communication, condescending twatbags, healthcare, mental health

My personal triggers from Amy Silverstein’s heart transplant saga…

Good morning, people. It’s about 10:00 AM, and I’ve already been kind of busy. My day started at about 5:00 AM, which is when I usually wake up nowadays. I can’t believe there was a time when I could sleep until noon. That sure isn’t the case today!

I got up to do my usual morning routine, then did laundry, to include washing the sheets. I have a love/hate relationship with washing the sheets. I love how fresh sheets feel, but I hate the process of washing them and putting them on the bed. I never got the hang of making hospital corners. Bill is home today and could help; he is an expert at hospital corners! But he’s teleworking, because he was kind enough to take Noyzi to the vet for a dental. I didn’t want to bother him. He did come up and help me put the pillow cases on, which of course is the easiest part of that chore. I decided not to do the duvet covers today, because that’s the most annoying task related to washing the bedding. I’m just not in the mood to fool with it today.

After that was done, I moved more of my massive music collection to the new computer. I got through the Ks, although it sure wasn’t easy. Went from Keb’ Mo’ to Laura Branigan. That took a couple of frustrating hours. Then I forced myself to stop, so I could write a blog post. When I did that, I realized I had a pretty good case of writer’s block, and nothing was urging me to write today. Too bad I don’t have that feeling more often, since I often feel like my blog posts cause a lot of avoidable problems… like strained family relations and unpleasant interactions with strangers. But then I realize that I have my supporters, too. Yesterday, one of them, regular reader “dle”, left me a comment on my review of Amy Silverstein’s book, My Glory Was I Had Such Friends.

In my brief comment exchange with dle, I mentioned a few parts of Amy’s book about her second heart transplant that triggered me a bit. I had wanted to address them in the review itself, but decided not to, because my review was pretty long. I had included comments about Silverstein’s first book, Sick Girl, that I thought were important. I know that sometimes I have issues with brevity, and people only have so much time and attention span to dedicate to blog posts. So I didn’t comment on the parts of Silverstein’s story that really disturbed me a bit and made me feel a lot of empathy for her situation. I guess I’ll do that today, since I have a bit of writer’s block.

In this blog, I have mentioned on more than one occasion that I have a real problem trusting healthcare providers. I experienced some traumas at the hands of doctors that have left me very nervous at the prospect of seeing them for treatment. I know it’s crazy, given my educational background. I used to work with doctors before I became an overeducated housewife. A couple of them were also my classmates in my public health graduate program. But there’s a difference between being “colleagues” with medical doctors and submitting to them for care. I know intellectually that most doctors are responsible and decent and do their best to provide excellent care. However, I have run into a couple of them that left me with lingering issues. Being in Amy Silverstein’s medical situation would be a special kind of hell for me. I probably would have given up on life many years before she finally succumbed.

The first part of My Glory Was I Had Such Friends that “triggered” me a bit was Silverstein’s story about how she needed a pacemaker. Because of her vast experiences with medical procedures over decades of care, Silverstein had an aversion to the drug, Versed. She didn’t want to be “put out” for most of her procedures. Getting the pacemaker was no exception. She wanted to be conscious for it. Her physician, Dr. Wayne, was vehemently against the idea. From the book:

She nods and turns to greet the doctor who’s just come in—a small, quick-moving man with wiry gray hair.

“I am Dr. Wayne. Hello, Mrs. Silverstein.”

“You can call me by my first name if you like. I’m Amy.”

“Hello, Mimi.”

“No, it’s Amy,” I say, and then immediately think to correct myself for fear that he might call me “Itsamy.”

Dr. Wayne’s speech is choppy, perhaps due to his jittery manner.

“Today I will put in a pacemaker.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what you gotta do.”

“I’ll give you medicine for sleep . . .”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

“Not really sleep. Just very, very relaxed. Like sleep.”

“Nope. No sedation at all. I do everything without sedation unless it’s a surgery. This isn’t a surgery, is it?”

“Not exactly surgery, but—”

“Good then. No sedation.”

The doctor whirls away from the exam table and mumbles under his breath loud enough for the nurse and me to hear: “No sedation! For a pacemaker! Sheesh . . .” He heads into the hallway to scrub up. The nurse remains behind, tending to an array of syringes and small metal utensils.

“I don’t want to give anyone a hard time,” I tell her, “but I’ve had lots of experience staying awake through hard stuff. And I don’t like being put out.”

“You wouldn’t really be out. Just relaxed. We’d be giving you some Versed . . .”

Versed! No way. I’d like to ask her how many times she’s had Versed, because I’ve had it plenty and it’s a nasty sedative. Instead, I press my lips closed. Check your attitude, Amy.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 89-90). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy has had enough experience with Versed to know that she really, really does not like it. And it’s her body that’s being worked on; her comfort should be paramount. However, the doctor turns out to be a nasty piece of work. Continued from the book:

That’s what Scott told me just before we headed out to LA. We had a long talk one evening, mulling the challenges we knew would be coming and trying to anticipate what else we might face. “If you’re going to die,” Scott said, “and let’s be honest, you might—you need to think about how you want to act at Cedars, how you want to hold yourself in the end. With your friends—do you want to be loving, or bitter and angry? And with the doctors and nurses—do you want to earn their respect for the way you’ve lived these twenty-five transplant years, or do you want to show how you’ve been wrecked by them? It’s all about how you want to be remembered,” he said.

This was not the first time that Scott had attempted to remind me of my better nature. There had been plenty of instances through the years when frustration and fear overtook me, transforming qualities like self-advocacy, determination, and attention to detail into alienating misbehaviors. The constancy and complexity of transplant-related illnesses would crescendo from time to time, to a point where it felt unbearable—and where it would imbue me with a distorted sense of self-righteousness: Give me a break—I can’t be bothered with decorum. I’m too sick. And then I would rage against Dr. Davis’s missteps, calling him inane, or I wouldn’t pick up the phone for days when friends called to check in, or I’d yell at Scott for no reason at all and then cry and cry and cry. Then came the heavy regret: “Scotty, I’m just so, so sorry . . .” and he would close his eyes and shake his head. “You’re dealing with unbelievably scary stuff, I know. But you’ve got to find a way to stop taking it out on the people around you.” If I didn’t, he said, I would send everyone scurrying away.

I tried to do better. With each successive medical crisis, I got a little more adept at keeping my fear from spiraling into anger and spurring me to lash out. But I found that the success of my efforts was only proportional to the health challenge at hand: the more life-threatening it was, the less I was able to contain my angst. What degree of self-control, then, would I manage to exert in the face of this retransplant? I was yet to find out. But it spooked me to notice that, in light of what awaited us in California, Scott had rephrased his usual advice about how I might carry myself in the hardest of circumstances. For the first time ever, he was framing his words in a context of finality, asking me not about how I might want to be perceived but rather remembered.

I just want to be remembered without everyone misunderstanding me. I know this doesn’t speak to the self-reflection Scott hoped for. But right now, this is what comes to mind as I contemplate how I might explain to this nurse my aversion to Versed. I know my stance is unusual; when patients hear that they’re getting a drug to help them relax before an invasive procedure, they see no reason to object. But long, hard-earned experience has taught me this: Versed messes with your mind. It’s a powerful, tricky sedative that makes you think you’ve slept through the procedure when actually you were awake the whole time. Versed is, simply, a forgetting drug, but its powers of erasure are imperfect. Somewhere in your mind (and certainly in your body) there is a flicker of awareness that something happened to you (for instance, you might have been screaming in pain throughout the procedure), but you can’t quite get at it, so an anxious ambiguity scratches at you and festers. There is a cost to not being able to access and process our own pain and suffering—some might call this post-traumatic stress. I’ve experienced it myself, and this is why I’ve come to insist on keeping things where I can see and process them—without Versed.

