What will they say about you when you die?

What will they say about you when you die? 

You read the obits. Famous people die and other famous people say nice things. I’ve interviewed two Presidents and a bunch of famous people, but I’m thinking none of them will remember me and have anything nice to say to an obit writer. So we’re left with that rather sterile obit listing our jobs and a few noteworthy accomplishments, maybe how generous we were, or how we helped something somewhere, or that we were wonderful parents and husbands. I’m divorced, so I’m guessing I won’t get that “wonderful husband” line in my obit. Newspapers have notes and files all ready to be turned into wonderful obituaries should said well-known person pass away. They also have obituary writers whose skills have been honed for years writing about all kinds of people. 

Of course there’s a big difference between an obit writer at The New York Times and your average local paper, but local people read local obituaries. The obituaries and police blotter are two biggies for readers locally. We want to see which neighbors died and which ones got arrested. The other biggie locally is the listing of mortgage and warranty deeds, because we want to see how much our neighbors got when they sold their houses. 

But then there are those obituaries, the final statement on our lives. Does it matter that we gave to the local food bank, or sent footballs to Toys for Tots every year, or gave our leftover pizza to the homeless guy instead of taking it home, or maybe paid for a meal of some strangers? Of course it does, and that’s what makes us in the end. 

Maybe in the end we hope the obit writer will quote someone who says, “He was a nice guy.” 

Just Add a Little Mustard to Spice Up Your Life

Mustard is a condiment made from the seeds of a mustard plant (white or yellow mustard, brown or Indian mustard, or black mustard). The whole, ground, cracked or bruised mustard seeds are mixed with water, salt, lemon juice or other liquids and sometimes other flavorings and spices to create a paste or sauce ranging in color from bright yellow to dark brown. (Wikipedia)

If you have issues wading through the thousands of barbeque sauce options, then you’re going to have a lot more issues trying to pick your favorite mustards . . . There seem to be millions of them.

But mustard is also a more “divisive” condiment than barbeque sauce, and a lot of people just don’t care for the spicy stuff. For a number of people, mustard simply boils down to the bright yellow goodness we put on hot dogs every summer. We run into the grocery store, grab a squeeze bottle of French’s yellow mustard (or something equally grocery-store-shelf visible), a bottle of ketchup, jar of sweet relish and we’re off to the cookout. And that’s it.

Let’s add a few twists, and expand y com our mustard horizons just a touch.

First, yellow mustard. This is what I reach for first when I’m having a couple of hot dogs. My usual pick is French’s, if for no other reason than it’s the one I usually see first on the shelf, but Heinz is readily available and just as good. These are all pretty simple, with just a touch of bite. Ya gotta love the electric yellow color, though.

Sweet mustard works with a number of foods. No, not hot dogs, but as a dip, or on a grilled ham and cheese, with a cheese plate, on grilled chicken or pork, or on the side with your Easter ham. Find one with a good balance between the sweet (usually honey) and the mustard. A simple choice like French’s Honey Mustard doesn’t offer a great deal of complexity or underlying spice, but it’s cheap and easy to find. Gulden’s has good sweetness and a bit more spice.

Some of my new favorites are Little Thief Mustards, available through Lucero Olive Oil (www.lucerooliveoil.com). Try the Tequila Jalapeno Kiss, Beer Blaze or Sweet Roasted Garlic. All have good depth and aren’t moderately spicy. Good as dips or ham and turkey sandwiches.

(As an aside, our favorite, Harrington’s Honey Mustard isn’t in the lineup because to order two jars costs more to ship than purchase. For a $14.95 item, $14.99 is simply a ridiculous shipping charge, so we didn’t order any. This is an issue most companies have favorably addressed, but some, like Harrington’s, whose products we love, charges for shipping based on purchase priced, not on weight or a flat fee up to a certain dollar amount. Lucero, as a comparison, charges a flat rate of $8.95 for an order up to $100, and free shipping after that.)

Want spice? The whole world just opened up.

Start with Gulden’s Spicy Brown Mustard, a pantry favorite, has good moderate spice, and a smooth, creamy texture. Nathan’s regular Cooney Island mustard is a good choice for hot dogs (go figure), but I found their Spicy Brown mustard OK on spice, but a bit off-putting on texture with a slight mushy grainy feel. Kosciusko Spicy Brown Mustard has mild spice and is smooth and creamy. Grey Poupon, another household favorite, offers a wide variety of mustards (like Guldens), from the standard dijon to a slightly seedy Country Dijon to a more robust and seedy whole grain mustard. None are too spicy. I use Grey Poupon on sandwiches, with pork and in vinaigrettes.

Want more kick? . . . Start with the classic Coleman’s Mustard in the iconic small jar. They, too, make a variety of mustards, but are best known for that English mustard and a sharp mustard power. Try adding the powder to spice mixes and barbeque rubs. The jarred mustard is great on pastrami, corned beef or roast beef sandwiches or brats and other sausages. (Bangers and mash anyone?)

