Category: health

The Quiet Strength of Resilience in Tough Times

Resilience isn’t dramatic.
It’s choosing life repeatedly,
even when joy feels borrowed,
And tomorrow feels unsure.
Anonymous

I saw this the other day while doom scrolling FB reels. There are a lot of gems of wisdom, tailored to your particular crisis on social media. In my case, the FB algorithm stepped it up to Yoda mode. Who am I to fight it?
I watch those reels because no matter the topic at hand. I never fail to glean some wisdom or useful nuggets that inspire me. By inspire me, I mean it gives me some general validation. It affirms the troubled traits bothering me at that moment.
This week’s troubling trait is Resilience. I’ve been thinking about it constantly.

If you have been reading, you know that I have been faced with yet another health challenge. Upon initial diagnosis, I was very concerned. The surgery is extensive and is followed by a long recovery. I wasn’t sure that I was up for it. While it goes against every fiber of my being, I thought my good run may be over. Consistent with the theme of “going against every fiber of my being”, I also did something I rarely do. I shared my dilemma with my close friends. I rarely share my struggles. I grew up figuring out shit all on my own. Upon hearing the news of my upcoming surgery, my friends were amazing, as to be expected. They were supportive in offering help in any way, and many shoulders were offered to lean on. I appreciated such offers.
The true takeaway was how many people commented on my past resilience, encouraging me to take inspiration from that. Then it occurred to me that that is what I am known for. I’m the guy known for never giving up and rewriting the narrative. Where was that guy?

Why wasn’t my initial reaction what it was when I’ve faced a health challenge before? I had to meditate on that for a few days. I had more questions than answers. That is why the above quote grabbed me so.
Here’s what I came up with. The choice to fight isn’t always out of vim and vigor or enthusiastic tenacity. Sometimes it is merely a choice. Not dramatic but instead pragmatic. The choice is, of course, living or ending it. A choice I have contemplated so very often of late.

I am not suicidal. I am merely dancing with the notion of being done. “Done” is a common topic of thought for many people in my situation. What situation is that?
Older. Plagued by physical maladies. Not financially secure. Finding myself not needed as I once was, and unwilling to insert myself into situations in order to change it. Having maximized my usefulness and in need of a purpose. Life has become a chore, and hope for it changing fades with each passing year. The ensuing tragedy of feeling this way is that suicide becomes less about being incapable of dealing with life. And instead, it becomes more about how willing you are to continue dealing.

Resilience isn’t dramatic. No, it’s a character trait. One that fades over time.
It’s choosing life repeatedly. Yes, because the alternative is less desirable. Not to mention the damage it does to those you leave behind.
Even when joy feels borrowed. There are moments when the only happy moments in my life are vicarious.
And tomorrow feels unsure. What makes me choose life is the hope that my future will be brighter, despite all indications to the contrary.

So I will fight this in my usual manner. I will reclaim my tenacity and beat this latest challenge. Not because I have a particular desire to achieve another victory over a medical foe. I want to stick around for a while to see what happens. I’ve been to enough parties to know that if you leave too soon, you will miss the good stuff. That will have to be a good enough reason to fight this battle. Being an enthusiastic participant in my own life is something I need to get back to as it is. I miss that guy.
That guy has been conspicuously absent for too long.

How do I overcome this stretch of existing and get back to my love of living?

Facing Heart Surgery: another challenge of my resilience

Well, I shared my news with some close friends as well as on here. I don’t know what my expectations were regarding reactions, but it’s out of the bag nonetheless. As my goal is always selflessness, I’m glad nobody is making a fuss. My family and friends are there for me and that’s all that matters. They’re processing it just fine. They are all offering their help and I’m doing what I always do: downplaying it. It’s not that I’m outright refusing help. I just don’t know what to do or say because I haven’t processed it yet.

I have vowed to be brutally honest in this space. I have gained a readership because I do not hold back. I put my vulnerabilities out there for consumption. That won’t end or change today. Here it is, at first I was scared. That’s natural, I think. I don’t embrace it, but I can accept it. I worry more about people seeing me scared than anything. It’s the reputation that follows me; I’m known for resilience. For taking every punch life has thrown at me and getting up each time. It’s all I have going for me.
But when I was told that I needed open-heart surgery, I was enduring a Cancer Scare. It occurred to me that I have met an opponent that I couldn’t overcome. All I could think about was the same 2 words, Four years.