I share my thinking with the nurse.

She walks from the tray to my stretcher and lowers her voice. “I agree with you. And too much Versed isn’t good for your brain cells either.” She taps her head. “But Amy, I’ve never seen a patient do a pacemaker implantation without sedation. It’s going to be rough.”

“I hope you’re wrong. But thank you.”

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 90-91). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Then, comes the assault by the doctor. This was the part that set me on edge, although I feel pretty sure that if I were Amy, I’d want the drugs. I’d rather be out cold for these kinds of procedures. Or, at least I think I would prefer to be. So far, I’ve been blessed with pretty good health and haven’t needed this kind of “care”.

Dr. Wayne stomps back in and comes to a stop by my left shoulder. “I’m going to have to give you a lot. Of lidocaine. Because you said no sedation. Sheesh.”

“Fine with me.” I don’t mind multiple lidocaine shots. I’ve accumulated three or four hundred of them for localized numbing in all the biopsies and angiograms I’ve had. From experience, I know that if the doctor gives the first shot slowly—alternating a bit of needle with a bit of lidocaine—subsequent injections will become quickly pain free.

BANG!

Dr. Wayne slams the first shot into the left side of my collarbone.

“Ow!”

“That hurt you,” he says.

“My gosh, yes. Ow. In New York, the doctor gives a little bit of lidocaine at a time so . . .”

“I said you would need a lot of shots. Because of no sedation.”

BANG!

This one feels like it has vengeance behind it. I clench my teeth, determined not to give in. BANG and BANG—two more in rapid succession.

That’s it.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 91-92). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Imagine having a doctor who is noticeably ANGRY because a patient stood up for herself. And instead of realizing that it’s her body and her healthcare at stake, the doctor is cruel and deliberately causes pain, rather than trying to work with the patient and respect her wishes about how her body is treated… or at least trying to assuage her valid anxieties about the procedure. The story continues:

“Ow! Ow! Oh my God! I can’t take it!” I’m weeping now, and I can’t believe I’m crumbling this way. I don’t cry from pain. What pierces my armor this time is the frightening vulnerability I feel at the gruff hands of a masked stranger in a cath lab far from the one I’ve known for twenty-six years. Reciting poetry couldn’t possibly combat what is looming over my body at this moment. A nurse’s tender glance would bring me no ease. The reassuring touch points I’ve come to rely on give way to stabs of surprise—each one of them another fiery agony. I have never known cath lab procedures to be scenes of horror, but I feel myself here in the grip of a ghoul.

“It’s too much for you. Right?” Dr. Wayne glares.

“No, I’m strong as hell. I’ve been on a hundred cath lab tables. It’s you! You’ve got terrible hands—has anyone ever told you that? You suck at this! Just give me the damn Versed.” Oh, I’ve really let loose now. I sure don’t want to be remembered like this, but I’ve lost all control.

“Oh, now you want it? I have to call anesthesia. It will take, I don’t know, an hour. For them to get here. Because you said no sedation!”

I pause, taking a few seconds to muster a conversational tone. “You need an anesthesiologist to administer Versed? In my experience, the nurse just puts it in my IV—at least that’s how they do it in New Y—”

“In New York! In New York!” He galumphs away from the exam table, waving his hands over his head. The nurse follows, and I’m alone.

I’ve never been left alone in a cath lab before.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 92-93). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

What a fucking bastard! I hope she lodged a formal complaint against that man. The story continues, with Amy fretting because she’s alone in the cath lab, with a very flat pillow. Because of her heart condition, she has trouble breathing when she’s lying flat. So there she is, getting “medical care” that has left her traumatized, and will probably put her life in danger (moot now, since she recently passed away). She continues, having explained that she’s feeling woozy:

Within seconds, the green-clad people descend, ghoulish in their masks and puffy caps, gloves and X-ray shields. There are here to slice into my skin, slide their control wires into my heart. One of them pulls back the sheeting from my left shoulder, where scattered injection punctures still ooze blood onto my naked breast.

The Versed sweeps through my IV . . .

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (p. 94). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

After the procedure, Amy is deliberately slow to recover, upsetting her friends and husband. She’s traumatized, terrified, and justifiably angry about how she was treated. Her husband’s response, when he realizes that she’s not responding promptly, like a “good girl”, is to get angry with her. But she’s just been assaulted by a “doctor” who deliberately hurt her because she dared to exercise self-determination.

The second part of My Glory Was I Had Such Friends that triggered me was when Amy found out that she had breast cancer and needed surgery. She, very understandably, got angry and upset with her doctor. Rather than listening to the doctor talk about treatment options, Amy stormed out of her office, leading the doctor to worry that Amy might be a danger to herself. Was it childish? Yes… but remember, this is a woman who had been dealing with this shit for decades. She was tired of it. From the book:

The ordeal occurred just three months before the bad-news angiogram (and four months before I headed out to California): a breast sonogram picked up a strange-looking spot in my right breast. I didn’t worry at first because soon after my first transplant, the regimen of immunosuppressive medicines caused benign fibroadenoma masses to grow in my breasts. They were easily spotted on sonograms and sometimes grew so large I had to get them surgically removed. But this particular spot looked different. When I asked the biopsy radiologist if she thought she’d just put a needle into something scary, she threw up her hands. “Gosh, this is a weird-looking one,” she said. “I don’t know what it is.”

It was cancer.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 145-146). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy’s friend, Lauren, was involved in the drama that followed, after Amy got the news that not only did she need another heart transplant, but she also had breast cancer that would require major surgery. She continues:

When she reached me with the news, I froze. “Oh, come on! With all you’ve been through, this is easy stuff!” my breast doctor implored. She couldn’t have chosen more enraging words. I’d known this doctor since I started growing those golf ball fibroadenomas just after my first transplant, and I liked her a lot. But she was barking up a dangerous tree at a tragic moment by trying to turn my years of illness into a rallying call, when I was seeing it as a signal to raise the white flag.

“I’m not doing it,” I said. “I had a horrid open-heart valve surgery just a few months ago. And, frankly, my heart isn’t feeling so great lately. I’m not taking on breast cancer. I’m . . . I’m out.”

Ooh. Nice. I liked the feel of these words as they rolled off my lips for the first time—I’m out.

“You can’t quit now! You have to fight this. You’re just the kind of person who’s going to do great—”

“I’m out! I’m out! I’m out!” Wow, I loved the sound—and the sentiment. I’m free! I don’t have to do this anymore! For me, taking on an additional life-threatening illness was completely unfathomable. It was so beyond okay or understandable or doable or fair. “I gotta go now . . .”

“Go where?”

And this is where I made a really big mistake. “I’m leaving,” I said. “I’m getting in the car now. I’m not doing this anymore.”

“You can’t. You have to do this. Amy! Let’s talk! Would you come to the city and meet with me? I’ll cancel my afternoon . . .”

“Bye.”

