From time to time I will post Memories, where I describe some facet of my life before MS. I hope you enjoy these digressions.

I grew up in the small, northern Maine town of Lincoln, where there were only a handful of doctors. Our family physician, who moonlighted as the town coroner, was affectionately known as Old Doc Gulesian. He delivered me, and I understand that my birth was very complicated. He operated the Gulesian Hospital in Lincoln from 1947 through 1972 in what was nothing more than a large house. Doc was a short, powerfully built, gregarious character. He often had a cigar in his mouth, but it was more for chewing on than it was for smoking.

His son, Doctor Gulesian the Dentist, was physically similar to his father, but less intimidating. Whenever I needed a tooth filled, and I needed a lot of them, he led me through the same routine. First, he would take a Q-tip with some gunk on it and set it beside whichever tooth he was going to work on. After a few minutes he would remove the Q-tip and say, “Close your eyes and cross your legs.” This never changed, and at no time did I peek, or even question why he made this strange request. I would feel a pinch in my mouth, and then Doctor Gulesian the Dentist would tell me it was okay to open my eyes. A few minutes later my mouth would be completely numb. I thought the numbness was from the topical anesthesia on the Q-tip. I didn’t learn until years later, when I watched him do some dental work on my mother, that he was actually taking a syringe and giving people a shot of Novocain. I was flabbergasted! A shot? Right in the mouth? To this day I still close my eyes when I see the needle coming.

These father and son doctors lived across the street from one another on Transalpine Avenue. Old Doc Gulesian’s house was a sprawling ranch-style home. The full basement was expansive, and this is where he set up his medical practice in the 1970’s. There was a separate entrance for the basement office, so we never saw his above-ground living space. The carpet on the floor of the examining rooms was memorable. It depicted all sorts of board games like chess, checkers, and backgammon. I visited his office many times in my childhood, and never forgot that carpet.

After high school I went away to college, got married, and lived for a while in Ohio and Vermont. But eventually Kim and I returned to Lincoln, where I went to work as a chemical engineer in the local paper mill, and Kim began her teaching career. We bought a home and started making babies. Our extended families lived nearby, and we had many, many friends. It was an ideal situation – until we got sick of it. But that’s another story.

Kim’s mother, Carole, dabbled in a few different vocations over the years. For a short time she was a real estate agent. One day she came over, and we thumbed through her listings book. We noticed that Old Doc Gulesian, now retired, was selling his house. I had only seen the basement office, never the inside of the home. I suggested to Carole that we pose as prospective buyers and that she show us the house. She could practice her selling skills, and we could satisfy our curiosity as to what Old Doc Gulesian’s living space looked like. It was shameless voyeurism.

The house was impressive, if a little dated. Old Doc Gulesian, after all, had become a very old man. There were three bedrooms and three baths on the main floor and one bath in the basement. There was an attached, heated, three-car garage. The backyard had a neglected but salvageable in-ground swimming pool, which was a rarity for this small town. One bay of the garage even had a maintenance pit that could be used when changing the oil in a vehicle. The house sat on two wooded acres in a nice part of town.

When we got home, Kim and I continued to talk about our experience. I dared to broach the subject with her, “What if we sold this house? Then we could buy old Doc Gulesian’s house. How cool would that be?”

In addition to being a wonderful property, there was also a certain celebrity appeal to Old Doc Gulesian’s house. In our small town, buying his house would be like someone in Southern California buying a movie star’s house.

Things progressed quickly. Within a couple months we were able to sell our property and purchase Doc’s.

As soon as we moved in the house Kim and I went downstairs and explored the old doctor’s office, which hadn’t been used in years but remained intact. I basked in the nostalgia for a few minutes, and then I grabbed my chainsaw. I cut down all the internal walls to make a huge rec room. Over time, we purchased a bar, a ping-pong table, a billiards table, and added a couch and a television. The only thing we left untouched was that one-of-a-kind carpet depicting the board games. It kind of matched our motif.

For several years we would occasionally see Doc inch by our house in his big Cadillac, surveying the property but never stopping in to visit. I’m sure he had fond memories of the place, and apparently had trouble letting go.

We lived in Old Doc Gulesian’s house for seven wonderful years. Eventually the novelty of living in my childhood doctor’s home wore off, and it just became our house on Transalpine Avenue. If for no other reason than the sheer number of memorable photographs we took there, that house holds a special place in our hearts. Here are a few of those pictures…

(Photo credit: jurvetson)

My wife and I both agree that there were only three things in my life that ever really made me angry. Other than these tormentors, I have always been a pretty calm character.

