A Tale of Two Oculae

Oyez, oyez, oyez! Gather 'roond, good people, and list tae a tale of woe and of joy, of fright and redemption. Why, of very light and dark.

Gather roond, you people, and prepare.

A muckle good friend of mine, one I ken quite intimately, learned one or twa years ago that he had contracted cataracts, gifts from far too much time altogether in the sun in his decadent youth nae doubt.

At any rate, said Scotsman elected tae ignore said cataracts upon the advice of his doctor, as that worthy said the cataracts were small and causing but minor problems. Last year, though, said doctor offered tae remove the cataracts, but Himself was loath tae dae so, fearing the loss of a very dear part of himself, y'see. Oh, he took himself off tae yet another doctor, this an opthalmic chirurgeon, who must have noticed my friend's discomfort, but chose tae defer the slicing awa' of his een. The doctor, Cundiff by name, told my friend that he felt surgery at tha' time wasnae really required and that my friend could probably dae quite well by using fish oil.

My friend tried that, but his een, of course, continued to deteriorate. Himself finally chose tae have the surgery, and here's where the tale turns personal. That friend, if ye've no' figured it oot by noo, was meself, y'see.

I had me right eye taken oot yesterday. Weel, 'twas only a wee part of me eye, but it reads better this way, noo doesn't it? The surgery went quite well, although my vision was really blurry that evening. Part of that is a stupid plastic shield over me right eye that the chirurgeon forced me tae wear. I knew I'd get tae tak' that off today, but 'twas a royal pain in the arse, nevertheless!

The surgery was a surreal experience. All the bright lights! Wooooowwwwww, maaaaaaannnnnnnnn! But it dinna' hurt. Weel, tha's no' exactly true: the initial cut intae me eye stung a bit, but what hurt the worst was when they started the feckin' IV - IN ME HAND, THE BASTARDS!

The oddest part was when the doctor was removing the old lens. The lights (note the plural there) I was supposed tae be staring at throughoot the surgery suddenly coalesced into one BIGGGGG light. Yep, I saw a bright light before me eye and, oh, I wanted tae follow it but I just KNEW that, if I did, some bastard would just yank me back. Sheesh, a man canna' even die in peace anymore. WHERE'S THE RESPECT, DAMMIT?????

That bright light wouldna' release me, either. I wanted tae close me een, find the blessed, peaceful darkness, but wasna' allowed tae. It finally became that the light was all there was. I occasionally felt a cool liquid in me eye - the right one, the left being able tae close - and heard voices - detached and no' real - but the entire world was the light. Finally, though, I heard the doctor say he was ready tae put the lens implant in place. I could see again, albeit mistily at first, but soon clearing. The Light became twa again, and 'twas done.

I was really tired after the surgery, but I think that's because of the Versed they gave me. Disrespectful wankers they were, too: they shot me up with this stuff that made me feel realllll dreamy, BUT WOULDNA' LET ME SLEEP! Does the disrespect NEVER end? Apparently no'.

The nurse led me oot tae the recovery area after the surgery. No problem with tha', or tha' she sat me doon in this really comfortable chair. The problem came when she asked me what I wanted tae drink. I told her Glen Morangie, of carse. She laughed - and here's the truly barbaric part of me tale - and said she'd drunk it all.

Och! Weel, I dinna let that bother me over much, y'see.

"Okay," says I, "I'll have a Guinness instead."

Once more the woman laughed evilly.

"The doctor drank tha' during the surgery," she says.

Weel, at least tha' explained tha' liquid I kept feelin' drippin' into me eye during the ritual. HUNH! The damn' doctor said it was just a solution to keep me eyeball irrigated. Och, aye. Right. 'Twas him spillin' his Guinness is what it was.

And tha', good people, is me sad and tragic tale. Why, 'tis enough tae bring tears of utmost sorrow tae The Bard himself, i'tis. But, 'tis over noo, at least until I get the other eye done in the next month or so. I survived the unholy ritual, and I'm the stronger for it.

Gramercy for readin' me tale. As Wild Billy Wigglesword his ain self once said, "all's well tha' ends well." And, noo, good nicht.

The Auld Scot

Where the hel have I been?

Life always changes. You know that, so I'll not go into any saccarine listing of examples. That would only insult you, and that I absolutely do not wish to do. Instead, I'll just say that my life changed and I'd like to share that with you. Some of you already know of this change, but you all deserve the news. If nowt else, you can all tsk-tsk and wonder at the putative wisdom of the thing together.

I left the Blood Center about a month after I wrote my "Heroes" piece. Well, that's not exactly correct. You see, the truth is that the Blood Center left me. Oh, they gave their reasons, but those reasons were so blatantly bogus that they're not worth going into. For that matter, the CBC and its management are pretty much bogus, as well, and certainly not worth wasting any more ink on. Let's just say that I left. In retrospect, that was a good thing.