I left. And then I was driving, blindly. My cell phone rang and it was Scott, telling me that my breast doctor called the local police because she’s worried about me. The police were at the house now, he said, and Lauren was on the way to meet them. He told me to go back home. “I’m out!” I cried, and kept driving.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 146-147). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

Amy drove some more to let off some steam. Meanwhile, the cops had broken into her house and ransacked her bedroom, even reading her journals. Her friend, Lauren, was there to deal with the cops, who were there to “save” her life from suicide… A woman who had already had one heart transplant, needed a second one, and had just been told she had breast cancer. She wasn’t suicidal. She was FRUSTRATED… and understandably so. But the cops had violated her house, all because her doctor sicced them on her. Granted, the doctor had to make the call, due to the law. If she believed Amy was a danger to herself or others, she had to call the police, or else face potential adverse legal ramifications if Amy came to any harm at her own hands. And yet, the scenario just seemed so ridiculous to me. Her friend Lauren explains:

“I get a call from Lenny and he says to go to your house because the police are coming. I don’t know if you’re there or not, but I race over,” she explains. “I pull up to your house and there are three cop cars and they are on your lawn—why they didn’t park on the driveway, I don’t know. I go to your door, and the police have busted through the window. I walk in and hear them in your bedroom, so I head upstairs and they’re rifling through your closet and drawers—clothes are everywhere. One of them has got your journal and he’s standing there reading it. I think to myself, I have a job to do. I have to protect Amy. And I dive into conversation with those cops, rambling on and on, pretending to be helpful. They ask me what color your car is, and I waste ten minutes saying, Hmmm, I don’t know. They ask if you were likely to head north or south, I tell them north—because I know you’re much more likely to go south . . .”

I get a call from Lauren, and I don’t pick up. Another call, and I don’t pick up.

“I keep trying your cell, but you won’t answer. The cops are asking me, ‘Would she hurt herself?’ and I tell them no. She got some really bad news and she wants to be alone. I know her well. She’s fine. But they tell me I have to call you again because they want you back here. They put an alert out on your car.”

Meanwhile, I call my breast doctor and the receptionist puts me right through. “Why did you call the police!” I shout. “It’s my choice to fight breast cancer or not. You’ve known me so many years, you’ve seen all I’ve been through—how can you force a decision on me? I can’t believe you did this!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll call them back. It just sounded like you might do something . . .”

“I’m fine. I’m upset because . . . how many times and in how many ways can I be dying? I’m not going to drive off a bridge, for God’s sake! And even if I did, that would be my business.” I’m shuddering with anger.

“But I’m under legal obligation, Amy. I could get in trouble if I know you are going to hurt yourself and then you do.”

“Well, I’m not going to hurt myself. But I am not going to take on breast cancer either. I just had valve surgery. It’s my choice.”

“I’ll call the police and tell them everything is okay, but you have to come and meet me to talk. I’ll meet you at my house or at Starbucks near my office if you want. I just want to lay out what the treatment would be so you can make an informed choice.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you. Four thirty. Starbucks. Now call the police and tell them I’m fine!”

A few seconds later, Lauren calls again, and this time I pick up. She asks me if I’m all right. “I need time alone. I don’t need another person telling me I have to fight breast cancer, blah blah blah!” I tear at the zipper on my winter coat, tugging it down as I shake my shoulders out from underneath, frenzied. I am boiling with fury.

She tells me the police are there. My doctor hasn’t reached them yet.

“I heard. And I know everyone wants me to come home and be a good little breast cancer–valve surgery–heart transplant patient, just racking up the life-threatening illnesses and their shitty, half-assed treatments—”

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 148-149). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I know a lot of people think Amy should be grateful to have so many people caring so much about her, but at the same time, I can hardly blame her for this reaction. It almost seems like a farce. She’s in such poor health, yet she has so much strength that people think she might off herself. It’s crazy. Lauren goes on to explain that while Amy is seething, the cops are listening. And she has to act neutral, while Amy is yelling at her, calling her “the worst friend”. Lauren then cleans up the mess and even gets Amy’s window fixed, after the police busted it to “save her life”. All because the breast doctor called the cops.

And finally, the last triggering moment for me was reading about how a pharmacist inadvertently told Amy that she had been enrolled in an experimental protocol to which she’d never consented. It ended with the pharmacist running out of the room in tears… From the book:

She had her eyes straight ahead on the screen, keeping up perfunctory conversation while skimming the dense pages. “We’ll be bringing all your meds into the modern age after your transplant. Now . . . um . . . you asked me about whether you can take . . . Oh, wait a minute . . .” She zooms in on some words that elicit a big smile. “Ooh, I see that you’re going to be part of our eculizumab study . . . wonderful!”

“Ecu-lizumab?”

“Yeah. Name’s a mouthful, right? I don’t blame you if you can’t pronounce it. I’m talking about the experimental treatment for your antibodies. You’re going to be part of our NIH study.”

What?

I’d heard a little bit about the study from Dr. Kobashigawa a few days earlier, and someone from the Cedars medical research team dropped off a thick binder filled with detailed information for my review. But this intravenous drug with the mouthful name was a chemotherapy of sorts and had serious side effects, including a significant risk of meningitis. Were I to participate, these treatments were not imminent (they wouldn’t kick in until the time of my transplant surgery). But I had already undergone another potent antibody remedy when I first arrived in California (bortezomib) that posed a risk of blood infections and death. The bortezomib treatments involved a series of direct injections into my belly and many of hours of antibody-cleansing plasmapheresis (plasma removal and replacement) through a thick catheter in my neck. Last I heard, though, the post-bortezomib state of my antibodies was not much better than before treatment; my chance of matching with a heart donor still remained at an inauspicious 14 percent. Feeling fortunate, though, for having at least evaded the dangers of bortezomib, I was not eager to risk another go-round with a second type of antibody treatment—especially an experimental one.

“You’re sure my name is on the study roster—already?” My voice rises.

She pecks at the keyboard, double-checking. “Yup, here you are!”

I jolt upright in bed. “But how can that be? I haven’t said yes!” Pressing my palms against my temples, I begin to reel. “I can’t believe this! Am I being steamrolled into the study?”

“No, no. But the team has decided—”

“The team? I’m the one who’s supposed to choose.”

“Of course you are, but—”

“I have a voice!”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“Just because I’m . . . sick . . . it doesn’t mean I don’t . . . have a say!” I’m choking on emotion now. Scott steps toward the bed and puts his hand firmly on my shoulder—Easy, let it go . . .

Not a chance.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 183-184). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

This part of the book reminded me of a book I’d read years ago, A Taste of My Own Medicine: When the Doctor Is the Patient, by Edward Rosenbaum, a physician who got cancer and suddenly found himself on the other side of the bed. The 1991 movie, The Doctor, starring William Hurt and Christine Lahti, was based on Dr. Rosenbaum’s book. Dr. Rosenbaum explained how scary and demoralizing being a patient can be, and how healthcare providers lose sight of how patients can feel disenfranchised when they submit to medical care. Especially when it’s delivered in a hospital setting.

Amy then explains why she had this reaction. She’d been in an experimental study before, and it led to a significant trauma. From the book:

I’ve come to think of this particular memory as the strawberry shortcut—a lesson that came by way of a pulmonary lab technician who said playfully, “Let’s take the strawberry shortcut,” when escorting me from the waiting room to the exam suite. It was 1988. I was in my second year of law school, and my doctor wanted to rule out all possible causes of my very apparent breathlessness. Heart problems seemed so much less likely than lung problems in a woman in her midtwenties, so he scheduled a progression of tests that began with pulmonary.

