Probably Correct

The NSA back in the day

I'm not really sure what all the kerfuffle is about. There's nothing new here.

In the Summer of 1968, I, along with two other guys from our class at Ft. Monmouth, was assigned to Arlington Hall Station, a tiny little post nearby Ft. Myer in Virginia. It was the HQ of the Army Security Agency.

The ASA's job was to listen in to phone and radio communications all around the world and make sure nothing untoward or damaging to the defense of the US was discussed. If it was, the info was passed along to the various intelligence agencies that would deal with it, presumably in a decisive way.

Within AHS were divisions of several intelligence agencies. We also had a mighty fine EM/NCO club and a mess hall that served great chow (way beyond military standards) 24 hours a day...draft beers for a dime all night long, great local bands and then a free breakfast. Whew. But that's another story.

In the very center of the post was a large brick building with lots of antennae on top and three layers of fences, with what passed for razor wire back then and dog patrols. There were three visible check points for entry and God only knows how many beyond the outside access.

I asked my CO what that building was and he told me it was a part of the NSA, the National Security Agency. I asked him what they did in there, behind all those fences.

He said, "They listen."

"To what?" I asked.

"To every phone call made in Northern Virginia."

Huh. Almost forty years ago, they were listening. And now that there's even more of a reason to listen, they're still at it.

Good for the NSA. Keep the creeps off the phones.

Survivor's depression

A decade ago, when I went through my first (and hopefully, only) cardiac bypass surgery (during which the subject's life is transferred to the tender mercies of a heart-lung machine while repairs are made to the original parts), I also went through six of the roughest months of my life.

I entered into a deep depression that I'm told is very similar to that experienced by survivors of an airliner crash. I'm told this is not unusual. It's almost like you feel guilty for having survived the event that you were allowed to live through.

It was a very dark place I was in, but I never chose counselling or drug therapy, presuming that I could manage my way through it on my own, and I did. I'm sure that I managed to make my family and friends a bit uncomfortable while I worked my way out of it on my own. The good news is that we're all still friends, I'm still married, and I'm no longer depressed and haven't been for many years.

I used Valium for a few months in the 1970's for the expected "attitude adjustment" and quickly discovered how ridiculous and useless that was; I was given Xanax a few days ago to reduce my anxiety prior to my exploratory surgery and discovered how badly that reacted with the anesthetic, Demoral. The combination of the two was pretty amazing.

But nothing I'd like to repeat.

Recently I came perilously close to repeating all of that drug-induced survivor crap but with the grace of God I lucked out.  My recent chest pains were a false alarm and newly prescribed meds and demanded life changes will make them no longer an issue.  And to the best of my knowledge, presuming I follow the dictates of the docs, I'll be fine and around to annoy you for many more years.

I'd just rather not have anymore cardiac catherizations, okay?

THAT would depress me!

Texans Going To Pawn Shops To Get Extra Gas $$

I can't believe that this is news.  In 1970 and 1971, when I was a sergeant in the Army, posted at Ft. Hood TX, it was standard practice to drop off the car's spare tire at a pawn shop, to use the $15 or so to feed the family for the few days during the final few days of the month until military payday.

That or I sold a pint of blood.  Yup, the military has ALWAYS paid well...

High gasoline prices are causing some people to take desperate measures.

Pawn shops say their business is increasing, with some customers saying they're selling things to buy gas.

Gas prices are climbing again, with most stations prices hovering at, or just below $3.00 a gallon. For some people the high fuel prices are overwhelming.

"We just have customers come in and have to tell us that they need money ‘till the end of the week, for gas to get back and forth to work," said pawn shop owner, Gerald Costner.

Link: cbs11tv.com - Texans Going To Pawn Shops To Get Extra Gas $$.

Rubber veins and all

When I first went into the Army, as were all recruits, I was subject to an endless round of physical and mental testing:  intelligence, capability and stress tests, measurements, and the collection of various bodily fluids to assess our professional military capability to be injured and/or killed in whatever situation we found ourselves.

