IT’S HOW THEY ANSWERED THE CALLING

continued from - Answering the Calling

Lincoln Elementary School

Preschool

My Mom shared her memories of my first day at preschool, which helped me think back to when I was four years-old. She shared how hard it was for her to let go of me to the strangers in the preschool, even for a half day program. After reviewing some of my progress notes written by my teachers, I inferred this preschool program promoted school readiness. Did you ever notice everything in the educational arena has some form of acronym to call their programs? This program was the SPARKEY program, or Schools and Parents Assisting with Resources for Kids in Early Years.

It was the first time I remember being left in the care of adults who were not relatives or my parents’ friends. Although it was almost a half century ago, I have vivid memories of what must have been my first day of school. The first thing I noticed, was this person’s home looked different than our apartment building. We entered directly into someone’s home, through a door from the outside, where our home we entered from outside to an inside vestibule. This house had only one floor, my apartment building had three floors with four individual apartments on each floor. The house seemed to be larger than my entire apartment building. We stood and waited by the doorway when a polite lady came and greeted my Mom and I. I assumed my Mom knew who this lady was as they started talking. She greeted me by my family name, Bobby, as if she’s known me all my life. Until now only my immediate family and my parents’ Hungarian circle of friends called me Bobby. My senses were overloaded by the number of children in this woman’s home and all the toys scattered throughout her large living room.

This kind lady introduced herself as one of my teachers and she will be one of my teachers in the classroom at school. I thought I knew what school was from watching Sesame Street, but never been to one so I wasn’t sure what to expect a school was supposed to be like. I wonder if my Mom knew if this was a school she brought me to. Did she know she was going to leave me with this nice lady or was this supposed to only surprise me? With her warm welcoming smile, she invited me to join the other children and go play. I was excited to go play with all those toys, yet my shyness didn’t want to let go of the firm grip on my Mom’s hand. I wanted my Mom to be close by. I was overwhelmed by deciding which group of children to join their busy activities at different tables doing a lot fun stuff, coloring, puzzles, games, giggling, dressing up and even had a table with my favorite toys; LEGO building blocks with and die-cast cars in copious amounts more than I could ever imagine.

I read my end of year progress note from the SPARKEY program.

“Bobby has shown great improvement in his social development. He gets along well with his friends and in most instances is more than willing to share and take turns.”

Although it was at the teacher’s discretion to comment and further evaluate the subjective categories on the progress note, I found one and it read,

“Can express thoughts and contributes to discussion”

My teacher commented to this section of the progress note,

“Very well, and how well and often.”

I believe this is my first memory of being a storyteller as I either started early or somethings never change, but I’ll agree on both being true.

Endlessly, since I became an adult or old enough to understand, my Mom apologized for being an overprotective parent. In her eyes, she perceived both her and my Dad didn’t provide for me enough and didn’t let me stray out of their eyesight. Perhaps, she thinks I did not having a good or a happy childhood? The only negative I remember was our apartment building lacked young children my age and having only one car made it difficult to arrange play dates. My educational background tells me I probably faced social anxiety and social awkwardness or simply, being just shy. If anything, I believe my shyness was as a result of being around the same people and not necessarily new people and not often were there other children my age.

Elliott B Elementary School

I transferred to Eugene B Elliott Elementary School for the remainder of elementary school years with the exception of Grade 2. At my request, I began to ask to be called by my proper name and made sure all my teachers knew to use Robert from this point on instead of my family nickname, Bobby. My fondest memories beyond the teachers I remembered the most were the extras and beyond the academic school activities. Some of these activities included school-wide monthly award assemblies, marionette theatre, holiday music (choir/instrumental/brass) shows, art shows, field days, monthly after-school popcorn and a movie, safety patrol, school monitor clubs and a myriad of other activities.

When I compared the schools in south Florida were I supervised YMCA school-age child care programs in both diverse socio-economic and multi-cutltural/ethnic communities many years since my own elementary school days, my school was more organized, offered academic, enrichment oriented and was community-centered. The elementary schools in my current neighborhood start 8:00am and end at 2:00pm as opposed to our days ended at 3:30pm. We participated in both outdoor morning and afternoon recess year-round and went to an enrichment every day. I speculate my elementary school was ahead of its time not only in it its offerings but its much smaller classroom sizes lent itself to ideal staff to student to teacher ratios. This allowed the school became an extended family where every staff member took time to know each student by name was second to none. I challenge any of the schools in my community to compete with Eugene B Elliot Elementary.

Kindergarten

Miss Waytolonis was my Kindergarten teacher, a petite, chubby woman with her salt and pepper hair brought up in a beehive and always wore a sweater over her shoulders as if she didn’t have arms but wings like Tinkerbell. Kindergarten was much like preschool, but we started to learn to phonetically read, basic writing skills and simple math skills. I was introduced to “Curious George” books which started a lifelong love for all things Curious George. Miss Waytolonis, like a shepherd, managed her flock of lambs. Her eyes always watched carefully to ensure no wolf got into her domain. With her gentle voice or a certain look, she could guide the children into a straight line or if they giggled and made noises inside, she quietly reminded us to use our inside voices. Suddenly, the lambs silenced themselves and followed her lead, not wanting to disobey her, did as she asked.

This was the year I met two of my closest friends for the duration of my elementary school years, Kellie and Troy. Through several moves, I managed to keep in touch with Troy until early part of high school and found Kellie many years later on social media living several states away. We actually met up a few years ago on driving with my parents from their winter home in south Florida to their summer cottage in central Ontario. We remain friends, distant, but do catch up when time permits, still share a message or just check in on each other.

Grade 1

By the time I started school, I was already a year older than most of my friends since my December birthday required me to start school the following year. It wasn’t made easier when in Grade 1 I missed more than a month of school due to health-related absences for three separate surgeries for appendix, tonsil/adenoid and ear tubes. Mrs. Clancy, my Grade 1 teacher made sure I kept up academically, she gave a little push and extra help to catch up with the rest of the class. I was mastering reading levels rapidly despite missing so many days from school. I credit Mrs. Clancy for introducing me to my early love of reading and writing. Grades were either an ‘S’ for satisfactorily progressing or “NH” for needing helping. Mrs. Clancy wasn’t much to put subjective comments to any of the progress areas other than a comment of extra work in reading and writing beyond my grade level was assigned to me to keep my interest and not be lost in a daydream.

Tumpane Elementary School

Grade 2

At the end of Grade 1, my parents shared they decided to move to Toronto for the start of the new school year. The seamless transition from when I finished my summer vacation at the cottage to a new home, in a new city and a new school left me distraught since I never said good-bye to my friends and teachers. Tumpane Elementary School was different from Eugene B Elementary School in numerous ways. The school was two stories and resembled more like the houses around the neighborhood, just larger in size. For the first time, I walked to school rather than rode a school bus, we took French lessons, we ate lunch in our classroom not the cafeteria and all of our written work was done in composition books and not loose leaf newsprint paper and we did our math work on write and wipe off boards. All so different than what we did in Grade 1.

To my chagrin and anguish, I was being called Bobby, again. I thought I made it clear, I wanted to be called Robert. My Grade 2 teacher’s appearance was slightly intimidating, she was taller than an average woman, somewhat pale and ghastly looking. Her classroom was set up so the desks lined up in columns facing the blackboard and her desk. I think we must have moved desks around for group activities as I don’t recall a group table for reading or other small group activities. Miss Martin, whose name I only remembered when I saw my class picture and validated it with my progress report, where she wrote about my writing and oral skills.

On my progress notes I was hoping to find something which would catch my attention or to see if anything helped me recall anything worthwhile to write about. Regrettably, the comments were minimal and didn’t provide much insight into what happened in Grade 2.

“He frequently contributes to our discussions.”

“He is showing an ability to relate his experiences to our discussions and is willing to share them with the class. He has learned also to be more concise in his offerings.”

“He is developing an ability to write a good story.”

Grade 2 lacked tangible memorable moments in class with Miss Martin or Tumpane Elementary School as a whole. It wasn’t a bad year, just a year filled with a difficult transition to a new school, making new friends and adapt to new teaching styles. I had difficulty not understanding why I felt like the outsider trying to find my place, which is why I never really never found my niche in Grade 2.

Elliott B Elementary School

Grade 3 and Grade 4
Boomerang!

After the blizzard of 1976 or 1977, we moved back to Wayne, Michigan before starting Grade 3. I was ecstatic when I was told it would be the same apartment and the same school as before our move to Toronto. The one side of me was excited to reunite with my best friends Kellie and Troy. Yet, the other side was nervous to start over again and being the new face in the crowd, even if I was truly a returning student. Whether it was before school started or the first day of school, when it was confirmed Mrs. Bowling in Room 30 would be my Grade 3 teacher, I became anxious as I only heard only negative things about her.

Since starting my blog, YMeJourney, Mrs. Bowling has been mentioned in several posts over the years. With such vivid memories, I have enough material to write a good sized chapter or perhaps an entire young adult novel. My comments intertwined Grade 3 and Grade 4, as I had her for both years. Those two years were unrivaled when compared to all my other elementary school years. My two years with Mrs. Bowling was the most definitive turning point in terms of academics and personally the most formative of finding myself. It is also the ones with the memories I reminiscence fondly and most frequently about. She was the first teacher I had who took an interest in helping me become a better me, every day with the words, “always be better than your yesterday” being reiterated regularly.

During recess the first day, all of us shared who our teacher was and when I mentioned, Mrs. Bowling, some of my fellow classmates became totally speechless and appeared to have lost the ability to talk. While most of my classmates painted a negative picture of Mrs. Bowling, I didn’t want to find her guilty of this crime, so I just listened to the gossip the children rapidly spread words of fear into those amongst us who were undeniably in her class.

“She gives a lot of homework!”

They were right – Mrs. Bowling assigned homework every night, even on Fridays. This didn’t include any classwork you had infamously marked with a red Sharpie marker to “Redo!”

“She doesn’t let you go to recess because she makes you do-over a lot of times!”