As I followed in the wake of the technician’s perfectly pressed white coat, turning and turning again through a seeming maze of narrow hallways, he called back to me over his shoulder a preview of what was to come. Apparently, I would soon be breathing in some—particles? Nuclear particles? I didn’t understand—I’d never had even so much as a strep throat culture in my twenty-five years of life—so I obeyed with some trepidation when he placed the clear plastic contraption over my mouth, nose, and a good portion of both cheeks. “We’re friends here, aren’t we? So just relax into it and breathe deeply,” he cooed, and I tried. But there was nothing about inhaling the particles he administered that made me feel friendly or comfortable. He noted my reluctance at once. “Oh, you’re going to have to go deeper than that, pretty,” he said.

Pretty?

My stomach muscles tightened with angst. I began to shake.

“In . . . and out. In . . . and out,” he coaxed, moving his face closer with each round of inhalation and exhalation until his lips and the tip of his nose were in line with mine, pressing up against the plastic.

I closed my eyes and I felt some tears fall. I’m trapped. My doctor can’t make me better unless I do this test. I’ve got to get through it. Come on, Amy, breathe . . .

“That’s it . . . niiiice,” the technician purred. “And again, for me . . .”

When the test was finished, I hurried off the exam table. “Hey there,” he said, reaching for the door handle before I could. “How about a kiss for the technician?”

“How about a handshake instead!” I snapped, surprising him with a sudden show of nerve. He murmured something about a hot tamale and grasped my hand.

A few days later, I filed a complaint with the hospital and was told there was nothing they could do since I didn’t remember the tech’s name. And besides, they told me, “Maybe he was just trying to help you relax.”

That was the start of my growing a backbone as a patient. Hell, if the same thing were to happen to me now, I’d respond directly with, Kiss? How about you kiss your job good-bye!

Fifty is so much braver than twenty-five, you see.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (pp. 184-186). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I was never sexually harassed by doctors, but I did have one who left me very traumatized due to her being extremely callous. I wish like hell I had complained about her when the incident happened. I don’t know what would have happened. Probably nothing. But at least I would have done something… and that might have made me feel more empowered. I am fifty now… and I was 22 then. So this story really hit home and left me a little triggered. Amy continued:

Though today’s situation was quite different, it preyed on some of my greatest medical fears, those that had developed out of the strawberry shortcut incident and countless others over the years: feeling a lack of agency, feeling uninformed, and feeling taken advantage of. And this is why I felt no trepidation this morning when telling the transplant pharmacist that I wanted to speak with her supervisor: Dr. Kobashigawa. She logged out of the screen at once and backed away from the computer. “I’m sorry to see you so upset about this.”

“And I’m sorry for these stupid tears, but I can’t help it. I’ve learned the hard way never to turn off my brain and hand myself over. I’m not going to agree to ecu—whatever it’s called—without reading through the whole binder and making my own decision.”

“I understand. But keep in mind we’re just trying to help you, Amy. You’ve got antibodies that are going to pose a danger to any donor heart you might receive. You can’t be transplanted successfully without eculiz—”

“I can’t? Are you saying I don’t have choice? That I never really had a choice? Who told you that? Dr. Kobashigawa?” My fingertips fly to my forehead and I begin tapping, tapping. A rush of panic sweeps through me—Have I been duped?

She started toward the door, pulling nervously at the ends of her hair. It was apparent that Becky had let on more than I was meant to hear just yet, and that perhaps she might be in trouble for it. “I’ll, um, ask him to come see you.”

But the memory match had already struck and ignited. All of a sudden there were words in the air—my words—and they rang calm and clear at first, but then echoed back to me calamitous and full of smoky black, as if tethered to distant fires. Whatever I was saying was not of this moment; it was cumulative—and ablaze: “Wow, Becky, wow, wow, wow. As if I didn’t feel out of control to begin with, watching my pulse disappear day after day. Thanks a lot. You sure know how to make a dying person feel worse.”

“That wasn’t my . . . Oh, I am sorry!” she squeaked with panic, tears welling in her eyes. She quickly turned away and slipped out the door.

Silverstein, Amy. My Glory Was I Had Such Friends (p. 186). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.

I did feel sorry for Becky, the pharmacist. I know she was just trying to be helpful. And I’m sure it’s a tough job, as today’s patients are often better informed and more outspoken. On the other hand, a lot of people would be calling Amy a “karen” (hate that term) for advocating for herself. Clearly, her issues stem from understandable and considerable trauma. And even though I could understand that a lot of people would find her behaviors very “karen-ish”, as someone who has also experienced medical trauma, I could hardly blame Amy for her response. She probably couldn’t help it.

I have had some good experiences with doctors since my last trauma. However, in spite of that, I have a hard time shaking those memories. It’s kind of like how Noyzi, the Kosovar rescue dog, spooks at sudden noises and movements. He’s had good experiences, but still reacts in an automatic way to those triggers. I’m the same way. I get extremely nervous just thinking about going through what Amy went through. So, when I read her book, I thought of her as brave, rather than entitled and ungrateful. She had backbone, even if she came off as abrasive. And again, I could hardly blame her.

In a way, my recent post about body shaming that got me on my relative’s shit list is sort of the same thing. I used to just take that sort of thing without too much comment. I don’t anymore, and some people think it’s offensive. But my reactions come from valid traumas of the past. I’m sorry if some people find my reactions upsetting, but they don’t come from a place of meanness. They come from trauma. I think Amy Silverstein’s reactions were the same thing. So, I kind of felt a kinship with her… and again, realize that she must not have been all bad. After all, she did have such friends. Wish I were so lucky… but at least I have a wonderful husband.

Well, this post has gone on pretty long, so I think I’ll end it and practice guitar for a few minutes. If you managed to wade through this long ass blog entry, I thank you. And if you managed to understand it on any level, I congratulate you. Until tomorrow….

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animals, family, nostalgia, YouTube

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming…

Mmm’kay… now that the drama of the past few days has passed, it’s time to get back to “work”. I know not everyone considers what I do “work”, but what do they know? Maybe I’m just one of those people whose true worth won’t be known until after I’m dead. 😉

It’s just after 9:00 AM, here in the land of Beer, Brats, and Broetchen. I’ve already gotten a few things done. I washed the sheets, cleaned Noyzi’s food and water bowls and refilled the water, did some more work on migrating and organizing my massive music collection to the newer computer, and paid a bill. And now I’m sitting here wondering if I want to upset my stomach by thinking about the news of the world.

I know I haven’t been writing as much about current events lately, but trust me, I’ve been watching what’s going on. I suppose it depresses me too much to comment on the epic political shitshow that is projected for 2024. I hate the idea of DeSantis or Trump in the White House. I’m not overly excited about another four years with Biden, either, mainly because he is so elderly and people say such awful things about him. I know it probably wouldn’t be any different with another candidate in power, but at least someone younger and more dynamic would seem more like a fair target. I have respect for Joe Biden. He truly inherited a circus when he entered the White House. It can’t be easy cleaning up Donald Trump’s messes… especially give his penchant for Big Macs and Whoppers.

I was never a fan of politics. Today’s political scene is especially heartbreaking to me, when I see idiots like Lauren Boebert holding court. I’m not proud of it, but whenever I hear her speak, I have a tendency to hurl insults at the TV. I respond to her much like I respond to hearing Trump speak. It’s safe to say that I despise her, and her ilk. But I didn’t used to be anti-conservative at all. In fact, for well over half my life, I identified as a Republican. Not anymore.

This morning, as Bill and I were having breakfast, we talked a bit more about what went down over the past few days. I wrote down my honest and candid thoughts in my blog, as if I were writing in a diary. I upset someone in my family, who in fairness, upset me first. It’s regrettable when people are negatively impacted by the things I do. However, I think I can glean some good stuff from my posts… and if I can, I’ll bet others can, too.

