Macho aversion to doctor's visits is costing
this editor his vision
I have options open to me - one is a cornea
transplant
By Tim Troglen
The Buchtelite
Tuesday, various new organizations reported that men have this macho aversion about going to the doctor's office. I know, I'm one of those guys.
A few years ago I would have laughed at this broadcast and stuck my stupid chest out in pride. But that was then and this is now.
Men - listen to me. We have to start taking better care of ourselves. When we feel something wrong with our body, we have to stop being so macho and take care of it.
I know a guy that didn't take care of himself, now he's in a bit of trouble. Most of this guy's fellow students don't know about his problem. Only a few of his professors have been told. This guy I know is swiftly losing his eyesight. His world is becoming dark. Daily it gets worse, but he is too far into the semester to take off and get the proper care. Because he procrastinated, like most guys do, he is paying a dear price. I know this guy pretty well.
This guy is me, and my eyesight is failing. Slowly, each day, my eyes lose a little more focus. The squinting gets worse and the dizziness is more pronounced.
To write an article, I can only use one eye and then it's almost squinted shut. To look at simple objects, I need more light than other people. I can no longer read my textbooks, the words are blurred and doubled. After a while at the computer my eyes water and get extremely tired. My schoolwork is suffering. I can't read my own notes. I'm struggling to just survive this semester. So much for the macho male image.
I first noticed a problem a few semesters ago. I was working as a news photographer for a television station in Cleveland. I would go to the scene of accidents, fires or other breaking stories, shoot the video and rush it to the station.
I noticed one day during the winter that a video was a little blurry. I blamed it on the camera and forgot about it. But then I noticed my right eye, my shooting eye, was getting blurry during other activities. When I would study for a long period of time I would have to cover the right eye and read with my left eye. I knew it was time to finally get my eyes checked.
I made an appointment to get eyeglasses, figuring that was the problem. If you have ever had eyeglasses then you know the drill.
You get called into a dimly lit room. The eye doctor asks you to sit in a wined color, padded, cool, leather chair. You are fitted with the hi-tech goggles that are supposed to find a lens that focuses to your eyes.
"Is this one better, or this one?" the doctor would ask. "Number one or number two?"
Then he would move on to the next series of lenses. The same question would be asked again, with the same results. "Neither," I would answer.
Several attempts were made to find a lens to that would help my eyes. Finally I was told that they could not fit me with glasses. I was told that there was a problem with my right eye, but they didn't know what it was. The doctor told me that if the other eye got that bad, my career would be over. I would no longer be able to drive.
My heart dropped, I didn't want to hear this. Then the fear set in. My imagination ran wild. Was it a tumor? Was it diabetes? I made the appointment with a specialist, fearing the worst. I was really bummed out. I actually thought I was going blind.
I looked at things differently in those two weeks. I began studying objects more closely. I remember looking at this rabbit in Cascade Park. As the rabbit sat there watching me, I just watched, then I cried.
After feeling sorry for myself for two weeks, the appointment finally came. The specialist studied both eyes carefully. What he found was that I had been born with a defect to my eyes. He said it was a form of cataracts. He said it was unusual, but not unheard of in younger people. That information didn't help.
He wanted to operate immediately, I told him no. The semester was still going on and I was a little scared. So like the stereotypical guy, I waited.
The specialist told me that glasses would be a temporary solution and my eyes would get worse. They did, much worse.
My eyes were working and that's all I needed to know. Through two semesters the glasses helped. And yet the eyes got worse.
This semester, the eyes have gone downhill rapidly. Roads disappeared at night while I was driving. Spots that are not there appear in my field of vision. Fun at times, but frustrating at others, I got to the point that I could no longer take it. I made an appointment with my doctor to discuss cataract surgery. Then I got the bombshell.
After explaining to the doctor why I waited so long, and going through an extensive battery of tests, I was left in an examining room while the doctor consulted with colleagues outside the room. They were talking quietly. It seems that cataracts where not my problem. I wish they were.
The doctor returned to the room with a nurse. He asked if anyone had come with me. I told him that my mom had brought me. The receptionist had suggested that I have someone drive me to the appointment because the drops used to check your eyes can make them sensitive to light.
The doctor turned to his nurse, "You might want to go out and get mom." I didn't like that. I knew there was a problem.
When mom came in the doctor explained the problem. He showed us a normal computer image of an eye. It was blue and green. Then he compared the normal picture with an image of my eye, it looked bright red.
He described it as looking like the planet Mars.
