TUCSON

Ron Paul

2012-01-24T22:50:00.000-08:00

Politics...not my best subject to discuss if I want to pretend I know anything. But I do know one thing, after the republican debate Monday night, which I watched on a comfortable Jet Blue, I would vote for Ron Paul. He is smart. He is efficient. He gives concrete detail. And he is the only one who would conform with the following statement given by the First Presidency of the LDS church during WWII:

“‘. . . the Church is and must be against war. The Church itself cannot wage war, unless and until the Lord shall issue new commands. It cannot regard war as a righteous means of settling international disputes; these should and could be settled—the nations agreeing—by peaceful negotiation and adjustment. "

So while Romney and Gingrich want to make our stick we carry bigger ( I'm not sure where Santorum stands) Ron Paul wants to make our hearts bigger. Sounds cheesy, but I believe him when he says it. And it is that stirring of belief, generated by a politician, that makes me want to vote for him. Looking back, I can't remember ever feeling a "stirring" for any politician I've seen speak. And I guess that's my litmus test of whom to vote for: an inner stirring.

A few thoughts, not out loud

2012-01-16T20:18:00.000-08:00

- I enjoyed a particular talk at church yesterday. When I walked up to the stand to thank the speaker I extended my hand and said, "Thanks so much for your talk, I needed to hear that and it meant a lot to me." I saw the two other speakers in the meeting right behind the one I had thanked. Did I need to thank them as well? And if I did not, would I seem ungrateful for their words?

- Sometimes I feel there is a specific mood at church that lingers in every meeting. Yesterday it was a general gloom. Maybe it was the rain outside. Maybe it was the late afternoon and we were all adjusting to new meeting times. I just wanted to stand up and say, "it's not that bad of a life." And maybe it was just me that needed to hear it.

- When I'm turning left from the median of a busy road, I think it should be against the law for opposing traffic in the lane next to the median to yield. The far lane of opposing traffic never seems to catch on quickly enough. But you hate to wave to the good Samaritan who stopped in the near lane and mouth to him: "THANKS, DON'T WORRY, JUST GO AHEAD," while you wave him on. That just seems rude. So under forced gratitude, I always turn left. It's the "white-knuckle" turn of possible death.

- Tucson was re-baptized today. It rained all morning and in the afternoon the clouds cleared. Anna and I drove up to the sweetwater trail head and watched the unfolding of the sunset. The air was clear and crisp. The clouds were huge, with dark undersides and cottony-white tops. The mountains were lavender, sage, purple, red, rust, and blue all at once. And the desert smelled like desert, with the saguaros standing proud over their domain. To top it off, the desert doves were singing the tune of nightfall. Sometimes I hate scenery like this because all I can think about is how it will all be gone in a few minutes.

- The other day at a tumor board meeting in the hospital, a physician was introducing a patient case.
"The patient was a woman. Fairly...rotund."
The pause he gave between "fairly" and "rotund" was more insulting than if he had just said "fat." I committed at that point to use the word "fat" when I present patients who are well-nourished, no stranger to the knife and fork, obese, large, or rotund. "Fat" is the most concise, understandable, and efficient adjective and is also, in my opinion, the least condescending. Plus, I need more of it...

A Short Story

2012-01-16T19:38:00.000-08:00

I lie thinking, my right leg propped against the back of the couch. I think about sleep. I whisper the word “rest,” out loud as if he were a friend; a friend arriving with solutions. And before I know it he has arrived. I welcome him inside and fall asleep...

I am awakened by a low rumble. I quickly recognize the sound is my neighbor James opening his front door. Morning. I count the seconds before I hear his door close. James requires seven seconds every morning to close his door. Why does it always take him so long to close his front door? It annoys me. I lift my left arm and weakly twist my wrist to read the time on my watch. 6:32 a.m.

I then hear a window slide open. This would be Alex. She is a quiet, Venezuelan lady, recently divorced. She lives below me. Her domestic noises never annoy me. Alex often leaves a hot plate of arepas on my doorstep. Sometimes I catch her in the act:

“Arepas!” she says, in a commanding tone. “Eat soon while they are warm and put some...um...frijoles on top with, how do you say it...asour cream?”

“Yes Alex! Sour cream. Thank you so much.”

I see few arepas these days. That is okay, Alex is an observant neighbor. She knows something has happened to me and I should be left alone.

After my wedding, I told an old friend from high school my wife and I found “a nice little garret” to rent in a safe neighborhood. He then promptly sent me a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. On the front page he wrote, “To the best of friends, in the best of times, in his little garret with his wife.” I can see that book on the bookshelf right now. Seeing it elicits a painful feeling and I look away. 6:34 a.m.

I stretch out my legs with that wonderful feeling of increased blood flow, and I smile. Like the smile of a tired runner leaning on a friend after a marathon. The smile of survival, curved with pain. 6:35 a.m. I begin to wish it were last night again so I could sleep. Better yet, I wish it were tonight so I could sleep and be one day closer to something, anything.

The morning is bright. The light shines through the shutters and lands in a neat arrangement of parallel lines on the floor. I stare at them for some time. I look at my watch again. 6:44 a.m.
In the past this was my favorite time to go for a run or ride my bike. My shoes have not moved from the closet and my bike has not shifted a gear for many days.

I manage to sit up on the couch. I stare blankly across the front room, bare except for a card table decorated with a half-finished puzzle. I force my arms to push me up off the couch. After the light-headedness of standing clears I walk to the kitchen. I pick the glass Pyrex up off the counter and measure out two cups of water. I place the Pyrex in the microwave for two minutes.

Okay, two minutes to wash my face, brush my teeth, throw off my pajamas, and make sure my backpack has my...wait...no, who am I kidding? I have no where to go today. Or tomorrow.

Today I have no plans. In fact, I have no plans for the next three months when, theoretically, I re-enlist for my last year of medical school.

I let the microwave hum away as I walk back to the couch and sit. I sit and watch again the planks of light on the floor and listen to the soothing hum in the kitchen. But my thoughts are harrassed with memories.

I remember the money wasted in recent days. I think of the time wasted. Addiction is a slave-driver of the worst kind. And I am learning why some men give up family and health in the name of addiction. These men are not selfish. They are imprisoned. I am the latest convict.

The money does not bother me as much as the time. I can always make more money. But I am troubled with time. I heard once after fifty you start counting. I am twenty-eight, and I am counting. Tears well up in my eyes as I look down the hallway of my apartment, forcing myself to remember my wife as she used to look in the morning, fresh after sleep.

“Hey honey. How are you? Did you sleep okay?” she asked every morning.

She was always courteous and positive. Early in our marriage it gave me wonder. How could someone be so nice all the time? And then I learned more about her. Courtesy and optimism were her weapons, forged during a difficult upbringing. She often repeated her favorite motto: “Your future is as bright as your faith.”

I smile as I remember.

Every night I could count on her warm greeting when I arrived home: “Hey honey, did you have a good day? How was it today?” She would then skip up to me and give me a hug. There was little variability is this nightly ritual.

I cannot remember the sound of her voice.

I do remember my hot water in the microwave. I get up off the couch and walk to the kitchen. I open the microwave door, grab the Pyrex and pour my water into a mug. I then get two packets of hot chocolate from the cupboard. I tear them open and empty the powder into the mug, followed by four packets of sweetener and a caramel candy. The caramel was my wife’s idea. And a good one. I take my cup back to the couch and sit down.

I had forgotten to turn the heater on last night and I realize I’m cold. I rest the mug on my lower belly and let the coursing blood warm as it flows near the cup - An old boy scout trick I learned on a camp-out. It feels good.

I sip my chocolate and think over the past few months. Little measurable progress. I attend my counseling sessions and complete the proffered exercises. But addiction remains. I have not touched the guitar. My diary is dusty. The New England Journal accrues, unread, in my mailbox. I no longer enjoy my daily run. And I have stopped attending church. When I look in the mirror these days I force myself to look past my reflection. My eyes sear me with shame.

I sip more chocolate. I prefer it hotter but I have no desire to reheat. The parallel planks of sun on the floor begin to widen. The day is moving on. And I am going nowhere with it.

I feel time pass; literally feel it pass through my chest. In its wake is guilt. I begin to think of my last binge.

Not long ago addiction belonged to my patients. It belonged to those faces on street billboards. It was always compartmentalized safely outside my life. Now it is mine.

As the morning light continues to slide across the carpet, I feel the need to knock myself out. I am tired of the guilt. I gulp down my chocolate. I wipe the corners of my mouth and lay the cup on the floor. I stand up and walk to the kitchen drawer to grab my keys, wallet, and glasses. I can’t see the prices without my glasses.

As I pocket my stuff I make a quick calculation: A few thousand dollars left from student loans and five hundred dollars credit on my charge card - six hundred after last night. I have sufficient. I leave the kitchen, but not before turning on the radio. My wife used to make fun of me for having a radio on that I ignore. “What did that commentator just say?” she would quiz. I never knew. I just like background noise. I walk past the dining table and notice its contents: my phone, a copy of Hunger Games, a Gatorade bottle, some scattered pens, a dirty bowl and a napkin scrunched up in a ball. I think about grabbing my phone, but why bother?

I walk to the front door and my phone rings! What irony in my meaningless life. It vibrates off the table and falls to the floor. That is enough for me to ignore it. I turn back to the front door but as I reach out for the knob, I hesitate. I cannot remember the last time I answered my phone. This morning I will. I quickly rush back to the table and inadvertenly kick my empty cup on the floor. It flies up and crashes into the wall, waist high. The handle breaks into pieces. Agitated at my clumsiness, I look at my phone. Gracie is calling.

“This is Ruben,” I say. I use this introduction to pretend I am too busy to note who is calling.

“Hey Ruben.” she says. “What are you doing now?”

“Just getting stuff ready for the hospital,” I fib.

“Do you work today, Ruben?”

“Always, Gracie. How is the Wii working out for you? Are you past the level you were on when we last spoke?”

“Yeah! I got me a new game. You kill aliens, it’s fun.”

I imagine Gracie saying this with a fat grin on her face. The grin that shoves her cheeks up into her eyes.

“So, what’s up?” I ask impatiently.

“Ruben, I was wondering, can you walk me across street to work today? It’s scary right now. And with cold people are crazy driving.”

Gracie has a habit of forgetting to say “the” in her sentences.

A few months ago I spent three consecutive weeks walking her to work. She fears the walk. Luckily, work is not far; a convenient walk of five minutes even for someone obese like Gracie.

In an odd way I feel glad for her call. Family and friends have since stopped calling and Gracie’s timing is penetratingly encouraging. I agree to walk her to work. “Okay, Gracie. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t call you if not ready,” she says, chortling.

“Okay, let’s do this, I’ll meet you like last time at your front door?”

“Should we dr..dr...drive Ruben, it’s cold?”

“Let’s walk. It will be good for us.”

With meeting details arranged, I close my flip-phone. Besides receiving a call, it feels good to hear someone say my name, even if it is just Gracie. I walk to the bathroom and grab my hat off the floor. I am not worried about leaving in sweats and a stained jacket. I look at my watch: 7:48 a.m.

I descend the stairs of my apartment. The sun touches my face. The warm sensation is familiar and foreign at the same time. It is cold, but not too cold for Gracie to walk. As if to validate this conclusion I breathe out into the air. No visible breath. Warm enough to walk.

Once downstairs I glance up at my apartment, avoiding eye contact with two people walking past. I walk across the parking lot to the other buildings in the complex. Gracie lives in the far north building with her husband, Steve. Steve’s job begins at 5:00 a.m. He walks two miles to work every weekday. At four miles a day, that is twenty miles of walking in the week. I am impressed.

As I walk to meet Gracie I remember an amusing incident. She found out one evening I was driving my wife to the airport the following day. She asked, “Can I come?”

My wife and I looked at each other; we smiled in meek condescension. I said to Gracie, “sure, but we have to leave by 4:30 in the morning.”

Gracie asked no follow-up questions and we thought she would forget the conversation. The following morning my wife and I both received texts from her at 3:30 a.m.: “Hi, ready to go. Call me now.” She came with us to the airport that morning. Every time we went to the airport after that morning my wife and I jokingly asked each other if we should invite Gracie again.

I hurry past building 900 and 1100 to reach Gracie’s apartment. She has a security alarm sticker on the front door I find amusing because her front porch is full of stuff - easy to steal. Nice stuff too. Cables, satellite dishes, chairs, a dresser, and more.

I knock on the front door and wait twenty seconds. I ring the doorbell, perhaps the only doorbell in the complex. No answer. I am frustrated and slightly angry. Why would Tiffany call me to walk her to work? It’s the easiest thing in the world. She needs to grow up. She needs a life.

These thoughts make me look down at my feet in personal rebuke. “Needs a life, Ruben? Look who is talking.” Tears well up in my eyes. I look up quickly as the doorknob turns and the door swings open revealing a smiling Gracie. She shines through my wet eyes.

“Hey, Ruben, you got here fast.”

“You excited for work?” I ask.

She makes a sound that resembles a starting car. I take that as a “no.” Her sounds confuse me sometimes and I am never quite sure how to proceed with the conversation.

“How’s Steve, Gracie?”

“He’s at work. He has a headache.”

“Is he still on his medication?”

“Yeah, but he don’t do nothing but watch TV all night. Course he has a headache.”

I am pleased Gracie makes the connection between excessive television and headaches. Maybe she will understand her doctor’s advice to learn about diabetic-friendly diets.

She steps outside and turns around to close the door. After the door is shut she looks down into her handbag. She pauses for five seconds. I ask if everything is okay.

“Yeah,” she mutters. Then she opens the door and steps back inside her dark apartment. She reemerges five seconds later and closes the door. “The alarm,” she says, “forgot to set it.”

We walk side by side through the complex out to the main street. We chat about a few things. Mostly I ask about the Wii. She seems to enjoy it more than anything right now. She is also reading a mystery book, she says.

“You like to read Gracie? That’s great.” I hate how condescending I sound. “Does Steve read as well?”

“No, he don’t. He just watches TV all night like I told ya.”

We reach the main street and turn north on the sidewalk. We pass a bus stop where two men are waiting for the bus. One is sitting with his head down, staring at the side-walk. The other is standing beside the bench with both hands in his pockets, trying to keep warm. Maybe it is a little cold outside. Neither one looks up as we pass.

We reach the cross-walk and I look over at Gracie. I sense her anxiety. But with me by her side she presses forward once the signal shows the blue man. Half-way across the street the orange hand begins to flash and Tiffany picks up her pace. I easily keep up with her and we reach the other side with time to spare.

“You don’t have to go on. I’m okay now,” she says. Her work is just across the parking lot.

“Oh, I don’t mind I’ve come this far.”

We continue on together cutting a diagonal path across the parking lot. Behind us the shallow winter sun is rising at its southern angle. The light from it hits our backs, casting tall shadows from our bodies. There I am, slim and tall. And there is Gracie, next to me, her shadow resembling a pumpkin with legs. As we walk I look at our northwest-pointing shadows.

“What if we could trade places with our shadows, Gracie?”

“That’d be cool! But why would you want to do that?” she asks.

“Because then we would all be the same. We wouldn’t have to worry about putting on a happy face for anyone. We could simply exist and function efficiently. And it would equalize all of us. One people, one color.”

I don’t expect Gracie to respond. We walk on for a few moments in silence before she suddenly stops. She swings around, her abdomen striking my thigh, and then extends her arms up and out. Her head is bowed. She looks like a three-year-old waiting for a hug from Father.

“Thanks for walking me, dude!” Gracie then gives me a hug. I can see her saliva-stained shirt come up into my neck. I look up and away and hold my breath.

“Great!,” I say. “Have a good time at work and thanks for calling.”

“No problem. Same time tomorrow?”

I think for a few seconds before responding. “You bet Lauren, best way to start the day.” As the words leave my mouth I realize I mean it.

We part ways. I turn around into the sun to walk back home. I notice my heart feels warm. My shadow is gone. And for a moment, I forget my addiction.

The Mathematics of Milk

2011-12-26T18:41:00.000-08:00

Today I economized in a way that made me proud to be Grandpa's grandson. I walked into the Sunflower Market to the back of the store. The obligatory walk of consumption to buy milk. I asked the clerk if any reduced milk was available in the back. He said no but that if I found a jug with a sell-by date within the next two days, I could get it for 99 cents.

Like a man hunting geodes I stuck my skinny neck in the cold rows of dairy, squinting at dates on the top of milk jugs. I found one. I knew I would. I handed it to the clerk and he took a sharpie out of his pocket to write the reduced price on the jug.

"So, I can just walk in here and find a nearly-expired milk anytime," I asked with a grin.

"You bet, just make sure you are nice about it. Don't be like the old ladies who shove a jug at me and demand, '99 cents!' Just don't be annoying about it."

And with that I secured a way to purchase a gallon of milk for 99 cents. At two gallons a week that could save us 104 dollars a year. Multiply that by 30 and I've reduced our grocery bill by 3120 dollars over the next thirty years. Milk lasts longer than the date so we're safe. Now, onto the next money-saving idea...

I WIll Find You

2011-11-12T19:20:00.000-08:00

A cloudy night. A semi-strong breeze. A dying moon. Perfect night for a jog. That's what Anna thought and she invited me along. I'm glad I went. We drove a mile east to the River Trail parking lot and parked in the darkest corner to begin our late night run.

We walked through the parking lot to the paved trail and began our run. The trail borders along the Rillito River. And if you know your Arizona, you know river is synonymous with wash, so we were basically running along a very wide wash, probably a hundred yards wide. The river cuts through the heart of Tucson. It's flanked the entire length by ranches, parks, and corrals so you really don't feel like you're in the city. But since you are in the city, the lights bounce off the clouds at night and light up your way like an eery Hogwart's night setting. It's great. And along the way you pass giant sentinel Eucalyptus trees. The Ghost Gums' branches literally float in the wind; giant dementors to scare you along the run.

And to perfect the ambiance, you're in the desert, which I'm convinced is the BEST spot on earth in the winter. It's not too cold, but nippy enough to wear warm clothes. The animals are still out - not hibernating. And the plants are still alive. There you go: mother nature in her happiest mood. Tonight we could hear the chorus of Coyotes howling along with us as we ran. They were in the wash. To liven up the run I did a goofy "Last of the Mohicans" dash through a part of the trail to show Anna my manliness. Sadly, a skinny runner man has little claim on James Fenimore Cooper's idea of masculinity. For that I would need fifty more pounds, a hatchet, and a lot of leather.

Luckily, our only hunting at the end of the run would be at Trader Joe's, our reward for the best run on earth.

Partners in Crime, Watch out J Edgar

2011-11-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

How It Happened (A Primary Source)

We came around the corner of Harvest and Allen in the late afternoon. As second-graders we were just two nondescript Mormon boys having some after-school exploration through the neighborhood.

But let's provide some context. The neighborhood was what our parents called "blessed." At the time that meant nothing to me. But I did know I had a lot of friends. And if I walked down my street my arm could possibly tire out from the number of waves made to passing neighbors and cars. Waves were reciprocated earnestly. So waving in our neighborhood was as common as the warm sun. Nothing big here other than the fact that everyone knew everyone and was on good terms all around. This was to be a terribly important setting for what we were about to do.

Around the corner...I spotted a newspaper in the Kleiner's yard. Late in the day I thought they didn't need it. So I grabbed it. We kept walking and two houses down another newspaper lay in the driveway. So my partner in crime went and grabbed it. Two boys. Two newspapers. No. Big. Deal.

But here is the deal. If you throw your mind back to when you were a young boy in the prime of youth with only a pencil box in your desk at school to your name, you liked things, especially free things. And you were competitive. If your best bud had one, you wanted one. And if your best bud didn't have one, you never though about having one. We both had one newspaper. But I wanted another one.

And so, a few houses down, I grabbed another newspaper I saw (apparently our neighbors were not well-informed of what happened the day before in Mesa). Well, my buddy grabbed the equalizer at the next available driveway.

