Child Takes Initiative, “Cleans” Bathroom.

DUNEDIN – Using only the objects available to her: a toilet (the sink was too high to reach) and the brush beside it; Elizabeth Kauffman did her best to clean her parents bathroom early this evening. “I put the brush in the water and I put the water there and there and there and there and there” said Elizabeth, describing the scene to her father. Those on the scene describe the bathroom as “wet.” “You wouldn’t believe how much water there is in a toilet”, said Beth’s father, arriving late on the scene. “There was water everywhere. . .and there was still some in the toilet. . .!@#$%^& unbelievable!”

The child’s mother was reportedly working this evening and was not available for comment.

Remembering my grandmother.

These last several years, I had the impression that my grandmother was not a happy person. Perhaps I am not the best person here today to make this assessment, but despite being separated by geography and circumstances, we did speak on the phone occasionally. When we did, she invariably mentioned that most of her loved ones and friends were long gone.

I was listening to National Public Radio the other day and I heard a piece which was relevant for today. An older woman was relating a story she heard from a friend who was a midwife. This friend was delivering a baby whose amniotic sack had not yet broken. This friend claimed that, for a brief moment, she was able to see the baby’s face through the dilated birth canal, and it was an amazing sight – the baby’s head not yet deformed by the trauma of child birth. Eventually, the sack was broken and the baby was born soon thereafter. The woman telling this story mused about how she thought that death may be much like child birth: a long, drawn out struggle of a journey, climaxed by a birth into a new reality. She then wondered if sometimes people experience something similar to that baby being born – that they perhaps catch glimpses of friends, offering a helping hand on their final journey to heaven from life on Earth.

I don’t know if I quite believe the story about that baby; but I do pray that my grandmother was met by those that loved her and completed the journey before her; and that at long last, she is with them now.

My heart aches for the things I feel I could have done, and for opportunities that sadly can no longer come.

A message for a lost friend.

Foreword As it turns out, I never mailed this letter. I did not know where you were, and didn’t know where to send it. It seems even your parents have moved on, so here this letter has sat. I have no illusions that you will someday happen upon this letter here, so I’m not exactly sure what my motivation is in placing it here. For that matter, I have no illusions that many people at all will happen upon this letter here. Maybe this is a kind of modern day message in a bottle cast into the sea. Maybe, just maybe, someone will find this here and read about a guy who wishes he could find his old friend – and say thanks.
JK – 10/11/2001

Tuesday, June 6, 2000 (9:32 pm)

Dear Ben,

I begin to write this letter unsure of my intent to mail it. As you may or may not recall, mine is a contemplative soul; and the last few days I have been thinking about those who have had an influence on my life. In the event that whimsy leads to this letter being sent, please don’t be scarred off by the what comes next (despite what may appear otherwise, this is not a “coming out of the closet, lost love of my life” kind of letter – “Not that there is anything wrong with that” – Jerry Seinfeld ).

I am unsure of my willingness to send this letter because it expresses something that is not typically shared between male friends, particularly those that have not spoken in what must be seven years. We give up power over ourselves when we share from within, and this is disconcerting; even to the most self assured of us – and I will never be counted among the most self-assured. Furthermore, I’m not sure that this would ever get to you, even if I wanted to send it to you. On the occasions that I run into common acquaintances from the past, one of the great mysteries that is discussed is: “what happened to Ben.” Last rumor had it that you were married with child in Maine. In any case, I figure a good start would be to try your parent’s old address in Dunedin. Just the same, my journey down memory lane (so to speak) has lead to a powerful desire to share something that perhaps was never communicated in the past. In part, this is because it was hard to realize until later in life – and by then it was too late (perhaps). Often we have little trouble giving others negative feed back. We argue. We criticize. We hold grudges. But how often do we say to others: “hey, you were appreciated, thanks.”

I’ve no idea who you are today, much less where. I don’t mean this as condemnation, I just thought I would state what should be obvious. Much can happen in seven years, and those events shape the people we become. Which gets me to why I have written this letter. With the perspective that I have gained in the last several years, I have come to realize that my years in Gainesville, particularly the first two – had more influence on my life thus far than any others. I remember two states of being in those first two years at UF: camaraderie and a sense of belonging among my friends; solitude and despair when on my own. When on my own, I obsessed over the notion that I had let the “love of my life” get away. I was sure that I would find no one better, and the one I wanted was forever out of reach. This ultimately turned out to be untrue, but how was I to know then? What kept me going was my friends. You, Steve, and yes even Shad; helped me in ways and to an extent that I will never be able to express. In those two years you were a friend who’s importance had not then, nor has since, been eclipsed by any other (not including my wife). Simply put, you listened. Although it may not have seemed it at the time, your occasional reassurances meant a lot to me. I can remember one specific example that stands out. I remember walking together to a late night session of racquetball, and once again bemoaning my plight, which surely must have gotten old after awhile. But, none the less, you came through. I remember you saying that you thought we (Cheryl and I) would end up together, and that things had a way of working out. While I was not ready to believe Cheryl and I would end up together, your reassurance meant a great deal. At a time when I was love sick and unsure of my academic ability, I felt like someone believed in my potential, someone who’s opinion I respected.

