Happy Birthday, Old Man!

So yesterday, our grandson, Braden, had his sixth birthday celebration at Po-Jos (sort of a mini/micro Disneyland-type establishment under one roof). Braden’s six siblings and three local cousins attended, and, of course, Nammy and Papa (that would be Grandma and Grandpa or my wife and I), as well as the parents of said grandchildren.

Two cousins, sisters Kylie and Taylor, wanted to go around on the carousal with its plethora of riding animals. Due to Taylor’s small size, I was assigned as her partner to hold her securely on the horse of her choice. She dubbed it “Powder” which is the name of her favorite horse at her other grandparents’ ranch – Taylor is not fond of “Blue” but Blue (the horse) is Kylie’s favorite.

I carefully fastened Taylor in place with the single snapping belt (not really much of a safety/seat belt) and off we went on our musical ride with Taylor gleefully bobbing up and down and back and forth on Powder. On about the fourth revolution, I started feeling sick to my stomach. I’ve never liked “spinning” rides like the Disney Teacups or whirlybirds or even Ferris wheels, but I really like big roller coasters and rides like Splash Mountain at Disneyland. I can handle “It’s a Small World” but find it quite boring.

Anyway, on the merry-go-round carousel, I had a horrible backache to begin with so the queasiness didn’t help things at all. By round fifteen I was certifiably ready to hurl – pizza, as a matter of fact, which we had just consumed – ham and pineapple and pepperoni. Fortunately, the carousel only turned sixteen times.

Dizzily, I unbuckled a blissful Taylor and lifted her out of Powder’s saddle – a lady just wouldn’t ride bareback! I held her hand and managed to stumble off the carousel – a dismount of sorts.

Soon, Taylor was shoving tokens into an airplane, a motorcycle, and even a school bus. These were all single-passenger rides that jiggled in place so I just stood there and tried not to think about regurgitating my meal in a public place.

After a few more rides and then a little birthday cake loaded with sugar to add more nausea to my body, I watched Brenna, Madalyn, Josh, and Braden on the bumper cars. Pushing the control sticks forward simultaneously made the cars go straight ahead. Pulling the sticks back at the same time made the cars go backwards. Pushing the right stick forward and pulling the left stick backwards, made the cars spin to the left. Reversing the sticks made the cars spin clockwise. Just watching the spinning cars, which the grandkids enjoyed immensely, made my stomach even queasier. And, of course, the back pain was still going strong. So I felt miserable with each revolution and with each passing minute.

Soon Taylor found me again and insisted on another carousel ride. This time she adamantly pressed for a ride on the elephant, sans (without) saddle – bareback. She did allow me to strap the safety belt around her torso, but refused to have me hold her in place on the elephant – I had to sit on the “old people” bench in front of the elephant, and, of course, Taylor, age three, did just fine by herself. She even made a few elephant sounds, trumpeting her fun for all to hear. Fortunately, the bench upon which I sat did not move up and down or back and forth like all the animals. However, it did circle sixteen times with the animals, much to the delight and amusement of the kids and much to the sickness of my upset stomach.

Again, I staggered off the carousel – fortunately, Taylor held my hand, unwittingly steadying me ever so little, but better than nothing. A few minutes later, Michelle, Kylie, Taylor, and baby Brooklyn’s mommy, ran all the red tickets through the amazing ticket-counting machine (that was more fascinating to me than most of the rides and toys) so the kids could buy some prizes.

I was still dizzy, queasy, and unsteady, but managed to keep it all in, quite literally. Even today, Saturday morning, as I write this, I feel like I’m on the verge…

A Brother and Sister in a Horrible Car Crash

A young brother and sister were in a horrific car accident. The girl was badly injured and her life hung in the balance. She had suffered severe blood loss.

At the hospital, a doctor asked the brother if he would be willing to give his blood so his sister could survive. The boy considered the request. The doctor explained further that the boy’s blood type was an exact match for his sister and she really needed his blood. The boy blinked to stave off the tears and then said, yes, he would give his blood so his sister could live.

They immediately went into surgery which was both serious and complex. It required all the skills of each doctor and nurse involved. The operation was successful and the boy soon found himself, to his surprise, in a recovery room. The medical personal had joined the boy and heartily congratulated one another over their success, expertise, and great abilities to save the girl’s life.

Amid all the commotion, the boy gently tugged on the sleeve of the chief surgeon, and asked timidly yet loud enough for all to hear, “When do I die?”

“What do you mean, Son?” the doctor chuckled.

“When do I die?” the boy repeated.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the puzzled surgeon.

“Well,” continued the boy, “I thought that if you give your blood for someone, then you die.”

The congratulations and compliments ceased, and a pall settled on the recovery room as all present considered the depth and gravity of the boy’s sincere question.

All their training and proficiency had not saved the girl’s life – it was the sacrifice and the blood of her brother…and our Brother, Jesus Christ, that saves us all from death.

The Heartache of Hemorrhoids

In June 1999, in great pain, I attended the Larsen family reunion. When I carefully and gingerly stood up, sat down, and in general, moved around, several people asked, “Is your low back giving you problems?” Embarrassed to mention the “H” word, I just replied, “Uh, yeah,” figuring that the “low back” was close enough to the actual area of pain.

My wife TerriLu’s brother, Uncle David, had injured his toe the day before and all the nieces and nephews wanted to see the stitches. Uncle David obliged to the delight of all the youngsters. I was about to further entertain and educate the kids by showing my injured anatomy but figured most parents didn’t bring their kids to a family reunion to be mooned by an in-law.

After the operation and painful recovery, most people at work asked what surgery I had. I was a little embarrassed to discuss it, at first, but found that quite a few people have had the surgery or needed to have the surgery. The ones who were contemplating the surgery only disclosed this information about themselves in whispers with furtive glances around to make sure no one was in earshot.

The recovery from a hemorrhoidectomy is no picnic. One nurse said it’s the only surgery in her experience where she has seen grown men cry. After most surgeries you can avoid some pain by simply not using the afflicted part of the body. For example, after back surgery you avoid straining the back by not sitting too long or lifting heavy objects. With a broken arm, you put the arm in a cast and don’t use it until it’s healed. Now, try that for six weeks after a hemorrhoidectomy—just don’t use that part of the anatomy until it’s completely healed in six weeks!

