Category Archives: The Basics

Last Sunday after a challenging week, Ray had gone to run errands leaving me home by myself to relax.  I won’t go into details about the events that led up to needing time alone but I will say my home and my psyche were left with a “bad energy” residue from the prior seven days.

I was gazing out the window pondering my thoughts when I noticed a lazy bunny quietly lounging under the rosemary bush in our front courtyard.

I love that the wildlife taking residence at my home feels comfortable enough to luxuriate in the shade on a hot summer day.  Ray and I made every effort to build a home that vibrated with good energy.  It’s no accident.  Our house is the chill-out pad by design — even for the wildlife.  How cool is that?

This was a good sight for me.  As I watched the creature lay there in a state of ennui, I was reminded that life is too short for bad energy.  Look at the picture!  Does that bunny look like it’s worrying about turning into coyote food?  No!  It’s just resting quietly with a ho-hum expression on its cute bunny face.  Bunny is living in the now.

Growing up as a depressed kid, my mother told me many times; happiness comes from within.  It took me a long time to figure that out (and sometimes I forget).  Mom was right.

Happiness also comes from this cute bunny photo.  I think I’ll print it and put it on the wall in my office. . .

July 30th was the two-year anniversary of my blog.  Normally I would be excited by this but since I have not been blogging with regularity, I’m kind of sad.

It seems that lately, I have become more of an observer than a reporter.  The desire to express myself has been somewhat subdued.  Am I suffering from expression repression?  Expression repression depression?

In all honesty, summertime is the ultimate distraction.  It tends to keep me away from the computer screen.  I work in Information Technologies and stare at two computer screens all day long.  By the time I get home, I just want to go outside and watch the sunset.

Can you blame me?

The other distraction — and this is a good one — I have been working out and running with a great deal of regularity.  Ray says my calves are getting much bigger!  He’s so good to say complimentary things because it makes me want to work harder.

We’ve been trying to run in the mornings before work.  The thing that sucks about morning exercise is the fact that I continue to sweat after showering.  I try to shower, dress and then jump in the car with all the A/C vents pointing at me in an attempt to dry off before I get to work.  Who wants to see me schvitzing like a pig in the Sahara?

I have also incorporated the Perfect Pushups into my workout routine.  The Perfect Pushup’s rotating handles allow your arms to rotate naturally engaging more muscles and reducing joint strain.  Last year my cousin sent a pair to Ray after having a discussion about wrist pain from standard pushups.  Ray has been using them regularly and all I can say is damn! I have never seen him look better.

Pushups are great for your chest and they define your abs, triceps, shoulders and torso.  Everyone I know with a nice chest tells me that pushups are the ultimate exercise.  When I started, it was really, really hard!  After getting over that initial hump, I have been fighting to keep up with them because I’m tired of seeing other guys with nice bodies — especially when that other guy is my smokin’ hot hubby who’s eight years older than me.

All this activity has been helpful for my sleep.  I go to bed and stay asleep all night long.  Haven’t been able to do that for years.  I’m hoping to see more progress over the next few months.  I’m also hoping to start blogging again with regularity.  I have five unpublished posts!  I start writing and then the post becomes rather epic and hard to finish.  For some reason, I tend to want to blog when I have something to say that is meaningful.  Should I blog about more mundane things?  Do people really care to see photos of the pretty sunset or some strange bug in my backyard?  I suppose I should just write about anything.  After all, that was the whole point of blogging.  It’s kinda like pushups for my brain.  Jogging for my fingers.  Exercise for my writing skills.  Someday, I’d actually like to take my favorite posts, fluff them up and publish a book of essays. . .

The flight was uneventful until our pilot’s voice came over the PA system.  “Folks, it looks like there’s an unexpected storm developing in the Chicago area.  We’re going to circle for a while.”

Ray and I exchanged glances.  So much for uneventful.

A few minutes later, the pilot rang out again, “We’re running low on fuel so we’re going to have to go to Indianapolis.”  A chorus of groans was heard throughout the cabin.

Summertime is a risky season for flying to the Midwest.   You never know when a storm may rear its ugly thunderhead and ruin your travel plans.   That’s why we decided to tack on a few extra days to this weekend trip back to our old stomping grounds.  What if bad weather delayed our flight and we didn’t get there on time?   Thankfully, the storm subsided as quickly as it started and the plane landed in Chicago without incident.  Crisis averted.  Seat belts fastened.  Tray tables up.

