Author: aladec

Miami Bleach

Miami Beach 

My roommate Michael once attended a medical conference in Miami Beach and happened to overhear a conversation on the street that offers an insight into Jewish interpersonal relationships.

Two little old Jewish ladies passed each other on the street. One looked at the other, calling out in a startled voice:

  • Myrtle, Myrtle. Is that you? I haven’t seen you in so long I almost didn’t recognize you. In fact, now that I’m really looking, I can see that you don’t even look like yourself. In fact, you look terrible. You lost weight, your color is gray. You’re pale. And your hair never looked like that before. It used to be so radiant. It doesn’t even look like the normal hair that I remember. What happened? What happened to you and your lovely radiant curly red hair? Now it’s stringy and blond.
  • Oh, Sylvia. It’s so nice to see you, again too. And yes, I’ve had a terrible time. I got cancer and had chemotherapy. I nearly died. In fact, I have no blood cells and all my hair fell out too, so I had to go get a wig.
  • Myrtle. I’m so sorry to hear about that and I’m certainly glad you survived the cancer. So as far as your hair is concerned, don’t worry. Your hair looks so natural; no one will ever notice the difference.
Advertisements

Jewish Sex

Jewish Sex 

A  widowed Jewish lady living in Miami who was about eighty years old had the habit of going down to the beach every day with a blanket, an umbrella and a cooler full of ice cold drinks. She was dressed in an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit

One day she spotted a skinny little old Jewish man, dressed only in a small  pair of black swim trunks, walking along the shoreline. She called him over to her blanket and then proceeded to attempt small talk with a person who turned out to be a man of very few words.

  • Nice day, yes?
  • Sure, yeah. Nice day.
  • Nice blue sky, yes?
  • Yeah, yeah. Nice and blue.
  • Nice waves too, yes?
  • Beautiful water. Gorgeous waves. Yeah, yeah.

Then she opened the cooler and said:

  • Want a cool drink?
  • Yeah sure. Nice and cold.

Nudging him closer under the umbrella she said:

  • Nice cool shade, yes?
  • Yeah, yeah. Nice shade and a nice cool drink.

Just then two small kittens walked by, and the woman having become increasingly frustrated by his terse inarticulations along with trying to prompt more than only single word responses, pointed to them, and said:

  • Pussy cats, yes?

With that the little man jumped up, ripped off the woman’s bathing suit, threw off his own trunks and slam-bang fucked her silly into the hot sand. After he was done, the startled woman, sat up, dusted the sand off her bottom, turned to the man and said:

  • My god. I haven’t had such good sex like that since my poor husband died twenty years ago; and even then, it was nowhere near as good as this. But let me ask you something. How in the world did you know I needed that?
  • My dear lady. How in the world did you know my name was Katz?

Dating Woes

My Jewish Date 

I had no idea how philosophical differences alone could affect a relationship until I dated a Jewish Psychologist. She worked at St. Luke’s hospital when I was a Resident and was not only beautiful but also extremely intelligent. After a few dates that seemed to go well, I asked her if she would go with me to Yankee Stadium to see a ballgame, which she excitedly agreed to.

Because the game started at 7:30 p.m., I told her I would pick her up at 6:00, which would give us plenty of time to navigate the subway system, be on time or perhaps even see some of the batting practice. When I went to see the Yankees, I wanted to saturate myself in the entire experience.

She told me she would still go, but that I couldn’t pick her up until 7:00 because she was in psychotherapy herself three days a week and couldn’t miss a session.

At that time in my life I gave little credence to psychotherapy, paid it lip service at best and in her case wondered intuitively why her professional training did nothing to help her fix her own problems.

When I asked how long she had been in therapy, she told me about five years. I then asked what she was working on and why it was taking so long to work it out. The response was something to the effect that therapy was indefinite because the issues were so deep seeded it would take a lifetime to sift through it all, adding how could she do her job effectively if she did not look at situations from the patient’s point of view. It was a circular argument in addition to which she never divulged any of her supposed issues. That was confidential.

I chalked it up to her avoiding intellectual intimacy until she got to know me better. That was Ball one.

Then I asked if there was any way she would consider making an exception on this one night because I already had the tickets and would it make that much difference if she missed a small particle of the brain shrinking process.

Replying in the negative she said it would interrupt her continuity, would leave her feeling guilty and emotionally naked, all of which would then make the baseball game more of a negative than a positive experience. I should have dumped her right then, but gave her the benefit of the doubt, even though I thought… what could be better therapy than a Yankee game?

I gave the baseball tickets to a friend and took her out to dinner instead, although the conversation was rather superficial because I was afraid to ask if she had made any progress in getting her personal demons under control. Now the count was one Ball and one Strike.

That was when I found out she was a vegetarian and had to endure the predictable interrogation about why I ate meat and how she knew if we stayed together she would be able to convert me to her culinary preferences. That was Strike two.

Strike three occurred several weeks later when I invited her to go sailing on the Hudson River with a Jewish Urologist I met when I moonlighted in the Nyack Hospital Emergency Room. He  invited me to crew for him on his thirty-foot boat which he raced every Saturday.

I did warn him ahead of time that I had only sailed small boats for recreational fun with no actual racing experience. He said not to worry, that he didn’t take it too seriously, that bringing a date was fine, and that he had plenty of sandwiches and drinks. He intimated that the whole thing would be just a peacefully fun outing.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

He used my date as ballast, announced that we could not drink beer or eat our sandwiches until the race was over and then because there was virtually no breeze, we then spent several hours, overheating in the sun.

This was while listening to him repeatedly curse the weather conditions or how poorly his boat was performing; along with veiled oblique reference to the fact that I was lacking sufficient skill to read his mind in being able to perform my duties. He finally capitulated by motoring back to the dock; constantly bemoaning the fact of a badly ruined day.

When we finally moored, he handed each of us one half a tuna sandwich and one seven-ounce pony bottle of Rolling Rock beer. This was some gala outing all right: stuck in the doldrum horse latitudes with a horse’s ass, half a sandwich and half a beer. That put an end to my sail racing career, as well as any further desire to go to sea with Doctor Captain Bly.

When I angrily recapitulated my frustration over the experience with my psychologist sea nymph, all she did was make excuses for his behavior. Even though I insisted instead that he was a selfish egocentric, lying prick; I was too annoyed to argue the point as I secretly thought:

  • Wow. Maybe you should take him on as a patient; because based on what I just experienced, you could get on the hook of coming back to see you in perpetuum.

The count was still holding at one Ball and two Strikes.

The last straw was when we went back to my house where the first thing I said because of being so stressed, was that I was going to have a beer.

She started the dialogue:

  • But you just had a beer on the boat.
  • That was not a beer. Seven ounces was a teaser. Twelve ounces is a beer.
  • But why then do you think you must have a beer to relieve your stress?
  • Maybe because I don’t go to counseling three times a week.
  • That is not funny and maybe if you did go to counseling you wouldn’t feel compelled to drink so much beer.
  • But I like beer; I only have two a day and I don’t think I need counseling anyway.
  • Two beers a day is a lot. You don’t have to drink every day and everyone needs some counseling at some point in his or her life.
  • I don’t think I’m screwed up enough. And you only think that way because you’re in the business.
  • Well if you think you must drink beer to relieve your stress, you are screwed up.
  • This conversation is going nowhere. And just because you’re making me so aggravated right now I’m going to drink another beer. That will make three.
  • See, just like I said, you’re an alcoholic, and an angry one at that.
  • I am not. I just like to drink beer and right now I’m annoyed at your value judgments.
  • Two beers a day is an alcoholic habit.
  • O.K. You win. So now that you have me really upset; because on top of spending a wasted day with a psychotic doctor who thinks he should captain the America’s Cup Team, and also because I have to listen to you berate my social habits, right now I am going to sit here and drink an entire six pack, which I never do. So, I would like you to politely not pass any more commentary on it. On top of that I won’t be able to drive you back to New York because I will be drunk.
  • Fine. I’ll make a salad. But we need to explore this issue some more, which is something we can do when you’re not drunk, or more in control of yourself and your emotions. I can help you with this.