The higher standard she held you to, was greater than your expectations of what you could do. She knew you could do better, simply she always knew you were not doing your best. There were more than a handful times I remember sitting in during recess to “Redo!” because my handwriting was not neat or that I didn’t get enough my math facts right.”

As Mrs. Bowling said on one of my Progress Reports,

“Robert is very careless in his written work in English.” Nearly always he has to redo his written work. Sometimes he does it three or four times.”

It was in Grade 3, I started wearing glasses for reading when at one of the parent conferences Mrs. Bowling recommended my Mom to have my eyes checked as she noted some of my difficulties.

“Robert has a bad time copying from a book. He misses words or misspells the words he copies.”

I heard another child say,

“She keeps the bad kids from going to eat lunch in the cafeteria, she makes them eat with her in class!”

In her eyes, eating in the cafeteria was a reward since you get to sit with your friends, eat lunch together, talk amongst those at your table and if you finished early, you were allowed outside for a mini-recess until class started again.

Mrs. Bowling would write in my Progress Notes,

“He works very hard to please me.” “Robert completes all his work, but he has to redo it sometimes, he doesn’t seem to mind it.”

I heard another classmate squeal as if he was being held hostage,

“She’s like my grandma, she never smiles and she’s super mean!”

Unlike my friends and classmates, I never had a grandmother growing up nor not one who lived with me or one who we visited, so I couldn’t relate to what the other children were saying. However; there was no doubt she was much older than many of the other teachers. Granted she didn’t smile often, but nevertheless, she genuinely loved her pupils (as she called her students) as if they were her extended family. She used both rewards and discipline equally in keeping her class in order and knew how to involve class participation in her lessons.

Mrs. Bowling made learning fun. From speed tests for our math tables to self-paced vocabulary testing. The speed tests for math tables was to see how fast we could complete our math tables with 100 percent of the problems correct. Each operation addition, subtraction, multiplication and division once we successfully got 100 percent on each one, three times we would get an award at our monthly school assembly. The self-vocabulary testing we would get a list of 15 to 20 words and had to write them ten times each, look up the definition and part of speech and then in our words define the word and use it in a proper sentence. At the end of the week, if we were brave enough to challenge Mrs. Bowling we would go to the spelling center and she would tell us one of the words and tell us to either spell it, define it or use it in a proper sentence. If we were able to do all of them with no errors, we were given the next list of words for the following week.

“Little House on the Prairie”, a popular the television show during these years, told of a family’s struggles growing up in rural America in the 1800s. In addition to watching the television show, we read all the Little House books by the real Laura Ingalls Wilder and discussed the similarities and differences from the television show. In one of the years I had Mrs. Bowling, we took a field trip to Greenfield Village which mirrored life the Ingalls family on television. Our arts and crafts projects followed the theme of living in the 1800s as they did on “Little House on the Prairie.” We converted an empty coffee canister into our lunch box and boys made hats and the girls made bonnets. Once we arrived at the village, we were transported back one hundred years. In a one room schoolhouse, we did our math lessons using a slate and chalk and read from the McGuffey readers and then proceeded to walk the remainder of the village and see different ways how people lived and worked back then.

“She talks funny!”

Mrs. Bowling was born and raised in the south, precisely, Kentucky and had a perfect southern accent and drawl. Personally, I found her accent added warmth to her beautiful presence.

In her accent, I can still hear her calling recess to an end.

“Boys and Girls – time finish up – you have five more minutes of recess.”

“Let’s go Boys and Girls, it’s time to line up.”

She was much like a police officer directing traffic at a round-about, with lines for each teacher’s class she supervised during recess.

As the years passed, from adolescence into my adulthood, I remained in contact with Mrs. Bowling until I was in my late 40s. She became an adopted family member, much like I had the quintessential Norman Rockwell inspired grandmother. I would call her regularly, and she would start our chats by asking how my parents are doing and then asked how am I doing in my studies. As I got older she asked,

“Robert has any girl find your fancy as of yet?”

I replied, it’s not easy finding the right fit when you go to school full-time and work a full-time job and helping care for a parent whose health progressively deteriorated over the years.

She genuinely took an interest in my collegiate studies all the way through my post-graduate school coursework. Probing my brain, much like she did when I had her in elementary school, as she called it back then “putting on your thinking cap” or as we call it as adults, critical thinking skills,

“How would you compare those two classes and how the professors taught?”

“What did you enjoy most and least of that particular class?”

“Why is this class important with your chosen course of study or work?”

I learned why we celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday and the history and relevance of the cornucopia or horn of plenty to taking pride in all that I do and maintaining self-discipline and self-control. Thanksgiving and the cornucopia is another post for another time. Thanksgiving became one of those holidays which reminded me most of her and often was one of the days I would call her and she would share what her ginormous family would be doing to celebrate and how many pies she’s baked and sides prepared, so she could focus on the turkey and ham on Thanksgiving Day.

I kept in touch with Mrs. Bowling until Easter 2016 until my own father faced health issues of his own, which ironically took his life on Thanksgiving Day of the same year. Perhaps you may have read about Thanksgiving in a few of my other posts and its significance of learning of the holiday and how my family celebrated the holiday. This wonderful woman was the grandmother I never had growing up; always talked with a smile, offered countless words of advice and genuinely took an interest and loved me as if I were one of her many grandchildren. With overly generous praise and love, I cannot express my gratitude for her taking an interest in me, her patience in all that she taught me and not just by being my teacher but an extension of my family.

Grade 5

My final progress report with Mrs. Bowling wished me much success in Grade 5 and was assigned to Mrs. Ingersoll for Grade 5. In reality, Grade 5, I learned on the first day I had two teachers. Mrs. Ingersoll was my assigned teacher but I also had Mr. Valent, my first male teacher. Their classrooms were side-by-side. For math and science I went to Mr. Valent and stayed with Mrs. Ingersoll for social studies and reading and writing (language arts). As I look back, we changed classes for math and language arts to further address the differing abilities of the students. This was the first time, I remember my friends weren’t with me in all my subject areas.

Much like previous years, language arts lessons were taught through the traditional reading textbooks and writing assignments in workbooks related to our readings. Mrs. Ingersoll further supplemented additional readings with assigning various American literature classics as well as enthusiastically reading to our class some of her own favorites from the same genre. I remember looking forward to her reading us “The Hobbit”, “Moby Dick”, “A Tale of Two Cities”, “The Chronicles of Narnia” and others. She read us just enough to wet our palates and yearned for more, but she would often say,

“That’s all for today, now let’s talk about what I just read.”

“Tell me about what characters did you like? dislike?”

“What part of the story interested you the most?”

“How would you have changed a part of the story you heard?”

Her discussions, which were just as intense and interesting as the enthusiasm she exhibited while reading the books. She helped us develop and communicate our own thoughts and opinions through writing assignments which almost always preceded with questions to consider answering in our reports. In addition to her readings, we had to read an age-appropriate chapter book on our own every week and turn in complex book reports which asked us to summarize our readings, analyze characters (antagonist and protagonist), define the plot, climax and resolution. Some of my favorite books were “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and “The Pigman.”

With the familiarity of how Mrs. Ingersoll taught, I looked forward to her sharing her love of history by storytelling and animating the key characters and bringing them to life. She also incorporated trivial pieces into each lesson often may have been a hidden gem, a twist of character or something that was not commonly known in what we just learned through our textbooks.

Mr. Valent with his black horn-rimmed glasses, he stood by the door when it was time to switch classes for math and language arts. He greeted each of us by name as we entered his classroom, I remember looking up to him, as he was a tall man who bowed his head to get inside the door. When it was time to switch back to our regular classrooms, he always had a positive, encouraging word to share with each student as they left his classroom.

I quickly figured out Mr. Valent taught the tortoises. Once we all took our seats, I looked around to see who switched classes with me, it proved what I already knew, I was with the students who were not the math superstars but those who needed additional help and extra time, be brought to grade level or like me, struggled to remain at grade level.

“Nice job on solving the problem at the chalkboard, Robert!”

“I like how you tried that difficult math problem today.”

Math was never one of my favorite subjects nor was it something came easy for me. The difficulties of understanding the basic concepts of math made it all the more challenging. It seemed like every time I thought I understood what was being taught and then given a couple of the problems I would freeze in my footsteps. As long as my teacher was working with me one-on-one, I seemed to grasp the concept and solve the problems. But once the teacher left my side, the concepts just vanished into the air. My difficulties were magnified when the way Mr. Valent (or any other math teacher) explained in class how to do the problem was totally different than how my father explained the very same concepts. He tried to help me with my math homework, but in the end left me confused and frustrated. In the end, it resulted in may late nights leaving me in tears when it was time to go to bed.

Mr. Valent taught his math lessons at the blackboard. When he would call me to the front of the entire class to work out a problem, I could feel the entire eyes of the classroom staring at me and laughing silently at my arithmetic ineptitude. Rarely did I get it correct on the first try, this further added to my math anxiety and difficulties comprehending the lesson. Mr. Valent rarely showed one-on-one at a student’s desk, but he would call the student up to his desk and put the problem on the blackboard and work the problem out with you and it just created an evil repetitive cycle of defeat.

Where Mr. Valent’s teaching of mathematics, or his lack of ability (at least not in way I understood and was too ashamed to ask for additional help) didn’t help me gain confidence in my worst subject, yet, his teaching science was contrastingly the opposite. He was able to bring science lessons come alive. His enthusiasm towards the space program to the wonders of our planet earth, his excitement was contagious. We all became explorers of our environment and perhaps future astronauts or the next archaeologists. geologists, biologists, chemists or some other scientist. His stories, in class experiments, demonstrations, scavenging hunts kept the class in amazement and quiet for the duration of the lesson.

When it came to progress reports, he wasn’t much for words in the classroom nor on the subjective portion, his words for my “Satisfactory” or “At grade level.”

Towards the end of the day, Friday afternoons, both classes came together where Mrs. Ingersoll played her banjo and lead us in song. We all looked forward to this special reward. We learned a few new songs; some were just fun and goofy ones while others were patriotic or folk songs. These were different from the songs we learned in music class with Mrs. Chartrand. Many of the songs I thought I lost the words to, I managed to quickly remember them many years later when I worked at the YMCA school-age child care and summer camp programs.

