After spending more than three weeks this winter mooching living space from overly gracious cousins in Valencia, Spain, Leah and I relocated to Mallorca, a Mediterranean island a short distance away, for our final week in Europe.
As is often our style, we landed there with no real plans other than to see what we could see, but even that laidback itinerary eased as soon as we arrived. We found ourselves simply wanting to chill a bit. And then, while walking around the resort, we saw the sign pictured above. Now, even two months later, we try to remember to play our happiest tees.
Uh … what?
OK, a quick explainer for those who do not understand the sign.
On a golf course, each hole ends at the same spot, the green, where the destination cup resides. The golfer’s objective is to put the ball in the hole. But you knew that.
What might be unfamiliar to some people is that each hole has multiple starting points – or tees. It’s common to have at least three, usually labeled “women,” “men” and “pro.” They get progressively longer and, in some cases, more challenging.
Finally, there can easily be some pressure applied, or at least imagined, to play the longer tees, to take on a bigger challenge. Someone who accepts that pressure and sees a worse score because of it might not be having as much fun.
And this golf course, much to its credit, is encouraging its guests to have a good time and not worry so much about the score.
Don’t get teed off
One last comment.
It was the second or third time we walked by the sign that Leah pointed out it was only in English. Because this island receives planeloads of German travelers every day, most signs are in Spanish, English and German, but definitely in Spanish.
So, why is this only in English? Spend some time in Spain and it might appear obvious. Residents here lead a much slower life. Many businesses really do close during the afternoon for a couple of hours. People spend time enjoying their meals and their fellow diners. It’s not perfect, but the concept of playing the happiest tees seems to be par for the course.
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Sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. Photo by Steve Martaindale
In the fall of 2011, I acquired a designation nobody really wants … until they become eligible for it and then greatly desire it: cancer survivor.
To be honest, I long hesitated claiming the label because my bladder cancer was caught early, was completely removed, and we’re able to easily monitor it in order to catch any recurrences.
My approach shifted somewhat during a cruise in the spring of 2018. Holland America Line features a fund-raising 5k walk around the promenade deck on each cruise. Monies raised are passed to five cancer organizations in five different countries.
Joining Leah and me were our cruising buddies, Deb and Steve. I was, at this time, more than six years cancer-free, but Deb had only recently won her first battle with breast cancer. The four of us found a crowd of participants waiting for the walk to begin, but those running things called for all cancer survivors to come forward.
It was incredibly moving to be cheered by everyone, made even more powerful because the number of survivors was not nearly as large as I expected.
Our little group was then asked to lead off the walk. Leah and Steve never caught up with Deb and I as we circled the deck some 10 times. We talked about many things, I’m sure, but we especially shared memories and experiences about our respective cancer ordeals.
Bottom line, I came out of that morning stroll in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean feeling permission to refer to myself as a cancer survivor.
On cancer watch
First of all, allow me to refer you to a compilation of my experiences. I wrote about what happened in some detail and it’s still available online by clicking here. My purpose was and remains to, first, spread the word that spotting urine in one’s blood is a call to check it out, not just hope it goes away. Second, I hope to make it easier for someone dealing with bladder cancer by explaining what I went through.
I don’t think any cancer survivor feels much confidence they have totally and decidedly defeated the disease. It was made clear to me even before the first surgery that there is a good chance the cancer will return. To combat that possibility, I’ve been going in regularly – annually for the past several years – for a cystoscopy, where a camera is inserted into my bladder through the urethra and the fleshy walls are examined for anything suspicious.
My original urologist retired some years ago. My new doctor added a biennial MRI (or CT scan … why can I not keep those straight?)
Last September, the scan was clear, and we began the visual inspection primed to declare me “11 years cancer-free.”
But there was something a little different. A small area of the bladder wall had a red discoloration, much akin to a rash in my interpretation. The urologist said she was confident it was nothing serious but wanted to get a biopsy to make sure. After all, that’s why we do these every year.
I was about to begin a 10-week job near Houston, so we put it off. Holidays and then our trip to Spain pushed it back some more until March 8.
Of course, while she was taking a sample for the biopsy, she went ahead and removed the suspected area.