For instance, yesterday I wrote about the “Bless your heart” mentality so prevalent in the South, and how it leads to excessive bullshitting. Some years ago, I remember hearing an interesting metaphor about the different types of people one encounters in life. I don’t remember exactly where I heard this concept, but it’s stuck with me. And, forgive me, but I’ve also written about this previously. In the interest of full disclosure, here’s a link.

Some people are like “peaches”. They are soft, fleshy, fuzzy, and sweet on the outside. They look and smell delicious, and they attract everyone with their mainstream appeal. But, deep down, they have hearts of stone. I picture the stereotypical mean Queen Bee bitch who’s all “honey lippin'” sweetness and light to everyone to their faces, but then stabs them in the back. I think some southern people are kind of like this by nature– or by virtue of that whole “Bless your heart” mentality that we have down there. Be “nice”, no matter what… even if you’re being profoundly disingenuous.

Other people are more like coconuts. They have rough, tough, hard outer shells that are abrasive to the touch. They aren’t easy to crack, nor are they easy to enjoy, but beneath that rough exterior, there’s exotic sweetness that can be very refreshing. I picture the weird, grouchy, eccentric old lady on the corner who is a wonderful, sensitive artist or talented musician… or tells wonderful, vivid stories to enchanted children. The lady who collects homeless cats or dogs and lovingly cares for them as she screams at people to get off her lawn might be more of a “coconut”. I think of certain northern folks as coconuts– the people who are very gruff in the subway station as they help you validate your ticket.

And then there are people who are just plain nuts, like me… 😉 Crunchy, salty, and occasionally oily, maybe? I don’t know. Or maybe I’m more like a crab… or a lobster, like Leon, the lucky crustacean who was rescued from a grocery store by an enterprising YouTuber who makes educational videos about him.

The latest on Leon…

I like peaches, and I like coconuts and nuts in moderation… I’m not a fan of eating crabs, although it’s fun to catch them in rivers. It’s probably fun to catch them from certain sexual partners, too, but the aftermath isn’t much fun. I suppose I could say that I enjoy people who resemble those types, too. I have some friends who are like peaches, and a few who are like coconuts. Having a hard “stone pit like” heart doesn’t always mean someone is inherently evil. And being sweet and fluffy on the inside doesn’t always a person is easy to love, once you break the shell.

I’ve mentioned before that I grew up in Gloucester, Virginia, which is a small, conservative, southern town in Virginia. I didn’t like Gloucester when we first moved there. Even though I was born in Hampton, which isn’t that far away from there, moving to Gloucester in 1980 was a big culture shock to me. It took a long time for me to appreciate Gloucester. I don’t think I ever really liked it when I lived there, although I did eventually fit in better, and other kids finally stopped bullying me. Now that I’m an adult, I appreciate it a whole lot more. Not enough to move back there, mind you… but more than I did when I was a child. It is a beautiful place with really good people… many of whom are very religious and politically conservative, and like to catch and eat crabs.

Unlike my sisters, I had the experience of mostly growing up in one town. I lived in Gloucester from the age of eight until I went to college at age 18. Then I boomeranged there back a couple of times before I finally left for good at age 27. Like it or not, that place had a huge effect on me. Even today, there are still a lot of people there who know me. One of them left me a comment on my link to yesterday’s post. She and I have probably known each other since 1981 or so… Her mom and my dad used to sing duets in church. We are the same age, and graduated in the same class. She also went to Longwood for awhile, although she didn’t graduate from there.

My old friend had kind words for me yesterday, which I really appreciated. Another friend also had kind words, even though we have never met offline. I think both of those ladies, who are living in the South, might understand the whole “bless your heart” thing… where you are expected to be nice, even if it means being dishonest. The weird thing is, I was always proud of being southern… but now, I feel divorced from the culture.

In fact, I feel divorced from my family, too. It would be easy for me to blow off what happened the other day, with my cousin’s wife. But it’s not the first online altercation I’ve had with people in my family, and I’m feeling pretty estranged now… like, most of them are now strangers and don’t care about me. It makes me glad there’s an ocean between us… even though there are lots of times when I wish I could live in my own country. I don’t know when, or even if, we’re going to move back there. Situations like this make staying abroad more appealing. I don’t want to fly eight hours on a plane to go home to people who are shitty to me because of petty Facebook dramas. But, like I wrote yesterday, most of them don’t understand me anyway… and seem unwilling to try. The bright side is, I don’t feel guilty when I plan lavish Nordic vacations instead of not having gone home to see my mom for the past 8 years. Actually, I wouldn’t mind seeing my mom. She’s got common sense, and a sense of humor.

A couple of years ago, Bill and I met a German woman at a Christmas market. It turned out she had lived in the United States for some time, working for Seagrams in Tennessee. We traded a couple of stories about our experiences living in different countries from our origins. She looked at us with empathy and said, “The United States will never be the same for you again. You have now become Europeanized.”

She’s right. I don’t see the USA the way I did when I was younger. I don’t see “home” in the same way, either. Germany’s not quite “home”, but it’s been where I’ve lived for over half my marriage. I don’t even speak the language, but it’s become a familiar and comfortable place to me… and in many ways, it’s more welcoming than home is. At least here, no one knows that much about me, or where I came from. And no one cares that much, either, except they usually do want to know what state we’re from. Germans, by and large, seem to love Florida… but I’m sure it’s strictly because of the beaches and beautiful (hot and sunny) weather. If they had to live there under Ron DeSantis and religious wackos, I suspect a lot of them would hate the place.

Well, it’s now getting close to 11:30 AM. My work on this post has been interrupted a few times by music migration breaks. I think I’ll end this entry and get on with the other activities of the day. Noyzi needs a walk, and my guitar is calling me for a quick practice session. Hopefully, I won’t alienate anyone with today’s musings… but if I do alienate anyone, I suspect they’ll just shitcan me without a second thought, too. Oh well.

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condescending twatbags, music, slut shamers, YouTube

“No… You don’t know me…”

Today’s featured photo was taken in November 2011 on SeaDream I. It’s probably the most flattering photo of several bad ones taken of me without my knowledge or consent on that night… I looked pretty terrible, because besides being overweight, I had a terrible blistering sunburn, and the heat and humidity made my hair frizzy… but apparently, my heartfelt love songs to Bill made me look “prettier” to at least one person…

Yesterday, I was looking through Statcounter and noticed someone hit a post with the tag “Hilltop Hotel”. Inwardly, I kind of groaned, because I remember the hotel experience Bill and I had in 2009 that spawned the original post with that tag. It was a rather peevish, negative review of an Army run hotel that we were forced to stay in as we were leaving Germany the first time.

Because of the particular circumstances we were in, back in September 2009, I was upset on many levels when I wrote my hotel review for Epinions.com. Now that I read the review again– after also having reread it and posted about it last year— I realize that maybe I could have toned it down a bit. I probably wouldn’t have written such a piece today. If I had toned down the review, though, I probably wouldn’t be writing today’s post, which I hope will be more constructive and interesting.

My 2009 review of Hilltop Hotel for Epinions.com went unnoticed for about a year. Then, someone apparently decided to join Epinions specifically so they could tell me off in the comment section. You can see what they wrote in last year’s post, linked in the previous paragraph. The person’s comments were very offensive to me because they were personal attacks on my character and totally dismissed my opinions. That really pissed me off, and I had a lot of time on my hands, so I decided to respond in a really “over-the-top” way. I basically took the person’s comment and deconstructed it, answering each piece.