Grade 6

I mentioned here and in previous posts how I was brought up to always respect teachers. Perhaps it’s their academic achievement, or their chosen profession to be an educator or more likely I was a reflection of my parents and their parenting but more likely a combination of all of these. As much as I tried, I really did try but I couldn’t find the gumption to like my Grade 6 teacher. Perhaps, he was because my first all male only teacher? Or was it that I was lost in a boy’s body being flooded with hormones of puberty setting in prematurely? Or was it that this man was a grumpy, frumpy and dumpy older gentleman? As much as I would like to say I tried to like him, I have to be honest, I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe this was his way of preparing us for junior high school but I felt he chose teaching as a career for the summer vacation benefit and not the desire to impact the lives of youth.

I remember my reading and language skills were beyond my Grade 6 level but my mathematics skills further struggled with summer slide and were still not quite at grade level. Fractions, decimals and percentages continue to frustrate me since introduced to them in Grade 5 and just never seemed to resolve itself in Grade 6. I was hoping to have mastered these skills prior to exiting elementary school. Yet, knowing my history with math, it just wasn’t happening with a teacher who was less than interested in teaching than I was willing to learn.

Around January, or middle of the year, progress notes came out.

“Robert’s attitude had turn down and he seems to trying somewhat in correct it. Something seems to be bothering him.”


Again, either my shyness or embarrassment prevented me reaching out for extra help in my weak subject, mathematics. A good teacher would have picked up on my struggles rather than pointing out on a progress report something appears to be affecting me. Or even worse was when he wrote,

“If Robert tried harder, I can only see growth, but until he tries harder there will be no growth.”

For the very first time in my young academic career, I dreaded going to school. The only thing I looked forward to was enrichment or recess and even classwork or group work so I didn’t have to listen to this man’s voice. Recess was still twice a day albeit for less time and we picked our own enrichment classes. The focus was to prepare us for junior high school. Recess was a time for me to release my frustrations through temporarily escaping this academic nightmare. Lunch and recess provided time to chat with my friends from Kindergarten, Kellie and Troy without being embarrassed when I was reminded not to talk in class. If it weren’t for my friends and the non-academic and extracurricular activities I was involved in, I am not sure I would have survived this teacher and Grade 6.


And There Were a Few Others...
Although I shared all my academic teachers, I overlooked the other teachers and staff who made Elliott Elementary School a memorable experience. I didn’t get to know these people as well as I did my academic teachers, yet they deserve accolades as they were worth more than just an acknowledgment for remembering their kindness and lessons learned from them. Some deserved a little more as they too, left a memory worth remembering.

Both Mrs. Trains, who had the perfect name for both strings and brass music enrichment and Mrs. Chartrand for vocal music and chorus helped each student find their musical talent. Yet, both these teachers patiently taught those of us who realized early on lacked any and all musical talent whatsoever; whether an instrument or in my voice. Mrs. Chartrand’s beautiful voice led us in seasonal, patriotic and current popular songs and taught us how to stay in tune and on note and the importance of how and why lyrics were sung a certain way. Mrs. Trains us in proper form and key with our instruments and taught us how to “play on key”, whatever that meant. All of us had an important part in the fall, winter and spring recitals and concerts despite all of us having varying different talent and aptitudes. Both ladies found our gifted talents or found ways to bring out a hidden talent. From both, I gained an appreciation for various genres of both vocal and instrumental music from classical to early 1980s rock and roll.

Lunch time was a time to swap something from your own lunch with something from a friend’s lunch or those who had school lunch would try to bargain away their lunch from the brown-baggers. Those who bought school lunch often were from dual working parents or single family homes were always excited to see what us brown-baggers brought from our ethnic kitchens. Our cafeteria lady, Mrs. Stopchinski not only served those who brought lunch but served those who bought milk and treats through the lunch line. She also served the refreshments during our after-school movie days and our various family events. Starting in Grade 4, one boy and one girl was chosen each day to be the cafeteria helper. As the cafeteria helper you got to put on a kid’s apron, put on gloves and help Mrs. Stopchinski by putting milk, fruit and dessert on the food trays for those buying lunch. My friends and I got to know Mrs. Stopchinski by becoming her cafeteria helper or when she served hot chocolate when we came in from our safety patrol duty on those cold winter cold mornings. Without fail, she greeted each of us by name and a smile every day.

Mrs. Anderson taught Grade 3 and was also the enrichment teacher of student council. I was the classroom representative for student council. My involvement with student council taught me public speaking, compromising and debating skills as well as a love of learning about our American government. This contributed to my lifelong love of studying government and history.

Mr. Alan, the custodian, came into my class one afternoon and recruited a small group of us to help him the next morning fifteen minutes before school started. He was going to teach us how to properly unfold and raise our American flag proudly before morning announcements, pledge and our daily song. He dutifully shared the story of why we pay high respect to what our flag represents. Then prior to afternoon dismissal we met up again and he then taught us how to properly lower flag down with care and to fold it properly for the next morning’s crew. Mr. Alan also taught us to be mindful and respectful of keeping our school clean. He taught by example and made sure we took ownership of picking up trash and disposing of it properly, wiping down our tables after lunch and keeping our restrooms clean of trash. I imagine he must have been in the military at one point in his life as he was a stickler for order, cleanliness and neatness, most things ten year-old boys may have heard of but are rarely made up of.

Lastly, there were those despite not remembering their names contributed to making our school an extended part of our community. Although I know we had art class and gym class, I cannot recall the name of various teachers throughout the years but do remember enjoying participating in both extracurricular activities. In art, I remember the exciting projects we would create with all sorts of supplies and mediums. We could only wish to replicate these projects outside of the classroom as we never seen those supplies outside of the classroom.

Gym class we learned about different foods and how they serve as fuel for our bodies. We were told eating good food makes our bodies perform better and if we ate junk food both our brain and bodies would not function as well. We learned to play various team sports and on occasion played a good game of dodgeball or red rover. As the warmth of spring brought us out of the dark cold winters of Michigan, our gym class spent more time outdoors. We ended up having outdoor field days and color wars where we competed with our classmates in the same grade but with a different teacher and the winning class by grade level had a much-coveted tacky trophy prize to hold on to until the next match. The highlight of art class was the fall and spring art shows where our families came to the school and our gymnasium was setup to be an art gallery for the evening.

Mrs. Roach, a heavier set woman whose presence was always known as wherever she walked, she left a trail of her flowery scented perfume. Her distinct perfume would linger for a short time even after leaving a room. I am not sure what she did at the school but she was the personification of the cliché, albeit in female gender, “jack of all trades – master at none” as I remember having vision and hearing checks, height and weight checks with her while other selected students would also be picked up from their classrooms for different activities.

From the very first time I stepped into the school’s library to this day, the smell of a freshly opened book always brings me to my happy place. It my escape from reality, from my days of looking through picture books to present day chapter books, it allowed me to escape to an author’s realm and let my imagination paint the pictures and let the words tell the stories. I am not sure what grade level, but I remember joining the Elliott Bookbaggers, the forerunner of an elementary school based book club where we would read a book selected by Mrs. Drury, the librarian and then have an assignment and discussion about them. Being an advanced grade level reader, I believe this was a way to keep my interest in reading because the window in my classroom attracted my attention more than my grade-level readers.

Lastly, Dr. Albert A. Ward, our principal, was a tall, long-limbed man always well-dressed in a suit and polished shoes. His name still brings a childhood giggle as reminiscing at award assemblies he would be the emcee and signed our awards as Dr. A Ward – get it? Dr. Award. I digress, quite, juvenile humor, but no doubt still makes me giggle and reflect back at what a great experience I had at Elliott Elementary School. Just as we all knew him, he somehow knew all of us with his genuine warm greetings in the morning and reminding us as he would say,

“Be on your best behavior and remember to be upstanding citizens and scholars as you represent your families, your school and your teachers.”

This may not have been the exact quote he said, but in my years operating school-age child care programs, I had this quote posted at my sites and in my office.

His impressive presence at assemblies as emcee and when you heard his thundering deep voice call your name to the front of the audience to receive your award for your academic achievement, you could not feel but proud and honored to have Dr. Ward shake your hand and recognize you in front of your class and peers.

Under his guidance and leadership, the school was a symphony with every staff member, teacher and student having an important, key part of a well-tuned orchestra. With the exception of Grade 2 and Grade 6, all my teachers were outstanding. The exception was Mrs. Bowling who stood feet above the rest despite her short stature in so many unforgettable ways. As I got older, it became clear to me it’s how they answered the calling which made my elementary school years so memorable and time to move on to the second half of my public school years.

… déjà vu …

To be continued…

ANSWERING THE CALLING

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be an elementary school teacher. It was just one of those things, I just knew, I was kid in the back of the class who waved my arms aimlessly as if I needed rescuing but in reality, I was the one who had a calling and answered the question,

“What do you want to be when you grow up?

Many of my male classmates and friends answered the typical; policeman and fireman or the most ambitious were a doctor or lawyer. My female classmates answered with more poise than us males, teacher but some said nurse and the most determined ones were to say veterinarian or something with an excessively long, hard to spell and pronounce profession.

My quick reply always was a confident and enthusiastic,

“I want to be a teacher!”

My dream was further reinforced by having great teachers early on. I especially remember my Grade 3 teacher, Mrs. Bowling, who not only reinforced this desire but engraved it into my soul. She taught the whole class in such a way that I truly felt as if she taught the lessons directed at me, one-on-one. She provided the extra patience and practice in my weakest areas and released me to shine and supersede in areas which came easy. She managed to find that something more in her lessons to engage me rather than let me daydream off somewhere. She knew how to feed my brain to feel challenged in both dynamics without either lowering my self-esteem or building up my ego.

