Category Archives: Mostly True Stories

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Mostly True Stories

My Broken Heart

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My eyes snap open. The room is dark. I’m disoriented. Muffled beeping and soft humming sounds. The hospital.

I remember.

Had the nurse just come in to check my vitals? I wasn’t sure. I had learned in the few days I had been in the cardiac unit that the night nurses seemed to wait until I was asleep to check my blood pressure and temperature. One nurse came in during the night and turned on the bathroom light. The brightness hurt my eyes. I squinted at her. She was staring at me.

“Are you awake?”

“I am.” I tried to sound like it. She was doing her best–making sure my heart didn’t stop. The least I could do is be kind.

Now, something woke me. I couldn’t see a nurse anywhere. I sat up in bed. My head spun. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and pulled the oxygen monitor off my finger. I gathered the EKG cables, put the wireless transmitter in my hospital-gown-chest-pocket and let my feet touch the cold tile floor. The coolness cleared my head.

Slowly.

IMG_4008_3am_Cardiac UnitI stood up. The room swayed around me, then stabilized. I pulled the drape back and looked out into the ward. The nurses station was empty, quiet. The clock on the wall read 3:06 am. A wheelchair, empty and still, rested below the clock. Muffled beeps echoed from other hearts synchronized by a desire to continue beating.

My heart is broken.

I did not have a heart attack. Thank God.

I had symptoms, the kind of things I attributed to the need for better conditioning. When I took a stress test, the tech’s eyes got big. She asked me, “did you feel that?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“Let’s stop. Wait here.”

I put my hands on the treadmill rails as she gathered reams of paper squiggles and hurried from the room.

“You failed,” she said, returning a few moments later.

“What?” How do you fail a stress test. I’ve got plenty of stress.

A week later, an angiogram showed my arteries were clear. My heart was strong.

I knew it.

“You have an electrical problem,” the Doc said.

“I know. The lights in my garage won’t turn on.”

He didn’t smile.  “In your heart. We need to do an electrophysiology study.”

“I never liked research papers.” No response.

Tough Crowd.

As I lay on the OR table, naked and shaved, the cardiac team hooked me up to all sorts of wires. Twelve-lead-contacts pulsed across a sixty-two inch big screen as a tech joked about alien probes. I shivered.

“I’m going to give you a little bath.”

“It’s a bit chilly for that, don’t you think” I said.

He chuckled. “We like to keep it cool.” I thought I could see my reflection in his sunglasses.

He picked up a sponge and swabbed my neck, chest and groin with glacial betadyne solution from  cardiac mountain. I gasped and my body jerked. My arms and legs were strapped to the table.

“We usually like to sedate before this, but, new policy, we have to wait for the Doc.”

When the Doc arrived, he seemed to speak only in syllables–A-Fib, V-Fib, D-Fib.

“Let me know if you can feel this.” The Doctors lips were moving but he didn’t say those words. An ice cold creeping inched up my right arm. It reached my shoulder. I felt…

“Defibrillator,” the Doc said, smiling. My eyes were open. I was back in my room.

“Clear,” I said. He didn’t smile.

“You have ventricular tachycardia,” he says. His voice is solemn. I nod my head like I know what he’s talking about. He draws a remarkably detailed picture of my heart on the white board and explains. I get it.

This time, in the OR, I am able to keep my sweat pants on when they install an ICD device in my chest. I don’t remember much. They sedated me sooner so I couldn’t write about it.

IMG_4012_3am_HospitalNow, at 3:06 am, I’m awake, alone, and left to contemplate my own mortality.

I don’t want to die. Although, there are days when I think it might be nice. 

I don’t like having a device in my chest that controls my heart rate, shocks me if it beats too fast, and communicates by cell-tower with the Doc, and the NSA. I like to exercise. I take care of my body. I eat right.

Why me? 

I’m sure I’ve done something of significance in my life, I just can’t think of what it is.

Why now?

I love my wife. I love my children. Would they miss me? I’m not finished teaching them.

Why this?

The drugs they’re giving me make me question my reasoning. By 3:30 am I still have no answers. The incision in my chest hurts. I can’t raise my left arm. I can’t sleep on my stomach. I can’t go to the bathroom.

This could change my life.