The only thing I did explore later was her body, during which time she admitted to being addicted to sex, not beer, and liked some of the kinkier aspects, including being tied up, taking herbs or “cleansing” enemas, and having anal sex. That was Ball two.

This confession did perhaps shed a bit of light on some of her own personal psychological issues, or perhaps her childhood relationship with her parents; but I was then too afraid to ask; and didn’t really want to know.

If I did ask, I knew I might be in for ninety hours of listening to her self-analysis, although the sexual aspects had piqued my imagination enough by all its potential prospects. This might, include being able to punish her nagging with daily bondage, including anal torture and mouth gags to block her carping for a while.  But the vision was tainted by the additional dread of having to withstand the idea of a lifetime of perseverations about having to go on both the Heineken beer and the White Tower burger wagons.

Just the thought of never again having any more burgers or beers was impossible for me to entertain; as it far outweighed the prospects of a lifetime of kinky bedroom romps.

The count had now gone to two Balls and three Strikes. And she was out.

 

Take me out to the ball game

 

Copyright: sexporning.com

Jewish Mothers

 

Jewish Mothers 

One thing that could be said for Medical School was that it was a great repository for Jews and Italians. If a Jew did not go into “wholesale” and an Italian did not go into “organized crime,” there were few other avenues open for these groups to succeed in financially. Because of a long tradition of bias and the closed doors of WASP society, they gravitated to Medicine or Law as areas where individual effort tends to be recognized or valued more than heritage.

Both groups are highly goal oriented, having been pushed hard by their families. The only difference is that Jews verbally preseverate more about success whereas Italians tend to resort to the physical punishment of a Baccala swat to stimulate interest in books.

Jewish:

  • What will happen to you if you don’t study? You’ll never be a mensch. You’ll always be just a nebbish, a schlemiel, and a nobody. You’ll live in a hovel. You’ll have no money. You’ll have to use food stamps. You’ll have to move back home. All the neighbors will laugh at a son who moves back home to live with his mother. You’ll never find a good wife. What kind of a son should put such a heavy weight of such embarrassment on his own mother? An Albatross on his mother’s neck. Why would you want to be such a nobody? And why would I want to raise such a nobody to be such a nobody’s nobody? You’re killing me. You know that? You are literally killlll-ling your own mother.

As opposed to Italian:

  • Shut up and study. If you get another C, I’ll bust your head open.

Verbal abuse. Physical abuse. Whatever.

I still think I would rather be occasionally swatted with a dried fish than continuously nagged half to death. The fact is, I really knew very little about the Jews. They were a minority at every level of my educational experience to whom I did not pay a great deal of attention; and far before I knew had Jewish ancestry. (2% DNA).

In grade school, I knew the boys occasionally wore funny hats that were OK to snigger about, but not to their face, or also that they got really mad if the school bully yanked one off their head and stomped on it. They also had weird rules about food and hygiene. Their Priests were called Rabbis, and even though they never got the holidays right, they still always went around saying they were the chosen ones.

Our own Priests usually set that one straight by telling us that they were not chosen at all, that they did not believe in Jesus, that they were responsible for having the Romans kill him. Furthermore, anyone who did not believe in Jesus could never get to Heaven anyway; which would be good as then the only Jew living in heaven would be Jesus himself.

Then when I found out they never had a Christmas tree, but rather called their holiday plant a “bush”, I really did feel bad for them. After puberty however, “bush” took on a completely different meaning\ for me, at the secular level.

At Duke, the jocks periodically beat up the nerdy intellectual Jews or tossed them around like footballs.

Imagine my shock then when I discovered that all the Jewish boys were circumcised, and that I was too. When I asked my mother about it, she said it had nothing to do with religion and that she had it done to me because the Pediatrician said it was the right thing to do, Arbitrarily just like that: and only because it “would be better for me in the long run.” Nothing at all mentioned about personal hygiene, or disease prevention. She also assured me that it did not mean I was secretly Jewish.

It was another shock when I found out that her 6th great grandfather was a Sephardic Jew, making the circumcision more like a cryptic secret ritual.

When I got to Medical School and befriended Michael, I learned a quite a bit more about Jews and Judaism; but being exposed to Michael as a non-religious Jew, I still do not believe I got the so called “kosher” version of the facts.

He told me the following:

  • Good Jews live by the rules.
  • The rulebook is called the Torah. Orthodox Jews obey the rules.
  • Most Jews are not Orthodox, so most Jews forget about the rules.
  • The entire culture of the Jews revolves around the anatomy of the chicken.
  • A chicken’s ass is called a tuchus. A tuchus, conversely, is anyone who behaves like an ass.
  • A beautiful ass is called a nice tush; but not a nice tuchus.
  • Chicken soup is a panacea. If offered some by a Jewish mother, do not refuse it under penalty of intense preseveration about its virtues.
  • Kosher means that a Rabbi blesses food, but most Jews don’t really care what they eat or if it ever got a blessing.
  • Chickens are good. Pigs are bad. Bad food is pig food or chazerei.
  • The ‘ch’ in chazerei must be pronounced as though you are nearly choking to death.
  • Jews traditionally avoid pigs, but most Jews do not really care what they eat. Bacon is OK, unless you are orthodox. A BLT is a “nice sandwich.”
  • Orthodox Jews who bring attention to themselves by wearing a Yarmulke and ear braids are stupid and deserve to be abused.
  • Having to eating Gefelte fish and Matzos is one of the rules.
  • Eating Gefelte fish and Matzos reinforces the concept that Jews are quintessential masochists as both are tasteless forms of food.
  • Mogan David wine is another obligatory holiday torture. But it isn’t really wine.
  • A non-Jew is a Goy.
  • A bad Jew is a Kike.
  • If a Kike happens to be a rich uncle then he is really a good Jew.
  • Bad Jews buy Mercedes cars, because Mercedes invented Zyklon-B for Hitler’s gas chambers.
  • It is OK for Jews to have sex with Goys but they cannot marry one.
  • It is preferable to avoid Goys and stick to your own kind; unless you want to use them for sex.
  • Jewish women only have sex as a duty to procreate the race.
  • You can tell how many times a Jewish mother had sex by counting the number of her children.
  • It is mandatory to have a Jewish son.
  • It is a curse to be a Jewish son.
  • A Jewish man is lucky, then, if he has only daughters because then his wife will still be obligated to have sex with him.
  • A good Jewish son is called a doctor or a lawyer.
  • A good Jewish girl will marry a doctor or a lawyer.
  • A shyster is a cheat who might even try to screw another Jew.
  • It is still OK to marry a shyster, as long as he is rich and never gets caught, like Bernie Madoff.
  • A Bar Mitzvah is a party thrown for a thirteen-year-old boy that signifies he has become a man.
  • A Batz Mitzvah is the same party given to a girl that signifies the day she officially becomes a Princess.
  • The bigger the Mitzvah; the richer the father.
  • A Princess is only a Princess until she marries. Then she becomes a professional shopper and begins to avoid having sex.
  • Jewish women hate to cook; they only do Deli. This is known as whining and then dining.
  • Deli is Jewish for: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
  • Chutzpah means having balls. Real chutzpah is killing your parents and seeking a plea bargain because you are an orphan.
  • It takes a lot of chutzpah to tell a Jewish woman to cook.
  • A Yenta is a gossip.
  • Most Jewish women become Yentas just before the birth of their first grandchild at which time they automatically become a pain in the tuchus.
  • A Mikvah is a ritual bath.
  • Orthodox Jews will not have sex unless a woman first sits in a Mikvah. Regular Jews think this is stupid because if she happens to be horny, it is completely self-defeating masochism.
  • Orthodox Jews have different plates for every category of food. Regular Jews think this is impractical; and like to eat deli off the same paper plate.
  • A Putz is a foreskin and also refers to someone who is as stupidly useless; as is the foreskin in general.
  • A Putz in gorgle is a foreskin stuck in your throat. Being more of a curse, it is not equivalent to getting a blowjob.
  • A Schlemiel or a Schlimazel is a person with perpetual bad luck.
  • Historically, the Jews have always had bad luck; as well as a penchant for perpetual suffering, aimless wandering, and passive acquiescence to sado-masochistic torture.
  • The perfect 50th Wedding Anniversary present from a Jewish man to his wife is an around the world guilt trip.
  • Sometimes it is worse to be Jewish than it is to be Black.
  • Perseveration is the national language of Judaism.
  • A Jewish Christmas = Chinese food and a movie.

