As someone with Pennsylvania Dutch (German) heritage, there is a custom in my family, that on New Year’s Day we eat pork. Of course, all the holidays seem to have their “meat” of the holiday, whether it be turkey on Thanksgiving, ham on Easter, and though I have never had a Christmas goose, we usually had some sort of fowl. But on New Year’s Day, the menu was pork and something called sauerkraut. Yes, the same condiment you put on hot dogs at a ball park during a baseball game.
If you like cabbage, chances are you will like sauerkraut, because that is all that it is, finely shredded cabbage. It is fermented with salt, and the smell is likely what turned me away from it as a child. My grandmother was notorious for fermenting and pickling (with vinegar) vegetables. The pungent smell in the house lasted for days.
The truth is, sauerkraut is actuall good for you, packed with vitamins and minerals, boosts gut health, the heart, and the immune system. And you would think this would be a convincing argument for me with my health history to make this a part of my daily diet. Nope. I am permanently against sauerkraut. Now to get all nerdy about the fermenting process, it is driven by lactic acid, which squeezes out the juices of the cabbage, then the cabbage sits in that juice and ferments.
Now for the super nerdy… isn’t lactic acid what is the cause of sepsis, a life threatening condition? I only know this because I was septic due to pneumonia back in 2012. So relax, there is no conspiracy against sauerkraut, but there is a difference between the lactic acids in suaerkraut and the lactic acid produced in the body, which I did not know about until I wrote this post. Simply, the lactic acid in the body is considered an L-lactic, while the lactic acid in sauerkraut is D-lactic, and there is a difference. I am not going into that science lesson on this post, just know there is a difference, and you are okay to eat sauerkraut if you can get passed the smell and bitter taste.
So, getting back to the pork on New Year’s Day and why. The Pennsylvania Dutch eat pork on New Year’s Day, because a pig roots forward, and fowl, like a chicken (we never had chicken on New Year’s Day), scratches backwards. So, you go forward into the new year and leave the old year behind. The picture above is exactly what our plates looked like at dinner on New Year’s Day, except mine was missing the sauerkraut.
Oh, one warning, if you were out the night before as many New Year’s Eve revelers do, and drank heavily, and still under the influence just now a hangover, you might want to skip the sauerkraut. Not a part of the custom, and definitely not the way you want to start the new year.
Playing the game “one of these is not like the other,” assuming you know the definition of the word “phobia”, meaning fear, all four words are in fact fear related. And I can admit, with no shame, that these are four fears that I do have. I actually have others, but these are my worst, because I am constantly confronted by them.
The first, arachnaphobia, you probably do recognize as a fear of spiders. HATE THEM! Ophidiophobia, is the fear of snakes. I am constantly crossing paths them living in the south. Acrophobia is a fear that I did not have through most of my life, until a couple of decades ago, the fear of heights. And this particular fear, I do not blame on myself, but was rather inflicted upon me. Driving through the Sierra Mountains in California, enjoying the beautiful views, my arm was suddenly grabbed tightly by a passenger followed by the loudest gasp I had ever heard, as if in a horror movie. When I asked what was wrong, my friend in her best “Shaggy from Scooby Doo” voice stuttered and pointed out, the straight drop down from the road, likely thousands of feet, and most noticably, no guardrail other than a six inch rim along the road. Until that moment, it was pure beauty, but to this day, heights are pure hell for me. This ruined me with roller coasters, ladders, even high rise buildings when I am secured by glass.
But the final term, especially given my medical history, is often a surprise to many when they hear this about me. I will go one step further, this fear for me is quite irrrational. As it could be the difference between life and death. Trypanophobia is the fear of needles. I am not talking about sewing or knitting needles, pine needles, actual medical syringes.