I’ve no idea what you thought of me then, or what you think of me now. In school, I don’t think we were always the best of examples for each other. There are things I remember doing and saying that I am, quite frankly, ashamed of. However, from my perspective, you were the best of friends. This leads me to my regrets. I regret that I was selfish; that I received more than I gave. I regret that I was not there to return the favor in times that it may have been needed. I regret that I was less than honest on occasion with all of you. In short, I regret that I was not as good a friend in return. It is my hope that you thought of me as a friend; but reflecting on my actions and behavior back then I can not be sure, and I am truly sorry.

While I’m not sure I’ll send this, it won’t surprise me if it does end up in the mail. The last several years have added to my personality a bit of irreverence to some societal norms. So what the heck?

At this point, I feel it necessary to add the obligatory: “so much has happened since we last spoke.” It truly has. Cheryl and I celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary this year. We have a wonderful daughter, Beth, who will be three in July. We bought our first house two years ago. My sister Christy graduated from Medical school 8th (or somewhere around there) in her class, and has accepted a pediatric residency. She is now married to one of her classmates, who is a resident at the same hospital in neurosurgery. My youngest sister Lisa graduated from the nursing program at UF, and is waiting to take her board exams to become an RN. Steve is married, and his daughter Madelynn will be one in August.

Later this year it will be 10 years since my break-through evening with Cheryl after Gator Growl. Do you remember that night? That night has been just as important to me as any anniversary or birthday. Cheryl and I began our journey together that night. Cheryl and I talked until about 4am. We talked about whether I felt the same as I did in High School about her, and whether my still strong feelings were requited. Afterward, I remember waking you up to tell you all about it, and talking about it with you until almost sunrise the next morning. Among other things, I remember you put on a big grin and said, “I told you so.” It was one of the most important nights of my life, and I remember clearly sharing the details with my best friend. Everyday, since that day, has been a celebration – and I owe it partially to you.

Thanks.

Your ever grateful friend,
JK

Siblings.

Every so often, the topic of having more children comes up. Sometimes it is a joking reference from an acquaintance. Sometimes it is a prodding from my in laws. Sometimes it is a serious conversation with Cheryl. Other times, it is just me. . .sitting and thinking. . .like right now. On most of these occasions, many of the same tired arguments are raised: “do we want Beth to be an only child?”, “didn’t we always want to have at least two?”, “can we afford another child in day care?”; or, “can we afford another child, period?” Less often, I think of my experience as the oldest of three. If I were to think only of my childhood, then the decision would be easy. . .we’ll take just the one please. It’s not that simple however. At some point we all grew up. Something happened as I grew older; I found that I loved my family a great deal. As a child, my sisters were rivals and competitors for attention and scarce resources (like Jello Pudding Pops). Now I look back through my old pictures and I find that some of my happiest moments caught on film, since high school graduation, were spent with my sisters. Perhaps it’s not the best reason for having more children, but it has been one of the most persuasive reasons to date.

A Good Start.

Despite myself, I am optimistic.

My job brings me to court twice a week to work on child support cases. The cases we see are predisposed to be the the worst of the lot. They can be the ones which no other form of persuasion has prompted someone to be a good parent. We are taking the action of last resort, we are going to court. If that were not enough, the atmosphere is charged by the inherently difficult issues of money, children, abandonment, and love unrequited.

Recently I was working on a case which was tragically typical: a man was summoned to court to legally establish paternity and child support for a child he had not met. Only after learning the results of a DNA test, six weeks prior, did he even know that he was a father to this two year old child. We worked out an agreement to pay support without having to go to an actual hearing. As we were finishing up he asked a common question: “what do I have to do to see this child?” I gave my usual answer: “the easiest way is to work it out with the mother.” He allowed that they were not on the best of terms, and I noticed that they both had new “significant others” in attendance, to give them moral support. I’m no great authority on anything, and having just sat on the opposite side of the table on a deal to take an additional couple hundred dollars from his paycheck, I didn’t feel I was in the best position to give him friendly advise (and have it heeded). However, I could not help myself. At this point the meeting usually ends one of two ways. After I tell the parent that the payoff may be worth the try, I get a look which says “yeah, sure”; or, I get a response that goes something like “you may be right” – followed by the mother and father ignoring each other on their way back to their lives. This time however neither happened. It was a busy day, so I kind of hurried off to the next case and didn’t notice what they did right after we were done. However, about twenty minutes later I noticed the four of them in the hallway outside the courtroom. The mother, father, current boyfriend and current girlfriend were all talking together. I heard the mother say to the father, “give me a call. . . .” I saw the father and the current boyfriend shake hands. I saw what looked like a sincere, friendly wave mirrored by the mother and the current girlfriend.