Horseradish lovers owe themselves a jar of western New York regional favorite Weber’s Horseradish Mustard, a sharp, nose-clearing yellow mustard loaded with horseradish . . . perfect for sandwiches, a rub on pork or with brats.

Where to start? Find a mustard you like and try other varieties within its family. Ask a few mustard-loving friends what they like and add those choices to your pantry. 

Our First Annual Barbeque Sauce Cook Off and Taste Test

How much barbeque sauce do you go through in a year? A case or two? Just a few bottles in the summer?

If you’re like me, there’s always something to cook, and something to slather with sauce. But which one?

A quick walk through the grocery store shows there are dozens and dozens. And that doesn’t count regional favorites, small batch sauces, mail order offerings and even local or restaurant choices. Whew.

That’s a lot of bbq sauce.

In this, the First Annual Bare Moose BBQ Sauce Cook Off, we try to narrow the big name choices. (For those wondering what the heck Bare Moose is, it started as a name idea for a store  . . . Bare Moose Provisions . . . and has kind of taken off from there to encompass many things food . . . Imaginary, but, hey what the heck.)

So we tested a bunch of readily available barbeque sauces (yes, it can be spelled barbecue as well), and narrowed it down to four of the better options. All are pretty reasonably prices, too, so you don’t have to worry about any of them jacking your cookout budget when Aunt Martha calls and wants to bring the other side of the family. With some sauces costing upwards of $8 to $10 a bottle, that $2.50 to $5 looks pretty good. And check around, too, since there’s always something on sale. Stock up and you’ll have bbq sauce ammo for the season.

We tested the sauces on hamburgers, chicken and ribs. We selected sauces of the sweet, ketchup-based variety, since that’s what most people around these Northeastern parts use, so they’re easier to find than Carolina-type sauces, as an example.

After stuffing ourselves with meaty goodness, the four left standing . . . KC Masterpiece, Bulls-eye, Stubbs and Sweet Baby Ray’s . . . Made it to the finals.

Generally speaking, three of them are sweet . . . real sweet . . . All three contain high fructose corn syrup. The Stubbs Original doesn’t. That tale is told on the labels, as well, with the Stubbs having 6g of total carbs and the others between 13g and 18g. High fructose corn syrup is listed as the first ingredient in the Sweet Baby Ray’s and Bulls-eye, and the second ingredient in the KC Masterpiece.

If you like sweet, then Sweet Baby Ray’s is for you. Solid bbq taste, with some spice showing and a touch of mild heat, thick and sticky.

The Bulls-eye, too, is thick, darker, typical flavor, but not overwhelmingly candy-like.

The KC Masterpiece is similar to the Bulls-eye, but a touch less sweet (just a touch) and didn’t seem to have the more round smokey flavor of the Sweet Baby Ray’s or the Bulls-eye. Both KC Masterpiece nd Bulls-eye had decent spice flavors.

The Stubbs was lighter in color and thinner, with a much more pronounced vinegar and pepper flavor, better heat, and mild molasses, but not much hickory-like flavor. It tastes cleaner than the others, but those looking for the usual sweetness may be disappointed.

The Verdict

If you like thick and sweet, the Sweet Baby Ray’s is for you. It has a slightly better rounded flavor than Bulls-eye and Masterpiece. But it is sweet, so get a small bottle to start before you buy the big double-bottle warehouse size.

But try a bottle of the Stubbs for some variety. It’s all natural (which doesn’t mean it’s good for you, just that you can understand what the label says) and tastes cleaner and less processed than the others.

(Coming soon . . . our take on mustard and steak sauce . . .)     

A Couple of Fishing Memories Happy Father's Day, Dad

My Dad’s not a fisherman, but two of my favorite memories are fishing with him. He was one of the busiest business guys in the world, but Dad always made time for us.

He’d come home from work on Friday night, that huge briefcase of his filled with papers, and we’d head to Vermont for a weekend of skiing. Mom, who seemed to be the busiest Mom in the world, was always there to pick us up, drive us to friends’ houses, make us do our homework and I’m guessing double-checked to make sure I was always wearing matching socks, and always managed to have a huge cooler of food ready for the trip to Vermont. (She was also really good at reminding Dad of people’s names.) Car packed and kids in pajamas, when Dad got home with that heavy briefcase filled with papers, we’d hustle into the car and head off.