When a doctor describes your eye as a planet, you are in trouble. Seems that I was born with another problem. According to my doctor, it just happens in some people.
A disease called Karetakonis has developed in my eyes. This affliction has caused the corneas to thin. This is not good news for a newspaper writer.
I have options open to me for the treatment. One option is a transplant of my corneas. That's right, they take mine out and place donor corneas in my eyes. For those that don't know about donors, I have two words. Cadaver parts.
Not exactly an option I want to think about. But it's looming in the future. If this was caught in the earlier stages, maybe something else could have been done.
Now they are going to try lenses to adjust the cornea. That also means possibly eyeglasses and contacts at the same time. Can you say Mr. Magoo? Can you say stubborn male that would not go to the doctor? Can you say career over? Guys, we have to change the way we think.
The sight is getting worse daily, and I still try to be cool. But it's hard to be cool when you can't see well enough to check the oil in your vehicle. It's hard to be cool when your sitting alone crying because you don't know what's going to happen. Yeah, that's right guys, one of the most dreaded words in the male vocabulary - crying. It's right up there with, "I love you like a brother."
And it's extremely hard to be cool when explaining to your date that you were late because you could not see her address.
Guys, there is a time to stop trying to be macho. My time has come and so will yours. Guys, get the message yet? If you get a pain, discomfort or other symptom that you know shouldn't be in your body, get it checked.
Macho can be fun for a while, and it can impress some shallow friends.
But it can also cause a serious dose of male stupidity. And that dose can
get you hurt, and in my case, it can make me blind.
Once upon
a time, there was a thing called romance ... then it was gone
By Tim Troglen
The Buchtelite
I don't care who killed
Roger Rabbit. And I don't care who shot JFK. The person I want to find
is the one that killed romance.
It used to be that
flowers, poetry and soft music would help a couple fall in love at this
time of year. "Used to be" is the operative phrase. Now I don't know what
it takes. Romance seems to be dead, and no one wants to help resurrect
it.
Come on ladies ...
what will it take? I don't mean sex. All a guy wants is to be loved. A
warm snuggle on a cold night and a gentle smile when feeling down.
Let me share a secret
with you. The tough exterior we put on, the football-watching warrior,
the car racing lunatic, the ready to fight tough guy it's all a facade.
With the right prodding most males have the potential to become a Shakespearean
bard.
A macho male still
wants to spout a verse that will melt a maiden's tender heart. If you doubt
me, look to see if the signs are there.
Is there a movie that
he likes to watch? Does one move him to tears? Terminator 1 and 2 and The
Godfather movies are excluded - these are guy flicks; they move most men.
Be open to the sentimentality
of the Terminator. But if the warrior's lips begin to tremble at Brian's
Song or Old Yeller or if he gently begins singing along to "Puff the Magic
Dragon," then his prose-filled soul may be ready to create.
But, in order for
this to happen, the warrior needs a chance.
As males, we don't
always know what the female species wants. A suit of armor used to be cool,
but now a man needs a suit of Versace. Poetry worked in ancient times,
but what works now?
Is a box of Godiva
chocolate enough ? A dozen red roses? A diamond ring? A friend once told
me that communication, applied year round, helps the love to grow. But
what if the male doesn't know what to say?
We don't know what
to say anymore. Or even how to say it. Ladies, if we tell you that you're
beautiful, you get paranoid. If we give you flowers, you think we are up
to something. If we compose a sonnet for you, think we are nuts. A walk
by a crystal stream no longer stirs a modern woman's heart. A sunrise used
to be the dawning of a new love, but alas, no more. What had happened and
when? Who killed romance?
Did an assassin in
a
book depository kill it? Did a bullet in Tennessee kill it? Was it killed
in a war long ago lost in a jungle? Did it die with May Day? Or did Proenza
cancel that too? I don't know. All I know is that it's dead.
As the traditional
day of love approaches, let's all try to revive the spirit of romance.
Okay men, buy that chocolate, write her a poem. Try talking to her, with
real-live communication. Allow that special one to see your tender side.
Don't blow it.
And ladies, that special
one may be shy, he may be afraid. When he compliments you, bat an eye.
Try to get him to watch a romantic movie, then let him pick the next one.
Let's all do our part.
Without love there
is no romance, and without romance, there may, one day, be no us.
Goodbye,
Derrick, you will be missed by all who love the game of football
Death of
Linebacker stuns fans
By Tim Troglen
This is not the obituary page, nor is it the sports page.
This is the opinion page. And I would like to take the time to express my opinion on a great football player that was taken from us Tuesday.
