Of Arias, baseball and Sabino

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!

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?

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

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

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

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

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.