During the first two weeks of recovery it seemed like each day was one step forward and two steps back. For the next two weeks it was one step forward and one back. In the last two weeks, it was two forward and one back.

I was on a medical leave of absence from work while things healed. Of course, I got a little “behind” in my work, but not like the butcher who backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work, literally and figuratively. Also at work, I was the “butt” of many jokes.

 

Men know that if they go to the doctor for a hemorrhoid problem there’s going to be an extremely embarrassing and possibly excruciating examination that they wish to avoid at all costs. Only when the level of pain a man can tolerate exceeds the level of embarrassment he can tolerate, will he finally go to the doctor about his hemorrhoids.

I have, in fact, experienced the entire humiliating hemorrhoid process. The journey really only begins after the hemorrhoids have reached critical mass and the pain is unbearable. You finally make the appointment and go to the doctor, dancing on your tippy-toes because of the sting.

As you stand on the step that pulls out from below the cushioned table you know you have passed the point of no return. The doctor asks you to spread your feet and bend over and onto the cushioned table, sticking your derriere in the air as high as possible. You feel the lubrication being applied and then an ice-cold medical instrument the size of a baseball bat going up inside you to your tonsils. And while you’re frantically clawing at the tissue on the table in a desperate but futile attempt to climb over the table and up the wall, the doctor says in a soothing voice, “Just relax now. You’ll do fine.” Relax? Let me just shove these instruments up your caboose and see how you relax!

To top things off the doctor says, “Right now I’m putting a small rubber band as a clamp around one of your internal hemorrhoids. There, does that help or does that hurt.” Are you kidding, Einstein?! Just look at the claw marks on your wall for the answer.

After several sessions like this, always with several cute female assistants dropping in to check on things, modesty for the male pretty much goes out the window, or it is at least left on an exam-room floor along with his dignity.

The surgery is no problem because you are completely anesthetized by the time the cute female surgical assistants see your bare bum in the air or anyone inserts any ice-cold, baseball-bat-sized medical instruments. Then you have the post-op checkup six weeks later and you’re done. In the future the male will have very few rear-in-the-air moments for everyone to see.

Ah, but we haven’t discussed the hemorrhoid recovery yet, and that’s where the man truly learns the meaning of pain, and gains some understanding of what some women go through giving birth to a child and recovering after birth.

With hemorrhoids, you have already experienced plenty of pain in the posterior to begin with. Then the surgeon goes in there and cuts and stitches and cuts and stitches until things are just right. Then you go to recovery and then to your hospital room. You’re still a little loopy and feeling good from the Fentanyl and Versed and Michael-Jackson-juice (Propofol) used during surgery. The local anesthetic is still keeping your bum numb. The TV is now blaring away, helping to numb your mind. You still have the IV-line in your arm and they install a machine that dispenses narcotics into the IV-line when you press a button but only after a specific period of time has passed so you don’t overdose. That machine becomes your new best friend.

For me, when the local anesthetic wore off, the throbbing was excruciating and there was no getting away from it. Even the narcotic in the IV-line didn’t seem to be doing much good. I hastily complained to the nurse that the machine wasn’t working as I frantically pushed the button every few seconds. The nurse assured me the machine was working fine. “Just relax,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” Yes, I’ve been told to relax before and it didn’t work.

That evening I told the nurse my bladder was full but I couldn’t urinate. She said that’s normal after surgery due to the narcotics and she left for a moment. She returned with a male catheter which is basically a nine-foot garden hose, coated with 80-grit sandpaper. In record time, the nurse jammed the hose into my penis, pushed until the hose circled my abdominal cavity three times, and then with one final Herculean push, she breached the bladder. As I attempted in vain to back-peddle up the bed, the nurse soothed me again, “Just relax. You’ll be fine.” Well, it wasn’t fine and this time I was on my back like a helpless turtle unable to claw my way up the wall. But at last my bloated belly and blader emptied into a large plastic measuring cup. The nurse explained that she needed to keep track of my fluids going in and my fluids coming out. Then she yanked the hose out of my penis.

I’ve had catheters before and they didn’t hurt and sting like this one. With all the pain from surgery in my lower pelvic region plus the catheter pain concentrated in one very sensitive area of the pelvis, it was beyond pain and distress – I was literally crying in agony! Yeah, I know, like a little girl.

I screamed for the nurse and explained my desperate need for triple whatever wasn’t working in my IV-line. She looked at me unsympathetically and said, “Sorry, the doctor’s gone for the day and only a doctor can make a change like that.”

Fortunately, my anesthesiologist was also a close friend. My wife was able to catch him on his cell phone before he left the hospital for the day. As a good friend he came immediately to my room. He saw my plight and my real tears, and with his authorized scribble, he instructed the nurse to add an additional narcotic dose to my IV-line, plus a double dose of Versed which gives you temporary amnesia and acts as a sedative so you kind of can’t remember things, although in my case, I did! With the additional medications I settled down and slept.

The several-day hospital stay was pretty rough, possibly similar to the recovery a woman has after delivering a baby.

With our first two children, Melissa and Michael, I remember seeing the doctor take a special pair of scissors and grotesquely cut the thick skin of my wife’s peritoneum for an episiotomy. After the birth the doctor simply stitched up the huge slabs of meat he had sliced apart. I remember my wife’s pain every time she went to the bathroom because she had to bear down and put pressure on that very tender area of her body that had recently expelled an eight-pound-three-ounce baby and had stinging, unhealed stitches to boot. Each time she said it felt like she was tearing all the stitches open.

With our third and fourth children the doctors skipped the episiotomy saying it wasn’t necessary after a woman has had two children. During those two births, I watched in horror as the flesh began tearing in at least ten places as the baby’s heads tried to force its way through an opening that did not seem designed for the task of delivering a humongous baby anymore than a pot roast can fit through the nostril. And the recovery again, even without the episiotomy, was very painful.

Here again, I think I can sympathize with women, having recovered from my hemorrhoidectomy.

At home, having donated my hemorrhoids to medical science, the burn was barely tolerable even with the heavy-duty painkillers and sedatives. Urinating increased the pressure and the pain. Pooping introduced me to a whole new level of excruciating agony.

