she has never played hockey. Has never had the urge to go to one of the NCWHL's Give Hockey A Try Days, nor even strapped on a pair of hockey skates, which makes her being in the dream even more odd.

Co-rec teams are common these days, especially at the lower levels. Checking is expressly forbidden, though we always reminded ourselves the rule was "No Checking Does NOT necessarily mean No Contact.")

The clock keeps ticking as I struggle to get ready. I hear the buzzer off in the distance signifying the game is about to start.

WHERE ARE THOSE DAMN SHIN GUARDS?!?!?

A few more minutes are gone, and the first period starts. The veteran player comes back in asking how things are going?

"It's going" is about all I can answer as I look for a packing tape gun to throw on some tape over my hockey socks that now adorn my shin guards. (I think the only place I've actually seen packing tape used was in Mystery, Alaska.)

Glancing at the clock again, half of the first period has now vaporized. But, I cannot locate my hockey pants.

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!? THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING!!!

Finally locating them, I step my skates through the leg openings and pull the pants up.

Grabbing my helmet and gloves, I shuffle out of the room, only to freak out again. Light jersey or dark jersey? I'm wearing white at this point.

(I always made a point of emailing my teammates to remind them which jersey to bring, only to have the league switch us from 'Home' to 'Visiting' team one week. After that, I always brought BOTH!).

I've now wasted two-thirds of the First Period yet, strangely, people are still skating around as if warming up…and my jersey has morphed into a matching black. Don't ask me how, as my subconscious never explained that.

Sitting quickly on the bench, I stretch my legs before gingerly jumping on the ice to take a couple quick laps…and then it happens.

I WAKE UP!!!

End of dream. No idea how I played; how my sister played. Did we win or lose the game?

So the moral of the story is to always check your hockey bag and make sure everything you need is in there, and to give yourself ample time to prepare.

(And to, perhaps, not eat Wasabi Hummus before bedtime! But, that's a story for another time…)

A Whole in My Heart

As I write this I shortly leave for my last walk over to my childhood home as an owner.

I know it's ridiculously over dramatic to suggest I feel like one of the inmates in The Green Mile. But, it is what it is, and it's perhaps one mile away, so it fits and I'm going to keep it.

Someone once suggested we should just sell it, and be done with it; as I was squandering money by having it just sit there.

Squander rolled off their tongue like a fine honey slowly dripping onto a slice of ripe apple. A heavenly treat for the eyes and taste buds at the same time.

Ironically, it's appraised now about the same as it was back then, so on that aspect it was a wash.

After my parents' passing I had visions of doing just that; only, to face challenges of time, money and, to be frank, will-power at times.

The inevitable has finally come, albeit 13 years later, and shortly after 4pm we hand over the keys.

Sadly, years have taken it's toll, and the house is a faded rose. Whomever the next owner is, will have to dedicate a lot of money to restore the home to its former glory.

* * *

In truth I've lived more time at other locations than I have in that building. But, it was the first place I have any memories of, and some are as crystal clear as if they just happened a few minutes ago.

• The sweet cherry tomato plants that spread like a spider web over a 6' x 6' planter bed and into the walk way, because my father didn't use a tomato cage to trellis them.
• Replacing the old, diseased peach tree with several dwarf trees, back in the early 1970s.
  • This included a Satsuma Plum, which is still producing fruit to this day, despite dwarves supposedly petering out after 10 years back then.
• My painting on the patio area (with water), only to have the brush slip from my hands and fly through a window; and then my reaching through the hole for the soon to be obvious unreachable brush.
  • Then the emergency room visit to Brookside Hospital for stitches on my left wrist. (I still carry a scare which has led to more an one conversation, where I've had to explain it wasn't a failed suicide attempt).
• The handful of neighborhood friends playing in old Fort Eldrich, which my father cobbled together out of scrap redwood, back when redwood wasn't a commodity you could simply walk into any Home Depot to buy (there WASN'T Home Depot back then!!)
  • The name was a contraction of El Cerrito and Richmond, which I stuck a D in for no particular reason.
• My father, the school teacher, deciding one year that every month my sister and I would have a home-work assignment on some foreign country, and he'd bring home a real 16mm movie print to project in the kitchen as we ate Swanson International Menu TV dinners.
  • My personal favorite was the German Style Dinner.
• The cranky neighbor complaining that he saw 27 cats sunning themselves on our patio roof one day (we had TWO cats).
  • That same cranky neighbor helping us get Tigger out of the front yard's stand of 10'+ tall birch trees by squirting her with a garden hose, and her immediately falling like a rock.

Those were amongst the good memories and ones that came forth as I was writing this blog entry. (YES, in a macabre way, I have included the wrist slashing, amongst the Good).

Of course, I have some not so fond memories. But, those are for another time because I'd prefer not to dwell on the dark side right now.

I had better sign off now so that I have plenty of time for what must be done today, since it cannot be done tomorrow.

Lord please help my camera batteries have enough charge so that I can take at least one photo of each room.

* * *

For those preparing to send me an email correcting my spelling…Please don't.