Close to before school would release for summer break, we would find out who our next school year’s teacher would be. I vividly remember the look of fear on the faces of my classmates when they anxiously found out it would be Mrs. Bowling. I am without a doubt in my mind, been one of the few, if not the only one, who probably did not share this sentiment. Despite her short stature, she towered over me, and I still looked up at her in awe. With fortune being on my side, I was blessed to have for both Grade 3 and Grade 4. Along with her, many other great educators throughout my public school years through Grade 12 cemented my dream alive and my aspirations focused.

At fourteen years-old, I heard of a part-time job opportunity at the local YMCA. It was a summer after-school homework assistant, much like a camp counselor but focused on homework assistance and tutoring than on typical outdoor recreational activities. This was much like a half day summer camp focusing on the children who had mandatory summer school requirements to fulfill as they were wavering from being promoted to the next grade. The summer after-school program had a balance of recreational activities but with academic assistance to help with homework or tutoring instead of going on full day field trips.

I made connections with key staff members from volunteering with the pee-wee karate class and notwithstanding how much I love being outdoors, I felt the job was a sure win for me. Once they began taking applications, I jumped at the opportunity and applied for the job immediately, if not sooner. Within a day or two after I submitted my application, I interviewed for the position and was offered the position at conclusion of my interview. Summer flew by faster than usual and towards the last weeks of summer, program enrollment and seasoned staff began dropping. Families began to schedule last summer vacations and begin getting ready for the school year. A good number of staff returned to university and luckily for some, it was going to be their first-year teaching. I was saddened to see the summer escape as quick as it did as it meant my seasonal summer position was coming to an end; until one of the directors pleasantly surprised me. I was one of a handful offered to continue working as a junior after-school program counselor.

Before I finished my senior year of high school, I scheduled my semi-obligatory graduation conference with my guidance counselor. This was like an exit interview for me, my parents and my assigned guidance counselor to review my four years of high school grades, standardized testing scores. The meeting’s goal was either to guarantee job security for my guidance counselor or to help transition and release me to my next stage of life, adulthood, or some sort of post-secondary education. Although I knew it was the latter, I really wanted to believe it was my initial thoughts on the matter.

My parents not only respected educators but held them to a higher standard simply because of their advanced academic achievement. I instantly knew when my guidance counselor questioned my chosen career path of becoming an elementary school teacher, we were going to be in for a confrontational conversation. After a nonchalant welcome and exchange of several polite greetings she opened the conversation,

“Over the past four years during Robert’s routine meetings with me, he always shared his passion and desire to become an elementary school teacher.”

She continued to monopolize the conversation with extra small talk to keep the proverbial make-believe mic on her. Her diction was directed at my parents, as if I were absent from the room.

“In the past couple of years, as more elective classes opened up, he often asked which classes he could take that best suited him for his career choice.”

I already tuned her out,

“I want to be honest, Robert’s high school grades, academic performance and extra-curricular participation may prove college academics to be more than just a challenge and may initially frustrate him.”

“My experience with students like Robert, is time, his effort will not pay off in terms of his grades, this eventually could devastate him when he doesn’t achieve the results he anticipated.”

She further attempted to explain to my parents,

“In college, teachers don’t chase you for assignments or track your attendance. Course grades are usually based on usually a couple of exams and a term paper.”

She further expounded,

“He would be solely accountable and responsible for his own success.”

She tried, too hard to speak in her best forged attempt to speak like a compassionate guidance counselor,

“Focusing on his vocational battery exam results, Robert may be best at completing a vocational-technical school to learn a trade.”

“In our meetings, he expressed interests in both computers and small electronic repair and he likes to cook several things.”

“He may do reasonably well in a hands-on training environment to learn a trade in one of these areas of interest.”

I figured her point was to put the fear of college into me by sharing most students of my caliber drop out before their first year is ever completed.

Both my parents came to the United States as legal immigrants, they worked harder than most to have everything they have. They achieved the American dream, became American citizens and rightfully wanted their only child to not have to work as hard as they did to achieve the dream even more than they ever did. When I glanced over at my parents, I could sense they felt deflated the minute my guidance counselor made her insensitive recommendation that I will graduate high school and will probably work just as hard as they did but not to amount to not much of anything due to a lack of motivation on my part.

I voiced my opinion and explained how I will become the best elementary school teacher,

“I will be one of the best teachers that children will look back on fondly.”

“In the four years I’ve worked at the YMCA I’ve learned teaching is not always about being the smartest in any one subject area but having compassion and empathy for those who may not be the most popular or the ones who get the best grades.”

I felt as I was losing the battle but found strength and reiterated,

“I enjoy working with the underdog and helping them find their success. Just like my favorite teachers encouraged, supported and celebrated my successes. They were there for me.”

“Those underdogs are my favorite kids to work with at the YMCA.”

Despite my best efforts to try to convey my stance and defend my post-graduation goals, she abruptly interrupted by stating our time together is just about up and simply ended it by saying,

“There is a lot of work happening in the background that you don’t see happening before those teachers come out to their classrooms to teach their lessons.”

Then like a verbal slap of degradation of my four years of work work with children, she sternly stated,

“Teaching is not the same as being paid to play with children at the YMCA.”

She proceeded thanked my parents and I for attending and expressed how she enjoyed our conversation, she swiftly stood up and escorted us out of her office. I tuned out her continued abrupt and unpleasant closing comments she said to my parents while I quickly grabbed another community college catalog and application before leaving the guidance office.

I expected further discussion on this when I got home from work that evening, but dinner dialogue was oddly quieter than usual. Perhaps, my parents knew how the majority of my day already went. After dinner, I politely asked to be excused from the table and went to my bedroom. I couldn’t let go of what transpired earlier in the graduation conference, I began writing up a list of pros and cons of attending into the local community college. I didn’t need a way to convince my parents that my guidance counselor was wrong, as much as I needed to prove to myself that this educator was not going to shatter my dreams. My parents fully supported my decision to attempt college and reiterated if I want something bad enough, I know how to work hard to get it. Even with a list of mostly pros of going, the largest one working against me was tuition and book fees, I completed my admission application packet, wrote out and attached a check for the application fee and attached my most up to date high school transcript and called it a night.

Without much fanfare, the next morning, my Mom drove me down to the local community college campus to submit my application package. While she drove, I shared how proud I am of myself for taking the first step to fulfilling my dreams. She concurred with a smile and telling me,

“Dad and I are very proud of you and your accomplishments.”

With a feeling of contentment, even today, many years later, I still value the words both my parents always told me growing up,

“Always be the best in whatever I do.”

and something along the lines of be whatever you want in life, but always remain true to you.

Sometime during the summer, after graduation, one of my supervisors gave me a list of scholarships sponsored by various kindred YMCA groups. He encouraged and offered to help proof my application and provide any references. I applied for a few of the ones which best fit my situation. About a month before I was to start classes at the local community college, I was awarded a rather large scholarship. It was essentially a conditional loan in which I agreed to pay the funder back by working at a local YMCA for two years of service for every year I was a recipient of funds. Although there was no formal rigorous admission acceptance policy, I remember how the test of patience in just waiting impatiently for my official acceptance letter to arrive before I could register for classes or the upcoming fall term. Sometime before the summer programs at the YMCA ended and the fall programs began, I enthusiastically registered for my first community college classes.

I completed but not finished community college, before I transferred to university to finish my four year bachelor’s degree. With the help of a couple of promotions and a handful of smaller grant-based scholarships, I was able to afford paying my tuition and books to carry me through graduate school where I ended up completing all the academic credits towards the much-coveted doctoral degree without any carried student debt. To much dismay of my high school guidance counselor, I did not become another high school student she protected from a disastrous failing disappointment by heeding her advice of not going to college. For both my bachelor’s degree and master’s degree I made returned to my high school guidance counselor’s to office to make a point and proudly share my achievement. Regrettably, for issues beyond my control, I was unable to complete the dissertation portion of a doctoral program.

Note to myself, I may need to be readdress the dissertation as a possible retirement project.

With each passing year, not only did I grow in maturity, but I expanded my knowledge of working with children and how to work with children professionally. I continued working at the YMCA in the school-age child care programs and further I developed my skills working with children and progressed towards completing my college degree. My destiny to become this awesome, elementary school teacher that children will look back and warm-heartedly remember me much the same way I remembered my favorite teachers was slowly becoming within my reach. I am humbled when I reflect back to the great experience I had with my first group of children working my first summer after-school program. I am truly blessed to have had the same group of children who continued supporting my love of working with children. Over the next few years, I watched many of these same children grow into first hand pre-teenagers under my eyes. Although I never taught in a classroom of my own, I answered my own calling as I worked with youth in the YMCA for just over twenty years before transitioning to various roles in administration.

My strong yearning to be this excellent elementary school teacher slowly dissolved into an illusion, after I substituted for a teacher who went out on early pregnancy leave. I volunteered in a first grade classroom at one of my schools where I also ran the YMCA after-school program. I became friends with the teacher and the administration and facilitated me becoming the logical and only choice to fill in for this teacher for the last six weeks of the school year. I was familiar with the students, the lesson plans, their routines and each individual’s areas needing practice and areas where they soared. Remember, I mentioned one, but I had many excellent teacher role models, this was my chance to make them proud. It wasn’t until I saw how the magic of being a teacher was taken away by the overly structured and often scripted ways teachers must present a lesson. Long gone are the days, where a teacher like Mrs. Bowling found creative ways to make an impact on every student by making them feel as if they were the only one in the class. Don’t get me wrong, even in today’s structure, a teacher’s personality, creativity and genuine fondness of their students still play a larger than life part in the making of the best teachers.

In the end, to my chagrin, I never became that awesome elementary school teacher that I yearned and visualized for my most of my youth to my early middle adulthood. Yet, my YMCA career, spanning close to forty years, nonetheless was filled my life with an outstanding career with many varied positions and leaving me with no sense of regret. I may not have switched jobs or companies at a whim for the next larger salary or climbed the next rung in the highly desired career ladder; but the immeasurable opportunities the YMCA presented me with were far more fulfilling than I ever could have ever imagined. It’s been several years since I worked directly with children, yet I see many of them in the varied communities I operated programs in and through those who found me and befriended me via various social media. In both situations, it makes my heart smile and just love to see many of them have become successful adults and many became parents themselves now. I’d like to believe I had a small footprint in their journey, as did many educators did with me.