Ray and I planned this trip to attend a retirement party for the pastor of our former church—actually Ray’s former church.  I was never a member.   I attended services and sang with the choir but having never fully embraced organized religion I was reluctant to “belong” to any institution of worship.

Ebenezer Lutheran Church is located in Chicago’s Andersonville.  It’s pretty much your “churchy” looking church built over 100 years ago by the Swedish immigrants who lived in the neighborhood.   It looked pretty much like any other church except for one small thing—a small GLBT rainbow flag sticker on the lower right side of the marquee.

In the 70’s, Andersonville had become rather tired as far as neighborhoods go.  By the late 80’s, a large lesbian and gay population developed and before you knew it, colors got brighter, buildings got refurbished and real estate prices went through the roof.   I know I’m generalizing here but the GLBT community seems to have a knack for transforming an old depressed neighborhood into a whole new state of fabulousness.   My friend Holly used to say, “Oh, honey, whenever I’m looking for a new place to live I always follow the rainbow flag.”

I was not too surprised to see that this church was open to gays.   Lots of urban churches were opening up to us unholy deviant homos—kind of in a way that I would assume Jesus would if he were here on this earth today.   Jesus seemed like the kind of guy who was open and accepting to everyone.  Sure would love to have a conversation with him.

Ray had grown up in the Lutheran Church.  Attending services was comfortable to him.  After moving to Chicago, he started talking about finding a place to worship.  One day we just happened to walk past Ebenezer and saw a rainbow flag on the marquee.  We came back that Sunday.  I took a deep breath as I walked up the front steps.   This was not my thing at all.

The interior of the church was different than I had seen in other older churches—of course my experience with church interiors comes from visiting Europe.  Older churches are dark in an intimidating Gothic way.   The lighting is low and all the wood is stained in deep brownish-black colors.  This was quite the opposite.   It was white inside and had blue stenciled accents that gave it a slight Swedish flair.  It was bright and cheerful.  Instead of scary dead Jesus nailed to a cross, there was friendly alive Jesus with his arms opened up as if he wanted to hug you.

As we took our seats, I looked around.  No one really stood out.   The attire was casual.   I couldn’t tell who was gay or straight.  I could tell who I hoped was gay.   Sadly, even in church, I’m a horndog.  The one thing that did stand out was the drum set next to the piano.  That piqued my interest.

As the service started, three men came out from the side door.   One sat at the drums, another at the piano and another one produced an upright bass.  The drummer started first.  He was playing with brushes—my favorite sonic percussive experience.  The bass and piano followed suit.  Was Vince Guaraldi in the house?

To our surprise and delight, it was Jazz Sunday.   The choir came walking down the center of the church singing in perfect harmony as they took their places next to the musicians.  I was blown away.

During the service, Pastor Paul Koch gave his sermon.   I don’t remember exactly what it was about but I do remember that he said the words gay, lesbian and transgendered just a casually as one would say Jesus, loves and you.  Toto and I were definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Ray was excited.   I was freaked out.  This church did not tolerate the GLBT community nor did they accept it. Ebenezer Lutheran embraced it.

After a few visits, Ray decided to become a member.  He completed some classes and was accepted as a member becoming active on committees and participating in church events.  It’s no secret that I am turned off by organized religion—especially Christianity so being the commitment-phobe, I elected to hover off to the side.   I did eventually join the choir but kept membership at arm’s length.

John Elmquist was the man playing the bass that first Sunday.  He’s the church’s musical director.   While Pastor Koch’s accepting words captured my attention intellectually, John’s musical talent and choir direction hooked me spiritually.

Almost every Sunday, there was something unconventional in the music.   Sure we sang traditional Lutheran hymns, but we also sang Bob Marley.   On occasion the pipe organ would get played but then there would be an African talking drum or a Tibetan singing bowl.  It was amazing.   The choir also recorded albums!

After joining the choir, word got out that I had a karaoke setup in the basement of my house.   I was always sheepish about mixing church life with my personal home life.   I wasn’t exactly sure just how accepting these people would be in my basement studio with a fully stocked wet bar especially since I start dropping f-bombs after a few belts.   After some prodding, I gave in and hosted a karaoke party for the choir.  Note to self:  If you ever want to have a successful karaoke party—invite your church choir.