So, we got home with newspapers. Nothing big, but it was an easy booty. I bid my friend good evening and walked home to dinner with the family, passing the "Return with Honor" plaque on our front door.

The next day at school, my buddy and I started talking about resuming our collection. But newspapers were boring. And each one said the same thing. What else could we collect out there in our world? The answer came on the way home from school. Another one of our buddies was out of town. So we knew he must have had uncollected mail in his mail box. I told my buddy to watch out for anyone watching us, and I quickly opened the mailbox, which was stuffed. My heart skipped with joy as I plunged my hand in for the easiest "free" stuff in the world. We ran around a fence and sat down with my buddy's mail. At this point you might wonder where our consciences were vacationing. To this day, I never know why they were AWOL, so I cannot answer that question, I really was otherwise a good kid.

Back to the mail, one of the envelopes was a birthday card for our mutual friend. We opened it. I know, terrible. And we read it. And laughed at the words, though it was nothing special. But our hearts were racing. This was cool. It was fun. It was exciting. We looked down the street at an entire line of mailboxes, standing there on their posts like prisoners in front of a firing squad, unmoving and silent.

We moved on and at the next house opened the mailbox. Nothing. But at the following house the mailbox was again full of mail. I grabbed it all. This one was lucrative, veritable booty, if you will. It had a brand new shiny penny inside the envelope. The face of Honest Abe staring right at me. I was pumped up about this new scheme of ours. Funny birthday cards. Free pennies. Why hadn't we done this earlier?

We moved on down the line of waiting mailboxes. At this point you have to realize we were feeling no remorse. Not only were we pre-baptismal age, we simply had no idea about the significance or consequence of taking people's mail. That's another thing, we truly felt we were "taking" not "stealing." If it comes everyday, why would they miss one day's worth? With my hands full, my buddy grabbed the next box's contents.

By this point in the afternoon our hands were full. We crossed the street to my partner's home. On the side yard was a large vine with big, flat leaves. It crept up from the ground to the roof and spread across half the side wall. It was a perfect treasure spot. We cleared away leaves and branches and placed all our mail on the cool, shaded ground. No one ever walked at this spot except potato bugs.

What happened that night I cannot recall. I'm sure I was looking forward to more mail. Because we got more mail. And more mail. Day after day. How many days this happened I also cannot remember. I just have vague episodic memories that haunt me to this day. After one illegal excursion my partner and I sat atop the fence dividing his home from the neighbor. We had scored an actual box in someones mail, as it turned out, the box of my future church Bishop. We opened it up - a box of pills. We gleefully threw each pill into our neighbor's pool. That was fun! I remember they were red and white pills.

Another episode nearly ruined our fun. We had opened an envelope with two bank cards! One for each of us. We played with these cards in the downstairs of my buddy's house. His dad walked by while we had them out. He asked to see one. We didn't sweat it or skip a beat at all, we simply said we found them on the street. Now, looking back, I realize our "Sherman's March" through the neighborhoods of our youth was widespread. Because my buddy's dad had no idea who the person was named on the card. We might be talking a full square mile. My memory suggests more like a half-square mile.

After a few days we had loads of mail under the ivy. Our treasure was our fun. And no one suspected. I can't believe we were not caught. We always took mail during the day in full view of front windows and living rooms. But I think people started noticing. How else would Mom have been tipped off?

One afternoon we were coming around the street north of Harvest, which is my street. Our hands were full of mail. And there was Mom, walking with a purpose, to us. We both turned around to face away from her and quickly stuffed the mail up our shirts. Great minds think alike. Apparently, authoritative minds think alike, because Mom asked, "what is up your shirts?" I distinctly remember saying, "nothing." By now you realize my IQ equaled my age at the time, so you can understand the response.

I don't remember the long walk home with Mom. I don't remember what happened to my loyal partner when he went home. But I do remember that evening we were returning loads of mail. I can only imagine what our parents thought when we uncovered the ivy. What they saw must have made their hearts drop. But, in the 1980s and in a good neighborhood, we were cushioned against reprisals from the victims.

One evening soon after our capture was devastating. We had to sit through a half-hour lecture from our neighbor across the street who was...a mailman. He told us what could happen to us and where we could end up. I walked out the door feeling all eyes, including the birds, were trained on me. The worst part of the evening was that they were showing Crocodile Dundee II on TV. Mom would not let me watch, as part of my punishment. I learned my lesson. I loved Dundee.

About a week later my partner in crime and I were playing in my back yard. When it was time for him to go home we walked out to the front. And there, right in front of his house were two cop cars! We knew we were in trouble, possibly headed to where the mailman said we would be going if we ever stole mail again. So we ran into my backyard and spent the next hour crouched under a table. We were spooked. Way after dark we emerged, peeked over the fence, and saw the cops had left. Whew! Close call.

Not much happened after that. But the episode, referenced often at family reunions, brings a few laughs. It could have been worse. It should have been worse. But then again, we grew up in the best neighborhood on earth! So if you decide to steal your neighbor's mail, try it in Mesa, AZ. Just avoid the half-square mile around 1336 E Harvest because they're on alert!

Lives to Word By

2011-10-17T16:56:00.000-07:00

When I was a freshman at Arizona State I lived with Bill, Jennifer, and Andrew Hall. My family had recently moved to Utah and I wanted to save for my mission to Brazil. So I took advantage of the Hall's goodwill and moved in. Plus I had a nice deal going with ASU (free school with a stipend).

The Halls are my second family, so I can't really say I grew any closer during my freshman year. I had lived over there for 18 years as is. Another year was nothing new. However, Bill quickly found out I was particular about two things: homework and sleep. If either my homework or sleep routine were violated, life was rough. When I wasn't slaving away on essays or counting my sheep, I was usually hanging with the Halls. We had a great year. It was a memorable year in history, the year of the twin towers attack, the D-backs World Series, the beginning of the Afghan war. It was a year of mission calls and friends starting to talk marriage. A lot of change. But I was able to note something I wasn't expecting: Jennifer's work ethic.

It's not that I did not know Jennifer worked hard, it's just that I didn't pay attention to it. Like a word you learn and suddenly begin hearing everywhere, as soon as I learned how hard Jennifer works, I noticed it everywhere. In a year of living in her home, I caught her sleeping a total of two-and-a-half times. The half time was when she was doing this pseudo-slide off the couch, downstairs. She reached the ground before she reached REM, so it counts as a half. She had just finished hooking up Andrew's CF treatment at 5:00 AM and I was leaving early to school to witness the rare event of Jennifer pausing for a break.

Jennifer works crazy hours. She is a professional caterer, working as many as four receptions a week. She teaches swimming lessons in her pool to all the kids and their kids in Mesa. She works actively in the church. She cooks homemade meals nightly. She is constantly running errands for family and friends. And she is never too busy for people. When a client comes over to discuss a reception, she will spend over half-an-hour just shooting the breeze and getting to know the person and their family. Her product at receptions and swimming lessons is more than time, it's love. And that's why people keep coming back for her swimming and catering.

I'm again staying with the Halls this month as I work at St. Joseph's hospital in Phoenix. I haven't seen Jennifer sleeping yet in two weeks. Though she once told me, "I'm going to bed," a phrase I never heard her speak before. This past weekend she pulled off something that would have made my legs fall off. She catered a reception Friday night for over 400 people. She directed a staff of ten, paid them all, sent them home, cleaned up, went home, and began packing for the next day's reception in Sedona, AZ. At around 12:45 am she began making her shopping list for her 7am trip to stores. I was tired and went to bed. Then next thing I heard was her footsteps upstairs at 5:30 am. She had an appointment with her running buddy. They are running a half-marathon in two weeks. After that she was off shopping. She came home, cut up veggies, made two sauces at the same time while listening to me jabber mindlessly, and finished packing her trailer. The amazing thing about those sauces was she had to quadruple the portions, doing the math for the different sauces in her head. By 10:30 she was off to Sedona. I stayed back to study, and re-attach my legs that had fallen off while helping at the previous night's reception.

At Sedona she had to improv as grills went out, the trailer didn't fit, and her cell phone stopped working. Once more unto the breach she went, and she came home victorious, early Sunday morning. When I talked to her Sunday evening, her voice was tired and hoarse, the effects of two straight days of giving directions beginning to show. I went to bed and today saw her in the afternoon. She was giving me an update on the day even though she was late for a service project for a girl she helps with cerebral palsy. Then her daughter called, who she stopped to help. Then she told me her dear friend had passed away this morning from a heart attack, her tired voice beginning to break as she began to cry. I couldn't help but think: God bless you Jennifer for all you do and are.

A while ago she once told me, "If I ever stop I'll break." We were running on the beach at Santa Monica at the time. She was talking about more than running. She was talking about life. Thanks Jennifer, for showing me that whatever we do, we give our best, because anything less is "to sacrifice the gift" (Prefontaine).

Because I'm proud to be an Arizonan

2011-10-15T15:57:00.000-07:00

The state covers a lot of territory. But from Tombstone to Tempe and from Pine Top to Prescott we consistently celebrate one thing well: History. See below:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/13/us/a-celebration-for-the-london-bridge-in-arizona.html

The Tucson Sunset

2011-10-01T22:23:00.000-07:00

The Insider

2011-09-22T20:20:00.000-07:00

If you walked into a store and an associate said, "Here, buy this, it's on sale today for real cheap. See, look out on the window where an ad is placed on this item," then I would listen.

If I walked into the same store and the associate said, "Come here, don't tell the manager this but I'm going to let you know of a sweet deal just for you today on this item. No one else knows about this," then I would be inclined to furrow my forehead and pretend like someone was calling my phone so I could leave.

My wife and I have learned that the special treatment, often under the table, heavily persuades us to not buy a product. We have walked away from apartments and car dealerships because of the sweet deal "just for us," when "no one else is supposed to know about it."

I really believe the most comfortable sell is the one open to everyone. And there has to be transparency in company hierarchy, from top to bottom. If not, it just feels like your buying into something that feels at best, vaguely slimy.

Four Years Reputation

2011-09-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

We celebrated our fourth anniversary a couple weeks ago! Thanks to my oldest, most wisest sister, we dined at a classy joint. While I was contemplating how to make a dinner of chicken nuggets, mac and cheese, and cookies and ice cream romantic on our front porch, I contacted Whitney. Her input caused my plans to evaporate to the voice of reason. The voice consistently says, "She deserves finery." But for some odd reason which might be due to maleness, or just plain cheapness, I ignore the voice. As a side-note I wonder if the sound of the voice resembles those Sirens of old.

And in pursuit of finery, I embarked on an internet search of the classiest joints in Tucson. In the end, I relied on the quotation of an ESPN article I read that morning reporting Coach Mike Stoop's favorite restaurant in Tucson is Vivace. We've already dined at the table next to Lute Olsen, so I had to broaden our value-less bragging potential with the possibility of sitting near Stoops and Co. Plus, our anniversary was the night before the football season home opener. What coach in his right mind would not dine at his favorite place the night before a big game?

So we arrived and dined. It was fine. No football coach present, but I didn't notice, even after four years.

Oh Sweet Saturday

2011-09-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

From espn.com:

"Kennedy (18-4) became the NL's first 18-game winner and has victories in his last three starts. He allowed one run on five hits in seven innings, struck out six and walked two.

"Arizona beat Lincecum at sold-out AT&T Park for the second time in just over a month after a win against the Freak here on Aug. 2. Lincecum allowed nine hits and five runs and struck out seven in five innings, his shortest start since also going five against San Diego on July 4."

can you hear the rumbling memories of 2001?!

The Nail in the Coffin

2011-09-01T20:00:00.001-07:00

When I was seven I met a kid named Adam. He moved at 97 mph and never stopped. I always admired his energy, especially in high school track where he could run the 800m faster than I could dream. Nothing stopped him. Not even a nail shot through his head. One day out working construction with his brother, he was climbing up a ladder. The man above him was climbing with a nail gun. While the man was ascending, the gun bumped a ladder rung and discharged a nail down into Adam's head.

Adam climbed off the ladder and felt the top of his head. Nothing. Just a little scratch where the nail presumably ricocheted off. But just to be sure, they went to the ER and took a plain film of his head. And there, smack dab inside his temporal lobe floated the nail. I saw that plain film in Safford, AZ, where a technician showed me. Amazing picture. Amazing luck.

Surgeons removed the nail and Adam continued his life, racing around high school and track like his normal self. I've always remembered that story and thought how extremely lucky he was. In fact, he was the luckiest person I knew...until now.

Today in the reading room with the radiologists, we pulled up the images of a local Tucson man. He was pruning his garden when he dropped his shears. The sharp edge wedged into the ground, with the handles (blunt end) pointing to the sun. He bent down to pick them up and tripped right on top of them. Amazingly the handle penetrated under his eye ball and down into his face, all the way into his neck until it rested on his carotid artery. And there it rested, bumping with every beat of his heart.

Surgeons removed the shears and today he has made a full recovery. Sorry Adam, you've been trumped by an 87 year-old gardener.

Rene Le Fort, History, and Radiology

2011-08-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

My two interests of radiology and history combined during a resident lecture today at lunch. The attending physician, Dr. C, described the research of French army surgeon Rene Le Fort. In the early 20th century, he outlined specific facial fractures. He interest in studying this macabre medicine was allegedly born upon his visit to Notre Dame cathedral.

There, he observed the buttress with the fly, supporting the posterior tower. Rather than use more cement for a sturdier tower, the great architect wanted to install stained glass. His solution was the flying buttress. Le Fort made note of these supports and wanted to find analogous support in the face. And so, with hundreds of cadavers, he used a system to

be able to predict lines of fractures based on direct and indirect stress or collision.

He used hammers, boots, and more, to literally smash the faces of these cadavers. He would then boil the heads for 24 hours so the meat would fall off the bone. He then would study the fracture lines. Another alternative w

as to soak the heads in a dye for 6 months, which would achieve the same purpose. Perhaps in the early 20th century it was costly to boil water for 24 straight hours.

Because of his observations and manuscripts, radiologists today report Le Fort fractures in their dictations. There are currently three Le Fort fractures, with the third being most severe as it consists of a complete separation of the face from the skull.

History and medicine.

Parking spots

2011-08-17T22:49:00.000-07:00

We drove up and around and around the hospital parking garage. Talking and driving aimlessly we pulled right into the nearest spot to the hospital entrance. It was the greatest moment of the day...until we pulled into the nearest spot to the supermarket entrance later on. I told Anna both times we should walk home and just leave the car in those spots, to gloat.

Extra driving time is always worth it when you get that spot. The sad part about this day was we weren't even trying. It was too easy. Life is never that easy, but it was for us then.

I gazed deep into the eyes of the awaiting drivers when we pulled away from the spots so I could telepathically stress how important of an event this transfer of parking spots was. In reality, I was sulking for the loss. Don't ever take for granted good parking.

I was going to blog about my sweet day in neuroradiology. But for some reason parking lot karma trumped it.

Insight to Psych

2011-08-11T11:47:00.001-07:00

Psychiatric refers to mental illness. Like the body, the mind gets sick. Actually, our health, mind and body, sits statically on a spectrum. Our bodies are assembled, built-up, fortified, remodeled, and broken down. Dust to dust. By 90, almost %50 of people will have some sort of dementia. Which makes me wonder, what are my chances? But over the last six weeks I've come to learn, it's not about chances. We get sick because we are human. And our minds get sick like our bodies. You can count on it.

The difference between having a down day and two straight weeks of down days might not seems like much, but it's enough to tag you with Major Depressive Disorder. The difference between you checking your locked door three straight times versus 30 straight times is the difference between "normal" and OCD. And the only thing keeping a drunkard on the streets from being petitioned into a psych unit is the fact that there's no loved one willing to sign the paper to get him forced treatment.

Those patients in psych units are not far removed from us on the outside. Yesterday they went to work. Tomorrow they'll go back. They are our co-workers. Our neighbors on the bus. They are not different. They have the same mind, the same neuro-chemical pathways susceptible to imbalances, and the same responses to medication.

But they are inpatient because they or a loved one thought they were more sick in mind than the rest of us. It's amazing to see the anti psychotics or mood stabilizers restore an individual back to coherence, back to the ability to carry out activities of daily living. Olanzapine works on the mind no different than hydrochlorothiazide on blood pressure. There is a physical receptor the medicines affect. It's not just theory to me anymore because I've witnessed it work.

It's strange to see fourteen people in a living unit on lock-down. We have them diagnosed and packaged. We feed. Me medicate. We often condescend. But if you sit and talk, you'll hear something familiar, and before long you'll be saying to yourself, "I think that way," or "I've done that." I just haven't thought or acted in such a way to be a threat to myself or others. But being idealistic, I believe ever threatening thought or action is actually a calling out for help. Whether conscious or not, it's a calling out for help. Why else are we here? And not being a humanist, I think we all cry out, looking up. Ride on!

Runner's World

2011-08-03T07:01:00.001-07:00

For the first time this summer monsoon weather spent the night to hang out this morning. Thunder and lightning brought back a thousand memories of youthful shenanigans.

The best part was being able to soak it in. Drove Anna to the airport at 4:30 am under moderate rain and thunder. Then it started to get light. But the sun had to pound through two membranes of cloud, succeeding in only breaking the one closest to ground, so it remained eerily orange-grey.

I was a road hazard on the way home. My camera makes me ADHD, trying to get all the cool, momentary shots in time. Luckily the roads were mostly empty.

I arrived home, placed my body on the bed and told my head to go to sleep. But the window kept rattling, daring me to go out for a run. How could you not. One of running's secret pleasures is to go out under a drizzle, with the weather cool. The breeze gives a pretty good sideshow of swashing desert greenery accompanied by that ever-so-cool whistling through the leaves.

So I was out on the river trail, running and grinning. Pure sport. Take it anywhere, anytime. No lockout can touch it like other sports. And free adrenaline. Now I'm late getting to the hospital...typical

Shelby Cobra

2011-07-30T13:05:00.000-07:00

This morning we awoke to a moderate breeze. The sky was clear but for a few floating vestiges of last night's monsoon.

The air was warmer than typical for the high desert. And there was calm...before the storm.

After we put on our Levi's, pulled up our socks and tied our shoes, we placed caps on our heads. nodded at each other, and headed out the door.

We got in our car and drove up Oracle Road to Mike Treece's home. This was one of Anna's birthday presents. A ride in Mike's Cobra. There exist only a few hundred originals in the world. The Cobra, manufactured for only three years in the sixties, can easily be worth over one million bucks. Mike built his from a kit.

The first thing he told me when he offered to give Anna a birthday ride was, "This thing has had problems. When it used to shift it literally jumped off the road, then fishtailed to the left."

The only time I like my cars fishtailing is when I decide they fishtail. That's besides the point. Mike knows his stuff, I hoped.

"As a matter of fact, yesterday the fuel line was leaking", he told us. He was going to take his wife out for her birthday. She never made it because they had to repair the line. After finding out about the leaky line, I made a mental note to locate the fire extinguisher in the car, which I'm sure Mike had.

After a brief tutorial on getting in the car and buckling up, Mike took Anna off on her birthday ride. She had a great time. But we all know the real reason I arranged this present. My turn came.

And what a sweet ride it was. I came to realize that car aficionados drive on another plane than the lay public. The road becomes their playground. They literally become oblivious to other cars, except when they say, "that guy thinks he's going fast." Besides that infrequent reference, they are in another world. Red lights become their friends. It gives them a chance to flex their motor muscle. Now, Mike says his Cobra is the fastest car in Tucson. Whether that's true or not, it was an adrenaline rush.

Life is fun when you can dip into another person's hobbies. People like to share their hobbies and it gives you a chance to learn something new. So, cheers to wife's birthdays! And for Mike's birthday I might get him a fire extinguisher.

A Shift

2011-07-28T18:20:00.000-07:00

An addiction specialist lectured us today.

Some interesting trends and facts.

He says abusers of opioids are wising up to the damage they are causing to their livers by abusing Percocet and Vicodin. So they are turning to Oxycontin. So, if you abuse, oh be wise.