It was a typo, which I had already corrected, only to put it back a minute later. Memories of one's childhood home are part of your whole heart, and cannot be erased so, I decided to run with that.

Happy 4th and Thank You For Your Service

As I write this I am about a half way through a DVD marathon of the HBO mini-series The Pacific.

In years past, any Patriotic themed holiday had usually seen me watching that other WWII epic, Band of Brothers. While at the Albany Public Library recently, it dawned on me I could finally see this other series.

Unlike Band of Brothers, through the first two episodes, this has been mostly surrounding combat on Guadalcanal. (In fact, the DVD extras said the first three episodes take place during that one campaign.)

However, despite all the attention to make this series as authentic/realistic as possible, it's still not the real thing, and so I want to stop and thank everyone who has ever dawned a uniform, domestic or abroad, in the service of our country.

Without your service I might be writing this in any of a number of other languages, unfamiliar to American shores today. That is, if I'd even be allowed to post my thoughts - unmolested by any government censor.

* * *

Many years ago, my father and I were attending a local monthly meeting of the East Bay Amateur Radio Club. It was some holiday weekend, though which one has faded from memory.

One member, who I think must have escaped with his family from southeast Asia in the early 1970s, decided it might be interesting to visit how other members had served their country over the years. He had proudly spent time in service to his adopted country, and wanted to publicly thank anyone else there who might have done the same.

One by one he went around the room point blank asking each member if they'd ever served. It was a rather uncomfortably long period as veterans, very reluctantly, shared little tidbits of their experiences. That is, if they said much at all.

After what must've been over 30-40 minutes we finally moved on to Ham Radio topics, and you could almost hear a collected sigh of relief throughout the room.

* * *

In my family I can probably count on one hand the few I know took part in actual combat. Thankfully, nobody died in the service of their country.

I don't recollect any of them sharing their experiences; apparently even to their most intimate connections (wives, children, etc.) it was too uncomfortable even after all those years.

One particular uncle had done service in the Army Air Corp many thousand feet over the country where his wife came from so it's easy to understand.

Presumably there's always one exception to this rule, and our exception was my great-grandfather, who serviced in the Austro-Hungarian Army.

My grandmother had stories of how he'd tell the family about how they'd fire the guns and cannons at the Italian soldiers on the other side of the front lines, only to trade rations and socialize with them at night.

Apparently, it was a more civilized war front back during WWI, though this didn't alleviate any fears my great-grandmother had because she would break down and cry every time she heard the sound of the big guns echoing down the mountain passes of the Karawanken Mountains.

My father never served. Depending on one's point of view, he was lucky or unlucky to have been born in 1935, making him too young for WWII.

Should he have been born at a different time, and been eligible to serve, I have no idea whether he would have taken up the opportunity.

We never really talked about service, though he was none too happy when I received a call at home from Sergeant Johnnie, of the local Marine Recruitment Center, during my Senior Year in high school.

Like several of my high school friends I had considered the military. This was back after President Carter reintroduced the requirement for 18-25-year-olds to register for the Selective Service System.

I'm not particularly sure why it was the Marines other than perhaps because one of my best friends was firmly intending to take that route virtually his entire high school career.

He'd always said he'd join the Marines and see the World. Ironically, after joining pretty much all he saw of the World during his three year hitch was the Concord Naval Weapons Station; 31 minutes drive time away!

Had my friend and I actually seen any armed combat it would have been limited if you compare it to service seen by the current generation.

* * *

As each new generation is introduced to war, they experience it with more refined technologies which are supposed to bring precision and clinical methodology to the art of war (was famed military minds Sun Tzu and Carl Von Clausewitz euphemistically called it).

But, in a nutshell, it's no different than many an American conflict from years gone by. Men, and now women, are forced into situations to do thinks they would never do under normal circumstances for their country. Blood is just as red, and a person's spirit leaves the body just as fast.

So, as you're out there watching some parade today, or taking in a fireworks extravaganza this evening, say a prayer for those who have served, as well as those around the World currently serving.

May they may come home safe and sound so their family cannot experience what it's like to make the ultimate sacrifice, as too many have during our country's existence.

Doing the Lustrum Limbo

Last night I was surfing around Xfinity onDemand. After wasting ten minutes on the abysmal Meet the Spartans, I latched onto The Vow, a movie released last February, starring Rachel McAdams and Channing Tatum as a couple who's marriage is divided by a horrific car crash.

While Leo (Tatum) makes it through with just some bumps and bruises, his wife Paige (McAdams) loses her memories from the last five years. At first she wakes up and it appears all is normal. That is, until she recognizes her husband as her doctor.

As Leo saying the in the film, "(I need to) make my wife to fall in love with me again."

This is loosely based on the true story of Kim and Krickitt Carpenter. VERY loosely based when comparing the Carpenter's story vs. what's portrayed in the movie. Sadly, in real life, Krickitt never regained her memory. I won't spoil the ending of the film by saying what happened in case you want to watch it.