For Ray and me, Ebenezer became part of our lives.  I went to services and tried to keep an open mind.   Ray worked on committees and helped with repair projects around the church.  (Yes, Andersonville was becoming rather affluent but this 100 year-old church, like many other churches, didn’t have a lot of money for upkeep).

Over time, Arizona beckoned and along with friends, colleagues and neighborhoods, Ebenezer got left behind.  We tried to find something similar to fill the void in Bisbee but we soon realized that Ebenezer was in a class by itself.   You don’t really know what you have until it’s gone.

My pessimistic views on Christianity slowly returned and after a horrifying bought of Sarah Palin in the presidential race, I had quickly become a foaming-at-the-mouth critic of all things Christian.  Then, just as I was eagerly dismissing my views toward Christianity, just as my agnostic ideas started leaning towards atheism, Pastor Koch decided to retire.  I could just reach over and slap him for it.

During his last sermon at Ebenezer, Pastor Koch spoke of how much of a rebel Jesus was.   He reminded us that Jesus accepted all people and in doing so was considered abrasive to the contemporary society of that era.

Many years ago, it was Paul Koch, who opened up our church to the GLBT community.   He was the man who was considered abrasive by the church and the community.  Long-standing members left because of this but that didn’t phase him because he was exemplifying the man who’s life sparked all of Christianity—Jesus.  A spiritual ton of Jesus bricks rained down on my head.  My mind was reeling.  I was going to have to rethink this whole thing.

After the service, I was speaking to an active member of the church who is lesbian.  I brought up my experience to her.  She told me that many straight people in the church came specifically because of the rainbow flag on the marquee.  They wanted to belong to a church that, like Jesus himself, accepted everybody.  A lot of the GLBT community came to the church because of the straight members.   They didn’t want to belong to a church that was exclusively gay.   “Maybe Christianity and I could get along” I thought.

My biggest struggle is the intellectual conflict I have with the Bible.  Adam and Eve, creationism, virgin birth, rising from the dead and all the miracles that miraculously don’t happen anymore are a load of crap as far as I’m concerned.  Then you have your blatantly hypocritical religious leaders who repeatedly screw people over and then simply wipe the slate clean with ®God’s Forgiveness as if it were just sprayed out of an aerosol can.

Jim and Tammy Bakker bilked millions of dollars from gullible believers for their own personal gain.  We have seen countless examples where “men of God” are caught with their pants down like Reverend Ted Haggard who after it was revealed he was getting it on with another man stated, “The fact is I am guilty of sexual immorality.  And I take responsibility for the entire problem.  I am a deceiver and a liar.  There’s a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I have been warring against it for all of my adult life.”

Warring against the repulsive and dark part of your life??   Did it really feel repulsive when you were having sex with another man Ted?  I beg to differ.  If it did, you wouldn’t do it.  Who in the hell performs repulsive acts over and over again for years?   Does that mean Mr. Haggard has CRD–Compulsive Repulsive Disorder?

At the coffee hour after the service, I was discussing my struggle with a friend who admitted that she too shared some of my conflicts.  There was so much clutter around Christianity that gave it a bad name and some of the Bible is so scientifically ridiculous that she eventually started referring to herself as  “A Follower of Christ”.

I never thought of it that way.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  There was no sudden epiphany.   I’m not all saved and I certainly didn’t get on my knees and repent but I did stay on my feet and rethink my spiritual journey.

I personally can’t follow Christianity mainly because over the years the Bible has been subject to translational error and the focus of its content seems to be governed by members of the Church for their own benefit.  (Read Leviticus and then ask yourself if you’ve ever seen Fred Phelps in front of a Red Lobster holding a God Hates People Who Eat Shellfish sign.)

A Christian friend of mine once compared Jesus and the Bible to an oyster.  “You have to dig through the muck to find the shiny pearl” he proclaimed.  That being said, I realized that perhaps I can relate to the ideas and teachings of Jesus Christ.   He basically told us to love one another and seemed to be more concerned with the downtrodden (as opposed to the affluent Jesus-wants-us-to-have-wealth people with big hair and shiny white teeth).

I do believe in the existence of Jesus but since he was not a contributing writer to the Bible and the people who wrote about him did so many years after he was dead, I just can’t follow the entire Christian religion thing.   It’s way too flawed.

As I was walking out of the church, I hugged Pastor Koch and his wife Sharon telling them that I had recently become agnostic and was on the brink of atheism but this trip to Chicago had brought me back around to look at the other facets of my spiritual journey.  I wasn’t quite ready to give up the notion that there may be some supreme being out there.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find a happy medium with any organized religion…but I do know, underneath the brouhaha of all belief systems, there is a shiny pearl of truth.