Between my Hodgkin’s Lymphoma days, and the last seventeen years of my survivorship esepcially, I have seen my share of needles from vaccines, to blood draws, chemotherapy, IV’s and worse. And while I have dealt with all of those, there is one thing I will not do, inject or poke myself. As a Type 2 diabetic, in a battle of wills, I am constantly being encouraged to do multiple daily sugar counts, by way of a quick finger stick (using a lancing device with a triggered needle causing the blood letting).
Here comes the irrational part. I have no problem if a nurse or tech does it to me. It is over as quickly as it is started. There is no hesitation on their part, they know their job and they are good at it. And honestly of all needle injections I face, if I have to have one done, it would be the finger stick. Ironically, techs and nurses find this thought odd. But with me, not only am I squeamish (in spite of all the surgeries I have been through), and I know I can handle the actual lancing, my hesitation with doing it myself is a deal breaker. Like I said, I have had finger sticks hundreds of times over the years, but never done them on myself. And I am not about to start, irrational as I know what my doctors are trying to accomplish, but this fear is that strong.
So, naive me, is now getting all these ads on my social pages for “glucose monitoring” devices, you know, the little button “thingys” stuck on peoples’ arms. Since I am 100% against finger sticking myself, sticking this monitor device on my arm seemed like a good option, after all, all you do is stick it to your arm, right? I have seen plenty of people walking around with these things. Unfortunately, these devices are quite expensive. So that became a deterrant for me. But my endocrinologist, undeterred, recommended a system of glucose monitoring, likely the lowest rung when it comes to reliability and accuracy, but affordable. I thought to myself, she is not giving up on me with this, regardless of my hesitation and insistance. The cost was definitely affordable to me, so there could be no excuse.
I received a small box, with two “sensors”, but it felt heavier than I felt two little discs should weigh. When I opened the box, I did not see sensors, but rather two containers approximately and inch and a half tall by an inch and a half in diameter. At first I thought they sent me the wrong thing. I don’t know why, but I decided to fast-forward, and went to YouTube to see how complicated putting this “sensor” on my arm should be, other than peeling off a cover for the “adhesive” to be exposed.
Cue the screaching tires coming to an immediate halt!
The YouTube tutorial explained that a needle from the container/sensor, would implant itself into the back of my arm. This was definitely not what I thought it was going to be. And this was going to be a problem, a deal breaker, once again, over a needle. The package has been sitting on my kitchen counter ever since.
It is clear that there has to have been some sort of trauma in my life that has caused this fear of needles, trypanophobia. The obvious fact pointed at me constantly, “Paul, you went through chemo! You’ve had so many surgeries!” And while that is true, having blood drawn or an IV being put into my arm is stressful for me, because my chemo-ravaged veins usually result in multiple attempts each time (we did not have ports back in 1988). I am good for one, maybe two attempts before I put the person sticking me on notice.
Okay, so if the solution is the lancer, why won’t I use it? And that is where I am stuck at this moment. Whatever this trauma is, I will not do it to myself. I have friends who are diabetics, and many friends who are survivors like me, all monitor their blood sugar as recommended by their doctors. Whether I “can’t” or “won’t”, it is not happening. I have several doctors trying to help me deal with this. I am so appreciative of all the outreach from my fellow survivors trying to offer tips. But as my one friend and fellow survivor found out, if she thought my aversion to vegetables was bad, this issue is a hundred times worse. And I am admitting that it makes no sense. And that is where I am as I write this.
So in the meantime, once again, I have restricted my diet to minimal sugar intake, no salt, low cholesterol, which I know will produce the results that the doctors are looking for, along with the medications that I currently take. And then, I will gently ease back into my regular eating habits which really are not that bad, and not far from what I am currently doing. I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. And I may have one or two beers a year. My picky diet (hardly any fruits and vegetables) is my only vice. I do not eat a lot of sweets, I do not even crave them. It was simply a time period with unusual circumstances that led to a lengthy term of bad eating habits that set of the alarms with my doctors.
Of course, with all that my body has gone through over the last seventeen years, and my cancer survivorship, my diet will not be the cause of my demise.