As I drift into awkward dreams of sponge baths and alien probes,I offer a heartfelt prayer to God for help, love and forgiveness. Suddenly, joyously, I feel peace. Then, a bright light speaks to me.

“Are you awake? Let’s get your vitals.”

Mostly True Stories, People, Places

Spice Bazaar–Istanbul

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Before my eyes could adjust, the smell was upon me–pungent and powerful. My eyes were stinging with scents I did not recognize. Inside the ancient spice bazaar, crowds were swirling, the noise was disorienting. Shop keepers smiled and nodded at weathered women. Women scowled back in negotiation. Shouting began as a wave that crested and broke over exotic shops in the tidal rhythm of the ancient spice trade.

IMG_2930_Burka
Islam is the most populous major religion in Turkey. Although no longer required, many women still wear the burka in public.

I raised my camera to capture the confusion and she froze. Perhaps she thought her burka made her invisible. Amidst the current of chaos she had been invisible. I would not have noticed the androgynous shape among the many shapes in motion.  It was in that moment of pause that our eyes met. Her eyes were all I could see. Sights and sounds and people were swirling about us and I could see her eyes.

Sadness.

I think that’s what I felt. I’m not sure if that’s what I saw.

She raised her hand, translucent against her robes and I took the photograph. We stood there for moments, centuries swirling before us. I could not see beneath her coverings. I had no desire to violate tradition. But in that moment, in her eyes, I could sense a depth of inner life, hidden beneath the burka; hopes, dreams, struggles, desires, hiding in the Misir Carsisi Spice Bazaar, in Istanbul.

Where do you think the White Witch of Narnia got hers?
In the Spice Bazaar in Istanbul I believe it just might be the best quality in the world.
Scented with the aroma of jasmen blossoms, jasmen tea has been a popular drink in the Middle East and Asia for thousands of years.
Sausages anyone?
Saffron, caviar, spices, and of course, sausage.
Before Pfizer began selling little blue pills, the Spice Bazaar was your best source for spicing up your love life.
Your best source for love potion number 9.
Not one of the things I knew Iran was famous for.
The Spice Bazaar, or Misir Carsisi also means Egyptian Bazaar. Misir in Turkish is also mistranslated to mean corn bazaar, although, outside the bazaar you can find some delicious barbecued corn.
Fresh, hot and seasoned with exotic spices, don’t miss the barbecued corn from the street vendors outside the Spice Bazaar.
Islam is the most populous major religion in Turkey. Although no longer required, many women still wear the burka in public.
Mostly True Stories, Places

Into The Woods

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I was thirteen when I went into the woods. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I had no idea what I would find.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and spruce and fir and cedar. I recognized the smell from the pine-sol my Mom used, only different, better. The smell of the woods carried a warmth more like baking bread, and camp fire.

Moss grew on every side of the giant trees blocking out the sky. Drizzle above coalesced as drips below, shocking the back of my neck at random intervals.

The other boys in my troop had run ahead, anxious to capture a flag I had no interest in. Their voices dampened then faded into silence. I was in no hurry. My backpack was not so heavy that I could not enjoy the walk.

I looked up and caught another drip on my nose. I could not see where it came from. The light of the woods was surrounding, directionless. The trees grew into the darkness of an attic above.

The roof was leaking.

The trees were tall and wide and quiet. I would not say they could not speak, for I felt their soughing voices softly whispering above me. I was not afraid. I was in awe. The stillness was reverent.

The mossy trail-loam began to squish as I came to a small stream. I knelt down and slurped a drink of the cold sweet water. I could feel the coldness go all the way down to my stomach and I shivered. The taste was wonderful. I slurped some more.

When I stood up, I imagined that I was alone, or, that I was the first human to visit these woods. The spirits of the trees were watching me. I had not been taught to reverence the woods. Yet, in that moment, I felt something…good. Teaching was no longer necessary. I could feel the peace of sacred places.

“Hey, come on.”

The voice shattered the silence. The sound was incongruous, not supposed to be there. I hadn’t yet made sense of what the trees were saying.

“What’s taking you so long?”

Standing at a bend in the trail, one of the boys in my troop was gesturing for me to hurry. I was suddenly homesick, not for my own home, but for the stillness of the forest. I could not go back. The boys were calling my name.