If you are curious as if these great teachers look back through their years of teachers and wonder whatever happened to certain students they had over the years, I guess you haven’t made the effort to reach out to one of your former teachers and saw their sparkling eyes shine as you tell them about how they contributed to your journey. If I count properly, I believe I kept in touch with a couple teachers through middle school, more than one handful but not quite two through high school and a handful through graduate school.

When I initiated my story boards and began writing this post, it was to acknowledge, Teachers Appreciation Week. I didn’t expect it to be a sentimental and journey within itself. With each educator, I shared a memory, or maybe something I learned, or something else I fondly remembered from every teacher beginning with kindergarten to all the teachers I had throughout high school. Just in case you are wondering, yes, the inner nerd in me did in fact remember all my teachers through Grade 12. I managed, without assistance of reviewing my school records or asking friends in person or on social media for memory cues. I am indeed much like a computer’s hard drive, filled with a lot of useless information and could often benefit from a reformat. I couldn’t resist the nerd humor – so, no apologies.

Here’s to expressing gratitude for all those educators who walked along with me throughout my journey, for either just a moment in time or for a lifetime. Hopefully, I reminded them, sometime in their school years, they too, were the student in the back of the class who waved their arms aimlessly waiting to be called upon, to be the one who answered the question and their own calling,

“What do you want to be when you grow up?

And reply simply,

“A teacher!”

To be continued…

I’M NOT JUST ANOTHER FAMILIAR FACE

I could easily be a family member,
A friend, or your neighbor or someone else you know
Maybe that’s why I look familiar to you.

Robert is my name, perhaps we met once before,
Over there or was it around the next corner
But it could have been via social media.

Emerging a memory, still stirs your mind up,
Remembering all the details doesn’t matter
Though it keeps you awake when you should be sleeping.

Who am I? you are still pondering in your mind,
Knowing very well, you still recognize me but
Only to realize you still cannot pinpoint where.

Visiting you today, you kept staring at me,
Although, not about me, it’s seeing who you are
Creates an awkward silence between the small talk.

So, I suggested we get to know each other,
I began sharing about myself, who I am
Hoping too not be too pretentious or conceited.

Almost an hour passed before your very eyes,
Vowing to return the chance to share your story
Ending my turn, I shared my personal battle.

Did you know? you may have or haven’t heard of it,
I have diabetes, I’m not contagious nor
Am I going to die on you anytime soon.

But I’ll ask you respectfully please treat me like,
Everyone else and don’t offer your personal
Treatments, cures, lectures and horror stories.

Every day is a new battle with the dragon,
Staying focused and ahead by a step or more
Tackles it head on and wins me another day.

Yesterdays can’t predict todays or tomorrows,
Perhaps, it can help plan for the unexpected
Encounters with all the anythings and every things.

The lessons learned from those living, I share with you,
With every breath you take, each day is the present
Only because you die once but live every day.

.....

I am,
Robert W Kovacs,
I have Diabetes, Type Two

CLEARLY I WASN’T SEEING 20/20

I remember distinctly it happening literally overnight. I came to the office with a Valentine’s Dy greeting card my godson sent me. Immediately after opening it, I began hitting it against the desk to shake the bugs out of it. As my boss walked by my office, he stopped at my door way and asked me what I was doing, and I exclaimed,

“My godson sent me a Valentine’s Day greeting card, but it looks like he had eaten something sweet when he signed and handled the card. Its full of these little bugs and I am trying to shake them out!” My boss came closer to my desk. As he reached his hand over my desk, he asked to see my greeting card and immediately burst out in a full gregarious laugh. He told me they are not bugs, but what appeared to be bugs was my godson’s best nearly microscopic manuscript handwritten words to me inside the card. Embarrassingly, I took the greeting card back from my boss’s hand and took note to mention this incident at my annual checkup of my eyes.

I have worn glasses as far back as I can remember, first for reading, then for distance then back for reading once again. Over 20 years ago, I had LASIK done and I am pleased to report my distant vision still remains 20/20 or better. As promised, by both my ophthalmologist and by the surgeon who performed my LASIK procedure, they warned me as I approach my 40s, I will more than likely need glasses for presbyopia, or age related blurry near vision. During my annual checkup, my ophthalmologist, laughed as I told her about the bugs in the greeting card and she gently reminded me when she told me of presbyopia so many years earlier. After the refraction exam, she confirmed the diagnosis was nothing more than presbyopia and prescribed lenses to help permanently exterminate all the bugs.

Although my distant vision remained excellent, she recommended progressive lenses (no line bi-focal lenses) as opposed to traditional bi-focals. When I had my LASIK performed so many years earlier, they were unable to correct astigmatism. Progressive lenses, though more expensive than traditional bi-focal lenses, would greatly reduce the need to take off the glasses and putting them back on numerous times throughout the day and help reduce eye fatigue and strain. It also helps get rid of the stigma of getting old. You know the look of the man who puts his glasses half way down his nose to be able to see over it? With progressive lenses, I would only need to wear it when I am working on a computer, reading or other close-up activities. My eyes get a break when I watch television or when I am not focusing on anything close-up. My annual eye checkup shown no significant changes and remained healthy over the years since LASIK warranting a prescription change, with no sign of diabetic retinopathy, cataracts, glaucoma or pressure issues.

About a month ago, I joined my friend in getting his new glasses prescription filled and figured I should get a pair to keep one at home and one at work. We decided to go checkout a well-advertised national chain that’s been hitting both the television and radio markets with their catchy commercials. Upon entering the place, it resoundingly appeared familiar to me, but I wasn’t remembering how or when. We checked in at the reception desk and was told the next available optician will assist us. We proceeded over to the frames and begin looking at ones which may be the best looking frames which will fit the shapes of our faces and still not thin our wallets.

Browsing through the many various styles and colors of frames, I had a sudden awakening moment and remembered, this is indeed the second time I came to this retail outlet. Prior to the pandemic, I bought a pair of glasses from here. Again, the commercials brought me in and the prices and quality of material quickly reminded me why I hadn’t returned to have any future glasses being made by this company. What I remembered after three months the anti-reflective coating began to peel. When I was sold the pair of glasses, I was told there was a one year unconditional guarantee on anything but theft and loss. It was not until I returned the glasses and was told reasonable wear and tear is expected and that the peeling would not be covered. I explained I have glasses older than the one I sought remedy for and never experienced peeling or any other issues requiring a return. I just retire them and use them as back-up glasses for as long as the prescription didn’t significantly change or the frame warped.

A young gentleman called our names and proceeded over to introduce himself and assist us. Our polite and empathetic optician was young, appearing to either just graduated his schooling or finishing up his internship. He provided his opinion on frames we chose, provided drawbacks of the frames, if the peripheral vision may be limited or reading window is not strong or too narrow. My friend was able to find his frames rather quickly, so while his order being written up and measured, I continued to browse at frames. Ultimately, I found something rather inexpensive which I could keep at the office. Once my friend was my done, the optician proceeded to place my order and immediately wrote it up and took the measurements. Overall, I dismissed my previous encounter with this retail establishment as having just an off-one experience as this optician who served us was competent, fitted the demo frames comfortably, asked the right questions to make sure both fit, made sure the lenses were measured correctly and confirmed the package we ordered and went over the features of the package and explained the one year unconditional warranty.

Although the prices appear heavily discounted compared to other providers, what isn’t told is the prices are per lens and each optional feature added is priced a la carte. At first, I thought the price listed was the complete cost of my progressives until it was told to me it’s per lens and then add the blue light and anti-reflective glare was also extra by lens. This does not even include the cost of the frames. Before you realize it, the actual cost is no longer the bargain you hoped for. I am jumping ahead, but by the time I was done with my transaction, I was just quite pissed as my price was significantly higher than I expected. Since I was with my friend and didn’t want to create a scene with him, I just let it go. After this whole incident transpired, I ended up filing a complaint with my credit card company for deceitful pricing practices because no where it said prices were per lens and each option was priced a la carte.

Let’s fast forward two weeks when I went to go pick up the new glasses. From the moment I walked in and was asked to take a seat, something didn’t feel right. I requested for the initial optician who assisted me, but was informed they work on a rotational basis of next available optician serves the next customer on the waitlist. To my chagrin, I took my sit and waited for my name to be called.

When my name was called up to the optician’s station rather than her walking the floor to what appeared to be said with an air of condescending tone in her voice. I proceeded to her station and she handed me the glasses to try on. Immediately after putting them on, everything became a blur and I know my blood glucose levels were fine so I ruled that immediately out. I picked up a placard to try to read it and proceeded telling her everything I was looking at was a huge blur and I couldn’t see anything. She told me it will take a couple weeks to get used to progressive lenses. I’ve mentioned I had progressive lenses for 20 plus years and am quite aware of my eyes make take some time adjusting to the new lenses. I reiterated that everything is a blur and I see clearer without the new glasses. She took the placard I was reading out of my hands and gave me a much smaller reading placard. I quickly remarked.

“If I couldn’t see the larger fonts on the other placard, this one will not be better. I can see better without my glasses and even better when I had my refractive test at the ophthalmologist’s office.”

She kept saying it takes time to get used to it as if repeating her statement will make it stop getting blurry. I tried to explain to her that I need the glasses to work for I am on a computer most of my day. She said she understood what I was trying to say, but her body language contradicted it. She asked to see my current glasses, without doing anything more than a quick glance, returned them as she tried to assure me they are exactly the same prescription and was made to the specifications of my opthamalogist’s orders. I mentioned maybe the lens angle or the focus is off. No answer. I left the retail establishment agreeing to disagree, but in good faith will try to make the new glasses work while on my computer at work.