That’s the short list

It is also the short list of the fifty or so new words I had to learn to become an honorary Jew.

All this preparatory homework helped considerably for the one occasion I was invited to a Bar Mitzvah given by a friend of Michael’s father. The man was obviously wealthy because the party it was given at a private country club and was extremely opulent in its scope as well as the number of guests.Having never been to one, it was interesting to observe the way tradition and religion became a perfect rational blending with modern hedonism.

But I think the father took it to extreme when he attempted a literal consummation of the manhood concept by introducing a belly dancer as the finale to the show. Apparently, it was going to be her job to deflower the poor thirteen-year-old boy later in a motel room after she wiggled around an hour or so for the guests.

It was  hilarious watching this woman chase after the poor frightened skinny little boy who ran around the catering hall as though his very life depended upon a successful escape. He was quick too. Chunky butted Fatima with her clacking cymbals,  gyrating navel and her pendulous heaving breasts, with pastie covered nipples, never did catch the new little man.

I did have to admit however that it was better than the stilted Catholic ceremony of Confirmation that not only had nothing at all to do with manhood, but was followed at home by a boring little cake and ice cream party along with the obligatory smiley face poses for the family album.

Yes, a few forced smiles, posed with the same Pastor who tried to feel my mother’s tits several years later at a cocktail party. He was exposed for the lecher he really was when Wild Turkey being a bit stronger than Mogan David, lit him up and strengthened his resolve.

At least a Bar Mitzvah signifies something practical as opposed to an affirmation that a boy is now a bona fide lieutenant in the army of God, along with the Confirmation ceremony’s reaffirmation of chastity, sanctity, holiness, and piety. That is unless the young boy wants to participate in the secret Catholic rite of passage to manhood by bending over and pulling his pants down for the Jesuit who taught him sexual hypocrisy at Wednesday night Catechism.

Because it’s all about manhood anyway, the Confirmation party could have taken Aunt Rose’s Christmas theme to even a more adult level by having a stripper jump out of a giant white coconut cake replete with whipped cream and Maraschino cherries dolloped on her nipples. That way after having put on a brief but overdone reactive façade of false offense, even the perverted Pastor would probably admit to being furtively pleased.

Michael’s family had a summerhouse on the South Jersey shore, and although I would rather have been in the Hamptons, I did decide to visit there one summer weekend. That was when I found out what it really meant to be a Jewish son who had to suffer the slings and arrows of an inquisition inflicted by the Torquemada of Beach Haven, New Jersey.

Queries by Jewish mothers are like those tactics used by a prosecuting attorney. After being subjected to several malpractice suits, I learned the hard way that the best defense is to offer little in the way of voluntary information or elaboration. The best answer is always a simple “yes” or “no;” or a better answer yet is to say: “I don’t know” or “I just can’t remember.”

Politicians being investigated for corruption or scandal are masters at this defense.

When queried by an attorney the problem is that if you open even one door just a small crack, then all the windows in the house get blown open and the track of questioning becomes a nightmare of open ended pitfalls that spew forth in a geometric proliferation.

Here is how an innocent conversation goes completely wrong.

(How it should have gone)

  • So, what do you boys do with your free time on a Saturday night?
  • I don’t know. Really nothing much. Usually we study more of what we already studied so we can all get better grades than anyone else.
  • Good boys!

How it went instead:

  • We usually go out to bar.
  • Why do you go to a bar?
  • To have a drink and maybe meet a girl.
  • Why would you want to waste your time drinking and what kind of a girl do you think you might meet in a bar?
  • But what’s wrong with having a drink. Beside that we study so much anyway we never get to meet any women.
  • You want to waste your time getting drunk and meeting a girl in a bar? Do you know what kind of a girl hangs out in a bar? Not the kind of girl that works hard and studies and who wants to get ahead or get a decent husband. You’ll meet the loose kind that smokes and spreads her legs for anyone.
  • That’s kind of the idea.
  • Don’t be facetious. I’m serious. Nice girls, at least nice Jewish girls never hang out in bars and drink and smoke and pick up men. You might even get a disease.
  • Jewish girls can get a disease too.
  • Not the nice ones. Not the kind I’m thinking about. Not the good ones. You know the kind, Michael. Girls like Kathy up the street. Why don’t you call Kathy up and go out with her to dinner and a movie?
  • Mom, Kathy weighs 90 pounds and has Ulcerative colitis. She can’t even eat popcorn at the movies much less have a steak for dinner.
  • Then why not Cynthia. You know Cynthia. She’s a gem, a doll, a darling. Her mother says that all the girls in the dorm think she’s just adorable. The last time I spoke to her, her mother said she was even making all her own clothes.
  • Great. You want me to go out with homely Cynthia wearing her own knitted pants suit.
  • Don’t talk like that. Her mother and I were best friends. When your father was sick she came and visited. None of your father’s other so-called friends came over. She comes from a lovely family.
  • That doesn’t make Cynthia any prettier or more debonair.
  • Now you’re being rude. And how many beers did you drink anyway? Is that what’s making you talk like that? Beer? And is that what you are learning about in that school? How to drink in bars. How to drink beer. How to drink beer and find a goyisha smoking slut for a wife. How to drink beer and become a drunk like some Irish. What kind of a drunk shikse wife do you think you’re going to find in a bar anyway? Nice girls don’t hang out in bars. Not nice Jewish girls.
  • No, ma. They all stay home and make their own clothes. Could we please stop talking about this ? I think I have to leave now ; go back to school and study.

A similar situation occurred many years later when I leased my office for two days a week to a Jewish physician who used it on the days I was not there. He had a relatively domineering mother who even went as far as arranging vacations for him at the Club Med, especially to improve his chances of meeting the right girl. He did in fact meet the right girl. She was Jewish. She was a business entrepreneur. She was rich. She was pretty and she was personable. She played golf and tennis, as did he. Perfect, yes?

No. The fatal flaw was that she was in her forties, but even worse she was not interested in having children…and for mother that was “over and out.”

One day B’s mother appeared in the office, which also happened to have a private back entrance, inquiring if her son had come in yet because he had promised to meet her there at that time for whatever purpose.

  • No Mrs. B., he’s not here yet. He didn’t come in.
  • But it’s four o’clock and he said he would meet me here at four.
  • Mrs. B, we’ve been here all day and he hasn’t come in yet.
  • But how do you know he didn’t come in the back door? Sometimes he goes in the back door to do work in the back.
  • Yes, Mrs. B. but we have been using the office all day and I know he is not in the back.
  • But how do you know. When was the last time you went in the back? Maybe he came in the back door when you were not looking.
  • Trust me, Mrs. B. he did not come in the back door and he is not working in the back. I just came from the back and he is not there. Maybe he’s just a little late. Why don’t you just sit in the waiting room and give it a few more minutes.
  • He’s never late for me. Are you sure he’s not in the back? He never minds if I go in the back when he works in the back. You don’t mind if I just go back to have a little peek for myself, do you?

With that, she burst through the inside door to the office without permission, went in the back to look for herself, only to discover that indeed, he wasn’t there.

Then she came back out to the front, said she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t there; and then went into the back room again just to be absolutely sure about it.

 

No, no.  A  thousand times, no

 

© Photo  Keep the Faith

 

http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1998/03/src/13faith.gif

Easily Understood Universal Medical Advice: Don’t Do It

https://youtu.be/pcUWF8_QpJE

Don’t Do It…….