After most surgeries you just don’t use whatever it was you had repaired. Again, if you break your arm, they set it, put a cast on, and you don’t use that arm for six weeks so it can heal. Now, try doing that after a hemorrhoidectomy—just don’t use your rectum and anus for six weeks so it can heal properly! Are you kidding me?

First, the painkillers constipate you so you have to take a stool softener that provides marginal softness at best. When it’s time to poop, you have to bear down hard and that’s when the pain increases exponentially. However, the bearing down is nothing compared to the pain when things actually exit the rectum. It feels like every stitch from the surgery is torn open, exposing all that tender, nerve-bearing tissue beneath the skin. Then somebody puts salt in the wound and a little battery acid for good measure. You know you have to push and bear down but it stings and burns and throbs when you do. Like having a baby, you realize there is no way out except to push harder and get this thing out of your body post haste! In spite of my attempt to muffle my moans and groans and cries of agony with a folded bath towel pressed against my face, the family downstairs could hear my wails of distress, but they were powerless to help. Even the neighbors were not out of earshot.

Even after everything passes, things do not calm down. Everything just continues to sting and burn and throb for another fifteen to thirty minutes. Per the doctor’s instructions I took a sitz-bath which is supposed to help, but I found it was just a time to moan and groan some more and try not to think about repeating this nightmare in twelve to twenty-four hours. It’s like being flogged in Singapore once or twice a day, every day for six weeks. The terror of anticipating the horrific pain returning (the fear of the fear) is agonizing in and of itself.

For the first two weeks, every time I pooped and cried, I felt like I took one step forward in healing and then two painful steps backwards in tearing out all of the surgeon’s work. The next two weeks it improved to one step forward and one step backwards but the pain still made me moan and groan and cry. The next two weeks it improved to two steps forward and one step back and went down to moaning and groaning without crying. By the end of the next two weeks things were just about normal but without the hemorrhoids.

My recommendation to everyone is to never poop again, and certainly never bear down.

The Heartache of Hemorrhoids – Part 2

At home, having donated my hemorrhoids to medical science, the pain was barely tolerable even with the heavy-duty painkillers and sedatives. Urinating increased the pressure and the pain. Pooping introduced me to a whole new level of excruciating pain and agony.

The recovery from a hemorrhoidectomy is no picnic. One nurse said it’s the only surgery in her experience where she has seen grown men cry from pain, and I am a living testament to that. After most surgeries you can avoid some pain by simply not using the afflicted part of the body. For example, after back surgery you avoid straining the back by not sitting too long or lifting heavy objects. With a broken arm, you put the arm in a cast and don’t use it until it’s healed. Now, try that for six weeks after a hemorrhoidectomy—just don’t use that part of the anatomy until it’s completely healed!

First, the painkillers constipate you so you have to take a stool softener that provides marginal help at best. When it’s time to poop, you have to bear down hard and that’s when the pain increases exponentially. However, the bearing down is nothing compared to the pain when things actually exit the rectum. It feels like every stitch from the surgery is torn open, exposing all that tender, nerve-bearing stuff beneath the skin. Then somebody puts salt in the wound and a little battery acid for good measure. You know you have to push and bear down but it stings and burns and throbs when you do. Like having a baby, you realize there is no way out except to push harder and get this thing out of your body post haste! In spite of my attempt to muffle my moans and groans and cries of agony with a folded bath towel pressed against my face, the family downstairs could hear my wails of distress, but they were powerless to help.

Even after everything passes, things do not calm down. Everything just continues to sting and burn and throb for another fifteen to thirty minutes. Per the doctor’s instructions I took a sitz-bath which is supposed to help, but I found it was just a time to moan and groan some more and try not to think about repeating this nightmare in twelve to twenty-four hours. It’s like being flogged in Singapore once a day, every day for six weeks. The terror of anticipating the horrific pain returning is agonizing in and of itself.

For the first two weeks, every time I pooped and cried, I felt like I had taken one step forward in healing and then two painful steps backwards in tearing out all of the surgeon’s work. The next two weeks it improved to one step forward and one step backwards but the pain still made me moan and groan and cry. The next two weeks it improved to two steps forward and one step back and went down to moaning and groaning without crying. By the end of the next two weeks things were just about normal but without hemorrhoids.

I was on a medical leave of absence from work while things healed. Of course, I got a little “behind” in my work, but not like the butcher who backed into the meat grinder and got a little behind in his work, literally and figuratively. Also at work, I was the “butt” of many jokes.

When I went back to work after fully recovering from my hemorrhoidectomy, several men accosted me in the hallways and said in hushed tones, “Hey, how ya doing?” Then they would lean in, while glancing furtively left and right, and whisper, “Hemorrhoids, right? Was the surgery okay? Was it an easy recovery? Did it hurt? Did it take care of the problem? Would you do it again?”

From there, as a typical male-we-don’t-discuss-things-like-this, my side of the dialogue should have laconically continued, “Fine, thanks. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Eventually. Yes.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“See ya.”

“Yeah.”

Having lost my modesty at the first meticulous inspection of my rectum, I opened right up with these guys at work. I would tell them all the grizzly details about the agonizing and embarrassing examinations, the assistants, the no-problem-because-I-was-out-of-it surgery, the horrific recovery, the overpowering painful pooping, and eventually the final result of a pain-free posterior after enough time had passed for everything to fully heal.

The Heartache of Hemorrhoids – Part 1

During the month of June 1999, in great pain from hemorrhoids, I attended my wife’s family reunion. When I carefully and gingerly stood up, sat down, and in general, moved around, several people asked, “Is your low back giving you problems?” Embarrassed to mention the “H” word, I just replied, “Uh, yeah,” figuring that the “low back” was close enough to the actual area of pain. TerriLu’s brother, Uncle David, had injured his toe the day before and all the nieces and nephews wanted to see the stitches. Uncle David obliged. I was about to further entertain and educate the kids by showing my injured anatomy but figured most parents didn’t bring their kids to a family reunion to be mooned by an in-law.

Men know that if they go to the doctor for a hemorrhoid problem there’s going to be an extremely embarrassing and possibly painful examination that they wish to avoid at all costs. Only when the level of pain a man can tolerate exceeds the level of embarrassment he can tolerate, will he finally go to the doctor about his hemorrhoids.

