Being Thankful

This comes in late by some standards. I know, others wrote, spoke, and preached about what they were thankful for before Thanksgiving. I can appreciate that, I did some of it myself. But in the midst of turkey, dressing, and football I was a little preoccupied.

Two weeks before Thanksgiving I went to the doctor for some pain I'd been experiencing in my shoulder and arm, hoping that he would either give me a shot or shoot me, just so I could sleep at night. While I was there he recommended a blood screening test for the following Monday.

I went in, had my blood drawn, and they told me they'd e-mail me the results. I figured that, at the worst, I might have diabetes (runs in the family). Two days later they called me and said my PSA (prostate) readings were almost ten times the normal range and that I needed to see a urologist.

There was a very good chance that I had cancer.

I told my sweetheart that night, at home, after I couldn't tell her when we went to eat or on the way home. I didn't know what to say since I didn't know anything other than better than 70% of men with my PSA score had cancer.

I told my children the week of Thanksgiving.

I told my mom and sister yesterday.

I'm telling whoever reads this today, because tomorrow I go for the biopsy. It promises to be an interesting experience. If it's anything like the first visit to the urologist I can't wait.

First of all I hoped and prayed I'd have a beautiful, small-handed lady doctor.

Not happening.

Dr. Brock (Daniel) was neither, obviously. After lowering my pants and my dignity he performed what is referred to as a "digital" exam. Without going into the details, let's just say I've never been that intimate with anybody. Ever.

After three trips around my prostate, he told me it was "enlarged and firm on one side." I almost replied, "That's what she said" but I was still trying to regain my eyesight, so I just kept quiet. What do you ask in that situation?

Anyway, he basically told me nothing other than I'd have to have a biopsy tomorrow, using "local anesthesia." I didn't want to know where they'd give me the shot. I still don't.

My preparations for this procedure include several things, all of which pale in comparison to one: The Fleet Enema.

I've had a lower GI test done before. I prepared for that using a box labeled "Evac-U-Quik." I am not making this up. And the box is appropriately named. I drank the contents of the four bottles in the box, at designated intervals, after which I felt like a test site for atomic bombs, particularly the crater left in the aftermath of the explosion.

My wife thought the whole thing was funny. As a side note, what is it about men being in pain that women find so humorous?

With all that was in the box, there was no enema. And there was peace on earth.

But not this time. The Fleet Enema is only two ounces of something--"Not To Be Taken Orally", according to the instructions--that is going to "prepare" me for the biopsy. I think that after the enema, the procedure will be a breeze. I shouldn't need any anesthesia at all. I probably won't have any feeling left back there anyway.

Doc said he had some mind-altering drugs, but I probably wouldn't need them. I told him I wanted all of them. He laughed. So now, in addition to my wife, the doctor thinks my pain is funny too. This is going to be great.

I think I'll start a discount prostate diagnostic business and call it "Rooters 'R Us." Our slogan can be "From Your World to Uranus, We'll Dig It Out".

Georgia Tech 45, Georgia 42

To quote that great theologian Lewis Grizzard:

I don't want to talk about it.

Learning to Cuss

One Sunday afternoon I was getting ready to go to church and I told my oldest son, John, who was five years old at the time, to go get dressed.

His mom and little brother had already gone, so it was just the two of us, and John was at that "I can do it myself" age where he wanted to pick out his own clothes and dress himself. As a loving father in the middle of football season, I was all over it. Dress yourself, feed yourself, drive yourself to church, I'm fully supportive of your attempt at self-sufficiency.

John was in his room at the other end of our house, and as he was "dressing" I heard him say, "Dammit!"

Not wanting to lose any teachable moment, I went to his room to find him sitting on the bed with his shoes on, untied.

"Son, what did I hear you say just now?

"Dammit."

"Have you ever heard Mama or Daddy say that word?"

"No, sir."

"Have you ever heard Grannie or Grandaddy or Nana or Susie or (I listed most of the family members at this point) say that word?"

"No, sir."

"Then why did you say it?"