I noticed today, as I reread last year’s post titled “Who cares what they think?”, that several times in my rebuttal to the woman who told me off, I wrote “You don’t know me.” And I was then reminded of the famous love song, the lyrics of which appear at the bottom of this post. I can sing the hell out of that song. I’ll probably do that today, since I don’t have any big chores to do and Bill is scheduled to come home tonight. He likes it when I sing. In fact, he shared the songs I did earlier this week with his boss, who was reportedly very pleasantly surprised by them.

When Bill was telling me about sharing my covers with his boss, and his boss’s favorable impressions of them, I wrote “Oh good! For once, I can shock someone for positive reasons!” Before Bill’s boss heard my recordings, he didn’t know me as well as he might today. Because that’s one aspect of me he had never seen (or heard).

I’ve noticed that when most people hear me sing, their opinions of me often seem to change, for better or worse. Some people seem to like me more. Some seem to like me less. I think even my own mother’s opinion of me changed after she heard me sing the first time (when I was 18 years old). In her case, her opinion seemed to improve. In other cases, the opposite seems to happen. But rarely does it seem like their impressions of me remain static after they’ve heard me lift my voice in song. 😉

For example, in November of 2011, Bill and I went on a cruise in the southern Caribbean. One night, early in the cruise, we were in the piano bar. It was just Bill and me and the piano player. I started singing to Bill, and this single guy we’d met earlier walked into the bar, mouth agape. And he said, astonished, “Now I can see why you’d love her.

I don’t know what my exact reaction was to that comment. I might have looked hurt or embarrassed… or maybe I kept stone faced. The guy, who had been drinking heavily, then realized he’d said something very offensive. He grabbed me in an awkward hug and made some more clumsy comments that made things worse. Of course, he was judging me on the external. Like the person who dressed me down in the comment section of my Epinions piece, he didn’t know me, either. He might not have liked me if he did know me, but he was clearly judging me purely on surface stuff. I guess it doesn’t really matter, though. Bill knows me, and he loves me for who I am. That’s what counts.

When I was studying for my MSW, I had a field instructor who accused me of not being very introspective. He really didn’t know me, other than having interacted with me in our weekly briefings. I think he thought of me as obnoxious and opinionated, which I certainly can be. But there’s a much deeper, more insightful side of me that people who take the time to get to know me have actually seen, and most of them now have a different opinion.

I’m sure there are many people who also have that impression of me as a purely obnoxious person, based on what they’ve seen of my personality. But they don’t really know me, either. People who take the time to get to know me often find out that there’s more to me than what they immediately see and hear… as is the case for any person. I just think it’s too bad that so few of us seem to want to know other people, other than what they see on the surface. I will even admit that I’m as guilty of this tendency toward shallowness as anyone is.

I think, especially in today’s hyper Internet driven world, people don’t really take the time to get to know others. They have a lot of shallow acquaintances, but very few deep friends. And a lot of people make erroneous and occasionally embarrassing assumptions about others that prevent them from making true connections.

Here’s another example. Last night, I read in the Washington Post about how France’s president Emmanuel Macron, wants to enshrine the right to abortion in France’s constitution. Naturally, there were many dumb comments from Americans, particularly from incel type men who simply want to lecture women about how immoral they are to want the right to have dominion over their own bodies.

One guy– someone who is probably young enough to be my son– posted this response to a pro-choice woman:

“No right to snuff out the unborn. Stop being a garden tool and you’ll be fine.”

I couldn’t resist responding, so I wrote this:

“Stop using your garden tool to fertilize our gardens and we’ll all be fine.”

I thought that was a pretty banal and kind of funny response… but the guy was apparently wounded by it. He came back to me with a comment that showed that he really doesn’t know me at all!

I’m not to begin with.

Lol you don’t even know who’s in your garden. You invite so many dicks in your garden, you automatically think every guy on Facebbok you come across has been in your garden😅🤦‍♂️

SMH

I responded thusly… So far, he has not responded.

OMG…. You think that’s a comeback? Seriously, dude… some woman obviously hurt you, and you can’t get over it. Nor can you get over the fact that you owe your life to a woman. The power we have really pisses you off, doesn’t it?

Hilarious! 😂

Now, I don’t know him, either. However, I do know that, like everyone else on the planet, he owes his life to a biological female. And I conclude that immediately assuming that I “invite dicks in my garden” is a sign that someone who owns a vagina must have hurt him deeply. I could be wrong, though. I took a peek at his profile, and it looks like he’s probably not a bad person. He was sharing pictures of dogs needing homes. I can appreciate that.

If that guy and I were to meet offline, he’d probably be someone I’d like. He might even like me. But, because I pointed out that unintended pregnancies aren’t just a woman’s fault, he went really ugly and made a totally baseless comment that isn’t rooted in reality. There’s a whole lot you can say about me, but I am not at all promiscuous. And immediately inferring that someone is a “slut”– only because they support abortion rights– is a sure sign that someone female has wounded them somehow. So now, they take out their pain on all of us.

I notice a lot of men are very opposed to abortion rights, and I really think it’s rooted in a deep fear that men have that they will soon be obsolete. After all, a woman can get pregnant without a man’s physical input if she can afford to go to a sperm bank. And she can raise the child without a man, too.

A lot of men also resent that if they impregnate a woman, while having what they’d only intended to be a fun roll in the sack, and she decides to keep the pregnancy, he’ll be on the hook for child support. So, they don’t think it’s fair that a woman can decide to have an abortion, and they can’t fathom why an abortion might be necessary. They seem to forget that pregnancy is a whole lot more involved for women than it is for men… kind of like that ham and eggs anecdote I’ve written of. When it comes to ham and eggs for breakfast, a pig is fully invested, but a chicken is just “involved”. Same thing goes for pregnancy. I don’t know why there are so many men out there who can’t understand that pregnancy isn’t a 50/50 situation, but alas, here we are…

I traded comments with a couple of other guys, one of whom wisely bowed out kind of early. Another engaged me longer, and I think ended up regretting it… because he eventually outed himself as a slut shamer, and I called him out on it. Notice in the below exchange how he goes into the “personal responsibility” speech, as if any woman who might need an abortion is automatically “irresponsible”. I didn’t see him commenting on how people get pregnant in the first place, and how those folks need to be responsible, too.

I didn’t mean to wind up writing about abortion again. It just kind of fits in with today’s theme. A lot of people judge people and situations they don’t know. They aren’t at all curious about who the other person is, or what their story is. It didn’t used to be this way. We had fewer friends, but most of the people we knew, actually knew us in person. And if they didn’t like us, it was based on something more tangible than what they read online.

I suppose it can work the other way, too. I met Bill online, and we got to know each other through nightly chats for about 18 months before we met in person. If he had met me offline first, he might not have liked me. I can be off putting to those who don’t know how to take my personality. He might not have given me a chance. I might not have given him a chance, either. But he liked my erotic fiction, so we got to know each other. As you can see, 20 plus years later, it still works. And no one knows me as well as Bill does.

Anyway… I try to get to know people when I can. I hope others will try to get to know me. I may not have the most genteel or appealing personality when you meet me in person, but if you get to know me, you’ll eventually find a deeper, softer, more empathic side. And no, I’m not really a spoiled snob, a fat, lazy, slovenly slob, or a slut with a dirty mouth… All of these characteristics have been assigned to me by people who made snap judgments based solely on the shallow external. Only one sort of changed his mind– the one who thought I was a fat slob– and that was because he heard me sing and liked it. Suddenly then, I had some worth, and he could then see “why Bill would love me”.