4 years of uninterrupted good health. 4 years of getting back to living my life. 4 years of not being the “sick guy”. That’s the one that gets me, the “sick guy”. I was hoping that guy was gone forever. You know the sick guy. He’s the one who, whenever someone sees him, automatically gets the obligatory, “how are you feeling?” Now, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with people inquiring about my health. It’s kindness, awareness, sometimes sympathy but more often empathetic, all rolled into one. It exemplifies the best in people and I’m a staunch believer that people are good. But after a while, it stops being warm and fuzzy and begins to overshadow recovery. Since I was 42 years old, I have been the sick guy. I had a brief respite in 2011. During this time, I had my first transplant. I bounced back most spectacularly. I was back at work in 33 days. I was exercising, socially active, excelling at work, and truly enjoying my new life of saying YES. I almost got to the point where the “how are you feeling’s” stopped. Then the kidney failed and I was that guy again. 5 years later I got another shot. It was a great kidney. My body adapted to it so well. It was clear to all that it was not necessary to ask me how I felt. Anyone could see that I was doing great.
When the prostate issue arose, I was nervous but kept going. The news of the heart surgery, not so much. It’s a big surgery and a long recovery. It shook me a bit. After all, I can hope for but cannot have guarantees that I will be 100% after the surgery. And I’m sorry, but I’m trying to make up for much lost time. And I don’t want to break the run that I am on.
Despite not giving myself permission, I felt bad for myself for a few days. I feel compelled to go into detail, to fully convey the extent of my angst. It lasted days as I battled an increasingly common enemy, the urge to give up. I am/was/will continue to be very troubled that this enemy has established a foothold in my psyche. I can only attribute his presence to one simple fact, part of me just doesn’t want to do it anymore.
I am asked at every Physician appointment if A)I feel safe, and B)If I have suicidal ideations. I have been answering “YES” to part B. It leads to a conversation, of course. I am forced to explain that I don’t want to actively end my life. I just don’t care if something else does. As I said, it stems from just plain being done. My mind was allowing me to entertain a notion I have fought with every fiber in my body, giving up. The news that I received last week could have easily given more weight to the notion. In fact, it almost did.
Then I remembered who I was.

I’m the guy who has always smiled and given a thumbs-up for the camera when things were grim. I have a collection of photos taken in hospitals after my many surgeries. In every one of them, I am clearly thumbing my nose at what could have been. I am openly defying it. I’m the guy who reacts to recovery times like I do to GPS arrival times. I scoff and say, “I can beat that.” I’m the guy that says, “I’m good”, even when it is very clear that I am not.

Well, one week later, that guy is back. That pussy worried about surviving? Fuck that guy. I spoke to my dear friend Pedro recently. I told him that I am no longer scared. I am going to fight this as I have been, stubborn and confident. He calls me C Brown, named lovingly after my hero Charlie Brown. He knows and remembers when I don’t, that I got this. And I do. There really is only one choice here, to get through it. I’ve survived 100% of my worst days, my money is on me.

Now, where the hell is that football?

the Prayer list comment

I stared numbly at the woman behind the plastic shield as she worked. She was older, late sixties at least. I sensed a quiet dignity and kindness about her. Realizing where I was and what I had just learned, it occurred to me that the kindness she possessed is a fine quality in her position. She handed me a stack of papers under the sneeze shield. As I reached for them, she touched my hand.
“You’re on my prayer list, William. I wish you the best.”
I had already suspected that I was on the cusp of another battle; her furrowed brow confirmed it. I looked at her name badge. As I stood up, I said, “Thank you, Theresa, you are very good at your job.”
She was indeed very good at her job. I’m unsure how I would present myself. I would struggle with dealing with a man who has just been informed that he is facing open-heart surgery.
I thought about the unusual, or usual, depending on your perspective, feeling I got from Theresa. Does she put all of her patients on her prayer list? Did she see something on that screen that inspired her gesture. After all, it’s her job to see patients with conditions such as mine. Is she empathetic to all of them equally? I would think that even the kindest of souls would become accustomed to the routine of sadness after a while. It should wear off. What inspired her to make an additional gesture of kindness towards me? Or is it just in my head? That certainly is a possibility. I pondered it as I walked in the cold wind to my car.

Severe Aortic Stenosis. Apparently, the quirky little heart murmur I’ve tolerated for many years has upgraded. I need surgery soon. There are 2 options, one very painful with a long recovery, and one less invasive with a shorter recovery period. I may not be eligible for the less invasive surgery. The kicker of it all…I have to wait until Tuesday to find out the next steps.

Actually, the real kicker is that this is only one of my worries. My Aortic Stenonis was diagnosed during a testing work-up for a Prostate biopsy. They discovered the heart issue on Monday. I met with the Cardiologist Wednesday. I had the biopsy on Thursday. Now I must wait at least a week to find if I have Prostate cancer. This has been a truly trying week.

I’m doing my homework. I’m trying to keep myself calm. I am versed on outcomes, recovery times, and everything I can think of. I know I can handle this.

But still, that comment…

Quiet victories

I am 1 year free of alcohol. I am somewhat impressed with myself that I took this long to mention it. Conversely, I am annoyed with myself that I feel the need to tell anyone. Confused? So am I, and I’m the one writing this.

For context, allow me to introduce one of the most poignant sayings ever stated regarding sharing.
“Keep it to yourself because at the end of the day nobody gives a shit.”

Those who care about what’s going on in my life can always check in here. My friends, they can ask me. But overall, I have found that staying under the radar is the way I want to go forward.

Perhaps it’s callous to say what I said above about nobody caring. It’s not entirely fair. People care, but they have their own lives to contend with. I firmly believe that everyone is going through something right now. Even the ones we think have it all together. There is only one certainty in life and that is life is hard for everyone. With regards to sharing, it’s not going to mean to them what it means to you.
Additionally, I am now a convert to the notion of disappearing. You see it everywhere on social media: “disappear for 30,60,90 days and reappear stronger.” It calls upon people to work on themselves, without the benefit or distraction of the advice of others. To not be visible during the trifling changes, but to seclude until you rise like a Phoenix, visibly and decidedly better and stronger.