Most of the tests were conducted by enlisted personnel rather than doctors or nurses (who would have been commissioned officers and above such grunt work).  After being stuck a few times by OJT blood-takers who couldn't quite find the vein and left me with apple sized bruises all over my arms, I was finally told that I had a condition known as "rubber veins", in which the vein was evident below the skin but slipped away from the needle as it approached.

I've continued that problem, to my great dismay, over the intervening years, with the rare phlebotomist and/or nurse actually being skilled enough to nail that little blue tube the first time and spare me the accompanying discomfort and bruising.

A couple days ago, after the second call to 911 I have ever made in my life, I had the opportunity to revisit all that again.  A team of otherwise highly skilled EMT workers not only managed to eventually find an appropriate vein after many attempts but also shaved my chest to attach EKG leads...all while their 12,000 pound, tightly sprung ambulance roared its way from my house to St. Luke's ER.

God bless 'em...I never complained.  Because I was experiencing almost ten years to the day the same chest pains that led back then to a cardiac bypass.  Or, as we survivors of that procedure say:

Death...been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.

Guys with chest pains generally get sent to the head of the line and suddenly I was beset upon by a pride of doctors, nurses, techs and others representing some damned departments I didn't even know existed who were all asking me questions at once.  In short order, I was properly punctured, intubated and patched with leads for various machines that all beeped at different rates. 

Actually, it sounded like my kitchen when all the cooking devices were set to deliver a meal at the same time. It just didn't smell as good.

I hadn't eaten all day, so I managed to charm a couple of the attendants out of a couple turkey sandwich halves and a pack of sugar cookies.  But no more, just in case surgery would be the order of the next day.

Of course, by this time, the pain in my chest and back had subsided and I was starting to feel that maybe I ought to slink away and guiltily find my way home.  But medical people know that symptoms are, well symptomatic, and they weren't inclined to let me go without finding out the underlying reason. Never mind that I did not exhibit the other peripheral symptoms that normally accompanied a heart attack.

Eventually, with the preliminary tests complete and the results being developed by the hospital's various labs, I was gurneyed to a room...and believe it or not, it was Room 6606.  Too close for comfort, but they plugged me in for a long night's rest, with visions of heparin coursing through my veins and monitors a-go-go chirping the night away.  Who could sleep?  I watched "The Man In The Grey Flannel Suit" on AMC and read until Carroll, bless her forever, got back and waited with me until it was my turn in the barrell.  By this time, I had related the story of my latest medical misadventure to everyone on the floor.  And when the Cardiac surgeon arrived, I related it once more.  After many "Uh-hums" he told me that I would be cardiac-catherized at 10AM.

This is a procedure I had had once before, ten years ago, and the fun level tops out at about minus 45.  The room nurse noticed that I was flushed and a "bit apprehensive" so she decided I should get me a pill called Xanax.  I had heard of this drug, but had never taken it.  Evidently it's in common use to reduce anxiety.

I herewith assure you that it does that well and, in combination with various other drugs, can make your life very, very different. More on this later.

For those of you who don't know what a cardiac-cath means, here's what happens.  The nurses prep you by shaving any remaining hair from your chest and groin, totally eliminating any remaining dignity and then drug you sufficiently with Demoral and another drug that will reduce any memories of the indignities you are about to encounter.  These drugs suddenly interract with the Xanax and you are capable of pretty much only giggling and promptly go into some kind of induced trance. 

Then you are wheeled into an OR, which is invariably kept just above freezing, no matter that you are wearing only a light cotton hospital gown and no underwear. In short order the Cardiologist POKES A HOLE IN YOUR FEMORAL ARTERY AT THE LEVEL OF YOUR GROIN!

Into it he slips a long, flexible tube with some kind of vision device on the end and proceeds to move it up the artery and into the veins surrounding your heart.  During this time, he examines on monitors whatever blockage there is in them and makes a decision as to what procedure should follow: treat it with medicine, place stents within to hold the offending blockages at bay, or schedule the patient for bypass surgery to replace the veins entirely.