Also, a sobering fact. The most common cause of mental retardation in the United States is maternal alcohol use. Sad, but can be prevented with some attention by good homes.

What to do?

2011-07-25T20:41:00.000-07:00

My attending asked us today whether or not it was society's place to judge whether a pregnant, psychotic patient should have a choice of conceiving a child when there is substantial risk to the well-being of the fetus.

Hmm....

Electro Convulsive Therapy

2011-07-17T18:06:00.001-07:00

Friday was a knockout, literally. It was a comedy of errors too. Thursday afternoon I was reading the case of two rabid dogs in Michigan. About 130 people were treated with post-exposure medication, causing quite a ruckus. So Friday morning I headed out to find a dead battery in my car. I hopped on my bike, rolled up my pant legs, pulled my socks over them like a Scottish school boy, and pedaled up the hill towards Northwest Hospital.

Off to the side of the busy street, under a Palo Verde, stood a leaning dog who in my mind looked rabid. You know the dogs that kill in "Lady in the Water?" This is what it looked like. And he charged...

So there I am kicking the dog with my Scottish school boy leg while pedaling up hill trying to get to the hospital on time. Dr. Weigand, concerned, called for my whereabouts.

"I'm on my bike...should be....there....soon!"

And I was. And it was a fun day. After two weeks of non-procedural work I was given the crash course to electro convulsive therapy. As hands on as you can get in psychiatry. In a nutshell, this procedure is for those with major depressive disorder, schizophrenia, OCD, and bipolar mania who do not respond well to medication. It can also be used in the autistic spectrum of patients. It basically involves applying a surge of electricity to the brain of patients, inducing a real seizure.

It's a factory, filing patients through quickly. Nurses prep the patients in their gowns. Then we ask the patients how they're feeling, why they are here, what meds they are on, what concerns they have. Then the anesthesiologist puts them under. Following that, we apply gel to two pads for good conduction, and stick two paddles on opposite sides of the head. "In between the tragus of the ear and the eye, and one inch superior." After the paddles are applied, we hit the big yellow button, and a patient seizes, usually from 10 to 30 seconds. Of note, we use caffeine to lower the seizure threshold. Think about that before your next Pepsi, though you'd have to drink 12 Pepsis to equal the dose administered.

Included is a picture of the seizure of a man from whom I applied the paddles. It was a remarkable experience. I also walked away thinking it was under-utilized. We medicate so many but ECT has proven un-harmful and beneficial. One mom flies her son out for daily treatments, from California. California HMOs do not support ECT. So this mom pays $1500 per treatment and sleeps up at Star Pass Resort. She has some money for her autistic son, thankfully.

Twice in the morning were cultural references to "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." So I need to watch it.

An amazing morning of medicine in practice.

Mania and Fans of sports

2011-07-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

In lecture today we discussed mania. We wrote a mnemonic to memorize the symptoms.

D - distractability

I - irritability

G -grandiosity

F -flight of ideas

A - risky activities

S -little sleep

T -tangentiality

Okay. First, if you listen to a group of sports fans (probably guys) talk about sports,they practice tangentiality in their conversation. One idea leads to another idea which leads to another idea. There is sometimes no connection or logic to the topics of conversation. Each fan is out to prove he knows what's going on in coach's' or players' heads right now even though all his information is from ESPN.com or SI.com. But you must articulate your chromosomal relationship with the gridiron, no matter how cliche you sound. I, Spencer, am tangential when I talk sports. But I'm not a manic fan. Or am I?

I do get distracted from life by sports. I do get irritable when I can't watch what I want or if my team loses. I suffer from grandiose feelings of superiority (my email is sunsfanyesiam). I do have flight-of-ideas. I can lose sleep for sports. But risky behavior? I think not. And I think to be a manic sports fan, I would have to engage in risky behavior. The photos below depict three recent sporting events where manic fans were present. One is of a riot in Vancouver after the Stanley Cup when the home team lost and fans proceeded to lay waste to their city. The other shows a manic fan trying to catch a baseball on a wobbly table. And the last, sadly, is of a Giants fan who was beat up in front of his children in the parking lot by Dodgers fans. This happened months ago, April 5th, to be exact. He is still in the hospital with permanent brain damage. There is real psychosis in sports. Think about that the next time you "boo" your opponent.

The Social Worker

2011-07-12T17:17:00.001-07:00

A social worker in the hospital is a professional "Hey,- is-there-anything-I-can-do-for-you?" person.

And they do it.

If I could select my next door neighbor, it would be a social worker.

If I had to send our kid to be babysat by anyone and I knew they were a social worker, I would have less qualms than a palm tree to drop them off there.

I hope they make $100,000 a year. They deserve it.

The Team

2011-07-09T07:39:00.001-07:00

On the psych ward there is a very even ratio of health-care professional to patient. On the geriatric floor I'm working there are 12 patients. Many of them are "train-wrecks," and require a lot of back effort and forward planning. Their stay on the floor averages out to anywhere between two weeks and a month.

To coordinate the effort to care for these 12, Team A - of which I'm a part- (mostly silent part) gathers every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning at 9:15. Around the table are pharmacists, nurses, social workers, case managers, physicians, insurance agents, and students. Friday I counted 12 at the meeting. One health care worker for each patient.

Now let me take you back to Kum-Kundi-Yilli. Just north of this village, down a long, red dirt road sits a hospital. Green weeds and trees border the building and pools of water reflect all over the grounds. The entrance to the hospital is enclosed by a metal gate, like the kind you see around elementary schools. Outside are vans with people sitting. They are either bleeding or waiting for someone that is bleeding. Leading up to the hospital is a line of villagers doing the same thing. Inside the gate is a giant courtyard with concrete seats lining the walls. Each seat supports a patient. And off in the northeast corner of the courtyard is a little office. Inside the office is a well-groomed gentleman with glasses. He wears a tie and wields a pen. He's the physician. All his supplies lay scattered on the desk. He is also nurse, surgeon, primary care physician, pharmacist, and hospital administrator. The nurses are on strike, so today his job, theoretically, is to treat all the patients outside his office.

That's Kum-Kundi-Yilli, in northern Ghana, at least how it was when I visited for a month a few years ago. Our health care system is broken, I hear. But on the battle front I still see something good. I see American brothers and sisters working for the idea that life, any life, is worth saving. I don't know if it gets any more complicated that treating a majorly depressed man who comes in after his 8th suicide attempt. Yet the team works as if he were their own flesh and blood Grandpa.

I know comparing the Ghanaian health care system to ours is apples and oranges, but it's worth reflection that as Americans we budget ourselves into the red because we believe in the cure. Call it hubris. All I see, so far, is courage. But I'm biased, I work on Team A.

My challenge the next five weeks is to formulate my own opinion on the best way to reform health care. I'm a naive knave...

The Brain

2011-07-06T21:59:00.000-07:00

Dealing with psych patients today was very memorable. I saw geriatric patients in wheel chairs sitting at the end of the hallway in the sun, like potted plants soaking up the light. They didn't move for hours. Perhaps they know something I don't.

I saw women yelling at anything that moves. I saw men doing things I thought only adolescent boys did.

I saw old, seasoned veterans of the earth acting out like children.

Yet despite all this obvious disorder from the norm, I kept thinking about two things I read this morning.

Half our genome goes to building the brain. And, there are more neurons than stars in the Milky Way. I think our Creator values the individual. The human brain holds more star power than the Galaxy.

So, why disorder among us? Their has to be a constellation that can be drawn from all the scatter-brains that populate the psychiatric wards. I'm not expecting to find it. But I bet someday we might know.

Back in...

2011-07-05T20:28:00.000-07:00

The opening line to my textbook today read:
"Knowledge does not keep any better than fish."

And that's what I can testify to after day one of my fourth year, after a year off.

But oh, was it worth it.

Today was orientation in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. A pretty light day with my only patient interaction being with a 350 pound man who thirty minutes earlier threatened the life of himself and the attending physician across the room. I was unaware of these threats until a nurse saw me bump into him in the lock-down hallway on my way to the bathroom.

The rest of the blessed day was spent reading for tomorrow's activities.

In God We Trust

2011-07-04T20:11:00.000-07:00

[P]roclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof...

Leviticus 25:10

A Change

2011-06-30T20:14:00.000-07:00

This is my last week as an official medical student "drop out." I'm dropping back in on July 5th. I'm excited. Anna comes home from the ICU and dazzles me with stories from the life in health care, constantly reigniting my desire to get back in the game.

Just for the sake of a personal accounting of my last year I want to catalog some of the fun I had, some of the things I did:

-Hikes with Anna all over Southern Arizona
-Campouts until 9 pm
-Pick up the guitar and learn the classical approach
-Play the piano any time I passed one
-Serve as a boy scout leader
-Play basketball
-Compete in road bike races
-Run a road race
-Work as a substitute teacher (One of the most fun things I did)
-Work with Jennifer as a punch boy in Mesa again
-Visit family in Thatcher, Lake Powell, and Salt Lake
-Read, read, and read (I'm a new fan of Newberry books)
-Publish in a radiology journal
-Eat good Anna dinner without having to pick up a medical book to study soon after
-Sunday walks with Anna
-Sleep in when Anna had days off (I feel guilty typing this)
-Write thoughts, figure out what I like to write
-Make sling shots and give them away to missionaries in the Tucson mission
-Go on exchanges with the Elders
-Go to Bookman's often
-Watch movies with Anna
-Drop off my brother at the MTC before he headed out to Cusco, Peru (a great highlight)
-Play tennis (watch out Rich!)
-Listen to NPR and Dan Patrick radio on many a morning (these two shows have a way of canceling out the flow of information in my head)
-Journal
-Look up family history
-Call family more often
-Learn about trees (there seemed to be a calming influence as I finally learned about these standing neighbors I pass everyday)

And there was more to bore. Oh! And I got to watch March Madness and the NBA Finals uninterrupted by study or hospital work. But trust me, I'm excited to join the human race again in the normal way of life.

But how normal it will be you can decide. Come back and check out the adventures of a fourth year medical student, which begin July 5th. My first clerkship (5 week assignment) is in psychiatry.

One Unfortunate Event

2011-06-30T10:54:00.000-07:00

We drove home from Utah yesterday, into incredible wind. Gales, in fact. Also, much of the way down I-17, 89A and I-10 was under construction. At one place on the 89 between Lee's Ferry and Flagstaff we were forced to stop at a one-way section of road. The oncoming and outgoing traffic shared alternating turns of the one way stretch. We pulled right up into line to wait out turn. We rolled down the windows to get some fresh air. We were out in the middle of nowhere. The wind was blowing. Clouds were sailing their shadows across the hills. And the mood was calm. But then it stank like a mix of partially clean bathroom and partially messy bathroom. And there, upwind, on a solitary hill stood a port-a-john. The door was flapping open in the wind, sending the sweet smell of good stuff right into our car. We rolled up the windows and cranked up the A/C, in idle mind you! Gone are the last tracings of Grandpa's conservative influence on me and cars. Fear not though, I still drive 65 mph.

Anna is the most, most patient wife in the world.

The humble Noble

2011-06-16T19:22:00.000-07:00

I attend a weekly neuro-oncology tumor conference. I can point out the brain on an MRI, and maybe a tumor or two, but beyond that I have no real expertise. But I like to listen, and watch. I am, after all, just a student.

Someday I want to participate in a meaningful way in one of these conferences. You know, House style. Wham! Bam! Slam!

That's the esprit de corp at this conference. You have the brightest of the brightest from disciplines such as radiology, pathology, neurosurgery and more, who discuss tough cases and create a management plan for patients. And they sometimes never have mercy on each other. The doctors seem young, vibrant, strong, and persuasive. You know your stuff if you wear this medical badge of courage. And if you're shot down with a whamable and slamable comment, you bite your tongue until it's your turn to strike.

These conferences are fun.

But...meaningful contribution. When am I going to make one? I would love to know it all. But today I saw something that reminded me of what medicine is all about and how I would hope to contribute. To establish context, the computer mouse and keyboard were malfunctioning, delaying the conference proceedings. So as each case was brought up on the computer, heads rolled and comments were made. "Why can't we fix this?" "This is unacceptable." "We can't go on this way."

But on we went, heads rolling. Off in the corner of the horseshoe arrangement of tables sat a retired surgeon. He had long, stringy white hair. He wore a long sleeve maroon shirt with khakis. And he had his black buckle briefcase that looked like it was from the seventies on the table, with a tooth-paste looking stain on it. He had two stacked cups that ten minutes before held his coffee, sitting in front of him. He attends these conferences, as some retired doctors do, for reasons unknown to me. I guess it's to keep up or to provide input.

As far as input goes, no one wanted to hear from him. I kid you not, when he would raise his hand to comment, the doctor as the lectern would look at his raised right hand and ignore him. No time for an old-timer who studied in the analog age with printed books and medical journals. But the old man stayed. After the third case, he got up and left. I was standing in the back and looked forward to taking his chair but thought I'd give it two minutes just to be sure he was gone.

Then, back in he walked - oh I forgot, he also had a cane - holding a mouse and keyboard he grabbed from a nearby vacant office. He weaved past the extended legs of the doctors right up to the lectern to replace the malfunctioning hardware. After the job was done, he walked back through the gauntlet of extended legs and sat down in his chair.

And the conference proceeded, in my mind, beautifully.

This retired doc got the job done, no matter how custodial it was. It was a simple event in the day but I want to remember this guy! Especially if I get in the habit of sitting back and rolling my head. Meaningful contribution.

The Fabulous World of Newberry

2011-06-14T17:32:00.000-07:00

I like for people to tell me what is good. Trails to run, food to eat, movies to watch, and books to read. I like when they all have been critically reviewed and recommended. I'm not much of a cultural scout. And I've taken this preference to my book reading this last month.

I read three Newberry Honors in a month, and for not being a novel guy (pun perfectly intended) I can't get enough.

Newberry winners are fantastic authors. They write well. If I could ever write as well as them I would consider my skills to have maxed out. Think about it, their challenge is to engage the youth. You have to use words to make a kid stop, sit down, open a book, and read to completion. There is power in those words, especially if all the words you use for your boy scouts are "Shut-up!" or "sit-down." I want to learn a better method and I think those Newberry books have the answer.

The greatest of the latest:

The Bronze Bow

Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy

Wednesday Wars (which didn't win but got runner up)

I'm going to miss these reads when I pick up the stethoscope again...

The Man Who Killed Santa Claus

2011-06-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

This is taken from "The Story of My Life" by Benner Azro Hall:

"In December of 1932, the local newspaper was a weekly, called the Mesa-Journal Tribune. John McPhee was the editor and publisher of the paper. Well, that year, he and some of the business men came up with a brilliant idea to add some excitement to the Christmas celebration. On Friday, December 9, the Journal had front page headlines which announced, 'Santa Claus Coming in Airplane'. The article went on to say that he would fly over Mesa, do a few loops, then jump out in a parachute to land in the arms of the waiting crowd.

Well, that should be really exciting. At that time there was only one airplane available in Mesa, a two-wing biplane, flown by Mitchell McFadden. They found a stunt man someplace, who agreed to dress up like Santa and jump out of the plane.

Unfortunately, the stunt man was one who was fond of alcoholic beverages and he started celebrating too early. When they were ready to load him in the plane he was so drunk he couldn't stand up. So, John McPhee came up with another idea.

They put Santa's costume on a dummy, put a parachute on it, and loaded it in the plane. McFadden was instructed to fly over the crowd, do a few loops, then push Santa out of the plane, so he would land in a field, just outside of town. The police car would drive down Main Street, with another man dressed as Santa.

Well, all went well, with lots of excited children as the plane flew over, doing its stunt; but then tragedy struck the great town of Mesa.

When Mitch pushed the dummy out, the parachute didn't open. You can just imagine all the terrified children, gasping as Santa's body tumbled to the earth.

But, a few minutes later, all were relieved when the police car came driving down the street, with Santa in the back, waving and throwing bags of candy to the amazed children. The Christmas spirit was renewed in the town of Mesa, but Mr. McPhee had difficulty living down the reputation as 'The man who killed Santa'."

Sedona

2011-06-10T22:54:00.000-07:00

Here's to spontaneity pointing at Sedona. Thanks Craiglist.

Space to Grow

2011-06-03T10:11:00.000-07:00

When I feel something, I write. When I write, I learn about about what matters to me. I recently wrote about homosexuality. And through the post I learned that what matters most to me are my relationships with others.

I have met so many amazing people in my life I can call friends; I feel like the richest man on earth. Over the last few days I've burned bridges with my words. How I would risk friendships to preach something I was never called upon to preach is beyond me to answer. I don't know. But I know more about the personal regression that comes from highlighting the mote in my brother's eye.

My beams are many. Big enough to support the biggest cathedral of self-worship sometimes. I want nothing more to do with motes. I need to work on my cathedral.

We are all walking the same road of choices no matter who or where we are. My choice is not your choice, but since when did that make me better than you? What would separate us would not be our choices, but withholding love from each other. Thank you for allowing me space to learn this, space to grow.

Why we camp, can't, shouldn't...

2011-05-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

I can see the pioneers of old looking down on us in wonder when we set off to go camp in the domesticated wildernesses of America.

"Sweet Joseph and Mary, why do they leave the comforts of their fluffy homes with all their magical devices and freezers with ice? If it were me I'd never take another step outside."

Or...they might just be looking down on us and smiling, thinking, "Oh, those darling folks. They do try, don't they?"
This sounds more likely what hushed down from the heavens as we trekked out into the Coronado National Forest this weekend.

In summary, we left with supplies for two days, plans for hours of hikes, and blankets so thick we couldn't see out that back of the car. We had knives, saws, matches, first-aid kits, and toilet paper. We were going to rough it on hot dogs, manly beans, and marshmallows, all over a roaring fire hot enough to singe my beard. We were going to gaze off a peak at the sunset and be back up with the sunrise, hunting down a black bear sighting. In the end, we hiked 45 minutes, saw the sunset, shivered back to the car, ate half a raw hot dog, cried into a can of cold beans and drove home. I was no Kit Carson. Anna was no Calamity Jane. But we couldn't have had a better time realizing we weren't born pioneers.

The camping trip started out promising. Our hands floated out the car window as we drove up the mountain. We watched the temperature drop from 106 in the valley to 70 by the time we reached Ski Valley. As we made it to our trail head we loaded up with supplies for a hike off into the forest. We planned for four hours. You know how long we made it.

Instead of hiking, we ended up on the ground with our backs against a fallen pine. The forest, four years past a fire, looked young, scarred, and fresh. Off to the left we could see forever with the sky islands opening up over Tucson. To the right we watched the sun descend into the Ponderosa. Smoke from fires on the border gave a purple/pinkish haze to the late afternoon. And we talked. And held hands. Who cares for four hour hikes when you have that?

Then we shivered. We stood up, dusted off, and headed back up the trail. We were passing through some meadows of green grass, ferns, and pine when we looked west though the trees and smokey haze to see a blood orange sun, setting. We ran to the edge of the mountain to see it set. The dramatic violin music from the new Jane Eyre movie was playing through my mind as we ran...until Anna tripped over a root and face-planted. Then it was all laughs for the rest of the sunset.

Then we hungered. We had learned upon entering the forest we could not have fires. So we bundled up in the car, opened our beans, and sat with a lighter heating up our hot dogs. If you've never done this, don't, it will infuse a butane-like aroma into your hot dog leaving your ready to pitch anything you might have eaten all week. At this point I couldn't tell if I should be laughing at Anna's recent face plant or the state of our dinner. We couldn't imagine a better trip, so we threw the rest of our hot dogs away, gathered all our stuff, and abandoned our two-day plans in the mountain for McDonald's in Tucson and a night in front of our TV watching The Man from Snowy River. Now there's a man and a woman of note!

William Bradshaw, the Educator

2011-05-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

Of the long list of pre-requisites for medical school, Bio 120 was not supposed to be difficult. In fact, it was theoretically the easiest 2 -credit class of them all. But it snapped my DNA in half. And that's because my instructor was William Bradshaw, professor at BYU.