I bought into that mindset a while back. I desperately wanted to immerse myself completely in the idea. I daydreamed of no contact, no worries, no obligations other than what is essential, and just working on myself. But my life doesn’t allow for it. I have commitments that I need to uphold as a man. I have a family and friends who will worry about me if I’m not heard from. When I decided to tackle my drinking problem a year ago, I decided to do it relatively quietly.

Normally, when I attempt self-improvement, I put it out there for reasons of accountability. It’s a bold, risky, and potentially problematic approach unless you are truly serious. But I only do so when I am truly serious. When I decided on January 1st,2025 to stop drinking, I avoided telling everyone. Not that I didn’t have plenty of confidence that I could do it. That’s how I am wired. I get to the point where I am completely done with something, and I summon the will to vanquish it. I didn’t need to tell people because I was doing it for myself, not for them. I could care less what they thought if I failed, my own disappointment would be enough to deal with. I told family and a few friends. I then disappeared as much as I was able. I wanted to rebuild. I wanted to accomplish something I have wanted for a very long time. To regain control of my life from those things that were controlling me. It’s a logical progression after all: conquer that which makes my mental health unstable, and then conquer the mental health.
One year later, I am leaps and bounds closer to conquering my demons. The cessation of alcohol has made a tremendous difference. It was a wonderful decision all around.

I would never say this in an AA meeting because I feel that it would minimize the struggle many are going through. But I really didn’t need the program. I went to a meeting a day for the first 30 days. After the first month, my attendance was sporadic. I had learned to value the celebration of the sober life, and that’s what meetings did for me. As for the steps, despite my background in Recovery Case Management, they just didn’t apply. I know the alcoholic min,d and I know the commonalities in alcoholics. I also know that I am not like them. I was never a “blackout” drinker. I suffered a few embarrassments, but didn’t destroy my life as others have. I didn’t have any resentments to work through. I only resented the power that alcohol was gaining over my life, so the control freak in me reasserted dominance.
It wasn’t that hard for me to stop drinking because I was done with all of it. Done with arguing with myself. Done with thinking about my next drink. Tired of the inevitable self-loathing that followed.
And it’s been the best decision I have made in some time. The blessings continue to manifest.

My health has improved dramatically. My blood work is stellar. All of the inconsistencies in my labs were alcohol related. I tipped the scale at 199 this morning, which I haven’t seen since I was sick. I am down 35 pounds. I have a spring in my step and can do things once lost on me, like touching my toes. Was I surprised that I could do that! Other major concerns, such as stomach and skin issues, simply disappeared. And dare I say it, I look much better. While I can’t say that it’s the only source of good things in my life, it was the catalyst. I showed myself that I was not too old or too far gone to improve myself. That’s what is at the center of everything that I do. Self-improvement.
In a quiet, non-public manner, I disappeared while in front of everyone and came back a better, stronger me.

So when January 1st 2026 arrived, I resisted the urge to go on social media. I did not tell people of my accomplishment. The one ones that I reached out to were a Brother who is 20 years sober and my youngest son. My Masonic Brother confirmed in a single text that he, as predicted, didn’t really give a shit. My son, well he gets me well enough to know what this accomplishment means to me and why. I was fine with that.

I overshare. It’s one of the things that I have learned about myself. Keeping this milestone between just us is both new and good for me. That is who I am working towards being. Not silent but not loud. Self-assured but not cocky. Available but not transparent. I want to leave a little mystery. The world fears a quiet man. The quiet man strikes fear in the petty and inspires the rest. This milestone is my accomplishment. Done by me and for me.

So here I am, 4 days late telling you that I completed one year of Sobriety. If you give a shit, great. If not, that’s also great. Because at the end of the day, we all have ourselves to take care of before we can be any good to others.

200 miles

To survive is to be alive, long after the reason to live has died.
Author unknown

I was thinking recently about Hugh Glass. In 1823, Hugh Glass survived a Grizzly Bear attack. Then he crawled over 200 miles before he finally reached help in South Dakota. It took him weeks. He was the inspiration for the movie The Revenant. Upon reading it, I asked myself if I was capable of such a feat. The answer required little contemplation. No.
I was troubled by what I came up with.

The story of Hugh Glass caused me to explore something I think about frequently, the Will to Live. Late at night, when the demons come, my thoughts turn dark. I debate some horrible shit when I go down the Rabbit hole. When I was sick and on Dialysis, I did my best work. I thought about suicide most seriously. While in this state, I had no regard for anything at all. My life, except for the support of my family and friends, had little to no meaning. The only thing that kept me from doing it was the thought of what it would do to my family. I had ceased to live a purposeful life. I was merely existing. Surviving through my greatest trait. Stubbornness.
I was “surviving to be alive, long after the reason to live had died.”