Hey, I was under the weather and I wasn’t getting better

So, I went to get a physical check and when I went to the Doc

It was a heck of a shock

He told me told me boy you are a miserable wreck

He said your liver’s all swollen and your stomach’s got a hole in it

From drinking too much for too long

And there’s a good indication

You got bad circulation cause your blood pressure’s almost gone

And you got no reflexes in your solar plexus when I tap you on the top of your knees

He said your pulse ain’t steady and your lungs getting ready to collapse every time that you breathe.

And at the rate you’re going all the tests are showing that boy you’ll never live to get old

But I came up with a plan to make you healthy again

But son you got to do what you’re told

And then he told me

If you dig it…Don’t do it

And if you like it, better leave it alone

And if it’s too much fun that ought to clue you son

That you’re probably doing something that’s wrong

And I’m surprised at you and all the things you do

Boy cause that ain’t what your body is for

And if you think it’s bad so far wait til after this guitar

Cause the doctor said a whole lot more

He told me cut out your boozin’ quit those drugs you been usin’

And don’t be smokin’ no cigarettes

And you know, love on a stranger now days boy,

Man, it’s just like playing Russian roulette

And get that grease out your diet; better boil it don’t fry it

And don’t chew no more barbecue

I wouldn’t tell you no lie so take this rule, and apply

My son, now listen to what you got to do

And then he told me

If you dig it…Don’t do it

And if you like it, better leave it alone

And if it’s too much fun that ought to clue you son, ha, you’re probably doing something that’s wrong

And if it’s too good to ya well don’t let it fool ya cuase you’re playing in the danger zone

And I kept waiting and waiting for the man to finish but the sucker just went on and on

And then he told me better cut out all sweets

And don’t be cramping yo feet

In them pointy toed I-talian shoes

And he said boy look it here you’re gonna damage you’re ears

Playin’ them loud rock, rhythm, and blues

And if a rabbit won’t eat it buddy you don’t need it

That’s the rules of your new menu

You better get you a pen, I ain’t gonna say it again

Cause there’s a whole lot more that you need to do

You need to lose some weight,

You need to stand up straight

Boy your posture is a terrible disgrace

You need to suck in your gut you need to tuck in your butt

You need to clear them zits up off-a your face

And then he told me

If you dig it…Don’t do it

And if you like it, better leave it alone

And if it’s too much fun that ought to clue you son

Yeah, you’re probably doing something that’s wrong

And if it’s too good to ya don’t’ let it fool ya

Cause you’re playing in the danger zone

And I kept waiting and waiting for the man to finish

But the sucker just went on and on

and on and on and on and on….

  

Little Charlie and the Night Cats

Big Break Album

Alligator Records 1989

Copy right: Printed without permission

 

 

Assumptions

Assumptions

I don’t need no doctor

‘Cause I know what’s ailing me

I don’t need no doctor

‘Cause I know what’s ailing me

All I need is my baby

You don’t know I’m in misery

(Humble Pie)

Late in my career I went back to school for a Masters Degree in Medical Management. This was a paranoid backup plan I had worked out if Managed Care would one day put me out of business. At least I would then have the credentials to go into hospital management. It was a grueling enterprise that took five years because I still a clinical medical practice to take care of.

But if I learned anything at all by this endeavor, it was that all assumptions are:

False, Limiting, and Reversible.

It was a lesson I should have already empirically learned on the wards at the VA hospital when I had to take care of a man who had an unusual complication of long-term alcohol abuse in which the cerebellum in the brain becomes affected similar to how it scars the liver in alcoholic cirrhosis. This often-irreversible syndrome requires a great deal of alcohol consumption over decades.

Because the cerebellum controls balance, this man literally had the gait of a drunken sailor or a sea-sick landlubber, which made anyone who saw him, feel compelled to stand by for a catch in case he fell down. He looked like the protagonist in the Monty Python sketch, “The Ministry of Silly Walks.”

After the diagnosis was secured I was assigned to explain his problem. After a very lengthy, diligent explanation about how alcohol had damaged this part of his brain, which included drawings and visual schematics, he looked up at me when I was finished and said:

  • So, what kind of doctor do you think you are?
  • I’m not really a doctor yet. I’m still a medical student.
  • Well mister, you’ll never make it in this business, so maybe you should think about doing something else
  • Why do you say that? I’m only interested in helping you understand what’s wrong with you, so you can change your habits. This might prevent further trouble. Some of your balance issues might even improve if you stop drinking. If not, it can only get worse.

Of course, I had assumed he knew what I was talking about and that my carefully studied little lecture had made enough of an impact to inspire a trip down the road to total sobriety.

Nothing was further from the truth, because the opposite reaction had  caused him to completely lose any faith, trust, or confidence he might have had.

  • That’s just what I’m saying, pretty boy. You can’t possibly know what you’re talking about. Like I said, I been drinking hard for over thirty years.
  • Correct. That’s the point.
  • Not really. So, the point is you can’t be right, because this is the first time in thirty years something like this ever happened to me. So, it can’t be the booze. Now what’s really wrong with me?

What I really wanted to say was:

  • Well, perhaps you  can’t really cure being Irish.

Unbelievably, déjà vu came knocking thirty years later when our next-door neighbor in the Hamptons presented to the hospital with liver failure associated with ascites. This is a condition in which the liver is so scarred it cannot properly function, subsequently causing the abdominal cavity to fill up with clear yellow serous fluid. In being a serious sign that portends a very poor short-term prognosis, it can even make a man or woman look ten months pregnant.

Usually the kidneys shut down next or nearly unstoppable upper G.I. hemorrhaging occurs expressed as continuous vomiting of blood. This is a result of extremely high pressure in the varicose veins located in the lower esophagus that dilate because the liver doesn’t work; causing back-pressure into the spleen; which also enlarges.

His predicament was no surprise, as I would notice him regularly wandering around his yard, starting to drink his beers at ten a.m., which he conveniently parked in front of him on the home-made shelf provided by his expanded abdominal girth. Meanwhile, his wife, who had smoked her lungs to death, was inside their house attached to an oxygen tank.

As a perfect pair, the couple was a veritable monument to self-inflicted abuse.

When he was hospitalized with cirrhotic liver disease, I saw him briefly when I stopped by his bed for a courtesy call, but was taken aback when he asked me what was wrong. He said his doctor told him he had liver failure. When I reaffirmed that his problem was the result of years of drinking to excess, he dismissively parroted the man at the Boston V.A. by saying it could not possibly be true for the same precise reasons I heard many years before. He said he had consumed beer all day long for well over half a lifetime but this was the first time something like this had ever happened to him; ergo alcohol could not be the problem.

Saying nothing more than “good luck and get better”, I just walked away because I had seen that that movie once  and it wasn’t very good the first time around. In this case he wasn’t even Irish. He was just an ignoramus.

Enough said about assumptions.

My mother put it differently whenever I did something that I assumed had seemed like a good idea at the time; but turned out just the opposite.

  • But mom. I thought…
  • So, you know what thought did, don’t you?
  • No mom, what?
  • A man thought he had to fart.

Anyone who studies medicine comes to know it as a discipline in which two great truths are axiomatic:

A: Never make assumptions.

B: Never, say never.

Especially never assume that a patient knows what you are talking about or understands anything you are saying without soliciting your own personal validated feedback. One must ask at the end of the visit:

  • Did you understand what we discussed and do you have any other questions?

As far as patients are concerned, they believe that too many doctors speak a foreign language, but are often afraid or too intimidated to ask for an understandable translation. They just nod their heads like dumb jack-asses, or worse, talk through the explanations without listening, then go home to tell family or friends.

  • The doctor didn’t spend any time with me at all. And he didn’t tell me anything either. He’s an incompetent boob.

That is, assuming the doctor really takes the time to speak plainly, or unless the patient has taken it upon himself to become an overnight Internet expert about his own personal health; in which case, he does not need a doctor anyway.

So, there it is. Just another one of life’s many negative feed-back loops.

The father is Jim Beam

 

intranet.tdmu.edu.ua

 

 

Pacemaker Sex

Pacemaker Sex

Getting fisted by the electronically paced flailing arms of a D.O.A. John Doe paled in comparison to what happened to my loan shark friend, Chubby.