Now that was a time when kids managed to survive sleeping in the back seat and on the floor of the Country Squire as we made our way north. I remember getting out of the car and the cold air blasting me, the snow crunching under foot. Mom didn’t learn to ski until she married Dad, and one day as she was learning he found her at the top of the Lord’s Prayer ski run at Bromley after her ski instructor had to take the rest of the class down. Guess it worked out OK, though, they’ve been married 64 years. Mom skied for 50-plus years, all over the world. Dad skied for a bit longer, two artificial knees and all. Somewhere I have an old photo of him holding me between his skis as we took the rope tow up at Catamount. He had two real knees back then. That was a long time ago.

I don’t remember when or where I learned to fish, but I do remember fishing with my grandfather, Papa Brophy, at a summer place they had at Merriwold in the Catskills, a small, cabin-like house on a small, no motorboats lake. I remember him taking me out in the wooden row boat and “jitterbugging” for bass with a long bamboo pole that had three-feet of line tied to the end of it holding a big old Jitterbug plug. He’d swipe that long pole back and forth, the hefty plug making all kinds of a racket on the water around the lilly pads, and darn if a big old bass or pickerel wouldn’t hit that thing. I’m not sure whether the fish thought it was some kind of a food-critter like a mouse making that racket, or just was pissed at all the water noise. I should also shamefully admit that my grandmother, Nana, rowed that big heavy row boat around the small lake while a friend and I trolled, sitting on the seat together, watching our lines, while Nana rowed and chatted with us about everything in the world. I loved it there, and my friends loved it, too.

Now Papa was part of one of those fishing memories of mine, a trip to Canada, hosted by a business guy Dad knew who owned a fishing camp at the edge of a lake. As a young guy, this place was just amazing. I remember a well-appointed log cabin, not fancy, but sitting right at the edge of a lake with a long dock just a short walk out the back door, two large picture windows on either side of that door letting in tons of light and offering a continual lake seduction to a young kid who figured the biggest trout in the world were in there somewhere. Electricity came via a generator that was shut off at night, and a large ice house was stacked floor to ceiling with big blocks of saw-dust-covered ice cut from the lake the winter before.

So there I was in Canada with Dad and Papa . . . fishing. Remember that Dad isn’t a fisherman. But there we were, out on a lake. Dad and his Dad in one boat, and me and the business guy in another. The business guy recommended using lures with red and white on them, like a Daredevil. So we’re casting and catching a fish here and there when the business guy leans over, opens his tackle box and unwraps a paper towel to reveal several pieces of steak from the previous night’s dinner. I have to say Dad and Papa couldn’t figure out why were catching more fish than they were. (We did confess later.) Now the final piece of the Canadian tale was the embarrassing fact that at the end of the day, we were about to pose for a photo, a string of trout laid in the open trunk of the big black Chrysler sedan as we took off a few extra articles of clothing and got ready to pose . . . and Steve closes the trunk. Fish and keys inside. The car had a push-button automatic transmission, which I had never seen before. Funny what we remember.

When I was a bit older, Dad took me to an Orvis/Winchester clinic at Stratton Mountain in Vermont, a place where Mom and Dad found the rundown old farmhouse they renovated and turned into a second home that entertained family and friends for decades.

At the clinic, we learned how to cast a fly rod, taught by Lee Wulff and his wife, Joan. No, really . . . Lee and Joan Wulff. (For the rest of my life, the fly I reach for first is some type of Wulff fly, often a Royal Wulff, since it has a touch of that red and white the Canadian business guy said trout liked.) We shot Winchester rifles, and cast hookless flies at the base of the mountain, a wide trail serving as a “run” for a fake deer on a cable motored across the opening so we could take a Polaroid photo of it with a camera mounted on a gun. I was glad we didn’t actually kill anything.

The clinic the next day was moved to the Battenkill River, and we took what we learned into the cool running water of the iconic trout stream, casting to resting fish near the bank, downstream from logs or rocks, or tucked into a piece of calm water in a riffle.

Me and Dad.

He isn’t a fisherman, but he took me fishing.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad

The Problem with Moralists Is They Always Think They're Right . . . Everyone Else be Damned

So why fight these fights if the wave of change is clear?

It seems to me, we sometimes hold on to what we think believe dear. And sometimes we don’t see a bigger picture. To these politicians, being anti-gay is right. Homosexuality is wrong, and therefore needs to be punished and squashed. So they want to punish those who are gay.

As their 2012 platform read, "We affirm that the practice of homosexuality tears at the fabric of society and contributes to the breakdown of the family unit. Homosexual behavior is contrary to the fundamental, unchanging truths that have been ordained by God, recognized by our country's founders, and shared by the majority of Texans."

The current document, adopted in 2012, condemns equality for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender individuals. There are multiple sections dealing with the issue, including language that reads: According to a draft of the new platform, obtained by the San Antonio Express-News/Houston Chronicle, that language is gone.