Last Tuesday evening, Ray and I were sitting in my living room with local singer/songwriter Becky Reyes and her blues harpman husband Scott Muhleman.  I had mentioned to Becky how much trouble I was having with the guitar and since she’s practically just down the street–that’s country talk for less than five miles away–she graciously offered to come over and give me some pointers.

They were going to bring their son along so he could splash around in the pool while we worked on my chords but at the last minute, he decided not to come so the four of us retired to the living room and started plucking away.  Normally,  I like to be out on the back patio but it was kind of hot and it’s much easier for me to play guitar on my couch than an outdoor patio chair.  The arms get in the way.

Becky’s enthusiasm was infectious.   She made me a CD with simple songs as well as printing out the chords and lyrics on paper.  Scott perfectly tuned my guitar with a really nice tuner.  I have a super-cheap tuner that runs out of juice in a matter of days if I don’t unplug the battery after I’m finished with it.

I had become discouraged with the guitar and now my desire to learn was reinvigorated by Becky and Scott’s gesture of much-needed musical assistance.  We were all having a really nice time.  It was a truly perfect moment.  Then something not-so-perfect happened.

A small crash followed by a rapid “pa-ting” ricocheted out on the patio.  We all walked out there looking around for what might have made the strange sound.  On the far right side of the patio was a hole in the ceiling and some debris scattered on the ground.  The four of us were collectively trying to wrap our heads around what had just happened.  Did a rock hit the patio and bounce up through the ceiling?  If so,  how?  We live on 16 acres.  Where would it have come from?

What about a meteorite?  Seriously!  On June 14th, a 14-year old German boy was hit in the hand by a pea-sized meteorite on his way to catch the school bus.  What else could have caused a hole in the ceiling?  A gun?

A gun . . .

Becky and Scott had to leave for another engagement.  We said goodbye and watched then disappear down the long driveway.  I turned on a heel and went to get the ladder.  I didn’t care if had a few drinks in me and was sliding around in a pair of flip-flops,  I had to see the roof.

Ray steadied the ladder as I climbed up.  I poked my head over the parapet (we have a multilevel flat roof) and looked in the direction where the hole was.  It was dusk so I couldn’t really see anything.

I yelled back to Ray,  “I don’t see anyth–no, wait.  Hang on a sec.”  and hopped over to the roof.  There was something.  A small perfectly round hole.  I could see the patio right through it.  Ray called the Sheriff’s Office.

I had my camera with me on the roof (naturally) so I got a bunch of shots.  Back down on the patio I snapped some more.  There was an indentation in the concrete below the hole in the ceiling.  Based on the angle, I would guess that the gun was fired nearby and straight into the air–well not straight–straight but straight enough for the bullet to form a minimal angle from the ceiling to the concrete.

Having acreage and finding a few old rusty horseshoes had prompted me to buy a metal detector.  It was somewhere in the bedroom closet.  Once retrieved, I was out near the area scanning back and forth as the Sheriff drove up.

He came in and took a look around as he started to fill out his report.  He was talking to Ray while looking at the hole in the ceiling and the dimple in the concrete.  I gave up with the metal detector.  The sun had gone down so I got a flashlight and started scanning the gravel.  “This is impossible” I thought.  Here I was looking for a bullet in the gravel with a flashlight.

“Holy shit!” I yelled, “I found it.”

Ray and the Sheriff ran over.  In the gravel next to a big boulder by the Marguerite plant lay a lone bullet.  Some motherfucker shot a gun in the air and it hit my home.  The thought alone sent my mind reeling.

What if we were on the patio and the shooter’s arm was positioned just a teeny bit to the left?  What if Becky and Scott’s child was in the pool and the gun was just a smidge lower?  What if someone got killed?  What if it was Ray?  What would I do if Ray was murdered? (That would be murder in my book.  Any fucktard who shoots a loaded gun in the air in an area where there are obviously people are murderers if they accidentally kill someone.)  What if it hit me?  Fuck!  As if having half my ass carved out like a Halloween pumpkin wasn’t enough!  Now I’m dodging random bullets from the sky!

The sheriff finished his report and left.  He said my photos were much better than he could do with his camera and I agreed to send them to him.  Ray and I work for our county and had called the county sheriff.  Mayberry folks, Mayberry.

