The Pooka Principle: Embracing my Insanity

If you've never seen the 1950 James Stewart movie, "Harvey," please rent it.

In the movie, Stewart is an easy-going bachelor who has one personality quirk: his best friend is an invisible eight foot tall rabbit named Harvey. Harvey is a "Pooka," kind of a anthropomorphic guardian angel/imaginary friend that accompanies Stewart everywhere. This, of course, upsets all the "normal" people around him, especially when Stewart introduces Harvey to others.

Old movies are great in that they make a point; and the message of "Harvey" is simply this:

Sometimes it is better to leave people's personality quirks alone.

Personally, I think a pooka is a great idea, especially in view of the lack of close friends, but I'd prefer a Golden Retriever or perhaps a bear instead of a rabbit..or maybe a 1920's professional wrestler named Hank or something.

I have started to take the message of Harvey seriously myself: from now on, I'm going to I'm embrace my insanity and not care so much what other people think about it. The point is this: unless someone takes the time to get to know me personally, they're just not going to understand me, so it's their loss.

I suspect that I have had Attention-Deficit Disorder for most of my life; long before the term was coined or popular among pediatricians or underactive parents. I've never been able to focus on anything for a long period of time and fondly remember having half a dozen scenarios going on in my grandmother's basement at the same time: a World War Two army battle, moon-landing (with aliens), situation-comedy in a dollhouse, Western scene (with Roy Rogers) and really cool Untouchables play set, all on the cold brown-tile basement floor, tied together with a circle of Lionel track.

Actually, adulthood hasn't been much different: I've had more careers and almost-careers and hobbies and interests than I care to mention, all of course still surrounded with the Lionel track.

I really can't expect everyone to understand but at this point, they'll just have to live with my sixteen year old emotional mindset, my sudden changes in topic when conversing, my deafness, my inability to smell, my cornicopia of interests and my list of crazy age-inappropriate things that I hope to do before I die.

Please do not fix me...I like it this way...I mean, we like it this way, my pooka and myself.

My Lost Adolescence

I like to say that I am fifty something years of age...going on 16...but that's not really the case. In reality, things just stopped happening about age twelve...and I woke up one day at age 25 to find myself a man, with grown-up responsibilities, but longing with all my heart and soul to be a teenager....and not a teenager "again," for I never really have had that experience.




I'm not being silly now; I have no "inner child" or other psychological syndrome to deal with. I have a condition clinically called Hypogonadism or "delayed puberty," cause unknown and undiagnosed during my formative years.





It's one of those frustrating illnesses that is not common enough or obvious enough for people to understand or sympathize with...no, you're just labeled a "late bloomer" or more callously dismissed as being "immature" or "undernourished" or something more vulgar.




Though I grew to adult stature (the bones do not stop growing due to lack of testosterone in the body), I developed none of what are called the "primary or secondary sexual characteristics."



What that means bluntly is that, while my friends developed muscles, a deep voice, hair on their face and exhibited sexual prowess, I remained physically a child though mentally I was intelligent and a successful student.




My family, stooped in religious fundamentalism, never discussed sex with me; I felt secure ignoring the issue and looking at my peers and their sex-talk with disgust. I soon lost all of the friends that I had grown up with and associated with younger boys that I could identify with more freely. I had just enough testosterone in my body to produce a severe case of acne, but that was about the extent of the "changes;" red spots all over my face. I became an extremely negative, lonely and unhappy child.




I questioned our family doctor about my lack of development during high school days, but he dismissed it...even going to the point of pulling down his own pants and comparing his (rather modest) genitalia with mine!




Attendance at a religious college further masked my problem and most of my classmates looked at me as kind of an oddity, probably good for some kind of Christian sideshow, but certainly not suited for the mission field.




After "Bible College," I found with many others (that have come before and after me) that my undergraduate degree was pretty much useless and began to work as an airport limousine driver...driving around successful business people who had seemingly made more sensible career choices than I.




About that time, while living back home with my parents in Bloomfield, New Jersey, I came down with a flu bug and hobbled down to the neighborhood doctor's office. The elderly physician took one look at me and startled me with the assertion that "The flu is the least of your worries." He took a book off the shelf and showed me some photos of naked men with their faces blackened out. "These men all have Hypogonadism," he explained...and referred me to a specialist.




