Your Financial Advisor on Percocet

Progress is being made, just completed my second consecutive night without getting up at 3am to take pain meds. Now, the discomfort level at 5:30 was high, but this is progress, no?

I have gone into the office two days in a row, and each day started well, but after 3 hours, I was done, shoulder throbbing and incredibly sleepy. So today, I’m dialing it back a bit. I will stay home today, and spend my waking hours writing.

Its funny how on the two days I was in the office, the phone rang off the hook with client after client asking me question after question about highly complicated financial things. My response was always, “Well, Bob, I’m not sure I feel comfortable answering that question on Percocet.” Then the client would laugh and say, “Oh yeah! I forgot that you just had your shoulder worked on! Tell ya what, why don’t you call me next week.”

Actually, a conversation with your financial advisor when he is taking Percocet might be rather entertaining:

CLIENT #1: Doug, I’m starting to worry about how I’m going to put little Johnnie through college. Can you explain this 529 thing, and do you think it would be a good idea for me to start one?

ME: Can I be frank, Frank? From what I’ve seen of your little Johnnie, he doesn’t stand a chance in hell of going to college. He’s dumber than a box of rocks. So, forget the 529 and invest in a baseball glove instead.

CLIENT #2: Doug, I know that you’re uncomfortable with my level of debt and the fact that I keep taking withdrawals from my IRA and all, but I don’t believe in life insurance. Betty and the kids and I have always trusted God to take care of us, and I think that if I buy life insurance it’s like showing a lack of faith.

ME: Look, don’t blame God for the fact that you’re one paycheck away from bankruptcy.

CLIENT #2: What do you mean? I’m not blaming God!

ME: You just said that you’ve always trusted God to take care of you. You’re 55 years old, 385,000 in debt and you’ve got 12,713 dollars left in your retirement account. If this is how God “”takes care of you”, he’s incompetent. AND since I know that God isn’t incompetent, it’s more likely your total lack of discipline, horrible choices, and personal malfeasance. You’re fired!

CLIENT #3: My neighbor says that he invested $100,000 in Siberian beach resort bonds that have a guaranteed 50% yearly return. How come you haven’t told me about this?

ME: Because your neighbor is a liar. Look at a map.

 

Yeah, think maybe I should stay home today.

Recovery Part I

When I first learned that my surgery was scheduled for June 5^th, it occurred to me that the appointments I had set in Atlanta for the 11^th “might” have to be rescheduled. But then I thought about it and decided that I could probably do just fine, after all, I had one good arm, and my suitcase is on wheels and 6 days will have passed since the surgery, so what’s the big deal? My assistant listened patiently to my travel plans, trying not to burst into laughter. Later, when I ran my idea past Pam, she was less patient and just cut to the chase, “There is no chance that you are getting on an airplane 6 days after shoulder surgery!!” Then she looked at me with that expression she gets sometimes. It’s like she is a scientist and I am some rare example of a species long thought to be dead. She quenches her eyes up, her mouth hangs open, and she starts slowly shaking her head from side to side. Then she lets out a heavy sigh and walks away.

The very idea that I thought that I could fly to Atlanta, rent a car, drive to two different appointments, stay overnight in a hotel, then fly back to Richmond six days after this procedure is actually pretty hilarious. So far, all of the stories I was told about the amount of discomfort associated with shoulder surgery have proven to be accurate. I was hoping that they were overblown exaggerations. No such luck. The Percocet helps a lot with the dull ache, but the sharp ice-pick pains that come upon you at the oddest times, caused by the smallest, most insignificant movements are beyond the reach of mere narcotics. When one of them hits you, you just grab something and hold on for a minute or so until it finally stops.

Today, Pam will be driving me over to the office where I will hopefully not have to take any calls from clients. I will do some paperwork; bring some of Pam’s cupcakes to my office buddies, and plan my very light week. It will be good to get out of the house.

