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Posts Tagged ‘retirement’

Extensions

Posted in Creativity, Poetry, tagged , , , , , , , , , on 10 Nov 2025| Leave a Comment »

I do not recognize my hands, today,
hide-wrapped and rough,
fingers moving all as one, a unit lacking youth’s independence,
working like
a team of horses, fingers yoked in tandem,
brushing crumbs or combing hair,
reaching out
claw-like, deliberate, mechanical.

Gone is the fluidity
that typed like a piano etude,
that tested the strength of rain
fingers splayed, palm up to the lowering sky.

They seem, now, more like my father’s hands,
leathered, laced with welted scratches from thorn or cat,
thick fingers slightly curved, open,
as if holding the memories
of tools and wood and mugs and plates
and books and pens and paper
and forks and spoons
and a sweetheart’s hand.

They do not close as once they did,
so tightly that they could catch
my breath on winter days,
and when now they speak
in gesture they are
slow, brutish, leaving most
to context and implication.

And, of course, the pain they carry, that is new as well,
the constant reminder of dull aches,
the sharp-edged recriminations of grip and release.

I have always seen them, in many ways, as extensions of me,
strong and supple, quietly expressive,
nimble in deed and thought, switching with ease
from fountain pen
to computer keys,
from kitchen knife
to garden tool,
from dovetail jig
to a viola’s strings
to my true love’s hair.

This still is true, I suppose, as they and I both are
a good bit older, a dash more tired,
content to spend time in restful contemplation.

We still do all the things we used to, only
with a mindfulness that comes from
a slow paring down of life from what we need
to what we desire
to do, to feel, to create.

Perhaps I do not recognize them
because I do not know who I am,
in this time.

Perhaps they are teaching me.

Clever hands.

Let’s learn together.

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Soft Reset

Posted in Culture, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on 29 Apr 2025| 5 Comments »

For about three months there has been one main question on my mind: What grade of cancer is it?

For the past 65+ years, my body has been pretty reliable. Aside from bad eyes, soft teeth, and legs too short for my height, it has performed well. Oh, there have been episodes—a back injury that plagued me for decades, a stress level that led to a barrage of investigative tests, a critical bout of appendicitis—but I’ve reached retirement age without needing any prescriptions and my main complaints center around stiff joints and thinning hair.

In short, my body has been a real trouper.

I’ve also tried to approach life with a “data-driven” mindset, where study and expertise gather and analyze information in order to formulate probable outcomes and guide my actions. Just as I trust that someone who has studied turtles for thirty years knows more about turtles than I do, and that someone who restores cars knows more about internal combustion than do I, so too do I trust that medical professionals, who have years (sometimes decades) of study and experience under their belt, who are steeped in the knowledge and research of their chosen field, are better qualified to interpret the results of medical tests than I am.

So, in January, when blood tests came back that showed an elevated PSA level, and my doc was concerned that this indicated a 25% chance that I had developed prostate cancer, I was likewise concerned. A 25% chance wasn’t big, but it wasn’t nothing, and we agreed that further investigation was warranted.

Then, in February, when the MRI she ordered showed a lesion on my prostate, and that lesion was determined to have an 80% likelihood of being cancer, my data-driven mindset accepted a cancer diagnosis as the most likely outcome, and the only thing left to determine was what “grade” of cancer it was. Was it the “low” grade type—not aggressive, slow-growing, low risk of complication/metastasis—where the consensus recommended monitoring rather than any active measures? Was it the “intermediate” type, where risks increased, treatments became more active, and outcomes a bit more squishy in predictability? Or the “high” grade, where invasive, sometimes radical treatment was indicated?

Looking deeper into these grades, I learned that about half of such cancers were in the “low” group, and 40–45% were in the “intermediate” group. That left only 5–10% of cancers in the “high” group. To know what grade of cancer, though, required a biopsy and because of the lesion’s location, not an easy biopsy. I will not go into details.

And it was in that month, waiting to have the biopsy, and then the near fortnight between biopsy and results, that my data-driven mindset failed me.