I have, in fact, experienced the entire humiliating hemorrhoid process. The journey really only begins after the hemorrhoids have reached critical mass and the pain is excruciating. You finally make the appointment and go to the doctor, dancing on your tippy-toes because of the pain.

As you stand on the step that pulls out from below the cushioned table you know you have passed the point of no return. The doctor asks you to spread your feet and bend over and onto the cushioned table, sticking your rear in the air as high as possible. You feel the lubricant applied and then an ice-cold medical instrument. And while you’re frantically clawing at the tissue on the table in a desperate but futile attempt to climb over the table and up the wall, the doctor says in a soothing voice, “Just relax now. You’ll do fine.” Relax? Let me just shove these instruments up your caboose and see how you relax!

To top things off the doctor says, “Right now I’m putting a small rubber band as a clamp around one of your internal hemorrhoids. There, does that help or does that hurt.” Are you kidding, Einstein?! Just look at the claw marks on your wall for the answer.

After several sessions like this with several assistants dropping by to inspect things, modesty for the male pretty much goes out the window, or is at least left on an exam-room floor along with his dignity.

The surgery is no problem because you are completely anesthetized by the time anyone sees your bare derrière in the air or anyone inserts any ice-cold, medical instruments. Then you have the post-op checkup a few weeks later and you’re done with the embarrassment. In the future the male will have very few rear-in-the-air moments for everyone to see.

Ah, but we haven’t discussed the hemorrhoid recovery yet, and that’s where the man truly learns the meaning of pain.

With hemorrhoids, you have already experienced a lot of pain in the posterior to begin with. Then the surgeon goes in there and cuts and stitches and cuts and stitches until everything is just right. You go to recovery and then to your hospital room. You’re still a little loopy and feeling good from the narcotics, Versed, and other drugs used during surgery. The local anesthetic is still keeping your bum numb. The TV is now blaring away, helping to keep your mind numb. You still have the IV-line in your arm and they install a machine that dispenses narcotics into the IV-line when you press a button but only after a specific period of time has passed so you don’t overdose. That machine becomes your new best friend.

For me, when the local anesthetic wore off the pain was excruciating and there was no getting away from it. Even the narcotic in the IV-line didn’t seem to be doing much good. I hastily complained to the nurse that the machine wasn’t working as I frantically pushed the button every few seconds. The nurse assured me the machine was working fine. “Just relax,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” Yes, I’ve been told to relax before and it didn’t work.

That evening I told the nurse my bladder was full but I couldn’t urinate. She said that’s normal after surgery and she left for a moment. She returned with a male catheter which is basically a fifteen-foot garden hose. In record time, the nurse jammed the hose in, pushed until the hose circled my abdominal cavity three times, and then with one final Herculean shove, she breached the bladder. As I attempted in vain to back-peddle up the bed, the nurse said, “Just relax. You’ll be fine.” Well, it wasn’t fine and this time I was on my back like a helpless turtle unable to claw my way up the wall. But at last my bloated belly emptied into a large plastic measuring cup. The nurse explained they needed to keep track of my fluids going in and my fluids coming out. Then she yanked the hose out.

I’m absolutely certain that this particular catheter hose was coated with at least eighty-grit sandpaper. I’ve had catheters before and they didn’t hurt and sting like this one. With all the pain from surgery in my lower pelvic region plus the catheter pain concentrated in one very sensitive area, it was beyond pain and distress—I was literally crying in agony!

I screamed for a nurse and explained my desperate need for triple whatever wasn’t working in my IV-line. She looked at me unsympathetically and said, “Sorry, the doctor’s gone for the day and only a doctor can make a change like that.”

Fortunately, my anesthesiologist was a close friend. My wife was able to catch him on his cell phone before he left the hospital for the day. As a good friend he came immediately to my room. He saw my plight and my real tears, and with his authorized scribble, he instructed the nurse to add an additional narcotic dose to my IV-line, plus a double dose of Versed which gives you temporary amnesia and acts as a sedative so you kind of can’t remember things. With the additional medications I settled down and slept.

Panhypopituitarism and Self-Reliance

(This is a slightly modified talk I gave at church a few years ago…)

In 1997 we just finished building our dream home on five acres. We then took three years to put in an acre of lawn and landscaping with pavers, sprinkler systems, and much more. It took all of our vacation time and all of our discretional income just to grow it and maintain it.

After living in our dream home for a while, within a few days of each other, TerriLu and I independently had the strongest impression that we needed to sell our dream home and downsize. The spiritual prompting was so powerful that we never questioned it.

Three years after building our dream house, we moved out. Our square footage dropped in half, our five acres dropped to a fourth of an acre, but most importantly our house payment dropped by more than one half and became a very comfortable and small percentage of our income and it was on a fifteen-year loan instead of thirty.

With what was coming ahead of us, we never would have survived if we had still been in our dream home. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, it was the headlight of an oncoming train.

Joseph in Egypt told Pharaoh there would be exactly seven years of plenty and then exactly seven years of famine (Gen. 41:1-45). We had no warning that we would have three years of plenty and so far eight years of famine with a lifetime of famine ahead of us. These days, we don’t have our own personal “Joseph” to tell us exactly when our personal or family years of plenty will start and end and when our personal or family famine will start and end. We do have prophets who have spoken on a broad level that these are turbulent times and we need to prepare in many ways to be more Self-Reliant.

The prophets speak to and warn the church collectively and generally, but it is usually a spiritual prompting that addresses anything at the individual or family level. These promptings do not usually come with all the details about what will happen—they usually just prompt you to do something. We had no detailed warning that years of famine were just around the corner, but the prompting gave us three years to prepare—for what, we didn’t know. We just followed the promptings.

So what happened in 2002? My pituitary gland stopped functioning. That sounds fairly benign, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s just a small hormone gland carefully protected in the center of the head. How big of a problem could that be, right?

Actually, it’s a very big problem. It’s called panhypopituitarism meaning complete loss of function of the pituitary gland. It is quite rare—statistically based on the Treasure Valley population there should be 3½ people with panhypopituitarism. I haven’t met any of the others but I would actually like to meet the half person. Actually, I might be the half person…

The pituitary gland is called the “master” gland because it pretty much tells all the major hormone glands in the body what to do and when to do it.