And while that language is gone, there’s still this, “Homosexuality must not be presented as an acceptable alternative lifestyle, in public policy, nor should family be redefined to include homosexual couples. We believe there should be no granting of special legal entitlements or creation of special status for homosexual behavior, regardless of state of origin. Additionally, we oppose any criminal or civil penalties against those who oppose homosexuality out of faith, conviction, or belief in traditional values. We recognize the legitimacy and value of counseling which offers reparative therapy and treatment to patients who are seeking escape from the homosexual lifestyle. No laws or executive orders shall be imposed to limit or restrict access to this type of therapy.”

The vast majority of state Republican platforms still contain anti-gay language. According to a count by The Huffington Post, only seven states (and Washington DC) have no mention of opposition to same-sex marriage or other rights for LGBT individuals in their party platforms.

While there are many more issues in the world (and Texas), than gay rights, I continue to be amazed at the party’s political blindness. Is this not seen as pointed discriminatory thought? Do these people not see that they are purposely telling fellow humans that they do not have the same rights as straight people? Let’s be clear, too, that this carries beyond marriage equality . . . it carries into same-sex partner benefits, housing, job discrimination and even so-called (falsely) “religious freedom” acts that enable business owners to refuse to serve gays.

How are those things different than segregation laws?

How is “religious freedom” and different than keeping black people out of stores and restaurants in days past? Or throwing women out of work because they’re women? And on and on.

It isn’t . . . and it’s shameful. The cover is religion . . . That’s how people justify bad behavior, and have forever. Can’t we see what’s right and moral without the cloud of religion inserted into our politics? Of course, should anyone criticize that they are tagged “anti-religion” and are “waging a war” on religion.

Nope . . . I’m not anti-religion at all. Believe whatever you like . . . I’m just anti-hate and discrimination. I think everyone should have the same rights as everyone else . . . and no group of people should be cut out of that. Simple.

 I wonder if we denied Texans access to their partners’ hospital rooms, threw them out of restaurants or fired them for being Texans if they’d see the picture a bit differently. Maybe not . . . That’s the problem with moralists . . . They think they are always right.

Why Can't Republicans See the Error of Their Ways on Gay Rights?

Republicans argue that they aren’t waging a policy war on women, and though state and regional legislative votes and proposed Congressional legislation speak otherwise, there is no question the party is waging a hateful and vicious war on gays.

Despite an obvious shift in voter opinions on gay marriage, Republicans continue to add to their already extreme anti-gay positions, doubling-down wherever they can, however they can.

The latest example is Texas, where the Republican draft platform openly endorses and encourages “gay conversion therapy,” a controversial, medically rejected therapy that they say can cause “significant physical and psychological harm.” Two states, California and New Jersey have banned the practice on minors.

In Pew Research polling in 2001, Americans opposed same-sex marriage by a 57% to 35% margin.

Since then, support for same-sex marriage has steadily grown. Today, a majority of Americans (54%) support same-sex marriage, compared with 39% who oppose it. Some 68 percent of those born after 1980 support gay marriage, up from 44 percent in 2004.

Among people who are religiously unaffiliated, a solid majority have supported same-sex marriage since 2001.

Among Catholics and white mainline Protestants, roughly six-in-ten now express support for same-sex marriage. Support for same-sex marriage also has grown among black Protestants (to 44 percent from 19 percent in 2004). Support among white evangelical Protestants remains lower than among other groups (up from 11 percent in 2004 to 23 percent now). (Pew)

Various detailed polls and studies on same-sex marriage that were conducted in several countries show that support for same-sex marriage generally increases with higher levels of education, and that younger people are more likely to support legalization than older generations. (Wiki) Something reflected in the Pew polling.

The trend is clear and irrefutable, but Republicans are stuck in their anti-gay rut. I’m not sure why they can’t step away from it. I suppose it’s an issue that fires up the local and regional base, but with state after state having anti-gay marriage bans overturned, what’s the upside for the GOP?

Texas (They do have good barbeque anyway . . . and a bunch of other good stuff, thank goodness . . .) is living in a political Stone Age. The GOP platform also contains sections endorsing the federal Defense of Marriage Act, which defines marriage as being between one man and one woman. The U.S. Supreme Court struck down a major portion of that law last year, paving the way for judges around the country to declare marriage equality legal. There are now 19 states plus the District of Columbia where same-sex marriage is allowed.

So why is the Texas GOP fighting these battles?

A year ago I had two feet . . . But I'm still alive and well . . .

THE END

It has been nearly a year since I crashed and ended up spending more time than anyone would want in the hospital. But I’ve been home for a few months and things couldn’t be better.

Oh sure, it’s a pain in the ass waking up in the middle of the night and having to put on your right leg to go to the bathroom, but one adjusts. One either has to or just fade away, and after all that time not here, I’m really happy to be here at home.