The cynic in me would say that it was but a brief moment, and it will be awfully tough – maybe too tough – to keep that up for very long. But there was something about them all, something that I can’t put my finger on which makes me feel that they have got a chance. It is moments like these that make my job worth while. The thought that if I had anything at all – however small – to do with something that may enrich the lives of several people, it would be special beyond explanation.

Optimism ruled the day, and I am hopeful for a good start.

You’re Never Too Young

Beth started the day, like nearly every other weekday, at 6 am. Although this is not out of the ordinary, getting up any earlier than 8 am is inherently bad. I’m neither looking for, nor do I expect any sympathy from those of the medical persuasion, but I think we all can agree to this in principle.

From there, Beth went to school and suffered through a long day. When she arrived, she discovered her teacher would not be there. Instead, she had a substitute – which is almost never a good thing. She didn’t get in a nap which is definitely never a good thing.

Tired from a lack of sleep, and already weary from suffering through a substitute teacher, Cheryl picked her up early to go to the dentist. It was her first time with the poke, prod, scrape, and polish routine. When the pain in her mouth was still around an hour later, we called on our good friend Motrin.

Not until later that night, when Beth was on the potty struggling with something too gross to describe, Beth pitifully announced: “Mommy, I’m having a bad day.”

The Big Poke.

(Note to those of the medical persuasion: I think puncta is the word I’m looking for, but I’m not sure. If I’m wrong, then it’s the word I’ve made up for the little holes in your eyelids, near your nose, that carry tears away from your eye.)

I relented. I gave in to the suggestion that plugging my puncta would solve my dry eye problems. This despite the failed temporary plug test run a month or two ago. You don’t truly know what it’s like to get poked in the eye until someone as tried to plug your puncta. After yesterday, I now know.

It turns out that puncta plugging is a two step process. First you “size” the puncta to determine what size plug is needed. You begin by instructing the patient to hold still, keep the eye open, and look straight ahead. You then do everything you can to get the patient to disobey. You accomplish this by thrusting a “sizer” into the puncta as forceful as you can without rupturing any soft tissue. Once you have simultaneously sized the suspect puncta, and taken away all of the patient’s hope that this will be easy, you insert the plug. The plugging device is a long thin stick with a small silicone object at the end, and which has “you’ll poke your eye out” written all over it. You retrieve the device and thrust it in a manner similar to step one, only this time, take your time. A little lingering builds the suspense. When you feel the slight popping sensation, stop. To make the experience a little more exciting for the patient, don’t tell them the popping feeling is normal until after the first plug is inserted. This makes for some amusing reactions from your patients. You can almost see the blood returning to their faces when they find out nothing important has a new hole. Now that the plug is in, choose your next words very carefully. They can satisfy the little sadist in all of us. “There, now we’re half done” often works quite nicely. As you may have guessed, I was unable to keep still, keep my eye open, or look straight ahead. I was 0 for 3. Afterwards, the good doctor said that my difficult puncta were in between sizes. He said to me, “I decided to try the smaller ones . . . I didn’t want you to pass out or anything.” To borrow a term favored by one of my co-workers: I’m a woos when it comes to my eyes. But in my defense, that was some major league poking. If I were a prisoner of war, it would have been illegal. . .and I would have talked. This evening when it felt like there was something in my eye, I had the comfort of knowing that there really was.

Assault on Shade.

I like trees.

I try to understand that other people don’t, but it isn’t easy. It has been especially hard these last couple of days. You see, my neighbor has declared war on trees, and on their neighbor’s trees in particular. About five nights ago, the neighbor in question came by to declare their intentions to have our trees, which overhang their property, trimmed. The stated intention was to trim the branches overhanging their roof. The use of the word “stated” was deliberate. They “stated” what they were going to do, they did not “ask.” Yesterday, I came home and saw how their stated intentions translated into real life application.