Derrick Thomas, a linebacker for the Kansas City Chiefs, died Tuesday of cardiac arrest.
Thomas had been in the hospital, paralyzed from the chest down, since a January 23 car accident.
I followed the career of Thomas. I'm a Steelers fan, and I was very disappointed when he signed with the Chiefs instead of Pittsburgh.
I watched him as he wreaked havoc on quarterbacks throughout the National Football League.
I watched as he went to the Pro Bowl nine times.
And I watched as he did public service announcements for Veterans Day.
His father, a combat pilot, was missing in action in Vietnam.
I really respected the talent Thomas possessed.
I'm a football fan and an NFL fan. It saddens me when a great player dies before his time.
Like a lot of guys, I watch these players from the time they are drafted until they retire. We almost feel like we know them. Actually, in a sense, we do.
The untimely death of Walter Payton, the great Chicago Bears running back, also left me saddened.
When thinking of how Thomas was taken from us, the Elton John song, "Candle in the Wind" comes to mind.
The song was penned by John and Bernie Taupin, as a tribute to Marilyn Monroe. Later the words were changed and used as a tribute for Princess Diana's funeral. These are the words:
"And it seems to me
you lived your life like a candle in the wind,
Never knowing who
to cling to when the rain set in.
And I would have liked
to have known you, but I was just a kid.
Your candle burned
out long before your legend ever did."
The music was by John Taupin and the lyrics by Bernie Taupin.
This song is available on the Good-bye Yellow Brick Road album.
Goodbye Derrick, you will be missed, my friend.
I hope that you and your father are soaring high above the clouds, making up for the years taken away by that hellish war.
We, the fans of the NFL, will miss you, friend.
Soar high.
Zippy: the
logical choice for U.S. president in 2000
Zippy is
editor's choice to lead us in the new millennium.
By Tim Troglen
The buchtelite
My recommendation for
the first president of the 21st century is Zippy, The University of Akron's
mascot. I've seen the results from the Iowa caucuses. And I'm not impressed
with any candidate. There is not much of a selection for a college student
this election season, so I'm choosing Zippy.
I don't know a thing
about him/her, and that seems like the best bet for now.
No matter which party
a college student belongs to, to know these candidates is to distrust them.
Let's look at the Grand Old Party first.
The front-runner is
George W. Bush, governor of Texas. Monday, Bush won the GOP portion of
the caucus, finishing with 41 percent. Although Bush springs from presidential
lineage, there is a question about alleged drug use several years ago.
Bush refuses to disclose if he has used drugs. I wonder, did he inhale,
snort or shoot up? Sure it was 25 years ago, but the GOP has dogged Ted
Kennedy about his little
driving mishap for
years. Thus, Bush needs to come clean.
In addition to Bush,
there is Steve Forbes, finishing with 30 percent, a strong second to Bush.
Forbes is a man with a lot of money, more than a million dollars at last
estimate. Forbes is fond of telling Americans that he knows what is best
for them, and maybe he does. The problem with Forbes is his intimidating
glare.
Those little black
specks behind those thick glasses are not what I want to see looking at
me from CNN daily. For a kangaroo, you can't beat Zippy's eyes.
Let's check out the
next candidate.
Alan Keyes, a radio
talk show host, is gaining ground on the rest of the pack. Keyes finished
with 14 percent of the Iowa vote. Keyes is your average American citizen,
not rich but not exactly poor. The main thing that is going to prevent
Keyes from getting elected is his family background. In case you're not
familiar with Keyes, he is black. I seriously wonder whether or not this
country has the courage to elect a president of color. America has no problem
with Michael Jordan slamming the ball in the hoop but let him try to run
for president. Not yet.
Then we have the quiet
vet. The ex-POW, Senator John McCain of Arizona, finished with only 5 percent
of the vote. McCain comes across as a gentle, soft-spoken friend of America.
But different political pundits have described him as short-tempered and
quick to attack. Are we seeing the real McCain or a carefully constructed
political persona? If elected, is he going to bring America back to a time
of pride and honor? Or is he going to flash back under extreme stress and
grab an M-16?
Now for the democrats,
well, actually just one democrat. We have the front-runner, the man that
would-be president, Al Gore. Gore won with 63 percent of the vote. Gore
talks like he is from small town America, just one of the boys. But the
truth is, Gore's father was a politician, so he is no stranger to the high
life that Washington can offer. It's hard to picture a Tennessee boy, like
my dad, rubbing elbows with Gore as a child. I cannot picture Gore working
on farm for 50 cents a week, like my dad did in little Sparta, Tennessee.