The above phrase is attributed to the concept developed by German philosopher Arthur Schoppenhaur, supported and furthered by Viktor Frankl. It reflects the concept of an irrational, blind, incessant impulse without knowledge that drives instinctive behaviors. It further suggests that even when life feels meaningless, the act of surviving itself is a form of survival.
Viktor Frankl brilliantly explored this concept through the context of Holocaust survivors in Nazi Germany in Man’s search for Meaning. He observed that survivors often find hope and purpose in their experiences, which can lead to personal growth and resilience.

It’s a powerful thing to ponder. Sadly, I know many people who ponder it as well. I hear them say such things as, “I have no future”, or
“What’s the point?”
“There’s nothing left for me here”,
“I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
Wait, that last one was mine.
It pains me to remember. At the height of my illness, in the darkest of the dark nights, my mind journeyed to hidden places. I can still recall the state I was in. Awash in despair, devoid of interest in the future, desperate for sleep. In those moments, relief was all I could think about. Curled in the fetal position, cocooned in a blanket, I often found myself muttering to noone in particular, “I just don’t want to do it anymore.”
More than once, I said it while sitting on the edge of my bed, .38 Special balanced on my right thigh.
Those were dark days indeed.

My situation has improved since then. I received the gift of an organ transplant 4 years ago. I have made great strides in reclaiming my health, recovering my finances, and rebuilding my life. I have wonderful relationships with family and friends. I am an active Mason, and it is hugely important to me and an integral part of my life. I have a fulfilling social life. I say YES to almost every opportunity now. Having stared down my own mortality, I live like there is no tomorrow. I have a great life.
Still, incredulously, I sometimes go down the Rabbit Hole. I have learned a lot about myself recently, and I am aware that I suffer from depression. It’s not constant or consistent. I just have my moments.
Despite all of the good in my life, my dark half renders me helpless when the darkness comes. I take the negatives in my life and give them more status than they deserve. I find myself emphasizing the significant but manageable negatives in my life to the point of crisis. I then find myself overwhelmed, distraught, and looking for a way out. Which is, of course, just ending it already.
The terror is palpable. As is the frustration when I come out of it. Fortunately.

Here it is. I don’t want to die. I like my life. I may even love it; it depends largely on the day. I am living a purposeful life. The negatives of my life are manageable. Sure, I wish I were better off financially. But good things always happen to me, so why worry about it? I really do desire to have a female companion on this journey. But who knows if I’ll meet her tomorrow? And amazingly, I am doing fine without one. I have a lot to be grateful for, and I am living a blessed life.

So, back to the above quote, and the man who crawled 200 miles to survive, and the question of whether I was capable of such a feat.
I have changed my answer to a firm, resolute MAYBE. What I do know with certainty is that I would never just lie down and die. I would try. My mental health would determine how hard I tried. It would, consequently, decide how many miles I would be able to crawl. If it happens to me on a day when I feel good about myself. A day when I am at peace with who I am. Or a day that I am not consumed by self-deprecating and self-sabotaging behaviors. A day in which I feel in harmony with my resilience. A day when I knowingly wield the sword of inner strength that allowed me overcome two life-threatening diseases. This strength has also helped me face many transformational obstacles.
On those days, 201.
When the darkness comes? I would have leaned against the nearest tree. I would have sighed with relief. I welcomed the inevitable with one last “I can’t do it anymore.”

My mission in life going ahead must be to vanquish the “me” that would give up that easily. But that’s the thing about the darkness. It comes whether I want it to or not. The key for me is to always focus on the purposeful aspects of my life. I want to stay on track with my hope to die a good man. I aim to be a man who left the world a little better than he found it. At the very least, I hope not to make it worse off. I have to learn to consistently look at the good in my life.

Then, and only then, will I end the dichotomy of Living with Meaning vs. merely existing.

Shadow Work

My mind knows all my weak spots, replays failures like favorite songs, questions my worth at midnight, turns memories into weapons. I fight battles no one sees, lose sleep to thoughts that never rest. The hardest war isn’t outside, it’s surviving a brain that refuses to be kind to its own heart.
Ticus Writes

I’m in a somewhat good place overall. I have been working hard on myself. I have been summoning all of my questionable inner resolve to make significant improvements in my life. I have made considerable progress in self-awareness. I am unabashedly accountable about myself and my actions.
I suspect that many men my age simply accept who they are, peccadillo’s and all. It is tempting to think, “the hell with everyone, let them handle me as I am in all my weirdness.’ Me, I’m not willing to go down that road. As a Mason, I believe in the Fraternity’s emphasis on continuous improvement until we advance to another plane of existence. Rough stone to polished. That belief supports my desire to get myself right, even if it culminates with my last day on this planet.

For all of the effort put in, it all goes out the window on days like yesterday. I really spiraled out. The worst part of it is that I saw it coming. Yet, I still self-sabotaged myself. In a very embarrassing and expensive manner.