After several times trying to wear it at work on the first day back at work, I gave up and went back to my original pair of glasses. After work, I returned to the retail establishment. My initial optician was in and came over and assisted me. As he was ready to help and understood my concern and was preparing to give me my money back and the general manager came over after hearing me express my dislike of the service I received last week. Ironically, this time it was not the next available optician helping the next customer on the waitlist. The general manager asked to look at my current frames and lenses and compared them to the new ones. She took note and examined the way I wear my glasses and then looked at the existing pair’s reading portion.

Within moments she realized not only was my reading portion of the lenses not at the correct height but wasn’t made to the specifications written up by my ophthalmologist. She offered to redo them, I politely declined and said should she have been the one who helped me last week, she would not have lost me as a customer today. The general manager tried hard to keep me as a customer and offered additional discounts for me to get another pair and she would see to it, that I’d be 100% satisfied. I mentioned to her if she was the one helping me when I went to pick up the glasses and explained all this too me then - sure I would have given the chance but after second optician - I just wanted my money back and leave.

I shared with the general manager, how it’s a shame when someone plants a negative seed into your experience you really don’t want to offer the benefit of doubt and hope for a positive outcome. No matter how much the general manager tried to save the sale and protect the company’s image, I simply wanted my money back, end of discussion, period. I wanted to like this retail outlet from the initial experience I had with the optician but the second one just left me not only feeling angered but disgruntled how she made me feel as if I was wrong and she is right. Considering I work hard for my money and whether I choose to be cheap or thrifty or if opt to splurge, I don’t need someone trying to convince me to their defective product is not defective but insisting that I am in the wrong because I didn’t follow the proper protocol for progressive lenses.

While the experience with the last optician left me with a foul taste in my mouth for this retail establishment, I would give kudos to the general manager for keeping an open ear to the conversation I had with the initial optician requesting a refund. Her coming over to apologize for interrupting and overhearing what was going on and then further tried to remedy situation showed a great deal of resolve and courage. Further compliments to the initial optician for his professionalism from the very first greeting on the first visit and treating me as his only customer to when I returned the final time. He remained calm and listened to my complaint and offering to initiate the refund without making a scene. To the second optician who tried to convince me there is something wrong with me and not the defective product and talked to me like I am a child young and then further tried to treat me as if she was disciplining the same child, may karma return the favor in its due time.

Lesson learned again, I guess I should have learned from previous experiences, it costs more to buy cheap than if you paid a higher price initially. Clearly, I wasn’t seeing 20/20 during my experience, nor was the second optician. It took the general manager to clear up the blur but by then the little bugs have already gotten into my eyes once again.

AMONGST ALL THE LABELS, I REMAIN FILED IN, ODDS AND ENDS

I think at one point in time or another we all make a New Year’s Resolution to become better organized in one or more aspect of our lives. Being the overly, obsessively organized person I am, my colleagues jokingly tell others, I am so organized, I probably know exactly where George Williams’ first timesheet is somewhere in my files. For those of you don’t know, George Williams was the founder of the YMCA movement back in 1844 and being the payroll administrator for the YMCA of South Florida, I imagine you see the irony. Being organized at work is a necessity when you take on payroll for over 1200 employees who 90% are part-time and work multiple jobs at different pay rates and often work at various locations.

I also like to keep my household organized; I like to have everything I file find it’s home in a properly labeled folder in the drawer it’s best suited. Structure keeps for my mental health well-being and sanity. Like my Mom, I believe if you go in to the new year messy, unorganized or not clean – your whole year will be a reflection of how you left the previous year. Yes, I know, a horrible old wives’ tale, but it works for me. I start before the year ends by making a list of the labels I know I will need for the upcoming new year and then progress to getting the label maker out and get prepared to make the labels. In fashion of my CDO, (same as OCD – but you know I have to put the letters in alphabetical order) I would rather make the list and do all my labels in one sitting rather than piece by piece. I review the labels from the previous year, assess what new ones I need and then get to producing the labels and then I methodically place the labels on the various colored folders I have for the varied and different things I chose to keep and file.

“Where did I put the receipt for my new computer?” 

I ask myself while I file away various other papers related to my new computer in the freshly labeled folder.

Does this sound familiar or am I the odd ball one here?

I often ponder philosophical conjecture with no right or wrong answers, just more questions awaiting to be answered by those wishing to have the conversation with me. As I started labeling folders, I began relating them to current events happening not only in my community but communities throughout the world. I feel as global passengers on spaceship Earth we are on course for, in my opinion, a global disaster. It just becomes all too real and frightening when subtle yet notable changes begin to happen in my backyard of the United States. As a first-generation American, both my parents immigrated from Hungary around the time of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution to seek a life better than the impending communist takeover of their beloved country by what was Russia and soon to become the USSR. My parents immigrated first to Canada than to the United States and eventually became American citizens and remained here since.

My parents assimilated into their new homeland and proudly adopted many American customs before they actually became American citizens. With their heavy accents learned to speak English, albeit American English by watching early television shows like “I Love Lucy”, “The Honeymooners” and other programs. During their weekly gathering with friends, they enjoyed a meal and drinks over television shows and the ability to practice their English within a kindred group of friends. Every time I watch an episode of I Love Lucy, with Lucy Ricardo saying with each syllable accentuated, “How do you do?”, something like “H ooow dooo uuu dooo?” when being introduced to one of Ricky’s, her husband’s many celebrity friends. Even though I watched these shows hundreds of times, I still laugh and can picture my Mom and Dad learning English watching television programs like this. Like many immigrants they were culture rich yet they were income poor and often found ways to save and still live the American dream. They were often asked where they were from and more often answered in terms of where they were living, until the question was clarified as where their accent is from. I too, often reply when asked where am I from as opposed to where my family is from.

“I was born in California.” 

Or when they ask where is my family from, I clarify, 

“Oh you mean my ancestorial national origin, I am a first generation proud American born to my two Hungarian born parents.”

The diversity of people in our country and the cliched melting pot our country is known for is what makes our country uniquely beautiful and rich in countless ways. The blending hues of people with different nationalities, religious, ethnic, and other differences is what makes our country not only unique but inviting as a result creating the proverbial melting pot. People from all ends of our planet strive to become part of our country. If you don’t believe me, look at the volumes of people escaping their homelands to claim political asylum or leap at a chance to take up residency here albeit illegally than wait for the legal process to let them in. Another way to see it is peek into most of the larger cities in the United States you can find just about any type of foods, cultural events, social clubs, etc to reflect a good number of the countries on Earth, regardless of its population or geographic size.

In the not-so-distant past, the majority of those electing to make the United States their home shared the same vision of freedom and opportunity as my parents. As time progressed, each new generation brings subtle yet notable changes to our American culture. Over time, little by little, the reasons generations before mine came to this country are being eroded. The feeling of becoming and being an American no longer carries the same excitement and pride as it once did. Each new generation crossing into our country now brings more than a fair share of their homeland to plant here in the United States. It’s no longer just about carrying on traditions, but now planting roots of the previous homeland in their new country, bringing what they left behind to recreate the nostalgic memories of what once was. I get there is an importance of our heritage, traditions, culture and other ethno-religious identifiers needs to be celebrated and passed down to each generation to have a line of continuity. However, I do not believe the feeling the need to gentrify our communities to create smaller microcosms of the country they just left.

Living in South Florida, a good number of communities have become such microcosms of countries from South America and Central America with a handful of other countries from Europe and the Middle East. Driving for a short time around various parts of South Florida, you will pass through the “Little Havana”, Little Haiti”, “Little Moscow”, “El Portal”, “Little Israel”, “Little Romania”, “Little Quebec” (though not a country) and other countries. These communities have become popular with large populations settling in these neighborhoods and is easily identifiable by the flag of the nation they represent, proudly waiving in the yards of their residential communities and in front of local small businesses they started. These flags, waving in the wind, represent welcoming gestures for nationals from these homelands to come in, feel welcomed as if they are back in their homeland. Over some conversation in their native language and shared food and drink, they reminisce nostalgically of the good old days. If you were to close your eyes, your remaining senses may fool you into believing you were in their native home country.

While attending grad school and working part-time on the university campus, I was friendly with many of the department’s faculty. There was one particular professor who I really enjoyed listening to his lectures and learning from. He regularly invited me to join him for lunch. Often we just ate together in his office and discussed current events or his interest in my job at the YMCA. He always complimented me on how I incorporated real life examples into my lectures and bring academia to life and not just reiterate the textbook examples. A couple times a month, we would adventure to do something different, either on campus or off campus. It was still a long walk or a moment’s drive to do a non-brown bag lunch day.

I recall this one lunch date as if it were yesterday, with more time than usual available for lunch, but not long enough to go to a restaurant. We decided to go to a large chain-based grocery store which had a large hot and cold lunch offering. This allowed us to dodge the fast-food court at the campus rathskeller. From the moment we literally crossed the street from the university’s east entrance, we both felt as if we were transported not only to a different country, but back in time. The store’s décor seemed to be thriving in the 1970s faux wood paneling and peel and stick vinyl flooring with oddly bright decorated furnishings and employee uniforms lacking any fashion sense, made from polyester. In reality, the year was 1995, I lived in south Florida for a few years over ten and my professor about the same maybe a little more. We walked over to the deli department took a number and glanced in the hot foods counter and debated what to order as we drooled over the many delicious smells. Before we even finalized our choices, the next deli employee called on us to be served. I don’t recall her even calling our number, but she spoke only in her native tongue as if she knew we were “gringos” and didn’t speak Spanish, I remember what I heard was,

“hablamos espanol solamente, no ingles”, which I knew from my high school Spanish classes as “I speak only Spanish and no English.”

As she walked away from us to the back of the customer serving area, we hoped it was to get someone to assist us. We stood there, for what seemed like an hour (probably was a short 15 minutes), watching each passing employee help the next customer and pass us over. We tried to remain positive the next employee would return and would help us, however; each passing one cheerfully assisted other customers and we continued to be passed over as if we were not even present. When we finally realized, we were not going to get anyone to help us, we just looked at each other dumbfounded as to what just transpired and ended up going back to campus and getting lunch at the very place we tried to avoid in the first place, the campus rathskeller. We felt as if we were outsiders visiting another country as we were lacking a common language, culture and knowledge of food to have the basic survival tools to live amongst our fellow neighbors who took this part of Miami over. Suddenly, we realize we were strangers in our own land as the transformation of this community became a footprint of the very country they fled to seek a better life and more opportunity.