* * *

While I was watching it, I started thinking about my last five years. If I was in an accident what would I not remember? Would I miss anything?

Jumping into the Wayback Machine and dropping myself off in August 2007, I still would have been working at my last job at a school photography business.

This would have been eight months before, what I consider one of my pivotal moments in life, going on pilgrimage to Israel and Jordan.

After the longest plane ride of my life, we landed in Amman, Jordan exhausted. Despite that, some of us took a quick walk looking for what was supposed to be the BEST knafeh shop in Amman. I can still remember the sugary aroma and sweet sights when we wondered in. The half dozen locals, ALL Jordanian men, looked at us in puzzlement, especially our Amerikiya that stood out like a fish out of water.

After sampling way too many sweets for way too late at night, we beat a hasty retreat back to the Golden Tulip Grand Palace Hotel.

There are too many wonderful memories from that pilgrimage to share in this blog entry, as it would be 2000+ words if I tried. Suffice it to say, every few days I think back to walking in the Holy land, amongst all the special places in human history.

That's probably my most precious memory that I would have lost in the accident.

Just as Paige remembered her first engagement as if it was just yesterday, I would still be grieving over the loss of Glacier, probably the smartest dog I have ever known. She was in our family basically all her 16+ year life, and she'd been caring enough to go around and thank everyone in the room with a weak nuzzle when she probably knew she was going to die in the next couple of days.

And Jake and Sally, my current Constant Canine Companions, would be total strangers to me. That hurts just typing it.

A not so happy pivotal event occurred sometime in March 2011. Our parents died in 2000. Despite good intentions we'd basically kept their stuff in the old house. While not being a hoarder in any way, shape of form, I also had a ton of memorabilia from childhood days gone by in my old bedroom.

I guess criminal elements in the neighborhood noticed nobody coming around the house much and so decided to see what they could scavenge for a quick fix in their vein, or to numb their brain. Lots of items were taken. Unique items that can never be replaced.

My father and I were members of a model train club. He'd always planned on building a home layout, and I can still remember him telling me a few years before his death, "these will be yours someday.

I can also still remember the creepy chill that went down my spine when he said it, and how it bothered me to think he'd die. Little did we know it'd only be a scant few years later.

I had always intended to carry through on that plan for a layout. However, that's pretty much all gone now. The thief took everything, including some that were in broken and in shambles. All I have left is one locomotive and a couple cars, which happened to be at my grandmother's house for whatever reason.

Not a week goes by that I don't tell myself I need to run over to their house and grab something I need, only to rudely wake up and realize it disappeared in the robbery.

I also think of the gorgeous ring/pendant which my mother's mother got when we was a young woman in Russia. Family lore was that it was given to her by a representative of the Czar. It saddens me to think it adorns some crack head, rather than my sister, as is my mother intended.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the thieves also saw fit to turn the place upside down. The place was a total wreck. It took us months to go through some of the rooms, and to be honest, there's still more that needs to be cleaned up.

Those are just some of the memories, good and bad, that I realize I would have lost. Everyone should do the same exercise and remind themselves what they should be thankful of.

* * *

A Lustrum was an Ancient Roman term for a five year period of time. However, it's more likely you're familiar with the term from when Rooster Cogburn was in front of Judge Parker, in True Grit.

'Twas a Decade…Yet a blink of an eye

Yesterday morning was the ten year anniversary of my dear grandmother, Paula's soul slipping from her body, to be reunited with her husband and son, who preceded her.

My sister and I thought about that briefly, but didn't put any flowers out as it's preferable to celebrate births, marriages, and happier dates, rather than the date one is taken from us. There will be plenty of other dates for flowers.

It's hard to believe it's been ten years now. Feels like just a blink of an eye, and in the scheme of things it probably is.

For Believers there is the promise of being reunited after you have also left the Corporeal World. As for non-believers? I task you with this.

Ten years, one day and a little over seven hours ago, I was laying in my bed upstairs when all of a sudden I heard my grandmother, loud as day, scream urgently "CLARIE!!!" (She confused me a lot with my father and grandfather after hip surgery clouded her mind). Not stopping to think about it, I answered "I'm coming!" and rushed downstairs.

Of course she was still laying there in utter silence --- as she had for the previous 11 days she'd been in a coma. My sister had been sleeping in a chair across the room. Surely she would have heard it too. But, hadn't woken up. I felt her pulse. It was there, albeit weak. I woke my sister, and a short 10 minutes later it was all over but the crying.

The strange thing is that there was no crying; at least not immediately. It was early in the morning. There were birds chirping outside and the early morning Sun was warm to the face when I went outside. And I was experiencing a feeling of peace and calm all over. (It had been a VERY long two years since she broke her hip).

Most assuredly she had NOT vocally cried out. She couldn't have even had she wanted to. I believe she was in the process of passing and wanted to comfort my sister and I with knowing we were there with her when it happened and that she was now alright.

If there is no existence after Death, surely there would have been no chance of that event happening.

Have a good Sunday everyone and make sure to call your grandparents when you have a chance. I wish I still had that luxury.