I think I said in my "Heroes" post that I wanted to be a trainer. Well, that, of course, never happened. Except it did, but in a vastly different context and venue. Y'see, I now work as an adjunct professor in the medical assisting department at the North Kansas City campus of Colorado Technical University. One of the things I teach, of course, is phlebotomy. So I got my trainer gig after all ... sort of.


Some of you may say it was predestined and I'll not argue with you. I'm not saying it was, but it might have been. It might have simply been blind luck or happenstance or the cosmological elements aligning just so, too. What I think is that it really doesn't matter one bit why - we humans have a distressing propensity to figuring out or assigning reasons for every bloody thing that happens rather than just accepting that they did, in fact, happen and we can now enjoy the benefits or work to rebuild from the catastrophe as appropriate. Nope. Why doesn't matter, not to the Grandfathers. What does matter is that I must accept this opportunity to pass my knowledge to the next generation of healers. It's my duty to be the best teacher I am able to be. That's how I can show my gratitude to them. I believe that's the only way to truly thank them.


Now, I'm not saying that "why" never matters, because it very often does. It's good to know why a particular disease, for instance, suddenly becomes resistant to previous therapies. It's also good to know why a bridge or building collapsed, so we can build future ones better. There are any number of things that deserve our figuring out the why of them; just not all things. Sometimes we use our quest for the reason as a crutch - politicians are really good at this one - so that we don't have to face the really difficult task of preventing a future occurrence. It's kind of like the ostrich syndrome. It also serves as a really useful way for those politicians to take the people's minds off the real issue - if you're all tied up trying to find out why, then you don't have time to figure out who or when or what can we do about it ... or who's responsible for it.


So, now I teach at a university. Imagine that? Last yeer ah kudn't evin SPEL kilige perfeser n now ah AR wun. Wal, jist butr mah butt n kal me biskit.


In case anyone's wondering, the troubles at CBC did absolutely nothing to alter my opinion of the donors. They're still heroes - that's immutable. What's changed is my opinion of that particular blood bank. And that's intractable.


I thought I'd promised to go into s0mething in greater detail on a later post, but I can't find that anywhere in the Lair. Maybe I said it in one of my comments to one of your blog posts. If you ken what the hel I'm talking about, please drop me an email and remind me, okay? Be kind - you know how a cranky wolf can be.


Be at peace,
The Auld Scot

Heroes

Some of you already know this, but I feel I should give a bit of background ere beginning this post. You see, I work for the Community Blood Center in Kansas City. I'm a phlebotomist; that is, I draw the blood from donors, blood which ultimately goes to people who are, literally, dying for the lack of it. Now, I shan't go into any diatribe about the value of blood or why people should donate or any of that; gods ken ye've probably heard that often enough. If you're a donor, good on ye. If not, I'm sure your reasons are valid and sufficient. I'm not trying to drum up donors, y'see.

Every day I go to work, though, I am humbled. It is my honor, y'see, to be in the company of true heroes.

Aye, heroes, for that's exactly what my donors are. No, not for permitting me to stick a needle in their arms, though they certainly deserve a special award for bravery for that, but simply because they donate and ask nowt for it.

I believe a true hero isn't some flashy, death-defying, larger-than-life cartoon character, but is just an ordinary person who unselfishly and willingly gives of himerself for the betterment of hiser fellows. And blood donors are and do just that. Think of it, they willingly and with malice aforethought give a significant part of their most private organ, their blood, to total strangers so that those strangers may have another shot at life.

Donors ask nothing in return, not even the tiniest thank you - although, believe me, we thank them to pieces before, during, and after their donations. Oh, sure, we give them cookies and juice, but that's really just protecting our raw materials and making sure we'll be able to tap that particular person again; although there are those donors who swear they only donate to get the Nutter-Butters we give them. And we give them t-shirts and other gew-gaws, but all those are just miniscule tokens.

So, what is it, then, that spurs a person to willingly give such an intimate part of himerself to strangers? 'Tain't the cookies ... or the t-shirts, coffee cups, cheesy pens, clocks shaped like giant blood drops, or what have you. I'm sure that, for some, it's bragging rights or a way of upstaging their neighbors or co-workers. For others, maybe some sort of atonement for wrongs they've committed, whether actual or only in their minds. And I'm sure there are some who do it as an attempt to buy their way into their version of heaven. But, not all donors fit these categories. Not all.

For instance, I was at a high school the other day and a 16-year-old girl came up to me to donate. She was cute - no, she was gorgeous in that mid-teenaged way. She had a smile that made all male creatures, human or not, melt. She had a 4.0 grade average and wanted to be an astronaut when she grew up. In short, she had it all.

