The Healing Has Begun

After ten days of considerable discomfort following surgery on both my enlarged prostate and my bladder, the catheter is finally gone and I am beginning to feel better. During the operation, the enlarged portion of my prostate was removed through the urethra, while two large bladder stones were removed through a separate incision in my abdomen. For ten days, until last Friday, a catheter extended from my bladder, through my penis, into a urine collection bag that captured astonishing amounts of water tinged with blood. Thankfully, that chapter is now behind me.

My visit with the doctor was brief but encouraging. He was pleased with my progress, though he gently scolded me for being too active. He was dismayed that I had driven Amy and me to the appointment. Amy doesn't drive in the city, so I took the wheel. I admit it wasn't easy, but I tried to minimize every unnecessary movement.

The truth is, I remain weak and live with a constant low-grade ache. Blood still appears in my urine, and the surgical areas remain tender. But something remarkable has happened: my urinary stream is back to what I remember from earlier in life.

Even more significant, a major pain that had plagued me for many months has completely disappeared.

The doctor told me that this was the most difficult operation he and his team had undertaken in their careers. During the surgery, they discovered pus within my prostate. I had long suspected there was an infection, but I never knew exactly what it was. Looking back, it may explain the chronic pain around my anus and the radiating pain into my penis—both of which have now disappeared.

Now I find myself seeing life with fresh eyes and a grateful heart. I regret that I cannot yet care for my garden as I would like, but tomorrow a laborer will come to help. For now, healing itself is my work.

I am deeply grateful for Amy, for our dear neighbors Mayolo and Marta, and for the wonderful care I received from my doctor and his staff. I could not have asked for kinder companions along this road.

Healing, I am discovering, is not only a matter of the body. It is also an act of trust. And now, at long last, the healing has begun. 

One prayer has been especially meaningful to me during these days:

"Thy name is my healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy. Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion. Thy mercy to me is my healing and my succor in both this world and the world to come. Thou, verily, art the All-Bountiful, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise."   —Baha'u'llah

The Quiet Companion

Looking back to the moment of truth in the doctor’s office here in Oaxaca, Mexico, I can only say that the hand of fate was upon me.

The verdict came after a brief examination and a sonogram of my prostate: surgery.

I had resisted that word ever since the problem was first diagnosed nearly eight years ago. The risks seemed too great. If medication could keep me going, then so be it. But time has its own plans. The sonogram revealed something new—two stones in my bladder. The pain and discomfort had become impossible to ignore. It was crunch time.

On a deeper level, I liked the doctor immediately. A urologist in his mid-thirties, he possessed the quiet confidence and reassuring manner I needed. His credentials were excellent, and his referrals glowing. I asked a few more questions, and each answer strengthened my confidence. Before I knew it, a surgery date had been set, and I wired the money from the United States.

There was something else.

As the day of surgery approached and apprehension quietly grew, I experienced something difficult to explain. It was as though a spirit drew near—not with words or visions, but with a calm assurance that settled over me. The fear did not disappear, but it no longer held the upper hand. I accepted that whatever lay ahead, I would not face it alone.

That quiet encounter confirmed what my heart was already telling me: stay grounded in Mexico and trust.

The operation lasted a little over two hours. The enlarged portion of my prostate was removed through the urethra, leaving the outer capsule intact. The two bladder stones were removed through a small incision in my abdomen.

The first night was the hardest. My bladder was continually flushed with saline, and the urine flowing through the catheter was filled with blood. There was pain, discomfort, and very little sleep.

Amy received a surprise of her own. Shortly after the surgery she was informed that she would be staying with me overnight. In Mexico, it is customary for a family member to remain with the patient around the clock. She hadn’t come prepared and endured a restless night in an uncomfortable chair. Yet her presence comforted me, and afterward I could appreciate the wisdom of the tradition. Hospitals can be lonely places. I never felt alone.

Our dear neighbors, Marta and Mayolo, have been with us every step of the journey. They are deeply embedded in the fabric of our lives, offering support and love each step of the way.

Now, four days later, I am slowly recovering. A catheter still protrudes from my body and drains into a bag that must be emptied with surprising frequency. I take my medications faithfully, drink more water than I ever imagined possible, and patiently wait for my body to heal. Blood still mixes with the urine, but each day there is a little less. In another week the catheter will be removed, and, I hope, a new chapter will begin.

I have nothing but praise for the surgical team, the nurses, and the remarkable little boutique hospital where I was treated. With only five patient rooms, it felt less like an institution and more like a place where people genuinely cared.