We pitched our tents that night, in a meadow, under the stars.

Just after sunset, the sky catches fire on the Columbia River, Oregon.
Sunset through the trees.
The sun breaks through the trees lighting the forest floor on the trail to the top of Multnnomah Falls.
Eleven switch-backs lead to the top of the falls, on the Multnomah Falls Trail.
Columbia River Gorge, Oregon.
AT 620 feet, Multnomah Falls is the tallest waterfall in Oregon and is arguably the second tallest year-round waterfall in the United States.
The Pacific Northwest–another gateway to Narnia?
In the Pacific Northwest, Moss grows on all sides of the tree.
With lots of rain, the moss grows on everything.
Dare to be different.
Sunset on the Columbia River.
On the Oregon side of the Columbia River Gorge.
Mostly True Stories, Places

Just a Few More Minutes in Venice, Please

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Venice is beautiful, rain or shine. The sun was warm and the sky was blue for the 90 minutes I spent there. I was fortunate. The weather changes every few hours.

IMG_8680_Gondola PrepVenice is romantic. If you find yourself in Venice with someone you love, take a Gondola ride. ‘O Sole mio…

Venice is old. Walk the cobblestone streets on stones older than the renaissance. See nightmarish masks on display in the shops. Now worn for carnival, the Medico della Peste mask became a symbol of the  ravages of black death from dark ages.

Venice is sinking. Originally built on 117 islands separated by canals, scientist think the fabled city is sinking by approximately 7 inches per century. It may be that you want to get your scuba diving certificate.

Venice is vibrant. Whether you know her as the Queen of the Adriatic, the City of Water, the City of Canals, the City of Masks, the City of Bridges, or the Floating City, the radiant colors of Venice will entice you to stop for a visit, and, perhaps, to stay for few minutes.

Mostly True Stories, Places

At the Beach

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We weren’t dressed for it, but we couldn’t resist. We had three hours before our flight. Wait in the airport, at LAX?

I don’t think so.

Before the engine of our rental car shut down, my wife was out the door and on the beach. I carefully took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs, grabbed my camera and sauntered after. The sand felt good on my toes, cool and rough.

IMG_3734_Beach Tent_webWe have a little saying in our bathroom at home, at home where it’s cold. “If you’re lucky enough to be at the beach, you’re lucky enough.”

IMG_2381_Shadow Lovers_webI must be very lucky. I married a California girl. Like a rechargeable battery, she draws life from the sun, the sand and the waves. I draw life from her. We don’t live in California anymore, so it’s probably okay that I look like a tourist. I wasn’t born here. I don’t live here. But I did, sort of, adopt this place. I’ve lived here longer than any other place.  So, we visit often, to see our children, and, although I don’t feel old, our grandchildren, and, the beach.

IMG_3738_Footprint Pair_webI could mark the years of my life in the footsteps on the sand, but I always lose track when the waves wash them away. The feelings remain as the memories flood in and out with the surf. I could come back here and know that I would be welcome.

Life guard tower 42 at Manhattan beach, near Los Angeles.
Beach Volleyball anyone? Near the lifeguard tower at Manhattan Beach.
Maybe not the most green approach to power, the Manhattan B
Mostly True Stories, Places

Eiffel Tower Lights

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The longest night of the year. Darkness. Winter. Rain. Snow.

I’m looking for, longing for the light.

A beacon from the City of Lights calls to me.

The Eiffel Tower, built in 1889, pierces the dark of night and illuminates the light of love, by day.

Over 1000 feet high, the Eiffel Tower stood as the tallest structure in the world for nearly 40 years. Originally criticized for his design, Gustave Eiffel created the iconic symbol of France which has become one of the most recognizable and most visited monuments in the world.

Last night, as I shop-vac’d nearly 100 gallons of rainwater from an outside window-well at my house, I thought, for just a moment, that I could see a beacon light piercing the clouds, lighting the way. I was back, back in Paris, standing under the Eiffel Tower, eating nutella crepes. Then, the rain turned to snow and a cold drip ran down my neck. I hate it when that happens.

Even on the longest, darkest night of the year, even in a storm, the Eiffel Tower still lights the famous City of Lights. I guess just I’ll have to look at my pictures.