Even though it was getting on into the evening and I had already had a couple of drinks, I filled a large cup full of ice and sloshed a heavy load of vodka in it before slithering into the pool.  I looked up into the sky and my heart sank.

Now I knew.  You really can’t get away from it.  It being the horrors of the world.  There’s a reason we live on land in the middle of nowhere with a house tucked way back on the lot.  After growing up in the greater Los Angelels area and going through 9/11 during our ten years in Chicago,  I realized that the world is a scary fucked up place and, up until now, I thought I’d be safe in Arizona where no one can find me.  I guess I was wrong.

I looked up in the vast Arizona sky and imagined a lone bullet appearing out of nowhere hitting me right between the eyes as my body slips into the crimson water.   That could happen.  That could actually happen.

Ray, on the other hand, found it exciting which exemplifies that amazing thing about people and perception.  I really think a single event in a room with four different people is actually perceived as four entirely different events with a few commonalities that string it along.

Ray saw this as a completely random thing.  Some shithead shot a gun in the air near our house.  It’s that simple, whereas I wonder;  who would do this to us?  Why our house?  Why?

Ray:  Good thing no one was hurt.

Cobban: But what if someone was hurt?

Ray:  But no one was hurt.

Cobban: But someone could have been hurt.

Does Ray ever fear what his life would be like if I were killed?  I almost don’t want to know the answer to that one.

As for me, I’m liberated.  Yep, that’s right, liber-fucking-ated.  I’m now so afraid of life that I have become numb to it.  I now know that it doesn’t matter where you are, the bullet will find you.  It will plummet out of the ginormous Arizona sky and plow right through your skull if it wants to–and it’s going to pierce your fucking roof and get you even if your inside where it’s safe so you may as well pour a stiff drink, go outside and enjoy the pool for as long as your heart keeps beating.

A sharp jagged pain shot up within my right thigh.  It sliced straight through my groin right up through my ass like a sword.  I collected myself, took a deep breath and went on doing my laundry.  I’d had that strange pain for years and thought nothing of it.  Sometimes, people just have pains.

As I was putting my laundry away, I started considering all the people Ray and I knew who have died too young over the past few years.  Our friend Steven died at 38 from colon cancer.  He was so young, vibrant and in great shape.  Did he have random pains that he may have ignored?  My friend Brooke died suddenly of an apparent aneurysm at 47.  Was she having strange little headaches that she just sloughed off?  I thought about my occasional pain and realized I should have my doctor look at it so I made an appointment which is a scream, really.  I used to avoid any trip to the doc.  Now I’m all; poke me, prod me, rip it out of there before it even has the chance to think about becoming deadly.  I also eat a lot of fiber and quit smoking cigarettes.

I see my doctor frequently and am very friendly with her to the point where we can talk about anything.  I did, however, find it a little difficult this time instructing her to stick her finger up my butt with specific orders to feel right up around the inside of my anus.

“Oh, yes, I feel something. ” she said, “Oh but they’re hemorrhoids.”

I forgot about the rhoids.  Some people carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.  I carry mine up in my ass.  I’m a clincher therefore, lack of fiber in my diet or any kind of stress in my life and I’m in hell for at least a month–and nothing makes them go away.  Nothing.

“Wait, there’s something else.  Right around four o’ clock.” she said, “A small bump.”

I asked her if she could refer someone up in Tucson because this being a small conservative town, I didn’t want to deal with the assumption (Ha ha! I said ass-umption) that because I was gay, I was into shoving coke bottles, hand-held appliances or tiny little critters up my ass.  The last thing I needed was some prudish country doc treating me like hell because,  in his mind,  this was my wrath.

One Christmas when I was nineteen,  it hurt to pee.  I tried to wait until the next day to say anything about it to my mother but it hurt so much.  I told her anyway and she took me to urgent care.

I informed the physician on staff that it hurt to pee.  He immediately asked me my sexual preference and I reluctantly said I was gay.  Without testing me for anything or asking anymore questions, he rolled his eyes, let out a sigh of annoyance and jabbed me in the ass with two shots of penicillin.  He figured because I was gay, and it hurt to pee, I must have contracted an STD.  I was just coming out to very few people back then and hadn’t had sex with anyone in a long time.

At that time, I was ashamed and believed the asshole physician who never mentioned the possibility of a UTI.  I was a dirty fag with a disease.  I shamefully told my mother I had VD.  Must have picked it up from some girl.  Merry Christmas!