I digress, back to the label analogy…

Sometimes I think is it just me who feels this certain way?

Initially, the label seemed like a good starting place to compartmentalize, separate, and organize the common items. It helped organizing and quickly find things as opposed to the randomly throwing everything into one folder for the entire year. Each year I find some of the older tattered ones with no specific label are being replaced with new folders with bold new labels. Yet, some of them do survive another year and maybe given a fresh label to keep up the consistent look of the new ones being created. The old folder becomes a home for those odd outdated forms not ready to retire. Many survive by virtue of remaining not necessarily because they are important, but in good way and are often overlooked and not discarded regardless of being timeworn and irrelevant and some have even lost their useful purpose but not quite ready to be discarded.

As I compare the labels to our communities, we have labeled people to the minutia of every ethnicity. national origin. race, religion, sexual orientation, or other groupings. The United States of America has lost its “proverbial united we stand, divided we fall” and the analogy of melting pot. The simmering stew that once blended its rich flavors together to make a great tasting dish has become nothing more than a plate filled for a person with sensory issues who intentionally doesn’t like their food to commingle together. You immediately notice, the individually separated items on the plate, are not quite as tasty as if the same items were cooked together and allowed for the rich flavors come together.

Consequentially, the change in our population becomes more evident with each succeeding generation. Each losing a part of their past as well as more of their present being. We no longer fully have the richness of culture of our ancestral past, yet we seem to identify more with a memory which never existed in our own life, but thrives in a nostalgic homeland being passed down to us. It’s like they are torn between living off the benefits of living the American dream life yet trying to fully keep their past equally planted in who they’ve become. Do you recall how after 9/11 how we were no longer African-Americans or Latino-Americans or even Republicans or Democrats, we became united as Americans. Everyone graciously waived the American flag with pride and patriotism? No other time in my lifetime did I ever recollect seeing politicians, celebrity influencers, community leaders and everyday neighbors become simply, just Americans. There was not a division nor a question of whom we were, we just kept reiterating to all those within shouting distance our patriotism of being proud Americans.

As I carefully get to my last file folder, I realize the very thought each piece has a proper home with its label clearly identifying it as to what the contents are. This folder with it tattered creases and worn corners made it’s rounds, it definitely has seen better days. This folder has and always was the odd one holding those without a home, those waiting to find their home and assume those like me are often set apart with my assumed similarities yet have subtle differences and then hurried to place in a folder of similar items. Much like my folders, the labels on commonalities keep things together, similar to what segregation done historically and as today’s people reacclimate by their choice to live within their comforts of their own communities. When those amongst us chose to be the new folder with a new label, they fail to realize the more folders and labels created, the more divisive division begins. As I put a fresh new label over the old one, I find my life parallels the contents of the folder I just labeled Odds and Ends, not by the hundreds of other labels which could be either positively negative or doubtfully biased by those who know the real me, Robert W Kovacs, an American.

OVERCOMING MENTAL CONSTIPATION THROUGH INTESTINAL FORTITUDE

As a regular follower of my blog, you will notice this maybe is, if not one of my longest posts. It covers the three months following my last appointment with my primary physician making his stern unwavering plea to get this particular procedure scheduled and ultimately completed before another year begins. I began documenting my story of this ordeal before the time I turned 50 in December 2019 but those bits started out but slowly faded away. Now that I am done, I have been able to weave all the loose parts together and post some of the highlights and my fail starts and many of the stressful milestone steps in between. However, much of it takes place from the first week of September 2021 to completing it the last week of December 2021. Let it be known and be forewarned, the section gets a bit personal, perhaps a little unpleasant and surely embarrassing. I feel my story has to be shared. as it may help another get through the experience a little easier, knowing someone before them dealt with it with some dignity, a dose of definitive reality check and an ounce of humor for good measure. I digress…let me get back to my story.

Just about two years ago, on my first medical check-up of the new year 2020, at the end of the routine checks my physician a shows me a picture of an Atari 2600, one of the first home video gaming units. He asked me, with an all-seriousness tone, “Do you know what that is?” as he pointed at the gaming unit in the picture. Both my birthday and Christmas were still recent and fresh in my mind as I answered, “It was what every 12 year-old boy wanted for his birthday or Christmas.” He quickly without skipping a heartbeat (pun intended) responded, “WaaaWawWaaaaa.” I think that’s how you spell that annoying sound of game shows of the same era when a contestant lost the round being played. He then proceeded to tell me, why I am wrong. The correct answer was I reached the certain age and the dreaded colonoscopy procedure is now due and on his radar. My doctor proceeded gave me the family history lecture and as I was walking out he handed me an informational handout about the importance of having a preventative colonoscopy and a referral to a gastroenterologist.

When Katie Couric’s husband Jay Monahan lost his life to colon cancer in 1998, it resulted in a surge in the number of colonoscopies, ultimately resulting in what professionals called the Couric Effect. NBC televised live her own prep and own colonoscopy to emphasize the case for the much dreaded but ever more important procedure. Often by the time colon cancer shows signs its often too late to treat. Couric has been and continues to remain a strong advocate for preventative colonoscopies. Since her leading the charge for change, many other celebrities began publicizing their own appointments; to name a few Tom Hanks, Steve Martin, Martin Short, Will Smith and Jimmy Kimmel to name a few. Even a short-lived television series, “Men of a Certain Age” which the was a storyline is based on three childhood best friends and their lives as middle age men dedicated an episode to it. On the episode, "Let the Sunshine In" one of the friends was scheduled to have his colonoscopy and the other two followed to do the same as a sign of brotherhood and lifetime friendship. They ended up making a whole bromantic get-away in Palm Springs. W-A-I-T, or as Bugs Bunny would say, “wait a cotton pickin’ minute” why did I just rattle off the name of only men? Although its more prevalent amongst men, especially combined with certain other factors, women should be cognizant of this, as they too are at risk, albeit just slightly less.

Fast forward many years later when my Dad was diagnosed and treated for colon cancer. My Dad managed to go with the flow (pun intended) and always maintained his sense of humor through the countless preps and colonoscopies and all the other countless other medical procedures and emergency room visits he had done over the next few years. I remember sharing with him how my legs and my quads hurt from doing modified squats with my personal trainer. He laughed and explained how he mastered that skill along with the mad dash to the bathroom after taking the bowel prep. I don’t remember him ever complaining of having to go through this as many times as he did, he just did what he needed to do and found the humor in it. He always told me the drinking the jug of the prep was the worst part of the whole experience and he joked about being rewarded by getting his best sleep under the anesthesia.

My Mom began harassing me to get a baseline preventative colonoscopy soon after my Dad’s first diagnosis of colon cancer. I tried without much success dodging and avoiding the conversation. I compromised by promising to ask my then primary physician’s (before I switched to my Dad’s physician) guidance. He remained steadfast at the textbook philosophy of getting a baseline done five years before the age of my closest relative’s age when they were diagnosed with colon cancer or to have it done at 50 years of age. My Dad had his first diagnosis after the age of 50, therefore it bought me time in delaying this conversation with my Mom. Just as I thought I was saved from the conversation, out of nowhere, my Dad’s best right hook was thrown and blindsided me when he too got into the conversation. He strongly advocated me having it done as his siblings in Hungary have history of health-related issues of the gastrointestinal area. For many families this would be an extremely sensitive area to bring up let alone to talk about and then add cancer to conversation and I bet most families would only hear crickets chirping. I know am how blessed I am to have parents who have been able to have open dialogue on just about anything; without shame, fear of repercussion or concerns of getting in trouble. I always knew I could expect to hear the truth from their mouths and not a hesitatingly, sugar coated parable, but a direct, never to be misunderstood conversation.

As I aged, I also began understanding how this is just another gene in my closet of health issues my parents handed down to me and have learned to deal with. Sometime during Grade 8, I had a surgical repair of a lower gastro-intestinal fistula and fissure. The trauma of the entire experience of having anything done in the general area outside of a normal bowel movement, especially the thoughts of a dreaded colonoscopy put me in a paralyzing mental block. Even the frequency of my bowel movements stirred (again, pun intended) conversation with my parents on what is considered healthy and normal. Let’s leave it at the conclusion, we agreed to disagree and I am considered not healthy nor normal. Since then, I’ve learned to change up or avoid the conversation of having a colonoscopy not because of my own Dad’s battle with colon cancer but because of my previous history.

For what seemed like eternity, but was more like a few months after my surgery, I remember never being able to find a comfortable seated position. From the hard seats attached to my desk at school or to the seats on the school bus which I felt every bump on the road as if the bus lacked any suspension and shock absorbers. Simply, taking a seat, not here or there, but anywhere was an ordeal. I was unable to participate in gym class, karate class, go in a pool or swim in the ocean or ride my bicycle for the same perpetuity. As any teenager, I was very self-conscious, what teenager isn’t? of how I would fit in around my peers. I remained anxious as the surgical site healed and repeatedly questioned what would I do if the surgical site drained or bled and caused spotting in my pants? The memories of this happening and horror of being teased and bullied should anyone have found out my secret only fueled my fears of this being spread amongst the many middle school gossip channels.

All this history had to be confronted at my first medical check up in 2021 when I had to have the conversation with my primary physician why I hadn’t gone for the big “C” in 2020. With the Covid-19 pandemic, my physician gave me a board game's “get out of jail card” for the remaining 2020 check-ups by not pressing me why I had not gone. Starting in 2021, with each consecutive check-up, a more in-depth stern lecture of the importance of getting my colonoscopy not just scheduled but actually completed while extending his arm with an additional referral to the gastroenterologist. I may have failed to mention but I changed, my primary physician to what was my Dad’s for many years when it became increasingly difficult ordeal to for my Mom to help Dad in and out of the car, lifting the wheelchair in and out of the back of her vehicle for his many check-ups. With me changing to the same primary doctor, it allowed me to get my check-ups within the same appointment time and be able to help out my Mom. He took care of my own Dad as if it were his own parent he was treating.