And, as you might guess, she was more than a tad frightened. I mean, she'd never even had blood drawn at her doctor's office or anything. Of course, her "friends" had gleefully filled her head full of horror stories about how big the needle is and how excruciating the pain and how she would pass out and all that crap, so she was just a tad, shall we say, intimidated.

I asked her if she wanted to change her mind.

"NOOOoooooooo!!!" Her denial was adamant. Despite her very natural fear and the scare stories of those so-called friends, she was determined to see it through.

Okay, let's go, then. Later I asked her why she chose to donate. She told me she was doing it "just because I want to." She had no conscious idea as to why she wanted to - no pompous proclamation of saving humanity or anything - just that she wanted to.

And, that, my friends, is a hero. Oh, I mean no disrespect to the soldiers, public safety folk, doctors, teachers, et al. - they're every bit as heroic (for the most part) as their press proclaims. But, being a hero isn't flashy. It isn't filled with sturm-und-drang. It's not sirens screaming in the night or artillery booming across the countryside. It's the quiet ones. The lone student quietly and with sheer courage facing down his country's military might. Another student deliberately saying no to an angry policeman.

A hero is a blood donor.

Special for Kate, Tracey, Jude, et al.

I heard about your problem with posting comments here, and, let me say I was appalled! Yes, appalled, I tell you! Seriously, I am really sorry. I think I found the problem, but I need at least one of you to help me test my theory. What I need you to do is simply try to post a comment to this particular entry. That's all. If your comment goes through, it worked. If not, well, I'll need to try something else, ne?

And, a sincere thank you in advance to you who help me test this.l

The Auld Scot

Meltdown

I saw the movie Ice Age: The Meltdown last night. Yeah, yeah, I know, 'twas a cartoon and we intellectual folk aren't supposed to like such juvenile things. Hmph! Yeah. Right. And Donald Trump's coiffure is the height of fashion, too.

Anyway, I watched that movie. And I liked it. A lot. Aside from the obvious question as to how these supposedly pre-paleolithic animals (with stress on the "animal" part of that) knew about boats, much less how to start a fire, it was really interesting. A bit maudlin and gooshy (not a guy-flick a'tall a'tall), but cute.

And they used the "g-w" phrase. No, I'm NOT referring to our pathetic excuse for a preznit, but "global warming." Food for thought, that, huh? I mean, there are those of us who see us being like the critters in the movie: happily and ignorantly playing at the foot of a giant glacier, blithely unaware and unconcerned about said glacier's melting behind the wall we see. I'm sure you all can see all the parallels, and I'm equally certain you just know those were deliberate, so I shall spare you that much, at least.

I am one of those who believes that global warming is all too real, and much of it is our fault, we hairless apes. We started it ... and we can stop it, but we have to act. We need to become more active, not just in our own personal actions (such as reducing our expenditures of fossil fuel as much as we can, recycling, etc.). We also need to speak out loudly for all Earth's children, including ourselves. We need to understand that this isn't just a political issue, despite what the Republicans and their ilk say. We need to take all politicians (all the way down to candidates for dog catcher and librarian) to task and demand they put their actions where their empty words have thus far been.

Am I being an alarmist? Perhaps. Certainly, if you're to believe the Bill O'Reillys, Michelle Malkins, Rush Limbaughs, George Bushes, and Dick Cheneys. But, hey, remember all of them have been far wrong before -- remember WMDs in Iraq?

On the other hand, maybe I'm as scared as I should be. Maybe it's all too real and we humans have opened a Pandora's box we won't be able to close in the not too far future.

You decide.

The Auld Scot

I'm back. Didn't think I'd bother as I only had dial-up and it was just much too time-consuming, but I now have broadband and am rethinking this whole blog thang. We'll see how long the Lair lasts.

You know, my attitude about blogs is apparently a whole lot more laissez-faire than others. For me, it's not all that important whether I post on any regular schedule, or even if I post at all. Now, there are those who would say that that's pretty much my attitude about just about all of Life ... and they'd be right. Y'see, I've been in places and done things (and had things done to me) that have skewed my perspective on all this importance stuff. Food is important. Sleep is important (and gods ken I'm at a constant deficit of that commodity). Warmth in winter is important. Love, mental stimulation, air: all these are important. Hels, even a good bowel movement's important. But, a blog? Nope. Just not that important a'tall a'tall. So, I'm more than a little laid back about all this computer stuff. So, sue me.

At any rate, we'll see how this goes. I'll warn ye now, though, I don't foresee this ever becoming a daily post thing. Life's just too varied and demanding for me. With that said, welcome back.

Oh, about the photo. That's yer favorite auld curmudgeon, moi. Er, not the scaly one - I don't ken what that beautiful thing's name is - but the grizzled auld two-legged. Ye might notice the logo on me t-shirt. It's fitting.