The specialist, an endocrinologist or gland doctor, started me on testosterone replacement therapy, a small injection of testosterone once a week. But there were more delays, for whatever reason, and it took a few more years for me to start to see changes in my body.




The first time I had an erection and a "wet dream," I felt a strange mixture of satisfaction and of guilt...like "now I am a man and isn't that great?" with (on the other hand) "God wanted me to be different and now I'm becoming just like everyone else." This dichotomy remains with me all these years later.




Now, while other men my age were becoming established in their careers and starting families, I would stare at young guys playing basketball in an inner-city lot on my way to the airport, just longing to play the game with them. And I became angry at the loss of my adolescent years. Emotionally, I was an angry teenager, yet, a teenager with adult responsibility and expectations by others that I was ill-equipped to meet. I felt like no one understood me, perhaps I did not understand myself.





And I imagined that I was alone, until the advent of the Internet and the discovery that many other men (and women also) suffered from conditions similar to my own. Commiserating with others in groups like that, I found, has it's own rewards as well as liabilities. My first impression was that "Most of these people are crazy!" which didn't place myself in a favorable light. Many of my hypogonadic "brethren," (or at least the more 'vocal' ones) did have serious emotional, sexual and gender issues. More positively, I did receive some very good advice about finding good doctors and choosing treatment options. ... and I've been encouraged to explore my own emotional and sexual issues...which I will elaborate upon sometime.





The saddest thing that I can identify with is the massive bad self-image that delayed puberty has imprinted on me and others. No one with my condition that I have met has been particularly successful in creating and obtaining long-term goals for their lives. It seems that no amount of affirmation or encouragement is enough to instill confidence or a sense of accomplishment or self-satisfaction.




So I remain, still not having found what I am looking for, whatever that may be.


(Diagram courtesy of: http://www.andrologyaustralia.org/ )

Pet Peeve No. 3: Forgiven People who Can't Forgive

We've all read amazing stories of folks who have forgiven others that have done outrageous things to them (My favorite is the story of the American missionary, Elizabeth Elliot, who worked among an Ecudoran tribe after they murdered her husband). Now, Mrs. Elliot later went around the world on speaking engagements with the tribesman who killed Mr. Elliot (but that may be going a bit too far!).

So, why can't we seem to forgive the lady who cut us off this morning on the freeway?... she didn't even murder anyone...she may have just been late for work, or just plain dumb for that matter.

I especially dislike religious people, who themselves claim to be "forgiven," but seem to have the worst time forgiving others. Sometimes, I feel like I've spent a good part of my life apologizing while I can count on one hand the the times that others have apologized to me. Granted, some of my apologizing may be due to a poor self image and a deep-seated need to be accepted by others...but to be apologized TO only five times...in fifty-six years?

To complicate things, it seems to me that the more doctrine or creedal-based the religious person is, the harder time they have forgiving. I used to know one such individual that would insist that I use the following formula..."I'm sorry, I was wrong, I repent, please forgive me" before she would reply "I forgive you" and NEVER if it were a repeated offense. (My opinion is that "truth" is individually defined by such people and they judge others solely by their own definition). It's like they are saying "Sorry, work for me for seven years and I might forgive you, someday, just maybe, if you're nice!" These people end up with a very tiny circle of friends (and why do they seem to attend churches that have the word "Grace" in the title?)

Hmmm. Whatever happened to the "forgive seventy times seven" thing that Jesus talked about...and the guy in that story only SAID "I repent," for the same offense, 490 times repeated?

The attitude mystifies me: God forgives each of us for a multitude of offenses and omissions every day, some confessed while most are not. Yet, we make continue to make requirements for others before we confer our holy absolution upon them.

Here's how I deal with it: I have some shelves over my desk that are filled with model train cars. One of those cars is a baggage car. When someone offends me, (I really try not to be like the guy who stuck out his big, infected first toe and dared anyone to trip over it), I write down the offense, crumble it up and put it in the baggage car...and forget it. It's a little ritual that really works. Better to have baggage in the baggage car than to be carrying it around myself. For me, it works.

And only God opens in the baggage car.

Deano

Pet Peeve No. 2: The Clueless Person at the Front Desk

Question: Who is the first person you see when you walk into a hospital, virtually any hospital?