One of his sideline enterprises was to pimp women to local clients including police officers, lawyers, bankers, and a few other unsavory fellow shysters. The women were not a consistent cadre of reliable girls from a “stable” but instead were usually indiscriminately pulled off the local sidewalks or out of grocery store parking lots.

For this reason, the women were also not consistently available, such that when something suddenly came up, he would place phone calls to line up the Johns.

He solicited sex from just about any woman he saw and when he scored would temporarily procure them for his client base until the women got tired of it or did not need the money anymore.

  • Doc, you can’t believe how many housewives are broke and what they’ll do for a buck, especially when economics is bad.

The going rate in the 1990s was about one hundred and three dollars an hour for intercourse and thirty-three dollars for oral sex, although he once got a staggering one thousand and three dollars out of a retired but impotent eighty-year old business tycoon and former CEO of a major US steel company who paid just to have the girl sit naked in a chair and talk to him for an hour. The arbitrary rounding on the price was based on a superstitious love of the number three.

Several years later, this same tycoon was indicted in an insurance fraud scheme in which he tried to smuggle a vintage Mercedes-Benz sport coupe out of the country after reporting it stolen; an act that everyone who knew him and how much money he was worth thought to be stupidly perplexing in its perverse logic.

Chubby said:

  • I don’t know, doc. It’s like he just got a soft spot in his brain.

Later in life, Chubby happened to have had a heart attack. Several years after the fact he then had an AICD (Automatic Implanted Cardiac Defibrillator) implanted for unexplained fainting that later turned out be related to poor blood flow in the posterior cerebral circulation. Even though the essential point was that implanting it was probably not necessary, it was done anyway because of uncertainty about the possibility of lethal ventricular arrhythmias. This underscores the fact that sometimes medicine, for all its sophistication is nothing better than a guessing game.

These electronic devices are set to deliver sequential shocks of about 15 to 30 joules of direct current internally to the heart which will reset the cardiac rhythm if a life threatening one is detected. The shock is not at all comfortable. It can also be felt by anyone who happens to grab hold of the victim who might be collapsing when the arrhythmia then secondarily causes his blood pressure to bottom out. Some spouses have stated they suffer from the guilty dilemma of deciding between letting their loved one fall down, as opposed to being exposed to the shared experience of internal electrocution. Personally, I thought the original contract called “For better or for worse.”

Chubby reluctantly accepted to have the implant but said he would feel much better about it if we were going to put in a pacemaker that would give him a permanent erection instead of an electrocution.

  • You doctors are all numb. Forget Viagra. With modern technology yez should be able to do a better job with boners.

One afternoon I received a frantic call from him. He said he wasn’t sure what had happened, but he thought his device had discharged.

  • Doc. I think my thing went off.

When I asked the circumstances, he said he had picked up a tried and true regular at the supermarket, a local housewife who had already been paid thirty-three dollars for blowjob.

As she was in the middle of the head-bob he said he was suddenly lifted two feet off the bed, that all he saw was a bright white light, and that his hair stuck straight out off his head. At the same time, the girl had been blasted and fell across the room, then banged her head on the bedroom door.

She got up screaming that he was a crazy demented pervert and what a shitty way that was get off, as she bounded out the door, following that diatribe with a statement that no matter what he might ever pay her, she was never coming back.

  • Doc. The woist part of it was I lost my thirty-three dollars and didn’t even get off. But oh, what a thrill!

As all the data is stored in memory, when one of these devices fires it is customary to interrogate it to see if the shock was appropriately sensing a real event.

So, when Chubby came to the office to let me look at it, I discovered that the trigger for the shock was a paroxysm of not a lethal ventricular tachycardia but rather a harmless one that had originated in the atrium. Perhaps the excitement had over stimulated his epinephrine producing adrenal glands as well as his testosterone loaded gonads.

The device was fooled into doing its job by a rapid heart rate that was associated with an abnormally wide configuration of its cardiac complexes. It was essentially acting appropriately in an inappropriate situation; as was the housewife whore when she perceived she was being perversely abused.

I felt compelled to share this story with a colleague at the specialty hospital I had customarily referred not only Chubby, but also numerous other cases for AICD implants. Although the implanting physician, Joe, was amused, he then told me he had a story that might be even better than mine.

He queried:

  • You know how the Japanese perfected the art of autoerotic asphyxiation?

With me answering in the affirmative, he then told me about the wife of one of his patients who had brought that art-form to a new escalated jaded height. He said her affect was a little rough around the edges. She also tipped the scales at an estimated 250 lbs.

Apparently, her husband had suffered a heart attack, and then required an AICD implanted, but because of his relative debilitation, along with a lack of stamina she became accustomed to screwing him in the female-on-top sexual position.

On one occasion, the device discharged but instead of reacting negatively this woman immediately derived a great deal of pleasure from the experience. I suppose it was like having a mini electric socket inserted into the vagina, which in her mind was better than any orgasm she could achieve by using a conventional AA battery powered vibrator. Or perhaps her blubber not only attenuated electricity but then also made her threshold for sexual stimulation much higher than that of her average contemporaries.

But the perverse thing about the whole scenario was that the woman then educated herself about shocking devices. Then each time she went with her husband to the clinic to have his device was checked, she would beg the doctor to turn down the rate sensor on the AICD, so that there would be a greater probability of the thing going off when she climbed on top to rev up the sex.

So here is this poor bastard with a bad heart to begin with, losing consciousness as his heart is fibrillating, while he is getting jolted; simultaneously his lovely fat wife also gets a DC shock jolt as she sinks into the stirrups to giddy-up the old dying horse. If nothing else, at least this was a clear-cut situation of her ability to turn the worse for him toward the better for herself: A classic combination of both positive and negative feedback loops.

Not only does it go to show that everyone has a different threshold for pain, but also gives great credence to the aphorism: To each his own.

I said to my colleague, Joe:

  • Yes. In the category of interesting clinical pacemaker anecdotes; you win the gold medal.

 

 

 

Medical School: The VA Hospital

A Few More Humiliations 

One of my first rotations in general medicine was at the VA Hospital in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. In the 1970s the VA hospital system was more like an extended care facility or a hotel than an acute care institution. Hospital stays for a simple seizure evaluation could last for weeks or months.

The patients were required to wear green and white striped sear-sucker pajama robes, could smoke on the open wards, despite having emphysema, lung or throat cancer, while the ones who were not bed ridden would even take the elevators down to the cafeteria at mealtime.

One ridiculous scenario of note was the man who still smoked through his tracheotomy after having had his larynx removed for cigarette induced throat cancer; making him a true veteran of the cigarette wars as well as any other he may have fought.

Another one was the typical Irish drunk in alcohol withdrawal DTs, tied to the bed, with a bead sweated forehead, while swatting away at imaginary flies he had named after long lost friends.

  • Get offa me O’Donnell. Go to hell O’Doule. Go fuck yerself in the arse Father Ryan. Give us a little kiss there Mary Rose, ya trollop, ya whore

The place operated like any typical Federally subsidized bureaucratic waste project. Nothing could get done without excess paper work, repetitive requisitions, delays in responses, and the litany of more reasons not to do something that had to eventually be done anyway, than to just go ahead and do it. This was coupled with an endless shortage of even the most rudimentary medical supplies making it a good thing that no one was really that sick or they would have all been dead by the time their tests and consultations were done. 

The Resident I worked with was an exceptionally bright Indian at a time when there was considerable bias in the United States medical system against Foreign Medical Graduates (FMGs), as well as against women.

There was additional bias even against Americans who could not get into U.S. medical schools, who instead went to foreign schools; because these students never had the same credibility as those graduating from the U.S. schools.

FMGs also had to go through extra layers of testing called the Fifth Pathway, to be licensed, which were nothing more than creative barriers set up specifically to discourage these people from emigrating and working in the U.S. The paradox was that because our own schools were not graduating enough doctors to fill the needed residency programs, or because there were shortages in certain disciplines, we still needed FMGs. Usually they gravitated to non-teaching community hospitals, where they essentially functioned as warm bodies, but did not get the same level of vitally important training offered in academic hospitals.

