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.

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.