My Daughter's Engagement

Four years ago, I was swaying peacefully between two palm trees on a richly woven hammock, in Key West, Florida, celebrating my 25^th wedding anniversary at the Casa Marina Hotel. It was a gorgeous day, beautiful blue skies, mid seventies, around noon, and I was sipping on a delicious tropical drink directly across from my daughter. This trip was serving two purposes, not only a celebration of 25 years of marriage, but also as a graduation gift to Kaitlin, since she had just a couple of weeks earlier graduated from Cedarville University. In fact, she had returned home from her roommates’ wedding in upstate New York just in time to pack her bags for our Key West trip. I had hardly had time to have a conversation with her since her graduation so I was looking forward to four days of fun with my son and my two best girls in the world. Only, things weren’t going as planned.

Despite the fabulous tropical surroundings, Kaitlin seemed a thousand miles away, her face and attentions fixated on her iPhone, where something close to a texting war was being waged. It was our first introduction to Jon Manchester. While Kaitlin was in New York standing up for Mrs. Katie Plume, she had met a boy, and apparently the two of them couldn’t go ten minutes without some form of communication, even in beautiful Key West, and despite the fact that she was in the presence of her heretofore most favorite man in the universe. I was in the process of being replaced!

A few weeks later he showed up at our house for a visit. I was not impressed. Who was this tall, skinny, Yankee with the big smile and his arm around my daughter? What on earth could Kaitlin possibly have seen in him, this Ohio State-loving northerner?

In fairness to Jon, there was no one alive on this planet who I would have liked standing next to Kaitlin that day in my living room. There’s this thing between Fathers and their little girls, a connection deep and sublime and woe be unto the poor boy that disturbs it. But now, four years have passed, my cell phone rings and the breathless voice of my daughter is on the other end of the line. She is deliriously happy, her voice radiates joy as she tells me that she’s engaged. But this time, there’s no resentment, no suspicion, only happiness and gratitude, because over these past four years we have had a chance to get to know this boy, we have seen his character on display, we have observed the depths of his love for our daughter in a thousand acts of kindness and consideration, and we now know that he’s the one we have been praying for since May 11, 1987.

So now the wedding planning begins, and my job becomes finding a way to pay for everything. I don’t lose a daughter in the exchange; rather, I gain a son. As long as he makes her happy, I will be his most enthusiastic advocate. If he mistreats her, then he will understand fully why there is still a small corner of his brain that fears me.

During one of the informal interviews I conducted with Jon over the past four years, I asked him why he thought he was good enough for my daughter. His answer was that he wasn’t, but that it was his goal to become good enough for her one day.  Well, that day has come. Jon will make for Kaitlin a remarkable husband, and for Pam and me, a wonderful son.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I have been told that it can be a dangerous thing to write a blog under the influence of Percocet. However, since my shoulder at present simply won’t allow me to set them aside, I will have to forge on. So, what follows might contain a few dangling participles, misplaced modifiers, and even for me, over the top hyperbole. But the news this morning that practically every phone call, text message, Skype exchange or e-mail that has originated from my house has been handed over to the National Security Agency for the last 7 years has to be dealt with today, or my head might explode.

After 9/11, a hideous piece of legislation, born in fear, and passed virtually unanimously was appoved as an emergency measure to give our vast National Security apparatus great powers to confront our terrorist enemies. The treacherously named Patriot Act has been the law of the land ever since. Despite the political caterwauling back and forth, both parties were on board and have largely remained on board ever since. The law’s most recent extension was shepherded through Congress by none other than Nancy Pelosi. Well, now thanks to an intrepid reporter from a BRITISH newspaper the Guardian, we have discovered just how much of our privacy we have lost. Even the darkest conspiracy theorists among us would have been hard pressed to come up with the facts of this revelation, the sheer scale of this invasion of personal privacy.

Late yesterday I actually read someone on National Review DEFEND this practice, a supposedly conservative, small government publication defending the biggest power grab of our lifetime. One’s phone records carry with them no expectation of privacy, this idiot argued, since you can call Verizon yourself and they will give you your phone records for as far back as you like. Yes, that’s true, you WashingtonDC insider moron, but having my phone company give my phone records to ME upon MY request is just a little different than my phone company giving those records to the GOVERNMENT without my consent!!