After I got my DNA back together, and looking back with 20/20 vision, I could see that Dr. Bradshaw helped me more than any other educator in the business of teaching, from elementary to medical school. Everything I thought about learning changed after Bio 120.

Dr. Bradshaw was in his last years when I took his course. He had thin white hair, a curvilinear tie from a mildly, portly belly, pressed slacks and thick eyeglasses. He spoke in short sentences with long pauses. He never cracked jokes and never really smiled. The only things I knew about his personal life were that he was a mission president somewhere and was a Red Sox fan. The day after the Red Sox won the World Series, he wore a big red towel with the signature "B," like a cape on his back. That was as spontaneous as I ever saw Dr. Bradshaw.

In our first lecture, we spent the entire period reading an essay about "The Who," and a concert they played at where some fans were trampled to death. All the students, including me, left the class in a BYU funk thinking we signed up for the Cultural Arts 101 instead of Bio 120. The next few lectures were devoted to topics far outside the scope of Biology. But he made us interact with each other. He made us ask and answer hard questions. He made us realize how uncomfortable it is to defend your position if you're not so sure of your position. And he made us want to prepare properly so we would eventually have a position. And that to me was huge.

I felt like I had just spent 14 years in school without ever really learning how to learn. I could memorize and regurgitate, but the content would never stick. This stick-less pattern worked in public education. But it did nothing to prepare me to ask the hard, meaningful questions in life. And it did not inspire me the way Bradshaw did. He got me so excited that after class I would bike furiously home to my roommates so I could chat their ears off about my incredible Bio teacher. I would try and mimic class at home by asking my roomies hard questions to break their DNA too. But breaking anyone's DNA is a hard thing to do when ESPN is the major building block of conversation. So I always got excited for my next Bio lecture. It kind of became a fascination of the abomination for me to see just how little I knew about learning.

I remember one lively discussion in class about the purpose of the Giraffe's neck. Of course, I knew, I had seen the evidence. Those necks were for food high off the ground. But then Bradshaw showed us other evidence. He showed us observations of male giraffes using their necks as battering rams against other males in competition for the female. He showed us that most giraffes ate their greens close to the ground. He turned my giraffe world upside down and shook it up.

But most valuable of all, he showed me to stop, think, evaluate, decide, defend, and respect other's opinions. I knew I wanted to preserve his lessons, both for me and my kids someday. So the other day I called him up at his home in Orem, Utah.

On the phone, I said, "Hi Dr. Bradshaw. I took your Bio 120 course seven years ago. It changed my education, and continues to profit me in every area of my life. Can I ask you some questions about your teaching style?"

He responded, "What's your name?"

"Spencer Hansen, I'm a medical student."

"That's nice, where do you live?

"Tucson, Arizona."

" I'd be happy to answer your questions."

He was, at the moment, convalescing after heart surgery. So we agreed to have me email him the questions. He could then read them and respond out loud for his daughters to type up. I thought it an extraordinary effort for an extraordinary educator. But I got what I wanted. The questions I emailed, followed by Dr. Bradshaw's answers are below.

1) If you were a student beginning a course in any field, what would you define as a “success” upon completion of the course?

To think like professionals in that field. To hear a presentation from a person in the field (a seminar talk, for example), and be able to follow most of the arguments and evaluate their validity.

2) Are there elements of an education that every student should possess upon graduation from college?

a) To be able to write well – clear, concise, complete, and interesting.

b) To be able to evaluate the merits of data and arguments so as to make valid judgments. To draw conclusions based on evidence.

c) To have a general interest in a wide variety of subjects, and maintain an interest in them as an educated adult. Be committed to reading.

d) To be able to engage in a meaningful conversation about important ideas.

3) Does practice, practice, practice make perfect in any field?

Practice makes perfect if one is in a field for which he or she is well suited. There are probably some fields of endeavor for whom each of us lacks the neurological wiring, interest, or commitment to be able to succeed.

4) When were you happiest as a student? Explain if you wish.

The day I left a biology classroom session having learned the principle that cells of an embryo are genetically equivalent, but cellular differentiation is due to selective gene expression.

5) When were you most frustrated as a student?

Poor performance on exams when I thought I had prepared well. Recognition that I really didn’t know how to study.

6) Can true learning exist without God’s help?

I don’t know, but if we really are God’s children we must have some genetic endowment – with the potential to learn as He does, perhaps independent of Him. One person can’t learn in behalf of someone else. One can’t learn very much without constructing his/her own set of models and frameworks.

7) What advice would you give a high school student to prepare for the academic challenges of college?

Learn how to read and write. Cultivate broad intellectual interests. Don’t take AP courses as a means to avoid (pass out of) those subject in college. Be prepared for the realization that you’re not as good as you think you are.

8) Are there principles of education that you use in college that you could also use with primary children?

Teachers should provoke people of any age to actively articulate an idea, not just passively accept as true ideas presented by others.

9) What does the ideal learning environment consist of?

It’s not an environment, it’s a process. An active exchange between students and teacher, where following a formative assessment, teachers provide feedback that allows people to identify the holes in their understanding and take the steps to correct them. The experience must be both rigorous and user friendly.

10) How has your wife helped you improve your teaching?

She has helped me in everything because she knows more about me than anyone else. Coming in the room when I was grading exams and saying, “Don’t be so hard on them.” I never paid attention to that.

11) What do students do wrong in their learning?

Study alone. Study silently. Fail to ask questions. Fail to be metacognitive – to think about thinking with the intent to do it better.

12) What do they do right?

The opposite of the items in 11 above.

13) Should every high school graduate aspire for college today? If not, for what reasons might they pursue a different course?

No. Lack of sufficient interest in higher education; unwillingness to pay the price; sufficient interest and aptitude in earning a living in a field that requires some other preparation than college.

14) What do you do to keep learning every day?

Read the newspaper. Read books. Listen to NPR. Associate with informed friends and associates.

If you want to hear a great lecture from the man, go to:

http://mormonstories.org/?p=1158

He discusses the causes of homosexuality.

Read

2011-05-11T06:08:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I read a book that leaves me as satisfied as Thanksgiving Dinner. A book that penetrates to the very core of my soul in a gentle way. A book that I actually smile at when I turn the last page. I’ve learned I don’t show much emotion when I’m all alone, for whatever reason. So I consider the last-page-smile-when-I’m-alone my litmus test for books that must always occupy space on our shelf.

Any Calvin and Hobbes book tops the list. In a close second is Lonesome Dove. But right up in close competition is The Wednesday Wars. My unborn children don’t know it but it’s on their “required reading” list when they come. And they will like me for it. Thanks Mom, for the recommendation. Fitting that you handed it to me on a Kindle.

House hunting in Tucson

2011-05-01T20:06:00.000-07:00

Anna and I went for a walk this evening after dinner in an unexplored neighborhood. We are thinking of moving now. Which one would you vote for?

Picacho Peak (Arizona's answer to Angel's Landing)

2011-04-28T13:57:00.000-07:00

We have driven by Picacho Peak hundreds of times. It's on the way to Tucson from Phoenix. It's also the site of a Civil War battle, for which they perform a re-enactment every year, guns and all. It shoots straight up out of the flat desert like a knuckle sandwich, taking you two thousand feet into the desert stratosphere.

Anna and I have tried to hike it twice already

. We failed the first time when I forgot

my wallet and a Ranger

would not let us

mail in a bill. "You really shouldn't be driving without your wallet anyway?" So us two patrons patronized back home to Tucson. The second time a killer storm was rolling across the desert in front of us as we stepped up to the trail. Today was different. Today was normal. With wallets in pockets and the best weather on earth (93 degrees without a cloud or breeze) we made the hike!

It's a hidden gem and well worth the time. If you ever visit we will take you, and it won't disappoint. Some hikes tend to bore or seem too long. Hunter Trail, built by the CCC in the 1930's is the perfect mix of length and variety. We heard and saw hawks, a pack of coyotes

making a kill, and lizards galore. And it was a heart-pumper. A real full-body workout that left both of us a little more than nervous. We finished the hike excited to do it again someday. And with

empty canteens and dusty shoes we walked into a near-by Dairy Queen for some dipped awesomeness.

ps- Don't be like us and scoff at the

Ranger when he says "two liters per person is a must."

Tomorrow's headline could have been: "Desert native and wife die of dehydration 2.1 miles from I-10 Interstate and local gas station."

No need to flirt with the Darwin awards.

A plug for Kobe

2011-04-21T07:23:00.000-07:00

Sure I've got a big "to-do" list today and appointments at the hospital. Sure I'm off to a late start. But if I don't get my espn.com hit early, I begin getting nervous, shaky, and cranky. I limited myself to just a glance this morning and it made me pause in gratitude. On the front page was a picture of Kobe giving a high-five to Odom. He has a menacing stare, like an arrow bearing down on its target. And you see...passion. Passion! It seems in recent years NBA talk has dwindled down to:

"They are thugs, self-centered, and selfish."

"They don't care about winning, just the money."

"They don't play team ball."

But this morning that picture of Kobe took me back to 1992-1993, a year during one of the glory decades of the NBA. A year when every other house in Phoenix had a "Suns fan yes I am"

sign on their window and car. A year when passion dominated the game. A year when I cried after the Suns lost in triple overtime to Jordan's Bulls in the Finals. It was tragic. I still remember the feel of Grandpa and Grandma Budge's thick brown carpet as I rolled on the floor in agony. As a 10 year old I could feel and see the pain in Barkley, Majerle, Ainge, and Johnson's faces. I wanted to throw a dart at Pippen, Jordan, and Longley. Passion.

Kobe, this morning, you rock, and you are rocking more and more as the years go by.

Professional Running and a Beard

2011-04-17T07:07:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you have heard the joke:

"What's the difference between a teacher and a pizza? Answer: The pizza can feed a family of four."

I like it, not only because it's almost true, but I can apply it to a lot of things I spend my time doing. Consider my running. I've logged thousands of miles. I've worn out pairs of shoes. And I've raced in probably fifty races by now. And the difference between me as a runner and a pizza is...? You guessed it. I couldn't sustain Ghandi with what I make as a runner. I could put a shirt on his back, but that's about it.

Except for last night. I won forty bucks in prize money at the Sabino Canyon sunset race for finishing first in my age group and fifth overall! Yes, I brag. And if you ever read Runner's World or know any runners, you will quickly find that runners are probably the humblest braggers you know, in a proud sort of way. They brag when they run well. When they run poorly, they don't quit. They put their shoes on again the next morning and hit the road in prep for a future race. That's the humble nature of runners.

When they run well, the endorphins last long past their shelf life. You literally believe you could take Everest if given a chance. (I think our bodies were designed to be sore after a race just so God could prevent a misguided runner from actually taking a hike up Everest in a state of delusional euphoria. Lactic acid can bring you back to reality, quickly).

Just observe a local marathon someday. See how the runners who fared well behave after the race. They bounce around on blisters, high-fiving everyone and cheering on the later runners. They will gladly pick up all the cups that fall when tired runners collapse into the water table trying to reach a cup at the finish line. And they will invariably take their shirts off. They are bronze. They are sweaty. This is the bragger inside every runner. (As an aside, the later runners at the finish don't take their shirts off. It's a strange phenomenon).

But of any athlete I know, runners have the right to brag when they do well. The training is hard. The competition is painful. The outcome is variable. Few sports induce pain in the preparation, competition, and recovery stages. Running is one of them. I think boxing is another, or rowing, or cross country skiing, and probably figure skating and ice hockey, okay so maybe there are many sports defined by their monopoly on pain. However, when is the last time you saw a hockey player turn around and high-five his opponent just after he smashed him into the glass? Runners are friends with the competition. For a really amazing story on this see: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/04/born-to-run-the-marathon/. Just drop down to the part the reads, "And then I saw Derartu Tulu," and go from there. You won't waste your time with that article like you are doing with this blog.

So you see, runners are your friends, in any walk or run of life. Can we just please brag when we do well? I promise you won't get tired of it because it won't happen often. Holding back the happy effects of the runner's high is like trying to tell Santa to stop "Ho-Hoing." A physiologic impossibility.

So there I was last night under the full moon in Sabino Canyon National Park, high-fiving and picking up cups to put in the trash. And I was proud to be able to feed a family of four, even if only for one night. And no, I did not take my shirt off.

As a post script I wanted to mention the satisfaction of a beard. There is nothing better than trimming one. When trimmed, I look down into the sink, see my clipped hair and think: "I know I'm lazy and have much to be desired but at least I can count on you, hair, to keep on trucking away, 24-7." If only I could work as hard as hair.

Born to Ride

2011-04-05T23:16:00.000-07:00

I stole into the road cycling crowd. By stumbling across a "Tricats" jersey in a thrift store and with the gift of a road bike for my birthday a while back, I am able to play the part better than a jack-o-lantern on Halloween. I am a runner, not a cyclist. But I try. And try I did last Saturday at the 21st annual Tour de Mesa.

For a husband, and kid, with over a hundred thousand in debt, running appeals to me for practical reasons. For about thirty-five bucks a year I can take my sport anywhere. I've taken it through downtown Boston, Pittsburgh, Paris, Masada, Ghana and the beaches of Mexico. I've even hit the pavement on a dirt track in a small farming villa in Brazil. But of all those runs my favorite is still the one I staged across the field of Gettysburg on a hot day in July. My brother-in-law and I were like kids on Christmas morning after that run, at least that's what I remember. But most of my runs are on my local roads here in Tucson, and that's just as good because when I run it feels good to be alive, no matter where I am. I'd like to say I was born to run, but someone wrote about that already.

Born to ride? I'm not so sure after Saturday. In fact, I'm not so sure anybody was born to ride. Take the comedy of horrors I witnessed during the race. Things you just never see at your local 5K run:

First: You have a bunch of adults straddling a bike with skinny wheels. To maintain balance, we whip our thighs and knees at right angles to the bike. Check out a biker trying to balance at a stoplight sometime, he may remind you of a ballerina on wheels. So there you are at the start of the race, a bunch of adults posing like ballerinas on bikes. Oh, we do our best to look good. From the sweet uniforms, shades, and helmets, we exude coolness. Runners have nothing on bikers when it comes to workout attire.

Second: The draft concept. The idea is clever. With a group of two or more riders, you race in single file. If you are drafting you try and bring your front wheel right up next to the rider in front of you. The physics of his motion will suck you right along. I expend 60% of my energy drafting where I would be using 90% riding alone. Drafting rocks.

(There is a similar technique in running, but since runners usually don't move faster than 10 or 12 miles an hour, it doesn't really help to conserve energy.)

But drafting is dangerous. Ten miles into my race last Saturday I found a good group to draft with. All four of us took turns leading and following. But at one intersection a rider slowed and the two behind him smashed right into his rear. The front rider was pummeled to the ground. I hopped off my bike and ran to where he lay in the road, his feet still clipped into the bike. He had a two inch gash above his right eye and his eye balls were shifting back and forth horizontally in saccadic fashion. In a matter of twenty seconds this Paul, if his recollection of his name is correct, had no idea where he was or what he was doing. I freed his feet from his bike and then another biker showed up saying, "I'm an ER doc, what happened." Needless to say, I was not needed much after that. So I took off. For some reason a line from Mission Impossible came to mind as I was riding away from the accident. "Man down Ethan, man down."

Third: You just can't stop to pick up a twenty you see on the ground. If you are out running and see money on the trail, you stop and pick it up. Then you spend the rest of the run wondering how many ice cream cones you will buy with it. You don't have that luxury if you spot money during a bike rice. But there it was. A big, fat twenty lying in the road. I imagine a biker was fishing in his back pocket for goo when he accidentally pulled out the twenty. He wouldn't know his post-race BBQ money was missing until that juicy burger was on a plate in front of him. Isn't there a Greek tragedy based on a similar situation? Anyway, I couldn't pick up that twenty because if I stopped I would have been mowed down by the twenty riders immediately behind me. Some lucky runner would get it though. For the rest of the race I rode over new bike tubes, expensive water bottles, unused CO2 cartridges, and more good stuff. For a retired dumpster diver, that was hard to do.

Fourth: History repeats itself in a bike race. So there I was drafting behind three other riders at the 45 mile mark. A physically fit father, his daughter, and a sixty-year-old with a yellow Alaska jersey. They were fast. They were cool too. All business and no play. Then a police officer at an intersection held up both his arms to stop oncoming traffic as we passed through. The fit father thought the cop was telling him to stop, so he did. His daughter piled right into him, followed by the Alaska man, and once again I barely missed crashing. Man down Spencer, man down. This one happened to be a little more bloody. I won't give you the details but just imagine what a chain ring can do to a man's ankle with the right velocity and angle. I was looking around for an ER doc after that one. So in one morning I saw more blood cycling than I ever have in all my time running. Talk about cool.

So there it is, ballerinas on bikes, dangerously drafting and passing up twenty's on the ground only to be on the ground minutes later in an awful crash. But gosh we look cool doing it! Happy trails...

The one and only...

2011-03-27T19:41:00.000-07:00

"He should have lived in a different generation," said Anna. She said this after our inspection of a storage cellar on Grandpa's property. I agree. He is the ultimate survivalist, my Grandpa Hansen. A quick survey of his ranch, which I think more and more of as a compound, would show he and Grandma are pretty close to living off the grid. With the help of Rafael, a friend Grandpa met in Mexico, he built his home, barn, garage, gazebo, storage shelters water tank, and turtle farm. Oh, and there was a '72 three-quarter ton Ford pick-up to haul supplies. One day that pick-up was given to me. I rumbled to and from ASU in it my freshman year. But in it's practical days, that truck was the legs for Rafael and Grandpa. And they worked hard.

The house is made of walls three feet thick filled with dirt from the ground. With a white stucco exterior and red tile roof, it has a unique mexican/home-made look to it. One hundred feet south of the house, Rafael and Grandpa erected a parking garage from huge timber logs. There is a steel corrugated roof to supply shade to the garage. Underneath you can fit two dune-buggies, a truck, a minivan, a volkswagon bus, a honda accord, another small pick-up, and two ATC's. On the sides of the posts multiple tools hang. Grandpa knows the EXACT location of each tool. This is constantly amazing to me since I frequently lose books I'm reading in my own 400 square foot apartment. But, I'm no survivalist.

Yet another 100 feet south of the parking garage is the previously mentioned storage cellar in the earth. With a 3-foot high ceiling you could probably fit five people inside. To this day I'm not sure what it's for. Just make sure to remove the rattlesnakes cooped up inside before you venture in for a nap. As for a future hiding spot in capture the flag, I think I know where I'm headed.

If you travel back to the house and a little northeast, you'll come to the gazebo. This gazebo puts the dainty ones you see in English films to shame. It's made of a massive cement foundation. Underneath lies another storage cellar. Above lies a deck you can reach by way of a windy stair case. I've seen countless shooting stars on that deck and consider it my favorite place on the ranch.

If you look in the southwest direction while on top of the gazebo, you'll see another building shrouded in pine trees. The pine trees are the remains of a farm Grandpa once started. Three of their progeny are standing tall in our old yard in Mesa, AZ. They too are survivalists. But it is to this building you must never go if visiting the Ranch. It's off limits. I once took Anna when she was my fiance to this building while Granpda was in it and he nearly disowned me. (He would never disown me, I promise) But we won't discuss that building. It serves a purpose and that's all that need to be said.

Finally, directly east of his home is a wash with a network of trails. Me and the cousins have spent hundreds of hours speeding around those washes on Grandpa's ATC's. We've built bonfires. We've camped out. We've watched in horrific awe during the monsoons as the wash runs like the raging Colorado. And we've hunted jackrabbits in the wash. I think one of my favorite memories was when Anna stepped on a tarantula in the wash. All three of us got a fright. The tarantula lived. Oh, and just ask my sisters about "The Expedition" in the wash. A great family story.

So that's the essence of the ranch built by Rafael and Grandpa, more or less. As an aside, Rafael was involved in exciting episodes in Grandpa's life involving illegal alien smugglings. If you ever ask Grandpa whether he has spent a night in a Mexican prison, he'd be lying if he didn't say "si."