At my last check-up for 2021, I had my first of several meltdowns as I explained my paralyzing mental block and fear of this routine procedure. Apparently, I convinced him with my voice shaking and getting just a tad a bit emotional. I explained, I realize there is no constant pain, no prolonged healing and no fear of spotting my pants with a colonoscopy when compared to the surgical procedure I had what seems like lifetime ago, but it was almost 40 years ago, but this has my brain frozen like nothing I ever faced. I was not choosing to be defiant, but my history prevailed a small victory when he wrote me up a minimal prescription for diazepam (valium) to help calm me down. He prescribed just enough to help me get through the anxiety of making the appointment for the consult, going to the doctor for the consultation and any pre-procedure anxiety. I guess we could agree to say it was a win-win for us both.

Considering I am personally am friends with one of the nurses at the gastrology group I was referred to, you would think this would make it easier. I thought I would be able to just pick up the phone and talk with her to make the appointment and have her schedule me with a doctor with good bedside manner, gentle and is able to be a patient communicator with my questions before and after the colonoscopy. Unluckily for me, this made making the appointment all the more difficult. It took more than a few attempts over the next few weeks to get the cojones (google it – if you don’t know what this means) and one small pill to call and make the appointment for the initial conversation. October 27 2021 was still a few weeks away, it gave me still a lot of room to get my nerves all worked up and possibly cancel or reschedule the appointment.

Before I even had a chance to cancel or reschedule, the day to go for the consult appointment arrived. I had made arrangements for my Mom to drive me as I was going to take a valium just before my appointment. After meeting the doctor, my nerves calmed down ever so slightly (perhaps because of the valium) as he was an active listener as I told him my history. He was compassionate and understood my mental block and calmly assured me he would answer any questions now, before the procedure and would be there after I awoke to report back the findings and answer any additional questions I may have. Upon completion of my appointment with the doctor, he accompanied me to my friend, the nurse and her office to schedule my procedure and complete any paperwork, process my insurance etc. She scheduled for December 22 2021 at the local hospital as opposed to an outpatient medical endoscopy medical center due to a couple of my own underlying health conditions. As we finished up our chat and wished each other Christmas blessings, she handed me a gift of the bowel prep with a handout of directions to supersede those provided by the manufacturer and I was on my way.

Due to my own procrastinating and pity party, this self-imposed belated birthday and an early Christmas gift presented itself. I hope you sensed my excitement and joy of having this done at this time. Again, the time between the two appointments allowed enough time for me to contemplate canceling the procedure, never mind just rescheduling it, but again the powers above conquered my own mind as I got distracted with pre-operative check-in and in-take, a Covid-19 test and a couple of related phone calls prior to the day of the procedure. Somewhere after the consultation with the gastroenterologist and before my procedure, I contacted my primary physician per the gastroenterologist’s orders to follow-up regarding which medications I should not take beginning one week prior to my procedure. After reviewing my medications, he informed to monitor my blood glucose levels the day before the procedure and give my bolus insulin as necessary but to not take my evening bolus or basal insulin. He wished me a smooth and not too crappy of an experience for my upcoming procedure. My Dad always enjoyed his subtle yet odd sense of humor.

The date of December 21 2021 has come, it was time to begin prepping for the procedure. I re-read the direction handout several times over to make sure I understood them. I even began to watch what I ate three days out prior to ensure there was no unnecessary obstructions or complications on the big day which could jeopardize and cause a re-do. I already planned my meals out for the day: breakfast; apple juice and hot tea, lunch; chicken broth and sherbet and dinner; was a combination of all the leftovers remaining. The fasting portion was not as difficult as I thought it would be as I spent much of the day binge watching shows on Netflix. My blood glucose levels were higher than where I would normally like them to be, but I was in a quandary where I didn’t want my blood glucose levels to drop too low before going in for my procedure nor did I want the numbers to escalate higher than they were already. I just eased up on the items having added sugars and I was able to maintain blood glucose levels.

My dessert after dinner was the bowel prep which consisted of two small bottles which I had to drink at two specifically designated times followed with several cups of any clear liquid of my choosing over a set period of time. If I recall properly, my Dad had this huge jug which he had to pour in a powder mix in and fill with water and take additional laxatives to produce the same results. The latter seemed to be more than my two bottles which I chugged down rather than carry around intimidating the massive jug. I probably drank the same amount of clear liquids but my actual prep was more concentrated. The smell of it was like rotten lemons and didn’t taste much better. I started my prepping at 6:00pm and began to get concerned when nothing happened but at 9:00pm on the half hour, The mad dashes to the bathroom began as did the squats that would make both my Dad and personal trainer proud. I . I was well stocked in both bathrooms as there was no toilet paper shortage going on like at the onset of the Covid pandemic. This went on nonstop until about 4:00am which coupled with my nerves and visits to the bathroom, I got very little sleep and just like that, it was time to get ready and go to the hospital for the procedure.

My Mom taught me early on, its better to be an hour early anywhere before a minute late – even for this, as she pulled up in my parking lot on December 22 2021 to take me for my 8:00am appointment. My Mom throughout this whole ordeal was my compassionate ear, listening to my concerns, hearing my worries and just being the wonderful Mother she has always been. Although she has the calm exterior, I know underneath she was anxious for me, although she didn’t share with me her flashbacks and experiences to further my own anxiety. I am sure she tried hard to suppress her emotions of the countless times my Dad went through all this and with the doctor not always returning with the favorable news we prayed to hear. Dad managed to still live his remaining days cancer free even after a late stage colon cancer diagnosis. As we pulled up to the outpatient center driveway, I broke out in a nervous sweat as I exited the car. Due to the recent variant of Covid, only the patients scheduled for a procedure within the hour were allowed entry into the hospital. I managed to stumble my words to Mom, “I love you to” and gave her a hug and kiss as I left the car.

I entered the hospital and proceeded through the magnetron and was bombarded by a hospital employee checking my name against a list of patients and their appointment times. She drilled me if I had any of the Covid symptoms while pointing to a life-size poster of symptoms, with my negative response, I was escorted to the check-in desk. The check-in desk verified my identification and asked me to take a seat until a registrar calls my name. I was unsure if I was going to need to race to the restroom one last time so I took a seat closest to the restrooms and waited impatiently until a registrar called my name. The registrar called my name almost immediately, after confirming my identification and insurance information she placed an identification bracelet on my wrist and asked me a series of medical questions and then released me back to the waiting area for to be called by nurse who would escort me up to the procedure waiting area.

The sit and wait game slightly tested my patience, finally my name was called and after a couple more in-take questions, I was asked to change into their high fashion medical gown, you know the one where you flash your whole rear side to the world and then asked to make myself comfortable on the procedure gurney. While on the gurney, the nurse asked a few more questions until the anesthesiologist came by introduced themselves and asked even more questions and proceeded to check the inside of my mouth. On the other side of me a nurse was struggling to find a strong vein and eventually had to use my knuckle. Had she only asked, I would have directed her immediately to the area as I knew she wouldn’t get any veins in my upper arm. Once I was prepped and ready to be served, the doctor came by greeted me and tried to offer relaxing words and said he will be ready for me into the procedure room shortly.

As I lay on the gurney, my hearing and sense of smell became highly sensitized to my environment and reminded me of the many times I was here with my Dad, at this same hospital. The distinct sounds of beeps and bells of equipment, emergency codes over the intercom and medical staff’s indistinct chatter of patients they are treating to the strong smells of disinfectant and odor neutralizers. Next thing, I know, I am being told by a transporter that I am being taken for my procedure. As we navigated out of my curtained bay through the narrow pathway, congested with my medical entourage following to the procedure room. The room was quite small and seemed quite cramped to have my doctor, a few nurses, anesthesiologist and staff and me in the room. I was greeted by the doctor and don’t quite remember who asked me to confirm my name and what procedure I am having done. After this formality was done, the anesthesiologist placed an oxygen mask on me and told me before I know it, I will be finished with my procedure and will wake up and go home to being able to enjoy a hearty breakfast or lunch. All I remember telling her all I want is some uninterrupted sleep. As she explained what was about to happen, I felt my eye lids get rather heavy despite trying to keep them open to hear what she was telling me and trying to understand what all the medical staff were talking about.

What seemed only moments later, (actually just about an hour) I was back in recovery bay, sitting up and drinking a cup of ice chilled water and being told the procedure was completed and was told by one of the nurses I did well. Oddly, all I remembered for the first few moments in recovery was everyone wanted to know my full name and my birthdate and then checked it against my identification bracelet, as if they were expecting it to change from the last person who asked. A different one of the nurses I recognized, explained I’ll remain in this area so they can monitor my vitals, which where being checked automatically at intermittent set times. After several readings, another nurse came in and removed the IV as well as the heart monitor and provided me some privacy to change and called my Mom to come pick me up. Once I opened the curtains to signify, I was dressed, another nurse came by reviewed my discharge notes. The doctor came by explained how the procedure went without complication and two small polyps were found and removed. Based on his experience, he can say with almost 100% certainity these types of polyps are benign, but will be sent to pathology to confirm his diagnosis. He also noted seeing significant scar tissue from my procedure many years ago. He told me unless I have other questions or needs, I won’t need a post-procedure office visit. Unless my primary physician tells me otherwise, I’ll have a recall date with him in five years, to hopefully once again to overcome my mental constipation and build up some intestinal fortitude to go through this ordeal again.

Once the transporter arrived with the wheelchair, she asked me to take a seat and began to wheel me out of the area, I was able to say farewell to all the nurses who were with me from the moment I arrived. Within a few moments of arriving downstairs, my Mom pulled up to the very same outpatient center driveway where she dropped off earlier the same morning. I thanked my transport, and cautiously stepped out of the wheelchair and got into my Mom’s car for the whole not even five minute ride to her house, where I would remain for most of the day to rest and recover, then she would drop me back of at my home, as we just completed the full circle of another experience we shared together.