ON THE EDGE

My teen-aged great nephew Bo is at a cool camp in the Ozarks this week...caving, rappelling, canoeing...it sounds like a total blast, and I'm glad he is getting to have the experience. By the time he visits the Flaming Bore next month, I hope he has all the adventure out of his system so he can slow down the pace and be ready for, well, boredom! Excitement isn't exactly tops on the menu at the Bore household, even if life does sometimes seem like a rollercoaster.

Bo and I always go to the Mosley Street Melodrama in Wichita when he is my summer guest. He doesn't seem to mind being seen with me in public, especially since I'm buying the drinks. These are non-alcohol types, of course, but just saying, "I'd like a VIRGIN Pina Colada COCKtail, please," makes him feel more sophisticated. He also likes booing the villain, cheering for the good guy, and laughing at all the raunchy jokes, most of which he has to explain to me. There was one a few years ago about an elephant's trunk that I'm still trying to figure out. Hmmm.

After his busy summer, Bo will start high school...a big high school, not like the small one I attended, where everyone knew everyone else and still liked each other, anyway. As most freshmen do, he will try to find his niche in order to keep his self-esteem intact for the next four years. I don't envy him. I'm not so thrilled about pushing 60, but I'd still never want to return to the angst of teenager-hood. I was such a goober at 14, slobbering over boys much of the time. I hope Bo will manage to avoid all the cell-phoning, text-messaging, hormone-ravaged dimwits and keep his head on straight. These days, rappelling off a cliff has GOT to be MUCH safer than having a girl chasing after him.

RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS

"Talking to myself and feeling old...."

Oh, never mind. That's a line from a Carpenters classic, not me.

Now that I'm feeling better, I had big plans to work in the yard today, but the constant rain has put that on hold. The backyard looks like a mud wrestling pit, and we may be able to set sail in the southside yard before too long. I've stayed busy in spite of the lousy weather, and, best of all, have already managed to down 48 ounces of water....over halfway to my daily goal, which will hopefully prevent any more evil kidney stones from ripping into my belly.

I don't know if it's the rain outside motivating me or the heavy drinking, but I've probably tripped to the bathroom well over a dozen times already today. I figure a flotation device is soon going to be needed. Indoors or outside, I can use it either way. Here's hoping I have a bon voyage.

ON PARENTING....

Before I got off the telephone a while ago, ending a conversation with Mama Bore, I wished her a Happy Father's Day. Since my paternal unit ran away from home when I was around 7 or 8 years old, she pretty much served both parental roles and she did a fine job. None of her five children have ended up thugs, and I never felt deprived not having a father around. I was not a Daddy's Girl.

Many years ago when I was enrolled in a college course that was called something like Sociology of the Family, I remember getting into a heated discussion with the instructor. He advocated that the children of divorced parents should be assigned an entirely new set of parents, thus alleviating all the so-called evils of single parenting. He theorized that the kids would be much better off that way. I was one of a few students in the classroom who had come from a "broken home," so I took the stance that one parent might just be able to manage quite nicely, thank-you, and there was no need to think that all children of divorce were deprived and tainted. The debate became rather heated, as I recall, and I now suspect he was just baiting us with food for thought to get our wee brains to thinking about more than just our social plans for the weekend.

Single-parent homes, two-parent homes...I don't think the number really matters all that much. If a kid has at least one parent who gives a damn, he or she is probably going to turn out okay. Of course, I'm no expert on parenting, so who am I to make such a generalization. I can't even get my cats to listen to a word I say.

SWINGERS

Late Thursday night, while Big Bore and I were sitting on the front porch swing, we were treated to a light and sound show...lots of silent, flashy lightning, the distant grumble of thunder, and a steady, soft rain. No wind. Nothing threatening. Very soothing and relaxing. The kind of mood that makes it easy to talk about what's on your mind...dashed dreams, what ifs, hopes for the future. We didn't solve any earth-shaking problems or make any monumental decisions, but when we finally went inside, I felt re-energized. Everyone needs a front porch swing from which to watch the world.

"TO GO CRAZY, PRESS ONE"

Hours after the ol' stent removal yesterday, I developed the bladder pain from hell. More hours passed, with no relief, so I decided to call the physician's assistant who'd done the removal. She was with a patient, so I left a message and then called the urologist's office in Wichita to seek advice. I should have known better. Since my doctor is part of a group practice, a phone service took all incoming calls. In other words, I had to listen to a robotic litany of possibilities. "If you are a patient doubled over in pain who doesn't mind being further irritated by this lousy recording for the next 10 minutes, press 4...."

When the menu finally came to my physician's nurse, I pressed her number....only to learn from her voice mail that she was "out of the office." An alternative number was given; it was busy. Son of a.....

When I finally got through, the agony increasing with each passing second, the substitute nurse said my doctor was also out of the office and she'd have to page him and call me back with an answer. By the time that happened ("Try to deal with the pain."), I had already talked to the local physician's assistant who'd removed the stent. She explained that I was having bladder spasms, which would ease up if I kept drinking water, and she was right. After four hours, I was feeling better, no thanks to the telephone "service" from the urologist's office.

I've had the spasms on and off today but they haven't been as bad or lasted as long, so I guess I'll stay off the telephone, keep my sanity, and suck it up. Tomorrow will be a better day.

TO PEE OR NOT TO PEE

The stent was removed from my urethra this morning. I was alarmed at how long it was...a good 12 inches or more. Fortunately, the head stent gal pulled it out in one swift motion and didn't prolong the agony. "Breathe deeply." She then asked me if I wanted to save it for a souvenir to show at family gatherings.

"Hell, no! Double hell no! Triple hell no! Throw it away! Stat!"

We yapped some more about the agony of a kidney stone. Then, as I was out the door, she said, "Oh, if you can't pee you'll need to come back and get catheterized. There's always the possibility of a blood clot."

Oh, great. That's just what I want to go through again. Another catheter. When I got home, I started drinking up a storm...after taking a pain pill. "Please, God, let me pee on my own. Please, please, please."

When I felt it was time to head for the john to give peeing a try, I was anxious. My body just HAD to work on its own....and, thankfully, it did.

"Hooray!" (Yes, I said it out loud.) "I can pee! I can pee!" Not a lot but this called for a celebration. If only I felt like it. I'm going back to bed.

AT MY SERVICE

Dr. Big Bore has been doing an excellent job taking care of me since I got out of the hospital Sunday. I've tried not to be a demanding patient, however. Make me some Jello and buy me a bunch of bananas and I'm happy. He's been off work the past two days, which has been nice...he can do kitty litter duty without feeling overwhelmed.

"It hasn't been so bad," he said this morning, about being head pooper scooper of the household for a few days.

"Well, if that's the case, you're welcome to keep doing it after I recover," I responded.

"That's okay, I'll let you have it back," he said.

Big Bore doesn't want to deprive me of doing meaningful work. He knows I like to feel important. As soon a I get the stent yanked out of my urethra, it's back to the litter patrol. Oh, joy!