Last week my good friend and Masonic Brother asked me to do some snow plowing for him. He is away on a short Florida vacation. He is a tremendously hard worker and needs some R & R. He asked me to come along as he managed his only account. It’s a dental practice. He wanted me to get a feel for it. I’ve plowed before, the job seemed easy. I told him I would do it.
That night I had a panic attack. My mind bombarded me with all of the reasons why I can’t do it. How I would damage the truck or some property. The idea of plowing it with cars there suddenly terrified me. It was irrational, it was annoying, and it was typical of what my mind does when I smoke weed. The next day, no longer stoned, I was still a little anxious but more confident.
Good thing, because it snowed the night before.
My anxiety flared. Despite that, I got myself out of the house and did the job. I went to his house, drove the truck to the job, and did a fine job on the lot. I chunked up a bit of grass, even left a few tire prints, but nothing terrible or costly. I felt better about myself and my abilities, but I was still anxious. I knew in my heart that I was about to self-sabotage myself.
As I pulled into his long driveway I realized that I would have to pull the truck in. I had found it backed in. So I searched (panicking the whole time), for a spot to turn around and back in. Against my better judgment, I pulled into a spot. I was immediately stuck. As I tried to get myself out, the truck slid sideways into a previously unnoticed embankment.
I knew that I was screwed. And I knew that it could have been avoided by listening to my better instincts. But they were nowhere to be found. I had done it, the self-fulfilling prophecy of being so afraid of Fucking Up that I do exactly that.
It’s resolved now, but it cost my buddy, who coordinated the removal while driving to Florida, quite a bit. I was so upset about that. I went home and sat in utter despair, beating the ever-loving shit out of myself. All I could come up with was.
“Why do I continue to do things like this?”
“Why do I have such anxiety about something I am able to do?”
“Why did I make that reckless move that caused all of this?”

It was bad. Despite my friend’s reassurance that it wasn’t a big deal, I was in a bad place. For a brief and terrifying moment, I revisited the idea of eating a bullet. I just wanted to end this shit already. Even if 100 people were in my apartment, they couldn’t convince me otherwise. I felt like the biggest fuck-up ever born.
It was at that moment that I decided that I needed to step up my quest for self-improvement.

I discovered an article about Shadow Work. Shadow work involves acknowledging and exploring the hidden parts of ourselves. It helps heal the parts that we reject and repress into our unconscious minds. It involves confronting and integrating these repressed emotions, desires, and traits to foster personal growth and self-awareness. It is rooted in Jungian psychology. In this context, the shadow self represents the darker aspects of our personality that we often avoid. The goal is to help individuals reconnect with and embrace all parts of their identity. As it turns out, there are apps for it.

I spent most of last night reading up on Shadow Work. As a Psychology major in college, I enjoyed the Personality theory of Jung. Jung expanded and broadened the narrow constraints of Freudian personality theory and Shadow work is a worthy extension of his theories.
I am going to give the app a try. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing so. I have to do it.
Because there is no way that I am going to continue to go through the agonizing, self-flagellating, monstrous tearing down of myself that I engaged in yesterday. I simply can’t do it anymore. I know that I am better than this and I owe it to myself to find the way to fix this.

Christmas Reflections: A Journey Through Disillusionment

Christmas is a very different experience at this point in my life. In so very many ways.

For the sake of a concise opening, I will state up front that I very much dislike holidays. And I am not entirely sure why. I do know that I haven’t for quite some time.

It is Christmas, of course, given the timing of this post, that I dislike the most. I think I always have. To establish context, I’ve disliked it for many years. The reasons have changed as I’ve evolved as a man, husband, father, and now aging cynic. At the base of it, I reject the fundamental reason for the Holiday. I have never, despite fleeting moments of attempted conformity, totally believed in the Christ story. I think it is a nice idea. Part of me wants desperately to believe in it. Yet, it largely eludes me. I remain a deeply spiritual yet skeptical man.
Lack of belief aside, I played along. As I said, it’s a very nice idea, and it gives a lot of people comfort. So I played along with my family as a child and young man. I went to Church with them, I partook in the pageants, and I even went Caroling. The pageantry appealed to me to a degree. At my core, I know I enjoyed it when people were nice to each other. It was pleasant for a few weeks each year. That, of course, would fade. I learned at a very young age that Christmas, and the accompanying benevolence, was largely bullshit. A very select few celebrated the actual reason for the season, everyone else practiced rampant consumerism and excess. The charity ended when the trees hit the sidewald on January 2nd.

The consumerism in my house was noteworthy. My parents, who practiced relative financial responsibility most of the year, went full consumer on Christmas. For my dad, showing my Mother how much he loved her was a challenge. He did this by bestowing an obscene amount of gifts on her. Which of course, she would try to reciprocate, and it evolved into a big contest. I was well taken care of as well. But I wasn’t very materialistic, and my experience was watching the obscene gift exchange play out before me. I can’t find a word to describe how it made me feel, but ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘misguided’ come to mind.