I have a lot more Summers behind me, than I have ahead of me. Memories that I have of Summers in my youth are only slightly more than the photos I have as pictured above, not many of those either. I recall this little hard plastic shell pool, filled up with garden hose water. Once school age, I graduated to the town swimming pool, eventually learning to swim and jump off the high diving board (and learn the hard way what a “belly flop” was).
(picture from Google pics)
The other frequent activity during the Summer was the weekly trip to Shankweiler’s Drive-in to see a double-feature movie. Since it is likely that noone after Gen-X has any idea what this was like, allow me to describe it. You park your car in front of a giant movie screen. There were likely two movies being shown; a younger age-appropriate movie, then a movie for the older crowds, the first starting once it was dark enough. You hung a two pound speaker on your car window for everyone in the car to hear the sound, or as others did, simply set up lawn chairs or sat on the back of a pick-up or station wagon. In between the movies, there was a rush to the bathrooms, the refreshment stand, and to the playground directly below the screen. You were a real boss if you stayed awake for the entire second movie, and had enough mosquito bites to “connect the dots” with a Sharpie.
Toward the end of my youth, my Summers were spent working. One of the best seasonal jobs for teens was a local amusement park. I spent a lot of visits at Dorney Park as a child, and it was a totally different experience operating the games and rides. But still, I had so many memories. I just do not have a lot of photos.
There would be even less photos in my twenties, as my life was interrupted by a cancer diagnosis, Hodgkin’s Lympoma. There was no social media or internet at the time, so there was no desire or behavior to take pictures. There were two weddings over the next decade and a half, but as they both ended in divorce, those are pictures that won’t get posted. Besides, other than the weddings, my Summers were spent working, especially overtime, no need for pictures of that.
But with parenthood, came a new approach to Summers, and a lot more photos, much to my daughters chagrines. For the last twenty years, although I had worked many hours during the first ten years, my memories are as clear as the photos that I put together in photo album number one (500 photos).
We took trips to the beach, travelled to various places. I even pulled off the ultimate trip, to a “super Con”, where my daughters got to meet some of their favorite Manga characters. It should be noted, I also got to meet some celebrities in attendance as well, such as the original Karate Kid, Ralph Machio, pro Wrestler, Jerry Lawler, and the one and only Incredible Hulk, Lou Ferrigno.
But as much fun as I could pack into the two months of Summer break for my daughters, there was one thing I felt was important to be done, every Summer. It was not fun, well, not really, but necessary. In full transparency, I did not have a lot of support with school, just a reaction when I would flash my report card (again, for millenials and Gen-Z, these were paper copies of the grades that were sent home each marking period). I really had no role model for how to parent my children during the Summer breaks. But as my daughters were both good and hard working students, my fear would be during the Summer, if there were not some sort of learning exercises, even just fifteen minutes per day, that could lead to some habits making it hard to get back into the groove once the Fall rolled around.
Each year during the Summer, every day, usually during the time I would be getting ready for us to go out, I had my daughters complete a few worksheets of exercises from reading to math and other learning opportunities. It wasn’t tedious or boring. Most importantly, it kept them in the habit of “learning.”
Those workbooks stopped being a “thing” around the beginning of middle school. And as my daughters got older, while we enjoyed our Summers with each other, I felt it became more important for me to start sharing things that they would need to learn as they got older, to prepare them for adulthood. Again, not having the typical examples set for me to learn responsibility, I had in my head things that I felt were important for them to learn, such as learning to save money, budget, and prioritize needs and wants. I wanted to make sure that as they came of dating age, that they “took care of themselves” from a hygiene point of view and more importantly, what to expect of anyone interested in having a relationship with them. I wanted them to learn money management, responsibility, and decision making. I took opportunities to have them learn first aid, visit historical museums, and volunteer visiting animals in shelters.
