Anthropomorphism in everyday life

           Most people don’t give much thought to anthropomorphism, but it’s an inescapable part of all our lives. It’s in our face all the time. Take the talking Charmin bears, for example, or the dancing Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats. We know bears don’t talk and Mini-Wheats don’t dance, yet we don’t scoff — we accept it. What does that say about us?

           Before I go further, let me explain what anthropomorphism is, for those who knew yesterday but clean forgot. Simply put, anthropomorphism is the attribution of human form or characteristics to something other than human — animals, inanimate objects, forces of nature, etc. Woody Woodpecker and SpongeBob SquarePants come to mind.

           Our exposure to anthropomorphism begins in early childhood, in the countless books, shows, and films designed to jump-start our imaginations. And that’s where it probably should end. That’s not to say I don’t still find the story of “Tubby the Tuba” entertaining. You remember Tubby, don’t you? He’s the tuba that wanted to play a melody more than anything, instead of just oom-pah.

           Some of our favorite childhood friends were the cartoon animals that were funnier than most of the grownups we knew. Bugs Bunny was my favorite, and of course the Disney stable is legendary. For the most part I grew out of my fondness for anthropomorphized creatures — except Shrek. And I confess to liking Donkey a lot.

           As children we often name our stuffed animals, which I suppose makes it more natural to have conversations with them. I had a stuffed lamb, and for some reason I called him Bambi. Go figure. This isn’t necessarily something we outgrow either. A woman I knew called her old VW Beetle Bernie, and I never asked why. Today in Facebook two friends revealed they’d named either their present or past cars, so I don’t want to forget to pay homage to their beloved vehicles — Rosie and Priscilla.

           I’m sure the creative people at advertising agencies can’t resist — perhaps trapped in childhood themselves — but by adulthood we should be well past the need for talking dough and moping mops in commercials. Lately these creative types have introduced anthropomorphism to pharmaceutical ads, which won’t motivate me to ask my doctor for any drug. In one commercial I saw this morning, a woman was going about her daily routine as her bladder tagged along, gripping her hand and dragging her off toward restrooms in much the same way a spoiled child might tug Mom toward the toy department. How appealing — especially when the bladder, looking pitiful, sat next to her at a table as she ate lunch with a friend. I wonder if she said to the friend, “By the way, this is Betty, my bladder.”

           My current favorites are those Charmin bears (read “most annoying” for “favorites”). I hope parents take the time to explain to their kids that bears don’t really have bungalows with full bathrooms, that they, um … well, you know.

The evolution of the telephone

           In the beginning, there were no telephones. When people wanted to communicate, they walked up to someone and said, “Hi.” If they were far apart, they sent someone with a message. “Go to the village across the valley and tell George I said hi.” If they couldn’t send someone, they either went themselves or forgot about it. If they forgot, George would think they stopped caring. Before long, people invented drums, hollow logs, and smoke as ways to communicate over distances, that worked for a long time because Grandma didn’t live too far away.

           Over time we came up with different ways to communicate, but they mostly involved writing on paper — letters. While it got the job done, people craved the intimacy of speech. It’s hard to emote on paper unless you’re Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

           Morse did his best with the telegraph, and it did provide an instantaneous form of communication (as long as people who knew Morse code were doing the communicating), but can you imagine “How do I love thee/stop/let me count the ways/stop”?

           Then along came Alexander Graham Bell with the telephone. Crude at first, early phones involved cranking and party lines, but finally George could reach out and touch someone across the miles, as long as someone else with the same number wasn’t already using the phone — the party line, FYI.

           Eventually almost every home in America had a phone — and a number they could call their own. Now George would know the call was probably for him when the phone rang, and he’d be able to hear “I love you” or “Your prescription for Epidermathinaglim is ready” without worrying that someone was listening — providing he didn’t miss the call.

           Answering machines solved that problem. Now if someone called when George wasn’t home, they could leave a message and he’d call them back. Maybe. Some people would just hang up because they hated talking to a machine.

           Finally someone came up with the perfect solution — the cellphone. Now George could take his phone with him and never be out of touch, and if Lucy wanted to invite him to a Fourth of July BBQ at the last minute, he wouldn’t miss the call. Of course, early cellphones weren’t much smaller than phone booths, so it was hard to put one in your pocket or purse. But now cellphones are small, and despite their size you can do a lot of things with them besides make calls — browse the web, order something from Amazon, text a friend, play games, locate a restaurant, take pictures, watch a movie, find George’s cellphone if he’s kidnapped, make a latte.

           Okay, I made that last thing up, but everything else is almost true. No kidding.

The ride of my life — with sirens

           It’s the morning of May 31, a day shy of the 18-month anniversary of my heart attack, I’m feeling a little odd when I get up but otherwise semi-okay. After breakfast and halfway through my coffee I decide to check my blood pressure, even though I’d only taken my meds a few minutes earlier. The monitor says my heart rate is 30 at first, then just says “Error.” Uh-oh. I’ve heard of runner’s heart, but that’s a little low. I check it on two other devices. Same thing.

           So I call the Triage Nurse at the VA, tell her what’s up, and ask what I can do to bring it up. “Nothing,” she says, then tells me to get to the ER as quickly as possible — as in call 911. I call, and within minutes the EMTs come in force, sirens roaring. Dang, I hate drawing attention to myself. They finally get me in the vehicle, get me all strapped down, hooked up, and poked with an IV needle, and as they begin to roll they call the VA ER with the info and their ETA. VA says “Divert to Mission.” Huh?

           The EMT explains that this means the VA can’t handle it, which means it’s worse than serious. “Total heart blockage,” he calls it. So here we are underway, sirens roaring, and already I’m thinking “I want to go home.” Then my son arrives, and he’s worried. I tell him I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anyone.

           In the ER they do some preliminaries, then get me up to Cardiac ICU, where I am again poked and hooked up to monitors — only to find they can’t get a blood pressure reading and have to do it with the manual cuff. Meanwhile, my heart rate is bouncing around between about 15 and 30, and someone explains that the heart chambers have stopped communicating.

           The following morning I wake up, which means I’m still alive. Since I’m about to have an echocardiogram, I’m not given food. After the echo, a nice cardiologist tells me he’s gotten my records from the VA and that my heart is a lot stronger than it was almost two years earlier, and that a pacemaker would now be a viable option. Not so last year. He heaps praise on my VA cardiologist for whatever she did that enabled me to beat the odds.

           The next morning they do a heart catheter, to see if there’ve been any changes since my last one. Afterward they tell me my heart stopped five times during the procedure, and they had to connect a temporary pacemaker. For this reason, a permanent pacemaker becomes urgent, so that is done later Tuesday. That evening I finally eat, and the food is surprisingly decent. Ditto breakfast the next morning — and by one Wednesday afternoon my son is driving me home.

           By the time you read this, I’ll have had my follow-up exam at Asheville Cardiology and I’ll be driving to the grocery store again — better than before, they say. Well, alive is good.