Answer: A sweet, well-meaning, usually-elderly, person whose previous medical experience has been limited to sending flowers and writing get well cards.

Me: Hello, can you tell me what room Mr. Cyzmanski is in?
Her: Please? (that's Cincinnati-speak for "I didn't hear you.")
Me: Can you tell me what room Mr. Cyzmanski is in?
Her: Manski?
Me: NO, Cyzmanski.
Her: Can you spell that?
Me: C-Y-Z-M-A-N-S-K-I
Her: With a C?
Me: Yes, with a C
Her: (Ruffling through a card file). C and a Z?
Me: No, C-Y-Z-M...
Her: (cutting me off) He's in room 217B.
Phone Rings, she picks it up, puts the other hand on the mouthpiece, mumbles something incoherently, and says "Please" at least three times during the conversation. I wait.
She hangs up phone and looks at me as if to say, "Why are you still here?"
Me: How do I find Room 217B?
Her: (looking at a rather complicated map taped on to the counter top). Straight ahead, past second elevator, right, down the hall, left at sign, past employee cafeteria, take elevator up to second floor, down hallway, ask volunteer at the third nurses station.
Me: Thanks...and where can I find the bathroom?
Her: Please?
Me: The MEN'S ROOM
Her: Right next to the ladies' room! (and points approximately south-southwest on the compass. With that, she gets up and disappears into an adjoining room, leaving the desk unoccupied). I turn away...fearing that she may call Security.

I finally find the men's room, wondering while relieving myself why Walmart gives a better first impression then most hospitals care to do...at least I would think twice about becoming a patient at this one!

Pet Peeve No. 1: Doctors who abuse the Healthcare System

Hospitals are the only business that I know of that allow their associates to compete with them...and take away business from them.

Specifically, I am talking about MDs who have a vested interest in imaging and other testing equipment. Consider the following examples, just from conversations in the last few weeks;

I work in a local hospital. We had a patient the other day who had one test in our department at the hospital and a second test (a CT, or computerized tomography scan) at an imaging facility fifteen miles away. Now, we perform CT scans in our hospital and the patient could have easily had the scan done before or after our test. Instead, his doctor insisted that he have the CT at the imaging facility. Why? Because it appears that the MD has a financial interest in the imaging clinic!!

...Then, there's a relative, in another state, who has a progressive form of kidney failure. His specialist stated that he would need to go on dialysis at some point in the future but delayed the treatment until it was absolutely necessary. A second doctor, however, insisted that my relation go on dialysis immediately! Why? The second specialist has a vested interest in the dialysis facility with which he is associated, while the first is NOT associated with a dialysis clinic. Fortunately, my relative took the first opinion and was able to avoid dialysis for a few years with medication and a careful diet.

...then there's my friend, Don. Don has had coronary artery disease for a while. Now, at our hospital, we perform very valuable Radionuclide-Assisted Stress Testing sometimes referred to as a Myoview or Cardiolite Stress Test (after the name of the pharmaceuticals that are used). If the stress test is abnormal, a heart catheterization is ordered. In Don's case, the stress test was abnormal and the subsequent catheterization showed some blockages which were relieved with the insertion of a "stent," a mesh-like device used to expand arteries. Great stuff.
The two tests have certainly extended Don's lifespan and normally the radionuclide stress test is repeated every couple of years. But Don has had SIX subsequent stress tests: that's one every few months at $3000-$4000 a pop. Why?
You guess is as good as mine, but I suspect that the cardiologist performs these tests in his office and not at a hospital! Now, if a dozen of these tests are performed a day, that's over $36,000 of income for the doctors office on just one typical day! Even after overhead and expenses, that's a pretty tidy piece of change!

Then the other day, after hearing a doctor castigate one of our patients for having a test at the hospital and NOT in his office, I just had to get this matter off my chest. Most doctors are conscientious people, but it's just human nature to take advantage of a good situation...like $30,000 a day. It's called a Conflict of Interest!

Some states have blocked doctors from having a vested interest in imaging clinics...but not ours, Ohio, or many other states.

If we seriously want to fix healthcare...this issue MUST be addressed...but I haven't heard a peep.

Mr. Obama, are you listening?

D