That may not sound like much, but when your pituitary gland shuts down, your entire endocrine system or hormone system pretty much shuts down. When that happens, a boatload of awful symptoms strike the body. These symptoms taken individually wouldn’t be too bad, but together they are devastating. They include fatigue, hot flashes, weakness, muscle spasms, muscle pain, muscle loss, joint pain, joint stiffness, flu-like symptoms, body aches, cold sweats, night sweats, weight gain, dizziness, depression, intolerance to cold, mood swings, loss of body hair, decreased taste and smell, nausea, slow speech, shortened stature, drowsiness, to name about half. Imagine your worst day you have ever had with the flu or other sickness, multiply that times ten, and that’s a good day for someone with a dead pituitary gland and it goes on 24×7. Some days you feel liking dying and you would if the Lord were taking volunteers. It feels like an out-of-body experience: you’re in some strange body and nothing works right. Hormones are not only vital to have a properly functioning body, but they are also crucial to staying alive.

Needless to say, I have tremendous sympathy and empathy for women and all the hormone adjustments they deal with in life.

I have had panhypopituitarism since 2002  and most likely will have it for life. It took almost a year for the doctors to figure it out. And when they did, we began the long, tedious process of trying to bring my hormones back up to approximate appropriate levels without upsetting the body too quickly.

A critical hormone is the corticosteroid secreted by the adrenal glands that sit atop the kidneys. One thing the corticosteroids do is help your body deal with stress, whether it is physical, mental, or emotional stress. In a normal body under stress, the adrenal glands release the right amount of the steroids into the body at just the right time. In my case I take a tablet in the morning to hopefully hit an average amount for the day. Then my body doesn’t deal well with any extra physical, mental, or emotional stress during the day because my adrenals aren’t producing corticosteroids during stressful periods.

With severe stress on the body, such as in a car crash or during surgery, the doctors must load me up with corticosteroids, or I will likely die on the table, not from the crash or the surgery but because my body can’t deal with the stress without massive amounts of corticosteroids.

The disease has impacted other areas of my body, including the bones and joints. Working in harmony with my degenerative-disc disease, the disease has nearly crushed my low back. I had one back surgery with six laminectomies and a second back surgery to fuse three vertebrae together with metal and bone and I think some duct tape and chicken wire. A second back surgery fused a couple more discs. I also have a nerve stimulator implant in my low back which is like sitting constantly on an electric fence.

Then they found I have sleep apnea. Then I had gallbladder surgery and a pesky parasite in my stomach that Dr. Livingston blasted away with the heavy-duty medications. I also suffer from forgetfulness—I can’t remember what I’ve told someone already. I also suffer from forgetfulness—I can’t remember what I’ve told someone already. I also have developed mental lapses, exhaustion, gastritis, high-blood pressure, and Schaumburg Disease which is poor circulation in the legs.

So today that’s who and what I am medically, physically, emotionally, and mentally, but at least not spiritually.

In the beginning I was too weak and exhausted to even make it to church. The rumor was that I was inactive and on drugs, which is in fact a fairly accurate description. As I slowly got better, I started coming to Sacrament meeting only, where I could hold up for an hour and fifteen minutes. As I got stronger I stayed longer.

Today I’m fairly stable. The problems are still all there—but many of the symptoms have stabilized.

I have my very own miniature pharmacy at home as every day I take fourteen different prescription medications plus a pile of vitamins:

At four prescribed times of the day I swallow a handful of pills. I have so many prescriptions that everybody at the Albertson’s pharmacy knows me by my first and last name. Before changing all my meds to a mail-order pharmacy, I think I was their single biggest customer. They even recognize my voice on the phone. That’s a bad sign when the entire pharmacy staff knows you that well.

I have one frustration. Because I’m not wearing a cast and I don’t have any visible scars and I don’t have crutches or a walker or wheelchair or anything, people don’t understand that I have these very horrible things going on inside of me, chemically, mentally, and emotionally. I only have energy to put up a good front at this intensity for so long and then I go home and crash. People usually look at me and think, “Well, he looks okay to me. He can’t be that bad off.”

I know I look okay. In fact, I should point out that I am really handsome. And I have to point out my handsomeness because if I don’t, nobody seems to notice. Even when I do point it out they still say, “Well, um, sorry, I just don’t see it.” The only people who do actually see how handsome I am are my wife, those at least one hundred yards away, and those who up close are not wearing their glasses. So just remove your eye glasses and you’ll see how much better looking I am.

I’ve shared my recent medical history, not looking for sympathy, but to give you a clear picture of our last eight years and how they relate to Self-Reliance. In just being here, I serve as my own visual aid.

Some of you may wonder how I can speak so openly about these things.  I tell you, any pride on my part was vaporized in the explosion when the hormones blew up. Also, I am speaking of these things because they are real and they could happen to you and your family. Are you prepared?

Eight years ago I think we thought that we were living all the principles of Self-Reliance and Provident Living. In fact, if you had asked shortly before the illness hit, we would have said, “Yes, we are all set. We are well prepared.” And we were in many ways. However, we could have been a lot more prepared for this affliction affecting my health and my employment!

I was placed on full medical disability which dropped our income by 25%. How grateful we are that we paid those disability insurance premiums or we would have had nothing. At the same time our out-of-pocket medical bills escalated quickly to an average of just under $25,000 per year for eight years now. Just my co-pay on all those prescriptions is around $5,000 a year.

So how did we cope with all this? At first, not very well. All of these things hit so hard and so fast and with such deadly accuracy at all the key stressors physically, mentally, chemically, and emotionally, that we didn’t cope very well. At first I was so sick and weak and exhausted that I couldn’t do anything except get in the car and go to doctor appointments and for medical tests.

Employment: I worked at HP for twenty-one years. I expected to work forty years for HP.

An unexpected and unplanned illness got in the way of that goal. I first went on disability for six months and HP promised me the same or similar job when I came back. Well, when I returned, they couldn’t find the same or a similar job so they put me in a really different job and with my disability, for the first time in my career, I failed miserably.