As I reflect on these past few days, I keep returning to that quiet presence that met me before the operation. Some may call it intuition, others grace, and still others simply the workings of the mind under stress. I only know that it gave me confidence when I needed it most. I have learned over the years to trust such moments. They have appeared before at important crossroads in my life, and once again they carried me safely across.

Healing, I am discovering, is not only a matter of the body. It is also an act of trust.

A Breeze Causes a Stir

One dark night not long ago, we scooped a tan, medium sized dog up off the streets and made her part of our family. She arrived with an open heart and an eagerness to belong, as though she had been waiting for someone to say, All right then, come in—you’re home now. We named her Brisa, which in Spanish means Breeze.

Of course, we knew nothing of her past, so our first concern was her health. A veterinarian from our village came by and gave her a couple of injections to ease the pain in her injured foot and ankle. Soon after, we took her into the city for a full checkup, vaccinations, and to have her sterilized.

That was when we were told she had already been spayed.

This came as a surprise. We had inspected her ourselves and found no sign of it, but the veterinarian felt what seemed to be a scar—although slightly higher on her abdomen than expected. Relieved, and more than a little grateful, we took Brisa back home, believing the matter settled.

Then, about a week later, it happened.

Small drops of blood appeared on the floor in a trail. We checked both dogs for injuries—nothing. Brisa, meanwhile, was licking herself and being her usual affectionate self.

It slowly dawned on us.

Brisa was in heat.

We had no idea we weren’t just rescuing a dog, but welcoming a princess—one whose arrival would summon admirers from every corner of the neighborhood.

Our household was instantly thrown into a kind of quiet, frantic disarray. It is a good thing we don’t have wall-to-wall white carpets! Our floors are Saltillo tile, which means they can be mopped—and so they are. About thirty times a day.

There were other complications. A neighbor’s dog, Oso, lives on our property, and he became very attentive to Brisa’s new condition. So did several other dogs, who began showing up outside our fence whenever we took her out on a leash for her business. This was a new arrangement. Before, she wandered our property freely, alongside Mali—and Oso.


She has shown a little curiosity about the other dogs, though she’s gone toward the fence, as if she is wanting engagement. She is not quite ready yet. Oso tried mounting her once, and she snapped at him sharply, as if to say, "Not so fast, mister!" But we can sense what’s coming. Soon enough, she will be wanting to be, as the old song goes, “where the boys are.”

A couple of days ago, a particularly determined neighbor dog made it through the barrier, resulting in a fierce and noisy altercation with Oso. I feared the worst for the other dog—and dreaded having to explain it to the vecinos. To separate them, I had to employ the large wooden staff I now carry. And this—all before Brisa has even reached the most intense stage of her cycle.

Apparently, the whole affair lasts about three weeks.
Ughhh.

Still, every time I look at her—tail wagging, eyes bright, heart wide open—my own heart responds in kind. Like her tail, it starts thumping all on its own. We remind ourselves that all things pass, even the messy and inconvenient ones, and that soon enough we’ll find a good clinic and get this little chapter of chaos resolved.

In the meantime, we mop, we watch, and we laugh when we can. Brisa, blissfully unaware of the trouble she has stirred up, simply continues being Brisa—sweet, loving, and very much at home.

Saying Something Difficult

What struck me was tremendous loss while reading the CNN article,“She was fleeing with her grandson, who was holding a white flag. Then she was shot.” In intimate words and pictures the senseless event was  described by the women's surviving family members. 

Immediately I knew the murdered woman was of a pure heart and devoted to her family. I know Middle Eastern families and have friends in Egypt so the story felt more personal to me. 

I decided to create a painting and used AI to help visualize the scene. AI did a great job cobbling together a visual narrative. I combined images to arrive at a “sketch” of the painting I wanted to make.

I wanted to show the war-torn street in Gaza, with rubble and bombed buildings . . . and a dead woman sprawled across the road. The other part is the little boy with his white flag of surrender and peace, holding the hand of his grandmother. For some reason, I chose to portray the picture as witness to the moments before and after the tragedy occurred.

When I start  a painting in the “old” style of art, where I am depicting a realistic scene, I make a drawing on canvas, and underpainting with limited color. A full fledged piece arrives that includes all elements of color, drawing and subject. 

After getting my drawing on canvas, when I began the underpainting, I dripped some red⏤symbolizing life and death in art. I  felt sure as I worked, knowing the subject was not coming out of any thought of material gain. It is not pleasing fluff ready for any wall in a home. Rather, I had deep feeling of doing something meaningful, saying something difficult that needed to be said.

In the end, it became an unusual painting for me. It is suspended in a semi-finished state . . . life interrupted. The colors are gone except for some streaks of blood, while the dear, innocent subjects live in a wasteland. I paid homage.