When I had my own family, I began to enjoy Christmas a little. The Christmas Eve party was something to look forward to. The enticing aromas of appetizers and the exotic and abundant cocktails were delightful. Sharing all that with family and friends made it even more special. Even when I knew we had an all-nighter ahead, putting together the big toys was necessary. This was after the nearly impossible task of getting excited little ones to sleep. I hated it then, but what I wouldn’t give now to be awoken at 4:30 AM (or earlier) by excited tykes checking out the bounties of Santa Claus. We would sometimes succeed in getting them back to bed. However, it was more likely that I would make my coffee. I would then watch as three months of planning went into action. Shopping and wrapping quickly transitioned into torn paper and opened gifts before our tired eyes. It was frustrating then, but the joy on their faces remains one of my favorite memories as a father. The gifts were an easy and fun way to express our love. The joy on their faces justified all the work and stress. A labor of love with a tremendous yield indeed.
I miss those days, brief and fleeting as they were, so very much.

As the kids grew older, Christmas lost its luster. Not only to the parents. The kids no longer believed in the myth of a bearded Man with Reindeer-powered sleighs. They learned that it’s just the parents doing the best they can. And we did. Christmas was always a day that we tried to make a special family day, to mixed results. But my wife and I tried our best. Even as we went our different ways after financial hardship fell upon us. We made the most of it.

Now, we are at a special time for Christmas. The kids are all grown and have their own places. My role, and my ex’s, has evolved from caretaker to guest. Our children now invite us to their homes and wait on us. I want to clarify something. It is now their pleasure to tend to us. It is not their obligation or duty. It is such a nice transition. Additionally, there is a baby in our Christmas celebration once again, with one on the way. This year, Christmas Eve felt special once again. My little granddaughter just stole the show. Reminding me that the joy of the Holiday lies in the joy of the Children.

The hardest transition, for my ex not me, is letting the kids have Christmas day to themselves. I think my ex struggles with this one. I think she, much like me, carries a lot of guilt and resentment of how things were for our family. Consequently, she (in my opinion) tries a bit too hard. But she has accepted that they have their own lives now, with in-laws of their own to visit with. As for me, I enjoy having Christmas day to myself.

This Christmas Eve, as I said, was very pleasurable. The food was amazing, the company better, and the memories forever. Our family is thriving in so many ways. The only problem is that I wasn’t feeling well. I have been fighting a losing battle with a cold and I couldn’t wait to go home and rest. When I was invited to my youngest Son’s house the next day, I made it a game-day decision to attend.
Regrettably, I did not attend. As expected, I felt miserable yesterday and stayed home. I know I missed a good time, and I wish I had been able to go. Had I gone, I wouldn’t have been given the time and environment to stew on how much, save for the family time, I dislike the Christmas holiday. I spent the entire day alone. I never showered, dressed, or left the house. I wallowed in how the Holiday is still lost on me.
I don’t feel the religious “tug” of the day.
I think most of the sentiment is horseshit and will end as soon as the page of the calendar turns.
I resent the gross consumerism and excess of the season.
Most, not all, of the charitable attitudes will disappear with the holiday.
I have no one to be joyful with.

There it is. Nothing exacerbates my dislike of the holidays more than my absence of a special someone in my life. It permeates my life during all seasons, but it is so very conspicuous during the Holidays. So many people around me are downright giddy about sharing wonderful moments with their loved ones. While I am happy for them, it depresses me terribly. I struggle with wanting a special someone in my life year-round. This time of year the weight is almost unbearable.


A Dog’s purpose

The other night, while strolling through 179 channels of nothing I came across the movie A Dog’s Purpose. I’d heard of it, in particular, that it was sad. I’ve wanted to watch it but I learned my lesson with Marley and Me after I barely recovered from the ending of Old Yeller some 45 years ago.

An aside, I can watch the worst horror movie jam packed with gratuitous sex, entrails hanging from the rafters and enough blood to fill a swimming pool and I will sit, unflinching as I munch popcorn. There is no limit to the depravity I can view and call it entertainment. But I lose my mind if an animal is harmed, especially a dog.

Curiosity prevailed and I selected it and sat back in my recliner. An hour and a half later I sat transfixed as the credits rolled. It was worth the watch, in fact it was wonderful. There were a few scenes that made me tear up, including the ending but it was a joyful brand of tear-jerker.

If you’ve seen it please indulge me, this is not a movie review but instead a homage to the lead character, the beloved dog.

In short, the movie is about a dog who experiences reincarnation. It is narrated from the dog’s POV and the story takes us through about 30 years, starting with a young Golden Retriever that belongs to a young boy in the 70’s. Most of the movie occurs with this character as he loyally stays by the side of the boy as he grows into a young man. It is an extraordinary relationship and the scene when the Dog (Bailey) gets put down is indeed a tear-jerker. It didn’t help that I stood in such a Dr.’s office less than a year ago as we watched our beloved Brandon draw his last breath. The movie unfortunately nailed the pain and grief of the moment and I was impressed but sad. By sad I mean bawling like an idiot. But the movie brings the viewer back to smiling as we see Bailey emerge as a new puppy, one possessed by the knowledge that he was “back” and had the presence of ,mind to remember his past life. We are walked through several incarnations of Bailey; a German Shepherd Police dog that gets killed in the line of duty, a Corgi that dies of old age under the love of a married woman that he had been with since she was in college, and finally a Mutt that has a miserable life at the hand of an abusive owner. But the owner sets him free (cruelly, by just pulling the truck over and kicking the dog out) but our hero turns it into a blessing when he reconnects with (by the power of the wet nose) a woman from his first life. This woman was the girlfriend of his first owner and they had broken up as teenagers. Amazingly, he reunites the two, who fall in love again and get married thanks to their 4 legged matchmaker. The movie ends as Bailey miraculously manages to convince his former owner that he is indeed his old dog in a new body. It is a beautiful, tender moment and a wonderful ending to a movie.