The ramp in the hallway from the living room to the bedroom is just fine, and the wider doors are perfect with the wheelchair when I use it. I do exercises every morning in bed after my shower, meditate then do some strength building, up and down the ramp 10 or 20 times, some standing exercises in the kitchen (squats, side and back leg kicks and the like) holding on to the counter, and walking with crutches either outside (when the driveway’s clear) or a few laps around the house.

A very nice young lady, Becky 2.0 (as opposed to my friend Becky), comes and cleans every couple of weeks and Chasity grocery shops for me, takes out the trash and picks up the mail. It’s hard to carry much using crutches, but some of those things will be easier when I can drive.

Yep, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve driven as well, as previous posts have outlined. Most places frown on right-leg-amps driving with a regular vehicle set-up, so one has to adapt a vehicle with hand controls or a left-foot accelerator. After reading up on the options, I didn’t want a left-foot accelerator (and my evaluation when I started driver training recommended hand controls as well). So that’s where I am now, learning how to drive with hand controls. With a few lessons left and my new used Jeep to be adapted, driving again will soon be a reality. Yipppeeee. Freedom.

The most recent visit to the doc showed everything appears good . . . weight (too heavy, but better), blood pressure and pulse normal, and blood sugar (A1C) very normal. All my old medications have been trashed for new medications, lower doses and less strong drugs. All good.

My bucket list for the year includes a bunch of things (hey, lying around a hospital causes one to make all kinds of lists), including some fishing and lots more photography. I’d love to take a dip in a pool, but have to figure out how I can get in and out of it. (That could prove embarrassing.)

We all make adjustments in our lives. Thanks to my family and my friends, I’m here and able to make a few adjustments. Turns out you can teach an old guy at least a few tricks.

Driving now is a lot different than it was with two feet

Driving. Driving. Driving.

Haven’t done it in almost a year, and I sure had mixed feeling about having to take an adaptive driving course before being able to have my Jeep adapted with hand controls.

First, the process is expensive, and I thought not worth the time and money. One goes through a 3-hour evaluation process, which includes various hand-eye tests, cognitive tests and finally a bit of driving in a car with hand controls. (A left-foot accelerator was an option at the start, but they didn’t recommend that for me, and that set-up requires even more than the 8 to 10 hours of driving they recommended for me with hand controls.)

Getting to the driving place is a pain, since, obviously, I can’t drive, I have to have someone drive me up to White River Junction, wait for an hour while I drive, then bring me home.

However, expensive, a pain and originally thought to be a waste, I’ve come around a bit.

Yep, it’s still expensive and a pain (and let’s please note that Adaptive Driving are extremely experienced, friendly and easy going), but without the training, there’s an accident waiting to happen. Now one can buy control online and install them, but don’t.

Without going through the training, car adaptation companies won’t alter your car, so that means you’re kind of trapped into spending $1,000 or more taking lessons, then another $1,500-plus getting your car adapted. Tons of money, but as I approach the end of the process, well worth it. Using hand controls is tricky and even though you’ve driven for 42 years, lots of stuff (how you parallel park, for instance) is a whole lot different when you have to keep your left hand on the controls (accelerator/brake) and not use the steering wheel itself (but a “spinner” now  attached to the steering wheel at about 4-o’clock position).

The lessons are in their car, with the final lesson in mine, which will be adapted as my lessons wind down.

Freedom is right around the corner. Yiippppeeeee.

Lie around in a hospital long enough and you make a little list of pet peeves

When one spends as much time in the hospital as I did, one notices lots of stuff, makes mental notes and finds he has a few pet peeves. When things run smoothly, as they usually do, no harm no foul. In a hospital, your dignity can be pretty stripped away, but for the most part, staff at both Dartmouth-Hitchcock and Valley Regional were friendly, professional, courteous and respectful. And even the not great stuff wasn’t that big a deal overall. But I did have a few pet peeves. Hey, you would, too. Here are a few.

Dear doctor . . . when someone is leaving hospital rehab and has requested prescriptions be called in to the pharmacy, could you please get your sorry ass in to the patient and ask him what meds he has at home instead of assuming he has meds at home (which he doesn’t, since he hasn’t been home in four months). So instead of writing one script and assuming, don’t ask and don’t assume the patient is taking the same meds as he was . . . (some are similar, others have been dropped and two new ones added) . . .  that’s lazy and it’s bad medicine . . .

Dear doctor . . . I know you rotate through and are really busy, but perhaps you could at least glance at the chart to see why I’m here. The “Oh, did we amputate your leg here?” and another’s, “When did you lose your leg?” might have been answered before you came into my room.

Three pet peeves: People coming into the room without knocking (come on, would you like someone coming into your room without knocking. It’s intrusive.) . . . Doctors not telling patients they’re changing meds and why . . . and staff buying hospital/therapy supplies.