Imagine, if you will, a tree. Now picture the main trunk of this tree set back from a property line about three feet. Now imagine how wide this tree would reach near the mid section and top if this tree were 20 – 30 feet high (imagine an oak, not a pine or palm). Now imagine a vertical line drawn straight up from that property line, and imagine that there was no more tree on the other side of this line. This, to my dismay, describes two trees which border my neighbor’s lot – one of which is my tree. It was difficult to contain my rage. Why do these people so disdain shade? Do they have a problem with saving money on their summer utility bills? Do they have a problem with how pleasant it feels in the shade, even on the hottest summer days? Do they like the look of tree trunks stripped bare, towering over their roof? I just wish they would have asked, or at least been more forthcoming about the extent of the trimming. However, I’m afraid that no amount of talking would have swayed them. I don’t know them really well, but what I do know does not suggest that they are the compromising type. Now that its done, what can I do? Perhaps dad is right, maybe it is easier to get forgiveness than permission. Lucky for me, the limbs they removed also shaded my roof from the sun, so we too will have the benefit of more expensive summer utility bills. My wallet feels lighter already, or does it? No, the verdict on my wallet is uncertain. Will the weight loss from higher bills compensate for the extra weight of leather soaked in sweat? Sadly, I’m not looking forward to finding out.

Good Excuses.

In the last week or so, Beth has been doing an excellent job of: as we say, “putting her pee-pee and poopy in the potty.” (This weekend was an exception, but I won’t get into that now.) She has even graduated to wearing underpants to school, and she wears the same pair all day. Today however, she had a bit of a set back, but its hard to blame her. As a general rule, Beth has been very afraid of things that make a lot of noise; and vacuum cleaners in particular. Well for some reason the staff at her school decided that it would be a good idea to do some vacuuming while the students were in the room. Beth was caught off guard and did not react well. I understand she was quite a sight; a mostly four year old child screaming at the top of her lungs, dirty from her good time on the playground, with a steady stream running down her legs and emptying into the puddle of fear in which she stood. The appropriate response of a parent would be one of sympathy, and I swear that I was at least in part sympathetic. But when Beth confided to me later that “the vacuum scared the pee-pee out of me”, I just had to giggle a little, even if it was just to myself.

Faith, or a lack thereof.

A columnist I often read in the newspaper once wrote about politicians who feel compelled to begin statements with the phrase “Quite frankly, . . . .” He explained how he was immediately suspicious of the ones who used this phrase liberally. He mused that it was possibly a subconscious defense mechanism; a way to convince themselves, as well as others, they were being honest and forthright. I have come to have a similar suspicion of doctors who begin a statement with the phrase “This is a classic case of. . . .”

I have seen three doctors in the last couple of years about irritation that has persisted in my eyes. Doctor A noted, with a casual tone that almost exuded boredom, that it was a classic case of diagnosis #1. Not knowing any better myself, I faithfully followed through with the recommended road to cure. When the road to cure from diagnosis #1 turned out to be a one way street to continued suffering, I was sent on my way to doctor B. Doctor B noted the diagnosis of doctor A; and with a tone bordering on disgust, declared that I had a classic case of diagnosis #2. I saw this doctor for some time, and had somewhat better results than with doctor A. However, the problem still persisted. To my great disappointment, doctor B moved to Minnesota (hopefully not because of me). My third primary care doctor in as many years unwittingly referred me back to doctor A. I shouldn’t have gone back, but I did. My condition continued, despite my, dare I say: gullible, devotion to treatment for a “classic case” of diagnosis #1. Frustration mounted, and I switched to a fourth primary care physician who referred me to doctor C. The rationale was that we could validate the diagnosis of either doctor A or doctor B. You guessed it, doctor C said that I had a classic case of diagnosis #3. I was sitting in the hot seat when doctor C looked me in the eye and explained what he thought it was. He must have read the unease on my face like it was a neon billboard because his tone was almost defensive. He suggested a treatment for diagnosis #3 which he claimed would work almost instantly, and sat across from me with an expectant look on his face. I replied, “well, if you think it will make me feel any better, let’s give it a shot.” We did, and it didn’t.

I am left with the feeling that having “classic” symptoms of a particular condition does not mean what I thought. Surely three professionals, trained in the same specialty, would recognize my “classic” symptoms as the same thing. O.k., maybe two of three at least. But one set of “classic” symptoms and three diagnoses? I suspect the phrase must be some kind of special code taught in medical school, loosely translated as: “I haven’t got a friggin clue what this guy has wrong with him, but admitting my ignorance won’t make him feel any better.” Or perhaps its just a defense mechanism of their own, as if saying it will make it true.

On the bright side, my co-pay is only $10.

Maybe I’m expecting a full coarse meal at Burn’s for the price of a pound of ground chuck, but at this point I’d be happy with just a salad.