Eight months into the failing job I was put back on fulltime disability. A year later I got a nice letter from the company saying they were terminating their association with me, taking my name off the database, and in fact did not guarantee any job whatsoever, if and when I might return to work. …Oh, and have a nice day.

Resource Management: How did we cope with the financial side of things? Well, we managed our resources by burning right through them. We used our savings. We sold all of our stock. We refinanced the house. And we borrowed $32,000 on a loan out of our retirement. We sold my nice four-wheel drive truck and I started driving the old teenage clunker, a giant Ford LTD Crown Victoria that was approximately the size and weight of a barge. But it ran better than I did, and it was more reliable and dependable than I was—at one point the family considered trading me in for a second one.

We also sold the motorcycles. TerriLu got a job. We stopped eating at restaurants, and I love Italian, and Mexican, and Chinese food, and pizza. We even stopped going to fast-food places which I also really love. We stopped buying junk food with no nutritional value, and I love junk food with no nutritional value. It’s one of my leading qualities.

Once when TerriLu was sick I had to do the grocery shopping. When I got all my groceries on the conveyer belt, the checker said, “Having a party?” With a confused look on my face, I asked, “No, I’m buying groceries. Why do you think that?” And the checker slowly looked over at the potato chips, nachos, Fritos, refried-bean dip, soda pop, ice cream, chocolate sauce, hot fudge, butterscotch, caramel, peanuts, popcorn, and red licorice vines, and said, “Uh, no reason.” And TerriLu responded the same way when I got home. So I’m not allowed to do any grocery shopping anymore, unless under the direct supervision of a mature adult.

In addition to nixing the junk food, we also stopped all entertainment that cost money: No going out to movies, no “going-out” on date nights, no vacations, no Lagoon, no Boondocks, no Po-Jo’s, no hockey games… nadda, nothing, zilch, zip. We pretty much cleared out all the fun. And we started living on Food Storage which is also not fun. The most fun we had was watching my legs twitch from the nerve damage in my back.

Speaking of Food Storage and Emergency Preparedness: Are you spending on unnecessary luxury items when you could be building up food storage? Are you spending on necessary items, like a car parked nicely in the garage but only the model with all the bells and whistles. Instead you could be converting at least the bells and whistles into wheat and beans stored nicely in the garage. How prepared are you for a small local emergency, or for a large personal or family emergency?

For eight years my wife has lived with and cared for a living, breathing medical nightmare. For a long time we had many doctor appointments every week. One week we had eleven appointments —usually it was six to eight. I couldn’t drive so TerriLu had to haul me around everywhere to doctors and to do blood tests and MRIs and x-rays and CT scans and to get giant needles stuck in my back and arms and other tests.

In the beginning when my body had more estrogen than testosterone, TerriLu would often find me sobbing, on the floor, under the desk, in a fetal position. She has truly been an angel with tremendous patience. I cannot say enough about her endurance and her love and her compassion through everything.

Men, I would ask you, “Are you as caring and kind and patient as you could be when your wife’s hormones are out of whack, whether it is due to pregnancy, PMS, periods, menopause, or anything else.” If you are not, you better learn to be. Since my Machoectomy, that is, losing my hormones, I have much greater empathy for the ups and downs of women’s hormones.

Someone asked us how this has affected us spiritually. We feel so blessed. Nothing important has changed for the worse. So what if we have a smaller house instead of a dream home. So what if we have a reduced income that will not increase with inflation. So what if I don’t drive a 4×4 pickup? So what if I don’t have the gymnast physique and health I had in high school. So what if in this life I’ll never be healthier than 75%? So what if my body is a decade or more older than my actual age. So what if we only have a fourth of an acre to take care of—wait, that’s actually a plus.

And of course, I still have my good looks—and some of you still haven’t taken off your glasses so you can see for yourself.

I testify that none of those things matter in the least degree. A few years ago I held my father’s hand as he passed away and the year before I held my mother’s hand as she passed away. I’m here to say, they took nothing of this world with them—not their house, not their cars, not their retirement, nadda, nothing, zilch, zip. Near the end, nothing in this world really mattered to them — it’s really just stuff anyway.

And if waiting for us are worlds without number, can anything of this world really matter?

My parents may not have taken anything of this world with them, but they had plenty of things already there waiting for them. It’s all the treasures in heaven they were building throughout their lives on earth, and oh, they built a lot of those treasures by loving and caring for, and helping others, through selfless service over many years.

What really matters, we still have. We still have kept all our covenants. We still are temple worthy. We still have our testimonies and in fact, they are even stronger because we have had to rely more on the Lord and that brings us closer to Him. We are still on the strait and narrow way and we’re still headed in the right direction. Even though my parents are gone, I am still sealed to them, and we feel them close from time to time. We still have our family, and whoa, twelve grandchildren!!!

Someone said that grandchildren are God’s gift for getting old. Someone else said, “The reason grandchildren and grandparents make such great allies, is because they share a common enemy.” I am so grateful that that is not the case in our family. We love are children just as much as the grandchildren – we just don’t spoil our children as much. My favorite bumper sticker is: If Mom OR Dad says No, Call 1-800-GRANDMA.

For the most part we have just learned to live life a little differently. It’s amazing what Self-Reliance adjustments we can endure when we have to. Over the last eight years we have actually learned to live happily with those adjustments.

So why have I told you all this? It’s not for your sympathy. It’s not because we’ve handled all these trials perfectly or that we are the poster-family for Self-Reliance. We are not!

I’ve shared this because it’s real and it could happen to you. It really could. We never expected it. We took both my health and my employment for granted. I had perfect health for forty-four years and always did great in any job. I had been a gymnast in high school, an athlete, I was healthy and strong. I could walk on my hands across the gymnasium floor — which always comes in handy when you have muddy shoes and a clean carpet. Obviously, from my “enhanced” girth I’m no longer an athlete…but I may still qualify on a technicality: I am on steroids, as I already mentioned.

In twenty-one years at Hewlett-Packard I was rarely too sick to work, or if I was sick, I worked right through it. I only missed work when I was recovering from surgeries and one time with bronchitis and the doctor made me stay home to recover. I had boundless energy to complete any project. I worked all nighters. I traveled all over North America and Europe.

And suddenly that all changed—it came to a grinding, screeching halt. I couldn’t do any of it. I could barely make toast in the morning without crying.