Anyway, my doc sent me up to a specialist in Tucson.  He performed a standard digital examination, and then one with a small scope.  Two hemorrhoids and a tiny bump, maybe two.  He set me up for surgery on June 2nd.

I was really freaked out about the surgery.  Actually, it wasn’t the surgery as much as the anesthesia.  Cut me.  Slice me.  I don’t care.  Stuck tubes up my throat and in my arms filling me with a chemical concoction that could turn deadly by the slightest misjudgement and a cold shiver runs up my spine.

The day after I scheduled the surgery, I had an idea.  I called the doc and said, “Hey, while you’re down there, can you remove the hemorrhoids?”  Why didn’t I think of this before?

Sadly, he said he could not because he’d already scheduled the surgery for a certain amount of time and that he would have had to do more preliminary examinations back in his office.  Oh well…

Surgery day comes.  I’m laying there waiting.  This place was set up like a JiffyLube.  Wheel ’em into pre-op,  get ’em ready and then whisk ’em away to surgery.  One right after the other.  I swear I heard an air gun in the next room.  Was someone having their tires rotated?  The pre-op nurse was pleasant and did a nice job of administering the IV.  Then my surgeon comes in dressed in his scrubs.

Fuck, he was hot! Like…HOT hot.

How could I not have noticed His Hotness back in his office?  Perhaps it was because I was facing the other way while he was sticking things up my rear. (Contrary to popular belief–and I’ve said this before–that precious little spot of real estate located right between my butt cheeks is No Man’s Land. One way.  No trespassing.  Keep off the grass.  I do not like any sort of activity going on there.)

After chatting with the surgeon, the anesthesiologist came in.  Holy shit!  Talk about the Doublemint Twins!  He was smokin’ hot too!  He did get a little huffy when I asked him how long he had been practicing.  Hey, sorry bud, you’re the mix-master here.  Surgeon  makes a mistake and it messes up my ass.  You make a mistake and it messes up my being alive.

I told hottie anesthesiologist that I was really nervous and he “gave me something”.  Then they wheeled me into the OR.  In the corner a radio was blasting out the local classic rock station.  “Oh fuck!” I thought, “I am in a JiffyLube!”

The nurse asked me if I minded doing some task like getting on another table–I don’t remember because the “something” to settle my nerves was kicking in.  All I do remember was the two fantasy surgery hunks busting out laughing when I said,  “At this point, I’ll do whatever you guys want me to. ”

When I came to,  it felt like a lot of something had gone on in my ass and down my throat.  Kind of like the aftermath of a hot three-way medical porn fantasy except I was unconscious for the best part.  Damn!

I woke up saying,  “Ouch ouch ouch.”  so the nurse gave me a shot of morphine and,  “Ouch ouch ouch.”  quickly turned into,  “I’m going to barf.”  She lowered my head to relieve the nausea leaving me with a sudden fundamental understanding of why people get addicted to heroin.  I was in Happy Land.

The nurse proceeded to explain details from the surgery and I motioned for her to talk to Ray who was there at my side.  He was sober and he’s good with details.  She basically said that they “got everything” and that there was some “blah blah blah done on a hemorrhoid blah blah”.  I had been told that this was a simple outpatient surgery and that I’d be back on my feet in a day so there was an element of surprise when she suggested that I stay home and rest until my follow up in two weeks.

Two weeks?!

I was informed that there was gauze stuck up in my rear for now and that it would fall out the first time I had to eliminate.  They brought my clothes and after getting dressed, Ray drove me home.  When I got there, I laid down and took the best nap I’ve ever had in my entire life.  Later that afternoon, Ray returned from the pharmacy with my meds.  I was a little surprised they gave me Percocet and Valium–but hey, who am I to complain?

I had a lot of pain and was not able to work the next day.  The day after that, I still had an unusual amount of pain.  Also, I never saw any gauze after my first elimination.  I started to worry.  One morning, I was trying to reach up there to see if I could extract the gauze myself.  I found something that obviously wasn’t part of me and tugged on it.  I almost fainted it hurt so bad.  What the hell was going on?  By this point, I had missed several days of work.  All I could do was sleep, wake up, take pain meds and sleep some more.  I finally called the surgeon’s office.

The receptionist pulled my chart and examined it.  She got back on the phone.  “They removed your hemorrhoids.  That’s why it hurts.  That hurts a lot.”  she exclaimed–as if I didn’t already know that.