I got lucky...there was only a minor blockage that could be managed with medicine and so no further surgery was required.  The chest pain that I experienced was probably caused by stomach or intestinal distress.

Yup, a ten-thousand dollar fart.

But now comes the REALLY fun part...when they take you to post-op and lay a bag of shot on your open femoral wound to cause it to close and heal.  The bag is surprisingly small for something that feels like it weighs nine thousand pounds. And it must stay there for about six hours, during which time you must not move.

Of course, I was flying pretty high on the Xanax-Demoral combo and I'm told I kept trying to get the thing off my "groinal area".  The nurses and techs attending Room 6606 earned their money that day.

Eventually, I woke to a point where I could walk a bit and, when that happened succesfully, I was allowed to go home.  I don't remember much of the ride home, but I understand more fully than ever how good Carroll is to an old grump like me and how much I love her for it.

Bottom line is I have to quit smoking.  This will be an interesting Spring and Summer.  Wish me luck.  Any suggestions you may have will be very welcome.

It's always something.

Lucy loses it

We've had two dogs around here for many years.  Most of the time, their ages were staggered, one older than the other.  Currently, both of the Anderson Dogs are older, about the same age, with attendant physical problems.

Both came from the Humane Society, by the way.  I always recommend them as the BEST place to adopt.

BoyDog joined us in 2000, and he was somewhere between five and seven years old then, which makes him at least eleven now.  He had a lot of grey on him even back then...and he's greyer now.  He's an Old Dog, still cool, just slower. BoyDog wakes up a lot like I do these days...slow and grumpy. Recently he's developed a problem with hard kibble and we've replaced that for him with canned dogfood, easier for him to chew.  He's a medium-sized mutt, about 45 pounds, a toucher and a leaner, and lives to be loved and rubbed.  I'm always happy to provide that.

Lucy, The Dog You Can See From Outer Space, came to her home here as a one year old in March of 1997, so she's ten this year.  Lucy is a German Shepherd/Yellow Lab mix and weighed 90 pounds the day I adopted her; since then, the Yellow Lab in her has taken over and she checks in these days at about 135 pounds.  She's a big girl.  And with big dogs come problems, most often leg and hip troubles.

Both of them make a point of spending most of their day surrounding my feet, especially if there's a rainstorm with thunder. My office is downstairs and so they have to "climb the wooden hill" to be with me, whether I'm working downstairs or up.  BoyDog is still (once he's awakened) pretty good on the stairs; Lucy has had for some time a degree of difficulty, so I make a point of providing her with assistance both up and down.

Today while I was making pasta and potato salads, Lucy decided she'd make the climb all by herself.  It was not the best move she'd ever made.

I heard her during the final few clumps of her huge paws as she approached the living room and ran out to make sure she was okay.  She wasn't.

I got to the steps just in time to see her eyes widen with fright as she lost rear-foot traction on the steps and she began to slide back down the steps.  Don't ever tell me that a dog can't express emotions facially...

Now, these days, I have some mobility issues myself, but I hustled down the steps beside her, grabbing her collar to slow her backward descent, intending to get behind her and support her from the back until she got her feet in place again.

Thump, thump, thump...she slid down three steps...thump, thump, thump, thump...she slid down four more, with me still holding onto her collar.

And then her collar slipped off.

Thump, thump, thump...and she was on the landing, looking as dazed and confused as any human would look in that situation, one paw on the first step and the rest of her corpulent self on the landing, sideways.

Trooper that she is, Lucy shook it off and got back on the steps.  This time I was behind her, providing the support she needed.  We got to the top, she looked back at me as if she finally got what all that other support up and down had been about and headed for the back yard.

Now that Summer's almost here, the dogs will want to spend most of their time in the cooler downstairs.  The baby gate goes back in place tomorrow.