But...he's a survivalist, and life finds a way. And it was life finding a way that took Grandpa away from maybe becoming that survivalist who spends his days in the mountains in a van. No, life found it's way into Grandpa's life. He met Maurine. And they got married and had eight kids. Along with my Dad, most of the others have provided me with love, room, and board at various times of my youth. So, I quickly learned that when I want the familiar comforts such as love, room, or board, I can turn to Dad, or Mom, or anyone of my aunts and uncles. But when I want a "unique" experience, really a one-of-a-kind experience, I just have to visit Grandpa and Grandma out on their ranch.

I'm convinced no other grandchild has, or will ever have, the experiences I've had with them. I could write for hundreds of pages the memories we share and treasure, all unique in the very familiar grandparent-grandchild system. Yesterday, Anna and I participated in Grandpa the Survivalist at his best. He gave us yet another unique, cherished memory. It was the "Raising of the Ocotillo," as my aunt from Oregon called it.

To establish the setting for the memory, I will mention that last year it rained much in Arizona. As a result, a huge Century plant sprouted up near the gazebo. It was so big it captured my Grandpa's heart. And a little while back it collapsed, as most century plants do with time. The survivalist in Grandpa jumped to action and he determined to stand the plant upright again on a weekend when all his daughters were in town to visit. With Grandpa as foreman, he directed three clumps of aunts at the base of three guy wires to lift up the century plant and stake it upright in the ground again. I'll never forget watching up on the gazebo as my aunts, and mom, shuffled to and fro under the directions of Grandpa to raise the ocotillo back to life. On the way home that afternoon I mentioned to Anna, "I still don't know why he wanted to raise the plant back up." But I don't care, I guess. It was unique. It was Grandpa. It was family!

Drunk on Laurel

2011-03-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

If you come to Tucson today we'd take you out on a bike ride. Pick any road with a bike lane and landscaped median and you'll encounter rows of Texas Mountain Laurel trees, in bloom. You don't have to see them to know you're passing them. I've never been to a winery but I imagine the aroma is similar to these trees.

Saturday morning I was out riding, drunk on the smell of Laurel flowers. The flowers, which happen to resemble clumps of grapes on the vine, are poisonous. So don't eat any if you run out of cliff bars. Or at least give them to your competition. But out I was riding, swerving in and out of the bike lane. I usually swerve while checking out my chiseled calf muscles. This time I was swerving because I was quite drunk on Laurel flower goodness. But I took control of my handlebars the moment I imagined myself telling the ED doctors, who I probably know, the reason I crashed was because I was "smelling flowers." I made it safely home.

But the damage was done. I was imbibed for the day. How else can you explain a mature adult charging his mature wife with two light sabers inside Michael's craft store that evening? After some quick strokes of death Anna and I turned around to hear a worker down the aisle say to her colleague, "They're not kids." Apparently the worker's wage was enough to get her to tell kids to stop horsing around, but not adults. So the worker just walked away with a justly dealt scowl on her face. As we walked out the store I asked Anna, "What's more demeaning to our pride, hearing: 'Oh, they're just kids' or 'Oh, they're not kids' ?" To me it doesn't matter, I was drunk and I blamed it on the Laurels. Come ride in Tucson with us for a good time...

The Warmth of Other "Suns"

2011-03-17T11:36:00.001-07:00

Grant Hill’s Response to Jalen Rose

By GRANT HILL

Associated PressGrant Hill currently plays for the Phoenix Suns.

“The Fab Five,” an ESPN film about the Michigan basketball careers of Jalen Rose, Juwan Howard, Chris Webber, Jimmy King and Ray Jackson from 1991 to 1993, was broadcast for the first time Sunday night. In the show, Rose, the show’s executive producer, stated that Duke recruited only black players he considered to be “Uncle Toms.” Grant Hill, a player on the Duke team that beat Michigan in the 1992 Final Four, reflected on Rose’s comments.

I am a fan, friend and longtime competitor of the Fab Five. I have competed against Jalen Rose and Chris Webber since the age of 13. At Michigan, the Fab Five represented a cultural phenomenon that impacted the country in a permanent and positive way. The very idea of the Fab Five elicited pride and promise in much the same way the Georgetown teams did in the mid-1980s when I was in high school and idolized them. Their journey from youthful icons to successful men today is a road map for so many young, black men (and women) who saw their journey through the powerful documentary, “The Fab Five.”

It was a sad and somewhat pathetic turn of events, therefore, to see friends narrating this interesting documentary about their moment in time and calling me a bitch and worse, calling all black players at Duke “Uncle Toms” and, to some degree, disparaging my parents for their education, work ethic and commitment to each other and to me. I should have guessed there was something regrettable in the documentary when I received a Twitter apology from Jalen before its premiere. I am aware Jalen has gone to some length to explain his remarks about my family in numerous interviews, so I believe he has some admiration for them.

In his garbled but sweeping comment that Duke recruits only “black players that were ‘Uncle Toms,’ ” Jalen seems to change the usual meaning of those very vitriolic words into his own meaning, i.e., blacks from two-parent, middle-class families. He leaves us all guessing exactly what he believes today.

I am beyond fortunate to have two parents who are still working well into their 60s. They received great educations and use them every day. My parents taught me a personal ethic I try to live by and pass on to my children.

I come from a strong legacy of black Americans. My namesake, Henry Hill, my father’s father, was a day laborer in Baltimore. He could not read or write until he was taught to do so by my grandmother. His first present to my dad was a set of encyclopedias, which I now have. He wanted his only child, my father, to have a good education, so he made numerous sacrifices to see that he got an education, including attending Yale.

This is part of our great tradition as black Americans. We aspire for the best or better for our children and work hard to make that happen for them. Jalen’s mother is part of our great black tradition and made the same sacrifices for him.

My teammates at Duke — all of them, black and white — were a band of brothers who came together to play at the highest level for the best coach in basketball. I know most of the black players who preceded and followed me at Duke. They all contribute to our tradition of excellence on the court.

It is insulting and ignorant to suggest that men like Johnny Dawkins (coach at Stanford), Tommy Amaker (coach at Harvard), Billy King (general manager of the Nets), Tony Lang (coach of the Mitsubishi Diamond Dolphins in Japan), Thomas Hill (small-business owner in Texas), Jeff Capel (former coach at Oklahoma and Virginia Commonwealth), Kenny Blakeney (assistant coach at Harvard), Jay Williams (ESPN analyst), Shane Battier (Memphis Grizzlies) and Chris Duhon (Orlando Magic) ever sold out their race.

To hint that those who grew up in a household with a mother and father are somehow less black than those who did not is beyond ridiculous. All of us are extremely proud of the current Duke team, especially Nolan Smith. He was raised by his mother, plays in memory of his late father and carries himself with the pride and confidence that they instilled in him.

The sacrifice, the effort, the education and the friendships I experienced in my four years are cherished. The many Duke graduates I have met around the world are also my “family,” and they are a special group of people. A good education is a privilege.

Just as Jalen has founded a charter school in Michigan, we are expected to use our education to help others, to improve life for those who need our assistance and to use the excellent education we have received to better the world.

A highlight of my time at Duke was getting to know the great John Hope Franklin, James B. Duke Professor of History and the leading scholar of the last century on the total history of African-Americans in this country. His insights and perspectives contributed significantly to my overall development and helped me understand myself, my forefathers and my place in the world.

Ad ingenium faciendum, toward the building of character, is a phrase I recently heard. To me, it is the essence of an educational experience. Struggling, succeeding, trying again and having fun within a nurturing but competitive environment built character in all of us, including every black graduate of Duke.

My mother always says, “You can live without Chaucer and you can live without calculus, but you cannot make it in the wide, wide world without common sense.” As we get older, we understand the importance of these words. Adulthood is nothing but a series of choices: you can say yes or no, but you cannot avoid saying one or the other. In the end, those who are successful are those who adjust and adapt to the decisions they have made and make the best of them.

I caution my fabulous five friends to avoid stereotyping me and others they do not know in much the same way so many people stereotyped them back then for their appearance and swagger. I wish for you the restoration of the bond that made you friends, brothers and icons.

I am proud of my family. I am proud of my Duke championships and all my Duke teammates. And, I am proud I never lost a game against the Fab Five.

Grant Henry Hill
Phoenix Suns
Duke ‘94

half full or empty

2011-03-13T22:37:00.000-07:00

Tucson. Enough to dislike here in the hot Southwest. Gangs, drug conflicts, human trafficking, apartment hostilities, and more. I mentioned to Anna how we live in an "R" rated city. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see or hear the evidence. In fact, it would be quite easy to drive through Tucson and call it the armpit of the Southwest. But it would be a lie, mainly. I have some perspective because I've been in arguably the largest, poorest neighborhood on the planet. But even in that poor neighborhood there is beauty. It was only there when I wanted it.

President Uchtdorf teaches this principle in this month's Ensign:

"Have you ever noticed that people can usually find whatever they are looking for? Look hard enough, and you can discover both good and bad in almost anyone and anything."

Have you ever read "The Hiding Place?" Talk about discovering good in anything, the author finds the good in head lice. Anna has a gift of doing things like that. (She nor I have head lice) And it's a gift I'm trying to work on. Luckily, I live in Tucson, which is the perfect laboratory for my experiment in finding good in head lice. Take yesterday...

I went for a morning jog through a residential neighborhood. The air was cool, the sun shining, and the doves singing their winter tunes. Bikers were out exercising and people were out walking to their farmer's markets. The saguaros were standing tall and it just smelled like desert goodness. A great day. But it got better when fifty feet in front of me two bobcats crossed the road. They just walked right through people's yards, oblivious to human activity. Gorgeous.

After the run, we went to the Tucson Book Festival and heard Frank Deford talk about sports writing. A writer talking about sports. Here's a man whose occupation is my avocation. What a treat! Tucson is good in this way, collecting the right people to cater to the interests of this polymathematic populace. The Gem and Mineral Show is another example of Tucsons' knack at culture building. So even though we don't have much city landscaping to speak of, we have our books and rocks. And that's why life is good in Tucson. We get our feet dusty in our daily work. How can you not love that intimacy with mother earth? Call it "lice in the hair" logic, but it makes life enjoyable.

I respect the contrasts in Tucson. We have droughts. We have floods. We have the nicest people on the planet. We have the meanest. We have illegals. We have legals. We have rich and poor. We have old and young. We have pot holes and smooth roads. We have a "Stone Avenue," a street that lives up to it's name for it's lucrative trade. Just ask my brother-in-law Dan, who got a flat tire on his bike on that road one day. It's a bit sketchy. My favorite contrast of all is found on a sign near our home where we do none of our shopping.

But the daily life in Tucson is wonderful, and growing on me. So if you call it an armpit, please note it's application of deodarant. And if you hang out long enough to smell it, you'll discover you like it too. We may not have the best family foods here, but if you are looking at the good in this, you'll see that here in Tucson, family is first. Goodnight.

What the Dickens?

2011-03-05T15:26:00.000-08:00

We drove right past a book lying in the middle of a three lane road this afternoon. It was straddling two lanes, so I thought we could turn around and grab it, no problem. When I told Anna my plan I was sure eyes would roll. I do nonsensical things like this on impulse. But I like it for the variety it can add to the moment. It's just not always polite to make someone else go along with my impulses. Anna is long-suffering...

I turned the car around to get the book and here is where the plot thickened. I said, "It's probably a Dickens' novel." I then shared a story with Anna about an army general in the 1860's who wrote to Dickens while he was out fighting Indians and Texans in the West. I shared the story as a way to offer some sort of distraction for Anna while we were headed back to pick up what was probably a New World Bible.

The Dickens story in itself is a good one. The army general, an aspiring novelist, wanted to visit Dickens in London if he ever came over to discuss writing advice. So he asked Dickens in a letter. The amazing thing, I thought, was Dickens wrote back. The general received the letter out on his Indian campaign and was probably put out to have Dickens advise him to stay home and write about home. And as for visiting him, Dickens said no. As an aside, it was this same army general, James Carleton, who was sent to survey and report on the Mountain Meadows Massacre. He never recovered from the experience and retired from his campaigns out West haunted from the brutality of frontier life.

By this time we had arrived at the book. Checking my rear view I saw it was safe to slow down and I opened my door to pick up the book. And there, laying in the middle of the road in the desert out West was "A Tale of Two Cities."

Sunday Morning

2011-02-27T21:53:00.001-08:00

Fully planned on sleeping in this morning, but the giddy girl next to me popped up with the sun. She probably paced back and forth for a few minutes before I stirred and then she ran back into the bedroom and said, "Did you see the mountains?" Anna said it in such a way that I almost thought I heard, "Did you see the presents under the tree?" That would've been fitting given the scenario of snow in our own backyard!

We hopped in the car and took pictures of our cactus dressed like they were ready to attend the Academy Awards. And they should've because they would've won. Especially mickey mouse for best supporting actor. While driving around it seemed the town was pretty lethargic except for a couple photographers and loyal dog-walkers.

One word comes to mind when it snows in Tucson: Confusion. Are we happy for the novelty? Are we upset for the break in routine? Is it good to take photos like tourists? Do we pretend like nothing happened? Do we go to church? No, no confusion on the last question, though there was a whisper of doubt. But that was probably because I had a teaching assignment today. We went to Church. During Sunday school someone mentioned it was snowing so I had fun watching people, one by one, "go to the bathroom," to see the snow. If there ever was a cause worthy to cancel Sunday school, snow in Tucson might be it.

It has been an eventful year in Tucson so far. A snowy Sunday was a good chance to freeze for a moment to think about how to improve as a person. I for one, intend to never again laugh at the people who place dixie cups on top of their cactus to protect from overnight freezes. Without them, there would be few mickey mice to pose for best supporting actor.

Wayne Tanner in Afghanistan

2011-02-23T22:06:00.000-08:00

With his cotton slacks, golf shirt, tennis shoes and baseball cap, Wayne Tanner is dressed like he is on any given day. Some days he might be wearing less, like on the day in Kandahar, Afghanistan where the temperature was 154 degrees Fahrenheit. So though his work outfit sounds comfortable, Mr. Tanner can attest, you’d be “dry, dusty, and miserable” in that weather. To make matters more fun, the days’ work involved repairs of overheating power generators.

For over a year Mr. Tanner has been employed as Facilities Director for AC First, a company based in Fort Worth, Texas. AC First is under contract at Bagram Air Field in Afghanistan to service military vehicles. And it’s here where Tanner is assigned. Tanner is responsible for maintenance of the housing units which accommodate over 2700 people. He also is responsible for upkeep of offices, shops, warehouses, the post office and rec center. He does the same job at Kandahar Air Field. His dorm is also located on the Air Field. Close by are parked the F-16’s and F-15’s. You can guess how often Tanner uses earplugs to sleep at night.

If he ever has trouble falling asleep, he could simply wander on base to the DFAC, or dining facility, for the midnight meal. The buffet offers an array of main course items, vegetables, potatoes, salads, drinks and desserts. If a full stomach still doesn’t knock him out, he might stroll back to his CHU. CHU is the acronym of the unsettling name of “containerized housing unit.” At the CHU, if his roommate is not using the shared bathroom, Tanner could relax with a warm shower that provides hot water “most of the time.”

Showers are necessary for the 3000 personnel on base. Tanner says, “The constant onslaught of dust here seems to never end.” I remember hanging out with Mr. Tanner’s son in Mesa, AZ during high school. I once asked Zach, his son, why there was a one-gallon bottle of lotion in the basement. Zach said his dad used it after work. That made me wonder if Jergens sells five gallon bottles of lotion, and if so, I’m sending one to Zach’s dad.

But back to Mr. Tanner’s shower. In all likelihood, he has never had a midnight meal on base or a midnight shower to relax. The labors of the day are a powerful Ambien. However, the sun never catches him asleep in Afghanistan. He is up by 5am on most days.

Tanner is up early because he likes a sunrise. He says the price is right for them. And it’s a heavy price to pay to give up precious sleep. Here is how he describes the work:

"We have regular preventative maintenance schedules on equipment that needs to be serviced and maintained, as well as work orders and taskers, which are work requests by the various companies and personnel residing on the AMC Compound. We keep track of hours spent on each project and report on the number of work orders and taskers completed. The job challenge is very high. It is a most difficult work environment in which to maintain good attitudes and the work demand is extreme. The stress level is high and my biggest demand is people management. I like to work with people and the time goes fast because of the constant workload. It is interesting to balance my Facilities Management job with mychurch responsibilities. It is a great combination of challenges that I find rewarding and interesting to manage. Afghanistan is one of the most remote places on earth. The logistics of supply demand is extreme and we use a tremendous amount of materials and supplies. These items either must be flown in or trucked up thru Pakistan. Three (3) to six (6) months is a reasonable expectation of delivery times under ideal conditions. Accurate long range planning is essential. Stress related personnel issues are high on the list. Fighting or the use of alcohol or other drugs are all reasons for termination and a quick trip back to the states. Because of the extreme work demand life is accelerated here by, in my estimation, 3 to 4 times normal. This, in turn, increases all the typical personnel issues by the same factor. There is never a time when all the problems are solved when there is not something to do. One does not get bored."

Tanner does this work 12.5 hours a day, seven days a week. Every two weeks he gets a half-day to attend to personal duties. In his case, those duties revolve around his other assignment as Branch President for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. So much for his personal time. I struggle if I don’t get my hour-long lunch break or thirty minutes of Seinfeld every night. When asked what he would do with free time in Afghanistan, he says he would read. What would he read? The Journal of Discourses or The John Tanner Family History Genealogy Book.

Speaking of church, it’s is a little different in Afghanistan. Located in an old Russian-style concrete building, the “visitors welcome” sign defies the architecture. But the building is a blessing, where lessons of the Plan of Salvation would probably have a more immediate and necessary impact.

Tanner has counted a total of two ties ever being worn to church. Women wear jeans. The clothing speaks to the fact that most people here live life without options. There is no closet at home where they can pull out Sunday attire. You do the task at hand with what you have.

Most churchgoers are soldiers and the first thing they do upon arrival is place their weapons on racks along the wall. At his first Priesthood lesson, Tanner was instructed by a man with an automatic weapon strapped to his back.

For Tanner, the work in Bagram is not the doldrums. “Many people here view their duty assignment simply as a time to get thru, and get back home, as quickly as possible. My viewpoint is different. There is not a time or period in your life that is not of import. If you aren't making progress in your eternal commitment to improve yourself, then you are regressing.” The work, both church and as Facilities Director has no limitations as to service and demands. “It is like eternal progression,” he says, “when do you arrive?”

Tanner has made some interesting observations in Afghanistan. If he has a say he would stop paying people not to work. While he concedes some honestly need assistance, being part of a public dole destroys self-esteem. As to government, Tanner has seen a shift away from important values. “The more we deviate from the Constitution, the faster we will lose our freedoms and our way of life. The Constitution was divinely inspired and it outlines best how our Heavenly Father would have us live.”

Speaking of religion, Tanner has observed there are few atheists in a war zone. Interestingly he notes the spirit of God is stronger in Afghanistan than anywhere he has been outside the temple. In a place where mortality is a daily reality, setting correct and eternal priorities is crucial, he notes. I should’ve guessed he would note this, considering he would read the Journal of Discourses on his free time.

As an outside observer I am grateful for Mr. Tanner’s sacrifice. He provides me an important lens into a world I’ve never seen. Having spent many weekends in his company at his home, I already knew of his strong character. It is a privilege to be able to say he is my friend.

Tanner, like so many others, has taught me once again the American dream is more than money and material. It is the dream to watch a sunrise or sunset whenever you want. And the dream is best enjoyed by living in a way to help others have the same right. Mr. Tanner, like hundreds of thousands of brave souls, has known the pleasure of controlling his own destiny. He wants to help others feel similar joy in life.