There are no bigger opportunities for decision making than they have as adults now. With the custody order officially closed due to both aging out, they alone are now the ones who make the decisions to visit me here in Florida. They know they constant reference to “Cats In The Cradle” by Harry Chapin, and were are now at the point of their college tenure, balanced with working during breaks, and spending time with the tri-fecta package of mother/father/friends with any available time. I have made it clear, as I have warned them that their “free” time was going to be even less these days, and I know that time would have to be shared in many directions. I asked both only one thing, something that has really become a tradition, and emphasized to them even more important than spending holidays, if at all possible, all efforts made to spend Father’s Day with each other, as we have done every year (with the exception of two years that were beyond my control and will not be discussed in this post). It is just now, instead of spending most of the Summer following the weekend of Father’s Day with me, I have taken as much pressure off of them, and asked only a few days of that holiday weekend. Any other time of the year, we will make arrangements as we can, based on schedules, and likely even split between both my daughters as their schedules will not always align.
But there is one final thing that I did need to discuss with my “now adult” daughters, while I had them in front of me, not to be discussed over the phone or by text messaging. My daughters are aware of my health history, part of which they have read about in my book, “Paul’s Heart – Life As A Dad And A 35-Year Cancer Survivor” and my history with cancer, but it has been the second half of their life, that they have personally witnessed the many episodes of ill health I have faced due to the treatments from my cancer. For years, they have been told by many close to them, that I was “fine,” in clear contrast to what they were being told by me. In recent years, and even in spite of Covid19 policies, through Facetime, my daughters were able to be with me during my 3rd heart surgery, to replace my aortic valve. My daughters know my health is far from “fine,” and those who try to convince my daughters otherwise in an attempt to portray me to their advantage are only hurting their relationships with my daughters.
My daughters know I have legal documents in place as to my “living directives,” what will happen to me, should I be unable to decide my medical care for myself, but my wishes stated in writing and certified. But there was one thing I needed to discuss with them. A recent visit and CT scan, has led to a new level of an old concern that I have been aware of for sixteen years. There is a new term being used in the results of that scan, besides the characteristics continuing to have changed, “adenocarcinoma” (cancer) is now being mentioned in my report on my one lung. Though the circumstances behind their grandfather dying from lung cancer (a smoker), and a nodule on my lung (likely from radiation treatments 35 years ago), I wanted to have the discussion with them in person so that they could see, that currently, adenocarcinoma is just a word being used, and the type, unlike my father’s cancer, is a slow enough developing cancer, that it is quite possible nothing may be done with it, that my mortality would have an end due to a different issue before this cancer would have any impact. But my daughters would hear everything from me, not what “others” wanted to tell them.
Sure, hearing the word “cancer” is scary whether you are the patient, family, or friend. I knew of this news for a couple of months, trying to figure how I would discuss this with my daughters, knowing that hearing “lung cancer” would detour their thoughts to their grandfather. My situation is completely different, and right now, manageable.
No, not the way I had planned our last Summer together of the final phase of their childhoods, but I definitely feel a lot better knowing the heads that they have on their shoulders are more thoughtful, empathetic, and definitely have learned that the things they are doing today, are going to lead to opportunities tomorrow.
All too often, non-custodial parents, usually fathers, are referred to as “Disney Dads,” a really bad stereotype, implying that since the parent is allowed only minimal time with their child, it is always spent doing “fun” things like going to amusement parks, or the beach, not doing any of the hard stuff. Not only did I find this term offensive when I first heard it, I fought any attempt and opportunity to level that claim at me. The truth is, to this day, regardless of how much time I get to spend with my daughters, and in the future with my daughters, I have not changed. I am still about memories and lessons as I know they are not far away from the next phases of their lives, serious relationships and personal responisibilities. They will hit the ground running once they graduate college and hopefully secure good jobs, remember the things that I taught them, and then live their own “cats in the cradle” lives. My second photo album of 500 photos has already begun being filled, and will hopefully include more faces in the future.
Paul's Heart 