The City of Light, and liberty.
The Eiffel Tower beams a welcome, across the bridge.
Two boats pass at dusk, on the Seine River.
A vintage rainy day in Paris.
The Eiffel Tower beams a welcome, across the bridge.
Mostly True Stories

Falling Into Winter

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The weather in my home town is unseasonably warm. It is as if winter is hiding, just around the corner, afraid to come out.

I’m actually okay with that.

I don’t like to be cold. The worst day when it is hot, is better than the best day when it is cold, speaking specifically of the weather.

No matter how many clothes you put on, winter coats, winter hats, gloves, long underwear, sweaters, down vests, etc. the cold still finds a way in, like needles.  When it is hot, you can always take clothes off, right? You can always drink more water.

Ah yes, water.

It hasn’t rained here in days, maybe weeks. Snow? Haven’t seen any. Weird.

It should be snowing. I should have a sore back from shoveling (no, I never invested in a snow blower). I know we need the water. So, I know we need the winter.

The sun has moved farther south. The days are shorter. But, the temperatures are still warm. I could live with this, for awhile. However most of the leaves have fallen and the bare trees just don’t look quite right, silhouetted against a deep blue sky still warm.

Perhaps winter will come out when autumn can no longer prevent the north wind from frosting the brittle fallen leaves decorating my once green lawn.

Until then, I will turn my face to the sun and hope that perhaps this year, we may skip through the darkest days of winter, without having to dawn snow boots and snow tires.

Tines and spokes connect to the circle of seasons.
Abandoned irrigation equipment marks the end of harvest season.
Meadow grasses dip to drink from the mountain stream.
Fall leaves cover the ground before winter snow buries the leaves.
A small stream snakes through the golden meadow.
Laden with the remnants of summer growth, autumn’s remnants glow with future promise.
Fall portends sleep and death, yet, in the meadow, among the teasel, there is hope for renewal.
Waiting for wind, meadow weeds cling to seeds that will carry life to new meadows and pastures.
Late fall sunsets mean shorter days and longer nights.
Mostly True Stories, Things

You Shall Not Pass–South African Rhinos

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IMG_0454_Rhino Pass_webThe road was rough. The land rover bounced around a corner and there he was, a South African White Rhinoceros, standing guard in the middle of the rutted road. I lurched forward as the guide stopped the vehicle abruptly. The Rhino’s ears twitched. He watched from immovable feet. I held my breath. I could hear a huffing snort and the buzzing of insects.

The guide spoke, “Perhaps we will find another way.”

The land rover jerked in reverse. The Rhino stared at us, unblinking.

You Shall Not Pass.

You Shall Not Pass
Posing for a profile.
Grazing.
Coming or going?
Blending in.

 

Mostly True Stories, Places

Fishers of Men

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Galilean Fishing Boats
And they straightway left their nets, and followed him.

A cold October sunrise on Utah lake substitutes for the Sea of Galilee in a series of films I’m directing on the life of Christ.

Mostly True Stories, Places, Things

African Elephants

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The Range Rover bounced through the trees like the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, then, mercifully, stopped. Our guide shut off the engine. I could hear the ticking of hot stressed metal. My body was just as stressed. I may have developed a tick.

Over there.

I could see him, hiding, a giant bull elephant, trying, it seemed to me, to be inconspicuous.

I began taking photographs. Through the lens, the elephant looked annoyed. With crunching footsteps, he lumbered out of the trees into the open, staring at us. We stared back at him. He came closer. Closer. CLOSER. I reached for a wider lens.

Hold very still, our guide whispered. He reached for his rifle.

The giant elephant stopped, three feet away. I could hear him panting. Snorting. I could SMELL him. VERY BAD BREATH.

From my open seat in the Range Rover, he was massive. His tusks were stained red near the sharpened points. He looked down at me with huge, tired eyes.

What are you doing here?

I came to see you.

He sniffed, his snake-like trunk sampling the air around me. His giant eyes blinked. I could see myself reflected in their rich, deep brown. He looked…sad, maybe. Resignedly tolerant, perhaps. Proud, certainly.

He moved on.

I realized that the pounding I could hear was my heart, not his footsteps.

Our guide put down his gun and started the Range Rover. The roar of the engine shattered the quiet surrounding us and we moved on.

A thirsty African elephant takes a healthy drink from his own personal well.