And with all the innocence and honesty a five-year-old has by nature, he replied:

"Because I couldn't get my damn shoes tied."

Which leads me to this story, forwarded to me today by my mom:

LEARNING TO CUSS

A 6 year old and a 4 year old are upstairs in their bedroom.

"You know what?" says the 6 year old. "I think it's about time we started cussing."

The 4 year old nods his head in approval. The 6 year old continues "when we go downstairs for breakfast, I'm gonna say something with hell and you say something with ass."

The 4 year old agrees with enthusiasm.

When the mother walks into the kitchen and asks the 6 year old what he wants for breakfast, he replies, "Aw, hell, Mom , I guess I'll have some Cheerios."

WHACK! He flies out of his chair, tumbles across the kitchen floor, gets up, and runs upstairs crying his eyes out, with his mother in hot pursuit, slapping his rear with every step. His mom locks him in his room and shouts, "You can stay there until I let you out!"

She then comes back downstairs, looks at the 4 year old and asks with a stern voice, "And what do YOU want for breakfast, young man?"

"I don't know", he blubbers, "but you can bet your fat ass it won't be Cheerios!"

Not A Good Weekend

I detest the Gators.

I hate their arrogance, their cockiness, their swagger.

And the fact that they whipped Georgia like a red-headed stepchild doesn't help either.

And, the reality that I'll hear about it for the next year from Florida fans makes me sick.

They looked like the NFL. We looked like my high-school football team (maybe worse).

And to top it all off, my FSU-graduate son called me as the game with Georgia Tech started Saturday so he could put a curse on the Seminoles. He said, "They're looking really, really good today." I knew then it was over.

It's a good thing we (all) don't live and die with college football.

Reconnect/Disconnect

I read several blogs. One I read daily is written by my roommate from Mercer, an elitist school he, I, and our wives attended a lifetime ago (We married roommates, too. What does that mean?).

When I finally reconnected with him, we talked about trying to meet up somewhere between my home and his. When you get older, you think this way; it's just not worth making more than a halfway drive to see anyone or do anything.*

Now I find he's moving downstate to another church, which is the Baptist Way, an unwritten code by which Baptist pastors live. Simply stated, you can't stay too long in one place unless you plan to build a Baptist Megachurch,go on TV, and basically construct a monument to yourself.*

This is not my friend's way, however.

He's an honest believer, doubts and all. He's not afraid of questions, or questioning. He knows God is big enough to answer. I respect and trust him. If he's leaving one church to go to another, I fully believe God is in it, and after he prayed about it, he knows it what's he's supposed to do.

However, it does put a kink in our plans to reconnect after a long time.

Oh well, I guess we could go all the way to Fitzgerald. As long as he has boiled peanuts and homemade ice cream waiting when we get there.

We love you, Mike and Debra. Godspeed.

*This may be wrong. Probably is.

My Head Will Explode

I'm in the car business, although the words "car" and "business" seem mutually exclusive these days. I thought if things got any worse, my head would explode.

I think today may have lit the fuse.

GM's stock fell to its lowest share price since Truman was president. Ford's stock took another hit, falling 22% today alone.

Is that smoke I smell?

And, here on the sales end, it's like the Cadillac Ranch in the Arizona desert, only our vehicles are upright on all four tires and will run. But other than that, it's dry as dust.

Very few people drive in, fewer buy, and the ones who don't buy make ridiculous offers that no dealer can take seriously.

Are those buzzards I see circling?

If I didn't know God was in charge, I'd go insane.

If I didn't have the love of a good--great--woman, I'd be dead by now.

If I didn't have a few good friends, I'd be a goner.

If I didn't believe it will, it must, get better, my head would explode.

But it won't...some days it'll just feel like it has.

I Kan To Spel

I red this morning that a skool in Grate Britin iz gowing to owtlaw speling homwurk becawz it iz to stresfull fore childrun.

Think God my moma didun mak me spel rite end du homwurk whin I wuz groing up or I wud be stresed owt by now.

End, see, I kan to spel gud. So ther.