Monthly Archives: August 2012

Applied Stoicism (Or, Marky Mark Aurelius Was The Man, Man!)

In casting around for ways to cope with Lili’s heartbreaking Degenerative Myelopathy, both emotionally & practically, I recently reread the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius [written ca. 170-180 AD], which are timeless, or very timely. To quote him: “There is nothing new; all things are both familiar and short-lived.”

Inasmuch as Lili’s motto, in the face of rapidly progressing back-leg numbness, ataxia (drunken-sailor gait) & frequent collapses, seems to be: “Keep Calm & Carry On,” I would say she is more Aurelian than I am, at the moment.

For instance, she is my role model for this bit of advice: “Remember, too, on every occasion that leads thee to vexation to apply this principle:  not that this is a misfortune, but to bear it nobly is good fortune.”  I texted that one to my daughter at work, who immediately “got it,” and wrote back, “So, life is how you react.”

He’s very into noticing when humiliation gets up “thy” nose, and challenging it with Cognitive Reframing concerning Locus of Control: “But death certainly, and life, honour & dishonour, pain & pleasure, all these things equally happen to good men & bad, being things which make us neither better or worse.”  You’ve been dealt a rotten hand? Who cares if you deserved it, or if it was just random bad luck? Play the hand you’re dealt, and let the Greek chorus of kibitzers tend to their knitting (to mix a metaphor): “So much more respect have we to what our neighbor shall think of us than to what we shall think of ourselves,” observed the Philosopher King. And, yes, I agree with those who quibble, “Easy for you to say, Your Majesty. Noblesse oblige, and all that; but for us hoi-poloi, in high-density living situations, ‘one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor’ [as Rhymin’ Simon says].”

Speaking of the neighbors, we have gone out of our way [and comfort zone], to explain to ours, what’s up with Lili [not contagious, not painful, “not anyone’s fault”…unless you count her breeders, but let’s not dwell on that]. They have been, without exception, sympathetic and supportive…and grateful that their dogs have been spared Lili’s fate.

But, as Marky Mark would remind us, we’re all on Lili’s journey, even if we’re not as close to the other “shore,” as she is. Therefore, he counseled, “Thou will give thyself relief, if thou doest every act of thy life as if it were thy last.” Be like Lili: “Keep calm & carry on.”

 

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Filed under Epictetus said..., gets right up my nose, locus of control

Musta Bin Slipped a Mickey, So

As readers of the Oxford English Dictionary [or Google, even] will know, a “Mickey Finn” was a knock-you-for-a-loop potion, made by the addition of chloral hydrate to your already alcohol-based drink at the South Chicago saloon of one Michael [Mickey to his friends] Finn, more than a century ago. The better to bundle you off to the back room and relieve you of your valuables. When you came to in the ally, still dazed & confused, you were likely to be wondering, “Whatever was in that last drink I had?” To which your long-suffering Loved Ones, once they had scooped you up from the Drunk Tank at your local Cop Shop, would reply, “Only a guess, here; but I’m thinking it would have been alcohol.”

 

At which, your inner wolf would begin to howl: “Oh, the humiliation (of their false accusations)!” Not to mention, the pain & suffering of the drug’s after-effects, the intrusion of being man-handled by both barroom thieves & contemptuous cops. Worse still, if you really hadn’t drunk enough alcohol to account for the nausea & dizziness, and the amnesia for the night’s events, the fear that you were losing your marbles (not just your money) would have you raging.

Luckily for Chicagoans & [more commonly] out-of-town visitors, said Mickey Finn was arrested, convicted & jailed in 1903, leaving behind an eponymous, external locus of control, oft-invoked exculpatory explanation for apparent shenanigans. I like it much better than “The Devil made me do it,” as long-time readers of this blog will know. These days, the Mickey tends to range from (nefariously slipped) Rohypnol, to (self-administered) prescription sleep aids, such as Ambien. As in Old Chicago, though, skeptical First Responders’ first response is often, “So, how much did you have to drink?” [Then, as they are taught to do in First Responders’ class, they double the amount stipulated.]

But what if, like me, you are stone, cold sober; but you still feel like someone slipped you the Proverbial? Back in early June I placed my order for a replacement car for “Foxtrot,” my beloved [but increasingly unreliable, expensive-to-repair] Jeep turbo-diesel. With Lili in mind, I wanted something with ample head [ear] room, lower to the ground [for when she can’t leap anymore], but with enough traction to handle our Alpine road in foul weather. I chose a MINI Countryman All4, in Oxford Green with a black roof, which was going to take 8 weeks to build & ship down the Danube & across the Atlantic. I named it “Mickey,” because it was bigger than MINI & green [like the Emerald Isle, so].

I loved it on sight; and configured the back seat area as Pope-mobile for Lili [who still prefers to scramble into the trunk of our old Grand Cherokee & splay her ears like Yoda, since there is less headroom for her back there]. However, every time I drove it, even for a 15-minute run to the Safeway, I emerged like a drunken sailor, hardly more steady on my pins than poor Lili is these days! Highly motivated to understand, and manage, this situation-specific, inner-ear-on-the-Fritz problem, I began with my default setting: “Must be psychological.” Was this me vicariously “suffering” the early-stage symptoms of degenerative myelopathy [which my mother had & Lili has]? If so, why did the symptoms clear up so fast, after the ride? Was this the return of the bane on my youth, severe car-sickness? Then why did it only happen in the MINI [not in our wallow-y old Grand Cherokee, or in Chris’ sporty little Benz sedan]?  Aha! Maybe it was that obnoxious “new car smell,” I speculated; and thoroughly swabbed down the whole interior with boiling water. No joy. Then, 3 days in to my ambivalent ownership, I awoke with a vivid memory of Sean [our salesman] opening the “bonnet” to show me the battery and fluid reservoirs, and muttering under his breath, “It’s so slimy! I don’t know why they spray it with that protectant. It’s under the hood, after all.” So at 5 am that morning, there I was, swabbing the engine block with boiling water, until the sheen [and neuro-toxic goo] had disappeared.  As did my symptoms.

Hurrah! Not “all in my head.” Not “losing my marbles.” I had just been Slipped a Mickey by the MINI dealership. I wonder what’s in that spray.

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Filed under attribution theory, locus of control, vicarious trauma