Cancer is not a fun word. It does not wrap one up in a warm blanket of fuzzy good feelings. Having friends and relatives who have battled and (thankfully) made it through their cancer treatments, I know that cancer is not a death sentence. However, having had a mother and step-mother die of cancers, I know that this is not a given. Cancer can and does kill. Often. And though I’ve long heard that “If you get cancer, prostate cancer is the one you want to get,” that men with low-grade prostate cancer often live for decades and usually die of something else, and though I was looking at a 90–95% chance that this cancer was low or intermediate grade, none of that mattered as my data-driven mindset was overcome when my reptilian brain took charge and spent those six weeks between scheduling the biopsy and receiving the results in a fight-or-flight battle with the 5–10% probability of a “high” grade diagnosis.

And I mean a serious battle. Like, a Why bother planting those roses? battle. A No point outlining that novel now scale battle. An I worked so fucking hard to make a safe retirement for us and now this? cage-match battle.

There was no 90–95% chance. Try as I might, despite desperate attempts to focus on the real probabilities, there was only the 5–10%.

During those six weeks my fears blossomed, unfurling their cankerous petals, until Week Three when they began to wither and fade as within me there began to grow a stony, reluctant acceptance. “Worst-case scenario” began to preface much of my thinking, and I started the process of evaluating my life, cataloguing faults and failures, strengths and successes, all in neatly-ordered columns. Aside from the fact that I was really really looking forward to having another quarter-century (give or take) to doink around on the planet, if I did have to “get my affairs in order,” I felt like I’d done a pretty good job of it, overall, and those who depended on me would be taken care of.

It wasn’t a peaceful state of mind, it wasn’t pleasant, but it was acceptable.

Yesterday, the results came in. No cancer. None. Nada. Zip. Due to the difficult position of the lesion, he’d taken three times the usual number of core samples he usually took, just to make sure. All came back negative for cancer.

Remember, up top, when I mentioned that the lesion seen in the MRI had an 80% chance of being cancer? The 80% that has driven my thinking for months? Turns out I’m in the other 20%. Probabilities are just that: probabilities.

Do I regret my data-driven approach to all this? No. Concentrating on the most likely outcomes, while remaining cognizant of the outliers, was a gentler journey than driving blithely down the “happy path” only to smash into a brick wall, should my diagnosis have gone the other way.

I am grateful, exceedingly grateful, that it worked out as it did. I’m grateful for the strength and steadfastness of my wife. I’m grateful for the caring and empathetic treatment from my medical team (nurses absolutely rock). And I’m actually grateful for the opportunity I was given, to see my life from a new perspective, to evaluate my existence in the aggregate rather than the discrete, and to experience this “soft reset” that will now color and inform my approach to what I hope is another quarter-century (give or take) to doink around the planet.

Onward.

k

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Cardinal Sin

Posted in Culture, tagged , , , on 14 Apr 2024| 4 Comments »

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since I last went to work . . .

In recent conversations with my sister, the word “shirking” was mentioned a few times. Growing up, shirking—the avoidance or neglect of duty—was Mortal Sin #1 in our mother’s book (followed closely by “imperfect result or performance”). Every day, every waking hour, was to be filled with purposeful activity. Productivity was the point. Recreation (where allowed) usually had a secondary educational goal.

My father was not as involved with this mindset. Though he worked long hours, and his off-days were regularly spent making repairs, improving our home, keeping cars in tune, and such, his recreation had no ulterior motive. His enjoyment of the 49ers’ football games was pure, and I long suspected that the point of his lazy Saturday’s spent surf-fishing was not, in fact, to catch fish.

But Dad’s counterpoint to Mom’s stricter zeitgeist really didn’t stand much of a chance and, in the end, didn’t make a dent in our training. As a result, my sister and I always and still find it difficult to stand down, take a breath, chill, relax. Everything must have a goal, a purpose.

Two weeks ago, I retired, ending forty-six years of employment, and in the time since, I’ve been busy. I’ve been doing chores (cooking, groceries, paying bills), handling situations (rolling over the 401(k), confirming insurance switchover), and even embarking on some larger projects (traction strips for the front steps, installing new raised beds). But I’ve also (usually at my wife’s suggestion) been taking time to enjoy some shows, read a little, and take walks. I thought I was doing pretty well.