Women were not treated any better. They were deemed as being weak, soft, unable to stand the rigors of training, too emotional and doubtful to ultimately make a career out of it because of their known susceptibility to want children and then to stay  home with their kids. Training female physicians was felt to be a waste of resources, and even after passing the initial hurdles, once entering their training programs, they would be singled out for abuse or treated like second-class citizens.

One particularly nasty physician in the Harvard system, who interviewed medical school candidates or applicants for internship, had a uniquely cruel way of sizing up the candidate.

He would turn up the heat in his office, no matter the season, then first ask the candidate to open a window he had previously nailed shut.

Any candidate who tried but failed, then either asked for a tool or told him he should get a maintenance man, would then qualify for being interviewed a second time. This poor person then of course sweated bullets throughout the ensuing inquisition while not even knowing he had already garnered a preliminary pass by his first response.

Anyone who lost his temper at failing to get the window open would not be interviewed and asked to leave, while anyone who cried, to which the women candidates were particularly prone, would be told they should leave medicine altogether and look for another career.

Anyone who immediately went to another window and opened it was accepted without further interviews.

This technique reminded me of one used by a premarital counselor who would take the affianced couple out to the woods, where she then asked them to cut down a small tree with a band saw. The way they worked together was all she needed to know to predict the long-term success of the marriage; then advise them whether or not to take their vows.

She related one improbable scenario in which the female partner sat down and demanded that the man work the two-person saw by himself. I think that was my ex-wife; being evaluated for her second marriage.

However, this Indian resident was neither soft, nor weak, nor emotional, nor lazy, nor stupid, nor poorly trained, nor any other bigoted epithet one could conger.  He was bright, industrious, a hard taskmaster who took the time to get me through some rudimentary skill sets as well as a jump start on the road to developing sound fundamental work habits.

Even writing orders was an embarrassment when on my first try he read them while scornfully deriding:

  • And so. Vill your patient starve to death? You did not even write an order for his diet. Or do you think he cannot eat and needs some IV fluids instead; and if so what vill that be?
  • Oh. You have to take care of that, too? Patients need food and water?

We were expected to arrive early and to stay late, whereas on other rotations we worked banker’s hours. We also learned in short order that there was no excuse for not knowing our patients in intimate detail and to be immediately up to date on their current test results. In addition, we also had to do a tremendous amount of scut-work, which included the likes of making, staining, and microscopically looking at blood slides as well as collecting, spinning and analyzing urine samples or other unmentionable body fluids, solids and semi-solids

It was quicker to do it on the floor than in the VA lab, often being information we needed to know on a timely basis to expedite therapies. In today’s modern hospital labs these results are accurately turned around in minutes by a technician.

One day on rounds, when I was not up to speed on some test results or a specialty consult had not been done, my Resident taught me the hard lesson that I was ultimately in charge of the case, that the patient’s life and destiny was in my hands, and that if I did not know something or if something had not been done that I only had myself to blame.

Knowing how inefficiently slow the system operated, he told me from that day on if I needed a result or if I needed a specialist that I should go to the department in question, to make such a pest of myself that anyone involved would hate the very sight of me. After that, my charts were complete and consultants saw my patients as a priority.

Still being a shy, standoffish person, I gradually came to learn that face to face or direct personal contact is the most efficient as well as the most courteous way to communicate, that it not only helped future networking, but after all was also not even the least bit painful.

This Resident also expected me to know anything and everything about the primary or secondary disease entities of all my patients.

On one occasion when I failed to answer a question about cirrhosis he told me I was “refractory to education” and should consider becoming a plumber.

  • You vill fail as a doctor. All your patients vill die. You vill be a curse on the house of medicine and a blight vhich anyvere you may go.

I wanted to cry.

He then told me to read the text section on any disease I was involved in treating, tested me on it the next day and did not stop there by adding the afterthought that texts are out of date the day they go to print; such that the only way to really keep up was to read the journals.

He gave me a pile of that year’s American Journal of Medicine and told me get a subscription after I was done reading them.

  • Only that vay vill you always be on the cutting edge. 

Interestingly, in the hallowed halls of academia there was a permeating bias against Indians. They were never seen in the upscale training programs.

At Columbia Presbyterian, the Cardiology director at one time privately admitted that he made two piles of applications for Fellowship: One pile for the Indians; and one pile for “all the others.” The Indian’s applications were then swept into the trash bin.

Some people also sniggered at the Indian custom of wearing a small Avatar dot in the middle of the forehead by parroting a possible socially acceptable answer to the query:

  • So, what does that little dot in the middle of your forehead mean anyway?
  • Oh, sir. In my religion, it means that every day is Ash Vednesday

I felt otherwise, because it was early in my career as a third-year medical student that the inspirational foundation for my future work ethic was laid down by one of those Indian pariahs, who while making the best of his lot in life, was making mine miserable in his role as the medical Master Sergeant in a second-rate VA hospital in Jamaica Plain.

When I eventually sold my practice, it was to a mixed cultural group, half of whom were Indians that were individuals I had worked with side by side for years and whom I always held in the highest regard.

Subscribing to the Hindu faith, it was somewhat of a shock for me to discover that they did not drink alcohol, they did not go to parties, they shunned bars, usually did not ever dance, were extremely family oriented and were very devoted to their children as well as to their patients. Education of the next generation was a number one priority.

They were also equally if not more knowledgeable than I was and generally worked their butts off with very few, if any, complaints about their workloads.

It was also an insight into my own indifferent bias to not even know anything in general about the Hindu religion, even though I had learned about its history and tenets in college. I thought it was simply a polytheistic concept hinged upon reincarnation, cosmic cycles, and portrayed by strange looking multi-armed gods who looked more like an octopus than a real person.

I did not know, for example that Hindus have a litany of holidays that include the following:

  • A celebration of the triumph of good over evil
  • A festival of lights
  • A celebration of renewing family ties
  • A celebration of exchanging personal gifts
  • A habit of giving excess bounty to the poor
  • A celebration of sweeping out the old and bringing in the new

 

Odd thing is it not, how it sounds vaguely like Christianity or Judaism.

 

Hindu greeting card

 

Source: Hindu Cards for Holidays

 

Bowel Obsession

An Apple a Day 

As a medical student one of the first things I learned with certainty is that a very large sub-segment of the American public is obsessed with bowels and bowel movements. However, it probably should have come as no surprise to me, because my father happened to be one of those people possessed by the mental demon that demands a daily colonic evacuation.

It appears no matter how sick a person on the medical floor happened to be, if he or she could have a regular bowel movement at sunrise, somehow even the worst of days would always become a little bit brighter.

The best etiology I can ascribe to this pervasive obsession is a mythical generic sense that fecal matter is a toxic substance that must be regularly purged from the body. If not it will slowly but surely release some deadly poison or toxin, thus resulting in some ill defined non-scientific irreversible harm. The reality is that feces is simply the residue left after food is digested by both enzymes and bacteria, leaving behind an organic substance containing about 50% of its original potential energy. This means that human digestion is horribly inefficient.

The only possible toxicity of the substance resides in some of the dangerous bacteria or viruses it can sometimes carry, for example, into a water supply, restaurant food, farmed vegetables or onto the family toilet.

If you think about the digestive inefficiency, feces in nothing but a waste of waste; meaning that if a 100% efficient digestive tract successfully utilized all of its fuel it would probably expel nothing but Methane gas perhaps maybe once a month or so.

More likely because as a nation we are so over-consumptively obese, these gas eruptions would occur on an hourly basis like Old Faithful.

At one time or another, I am sure that all of us have probably encountered a few people whose bowels do seem to operate on this principle.

Bowel efficiency also implies that if operating at 100 % capacity, most living organisms could survive by eating about half as much as they currently do, resulting in a tremendous saving of natural resources.