One doctor changed my diet without telling me, so we had a long drawn out argument about that and his rather condescending manner. I was largely unimpressed. As a rehab SNIF patient, medical oversight is limited. He put me on a “cardiac” diet without asking, then when I said I’d had a lot of nutrition advice and management at Dartmouth and was happy with the way my meals were managed. He said, “So you want me to repeat their mistake?”

Oh boy . . . never mind the fact that I was in your emergency room initially and not given much of a chance, then transferred to Dartmouth (thank goodness) and the doctors and staff at Dartmouth saved my life, you’re asking if I want their nutritional advice and recommendations thrown out because you think you know best? Screw you. He changed my diet back to the initial recommendations.

Look, I expect good doctors will have strong egos, but I don’t expect them to talk to me like I’m a know-nothing idiot. Sure some patients are nothing but whiney pains in the ass, and I sympathize. But most patients just want to be treated with the respect they deserve as people . . . which is how you’d like to be treated, too. (Over the next couple of weeks, I will say, that doctor made a solid effort to communicate better, was friendlier and lost much of his “you’re a dumb ass” veneer.)

Rotating nurses and doctors leave much more room for errors. (i.e. Wound care repeatedly done wrong because nurses (different ones every day) sometimes don’t look at the paper directions . . . directions that originally came from the Dartmouth wound care team. Doctors make med errors . . . as at my discharge, with two meds not prescribed in hospital that were called in at discharge . . .)

June 18 . . . the doctor wants to keep me here another week to balance any meds. No way . . . He’s had plenty of time to do that and I ain’t staying another week. I’ll go to the doc in a couple of weeks for a check up and blood work, but to stay here another week while they screw around with the meds they’ve taken me off of and put me on . . . nope.

Last but not least, I don’t think teachers should have to pay for supplies and I don’t think physical and occupational therapists should have to pay for therapy equipment or activities’ items (like games, pizza-making supplies, coffee, etc.) It was great having the chance to have a little coffee clutch or play a board game or two, but the staff should be given a budget for those things and not buy supplies with their own money.

Set your people up to succeed. Give them the resources to succeed and then praise them for the work they do, because they’re damn good at it.

Leaving rehab meant returning to "Home Sweet Home"

I think when I crashed, nobody thought I'd ever return home. Never mind the fact that in those first couple of days, nobody was sure I'd leave the hospital still breathing, but getting home became something of a quiet driving force for me. It became a goal. Luckily for me, a goal happily reached. 

The doc rotating through the hospital, was worried about the still healing wound on my right knee. It was on the tibia, just below the kneecap. She was worried the pressure from the prosthesis would worsen the wound, and was moving toward delaying the use of my leg.

The wonderful thing about modern medicine is that a patient can refuse treatment . . . So I protested politely but firmly telling her there was no freaking way that anything was going to delay my using my shiny new leg . . . nothing.

Waiting for the wound to heal could take, well, weeks more . . . no way. Not after a few awkward steps with that new leg.

So I agreed to take the prosthesis off if I had to sit with my knee bent for any length of time. (The bent knee would push my wound into the front of the socket.) So with those few limited steps, there was now more than just hope for me. I’d felt I could return home with a prosthesis, but in the back of my mind I knew that was a hope and not necessarily a reality.

Lying in the hospital as the end of my stay approached, I knew my goal of getting back to my house would, for better or worse, be met. There were times when I hoped it would, then worried it would never happen. I think when I first crashed, nobody around me felt I was going to return home . . . they were worried about my returning anywhere. So as you lie there day after day and night after night, you do wonder whether or not it would have been better to just throw in the hand and die. I was told that’s what I said before I got to the ambulance months earlier . . . just leave me here.

But time goes on and you focus more clearly . . . your family and friends . . . things you want to do . . . things you want to see. And getting home becomes the goal . . . a reason, if you will to get better.

I did. And with a few modifications inside . . . three doors widened and a ramp installed from the living room into the hallway leading to my bedroom . . . it really became home sweet home.                  

Carbon fiber, titanium and stainless steel . . . I get a shiny new leg and another chapter begins

On May 17, a Friday . . . about 80 days after first entering the hospital . . . I tried on a new leg.

David Loney the prosthesis maker (Willow Brook Prosthetics and Orthodics) made a finished leg instead of a test leg in the hopes that it’d fit perfectly with minor adjustments and we could start rehab with a leg. It fit, but he wasn’t completely happy with it, so he took it back to his shop and presented me with a shiny new leg the next week. I have to say that after spending weeks in a hospital, sometimes feeling fabulously helpless since I couldn’t get in and out of bed without assistance, which included at one point a ceiling lift hoisting me to a wheelchair, seeing that prosthesis for the first time was pretty incredible.