Thus confirming what I have known since I buried my first dog as a young teenager.

A Dog’s Purpose is to form a completely unique and unbreakable bond with us, make life unimaginable without them and then leave us too soon with a enormous, smoking hole in our very souls. If we value friendship, and most people do, we are left feeling as if we have lost our best friend.

I don’t know how the chain was determined, how it was decided which animals are chosen to be beasts of burden, which are food and which become domesticated companions. The line is further blurred as we see species never before regarded as a pet; reptiles, goats, pigs, miniature horses, cows and even “wild” animals such as big cats and bears showing up on cute FB videos as “pets”. As refreshing as these friendships are none are as special and, let’s face it, as natural as the relationship between the dog and man.

I’ve experienced a lot of loss in my life. In fact, I have often felt that I have experienced more than my share. I’ve been to a staggering number of funerals. Dear friends in HS at the hands of tragic accidents. Family members. The loss of my father to name a few. Sadly, I think I am more “over” all of them than I am my first dog. Am I saying that a mere dog meant more to me than my father, family and friends?

Of course not.
It’s just not the same. The hole left to fill is as big as a Black Hole. Friskie, my first dog, was my earliest memory. He was a pure-bred Brittany Springer Spaniel, gun-shy at a young age and rendered useless as a hunting dog. We found him at a shelter when I was about 5. He became my constant companion, my shadow, my best friend. As a child with few friends, we were especially close. He even saved my life. Twice.

We lived on the bottom of a hill that was the main route to get to the Middle school. One day, I was playing by the street and my football got away from me. I followed it into the street and suddenly found myself being tackled. It was Friskie, who ran across the street from the other side. A school bus nearly missed him as he knocked me to the ground. We were both nearly killed. As he sat on my chest, he looked into my eyes and I swear at that moment that I was staring into the eyes of a kindly, wise old man. He was never “just a dog” to me.

I was a teenager when he died. Despite him being an older dog that lived a full, wonderful life, I was crushed.

For years I missed him. We got another dog, which I loved. Mom and Dad had a few after I went out on my own, and I loved to visit them. Their household always had a dog, my parents were in agreement with me that despite how crushed you are, no matter how big the hole they leave, another dog is the key to recovery. Not that you ever get over that particular dog, you simply need to fill the hole in your life.

When I moved in with my mother her dog, which she shared with my father before he passed, was healthy and thriving despite his advanced age. A year later, that changed. I hated to go through it again; I wasn’t ready. But I put on a good face, and I tried to love him through the concerned looks and worry. I believe that it is imperative to love a senior dog as much as you did the puppy and be there when they are in pain and to always be there when it is their time to shut their eyes forever. We owe it to them, and that is just what we did. It was terribly painful, but I have no regrets. Other than our four-legged friends not living forever, that is.

My Mom got another dog. She had to. Hers was a dog home, and we are dog people. Her new dog, a beautiful Cocker Spaniel pup named Sammy (Samuel L. Spaniel, his favorite human word is Motherf@#ker lol) is a pure destructive delight that brightens her house in ways that I can’t even count. He checks all of the boxes when it comes to loyalty and unconditional love. Although I don’t live there anymore, I visit as often as I can. I will deny this to my Mother, but sometimes I need to hug Sammy more than I need to visit her.

Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I have to wonder. Beyond what is he thinking and what his particular need is at the time, and wonder if it is possible that we have met before. That behind his young eyes is the wisdom of an old dog. One that has met me before and is as glad to be reunited with him as I. Then I remind myself that reincarnation is not real, that it is impossible. That what I am feeling is just unconditional, pure and unfiltered love.

For to love me more than it loves itself; to only think of and need me alone when I sit preoccupied with the events of my day; to devote its entire life to being there for me…THAT is a Dogs Purpose.

Moving forward

I’ve been in a good place recently. I feel well, my upcoming biopsy is on my mind, but not consuming me. I’ve maintained the weight loss and am getting frequent comments of support. Also, I am rapidly approaching the 12-month milestone of sobriety. It pleases me that I’m not tempted to imbibe despite the high prevalence of alcohol everywhere during the Holiday Season. Additionally, my mental health has been better. In particular, I am struggling less with the self-worth issues that have plagued me.

I really don’t understand why I struggle so with self-worth. Particularly at this stage in my life. I am definitely on the back nine of life. I have nothing to prove to anyone. My children are grown, and by all measures, successful. The worrying never ceases as a parent. However, now that they are grown, my children are a source of comfort, not worry.
My career is over. Any work I undertake going forward will be done at my discretion and on my own terms. The days of worrying about my job are over. Gone with it are the endless attempts at pleasing thankless employers through giving entirely too much of myself. Now, money is about survival.
I have a thriving social life. I actually have more events to attend than time to do them. While most men my age, according to studies, have few friends, I have an abundance.
Things are good because I’m trying to look at things through a different lense.