All is not lost however, as feces remains both an organic source for use as a fertilizer as well as a potential source for fuel. Western Indians and pioneer settlers frequently used buffalo chips for heat or cooking, while all societies reprocess manure for use on crops and gardens This means that most human societies indirectly eat what they shit. 

No matter how scientifically sophisticated the argument, however, this will still not deter the bowel obsessed personality from changing his mind about feeling as though he must take a good dump every day or his world will just somehow just not be right and all celestial orbits will be out of synch.

In part, this is a carryover from certain Old-World ideas or old wives’ tales that regular bowel movements are essentially vital to maintaining good health, being fables only rooted in the one simple truth that obstipation can actually cause bowel obstruction.

The overriding paradoxical gap in the logic of feces being labeled as internally toxic is that no matter what a person does to get rid of it, there will always.at all times, be some residual of it in his bowels.

The modern-day advertisement about feces acting like “paste and spackle” on the bowel walls that should be purged as a necessity to lose weight is a shill game that only makes some clever shyster wealthy form the suckers who send him money for the “cure,” otherwise known as the enema. One of the recurring problems with bowel obsession lies in the fact that the term “constipation” has been grossly misinterpreted to mean that one is abnormal if one does not poop every single day. However, it is a scientific fact that only a few bowel movements per week indicate good bowel health, if the stool itself is healthy in its configuration.

What constipation really means is that the stool is scybalous, meaning that it consists of small, hard, nut-like lumps that are difficult to pass because it has an abnormally low water content which then sets up the potential for abnormal, harmful straining to eliminate it or even a risk for fecal impaction.

I have seen plenty of old ladies or men in my practice who have been so diligent about their habits and have strained so hard at stool that they have caused such severe vasovagal pulse or blood pressure drops that they have passed out on their toilets and cracked open their skulls or broken their hips.

There are also plenty of people alive today who can remember a parent forcing them to spoon down cod liver oil or to eat an apple every day or plenty of others whose parents also made them sit on the pot every morning while not being allowed to leave the bathroom until they could prove they had passed some stool; this being a sure if not divine sign of continued excellent health.

My father-in-law can even recall his mother in the late nineteen-thirties chasing him around with an enema bag at the first sign of a sneeze or sniffle in order to purge the brown monster lurking behind the scenes and abetting the impending cold or flu.

My poor father must also have had one of those bowel obsessed mothers, because for his entire adult life he was one of those people who could never leave the house until he took a dump; an event that must occur at or about the same time every morning or his life would come to a dysfunctional grinding halt. For example, on one occasion when my brother was visiting from Denver and we were supposed to play golf, the tee time had to be set back until we could go to the pharmacy to get a laxative suppository for dad. We then still had to wait around even longer for the blessed evacuation; like sitting Shiva in the Labor and Delivery room.

I first discovered he had this problem on a fishing trip to Texas with my Uncle Pete. We were all waiting for my father to exit from the bathroom so we could make the drive from Houston to Matagorda, when the bathroom door burst open and my father started shouting for my mother to come help him. Thinking the worst because of the alarm in his voice I rushed to the scene myself only to see my father standing there in soaking wet clothes and water soaked walls with an enema bag lying on the floor. Apparently, he had lost control of the slippery little devil, whose hose had escaped from his rectum and then blasted him and the entire bathroom with its purgative contents. That was when my mother finally confided this had always been a ritualistic problem and how much of a negative impact it had always had on their lives.

When I took care of him in his final year of life, I also discovered that he inspected each bowel movement with a flashlight; then felt compelled to describe them to me. One day he said:

  • You know. That’s the first normal bowel movement I’ve had in a year.

I refused to ask what his definition of normal was.

However, no amount of argument or explanation that it is not essential to take a daily dump but also that regular purging with enemas or laxatives could paradoxically make things worse by disrupting natural colonic muscle tone or messing up electrolyte balances, could ever undo the psychological imprinting of a domineering Italian mother sitting with a broomstick outside little Sallie’s bathroom door every day and not letting him escape until he proved to her that he had pooped.

Even worse than that, as he got progressively older, my father became increasingly obsessed with being sure that he ate specifically for his dump. He accomplished this by loading up his diet with everything from dates and prunes to tasteless cardboard or paste-like fiber cereals, to flax seeds, combined with stool softeners and polyethylene glycol cocktails in a never-ending quest to find the correct combination of things that would keep his bowels sufficiently greased and ready to go. It wouldn’t even matter if he liked what he ate if the result was perfectly successful.

Bowel Flakes: The new high fiber but tasteless cereal that truly lets you eat for your colon.

Even in this modern era there is a segment of society that fully believes in the toxicity of internal feces and the necessity to regularly empty the internal cesspool or a belief in the fact that when confronted with a negative biorhythm that a good old-fashioned purging high colonic enema will be just the thing to save the day.

My sister, a person devoted to holistic health, is one of those individuals, but then again, she also believes that most of her health-related issues derive from the fact that she is also perpetually infested with parasitic worms and that a regular enema will be just the thing to periodically rout the little critters.

On a vacation trip to Mexico I met a young couple in their twenties who bored me to tears one day on the beach with a two-hour personal treatise on the Yin and Yang of food. They were obsessed by the effects of mixing incompatible food products on bowel health and the absolute necessity to have one or two high colonic enemas every week, which they gave to each other, just in case some of the wrong things inadvertently had gotten mixed together.

  • When we go to a cocktail party, we never eat cheese, crackers and fruit at the same time. And we never drink wine when we eat cheese either. Most people are completely unaware that mixing wine or fruit with cheese and starch is a lethally toxic combination that would require an immediate purge. You see, wine may only be a fermented grape, but they always serve it with real grapes and cheese is fermented milk, which does not at all mix with the starch in crackers, yet every time you go to a cocktail party that is all you ever see. Wine, grapes, cheese, and crackers.
  • No kidding. Maybe they should have four-course cocktail parties instead then.
  • Not a bad idea. But only if they come in thirty-minute intervals so that each course is properly digested first.

After that they asked me if I wanted to come up to their room, see their enema equipment and smoke some pot.

I thought to myself: Only if I get to see you purge each other after we smoke. That would be another thing to paste on my “Interesting Firsts List.”

But I politely declined without even bothering to go into the countervailing argument of asking how they justified polluting their lungs and brains with unfiltered cannabinoid smoke, while still keeping their bowels clean and free from harm. It would have only been a waste of time, so I went to the bar instead; ordered a pitcher of Sangria and just to be safe, asked the waiter to put the fruit on a side plate.

One of the first things a third-year medical student learns is how to write routine orders, and one of those orders he soon learns never to forget is the one for an evening laxative because of the multi purpose benefits to everyone involved.

First, it helps prevent fecal impaction so that the student or a nurse does not then have to go and dig the scybalous out of his patient’s rectums with his fingers.Secondly, it makes the patients much more pleasant during morning rounds because they usually feel as though their day has gotten off to a very fine start. Third, it prevents being awakened at 2 a.m. by the night nurse who is harangued by the patient to get a laxative order.Then finally because the laxative usually takes effect at about 6 a.m. the ward has then had a chance to be successfully defumigated before the regular business of medical rounds takes place about two hours later.

That way the only people who really suffer are the poor dedicated day nurses whom after years of exposure become inured to the smell of offal in the morning and then learn to completely ignore it.

 

 

An apple a day…… keeps the doctor away

 

Medical School: “Obstetrics and Gynecology.” But Not Misogyny

Why Not Obstetrics? 

For an elective rotation in Obstetrics and Gynecology I signed up for a thirty-day stint at The Providence Lying-In Hospital. What better way to get exposure than to be in a place dedicated entirely to the biology of the human female and her reproductive system?

Sleeping quarters were provided in a building that also housed female nursing students on the floor above us.

Imagine fifty horny nursing students locked up in the same building as three or four male medical students  being almost as good as a seminary student getting to live in a nunnery. At first, I could not imagine what stupid logic went into that demographic, but as time went on I came to understand the point to be moot and irrelevant.