But last night, my brain screwed up and showed its hand.

I was in bed, prepping for sleep and took a few minutes to plan the next day’s activity. The internal dialogue went something like this:

• Okay, tomorrow’s Sunday; the weather is supposed to be fine—mostly sunny, high of 62°F.
• Don’t want to waste the weather; outdoor activity should be a priority.
• I could work more on the front steps, scrape and grind to prep the surfaces.
• Should also see if we have any of that paint color left . . . Adirondack Brown, was it?
• Don’t want to get too deep into that. Don’t start anything that can’t be left for a while.
• Hmmm, what? Why?
• Only one day to spend on it; gotta go back to work on Monday. It’s been a nice two-week break, though.

At this point I heard/felt a click, in my head, like a physical switch being thrown.

Brain, you’ve been busted.

My subconscious had obviously not gotten the memo about our retirement; it was still operating as if I was only on vacation. It’s as if, deep down, I don’t really believe I’ve retired. That, or retirement is just too foreign a concept for my lizard brain to comprehend.

So, subconscious and I had a conversation wherein we discussed both the nature of forever and the fact that not every moment needs to have a goal.

Obviously, this is going to take more time than expected to truly sink in. The longest time-off I’ve ever had was a three-week vacation, so as far as I can tell my subconscious is now working on that premise, and we’ll need to have a similar conversation next week. But if that’s needed, we’ll have it, and again the week after, if required.

I’ll get there. Even if I have to drag my subconscious along, kicking and screaming.

k

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The Last Weekend

Posted in Culture, tagged , , on 24 Mar 2024| 1 Comment »

This is my last weekend. Ever.

From tomorrow on, I will merely have days, each barely distinguishable from the next, one after the other, days that form weeks, which form months, which in turn form years, onward, until I eventually end. The reason? This coming week is my last week in the work-a-day world, and as of this Friday afternoon, I will have retired from my 33-year stint at my place of employment.

We could have a semantic disagreement about the definitions. Some will feel that the weekends will always be weekends, fenceposts on the calendar of life, regardless of what activities I might (or might not) use to fill my weekdays. Others will say that I will have nothing but weekends, back to back, or that I’ll be on one very long weekend.

These definitions and outlooks have merit, in that they make logical sense within their framework, but for me, they just don’t feel right. For me, a weekend is the break between work-weeks, the time when one kicks back, tackles larger projects, gets together with friends, runs errands. I’ve long been one of the “early birds” at work, starting at around 6 AM, and I’ve been in the habit of “front-loading” my work weeks, working longer days Monday thru Wednesday, so I can shave an hour or so off my Friday, which when combined give me a jump-start on the weekend, giving me more like two and a half days for each weekend. And, of course, there’s the weekly case of Sunday-Night-itis, usually creeping in sometime Sunday afternoon, that dread knowledge that the weekend is almost over and tomorrow it’s back to the grind. This is what a weekend is, to me.

And this is my last weekend. Ever.

I expect I will be relying on the wall calendar more, checking the “day of the week” sub-dial on my old wristwatch, and of course, peeking at the time/date display on my phone. Because even though I will no longer have weekends, per se, the date still matters, and the day of the week still matters (especially on Garbage Night).

I’m not sure how I’ll structure my time, going forward. Will I plan? Will I occupy myself with whatever catches my fancy? I’m curious to see what works and what doesn’t.

However it works out, I know it will work out. Forty years ago, my wife and I devised a plan, and for forty years we worked the plan, and now we’re at the finish line, ready to reap the plan’s reward.

Excitedly, I repeat my mantra: Onward.

k

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Paradigm Shifting

Posted in Culture, Movies, tagged , , , on 11 Mar 2024| 11 Comments »

It struck me today that I need to change my perspective.