First, there was my 20-year-old daughter. Well, she’s 20 years old now, but she’s not the one that drove me crazy. It was the teenage version of her that drove me crazy. She’s grown into a fine young woman and we get along quite well now.

The second thing that drove me crazy was the play of my sports teams. Sometimes they did the stupidest things even though I’d instructed them, via yelling at them on the TV, to do otherwise. Why wouldn’t they listen?

The third thing that drove me crazy was golf. Before I became disabled I was a decent athlete. I could run fast and jump high. I could hit and catch a ball, and make a basket. In high school I was a three sport athlete (football, basketball or indoor track, outdoor track). I also played a passable game of tennis and ping pong. After having a billiard table in my basement for a few years I could hold my own at pool. But golf? I could never understand that game, except one day a long time ago…

Our daughter Amy was born in May of 1989, well before my MS diagnosis. One Sunday morning that summer I took my turn with the 4:30 a.m. bottle feeding. I put Amy back in her crib at around 5:00 and prepared to return to bed myself. But I had just purchased a golf membership at the local 9-hole course, and it was a beautiful morning, so instead I quietly snuck out of the house and headed for the golf course.

When I got to the course nobody was there. The clubhouse was dark and quiet, but that was not a problem. The flags were in the holes and I had a membership, so I set out to play.

The first hole was a par four. I have no idea what I scored on it, but likely something well over par. The second hole was a 172 yard par three. I pulled out my 3 iron (this is evidence to any experienced golfer that I was a neophyte since the standard club for this length shot is more like a 5 iron, and Tiger would use an 8 iron if his wife is not chasing him with it). My tee shot went straight and rather low, as is standard for a well struck 3 iron.

The hole was cut just over a ridge in the green, so that I could not actually see the cup from the tee box. Most of the flag stick was visible, just not the last couple of inches and the cup itself. I was pleased with my shot because it appeared to have landed either close to the front of the green or on the green itself. I put my three iron back in my bag and trudged down the fairway.

As I approached the green I was a little disappointed. The ball was neither in front of the green nor on the green, so it must have run past the putting surface. There were some shrubs behind the green, and I started looking under those shrubs for my missing ball.

Then it happened. Remember, it was very early in the morning, just after sunrise, so there was still a heavy dew on the green. I stood there in disbelief as I noticed a curved track in the dew, running from the front of the green into the center of the cup, as clear as if it had been drawn by the finger of God himself. I shook my head in disbelief.

I approached the cup and dared to peer down into it. There was my ball. I had made a hole-in-one. Instinctively, I looked up and surveyed my surroundings in preparation for sharing this glorious moment with my fellow golfers. Let the congratulatory hand shaking and back slapping begin! But there was not another human being in sight. Well, that was not exactly correct. I could see the owner stirring up near the clubhouse. I left my golf bag beside the green and jogged up to where he was cleaning off the golf carts.

“Good morning, Jim.”

“Good morning, Mitch.”

“Jim, I have a problem.”

“What? Is it the mosquitoes?”

“No,” I chuckled, “I just shot a hole-in-one and I have no witnesses. But I can prove it to you if you’ll just come with me for a minute.”

We got in a golf cart and headed off for the second green.

For those of you who are not familiar with golf etiquette, holes-in-one really only count if they are witnessed. Otherwise any unscrupulous, attention-seeking hack could claim he hit one when nobody was watching. I was a hack, but I was of the scrupulous variety.

When we arrived at the second green I was pleased to see that the dew, and the evidence it possessed, was still intact. I told Jim my story and asked him if he believed me.

“I believe you Mitch.”

That didn’t make my hole-in-one completely legitimate, but it was better than nothing. I never got another ace, witnessed or not, even though I golfed for about 15 more frustrating years.

In a sense this was the cruelest trick golf ever played on me, and it played some really cruel ones. To allow me a hole-in-one, but without a witnesses…ah, touché golf. Well played.

MS really sucks. But there are one or two silver linings. MS gets the credit for finally making me a quit a game that cost me too much money, caused me to spend too much time away from my family, and left me miserable more often than not. Unfortunately, MS took all those other sports away from me as well.

So as I mentioned above, my daughter no longer drives me crazy. Scratch that one off the list. My MS had made it impossible for me to continue golfing. Scratch that one too. What’s left?

If the Patriots and Red Sox can just win every game they play for the rest of my life…no, wait, that’s not enough…if the Patriots and Red Sox will never make even a minor mistake in any game they ever play for the rest of my life, then I’ll have nothing in this world that makes me angry.

(I’m aware of how well I just set up the Boston sports haters…have at it in the comments section, Louie).