And so I ask, “Are you ready, just in case something happens to your health or to your employment or both?”

Are you applying the principles of the Self-Reliance now so you are ready then? When the hurricane hits, it’s a little late to board up the windows.

Provident Living is not just having several barrels of wheat in your garage and a 72-hour kit containing a spare T-shirt with a couple of granola bars. I’m asking much more than that…

I’m asking: Are you living on less than you earn, or do you spend everything you earn and borrow more? Do you have savings equal to six months’ pay? Do you have resources to draw from, such as investments, stock, real estate, and more?

Is your house payment considerably lower than the limits allowed by banks or are you maxed out? Are your cars completely paid for or do you have large loans on luxury vehicles? Do you have money for fun that could actually pay off those school loans sooner? Do you pay your credit cards in full each month or is there a balance carried over? Have you gotten a second mortgage to buy expensive toys or to go on a nice vacation? Do you have a supply of food to feed your entire family for a year? For that matter, can you make anything with plain, raw wheat? More precisely, can you make anything with wheat that your family can and will actually eat? It’s kind of late to build the ark when the rain starts falling.

If you have all of the above in place and under control with plenty of cushion, that is wonderful and I am thrilled for you. But if you are not so safe and don’t have much cushion, then you may need to think more about Self-Reliance and Provident Living principles.

Do you feel at all overextended? Do you feel pressure at work or at home? Are you stressed out? If you are stressed out, at least you now know from our inspired discussion on the adrenal glands that they release natural corticosteroids to help you deal with the stress…but the corticosteroids won’t pay the bills. And the bills may be causing much of the stress you feel.

Even in our downsized condition, we still haven’t completely made it. We are still working through many things. But by following those original spiritual promptings, we at least have our heads above water, still in the rapids, on some days, of course, but above water.

In a conference talk in October 2004, Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin said, “We should end our fixation on wealth. It is only a means to an end, which end should ultimately be the building up of the kingdom of God. I feel that some are so concerned about the type of car they drive, the expensive clothes they wear, or the size of their house in comparison to others that they lose sight of the weightier matters.⁸ We must be careful in our daily lives that we do not allow the things of this world to take precedence over spiritual things.” (Joseph B. Wirthlin, Oct Conf 2004)

This venerable apostle is not saying it is bad or evil to be wealthy. He is just saying we need to have our priorities straight, and not be so focused on worldly things that we miss the more important spiritual things. And we need to be prepared to give it all up to the Lord, if required, unlike the rich man who approached the Savior and asked what he needed to do to enter the kingdom. The Savior recited several commandments and the man said, “All these things have I done from my youth up.” And the Savior said, “Yet lackest thou one thing: sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, follow me. And when he heard this, he was very sorrowful: for he was very rich.” (Luke 18:18-25, Mark 10:25).

Now, the Lord is not asking us to give it all away. But that’s a good question to ponder, “Would you, if the Lord or his prophet asked you to? Could you part with some things that you really, really like?” When my parents passed on, they left everything behind.

At a leadership training meeting in 2003, President Hinckley said, “We are living in difficult times…. We do not know what is just over the horizon. We do not know what the economy is going to do…. There is a great deal of unemployment…. I see a great imprudence on the part of so many of our people, saddling themselves with debt, homes that are costly, automobiles that have to have all the bells and whistles….and credit card debt…. I don’t what to cry calamity. I want to speak of wisdom and restraint and discipline and…encourage our people to be modest in their expenditures.” (President Gordon B. Hinckley, from leadership training meeting, Spanish Fork Utah Regional Conference, February 15, 2003, Church News, week ending May 7, 2005, page 2).

The easiest financial plan I know of is: Starting at the earliest age, preferably by 25 and continuing until retirement, put 10% into tithing, 10% into retirement, 10% into savings, a percentage into fast offerings, temple building, missionary work, humanitarian, and Perpetual Education. And then you can just about blow the rest on taxes, big homes, fancy cars, nice vacations, and anything you want. You will become wealthy!

And if you want to build up extra treasures in heaven with some of your wealth on earth, increase the extra percentage to the Lord’s kingdom on earth and find ways in the world to bless those who are less fortunate.

I am not here to judge you, I am not here to condemn you, and I am not saying that we have done anything extraordinary or special—we have not. We are just hanging in there.

I am here simply to raise your awareness of the combined voice of the First Presidency, the Quorum of the Twelve, the Presiding Bishopric, and the General Relief Society presidency, as outlined in the Church Provident Living principles. These are the words of prophets, seers, and revelators to all of us, generally as a people and as followers of Jesus Christ. Now, individually and with the Lord’s help in serious prayer, you must judge yourself and see where you fit in the Lord’s plan for Self-Reliance for our times.

Maybe everyone here is totally, precisely, exactly in perfect financial shape and your Provident Living situation is in perfect order. Wonderful! Then you really didn’t have to listen to all this, other than getting an insightful overview on the endocrine system.

If you are in that perfect financial condition, you can still benefit by prayerfully considering the other areas of Provident Living and also by teaching the principles to your children, even your adult children, and your grandchildren. Teach them, and this is important, not to run out and put today on credit cards what you have taken forty years to accumulate.

Maybe there is just one person or one family here today that is living financially on the edge or very close to the edge and the spirit will prompt you to make some critical changes, to make a few necessary adjustments in your Self-Reliance and Provident Living.

Maybe one person here is years or just months away from a medical fiasco or an employment upheaval and you will be prompted by the spirit to make some preparations, even though you may not have a clue what you are preparing for. But several years or months from now you will be grateful that you followed the prompting. It’s a little late to prepare once the tornado hits.

I hope and pray that you have a good, healthy, happy, wonderful life, but if something unexpected comes into your life, I hope and pray that you will be prepared through Self-Reliance and Provident Living, and still be happy, and keep your faith in the Lord.

Someone said, “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and take what comes.” I hope for the best for each of you, but I ask you to prepare for the worst, and I pray that you have the faith to take whatever comes.

I know that there are people who have had or now have debilitating illnesses and difficult times worse than what I have described in our home. My thoughts and prayers reach out to you. Every day I see at least one person who has life much worse than I have, and for whom I have the deepest sympathy and empathy. I realize each day how many blessings we have from the Lord.