Small town country boy my foot.
Look these over, and
make your decisions wisely. Get involved with the political issues. Today's
college student may be tomorrow's president.
Or, as I'm hoping,
today's mascot may become tomorrow's president.
'History
months' deserve equal time, recognition
By Tim Troglen
This is Black History
Month. This month was set aside to celebrate the achievements accomplished
and hardships overcome by black people.
At least one cable
station in the U.S. will rebroadcast the television series Roots. Politicians
will refer to Black History Month in the debates and children will write
about it in school. All of these activities are wonderful. They help to
focus the spotlight on a segment of our society that was once kept in a
dank corner. Slavery was atrocious and should stand as an embarrassment
to our country's history. But is the monthlong celebration too much? What
about the other diverse cultures in this country? What about the American
Indians?
"Shouldn't we learn
about the culture that founded this country?" asked a dear Cherokee Indian
friend of mine, Whispering Winds. "We should learn about their history,
heroes and way of living and not just have our children learn from old
Western movies."
The American Indians
who had this country stolen from them, also suffered and overcame extreme
odds to survive. Take the Cherokee for instance. My ancestors had their
land stolen from them after gold was discovered in Georgia. A Cherokee
man had developed the first written language among a native people. Other
tribes were hunted and killed in numbers of Holocaust proportions. American
Indian Heritage Month is held in November. But there is no big monthlong
showing of Dances with Wolves. Isn't it ironic the Native American
people have to share their month with the pilgrims.
Asian Americans have
contributed much to America. And again, this group was walked over by the
early populace of this country. Asians paid a pittance for the hard labor
that they put into building the first railroad that stretched across the
United States. During World War II, Japanese Americans were forced into
internment camps, especially after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. This was
a paranoid response to what were perceived to be "security threats" to
America.
But Asian American
Month is just a snippet in a college flyer. I didn't know when it was,
and I'm sure that most Americans would have to look it up on the Internet
to find that it is observed in the month of May. Italian Americans, Irish
Americans and Jewish Americans, all faced great odds and overcame much
adversity to contribute to this country of ours. If this is true, why not
celebrate a whole month for them also? We could then celebrate Swedish
American Month, Polish American Month and Canadian American Month. The
list could be endless.
All nationalities
should be able to celebrate their accomplishments and victories over adversity.
But we should treat each group equally and tout them all the same. Maybe
it's because America feels a special guilt for the past treatment of blacks.
And maybe America feels guilty that so much hate still flourishes toward
our black brothers and sisters.
Unfortunately, hate
is a part of America. It's been here since before the first musket ball
killed an American Indian. And unless a miracle happens, hate will always
be a way of American life.
There is no easy solution
to this. Maybe the problem is that so many nationalities make up America,
and America has hated them all at one time or another. There are not that
many months in the calendar to celebrate them.
EDITORIAL
With Schulz gone, Snoopy and gang will still live onCharlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Lucy ... how can we ever forget them? "Peanuts" cartoon creator Charles Schulz wrote and penned each "Peanuts" comic strip since it began. Sunday was the final original comic strip, published in papers throughout the world.In Sunday's strip, Schulz announced that his family did not want the strip to be placed into someone else's hands, so it would be retired.Some of the papers that carried the final strip were also able to carry the announcement Sunday that Schulz had died.At 9:45 p.m. Saturday, as his beloved "children" Snoopy and Charlie Brown were headed for their final publication, Schulz took his final breath.He suffered from Parkinson's Disease and colon cancer.
Can you remember a time when Snoopy and the gang were not there?Adults today can remember such popular songs as "Snoopy and the Red Baron" and "Snoopy's Christmas."Many were ready to go to battle with Snoopy. But no one could find another red doghouse just like his.Millions watched the Halloween special, hoping for the Great Pumpkin, which, Linus alleged, would bring candy to the good little girls and boys.And no one will ever forget watching Lucy pull the football away from Charlie Brown, just as he lowered his leg to kick it, time and again.Poor Charlie Brown - he lived the Little Red-Haired Girl, and we wondered if his love would ever be returned.We wondered why the teacher spoke in "Wa waas" and why Marcie called Peppermint Patty "Sir."
But, as always, there were the happy endings.The world loved all the characters of Schulz's world; each has touched us in different ways.As we walk through the cartoon of our lives, we see them walking away into the land of memories, and we are saddened.Charlie Brown leads the procession; Linus and Lucy are close behind. And as the final character passes by, we see it is Snoopy.He tips the wing of his Sopwith Camel doghouse, raises his goggles in salute and flies to meet the Red Baron once again.Thank you, Charles Schulz. The world will never forget you.