The leg was really the first physical sign we were coming to the end of the rehab road. Not that the road would be easy at all, but just having that leg pulled over the stump of my right leg brought tears to my eyes . . . the feeling of helplessness started to fade because I knew, or at least thought I knew, that with a prosthesis, I’d be all right. I stood up with the leg on, a post at the bottom of the urethane sleeve that went over my stump (the politically correct term is “residual limb”) clicked into the metal piece at the bottom of the carbon fiber socket.

David inspected, moved the prosthesis a bit, and checked how high the ridge of the socket was on my leg. Then I stood up.

For the first time in weeks, I could balance my rather substantial bulk on two legs. Ok, one of them wasn’t really mine, but still, the feeling was wonderful. The prosthesis didn’t hurt, rub or press against parts of my leg that it shouldn’t. A gentle firmness held the back of my leg (which will, over time, get smaller and smaller as the existing muscles and tissue shrink).

My physical therapist, Cindy, stood at my right shoulder as I stood up from the chair. David, with his hands on the safety belt around my chest, watched me take a few tentative steps forward. Holding on to the parallel bars, I had to look down since I had no idea (let alone feeling) where the rather fake looking rubber foot (stuffed into a sneaker) was going. But everything worked . . . more or less . . . and that feeling of helplessness faded a bit more as we talked about the changes that would be made to the final (hopefully) finished leg.

The fake foot on the prosthesis was a size too big . . .

“Your foot’s in the mail,” David told me with a straight face.

Rehab at Valley Regional Hospital was going pretty well. Three young women were responsible for that . . . Jessica, my occupational therapist, worked with me to get in and out of bed, in and out of the shower and, along with my physical therapists, safely in and out of the wheelchair . . . both before and after I had my prosthesis. Cindy was my main physical therapist, charged with teaching me how to, in essence, walk again . . . using a walker, and later crutches. Sarah, the head physical therapist, also made sure I was, literally, making steps . . . OK, they weren’t always pretty steps and often a bit unsure . . . in the beginning, I kept catching the toe of the prosthesis as I moved it forward . . . pretty much giving everyone a heart attack as I stumbled a bit each time.

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Erin visited me in the rehab hospital about three weeks after I got my leg, and watched a physical therapy session before lunch with my parents, who had been visiting regularly after migrating back north to Vermont from Florida . . . Erin got a bit teary when the two of us went back to my room. It was the first time she’d seen me out of bed since I first went to the ER February 27 . . . and the first time she’d seen me walk since then as well . . . Never really knowing if I would be able to walk again. Thanks to my leg maker . . . Yeah, I’m a sap . . . I cried, too.

Elbows and knees were slow to heal, but out of D-H we go

One of the fabulously dumb insurance rules is that you cannot be fitted for a prosthesis in a regular hospital, because in that case, the hospital has to submit the bill for payment instead of the prosthetist submitting it directly. So my rehab at Dartmouth-Hitchcock continued without a prosthesis, and that wouldn’t happen until my knees and elbows healed enough to get to a rehab facility.

One of the reasons I spent so much time at Dartmouth-Hitchcock was the wounds on my knees and elbows. Being on the floor for as long as I was and trying to get up, crawling around and all wore the skin down to the bone on both knees and both elbows. And they took a long time to heal.

The wound care at Dartmouth was fabulous, with a dedicated team coming in just to check, re-dress and analyze the wounds . . . taking photos, sharing with doctors and surgeons. Fortunately, and it was close, I avoided surgery on my right elbow where there was a fear that it just wasn’t generating new tissue fast enough. With a wound vac working on my knees as well as the right elbow, tissue started to generate faster and the wounds were making progress . . . slow progress, but progress nevertheless. A wound vac is literally a small pump that maintains a vacuum on a wound that is specially dressed to be air tight. . . any fluid is sucked out and collected at the pump. Mine weren’t generating much fluid, they just weren’t healing.

As the end of my time at Dartmouth approached and we started to look for a rehab facility, the wheels seemed to come off the well-oiled bus a bit.

While rehab facilities say they’ll take patients with wound vacs or other “equipment,” the simple truth is that they won’t. The way insurance reimbursements work, they take a beating for anything beyond the most simple care, even IV lines. So that starts to limit the options . . . and the personnel on the discharge end at Dartmouth seemed a bit over their heads at times trying to figure out the insurance issues as well as rehab facility issues. 

One needs to find a “skilled nursing facility” (SNIF) for the rehab and the insurance match.

Valley Regional Hospital, despite a fantastic lack of knowledge about where they fit into the rehab game, ended up as my facility. In part because a couple of places wouldn’t take me with the vacs, one group lied about their rehab from amputee to prosthesis, another was full, and another eliminated itself after mistaking another patient’s chart with mine (would I really want to go to a place whose hospital rep made that kind of error?). Valley wasn’t sure exactly how it would work out, but they said it would.