Looking good?
The biggest difference between this and my first two surgeries was my first doctor had me wear a catheter for three full days, but now she wanted me to put up with it for a solid week. Wednesday morning, a nurse removed the catheter and I’ve been steadily improving ever since.
It’s now my doctor’s turn to take a vacation and she wasn’t there this week (no surprise, as she told me in advance), so I still have not received her official word on the outcome of the tests.
However…
The hospital with which she is associated has an online patient portal. There, sure enough, I found a 14-word synopsis from the radiologist that began with “Minute benign …” and ended with, “Negative for dysplasia or malignancy.” Not confident enough in my interpretation, I ran it by my pharmacist son-in-law for his opinion, which came back, “That looks to me like you are clear!”
So, now, I am guardedly proclaiming myself 11 and a half years cancer-free.
Camaraderie
On our most recent cruise a year ago, I joined the deck walk again. They called cancer survivors to an open area before things began in order to grab a photo.
I had gotten down on one knee in the front and then assisted an older man, wearing a Vietnam veteran cap, as he lowered himself down next to me.
“Mine was prostate cancer,” he said. “What about you?”
I will never again hesitate to happily don the mantle “cancer free.”
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I was sitting in my classroom at one of those desks with a fixed work surface that slanted down toward the student. Perhaps you’ll recall they had a little groove cut into the desk, a short distance from the top, where you could place your pen or pencil.
When I picked up my book or paper that day, my pencil started rolling toward me. Probably because my hands were full, I did not catch it. However, as it fell toward my lap, I brought my legs together to keep it from hitting the floor.
It worked.
The pencil came down between my legs and was caught in the squeeze, eraser on my left leg, the point on my right. I might have squeaked a bit when the pencil lead dug into my thigh, but nobody said anything. I didn’t like drawing attention to myself back then.
It didn’t appear to bleed, so I waited until I got home to check it out. The only visible evidence was a dark spot, the approximate color of pencil lead, the skin giving it something of a blue tint.
Today, more than 55 years later, the spot remains on the inside of my right thigh, a few inches above my knee.
Here’s the point.
That was probably the most dangerous thing I experienced during fourth grade at Pine Tree Elementary School in Longview, Texas.
The most bothersome thing for me was never getting up the nerve to tell Wendy I liked her.
But absolutely no school shootings.
One more thing
Per everytownresearch.org, firearms are the leading cause of death for American children and teens.
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Scared? Honestly, I’ve not seen many — any? — successful hiccup cures due to someone trying to startle the hiccups out of the patient. Photo by Steve Martaindale
I’m not sure my pastor believed me.
OK, wait, that statement could lead to a bushel basket of speculation, the validity of which I’m not willing to place under scrutiny; let me try again.
The preacher and I were chatting on the phone last week, something we try to do regularly, especially when Leah and I are on the road, as we’ve been since late May. For the life of me, I do not recall why I brought up the topic, but I asked, “Do you know how to cure hiccups?”
He made a feeble attempt to formulate a smart-aleck answer, possibly something to do with “boo,” but I cut him off: “A spoonful of sugar.”
(Bonus points to all readers who just heard, in their mind’s ear, Julie Andrews as Mary Poppins sing, “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, in a most delightful way.”)
Instead of singing, David, our preacher, said something like, “Oh, really.”
You can hear the doubt just reading those words, can’t you?
“Oh, really.”
My confirmation was two-pronged.
One, I have more than 20 years of practical application of the cure. Maybe more than 30 years. During that time, I told him, the very few efforts that failed to chase away hiccups with the first dose, inevitably succeeded with a second dose. Yes, in case you missed it, almost all of my hiccup attacks are vanquished with one spoonful of sugar. Sometimes, a second spoonful is required.
Two, there was actually a study done, published in 1971, that showed the sweet cure was effective in 19 of 20 patients. Like so many wonderful things, they’re not sure why, but the prevalent thought deals with how sugar affects the vagus nerve, which connects the brain and stomach. I don’t care why or how. I just cherish the knowledge that, if hiccups begin torturing me, a spoonful of sugar … well, you know.
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Steve Martaindale 