Things got off to a bad start, when on the first day I was assigned to an Obstetrical surgery case; a hysterectomy. The problem being that as no one had taken the time to teach us how to do a sterile scrub and don, the attending surgeon went berserk at our awkward fumbling. This delayed the case while exposing his own paranoia that the operative field would be contaminated. He threw us out of the operating suite.

That illustrates one glaring fault about medical training, especially in a nonacademic satellite facility: Not knowing how much the student does or does not know and usually assuming that he knows more than he actually does; without really asking first; or sometimes not seeming to really care. In this case, the seasoned nurses came to our rescue by kindly showed us how to scrub in and put on a surgical gown.

There is also another glaring deficiency in the tritely overused expression that in procedural medicine all you need to do is to: “See one, do one, then teach one.” I doubt that anyone would agree this axiom should apply to cardiac valve surgery.

Nor did it apply to the situation I found myself in when I had only assisted at several post delivery episiotomies, a procedure whereby the lacerated vagina and perineum is sewn back together after the baby rips it apart while coming through.

The vagina happens to be a very accommodating organ; as both birthing baby heads and “fisting “perverts have empirically discovered; but like everything in life there are always certain limits.

The OB Resident, having been completely exhausted by his duties, delivered a baby, then turned to me and announced as he took off his gloves:

  • Hey, I’m really tired. I’m going to bed. You sew her up.

This was the same resident who had previously taught me to carefully suture so as not to hook the bladder or the bowel and to pay extra special attention to the final purse string cinching by making sure that the vaginal opening at the perineum was nice and tight.

  • That’s what I call ‘the husband stitch’ and there are probably a lot of grateful men out there who don’t even know why their sexual satis-friction is all because of me.

Yes, unless the husband happens to be thirteen-inch-Long John Holmes and it won’t ever fit in there again. Or if so, maybe it just gets stuck.

So, there I was, expected on my own limited experience, to sew up a lacerated vagina as well as to correctly place the husband stitch and make this mother neo-virginal again. I had a serious crisis of confidence and whimpered softly to the vacating Resident:

  • Please come back. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll even send a copy of your personally autographed photo to all the happy husbands so you won’t have to live in un-adored anonymity anymore.

No such luck. Yet once again the senior nurses talked me through it, although to this day I have no clue as to where the stitches really went, or how tight the final cinching turned out.

I had nightmares for weeks about a crooked vagina, a loose vagina, an ultra-tight vagina or a nasty vaginal-rectal fistula which would be followed by having to deal with a vendetta from a very ungrateful husband; not to mention litigation.

To back up a bit, this OB rotation was organized into weekly segments that included:

  1. Prenatal clinic
  2. Postnatal clinic
  3. Routine check up clinic
  4. One of many potential routine problems clinic
  5. VD clinic
  6. Labor and Delivery
  7. Obstetrical night call

Also, no matter what weekly clinic we were assigned to, we had to be on standby call every third night for labor and delivery. So, although there are probably some perverts out there who might think that unlimited access to peering at female gonads could be fun, better think again.

This activity is cold, indifferently clinical and involves handling women who would rather be doing anything else than have a frigid slime covered speculum pushed up their crotches, or an equally slimy finger stuck up their rectum; and sometimes simultaneously. They do not like it and they do not like you for doing it.

Next, not everyone looks like a Playboy model, as well as the fact that one is required to examine ages that range from nine to ninety, including all builds, shapes, sizes or body types with levels of hygiene that range from the immaculate to the totally neglected.

There is nothing worse than examining a three-hundred-pound woman who does not believe in soap and water, or who may have a yet unidentified species of fungus growing within the folds of her breasts or her labia.

Then, although the “Routine Check Up” clinic was relatively innocuous, there was always the dread of discovering the unknown surprising disease entities lurking in the cracks at the “I Think I Have a Problem” clinic: Yeast, gonorrhea, herpes, chlamydia, syphilis, vaginitis, urethritis, cystitis, trichinosis, and chondyloma. It was a great day indeed if the symptoms were only related to a benign ovarian cyst.

Women of all ages, from all walks of life; from rich to poor; ugly to beautiful, anorectic to obese, hygienic to unbathed with a wide assortment of troubles; with the best part of it all sometimes having to tell the parent of a minor that her good little supposedly virginal daughter had recently been up to quite a bit less than good and wasn’t really virginal anymore. Or worse: knocked up.

Of course, this was the era before HIV and because condoms were not necessarily all the rage, VD and STDs were more a nuisance than a death sentence. But it was still at a time when teen-age sex was quite verboten or severely stigmatized; especially so in Providence, Rhode Island which being a suburb of Vatican City, had no nightlife at all and in 1972 had little to offer a date but a front seat six pack followed by a back seat boogey.

It all became a female genital blur. Pretty pussy, ugly pussy, hairy pussy, shaved pussy, clean pussy, dirty pussy, messy pussy, sweet pussy, sour pussy, pregnant pussy, laboring pussy, lacerated pussy; and then various combinations or permutations of adding to that: big lips, small lips, large clits, little clits, and crotch zits.

After the daily assembly line of “pussy galore” I would fall off to sleep at night with visions of pussy-plums dancing in my head.

Now top that off with taking care of women in every stage of pregnancy, finally culminating in the counter-joy of having to listen for hours on end to a large open labor ward housing a dozen or so women who all raise their voices in completely non-syncopated timing as they scream out the raucous chorus of the opera known as the: “The Throes of Parturition.”

And although a baby’s birth can never be timed for perfect convenience, some of the attending Obstetricians would add an alcohol drip to the usual regimen to time the delivery by more propitiously delaying its occurrence from the middle of the night toward a reasonable hour the next day.

This made the operatic chorus all the more interesting for the added feature of having a room full of inebriated laboring women and the interesting quirky things the booze did to their personalities. Some of them became quite psychotic and had to be restrained. It was atavistically primeval.

Then on to the delivery room, where although a rapturous joy for the parents, I found nothing joyful at all about the gush of pee, blood, baby, baby shit, mommy shit, amniotic fluid, placenta; and then secondarily the effect that gallons of all of these body fluids did to the only pair of shoes I owned.

It got so bad that I cancelled a weekend tryst with the woman I was dating at the time by making up some lame excuse, and then told her I would call her back in a few days.

She did not take it well, then made oblique references to the fact that I was probably cheating on her with some nurse or nursing student in Providence, while she was alone, lonely, and horny back in Boston. I could not at all get through to her that worse than that; I simply had no desire whatsoever to see her naked, much less do anything else with her body parts or any woman’s body parts for that matter. Like writer’s block, I had developed a serious case of libido block that could be best characterized as nothing more than a bad case of female genitalia burnout.

She said:

  • Sure. I’d believe that just as much as I’d believe you didn’t want me anymore because you and that stupid roommate of yours were gay. I knew that anyway. Goodbye and Good luck.

No chance of cheating anyway, as even the female nursing students had also evoked as much negative libidinous attraction as alien body snatchers that came out of vegetable pods. Add to that the fact that their recreational drug of choice at the time was Quaaludes (“Sopors”), which did not exactly make them a boat-load of fun at social gatherings. There is nothing like going to a party where everyone passes out, and truthfully speaking, date rape with a limp dish rag was not my cup of tea.

Yes, lets all get to the point where not only do we not know what we did, or who we did it with, but also do not remember if we even liked it. My preference for pussy was to have it alert, awake and even faking interest if necessary; but not semi-comatose and diffidently snoring.

Despite my girlfriend’s innuendos, it was not even a case of latent homosexuality because I knew I did not harbor the slightest hint of homosexual tendencies. I honestly and truly liked pussy! It was just a simple case of overexposure resulting in a negative feedback loop. Too much of what otherwise might have been a good thing, so to speak because it just wasn’t the Hugh Heffner presentation.

After the OB experience in Providence, I also knew that I would never look at sex and the human reproductive cycle in the same way; and that if I ever chose the OB-GYN discipline as my medical vocation, I would probably want to eventually go ahead and just have myself neutered.

 

 

 

Pussy Galore: No problem for Agent 007

 

Photo: clothing.cafepress.com