Mr. Tanner says most people don’t understand the need for US involvement in Afghanistan. I agree with him. How could we know if we’ve never been? He also says the level of poverty is unlike any existing place in America. With that in mind, who am I to question the motives of someone who has volunteered his life to improve the lives of others? Mr. Tanner has literally lost his life in service of others. But back home awaits his wonderful wife, children, and swimming pool. I, for one, can’t wait to see him taking laps in his pool again.

my hike

2011-02-10T23:04:00.000-08:00

Today I was planning on doing what's in the picture. Who else in their right, or flighty mind, would want to be indoors? (Exempt from answering that question is anyone east of the Rockies this month or north of the Grand Canyon)

Then I got a call to sub for a special education class. I was glad I accepted the assignment blindly. If I had known what I was signing up for I would not have done it. I walked into a class with 4 teacher aides and 8 autistic kids. With a 5:8 adult to kid ratio, I don't think I need to explain the nature of the assignment. It's very much hands-on and involved, on your feet, all the time. You know how you set your radio to scan through channels? That's how my eyes operated today, trying to see every corner, door, window and hallway to keep track of a special group of kids. If I stopped scanning the class, I would literally see the heels of a kid as they whipped away down a hall like Woody after Andy.

By the end of the day I had a headache. But I spent the day with some quality kids and adults. In God's plan I haven't yet reconciled why kids are autistic. I've heard some say they were so good before this life they no longer have to be tested. Others say it's a protection against Satan. I heard one report there's no way God could create such imperfection. I don't know and I think I don't want to know. I do know one thing, I walked away from school today feeling closer to heaven than when I woke up. Maybe it was working with these unsung heroes, the teachers and teacher aides who everyday provide a service that's physical demanding and graceful at the same time.

In my first ten minutes in class, one aide said, "watch your knees or you might lose function of them for life." She was warning me about Elijah, a tough little nut who plays a nutcracker on a patella like it's Christmas Eve. It was this same aide who came to my aid when I was trying to get Elijah to come in from the playground. She pulled a photo of the class out of her pocket to show Elijah and when he saw it he folded his arms and walked right into class. Apparently he doesn't communicate well with words. That aide showed grace in communication.

Maybe what I thought was a feeling of heaven was actually me feeling better about myself because these teachers and aides create a space where there is room for error. It's okay to mess up in special education because messing up is tolerated, even expected. If you do something wrong, call it for what it is and move on. Don't worry about the past because you need to be on guard for mistakes to come. I messed up a lot today but I was forgiven instantly. All the aides asked was that I keep going. When I went out to lunch they joked, "don't worry if you don't come back for the afternoon, some subs never do." I confess, I was daydreaming all morning how I could manage to work my way out of the afternoon. But seeing the assignment through was better than any hike I've ever finished.

In afterthought, I don't think the aides had much to do with me feeling so good at the end of the day. I don't think it was my work ethic that compelled me to do once in a lifetime what these teachers do 175 days a year. I think it was the time close to Elijah and his seven classmates. That can sound really cheesy when I read it at 12:24:40 AM, but it's what I feel, and I'm sticking to it...

As a side note, I arrived at the school very cold this morning. You know how your face gets so cold all you want to do is speak words like you are throwing bricks out of your mouth? It got me in trouble today because when the brick "spencer" came out of my mouth it sounded like "stuart" to the staff. So I was stuart today. Funny, but better than the previous two misnomers of "dexter" and "special." And I wasn't even cold that day I told someone "I am special." How's that for special education?

Post script

2011-01-26T11:54:00.001-08:00

After my second day with this class i was up to here (holding my hand high) with a few kids. I even broke down and went Hansen-lecture-style on a few kids. "Do you want scholarships? Do you want a good life? Then do your work like I said!"

But at the end of the day, the effort paid off when the kids spontaneously, guys and girls, got in a line to hug me on their way out. For the first few I offered high fives like I used to on my first dates after the mission. But then I remembered a hug can mean more than a high five. So I let them hug the sub.

These kids were so good they stayed in during recess to make a play for Anna. It was five minutes long. I captured it on my video camera for Anna to see in the evening. If I ever have a choice to sub for elementary again, third grade it is. Too young for sass. Old enough to have some class.

A Day in the life of a medical student

2011-01-24T19:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life's trail takes you on turns that just leave you shaking your head and smiling. Have you ever looked down at your shoes while pondering life's oddities and thought, "what would myself one year ago think about me now?" I had that moment today when for the seventh time Zachary came up to me with a handful of crumpled up papers and said, "Clay won't stop throwing these at me." For the seventh time I said, "Okay Zach, I'll make a note of it" (mentally only of course).

I was substituting at Wilson elementary school. The third grade class. As part of my year off of radiology research, hiking, spending time with Anna, traveling, and fixing up what needs fixing I decided to fill in the gaps in my week as a substitute teacher. And today I became very familiar with my shoes, shaking my head.

But in reality, I've enjoyed the experience. If I did not go into medicine I probably would not have gone into teaching. But I still wanted to know what it felt like. And it is more enjoyable than I imagined. While I know substituting is only a substitute for the real experience, I still managed to get a grasp of what teachers go through day in and day out. I appreciate them on a whole new level. I barely had enough energy at the end of the day to bring the fork loaded with Anna's beef stroganoff up to my mouth. But the thought that the stroganoff would soothe my parched, tired out throat like a balm was enough to get the fork to it's destination. I haven't used my voice like I did today for some time and it's out of shape. Anna had a quiet husband tonight.

But seriously, let's pay full time teachers more! I would gladly increase the tax on our income if it went to public teacher's salaries. I felt more tired after today than a full day in the wards. And the sense of responsibility for the kids' lives must be overwhelming. I'm glad for the new perspective. Maybe next month I'll try a construction crew. I know I don't appreciate their labor enough.

A good story

2011-01-21T09:48:00.001-08:00

In high school I read an incredible, literally hard to believe, story about a trek to freedom called The Long Walk. It's coming out on film. The link below can take you to a trailer:

http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/456488/The-Way-Back/trailers

The last movie I got excited enough to blog about, Robin Hood, I found disappointing. So I'm moving my eggs to this basket!

Running in Tucson

2011-01-13T05:48:00.000-08:00

We have family come visit every now and then. Yesterday while out for a jog in the cold morning (cold day #3 out of a possible 5 this year) I was thinking what it must look like for visitors to run alongside me. About every half mile or so a hooded figure in what looks like flannels or maybe dark jeans would run past me in the opposite direction. I passed a bearded fellow in jean shorts and a hoodie. I've seen these people out running on the trail every single day of the year that it's cold, which is exactly five days. Always wearing the same attire, my fellow running mates could be confused for groups of running homeless. They (we) are not homeless, we are cold runners.

So if you visit Tucson, and like to jog, and it's a cold day, you can best fit in by dressing like a homeless person. Why would we buy cold weather gear for 5 days out of the year? We're not cheap, we're practical, and yes...maybe in debt.

So happy trails in your flannels and over sized hoodies handed down from your sibling's high school days.

Our Tucson

2011-01-12T07:52:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning we were playing basketball at our church building. Half a mile away we had no idea what was about to happen. On my drive to the church I thought about my near and distant future. I had to go find some camping gear. I needed to return a Christmas present. Whatever happened, I had to make sure to listen to Car Talk. Next week, I had to make sure to fill out some forms for medical school. I kept wavering between thoughts of seeing True Grit or Tron with Anna. And I had to finish preparing my lesson for Priesthood.

I drove away from the church happy with my game on the court. As I turned on Ina and Oracle, I saw two cop cars speed by, followed by an ambulance. It wasn't until I got home to my computer that I read about the tragedy. In about 2.5 seconds, my life's issues distilled down to the basic elements of fear, survival, and concern for family and friends. My previous focus on material and entertainment issues simply evaporated. It wasn't a conscience choice, it just happened. At the end of the day, and for the rest of many people's lives, it simply is going to be a focus on healing and finding meaning in tragedy. Today I am still struggling with interchanging thoughts of hatred and sorrow for the killer. But he did something that brings me happiness. He has brought out the best of Tucson. I've been witness to a united community that I haven't seen or been a part of since 9/11. It's humbling. I love learning from those who deal with tragedy so nobly. And everyone who was struck has acted nobly. Even the killer's parents, I believe, responded in a way that helped me learn more about the beauty of humanity.

Everyone has shown future victims of tragedy that life can go on with your head humbly held high in the fight against evil. I love Tucson. A melting pot of so many cultures and backgrounds, the people are lively and happy. Here I've learned it not only takes a family but takes a village to create the community where good happens. And as it so happens, I've learned Tucson has true grit.

Ron Artest on the Holy Ghost

2010-12-10T11:50:00.000-08:00

From espn.com

Artest agreed with a reporter who said that the charitable efforts have become almost a mission for the 31-year old.

"It's fun, it's exciting," Artest said. "It's almost like a basketball game because it's that exciting. It feels like dunking on somebody, and I don't dunk much. It's just exciting and it's weird. It's a weird excitement. It's not like fun and games because it's a real issue, but for me, it's exciting to be a part of.

Cheers...

Origins of Christmas Tree

2010-12-06T14:28:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to know why I was decorating an evergreen spruce inside our apartment. I asked Anna, and she did not know either. So I went to Wikipedia and found two plausible origins to placing a tree in our homes in December. The first origin comes from St. Boniface in 16th century Germany. In defiance of the Norse gods Boniface cut down the tree of Thor, a huge oak. In it's place sprouted a fir, which he saw as a sign of Christianity's triumph over apostasy. He said, "let Christ be at the center of your households."
The second origin I like comes from Martin Luther, the reformer, who established the Christmas tree as the symbol of the tree of life in the Garden of Eden. Both of these are great. But I have a better origin, compliments of the Tingey family in Montana...
One day, a pilgrim family of six was traveling through the woods. Snow covered the ground. The kids were happy to be outside, walking and talking and throwing snowballs. Someone in the family, probably a boy, sat to rest by an evergreen. While enjoying the great blue sky, the boy noticed two birds racing across the sky. To the boy's surprise, the birds raced right towards him. Instead of flying into him, the flew in for a landing right in that evergreen close by. The boy noticed they were hiding in a nest in the tree. Suddenly, the two birds spoke to the boy.
"Please, help us!"
"Yes, we need help," cried bird # 2. "We are being chased by killer birds. Will you please cut our tree down, place it sideways in the back of your Ford pick-up and drive us to your home. You can disguise our tree by decorating it with lights that will confuse the killer birds. Then you can encircle it with popcorn strands to feed us while we stay in your tree. And don't forget to place neat, glass balls in the tree so kids can come by and grab them to throw at other kids. This will also scare away potential killer birds. And please, preserve our nest while you transport the tree."
The boy, in wonder, walked over to his parents and told them the implausible story of the scared birds in the evergreen nearby. Both parents smiled at each other and walked over with the boy to the tree. To their surprise, they heard the same two birds relate to them the same plea. And so, the pilgrim family cut down the tree and carried it back to their permanent-only-for-a-couple-years house. They protected the nest, decorated the tree, and enjoyed the rest of winter with the family and two scared, but protected, birds. And so the tradition grew, that each Christmas season, families began cutting down trees to protect innocence, preserve life, and enjoy family. And you always wondered where those "two turtle doves" came from !

Tender Mercy of Dish Detergent's Last Ounce

2010-11-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed the last ounce of dish detergent always seems to pour out just a little more? It's funny because sometimes that last ounce lasts as long as a full bottle. And you can rest assured, when you're on the last ounce, you can remind yourself or your spouse to get new dish soap for a month before that last ounce runs dry. As a side note, if you say or type "ounce" a lot, it begins to sound and look funny. I like the guy in the picture giving his every OUNCE. ouch...

Teddy's Restaurant

2010-10-14T15:57:00.001-07:00

Ever want to know how to sell a wedding band to a MAN? Tell him it's the same material used in body armor. SOLD. I saw this happen the other day in a jewelry store. Already that retailer has mastered the art of selling to 50% of his customer base. The tungsten band is the antithesis to the diamond for two reasons: cents and sensibility. Seeing as the man shopper is driven by these two factors, that leaves the woman shopper with the other admirable traits that label them as society's refined and perceptive half. And thus you see why my wife can name 3,000 different items in Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrell, and Williams and Sonoma while I can remember only 3. Let's see: the couch, the wooden spoon, and the candle. Oh, number four would be the bathroom.

The real reason for the post was in praise for The Gun Barrell restaurant. It's a place Teddy Roosevelt would have flocked to (can I end a sentence with "to"?) . Located in St. George, Utah, it caters to the animal hunter and western ranger of olden days. When you walk in you are greeted with a winchester used by a Tucson rancher in defense of his land. In the stock is engraved five notches. One each for the maruaders he shot with that very gun to defend his property in the 19th century. What a way to stimulate the appetite. Seriously, it gave me chills to see that living history. As you are escorted to your table, you pass under the mounts of buffalo head, ducks, deer, antelope, pheasants, turkeys, snakes, and more. Roosevelt was a hunter and taxidermist, so I can only assume he would have visited once in a while. If you go, try the Elk steak, it's gamey.

American Saturday Manure

2010-10-09T22:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel a strange impulse when out on a hike in rural America. Whether I'm with Anna, my brother, buddies from high school, or my in-laws (hopefully not as often with the in-laws), or parents, if I cross paths with a cow pie, I always feel an urge to reach down and grab it. Whenever I give in, I usually end up throwing it like a Frisbee at the nearest human. That part is for laughs. The real reason I pick it up, I think, is because it brings me joy. Good, honest-Abe, apple pie, manifest destiny joy. Today I think I made the connection that might bring this impulse from the realms of revolting to the realms of nostalgia. It happened out walking around our complex. The lawn was freshly mowed and layered in crumbled cow pie to fertilize the winter grass. Every October in Mesa, AZ I would help my dad prepare the lawn for winter grass by reaching in piles of manure and spreading it out across our lawn. We must have been the stink of Harvest street. But I liked the smell and the feel. It reminds me of Harvest and autumn. It reminds me of Halloween and cold weather. It reminds me of the smell of burning wood and blooming citrus. It reminds me of college football and early NBA season. Okay, enough Dickinsonian foliage talk. I love manure, plain and simple. It makes me feel American. So here's a raised cow pie to you Dad, on the eve of your birthday, for teaching me the joys of manure. Sorry that I never asked if you wanted to spread the stuff around the lawn...

Speaking of American. Anna and I had an American Saturday today. We helped cleaned the ward building. (Service gives license to play the rest of the day) Drove home to stop at a yard sale. Picked out some furniture. Went out for a bike ride. Spent the afternoon cleaning, moving furniture, selling a desk on Craig's List, watching college football, eating hot Reubens, making caramel apples, breaking teeth with caramel apples, and smelling the manure-scented breeze from below in our third-story apartment. Hey, in all honesty, I'd take the smell of manure over emissions or plastic trash any day.

2010-09-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

A call for thoughts

2010-09-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

Who is/was your favorite teacher in your educational experience? If you want, leave a comment explaining what it was about their style that worked for you.

My favorite teacher was Mr. Helsel, my AP History teacher. He was the first teacher who showed me the power of writing. And he always called ASU the "Harvard of the West," which I agree with, academically speaking.

Svelte

2010-09-03T17:47:00.000-07:00

Anna and I were introduced to someone last week in his nice, spacious office. He had a solid oak desk. The kind with a desktop you could ice skate on. Or at least slip and slide across if it were out in the back yard. Those were my first thoughts when we walked in to his office. He was dressed in a nice suit, tie and polished shoes. He invited us to sit down on his posh couch. Svelte, if I might say so. My cousin, Andrew, and I came up with a good working definition of "svelte." It should be used to describe anything that is trying to look attractive that you would never touch with a ten-foot pole. Like a llama with an under bite.

Anyway, there we were, sitting in a very svelte couch. After some chit-chat, the conversation was going, but it was still luke-warm. And then the gentleman said, "Tell me about yourself Greg?" Anna looked up at the man and said, in reference to my actual name, "He's Spencer."

The man was sitting fairly distant, and all he heard was "He's special."

I nodded in affirmation to Anna's statement, while the man nodded in affirmation to my affirmation that I was special. Major miscommunication.

I repeated that I was "Spencer," which his brain interpreted again as "special," and he affirmed again how good it was that I was special. It took me and Anna a combined effort to halt the conversation and say loudly enough my actual name. Then the ice was completely broken. I don't think we could hold back spurts of laughter for the next ten minutes while we thought about what this fine gentleman thought of getting to know Anna and his "special" husband.

Great way to get to know someone while sitting on a svelte couch.

What we saw in about seven days

2010-08-20T11:13:00.000-07:00

Magic School Bus

2010-07-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

my brother-in-law is currently watching Magic School Bus with his three kids while folding laundry. He is the only one laughing. Either his kids are tired or my brother-in-law has a heart of gold, or both.

Ice Blocking before the departure...

2010-07-09T15:05:00.000-07:00

Word of the Day

2010-06-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

Alias. Noun. Derived from the title "Elias" of the Old Testament. As we know, Elias was the alias for Elijah in the Old Testament.

source: disclosed

Mud Boggs...

2010-06-12T18:32:00.000-07:00

Rick Reilly recently published a book about the dumbest sports on earth. One of those sports is a sauna competition where men sit in 145 degrees Farenheit to outlast each other. Another involves chess and boxing combined. Brains or brauns? I wonder if old rickety would have placed mud boggs in his book. If he did I'm guessing he would have included the following thoughts:
1) You know it's going to be a fun day when beer sells more than water in 100 degrees.
2) The most important player in the game is not even in the game (the tractor)
3) For 10,000$ of upgrades and months of preparation, you get twenty seconds to shine before you're stuck for twenty years of loan repayments.
4) The one truck to make it through was a chevy...not a ford. Must have been a ford engine
5) Since we were only drinking water, we could only stay half the event...not enough beer to stay hydrated.
6) Don't ever wear a polo to a mud bog, you'll get the stare down.

Memorable...

2010-06-01T19:46:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day Weekend. I'm ashamed to say I was so busy being served by others I forgot to pause and remember the purpose of the day. And then we drove by the cemetery Monday evening, in Tucson. There were flowers everywhere, on every grave marker I saw. It gave Anna chills. I remembered I have not given much. But I have been given much. Holy smack, Anna and I had such a good weekend we (I) forgot the Suns lost. Here's the breakdown:

Friday night -- one last night in Sahara Motel, Benson. Next up on the docket in this train town: Mud Bog Benson Rally, June 5th, the third annual. Everyone is invited. We get to pay 5 bucks to watch gentlemen and ladies romp their vehicles through a mud bog, with the winner taking home 10,000. I asked if I could enter my mountain bike. The organizer has yet to respond.

Saturday morning -- A great temple experience at the Thatcher temple. The Mayberry family of St. David, Benson, and Sierra Vista invited us to participate, and by pulling in a fold-up chair, we were able to fit. The interior design took me back to the Campinas Brazil temple.

Saturday --weeding in 100 degrees, with the Bannanna at the parents' house. It was worth it for a great BBQ dinner. Then we played Risk. If you can't hold Alaska, you really can't do much.
Sunday- Church, risk, sundown walks, good foods from mom, more Risk. Anna and Jake ended in stalemate.

Monday- Anna and Dad rode 30 miles past cotton fields and I hobbled/jogged 3.5 miles. Since I can walk today, I think the jobble was worth it. 5 months and counting since knee break. My brother-in-law, Sammie, and I are going to compete in the Austin triathlon in September, so hopefully I'm not jobbling there. Maybe I'll ask Lance..er....Floyd for some EPO. After the morning events, we went up Graham to hike Ladybug Trail. A great walk past a stream and through some gorgeous country. We took the bike back down. I had two thoughts from the bike. First: I wonder how often bikers are knocked off the road from a dust devil. Second: Why do I always feel safe when participating in a life-threatening activity until that night, when I'm laying in bed with my eyes toward the ceiling?
From Saturday to Monday Anna and I were served by everyone and everything. Even Sadie was quiet in her cage while sleeping. I can no longer call my parent's dog Sadistic Sadie. This Memorial Day I remember how it important it is to serve. I was reminded again from the best.

