Beginning of 2025–sleeping in a kitchen chair, ER visit, appreciation for breathing

I knew I was really sick long before I was in the emergency room with concern about congestive heart failure.

The realization came on the fifth or sixth consecutive night sleeping while sitting in a kitchen chair, my head resting on a pillow propped against the kitchen counter. Every night, I woke after a couple of hours with coughing fits that resulted in me gagging.

I began 2025 with the worst illness of my life. While I don't generally write about my health (Editor's note: Yes, he does. In 2022, he wrote about a cancer diagnosis. In 2023, he wrote about having COVID. He's probably written about being a Type 1 diabetic 100 times), this is worth telling.

It began right before Christmas with a mild cough. Dec. 26, Mrs. Brad and I traveled to Southern California to see our son, daughter-in-law and granddaughters. I was recovering. Then I got a little worse. And a little worse. And worse. We cut the trip short and returned home the Saturday after Christmas. I kept getting worse.

By Sunday night, I was very sick. My cough was so bad that I couldn't lie down. In fact, I couldn't sit in a comfortable chair (such as a living room chair, with a slight tilt back) without developing spastic coughs that resulted in me hugging the toilet and gagging because I was coughing so hard.

I didn't sleep that night. The next day, I saw my doctor, had a chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia and started several prescriptions. Yet I kept coughing until I gagged. Still unable to sleep, I sat on a stool, leaning forward against my pillow. By Tuesday night, I sat in a kitchen chair and began sleeping pitched forward, a few hours at a time.

New Year's week passed in a blur of coughing. I couldn't nap because I couldn't rest. I was awake most of the night. I don't remember much beyond coughing and gagging and staring at the floor and being out of breath after taking 10 steps.

Several times I wondered how long a human can go without sleeping more than two hours a night. Slowly, I got slightly better. Until I didn't. The Sunday after New Year's Day (a week after the first night spent upright), I started to go backward again. Then Mrs. Brad noticed my legs were swollen.

The first Monday of 2025 – a week after I first saw my doctor – I messaged her again to tell her about my legs. Hours later, she finally saw my message and immediately called.

"You need to get to the emergency room," she told me. "This could be a myocardial event."

"I don't know what that means."

She was direct: "I don't mean to scare you, but these are the symptoms of congestive heart failure. You need to get to the emergency room."

Fighting back panic and coughs ("It's probably nothing." "This can't happen to me." "'Failure' seems like an overly dramatic word choice, right?"), Mrs. Brad and I headed across town to a packed ER. Blood work, an EKG, an X-ray and four hours later, we got the good news: I was just very, very sick. A terrible bronchitis. I needed another round of antibiotics, steroids and some other new drugs, including Lasix to stop my leg swelling.

More nights of sleeping upright. It was now 10 nights. Eleven. Twelve. Sitting in a kitchen chair, leaning forward to sleep from midnight until 2:30 a.m. or so, then being awake and perhaps returning to the chair to see if I could fall asleep again. Getting up at 4 a.m. and waiting for the day to start. Relentlessly coughing.

Gradually, the second round of drugs kicked in. By Thursday afternoon (two weeks after we left home for Southern California on the ill-fated trip), I felt better. Thursday night I slept in a recliner for the first time. By Sunday, I could sleep on the couch, with torso and head elevated. Able to rest, my body demanded long naps over that third weekend of being sick.

I was able to go outside and walk a short distance on the 17th day of my sickness. By the time my second round of antibiotics finished (three weeks after I started getting really sick), I was better. Weakened. Still come coughing. But more healthy than sick. More than three weeks into the illness, I slept in a bed for the first time in 2025.

There's no lesson in this, other than our bodies are fragile and if one thing goes wrong, it can be a mess. I spent a lot of time thanking God for things other than my health and pledging to Mrs. Brad that I'd never take breathing for granted again. I probably will, but that's a good goal, right?

Here's to a healthy 2025.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Grocery store study shows need for connection in bananas

Want attention? Act sad, which will make people more likely to choose you.

At least that's the conclusion based on how we treat bananas. Seriously. It's a lesson from bananas–at least that's according to folks at The Conversation, which publishes informative articles by academic experts for the general public.

The Conversation folks found that shoppers, at least, are attracted to sad bananas.

Yes. This is a column about sad bananas.

Let's start with the basics. Bananas are displayed the same way in all grocery stores: In bunches of four, five or six. When we buy bananas, we buy them in bulk, but not too much bulk. Nobody buys a 12-pack of bananas (if such a thing exists) and most of us want at least four to make it seem worthwhile. There's a sweet spot: Enough bananas to make it worth buying and not so much that they'll go bad.