Wow.

It’s really not fair, is it? Well, I think I’ll record this song, because I feel like it. Maybe some people will like it. Maybe some won’t. But at least you can see, there’s more to me than self-indulgent blog posts. 😉

Here’s my cover of “You Don’t Know Me”, as promised… I think I would prefer a slightly different key and arrangement, but this turned out okay.

You give your hand to me
And then you say hello
And I can hardly speak
My heart is beating so
And anyone can tell
You think you know me well
Well, you don’t know me

No, you don’t know the one
Who dreams of you at night
And longs to kiss your lips
And longs to hold you tight
Oh I’m just a friend
That’s all I’ve ever been
‘Cause you don’t know me

For I never knew
The art of making love
Though my heart aches
With love for you
Afraid and shy
I let my chance go by
A chance that you might love me, too

You give your hand to me
And then you say good-bye
I watch you walk away
Beside the lucky guy
Oh, you never know
The one who loves you so
Well, you don’t know me

For I never knew
The art of making love
Though my heart aches
With love for you
Afraid and shy
I let my chance go by
A chance that you might love me, too

You give your hand to me,
And then you say good-bye
I watch you walk away
Beside the lucky guy
Oh, you never know
The one who loves you so
You don’t know me

You never know
The one who loves you so
Well, you don’t know me

(written by Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold)

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book reviews, mental health, psychology

A review of Matthew Perry’s Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing: A Memoir…

Merry Christmas Eve, y’all. I know it may seem strange to be writing about addiction when I could be writing about the holidays, but I’ve just finished reading Matthew Perry’s book, Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing: A Memoir, and I want to express my opinions about it before I forget the details. Perry, who is probably most famous for playing Chandler Bing on the 90s era sitcom, Friends, has led quite an astonishing life in his 53 years. Although I don’t remember watching many things with Perry as an actor, let alone “the star”, I was intrigued by all the hullabaloo about his life story, which was released on November 1, 2022. So I downloaded it five days after its release date, although I didn’t get around to reading it until this month. Overall, I thought it was a pretty interesting story. I can see why there was a lot of “buzz” (see what I did there) about it.

I really should have known more about Matthew Perry than I did before I read his book. Wikipedia tells me that I did once see Perry act, back in the day. He had a guest role on the show, Growing Pains, which was one of shows I watched regularly when I was a teenager. He played Carol Seaver’s (Tracey Gold) boyfriend, Sandy, who died in a car accident after driving drunk. I remember thinking he was way too cute for Carol, but in weird way, life imitated art for Matthew Perry. Drugs and alcohol have almost killed him on multiple occasions. He’s made many millions of dollars, and he’s pissed away millions on drugs, booze, and rehab, as well as bad business decisions and bad movies, caused by his addictions.

Matthew Perry on Growing Pains. I guess he didn’t learn anything from this very special episode…

Growing Pains was just the beginning for Matthew Perry, both in terms of his acting career, and the subject matter of that particular episode. I was never a Friends fan, although I loved watching ER, which came on after Friends. Perry is probably most famous for playing Chandler on Friends, but he reveals in his book that he almost didn’t get the part, because he was committed to another, rather bizarre sounding show, that thankfully never took off.

Originally, the part of Chandler Bing had been offered to actor, Craig Bierko, who was one of Perry’s best friends. But Bierko passed on the part, opting for another show that also didn’t take off. Fate intervened, and Perry was soon making $1 million an episode, along with fellow friends: Jennifer Aniston, Courteney Cox, David Schwimmer, Matt LeBlanc, and Lisa Kudrow. During this heady time, Perry also had a lot of girlfriends, including Julia Roberts, who was a huge movie star at the time, and was even once a guest star on Friends. You’d think he’d be on top of the world, and in many ways, he really was. But he’s also addicted to drugs— especially opiates— and alcohol.

Matthew Perry explains that he was born on August 19, 1969 in Williamstown, Massachusetts. His Canadian mother, journalist Suzanne Marie Morrison (nee Langford), had married Perry’s father, American actor, folk singer, and former model, John Bennett Perry. Perry calls his parents the “best looking” people in the world, but that wasn’t enough to save their marriage, which ended before Perry’s first birthday. In his book, Perry writes about driving to the U.S. border with his parents and his father leaving, never to return to the home. When he was a very young child, his mother would repeatedly send him, alone, from their home in Ottawa to Los Angeles for visitations with his father. This experience apparently really traumatized the young Perry, who writes that he was terrified of being alone on the plane. He mentions the incident repeatedly in his story. As he got older, he had great fears of being abandoned, which led to many breakups. As he got more attached to women, and they got to know him more, he would fear that they were going to dump him. So he’d dump them first… then plunge back into his drug and alcohol addiction.

Matthew Perry’s dad starred in this classic commercial for Old Spice.

Perry was a good athlete and, as a boy, was heavily involved in tennis. He also went to school with Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau, whose father, Pierre, hired Perry’s mother as his press secretary. But he really loved acting, and at age 15, he left his mother, her second husband, and his half siblings to move to Los Angeles, where he embarked on a career in show business. Yes, he was successful, but he also had a multitude of personal problems, to include a terrible fear of intimacy and bent toward toward narcissism.

Although he made many friends and had some incredible girlfriends, none of them managed to stay in his life for the long haul. As soon as they would get close to him, he would panic, and that inevitably meant using drugs and alcohol to the point of almost killing himself. I’m not kidding. At the beginning of his compelling memoir, he writes about how his colon exploded, forcing him to use a colostomy bag for nine months, due to his abuse of opioids and its tendency to cause severe constipation. And he also had a very severe bout with pancreatitis, which is often caused by excessive alcohol consumption, that landed him in a hospital for a month while his pancreas “rested”. He couldn’t eat or drink anything for that entire month; all nutrients and fluids were delivered intravenously.

Matthew Perry talks about his book.

In spite of his medical and psychological traumas, a lot of people would think that Matthew Perry is a very blessed man. He has good looks, charisma, athleticism, talent, and money. And yet, Perry writes that he’s often felt suicidal, and would trade everything for the chance to feel normal and at peace. Being sober, he writes, makes him feel close to God and peaceful. But even that isn’t enough to stop him from using drugs or drinking. In fact, I’m not even sure if this book is a declaration of his sobriety, as he’s relapsed many times after going to all manner of rehabs– expensive, exclusive ones in Utah, Malibu, and Switzerland, and “prison” like ones in New York and Philadelphia, usually flying to them on private jets.

I was heartened to read that Perry saw his behavior as narcissistic and self-centered. That tells me that he actually isn’t a narcissist. He is an addict, which causes people to behave like narcissists– (see my recent post about my father). But when he’s not loaded, he has the insight to see that he does frequently act like an asshole, and the world doesn’t revolve around him. That’s to his credit. His writing is very charming, and he seems like he would be a lot of fun to know, when his colon isn’t exploding. I can see why so many people like(d) him. I can also see why he’s made a lot of enemies.

And yes, Perry is in Alcoholics Anonymous, and has tried to “work the steps”. But even after long periods of sobriety, he always seems to relapse. I wouldn’t assume, after reading this book, that Perry has finally gotten “clean”, once and for all. It’s kind of poignant, in some ways, to think of this man in such a predicament. In other ways, it’s kind of infuriating, because there are many people who have nowhere near the blessings that Perry has had, and no means to get clean. He’s no better than they are; he’s just been a lot luckier in terms of his earning power. I also get the sense that Perry might think he’s more famous than he really is. As I mentioned up post, I never watched Friends, nor have I seen any of the movies Perry has been in. I read his book because of the press it generated. I can’t be the only one.