But Doug, but Doug, those terrible terrorist are lurking around every corner. Yes they are, as was just demonstrated to us by the two brothers in Boston. How come the sweeping Patriot Act powers didn’t prevent that attack? We are empowering our government by voluntarily giving up our rights as free men and women in exchange for an unrealistic expectation of safety that cannot possible exist. Is it worth it? The National Review defender closed out his argument this way, “ The problem here is not government power, it’s the people we have elected to wield it.”

This may very well be the worst sentence to appear in the National Review in 20 years. The secret intercept of billions of personal phone records of private citizens isn’t about government power gone wild, no, no,…it’s just about having Democrats like Obama and Holder in power?? This would all be perfectly fine if Chris Christie were at the helm?

No, Mr. Andrew McCarthy of National Review magazine, this is exhibit A in why our constitution is about LIMITING the power of government. It manifestly matters not how sterling a character we have in the Oval Office, because history tells us that power is the great corrupter. This is ALL about government power, you mental midget, and it has precious little to do with who wields it. The Patriot Act was a mistake made by free people in a moment of panic, and needs to be repealed at once. But guess what? Politicians from both sides of the aisle, having tasted the power of unrestricted surveillance, will not be in any hurry to give it up unless we the people raise a little bipartisan hell of our own and force them to.

Pam the Nurse

My wife knows me. She knows all about the good, the bad and the ugly. She’s knows what I’m going to do before I do. A perfect example of this sometimes irritating clairvoyance of hers happened last night after dinner.

When I got back from the hospital, I spent most of the afternoon relaxing out on the deck in these fabulous recliners we just bought. I caught up on my e-mail and browsed on Facebook for awhile until it was time to eat. During the meal we watched some episodes of Frasier that we had on DVR. I began to fidget after awhile, which is my wont. After the third episode, Pam looks at me and says, “ You getting bored already?” I didn’t have to answer, because she already knew that the earliest symptom of Dunnevant Derangement Syndrome had manifested itself. Boredom. She knows that this will be followed in time by, irritability, antsiness, extreme cabin fever, and finally, demands to be taken to AmFam so I can lift weights or some such ridiculous thing.

So, my wife disappears for a couple of minutes, then returns with both hands behind her back. “Pick a hand,” she says with a mischievous grin. I pick her left hand which is empty. “Sorry about that. Better luck next time.” Then after a laugh she gives me this:

                                                               

 No doubt she has many more of these surprises in store for me over the next few days, since I am such a notoriously awful patient, and…she knows me. This beautiful magazine, chocked full of the complete history of the Rat Pack and pages upon pages of glorious black and white photographs will keep me occupied and out of her hair for 3 or 4 hours. She knows that I so love Sinatra, I can’t possibly be thinking up some crazy scheme to sneak out of the house while I’ve got this magazine in my hands.

This woman is a one in a million.                                 

"How Did Your Surgery Go?"

5:00 am

Wake up for the last time from a long and restless night. Shoulder is pulsing out pain shots in rhythm with my heartbeat, a new twist. Realize that I am starving. Would give anything for a six cheese bagel with cream cheese from Einstein’s, but it occurs to me that I have to observe a strict fast until surgery is over, which includes coffee.

6:15 am

Start browsing through my morning news sources where I learn that the biggest overnight story concerns the First Lady getting heckled during a speech by a lesbian activist. The “news” was the normally unflappable First Lady’s rather petulant response which involved a threat to storm out of the place if this protester didn’t shut up, to which I would reply, “Relax Michelle. You’re nobody in Washington until you’ve been heckled by a lesbian activist.”

8:00 am

Receive phone call from Jennifer at Tuckahoe Orthopedic reminding me of my 10:00 am surgery time. She sounds positively giddy at the prospect, a woman who clearly loves her job.