WTF? Why did he remove the rhoids?  Why didn’t he tell me?  I told the receptionist I didn’t see the gauze come out either and that I had tried to pull it out of my rear.  She informed me that the gauze was really small and most people don’t see it.  She said I was probably  yanking on my stitches.  I had two sets of stitches in my ass.

A few more days went by.  I was in tremendous pain.  The kind of pain that doesn’t go away with two Percocets and a Valium.  At least I was able to take Advil again which reduced the inflammation.  One can only imagine what kind of inflammation comes along with having two blobs of nerves mixed with blood vessels sliced out of their anus with the leftover stuff sewn back together…but I digress.

The surgeon’s office called and informed me that my doc decided to go on vacation.  If I wanted to have my follow up, I’d have to do it the next day otherwise, I’d have to wait until June 30th.  I was in a lot of pain so I agreed to see him the next day.  Ray drove me up there because I was still too doped up on meds to do anything that involved cognitive tasks–like drive 90 miles.  I told the receptionist that my partner was going to be joining me.  I needed him in the room because I’m terrible with details.

So hottie surgeon comes in and proceeds to tell me that I had four growths up there.  One was directly on one of the hemorrhoids and another one was right next to the other hemorrhoid.  That’s why he removed them.  I had some major stuff done up in there!  Thankfully, the biopsies came back negative for cancer.  I told him that I was still very uncomfortable so he took a look.

As luck would have it, I had sprouted a new angry little hemorrhoid right where the stitches were poking out.  We decided it was best to remove it right then and there so he jabbed it lightly with some Novocaine inducing a full-blown Linda Blair moment.  I leaned over and said to Ray,  “This will make getting a tattoo feel like a walk in the park!”  Hottie surgeon heard me and huffed, “Tattoos? Dude, girls get tattoos!” stabbing the hemorrhoid with his syringe, injecting all the Novocaine into it before he sliced it off.  What an excellent day for an exorcism.

Well, now I knew why I was in so much pain.  I was told that I was having outpatient surgery to remove one (maybe two) little growths in my ass and in the long run I had four growths and two hemorrhoids removed.  Ya think someone could have told me that?  I missed two weeks of work and was in agony over the pain.  At least everything is starting to get back to normal.  The pain has just become a slight nuisance and I have one more follow up this Friday.  Unfortunately, like the skin cancer episode, I’m probably going to need regular checkups in my ass and a few more surgeries down the road.  This is what happens when we age but it beats the alternative.

After all was said and done, I am thankful I had the wherewithal to have myself checked out.  I could have ignored the occasional pain and that growth on the hemorrhoid could have turned cancerous distributing lots of free-floating cancer cells to all my vital organs leading me into months of surgeries, chemo and death.

I am also very thankful for my Ray.  He took very good care of me.

I’m ready to put the whole experience behind me now–if you’ll pardon the pun.

Last night, Ray went to look in on Mama bird.  She wasn’t there.  The eggs were gone and the nest was disheveled.  I sort of had a feeling a nest just a foot off the ground was not a good idea.  It’s tragic but it’s nature. 

We have noticed that another bird had moved into one of the bird houses up in the mesquite tree.  It’s seems very happy.  We planted five mesquite trees in and around the backyard (I need some shade since the whole skin cancer thing).  When they get big enough,  I plan to put more bird houses around. 

I love the sound of chirping birds.  I’ll house them, I just wont feed them.  Around here, you can’t just feed that little cute ones.  If you put feeders around, you attract the whole food chain and the last thing I need is more snakes slithering through the backyard.

Ray planted a desert willow around the front.  It’s quite a break for us in the landscaping department.  We’re trying to keep everything looking natural outside of the courtyards.  You don’t exactly see desert willows around these parts.  It’s a fragrant, flowering tree that smells so good–especially after it rains.  We’re trying to pay attention to every detail for the “experience” of hanging out at Stolen Horseshoe.  There’s the sound of tinkly jazz music and water fountains, the sight of clouds, trees and mountain ranges, the feel of warm air and and a comfy pool and now the smell of the desert willow and desert rain. 

I’d suggest that we are almost finished with the landscaping and decorating but really, we’re never finished.  The inside and outside of our home is always evolving.

When monsoon hits and everything explodes with growth, I plan to do a “Better Homes & Gardens” style photo shoot.  Until then, Ray and I have some landscaping projects to do this morning.