I also hope and pray that you will listen for the spiritual promptings so you hear them or feel them, and even more importantly, that you follow them.

I testify that the Lord helps those who help themselves and that he wants us to do all in our power to care for ourselves through Self-Reliance.

The eternal treasures, the only lasting treasures, are the treasures we build in heaven, not the treasures of the world. You can have anything in this world with money, but money doesn’t buy a thing in heaven, and how much money you had on earth doesn’t matter in the least, except for how you used it to help build up the kingdom and bless others.

I testify that the real things that matter are making and keeping our covenants, staying temple worthy, strengthening our testimonies, blessing our families, staying on the path in the right direction, serving where we are called to serve in the kingdom, whether the calling be great or small.

Panhypopituitarism – The Heartbreak of No Hormones

In February of 2004 I went on permanent, fulltime disability from work. Thankfully, I had signed us up for disability insurance and we paid the premiums for twenty years to be able to get 75 percent of my last income, but with no cost of living adjustments.

I got very sick near the end of 2002 and it took nine stressful months for the many doctors to figure out the problem was a non-functioning pituitary gland, a rare, but complex and serious disease known as panhypopituitarism. I also had several related maladies and low-back problems. For the nine months, I had an extended, out-of-body journey literally to hell and most of the way back, and I would not wish the trip on anyone, even with the frequent-flyer miles. Without the pituitary I have few natural hormones in the body. I lost most of my body hair and one day while looking in the mirror I asked TerriLu, “Are my breasts enlarging?” Sure enough, blood tests showed that the only hormone I had in my system was the lactating hormone that produces breast milk.

Hormones pretty much rule the body. Without a brain, you die in seconds, although amazingly I have survived quite well without one for several decades. Without a heart, you die in under a minute. Without lungs, you die within minutes. Without hormones, you don’t die – you just feel like you’re dead or wish you were dead, or both.

I now take artificial hormones every day. I take a thyroid tablet, a corticosteroid tablet, testosterone gel, and a Human Growth Hormone injection (fun), and I just do without the other three or four key hormones that cannot be replaced. I think that with my use of the steroids and the Human Growth Hormone, I have a good chance to make it in Major League Baseball (I did play little league for four years). I also take about eight additional hormone-related, back-related, and other related medications.

Apparently my body is falling apart faster than normal due to the lack of hormones. That is, I’ve aged beyond my actual years. When I was about forty-five, Dr. East suggested that my body was closer to that of a sixty-five-year old. My eye doctor said at the same time that I had the eyes of a sixty-five-year old. At the dentist in four years I had to have eight molars extracted and replaced with implants and then crowns to top them off – and I even stopped drinking soda pop and sucking on Lifesavers, to no avail! The lack of hormones and some of the medications contribute to dry mouth which is not good for the teeth.

With sleep apnea and for other medical reasons, I do not sleep well at night and I usually need at least one nap during the day. My energy level is low, to say the least, but my spirits and mood are good, especially considering the circumstances. Life is great with TerriLu, our children, and our grandchildren.

My own initiation into the heartbreak of no hormones was somewhat embarrassing. Because I was off the chart low on testosterone, the urologist prescribed a double dose every day. When I went to the pharmacy to fill my first testosterone gel prescription, the pharmacist asked me if double the normal  dose was a mistake and I assured him the doctor said “double” the dose. The pharmacist still wasn’t comfortable with that so he said he would call the doctor. The doctor sort of chewed out the pharmacist saying he was busy with patients and shouldn’t be questioned by a pharmacist on what he’s written as a prescription and what he has clearly explained to the patient. To the pharmacist’s credit, I think he was just looking out for me, thinking with a double dose I might start growing hair on my tongue or something.

When the cute, petite female pharmacy technician came over with my double-dose of Androgel, she asked if I had ever used testosterone gel before, and of course, I whispered I had not. So she yelled loud enough for the pharmacist who was at the other end of the pharmacy to hear as well as the entire store, “Counsel, please.” So a very nice woman pharmacist with a big booming voice came over to talk to me about the testosterone. With a voice that exceeded the PA system, she bellowed, “So you must be really low on testosterone!” I kind of lowered my head, looked around and whispered, “Yes.” She didn’t take the hint so her voice boomed again for everyone in the store, “So this is testosterone in a gel. Everyday you rub this testosterone gel on your upper arms, shoulders, and stomach. Now because you don’t have any testosterone in you, your doctor has prescribed a double dose of testosterone. So be sure to take this testosterone as prescribed. You’ll probably have to use this testosterone for the rest of your life because you apparently can’t produce any testosterone on your own. Now this testosterone won’t work immediately—it will take several days or more for this testosterone to work like real testosterone. Let me say testosterone really loud like five more times so everyone in the store and the parking lot knows you don’t have any testosterone, like no testosterone, like zippo testosterone, like you ain’t gonna ever have real testosterone! You got that loud and clear? No TESTOSTERONE!”

By now I slouched so low I was nearly below the counter. I quietly thanked the pharmacist and as a turned around, the person right behind me was a lady from church. I wanted to evaporate into thin air. She smiled and politely asked how I was doing. I wanted to say that it pretty much got explained in full by the pharmacist, but instead said, “Fine, thank you.” And I walked away as quickly as I could.

So a week later I was at the mall with six days of testosterone in my system. I thought I’d drop in at Victoria’s Secret and get something to spice up our sex life that barely existed for twelve testosterone-less months. I found a skimpy little item and took it to the counter. The cashier held it up so everyone could see and said, “Oh, she’ll really like this, Honey.” I thanked her quickly and turned around and came face to face with the same nice lady from church again who smiled even bigger than at the pharmacy. This time when she asked how I was doing, I figured she wasn’t thinking the normal “How are you doing?” It was more like Joey on Friends asking with a heavy sexual overtone, “How you doing?” Well, at least that’s how she sounded to me. I decided then and there to never go to Victoria’s Secret without wearing a hat, a face mask, and dark sunglasses.

 And yes, after years of using testosterone gel I now have a hairier chest…and stomach…and upper arms…and shoulders. Now, I’m thinking of having all the hair lasered off – not “waxed” off—I’m too big of a wimp to endure that.