I have been feeling overwhelmed of late. I continue to ignore my limitations and carry a full calendar. I do too much and then lament how tired I am. It’s because I can’t say no.
As an active Mason, I have the ability to be out as much as I want. There is always something going on. Being known as an active Mason, I get invited to a lot of events. Masonic events are a true joy for me. I truly enjoy the company of my Brothers, some of the best men I have ever met. And Masonry itself, what can I say, I love everything about it. The civility, historical significance, the fraternal atmosphere appeal to my very being. It is hard saying no because everything is a “can’t miss.”
But it takes a toll on me. I get so tired that I need time to recover.

Since my recovery I have been Jim Carrey in Yes Man. I hit the ground running and started to live my life as if living itself were dependent upon saying YES! After spending so much time dealing with being sick and potentially without a future, I began to spend my time enjoying being healthy with the prospect of living a full life. I love saying Yes.
But then I got tired. I began to have difficulty bouncing back from too many nights out and required more rest. Every instinct told me to take a break, that not everything requires me to be there. So I took a small break. That wasn’t the answer. Slowing down is the exact opposite of what I need. If I have to pick one, because I am totally incapable of walking a line down the middle, I have to pick being busy.
I can rest when I’m dead.

What I have come to realize is that being active has been very good for my mental health.

Facing Health Fears: From Transplants to Cancer Risks

I discovered an interesting trend this morning. Whenever I see a “click-bait” post about dangerous health conditions, I always click on it. “These 3 symptoms indicate heart failure. “Do you have these symptoms that indicate lung cancer?” “These factors could indicate Colon Cancer”. I can’t resist it.

It could mean that I’m a hypochondriac, but that’s not it. There’s a darker motive; I am convinced that I am going to contract a non-renal related disease and die. I could sugar-coat it, but why bother?

I should be concerned about my Kidney transplant failing. It’s logical after all, it’s happened before. But that won’t kill me. The worst-case scenario would be dialysis. Dialysis is a less-than-ideal option. I absolutely hated dialysis. I was sick. My blood work was always askew. I had terrible reactions that led to agonizing treatments. I felt terrible towards the end. When I got the call for a new Kidney, it could not have come soon enough. I absolutely dread the notion of doing it again, but as the expression goes, “But did you die?”. It wouldn’t kill me, but I can say goodbye to any quality of life.

No, I am afraid of cancer. Post-transplant (both times), I was given lengthy lectures on the do’s and don’ts of living with a new organ. Risks of rejection, hazards to avoid, the importance of faithfully taking medications, etc. I listened and understood, but it didn’t faze me. Very little did, I just wanted to go out and live again. But there was another conversation that occurred that replays in my head on a loop because it rocked me hard.
“Because you are on immunosuppressant medications, you will be very susceptible to certain types of cancer. Of which you may not be able to fight with a compromised immune system.” That statement terrified me.

It would prove to be true, the part about being susceptible to certain cancers. I have had bouts with skin cancer 7 times and counting. But I’m not afraid of skin cancer. I worry about Lung Cancer, Colon Cancer, and Prostate. All of them are diseases that I may not be able to fight while taking my current regimen of medications. It logically follows that I may one day face a decision. It could turn out to be a Pyrrhic choice in which I lose my kidney to save my life.

I’m facing such a choice now. I am currently undergoing a scare of sorts. My prostate has been problematic for a few years. I have had 2 MRIs. I have a growth that has been biopsied. My PSA is climbing, and the mass is growing. My second Biopsy is scheduled for next month. It may be terrible, it may only be something to watch. It still scares the bejeesus out of me. As does the idea of dying of cancer itself.

In the spirit of maintaining complete and raw honesty in my writing, I confess that I am not always afraid of death. There is a often discussed state of being in which people say that living has become a chore. That they are not living, but merely existing. I have those moments where I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to be here either. I have even grappled with the most difficult of decisions. Should I stay around? I don’t want to hurt the ones I would leave behind. They would have nothing to ask but why. How could I ever explain to them that I was alive enough to show up? Yet, I was also dead enough not to care if I did. That conversation is had in the darkest hour of your worst sleepless night. Of which I’ve had plenty.
Of course, I was very sick then.

Now, I go down the rabbit hole of continued existence less often. Overall, I enjoy my life. I am active both physically and socially. I have many friends that I rely on for support. I am able to live independently and care for myself, once that was only a dream. Yet, I am consumed with worry about so many things about my future. So much that the notion of just leaving it all does still occur to me.

But, this is a very big consideration. If faced with another life-threatening illness, I wonder if I would have the motivation to fight. Would I have my trademark grit and determination? Or would I say “Thank God” and just let it take me. Would I rage against that good night? Or would I fade away into it?

I hate that I think about these things. But the fact remains that I do. Frequently. It truly depends on my mood. I’m not sad or depressed. On good days I want to live forever; Head up, chest out, larger than life, ready to take on all comers. On the bad days, I would welcome an opportunity to put down my shield, stop fighting everyone and everything, and just let death take me.

It’s exhausting being me.