World War
II vets still waiting for their national monument Wake up America,honor
those who have saved you
By Tim Troglen
The Buchtelite
Once again America has disappointed me. I was channel surfing the other night, and a commercial for an area super store came on. The commercial showed several World War II veterans who are employees of the store. They are holding pictures of how they looked during the war and how they look now. The advertisement was about the company's push to get Washington to build a national WWII memorial.
My mouth dropped open.Seems that politicians and various veterans groups have been preoccupied with other stuff. This is appalling. America is the land of the free and the home of every type of national monument known to man, except one for the men and women who served in WWII. There is a black granite wall in Washington, D.C. to honor those that gave their lives during Vietnam, a war that we lost. My cousin, Jackie Troglen, is on that wall. A squad of 19 stainless steel figures stands in silent patrol honoring the men and women that served in Korea. They are from the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines.
We didn't win the war in Korea, we tied. But there is still no monument for the war we actually won. A very close friend of mine, Tex Wigginton, served in WWII. He was one of the first troops that hit the beachhead on D-Day. He was in the first wave at Red Beach. Wigginton survived the horror of that to be felled by shrapnel later outside Germany. He lost a lung while laying in the snow waiting for help to arrive. Last year he died. He had lung cancer. He may have survived if he had two lungs.
Wigginton was awarded
a Purple Heart and a Silver Star for valor at The Battle of the Bulge.
He deserves a national memorial for his service. An uncle of mine, Jim
Hartford, was hit by German machine gun fire during WWII. Uncle Jim passed
away several years ago, also from cancer. Although gone, my uncle, too,
deserves a national monument to honor his service. There are plans and
funding for a memorial to be built. The problem is, it's over 50 years
too late. How many survivors of that war have now died? This is ridiculous.
Wake up America. Honor those who have saved you.
Spring brings
new beginnings Baseball, love,NFL Draft all mean spring
By Tim Troglen
The Buchtelite
Soon tender plants that have been hibernating during the darkness will rise through moist soil. The new green plants will lean toward a warm March sun. Days that have already begun to lengthen will soon give way to clear, crisp evenings. The smell of new life and honeysuckle will ride into Ohio on warm breezes from the South, bringing with them the Vernal Equinox.
This is the beginning of spring in our part of the world. Spring is a time of new beginnings. I like the blossoming flowers; the greening of the grass and the increasing talk of the coming baseball season. Although I'm not an avid baseball fan, it's still a part of the spring mystique for me. I can smell the juicy hot dogs grilling. I can taste the tangy, sweet nip of the brown mustard being readied to dab on the warm buns. I can see the players taking to the spectacular green field, removing their caps for the National Anthem.
Spring also heralds to the true football fan the unofficial start of the fanatic's season the National Football League Draft. I am one of those fans. I will sit in front of the television glued to ESPN, with several newspaper sports pages spread out in front of me. Like thousands of other fans, I will have the choices I want my team to pick. But as each agonizingly slow round passes, my heart will be crushed.
The team officials will not agree with my choices. The team will pick the players they want. The choices are backed up by millions of dollars. We are just the fans. Spring also frees children that have been prisoners of heavy coats and woolen garb. They will explode into the warm sunshine with screams of happiness and shouts of joy from lips covered in cherry popsicles.
The children will feel the promise of a new beginning. They are the only ones that can take full advantage of the promise, still untouched by the cynicism of adulthood. And while they scream and rush around with their limitless energy, I will begin to investigate my fishing equipment inventory.
The lures and hooks will be checked. Last year's dried and stiff worms will be removed from the hooks that have been their home since last trip. I'll clean out the dirt, the crumbs and the loose change from the box. As I clean each piece, I imagine the trophy bass that I will catch. But the truth about the lure is that it will catch more tree limbs than anything else in the coming season. But it's not the probable end result that is important, it's the promise of things that can be. Spring is also a time of finding new love, which often leads to a new beginning.
Someone wrote that spring is when a young man's fancy turns to love, and that's true; mine does. The promise of a new beginning is there. The poet buried deep inside me, rises higher with each new season. Remember, whatever you are plannig for the coming spring season, it is a time to start over.
As the temperatures rise and the semester begins to wind down, look to the future, either near or immediate. Whether it involves a trip to Florida for Spring Break or a poem that will be written for that special someone, look forward to the good and bask in the promise.