Top 10 Reasons San Pedro Family Clinic rocks for a medical student

2010-05-27T23:57:00.000-07:00

10) Looking out the window I see a pile of old tires, a horseback rider, a train, and a Lexus in the same field of view.
9) I learned that in a place like Benson the toothbrush could have been invented because in any bigger town it would have been called a teethbrush.
8) Free cookies on Health Fair Day -- sign of an awesome office manager
7) Cynthia, her mom, and her 98-year-old grandma
6) If the Suns lose no one in the office would know except for Laine
5) Awesome patients who show no fear of the 18-year-old, 26-year-old.
4) Great office staff to tell you where to fish, find candy, and fill out surveys.
3) Proves that in life there is still such thing as a free lunch.
2) Office is kept as cold as Alaska, right Janet?
1) Telling Anna at the end of the day how fun it is to work with two bald doctors!
For those who want in on one of the greatest secrets in the history of the world, Benson, AZ is one of the happiest places on earth. And they have soft-serve...

brain-scrambly

2010-04-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

Six twelve-hour shifts a week in the ICU. That's my life (or lack thereof) this month. My friend, Ashley, took this picture the other day, and labeled it "brain scrambly"--I couldn't have said it better myself! I just hope I keep loving it as much as I do right now and that my eyes don't get permanently stuck like this...

Bean Town: Day 1

2010-04-28T19:46:00.000-07:00

Today is day one of my family rotation in the rural (with Super Walmart and McDonalds) town of Benson, AZ. After work yesterday I picked up Anna and we cruised East on I-10 to Benson where we crashed in the Sahara Motel. Felt like our honeymoon again because we haven't been back in a motel-like residence since. We should do trips like this more. After a quick night Anna was up by 5:00 am so she could make it to her day with her preceptor at St Joseph's Hospital back in Tucson. We'll see each other again on Saturday night.

So I love Benson. More specifically, I love Exit 299, Skyline Road. I spent most of my youthful Spring Breaks and summers exiting onto this dusty road winding to El Rancho de las tortugas where Grandpa and Grandma Hansen live. So I'm excited for this next month where I can see them more often. After clinic today I rode my bike up the long hill, against the wind, to their house. All sweaty and dusty, I spent the evening with them, winding down after a fun day.

In the morning I introduced myself to Dr. Mayberry. He has a brother who is also a doctor. They both run the San Pedro Family Practice, which also houses a couple PA's, some nurses, MA's, an office manager and other house staff. It's a full house, with barely enough room for a skinny medical student to squeeze in. I followed Dr. Mayberry around to see his morning patients, trying to pick up his style. He's a no-nonsense, straight-talking kind of guy that likes to work. So the day flew by! After lunch I started seeing patients. The theme of the day was joint aspiration. Two knees were aspirated. I watched. I love procedures. This morning I wanted to do diagnostic radiology. But after spending time with patients again, I want to specialize in interventional radiology.

Feels like a different life out here, wifeless. But it's a good time to ponder the blessings of living in the good old U S of A with the Southern Pacific line chugging along parallel to town. Life always seems simpler in small towns with old men always saying they get by by doing "what the wife" tells them to do. There is wholesome goodness here in Benson, you can feel just talking to those who live here. I think families understand the inherent dependence on each other when you live away from big cities. The dependence is there simply because you spend more time together. It's nice...but I don't think it's nice enough to convince me and Anna to move anywhere with a population less than 500,000. Tucson is pushing the lower limit as is :)

Miss you bird!

Pick up your sticks

2010-04-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

For some reason I've been thinking about Africa all weekend. I don't know why. But I am remembering a man, on a bike.

Four years ago while driving through pouring rain in a remote region of Ghana, our van hit a villager riding his bike. He was transporting sticks for firewood. After coercing our Ghanaian driver to return to the accident scene, we unloaded from the van to offer the man first aid. While I was wrapping the man's road rashes with gauze from our medical kit, our Ghanian driver began berating the villager for his stupidity in attempting to share pavement with a car. What I saw next was a beautiful expression of human dignity. The villager humbly thanked us for treating his wounds. Then he picked up his sticks and rode off into the rain. Instead of calling his lawyer (which is not an option in a third-world country anyway) he picked up his dented bike and broken sticks and moved on. I hope I don't forget this. I hope I can pick up my sticks to ride on into the next storm in life. Turning the other cheek is a powerful expression of quiet dignity. What does it take to ride this road. Whatever it takes I'm sure that man is out there, still on it...

I want to go back to that sometimes, just me and Anna and a nation of happy humbleness. No things, no money, no real material luxury. There is family, relationship, laughter, soccer and well-forged memories. Sometimes I missed that recipe of contentment. And then I married Anna and she brought it all back. From Ghana to Holladay to Tucson. But we do need a little practice with soccer still. When we score, I know we'll hear the villagers of Kun Kundi Yilli cheer for us!

It's in the air...

2010-04-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

That sweet smell of early summer sweat....gotta love this time of year :)

Restore and Research

2010-04-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

Anna mentioned last night today is the 180th anniversary of the restored Church. Someone, sometime, somewhere once said that each invention, including the TV (created in Provo, UT), was inspiration given to aid in the spread of the Gospel. I believe this. I can't believe that what humans come up with is original to us terrestrials only. It has to have celestial input as well, whether we see it or not. Power plants, computers, telephones, neon signs, cars, X-rays, satellites, cell phones that vibrate. These are some things that give me daily wonder. Really, how does a cell phone vibrate?

Restoration is like research. Truth revealed, again and again. Nothing new really, except to an individual. And if true, it all points to Christ. So, in honor of today I wanted to bear my testimony of the joys of research. I know that time spent learning brings me happiness because it's a divinely endorsed activity. I know Christ lives and He wants us to know this. So he has provided us with the Holy Ghost to inspire us with ideas of how to reach Him and help others reach Him. Sometimes it's tough. Sometimes it's hard. Some days I feel I make no progress. Like today, I put the leftovers in the tupperware with the cake leftovers. I bet Anna thinks some things I'll never learn :) But we should keep trying daily. In the call to battle of one of my favorite researchers, Lewis Thomas:

"Keep them at it I say, keep them working, bring in more of them, crowd them together in the deepest water, way beyond their depth. Goad them into swimming into each other, sputtering new bits of information each time they touch, losing themselves in a high surf of metaphor but each time regaining their feet for a new try. Sooner or later something will come of it, something like knowledge, new to them, new and surprising to all the rest of us."

We'll learn. There's method to all this madness in the world, and it's to get us exposed to the key bits of info that will let us know of Christ, whether through satellite TV broadcast on TV, getting pass-along-cards from a member next to you on a plane, attracting visitors through power-plant-powered Christmas lights at the Temple grounds, or from vibrating cell phones activated by those Home or Visiting Teachers. Long live researchers. Long live...Robin Hood.

by the way, in our research for truth, if you listen to an audio book, can you tell someone later you've read it?

May 14

2010-03-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

PG-13 has never brought more joy to a couple watching tv on the floor of their family room than today...

Austin!

2010-03-25T19:23:00.001-07:00

Spring Break + 2 Free Spouses + Road Trip = Car wreck waiting to happen. But it didn't happen. The closest we got to car troubles came on the trip home to Tucson from Austin when one spouse fell asleep and the other wanted to see how close to the "E" we could get on the gas gauge. Let's just say if it wasn't for the "Daring Drivers" gas station located in the middle of Nowhere, Tx, we'd still be walking. But, we'd also be 3.50$ per gallon richer. Oh, we also pulled up to an 18-wheeler full oh bee hives. Se we could've been stung.

Our trip was priceless and the best of our marriage because it was the first one we spent together. We drove straight to Austin from Tucson, stopping once to eat and twice to sleep on the side of the road. We figured we could sleep beside road kill in the hill country of Texas. I kept waking up from nightmares of running head on into a car while falling asleep and Anna kept dreaming of strangers breaking into our car while we were in it. We didn't sleep long :) On on we went, arriving in Austin on a cloudy, sprinkly Saturday morning. We spent a great three days with Melissa, Sammie, and Brad Markham. There was everything you wanted in a Spring Break: games, naps, good food, March Madness, sleeping in, good looking spouses, reading, movies, and other stuff. In honor of Austin, Anna and I independently compiled a top 10 list. Here's our toast to Austin, enjoyed with a nightcap of milk and homemade apple pie, a la Anna.

Anna 10

10: Drive to Austin

9: Good house upkeep of residents

8: Texas accents

7: Clean down-town

6: Cool river trails

5: Panera Bakery

4: Food

3: Green, green, green

2: Salt Lick BBQ

1: Markhams

Spencer 10

10: Old Faithful (ask Sammie to show you someday when you visit)

9: More Ford trucks than Chevys (Opa!)

8: Recycle Program

7: Yard Work, good, meaningful yard work

6: Mountain Bike Course downtown

5: Churches everywhere

4: No Pollution

3: Texas Mountain Laurels

2: Salt Lick BBQ

1: Markhams

Photos (left to right, top to bottom) Catholic church, downtown mtn biking, Salt Lick, Bradley, Anna, Sammie, and Melissa

Of Arias, baseball and Sabino

2010-03-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

Is checking Craig's List on the Sabbath shopping? Not if you just check out the "free" section. Which is exactly what I did last Sunday when I got home from the hospital. I was waiting for Anna's dutiful return from Church when I came across an ad for a free pair of Arizona Opera tickets. The Opera was in two hours so I called the couple and told them to hold the tickets for us. What began as a joke (Anna and I make fun of the opera all the time) turned into an awesome afternoon. This opera was buttressed with a full philharmonic orchestra, harp included. And the songs were Arias. I'm not sure what that means but I think it means a short selection from a much longer, tortuous opera. Short and opera go so well together, like peas and carrots. We heard some great talent and it was a great way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon. I had two thoughts during the opera. My first was how Anna is the harp of my life. I would die a thousand deaths to prove the heart beating in my breast beats only for her and none else...oh whoa!....hold on... that opera has gotten a little too far into my brain. My second thought I shared with Anna on our walk home after the concert. I like to listen to guy opera singers more than girl opera singers. Something about that high, feminine pitch brings back too many memories of angering four similarly pitched sisters while growing up.

Anna and I had a stellar weekend together. We had Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday together without interruption! We called Randy and Mikelah to come help us root our D-backs to a spring training victory over the Athletics. Like the opera, I also had two dominant thoughts at the game. The first was how savvy beer drinkers are about their own bodies. I overhead the following from a guy doing business at the urinal next to me in the bathroom: "Hey, my pee is still yellow so I guess I'm still sober." Please, can we get some more taxis here in Tucson. My second thought was more of a yearning. "Do you have yearn," George Costanza asks? I did today with Randy as we watched the grounds crew mow the outfield after the game. I yearned for a lawn to mow again. I would pay ten bucks to mow someone's lawn right now. The smell of the grass and gas, the feel of the chattering mower, the warmth of the spring sun...my elysium fields.

After the game Anna and I splurged at Olive Garden. When we are there, we are family. That means we didn't feel cheap or dirty for cleaning up the leftovers of the tables around us :) All in the family.

We came home and watched X-Men. Anna's choice. Did I ever mention I have the sweetest wife in the world!!!!!!! I love you Anna.

Saturday morning we were up at the crack of dawn to hike Seven Falls in Sabino canyon. If you have not been to Tucson and ever come with an afternoon or morning to kill, make this hike. And do it in March after the winter rains. Prettiest place on earth. I think even the Holladay, Utah native is convinced of this now. Happy Spring Break everyone. And Sam Packer if you by chance read this soon enough or ever, make sure to put Duke and Kansas in the Final Four. Go Cougars!

Try keeping up with this!

2010-02-14T18:23:00.000-08:00

I warned myself I would not be able to write as often when I started inpatient medicine. I wouldn't trade it, mind you.

Tonight's thoughts are a shishkabob of ideas. Shiskabob #1: Thank goodness for Valentine's. Many would attack this kind-hearted holiday. But how can you not enjoy it when kneeling down to pray and hearing your very own better half thank God for a day to celebrate our love and relationship together. Whew! Life does Not get better than this. For all who have suffered more than I can dare dream or comprehend because of failed relationships, all I can say is thank you for teaching me that your feelings of love have given you strength to endure the heartache of loss. Love transcends everything, I believe even failed commitments, because it invites the Atonement into the recovery process.

Amazing where writing can take you when you sit down to a blank blog. Speaking of taking and amazing, I had my first Corvette ride this past week. Another classmate (don't ask me where he got the money for this) gave me a ride to the hospital in his 2009 6.2 L 8 HP charcoal corvette, just like the one in the picture. Now we all know we laugh at speedracers who accelerate in their fast cars out on the streets only to be stopped at each red light where we easily catch up like the tortoise following the hare. Well, I gained insight into the speedracer's mindset when riding with my classmate

. He doesn't mind the red lights. In fact he welcomes them. All of the fun was seeing how fast you could accelerate and then decelerate before the next light. It was better than Indiana Jones at Disneyland! Pure adrenaline. So

now that we slow drivers know this simple fact, we can no longer laugh at the cars flying by us on the roads. They really don't have anywhere to go, they just want to be

on the road hitting the accelerator as many times as possible. And every red light is one more reason to hit that pedal.

Shishkabob #3 (since I've been counting even though you thought I lost count). A DNR is a "do not resuscitate" form for patients in the hospital. If someone signs this form and they go into cardiac or respiratory arrest, then doctors will allow natural events to progress, eventually leading to death. As standard procedure, all patients should be offered this form. It was bad timing this morning though when a resident brought this form to a patient who five seconds earlier had said, "I think I'm going to live!" Irony.

Shishkabob #4.

Anna and I celebrated our third Valentine's together with our tradition of Shishkabob's for dinner. They are colorful and tasty. This year we added mango sticky rice to the menu.

Shishkabob #5. I also included a picture of a cork oak. This tree's oak is the stuff wine corks are made out of. This whole time I thought they were synthetic material. Who knew? Also, I included a picture of a deciduous tree in front of an evergreen, an African Sumac. The sun is flowing through both of them. I call the picture, "Life After Death." Am I not merciful?

Shishkabob #6. I just quoted from Gladiator.

Shishkabob #7. Anna is awesome. Friday and Saturday she was packed with clinicals. Sunday morning she spoke for both of us at church since I was on-call, then she taught the lesson in Young Women.

Tomorrow she has a major nursing exam. And the next day she is getting ready and playing the harp in New Beginnings. She has no weekend to speak of and she still went on a two-hour walk with me down the River Trail this 71 degree afternoon.

Shishkabob #8. I drove past this bus in Tucson while dropping Anna off at work one morning. The best part of waking up...is Folger's in your cup. Unless you live in Tucson, where you drive, get coffee, and then wake-up. Car insurance is pretty expensive here. See you in the future...

A Valentine for Sisters?

2010-02-04T20:32:00.000-08:00

So many memories. So little time. Next week my sisters are gathering in a hamlet in Utah, somewhere in the snow. The sun will surely be missed. But I think the brother will be missed more. How can I be so sure? Well, after a day's reflection in preparation for this fairly-narcisstic column, I've come to the conclusion that my sisters don't know how to have fun without me. First, introductions: in the picture associated with this post, the girl on the left is Whitney, the one next to her is Erin, then me, then two cousins, who will represent Rachel and Sally, my other two sisters.

So back to my day's reflections...which in fact, have become memories.

My earliest memory together with my sisters is, I think, a funny one. It's funny because I remember it so clearly, and I remember knowing I was truly innocent at the time. I was like Adam in the Garden, as you're about to find out. My sisters were sitting in the front room. I walked down the hall from my bedroom to the front room and stared at them. I then dropped my pants and showed them something they didn't have. When my parents got home, my sisters told on me. That was the night I learned about respect for anatomy. A funny memory because I think they don't remember it at all. But it was a turning point for me. (at least until Jonathan and me got caught mooning Whitney's friend, Becky Tanner, who also told on us) Red moons that night when we went to bed. :(

Another memory proving how much fun my sisters have with me involves "fraggle-rocks." I'm not sure that's how you spell it, but for fear of PTSD symptoms, I will never type those two words into google. Never. For some reason these buggers creeped me out. One night, sick in bed, my sisters came in to see if I needed a glass of water. (I might not have been sick but this adds drama in a Stephen King way) I said yes. What pleasant little women for sisters I have. With three standing sentry at the door, one came back with a glass of water. I raised the glass only to have fraggle rocks tumble down into my face! Knowing me today, I must have cursed a storm and thrown the glass back at them as they ran laughing out of the room.

Times were better when I got older. When I say "better times," it always means for my sisters and rarely for me. One of my joys in life is either buying a new hat, or a new watch. I still remember my first hat. It was a Lakers hat my dad bought for me. I'm sure I wore it everywhere. One night with my parents gone (for some reason I always remember them being gone at night to the temple) I was sitting on the couch reading a book. From behind, one of the sisters, I won't name names but her's starts with an "r," grabbed my hat. I jumped back for it but she threw it to "w." "w" then threw it to "e." And around it went...r...w...e....e....w...r. After reducing me to tears, my happy sisters replaced my hat on my head. Life went on. Can you begin to imagine now that next week my sisters won't know how to have a good time if I'm not around? :)

My next memory isn't really a memory as much as a legacy. Talk to my sister Sally someday about the art of sneaking out at night. She is Houdini. When there were locks, she went through them. When there were no locks, she made a lock, and still went through it. Good times in Fruit Heights. But Sally, I think it's safe to say, I trained you in the art, no? For many a weekend you monitored my sneaking out our Harvest St. home, off to battle dragons. Oh the things we do in the name of Valentine. Good times.

Sadly, I have to burn the rest of my midnight oil on more important things, like sleep. So to keep the post thematic, I will end on a romantic memory. It's a memory I've always wanted to share with Erin. We moved away from our Harvest Street home in 2000. I stayed in AZ with Erin to attend ASU while the family moved to Utah. During this time Erin was dating her current husband John Tingey. One night my friend Jonathan and I were walking by our sold home. The home was completely empty, awaiting new occupants. We were curious when we saw a light on in the house. We walked up to the front door and peered through the arched window at the top of the door. There, in the front room of anatomy, my sister and future bro-in-law were making out! Jonathan and I looked at each other and after a nod and chuckle, we rang the doorbell and ran away....Happy Valentines Whitney, Rachel, Erin, and Sally! Your brother missed you today and always.

Quote of the day

2010-02-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

From espn.com columnist Bill Simmons:

He analyzes when it's okay to say you have the worst team. I love the Suns but I love the reason for the worst team immunity even more

"Warm weather mellows you out, removes that life-or-death dynamic and puts sports in somewhat proper perspective. Suns fans are a good example. On paper? Level 1 eligible. Forty-one seasons, no titles. Lost the Kareem/Neil Walk coin flip. Lost the famous triple-overtime game in 1976. Lost three agonizing games in the 1993 NBA Finals, as well as Mario Elie's "Kiss of Death" 3-pointer that ended their season in '94. Their Nash era stretch from 2004 to '07 was basically one long liver punch. And yet, how could Suns fans be truly tortured? They live in Arizona! They have things to do!

TNC #3: The Greyhound Download

2010-01-28T21:56:00.000-08:00

Before the column, I have to address three things. First, two weeks ago I wrote about my dinner that evening. It was right after the earthquake in Haiti. Today I saw a video of a girl being removed from the rubble of the quake. So, this girl has not eaten a calorie since before that blog entry until today, and she lives! When I think I'm tired after a day at the hospital, I will remember her. Darn it, complaining brings so much personal comfort, and hopefully a back-rub, but in perspective I live the life of a care-bear in the clouds.

Second, I laughed at Anna the other day because she said the ozone smells during a storm. Well, Anna bird, my hat's off to you, last night I read in Wilderness Warrior a journal entry by Teddy Roosevelt in which he mentioned the lovely smell of ozone brought in by a storm. It's a good thing you don't carry a Big Stick to beat my ignorant ego. Instead, you patiently endure.