Perry writes about how his drug addiction started, back in 1997, when he was in a jet ski accident while working on a movie. He was in extreme pain, so a doctor gave him some Vicodin. The drug made his insides feel like “warm honey”, and he had to have more. Soon, he developed a habit of taking 55 pills a day, just so he could feel “okay”. He’d already had an introduction to alcohol, back when he was growing up in Canada. The booze made him feel “okay”, as he laid out in his backyard, pondering life. I’ve often heard that if someone has a very significant reaction at their introduction to alcohol, that’s not a good sign.

Addicts can be very endearing, and a lot of them, deep down, are basically decent people who are just very sick. I got that sense with Perry, too. As an actor, he knows how to behave in ways that seem genuine. It’s important to note that acting, by definition, isn’t genuine or authentic behavior. Actors make their money by convincingly playing roles. So, I couldn’t help but notice the usual veneer of bullshit in his writings, even though I admire him for being very candid, especially about the more humiliating and painful aspects of his story. I’m afraid that he’s always going to be an addict, though, and most addicts always have a layer of bullshit about them, even when they’ve been sober for many years. In this book, you can read about one former sponsor of Matthew Perry’s who said he hadn’t had a drink since 1980. That guy had seemed absolutely amazing… but their once “best friend” relationship has ended, and not on a good note. That time, the bad ending wasn’t because of Perry’s shenanigans, but those of his long sober friend’s.

In spite of what might sound like critical remarks about Perry’s character, I did enjoy reading Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing. I think it’s well-written and very candid. Many readers will find it very engaging; it’s often even a funny book. Perry does use a lot of frank language, including a lot of profanity. I don’t care about excessive profanity myself, but I mention it because some readers might not like the cursing. He includes some photos, especially of him as a youngster, most of which are in color. He sure was cute; I think we had the same bowl cut hairstyle, which was all the rage in those days.

I’m glad that Perry knows he has a problem and is working on fixing it. I’m even happier to know that he realizes what excessive drug and alcohol use has cost him, on so many levels– from girlfriends (or potential wives, which he’s said he’s always wanted), to the chance to have children, to millions of dollars of his money, to his health. I understand that he has an illness, and that being an addict doesn’t inherently make him a bad person, even if it can cause him to act in ways that are disappointing, dangerous, or deranged. I feel empathy for him… but I think I feel even more for those who love him. And I wouldn’t call this book a triumph, either, because he hasn’t been sober for very long, at this writing. So we’ll see what happens. I do wish him the best, and I hope this time, sobriety works for him. Otherwise, he could be among the celebrity deaths we’ll read about in 2023 or 2024…

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musings, social media

My thoughts on so-called “insufferable posters” on Facebook…

Our vacation is winding down… we are now in Vaduz, Liechtenstein. It took several hours to get here from Florence, which gave me plenty of time to look at Facebook. One of my friends shared a post from 2015. It was from qz.com and was titled “There is a good chance that you are the ‘friend’ that everyone finds insufferable on Facebook”.

I think I read this article some time ago, but I was reminded of it anew today as we sped north toward Modena. The post, which was written by a guy named Tim Urban, was originally shared in November 2015. It was all about how people on Facebook annoy their friends, family members, and acquaintances because they indulge their egos, seek attention, or try to make people jealous.

The friend who shared this post wrote that she thought it was a great read, as did some of her friends. A few others, myself among them, thought the writer was an asshole. I know I do my fair share of complaining about Facebook comments. Actually, it’s really mainly comments that annoy me, not status updates, or things that people mostly share on their own pages. I don’t like it when people go on other people’s pages and act like jerks. They can do whatever they want on their own pages. If it really bugs me, I’ll unfriend or unfollow. But I don’t think of those people as “insufferable”. If I did, I would probably go ahead and disassociate myself. I know I’m not everyone’s shot of tequila or whatever…

Mr. Urban’s post consisted of a list of seven types of posts people share that tend to be annoying… to him, I guess, but maybe to others, too. In Urban’s view, to “not” be annoying, a status update must either be interesting or informative, or it has to be entertaining somehow. All other posts– to include any about one’s blessings in life, “cries for help” (from loneliness), meaningful quotes from well-known sages, or humble bragging– are apparently irritating by Mr. Urban’s yardstick.

I’ll admit that I can see some of his points. I do have a few current and former Facebook friends who share quotes. It makes me wonder if they talk to their friends that way offline. Do they go up to their pals and say things like “laugh and the whole world laughs with you”? Somehow, I doubt it… but hell, it’s their Facebook page. I don’t have to respond to it.

And some people probably hate that I share my blog. As a matter of fact, during our Italy trip, I met a few people who live in Stuttgart. One was a couple who had been there since 2015, and the female half knew about my blog. I had a feeling she didn’t like it, or me, and that was before she’d ever met me. Whatever… c’est la vie. Lots of people don’t like me after never having read my writing, just as some people think they know (and don’t like) me after reading a couple of posts. I think that’s a pretty limited way to go through life, especially since I’m not really so bad once you get to know me.

I know there are a lot of people– especially in the military community– who HATE that I have the nerve to call myself “overeducated” and think I’m an asshole for my blog title alone. But I also realize that some people actually enjoy the blog, and don’t think I’m a pretentious asshole. Later, after I parted company with those folks, Bill and I went to another hotel, and met a couple of really nice American couples who were excited to be in Italy. We had a very pleasant conversation, unmarred by any preconceived thoughts about my activities on social media or this blog. 😉

Mostly, though, Tim Urban’s post made me think that I probably wouldn’t want to be friends with HIM. I like sharing my friends’ joy. When they share their proud parenting moments, news about their achievements, pictures of their trips, or even mushy posts about their spouses or other family members, I’m genuinely happy for them. I think anyone who would find those kinds of posts offensive, obnoxious, or annoying, probably aren’t much fun at parties. I would also like to know who make Tim Urban judge and jury for what people ought to post on Facebook. Especially since he’s not one of MY friends. 😉

Personally, there are a lot of days when I’m sorry I signed up for Facebook. However, I realize that it’s pretty hard not to be on some kind of social media, if you’re not in your 80s and completely removed from the Internet, like my mom is. I do hope a better alternative will come along, though. Or, maybe I’ll just lose interest in it, like I do most things.

Anyway… I gotta be me. Part of who I am may come off as profane, vulgar, and obnoxious. I own it. But I can’t be someone else, especially for people who don’t even care enough to try to get to know me before they pass judgment. For most users, Facebook isn’t a place for developing real relationships, even though I know some have developed there. And so, I think people ought to post what they want to, on their own pages. It’s when they’re shitty on other people’s pages and posts that I take notice and feel negative. I think people who are rude to strangers on news sites are the most insufferable Facebook posters of all.

Well, tomorrow, we will enjoy Vaduz, and then Wednesday morning, we’ll make our way home to Wiesbaden. I am looking forward to it, to be very honest. I look forward to doing laundry and seeing the dogs, and writing up all of these adventures… and I’m even more hopeful that the swelling in my ankles will go down. We had a very busy vacation and it was a lot of fun, but it’s time to get back to business.

Still… it will be hard to leave this view from our current hotel… and if that’s bragging, so be it.

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