8:19 am

Raging hunger pains in empty stomach serving as excellent distraction, since I’m so freaking hungry, I haven’t felt any shoulder pain in over an hour.

8:35 am

Take hot shower and wonder how long it will be before I get to take another.

9:45 am

Arrive at Surgery center and sign my name 25 times to various releases and medical CYAs, one of which inquires as to whether or not I have a “do not resuscitate” order. I take this as a bad sign.

10:00 am

Sit in waiting room listening to some guy on MSNBC say that for conservatives, the term “IRS” is the new “n*****”. Wasn’t aware that I had already been given drugs since this couldn’t possibly be true

10:20 am

Administered sedative and other powerful drugs by Anesthesiologist from Budapest, Hungary. Why exactly I can remember this detail, but can never remember where I left my keys remains a mystery.

11:05 am

Wheeled back into operating room which was a delightfully balmy 55 degrees. Was asked by my new Hungarian best friend to count backwards from 10 to 1. Made it to 8.

1:50 pm

Wake up in recovery room feeling much discomfort in shoulder. So much for the vaunted “nerve block”. Lovely nurse cranked up some Demerol and all was well. Surgeon comes in to tell us the good news that the tendons weren’t as torn up as he had feared. Bone spurs were successfully removed and my recovery time will be much faster because of this happy news.

2:30 pm thru 6:55 pm

Between naps and eating amazingly delicious food prepared by my sainted wife, I learn that Steven Strasburg has been placed on the 15 day DL, and that idiot on MSNBC was in fact a real person and actually accused republicans of meaning “n*****” when they say “IRS”. Received phone calls and texts from several dear friends, which made me very happy to know that I have chosen my friends so well. All of you know who you are. Just know that you guys mean a lot to me.

My Shoulder Surgery and a Preemptive Apology

Tomorrow I will be undergoing rotator cuff surgery. This will be only the second surgical procedure of my life, the first being the open heart variety ten years ago which left a 7 inch scar running down the middle of my chest and quite the lasting impression on my psyche. Shoulder surgery, by contrast should be a comparative breeze since A. It’s not life threatening, and B. It’s being done arthroscopically leaving behind only a suspicious hole. Not only that, but it’s an outpatient deal; I’ll be home in my own bed tomorrow night.

Only thing that is worrisome about this business is how often I am being reminded by everyone I know and even by complete strangers in bank parking lots, of how painful the aftermath of shoulder surgery can be. The descriptions I have heard have ranged from the polite to the hysterical. The following is but a small sample.

My Doctor: Quite painful

Nurse I know: One of the worse pains ever

Client: The worst rehab ever, thought I was gonna die.

Client: Shoulder surgery (screws up face in horror) so sorry to hear that.

Random man in bank parking lot wearing sling two weeks after his own rotator cuff surgery: Hurts like a m***** f*****!!

My Doctor: Quite horrible actually, which I feel qualified to say since I had this exact procedure done two years ago. But, you know what they say…no pain no gain (fake grin).

 

I consider myself something of a tough guy, but I don’t mind telling you that after all of this doom saying, I have felt compelled to ask my doctor about pain medication. His reply wasn’t encouraging. “Well, of course we will provide you with strong pain medicine during your recovery, but that’s just dull it the best we can.” Hmmm…

About a week ago I wrote a blog entitled, Things Are Never as Bad as They Seem. I hope I don’t have to change that title to…Things Are Never as Bad as They…GGGAAAAAAACKKKKKK, what the hell was that???!!!

Hopefully, all the dire predictions will prove to be wrong, and I will sail through this business with ease. However, one thing can’t be avoided and that is that my typing proficiency will be cut in half, reduced from hunt and peck to merely peck, which combined with heavy doses of pain meds might produce some bizarre blogs in the coming weeks which I would like to apologize for in advance. If you read that I have become a liberal democrat, have decided to leave my wife, or have become a huge soccer fan, blame it on the Percocet.