It's more than one. Probably less than seven.

Bananas grow in bunches, like a large family (why do you think the TV show was called "The Brady Bunch?"). At the grocery store, though, bananas sometimes get separated. A banana falls off the bunch or, more likely, someone pulls off a single banana because they want to buy four, not five. 

That results in lone-wolf bananas. You've seen them in the store, apart from the group, isolated. They're like people sitting alone in a restaurant or watching the movies alone. You don't know if they're sad or if that's their choice. But you're reluctant to go sit next to them.

Similarly, we rarely buy a single banana. No, you want a bunch. You want four or five. You don't want Tito Jackson; you want the Jackson 5.

As a result, grocery stores often throw out solo bananas, creating food waste.

There have been efforts to change that. A German grocery store chain sells individual bananas as "singles," perhaps figuring that if people will buy single cans of soda, they'll buy single bananas. It hasn't been particularly successful, but the people at The Conversation came up with a tweak to the single-banana plan that just may work.

They gave the fruit personalities and a story.

With the approval from some grocery stores, The Conversation people separated solo bananas into three groups, putting them in crates with signs above them.

Above one crate, they put an image of a banana with a sad face and a sign that said, "We are sad singles and we want to be bought as well."

Above another, there was a banana with a happy face and a sign that said, "We are happy singles and we want to be bought as well."

Above the third crate, there was no banana face, just a sign that said, "Here are single bananas that want to be bought as well."

What do you think was the result?

If you remember what I wrote earlier, you get an A+. The sad-message bananas sold much faster than the others. People felt bad for the bananas! They wanted to meet the bananas' needs by buying them, taking them home, ripping off their peels and eating them (or maybe people didn't think that all the way through).

Those who conducted the study looked into it further and found the same approach works for tomatoes  (although buying a single tomato seems much more normal than buying a single banana.) The findings match up with studies about how we view humans–that we have an innate desire to assist those who are struggling to connect with others.

It may be the awkward kid you see who just wants to fit in. Or the person you know who really wants friends. Or maybe that banana in the produce section, cast off from his family.

The purpose of the banana study was to evaluate whether there are ways to decrease food waste. A lot of grocery store food gets thrown out and maybe if it were just marketed right, we'd be more interested in a single carrot or a potato or stalk of broccoli.

Bananas are a great fruit. But with this study, perhaps bananas taught us their greatest lesson: That whether it's a fruit or a person, there's something in us that wants to help it connect with others.

People may want to be alone. Bananas may be fine as a solo act. But there's something marvelous that we naturally want to help the "sad bananas" of life make a connection.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Toilet paper equations make no sense in any math style

When I was a kid, adults railed against "new math," which focused on students showing their work and using their deductive skills, rather than simply memorizing formulas.

About 20 years ago, people came out strongly against Common Core math, which focused on . . . um, well, students learning how to think rather than simply memorizing formulas.

These changes are confusing, especially if your math skills come from memorizing the times tables from those charts in the back of Pee-Chee folders.

New math, Common Core, traditional math: Which is best? I'm not sure, but one type of math is harder to understand than any of those.

Toilet paper math.

If you pay attention at the store, you recognize the problem. Look at the toilet paper section and your brain goes fuzzy.

Of course, there are simple packs of four, six or 12 rolls. But then the math comes in.

Some packages say, "18 rolls = 54 rolls," implying that each toilet paper roll is worth three regular rolls. OK, I get that.

But another says, "12 rolls = 42 rolls."

Another says, "18 rolls = 56 rolls."

Another says, "6 rolls = 15 rolls."

What the heck? I know enough about math to know that to solve for x in 6x = y, you divide y by 6 (I've already lost some of you. Hang in there!). If six rolls = 15 rolls, each roll must be worth 2.5 regular rolls. If 18 rolls = 56 rolls, each roll must be worth 3 regular rolls. If 12 rolls = 42 rolls, each roll must be worth . . . let me get my calculator out . . . 3.5 rolls.

(Side point: Suddenly, I'm wondering if "roll" is spelled correctly. It looks wrong. Should it be "role?" No. It's roll. Rollllll. Rooolllllll. Now I can't keep saying it in my brain. Roll.)