So Valley it was . . . and my post-hospital rehab moved down the road a few miles to my local hospital. The wounds had healed enough so the vac could be removed, and my basic rehab at Dartmouth had pretty much maxed out. It was time to move on . . . The line of ambulances at Dartmouth included one that would take me there. This time a lot better off than I was the first time I paid them a visit in February.

Emotional ups and downs as you think about life with a leg and a half

Even today, with all the wounded vets we’ve seen on the news, we’re not accustomed to seeing people with amputations.

What’s left, even after a non-violent and surgical amputation really isn’t very pretty. The stump ends up looking like something unfinished . . . something needing a bit more leg and a foot, to complete it. Suddenly legs and feet became much more elegant to me, and no matter how hard I tried, there was something incomplete about it until I tried on the test prosthesis.

Helpless, unable to even get to the bathroom of my own volition. You can’t just jump out of bed and into a wheelchair, and I just wasn’t strong enough to use a walker with one leg yet . . . Damn . . . the feeling sucks . . . you depend on the nurse to sponge you down in bed, empty the plastic urinal and bedpan . . . And kitchen personnel to bring me my meals for Christ’s sake.

You kick the sheets off, but they get tangled in your left foot. The stump moves easily with no foot to weight it down, and it sure does make leg-lifts easier, sans foot.

In the back of your mind, no matter how you’ve been hoping, the nagging question remains: Will I be able to return home? It was a question I’d pondered for weeks and weeks. Up and down, feeling sorry for myself, then not so sorry. Negative, then positive, often boosted emotionally by the nurses, nursing assistants and staff.

I don’t really know what I expected, but damn near to a person, the staff at Dartmouth Hitchcock (and later rehab at Valley Regional) was outstanding. Boy I have to tell you, that made a difference.

Contemplating the removal of your leg is a bit disconcerting, but the strength of friends and family carried me through it

I must say it’s rather disconcerting to lie in bed and contemplate having your leg amputated. I guess in many ways I was lucky . . . my military vehicle wasn’t hit by an IED . . . I wasn’t standing there watching the Boston Marathon . . .

My parents, sister, and ex-wife had flown in from various parts of the country and spent the next several days with me. My aunt and uncle were there, too, at times keeping me pretty well entertained. Friends, some I hadn't seen in decades, stopped in regularly, too. My younger daughter Erin was there through the whole thing, keeping her very pregnant sister in Colorado up to date and consulting with her throughout. It’s great to have kids . . . it’s even better to have two great kids. It’s tough to think about putting everyone through this, and I can never repay them. But having them all there got me through the whole thing . . . family and friends.

Sometimes we just don’t think about how connected we are. Then something happens and they just come. Their strength carried me.

After a few days, they moved me out of the ICU and into a room. My system was getting hammered by the antibiotics, but they were working. The infection had calmed down and my blood sugar was lower. Now I could deal with the partially dead right foot and leg. My head had started working, too. For a while there, I was pretty confused and unclear. To this day I have virtually no recollection of the ER at Valley or the initial time at Dartmouth Hitchcock.

 I made the decision after talking with a flock of doctors . . . orthopedic surgeons and plastic surgeons. The die was cast even before I got to the hospital, though. My right foot was rapidly dying and was already mortally wounded . . . riddled with the infection that had in turn spread throughout my body, draining me of my strength, hence the collapse at home. In the initial emergency room trip and initially at Dartmouth, there was concern the infection was imbedded into the bone and would kill more of that than it already had . . . then there was concern about the left leg.

But I wanted to be sure amputation was the only option. Hey, you can’t blame a guy for not wanting to have his leg cut off. They weren’t great legs, but we’d had a 57-year relationship, after all.

Six days after entering the ICU at Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center, my right leg was amputated below the knee.

Gone. It was removed as I slept in the operating room, surrounded by nurses, anesthesiologists and doctors.  God everyone was friendly. It was kind of disconcerting. I barely caught a glimpse of the surgeons before I was went under. The foot had been debrided twice before I made the decision—in the hopes that, well, there might be a chance to save it.  There wasn’t.

So now I was left to think about how I’d move on from here. Literally. I’d never thought about being handicapped, but now I was, what remained of my right leg a short lump under the covers on the hospital bed. It wasn’t going to grow back. So now I was left to think what that meant . . . How would I get around? . . . Could I go back home? . . . Would I be able to drive again? A million question flashed through my head. Right then I didn’t have any good answer. Over the next few weeks, I’d go up and down emotionally, wondering if it was worth living through this, or would it have been easier to just have stayed in bed or on the floor and just died. 

I think that’s the normal thought process, but as I got stronger, things became more clear. Everyone at the hospital was upbeat and positive. As were my family and friends, though I think behind the scenes there was a lot of talk about my living somewhere else once I was out of the hospital. But getting home became a goal, a driving force at least mentally to get better and get the hell back to my house . . . my home.