I am still thinking like an employed person. True, I still am employed, but not for much longer. In fact, I only have fifteen more days of employment; three business weeks before I am retired. Yet, when looking ahead and planning, I still, to a great extent, fall into the decades-long habit of planning around my workday responsibilities. Is it a school night? Then I can’t stay up ’til 2AM gaming with my crew. Am I on call? Then thank you, no, to the second whisky. How much will travel time eat into my week off?

Case in Point: Dune: Part Two.

For a long time, now, I have not enjoyed going to the cinema. Aside from the jarring juxtaposition of watching an adaptation of a Regency drama with distant gunfire and muffled explosions bleeding through from the multiplex theater next door, I find the experience over-loud, over-priced, and chock-a-block with people who are—more often than I care to admit—rude, inconsiderate, and entirely capable of ruining my movie-going experience.

So, though all my friends are raving about how good D:P2 is, I’ve been steeling myself for the long wait until it hits a streaming service and then comes out on disc (I’ll be watching the three movies annually, once I have them all at hand). I mean, why test my tolerance by braving the cinema along with the crowds that will also want to see it on any given weeknight or weekend day?

But today, I realized how silly and outdated that perspective is. In three weeks, I’ll be retired. Next month, there’s no reason I can’t’t go to the cinema mid-week, midday (along with all the other old folks). I might even get a senior discount. I’ll still have to contend with SFX sound bleeding in from the theater next door, but I’m thinking that won’t be as big an issue with D:P2 as it might otherwise be.

To be honest, I’ve missed the cinema experience, at least the way it used to be. My sister and I, ages ago, went in a gang to a “Weekend of Epics” in Petaluma, where we saw, back to back: The Bible, Ben-Hur, Cleopatra, and Lawrence of Arabia. It was an all-day event, over thirteen hours of screen time (plus intermissions and meal breaks). And it was a gas, because the only people in attendance were movie nerds who were totally into the immersion of watching old movies in a darkened theater. No teens on dates. No young couples with crying babies. Just folks who were willing and able to devote nearly sixteen straight hours to a movie-going experience.

I don’t ever expect to capture that feeling again, but if there’s even a chance of feeling a fraction of that magic, I’ll risk the disappointment.

k

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Forever Thursday

Posted in Culture, Seattle, tagged , , on 08 Mar 2024| 1 Comment »

I find myself in a liminal space, straddling one of modern life’s boundaries, not half-in/half-out, but between and neither, caught mid-transformation.

With three weeks to go until my retirement, I’m not really working at work, but I’m also not really not working. Not quite working; not quite retired. Every day feels like Thursday (even today, a Friday), and by that I mean that each day feels like the weekend is about to start, but isn’t quite ready to throw the switch. Every day is Weekend Eve Eve.

At work, management is purposefully not giving me anything to do (well, nothing that can’t be done in an hour, anyway)—a bit of a gift after 33 years with the company—so I’m doing a lot of ho-humming during my work day. My replacement is making the transition from her old team to ours, and I will be able to assist in that, but she’s actually a former member of our team who is returning to the fold, so there’s little with which she’ll need my specific assistance.

As for retirement readiness, the requisite forms have been filled out/submitted/received, our new insurance is ready to take over, our many ducks are waiting patiently in their row.

All is in readiness.

Yet, I am anxious. Nervous. Jittery. At loose ends. Unable to focus. Wanting to start, but without the time to do so.

The weather has not helped. Here in Seattle, spring started off early but quickly realized it forgot something on the stove and had to run home, giving winter another month to hang around and raid the fridge. It’s as if my world is holding its breath.

And yet, all around me, furious activity. Kids play in the street, dogs get walked. Orders are delivered, trash is collected. Speeches are made and votes are cast. Wars and negotiations drag on. Babies are being born, changing couples into parents, parents into grandparents.

Yet, here I am in my chrysalis, waiting to emerge.

When I do,  what will I be?

k

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Drifting

Posted in Creativity, Culture, Poetry, tagged , , , , , on 22 Feb 2024| Leave a Comment »

the percussive exuberance
of K-drama dialogue
drifts down the darkened hall
a cryptic lullaby in
rollercoaster tones
leading me past
anxious abstraction
to plush midnight

(more…)

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