Back to the column: At first, I presumed it was simple. If a toilet paper company was advertising that 12 rolls = 24 regular rolls, it considers single-ply toilet paper a "regular roll" and is offering the two-ply variety. Other than the fact that no one buys single-ply toilet paper for their house (I believe it's only used in public restrooms), that made sense . . . until the math didn't work. If "12 rolls = 42 rolls," do they somehow have 3.5-ply toilet paper? What does a half-ply sheet look like? (For that matter, why is it "ply"? And is it really "ply?" Now I'm saying the word "ply" over and over in my brain.)

Perhaps it's not the number of plies, it's the number of sheets. Maybe a "12 rolls = 42 rolls" package of toilet paper has 3.5 times as many sheets. Probably not, because having three times as many sheets would make the roll much, much bigger (more math: the roll gets bigger with more sheets. And more sheets of more ply? And again, what is a ply?)

OK, I looked up ply and still don't really understand the specifics, but it appears that toilet paper only goes to three-ply. Of course, that's what they thought about razors before Gillette started adding more and more blades and now we have (I'm guessing) a shaving kit with 11 blades to make sure you get the smoothest shave possible.

So once you get past a multiplier of three (for instance, "12 rolls = 42 rolls"), it's more sheets, right?

But back to the ply question: Why haven't the big toilet paper manufacturers realized that the best way to add quality is to add a fourth or fifth ply? You could do a five-ply toilet paper with twice as many sheets and you'd be able to have a 12-roll package that is equal to . . . hold on, I'm calculating . . . OK, carry the two . . . 120 rolls! You might not need to get another package for months and months.

Of course, there comes a point where you add so many plies that it becomes a washcloth and you already have those and the thought is disgusting and never mind.

But how about that new math?

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

An ancient, revolutionary goal to make 2025 a memorable year

Why will we remember this year?

I have a bold proposal, but first, let's set the stage: Today is the first Sunday of a year for which we'll have important memories – because every year creates important memories: Some good, some bad, some silly.

Of course, we tend to remember big news events from the year: For 2024, for instance, it was the felony conviction, attempted assassinations and ultimate return to the presidency of Donald Trump; the explosion of women's basketball; the continued rise of artificial intelligence and the two major hurricanes that hit the Southeastern United States.

But we also remember years personally. The year we graduated from high school. When we got married. When we got divorced. When someone close to us died. When we got promoted. When we were unemployed. When we got cancer. When we bought a house. When we lost our home.

What was your biggest memory from 2024? And for what will 2025 be remembered? 

Back to the big picture, because it connects to the small picture: As a nation, we're entering uncharted territory with the political and social implications of the most recent presidential election and a deeply divided nation. For some of us, that filters down to deeply divided families and neighborhoods.

My best (and most optimistic) guess is that the repercussions won't be as bad as the worst fears of many Americans and not as great as the greatest hopes of many Americans. Because that's how politics and life and social change works. We expect sweeping changes and usually get a compromise and gradual change.

The past few years have been tough and I'm far from alone (on either side of the political spectrum) in decreasing my focus on political news and social media after the election. My life has been fine.

That's a good reminder that national politics are not a priority for most of us. Most of us are busy living our lives and doing jobs, raising kids, coaching teams, doing hobbies and connecting with friends (or wondering why we aren't doing it). We're not spending all of our time thinking about political issues.

However, the past few years saw an increase in scenarios where we find out that someone we like supports a candidate or political party we detest and we feel conflicted. Maybe we start considering them an enemy. We think they're stupid or hateful or naive. We start to believe the worst about them.

We shouldn't. We can hold a vastly different stance on a political issue than me and neither of us is necessarily evil. We just disagree.

So, finally, here's one goal for 2025: Let's make an effort to celebrate what we have in common. Let's make an effort to love others. Let's not assume the worst of people with whom we disagree.

Help someone who makes your life difficult. Spend more time listening with the goal of understanding, rather than devising a counterargument. Interpret the actions of others most graciously, rather than in the most critical way.

The other day, I heard the old Don Henley song, "The Heart of the Matter" and the lyrics apply to 2025:

Ah, these times are so uncertain, there's a yearning undefined and people filled with rage. We all need a little tenderness, how can love survive in such a graceless age?

Here's how: By being gracious. By making 2025 the year we give others the benefit of the doubt. By spending the next 12 months doing good to others regardless of whether we think they "deserve" it.

If that sounds familiar and you want something a little deeper than a 1989 song by the former drummer for the Eagles, consider this:

Jesus said to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. He said to serve others, not to look to be served.

That's a good recipe to make your 2025 better: Grace and servanthood, despite all the craziness elsewhere.

Wouldn't it be remarkable if at the end of 2025, that's what we remembered from our lives? That's my Project 2025.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.