Finally, I might have asked this question before, but it bugs me daily: Why can't the English language just settle on using "closed" instead of "undisclosed?" Now, on to the matter at hand...

If we all lived according to the schedule of the Greyhound Bus service, we would be late for EVERY single appointment. In my limited, yet delayed, experience with Greyhound bus trips, I have waited at the terminal for 14.5 hours. I arrived on time, but those darn buses seemed to keep breaking down. And for a skinny white boy in Pittsburgh (this line is supposed to inspire feelings of awe and respect for me surviving the experience with my eagle scout street smarts, but in reality, Pitt is a friendly place) being stranded in a terminal is no fun. Tonight Anna and I started preparing our Spring Break trip to...get ready....Austin, Texas!! We are excited. I sat on the bed. She stood across the room. We talked flight prices, gas prices, driving time, baggage fees...the usual mumbo jumbo of travel plans, when I casually offered the idea of the Greyhound Bus. Have you ever wanted to download a personal experience into the mind of someone else? I wanted to tonight with Anna. But I'm going to just go ahead and download it to this blog, instead, because Anna is already asleep after a 12-hour shift in the ICU, followed by a mandatory hour-long staff meeting, followed by a forty-minute bike ride home ( yep, her schedule puts me to sleep for exhaustion also). Enjoy my downloadable Greyhound Experience:

I sat in the Pittsburgh bus depot for a couple hours waiting for my bus to Harrisburg. Greyhound was characteristically behind schedule (just ask my roommate Alan, he can relate) but as a result I met Mariasol while standing in line. She's a fellow college student attending Pitt. She was traveling home for the weekend. We connected as easily as dew collecting on grass, sharing college experiences and fun. It's so easy to be a missionary when you say you go to BYU, people automatically know who and what you are. So with the temperature dropping to below freezing, we finally loaded onto the bus. Outside it was cold. Inside, our bus driver was neutrally cold to the passengers. But I was warmed from this double-chill as I sat next to a lady eating "Quaker Express Instant Oatmeal," cinnamon-roll flavored. I'll buy some when I get back to Provo.

"Crazy Earl," our bus driver, introduced himself and said, "If cell phones go off, I go off the road." By this moment I felt as vulnerable as I did in Brasil and Ghana, where drivers care though government roads don't. He then adds, "Please don't take your shoes off and I won't take off mine....I think my feet smell pretty good since they've been fermenting in my shoes. I haven't taken them off since Columbus ( I assumed he was talking about the city)." Having just deplaned from jetBlue earlier in the day, the airline's courtesy by now resembles the treatment you get at Lavell Edward's Stadium if you are a member of the Cougar Club, thanks to "Crazy Earl." But we're off.

Grandpa says to never go anywhere without a spoon in your pocket. The spoon in my backback finally sees action after a two month respite. Joel, my oatmeal-eating seat buddy has no spoon. We continued down the highway, rolling, green hills on our left and right, and the sun is down by 5pm. At the rest stop, riders catch their sodas in plastic bottles and Roy Rogers chicken. Mariasol grabs a fat-free yogurt and diet Snapple. I notice the diet change in generations from baby boomer children to college students. Traveling is so much easier without GI problems, and my veggie Sub from Subway has caused me no problems. Don't worry, I'm thinking about all the meat at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
My Greyhound back to Pittsburgh was ultimately heading to St. Louis. Two things instantly popped to mind: One, I read four days ago that St, Louis is the most dangerous city in the U.S. Two, I remember Churchill's quote during the Allied victory in Africa in 1943, "This is not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning." And it truly was the end to the beginning of the longest day in my life. I arrived in Pittsburgh Saturday morning at 6am. I walked downtown in 22 degree weather and at 7 am crashed in a Starbuck's where a fire was roaring. After a few hours rest, I caught a bus to the airport. At the bus stop I see a couple with luggage. They are also wearing long spandex and running shoes, the tell-tale signs of runners. I ask if they run, and they instantly socialize. "We're from San Diego", they chatter. Running and southwestern residency bonds strangers like I can't imagine. We talk about the New York Marathon. Dean Karzanse is finishing his 50 marathons in 50 days in 50 states tomorrow and Lance Armstrong is running. But I later find out that a Brasilian wins the race! Copacabana pride. Hooray to Greyhound for making the moments possible."

TNC #2 That Ironman

2010-01-21T21:53:00.000-08:00

Two observations this week. First, it is scary to wake up at 5:30 on a chilly winter morning to swim in your apartment complex pool, particularly after a stormy night. When you approach the gate to the pool your frigid fingers can barely get the key into the lock. When the pool gate swings open under the yellow light of the pool lamps, it squeaks so loud you're sure you just made the world's most annoying morning alarm for thirteen different families in the vicinity. Then you have to walk over to the steps of the pool, the steaming pool mind you, because it's heated. You can't see into the depths, so you step into the water, which is heated to a toasty 89 degrees farenheit. Once your torso is submerged , all you see is steam, until you complete the process and begin to swim. With motion, the steam clears a path like a train plowing through town. You get into a fairly good swimming rhythm for five minutes, until you feel something grab your leg out of the dark depths of the four-foot pool. It's wraps around you like a jelly fish and you have the two seconds it takes your mind to tell your hand to reach down and remove the mystery thing before you let out a pansy, early-morning yell. During those two seconds your mind races and categorizes all the possible things that could be dwelling in the pool of an apartment complex located in urban Tucson. Luckily, it was only a palm frond. The California fan palms next to the pool shed easily in the wind. But at this point, your will to swim manfully is as strong as Mark McGwire not on steroids, so you weasel out of the rest of the workout and head up home to a nice and toasty apartment where your wife is sleeping smartly and soundly.

My second observation concerns wrist watches. I've noticed water-resistant watches list a depth at which supposedly it can safely work under water. Mine says 100m. That being observed, do they actually test that, and if so, is there a place in the world to perform such testing? Where does a company like Timex go to drop a watch 300 feet under the water to see if it can handle the stress? If Timex hired people for such work, I guess I couldn't apply considering I can't even handle the stress of a four-foot swimming pool :) But hey, if you knew what crazy things went on in our complex like Anna and I do, then you might think twice also before your next early-morning dip...

Thursday Night Column

2010-01-14T22:14:00.001-08:00

I remember in high school debating with my buddies about the worst day of the week. I always chose Thursday. I always think, “Man, it’s not Friday yet, so besides this eight hours of class and track practice, I still have eight more before we can party.” So to soften the blow of another eight more hours before the weekend, I’ve decided to institute my Thursday Night Column, or TNC. I’ve always wanted Rick Reilly’s job. After reading about a Devil in a White City, I figure I can at least pretend to be someone I’m not. So my pretendings will be born on this blog. Anna, if you don’t think I’m weird enough yet, wait till I ask you to edit my recent report on “owls” I composed on my free time.

I’m on outpatient medicine right now, so this column might live as long as three more weeks, or until inpatient service begins. It’s hard to drive down these roads in Tucson today and complain about traffic and bumps in the road. Suddenly the problems in Haiti make this traffic and these bumps look as big as a lysosome to the naked eye. As I’ve gone about my day today I could see in my mind the phones off the hook at the Church Office Building, the Red Cross, and Partners in Health. All these places and more are the base camp where good things will come together to help so many. I couldn’t help but juxtapose my current state with those in Haiti. Tonight I’m sitting at a kitchen table. Across the room a candle is burning, tall and straight like a 2-by-4. The wind won’t ever bend that flame. If I don’t want wind, I close the door. If I don’t want cold, I turn up the heat. If Anna tells me I smell, I take a shower. If I want an apple, I walk five steps to the fridge. I feel independent until disaster strikes, like in Haiti, reminding me I’m probably the most dependent person around.

Tonight I was struck with a thought while eating a delicious dinner of BBQ chicken with pasta, salad, and a root beer float as my nightcap. What if I was in charge of every detail of my dinner, like the thousands in Haiti or millions across the globe? I imagine it would have at least taken me a full day to gather the supplies to make my dinner. As I kept thinking about this, my curiosity grew. What did I eat tonight?

Peanuts, raisins, lettuce, carrots, green beans, broccoli, chicken, BBQ sauce, hot chocolate, root beer, ice cream, pasta, parmesan cheese, ketchup, cucumber, onion, peas, chicken and corn. How long would it have taken me to harvest all these supplies and then prepare them? Let’s see, with the help of wikipedia.

Peanuts- I would have to travel to Portales, New Mexico for the nearest peanut harvest. Total time in car: 12 hours

Raisins- assuming the plant was in season; I know I could harvest grapes in my best friend’s back yard in mesa. Total time in car: 4 hours. Time to dehydrate in sun: 7 days.

Lettuce: Being independent, I only know lettuce as near as Yuma. Roundtrip in car: 7.5 hours

Carrots: Allegedly these can grow in Tucson, so I’ll calculate a ten-minute drive to the Farmer’s market, but I can only do this for local products.

Green beans and peas: These can also grow in Tucson: 10 more minutes.

Broccoli: Also grows in Tucson: 10 minutes

Tomatoes for ketchup: 10 minutes to gather, 3 minutes to smash up and add sugar and salt for ketchup.

Cucumber: Can also grow in Tucson, so I get at Market: 10 minutes.

Onion: I think grow in Tucson, so 10 minutes to bad breath.

Corn: I can pick this in Tucson also, 10 more minutes.

Parmesan Cheese: To make this I need at least 20 days to harvest raw cow’s milk, let it curdle with Whey and rennet (I don’t know where I’d get this so I’ll add another day) and then brine in salt water. If I were eating Parmesan from Italy, I’d need 12 months to age this condiment properly. Good thing Ketchup isn’t such a chore.

BBQ sauce: I’ll roast down some corn for corn syrup and add this to my homemade ketchup. Total time: 3 hours.

Hot chocolate: Shoot, I’ll have to drive down to Mexico for Cacao. 24 hours round trip, at least. Then add sugar and water.

Ice Cream: I’ve made this homemade before, so to gather all supplies including salt and ice, I’ll say four hours.

Root beer: I can find sassafras in Eastern Texas: 2 days in car.

Chicken: Classmate’s back yard. Time to kill, pluck, and cook: 2 hours (I know it takes this long, remember our Survivor challenge Chantal, back in 2001?)

So, clearly I’m still not independent, as I would need a car. To assemble and cook this I would need an estimated 33 days. And it took me only 10 minutes to assemble it all by my dependent self in the kitchen. Imagine how much service can be rendered in Haiti in 33 days… Oh, and I forgot to calculate how long to make homemade pasta. If I had to do it all myself, I’d do it Brazilian style, rice and beans 365 times a year.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

2009-12-31T15:29:00.000-08:00

I hope yours was as wonderful as ours! We took a fantastic trip up to Utah, where we spent a week with my family and a day with Spencer's. I was determined to take adorable pictures of the whole week for a nice blog post (to compensate for 6 months of silence from me!). However, we forgot about our camera completely, until we were on our way home. As for the pictures we took then (after ten hours of driving), you don't want to see them anyway :) So instead of darling pictures, here is a list of highlights from our trip:

-Jill Omerza taking a bite out of every cookie at Spencer's high school friends' party in Mesa on the way down (I guess I should add she's only 4 or 5...and adorable enough that no one cared)
-The Obama Chia-pet from the Halls
-Laughing ourselves sick reading "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" on the drive up
-Reuniting with my family under the lights of temple square. It takes a lot to cause a scene with all the hustle-and-bustle there, but I think we managed to with 5 of the 8 kids all meeting up there with spouses and kids, exclaiming "You've gotten so tall!" "It's been so long!" and "I can't believe we're all here!"
-Meeting B-Rad, our newest (Boyer) nephew and one of the greatest blessings our family has ever received
-Finding that although Spencer's knee was broken, he didn't need surgery (thank you to the generosity of Dr. Vern Cooley--aka Tiger Woods' doctor)...what a blessing!
-Seeing a live octopus and touching a live sting ray at the Aquarium with all our nieces and nephews...I think Spencer and I were even more excited than the kids!
-Meeting up with friends I hadn't seen in years and getting to introduce them to Spencer
-Making Gingerbread-cookies and watching the "true" Grinch
-Enjoying things that don't exist in Tucson like fires in the fireplace, snow storms, frost, throwing snow-balls, splashing slush, hot chocolate that really warms you up, etc, etc
-The nativity put on by our nieces and nephews, replete with bath robes, tinsel, old night-gowns, stuffed sheep, and, of course, ADORABLE faces
-Watching the kids Christmas morning...my favorite is the age when they are way more fascinated with eating the wrapping paper than seeing the actual gifts
-Watching my parents Christmas morning...you'll never find people more excited to give presents!
-Battling each other in Pirates' Cove, Settlers of Catan, Apples-to-Apples or "It Came To Pass"
-Boxing Day: pajamas, games, a service project, soup and chocolate all day!
-Hearing my mom and Joe speak in church
-And the icing on the cake: a temple session with my family

Thanks to all who made time to hang out with us and made it such a great week for us! We couldn't have asked for a more perfect trip!

Just when you thought millionaire senators and athletes were all headed down the drain...

2009-12-02T20:09:00.000-08:00

Check out this great blog:

http://marriedtoaballer.com

Time Out

2009-11-17T12:39:00.000-08:00

It's standard practice before a surgical procedure in US operating rooms for the charge nurse to call a "time-out" in order to check one last time that the right patient is indeed lying on that bed next to all the knives and that the right place for incision is marked. After a hefty "Hooaaa" from the staff (Army Ranger style) the operation begins. Right now I'm taking a "time-out" to offer a Hooaa of praise to the wonderful nurse, the lifeblood of any hospital or clinic. Were it not for the Women's Instructive Association in Boston at the beginning of the 20th century, there might not have been the OB physician. These nurses banded together and began to treat women in the prenatal period and soon noticed healthy improvements for mom and baby. Thus was born (this pun's for you Bird) the OB's role, conceived in the brains of the great nurses.

Utah...here we come!!

2009-10-13T20:07:00.000-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/14/us/14utah.html

Surgery Quote of the Day

2009-10-12T19:51:00.001-07:00

Came across this quote studying about gall bladder removal:

CO2 is the preferred insufflating gas for laparoscopic procedures because it is highly soluble in water and does not support combustion when electrocautery is used.

hate to think of the victim when the combustible gas was used :)(

I agree with this solution

2009-09-30T11:41:00.003-07:00

Doctors as the Key to Health Care Reform

Posted using ShareThis

Hansen/Boyer family reunion in 2016?

2009-09-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

Rio\'s Olympics Quest: Can It Handle the 2016 Games?

Cienega Creek

2009-09-26T13:54:00.000-07:00

After a ride through the high desert this morning, we reached this oasis in the sun. By far this place ranks in the top 5 "hidden gems" of Arizona. It's about 45 miles Southwest of Tucson and worth every mile. The BLM has set aside thousands of acres here with the purpose of maintaining a wildlife preserve in its natural state. No trails, just roaming with the mule deer. Anna and I LOVE when we both have a day off together. Morning hikes and afternoon football!

Celebration- Let the Cheesiness Begin: A Tucson Dating Scene

2009-09-14T21:01:00.000-07:00

The Bear

2009-09-09T18:07:00.000-07:00

Today I performed a psychiatric history on a patient who was recently arrested for domestic violence. He is a big, bear-looking rancher from Yuma, who suffers from PTSD. This big bear of a man was in tears by the end of our interview as he thought of how his wife struck a deal with the county judge to let him out of prison over the weekend if he agreed to seek treatment at the VA. He loves his family. He is genuine, I could tell. After the interview I warned him he was going to be the patient my classmates would "round" on this afternoon. This basically means we sit in as the psychiatrist interviews him. I told him he should play a joke on my classmates and pretend to act weird during the interview. So, rounds comes, and we are sitting in a circle surrounding our patient and the psychiatrist. A half-hour into the interview, with a few of us already dozing off, the bear of a man is calmly explaining his PTSD and then suddenly yells in a loud voice "because I'm violent!!." If you thought jumping out of your chair one foot into the air was a lot for us students, you should have seen how high the psychiatrist jumped. The bear quickly laughed and gave me a wink and assured us he has a sense of humor like the rest of us. I'm lovin' psych!! We'll see what Anna has to say about my affinity for the mentally affected.

What about Bob?

2009-09-03T22:20:00.000-07:00

Now into my second week of the psychiatry clerkship, I'm afraid I've worried Anna I might pursue a new-found interest in this branch of medicine. It's such a different style than any other specialty. Take, for instance, the office layout of an outpatient psychiatrist. You walk into a neat, comfortable room, probably a lot like your home living room. Comfy couches surround an expensive carpet. A gorgeous, oakwood bookshelf lined from toe to head with hardbacks inclduding "Robinson Crusoe," "Anthropologist from Mars," and the psyche bible, DSM-IV. A pair of palladian windows let in sun-light in a way that makes you feel trapped inside a Martha Stewart magazine. The fake plants in the corner don't help with that image. I'll be sure to stock up my side tables with enough Sports Illustrated to counter the Martha effect. Nothing like the fresh words of Rick Reilly to ease the troubled mind. In fact, the only evidence in the room betraying the doctor's profession is an electronic scale off to the side. No stethoscope. No reflex hammer. No white coat. Yes, there are patient charts on the doctor's desk, but that is all. This morning I watched a psychiatrist at work in this environment. The only physical contact with the patients involved hand-shaking. One of the things I love about medicine is the hands-on approach to care. I would be surprised if I ended up in this specialty. But who knows, with all the bananas laying around out there, I just might have a Freudian slip someday.

Medical Discovery

2009-08-24T12:58:00.000-07:00

This, hot off the press!!! Whenbrunetteswanttosoundlikeblondes.com reporter Anna Hansen (formerly Boyer) has just reported that statues, yes statues, suffer from frostbite. If you don't believe this, walk through BYU campus on the weekend of home football games to see for yourself. The statues will be wrapped in saran-wrap! The fact that it's the weekend of home football games has no correlation, according to the latest research. It's the cold! Access to this and much, much more at 4225 N First Ave, Apt 1016 Tucson, AZ, the home of medical and nursing superstar students.

An Update...

2009-06-29T20:25:00.001-07:00

At work, when someone is asked how they are doing, the response is often "Just living the dream, baby!" The response is usually sarcastic as alarms and bells and the phone ring, noxious smells fly by, etc etc. But it's actually very true for me right now: I have always always wanted to go to nursing school and now I'm doing it!
Last semester was pretty cushioned as I cut down my work hours and had very easy classes. This semester my hours at work doubled and class is much harder. I'm actually acting like a nurse--giving medications, starting IVs, doing assessments. (That's right, you should all stay out of the Tucson hospitals for a while!) I feel like I did when I was 4 years old tromping around in my mom's high-heels. But I love it! I learn so much each day and feel my goal becoming a reality.
As for the rest of my life, it really doesn't exist, so that's that. Just kidding--I am having a blast with my new baby (my road bike), my beehives, and occasional visits from Spencer :) He is studying really hard right now, but we have a great time making the most of his/my breaks.
In a nutshell, we are living the dream! And blessing the person who invented air conditioning...

Boards studies...

2009-06-17T13:38:00.001-07:00

I laughed out loud while coming across this fact from the great Wikipedia. I am studying the central nervous system, just to put it in context.

"There are many ways to acquire radial neuropathy.
The term Saturday Night Palsy refers to nerve damage that can occur if a drunk person falls asleep with the back of their arms compressed by a bar edge, bench back, or like object. Radial neuropathy is also called honeymooners palsy, since it can be acquired by sitting with an arm draped over the back of a neighboring chair (or movie-theater seat) for a long time, or when somebody sleeps with his/her head rested on another persons arm, as for instance in a newly married couple where the partner doesn't yet want to tell his or her partner to use a pillow instead.
Both Saturday night palsy and honeymooners palsy refer to the fact that the nerve damage is generally forewarned by arm pain to a degree that only excessive love or liquor would drive a person to keep their arm in such an uncomfortable position."

I think Anna and I might still be on honeymoon because she complains of wrist-drop. What a sign of love for the hubby :)