Category: legacy

Supermarket Stress

I used to poke fun at my late Grandmother for going shopping on a Saturday morning. My grandmother never worked and had her days to herself. While she kept a nice house for her husband, she had ample time during the week to shop for food. Yet, there she was every Saturday morning. She fought the “stop/start walkers”. She also faced the “I’m not paying any attention to who’s around me” people, and the long register lines. I never understood how she wouldn’t go during off hours, as well as question how she was so calm.

I would later learn that she liked being around all of the people. Despite her Yankee Blue-Blood mannerisms, she was quite sociable and found the supermarket to be stimulating. I also like to be around people. However, my going to the market today was a mistake. I forgot it was a Saturday. Before Christmas. My God, what was I thinking?

I am in the accountability phase of my life, which I imposed on myself. I think a segment of my blog will be about what I did right and wrong each day. I believe this exercise will help me. I often struggle to reconcile my desired behavior with my actual behavior. I want to walk the walk, as it were. In this vein, let me say that I could have done better today.

I like to food shop. I always have a carefully prepared list, often in order based on the setup of the store. I put my ear buds in, find a good playlist and do my thing. With the music drowning it all out I do my thing. I’m usually patient with the unaware aisle blockers. I always wait patiently and graciously accept the inevitable apologies for holding things up. I make sure that I am not in the way. I also look out for the short person who can’t reach something on the top shelf. It’s a great opportunity to do something nice, and it is much in need. And above all, I’m always pleasant.

Today, while I don’t think I was rude or offensive to anyone, I could have done better. As a well-established sufferer of General Anxiety, I have mastered preventative measures. One of them is to recognize situations as potentially anxiety-inducing and either brace for it or avoid it entirely. Pulling into the parking lot today was a more than adequate warning. The lot was packed. People were scampering back and forth. The impatience of people waiting for a parking spot was evident. That served as fair warning. I contemplated not going in. I did need food but only a couple of items were needed to get through today. I decided that I would only grab a few items. Which would have been a good plan had I stuck to it.

I would pay for that error in judgment. I set myself up to get aggravated. Normally, I can handle a little aggravation. But I wasn’t prepared for the sudden stops. The aisles were blocked. People were completely unaware and perusing labels. Carts were stacked up like planes on a snowy runway. Add to this stress soup my very favorite occurrence. Every item I searched for had at least one person standing right in front of it.
That is where I could have done better.
With every aisle that I attempted to navigate, I was trying to make sure that I wasn’t in anyone’s way. A courtesy I was clearly alone in extending. It got to the point that everything I was trying to get was blocked by someone. I became overwhelmed, and while I didn’t actually say anything my face surely spoke volumes. I’m know for that, unfortunately.

I do not believe that I hurt any feelings. But, in my anxiety-fueled quest to get out of the congestion and chaos, I am sure that I looked annoyed. I might have even looked angry. And for that, I wish I could have done better. I consider myself a tolerant, patient and social person. I try to not be in a hurry, and I always take a deep breath and remind myself that I share this planet with other people. It bothers me that I failed to exhibit that today. I was simply overwhelmed.

This is a victimless crime. I’m sure nobody is thinking about the rude guy in the black hoodie. Because I wasn’t rude and it wasn’t that big of a deal. To them. To me, whenever I fail to act as the person I want to be I make a big deal out of it. It is part of my quest to be a better, more virtuous person.

Which brings me to the heart of the issue. I am not perfect, and I don’t understand why I am so hard on myself for merely being human. I think it’s fair to say that most mere mortals don’t hold themselves to such a standard. My only consolation is that I know it comes from a good place. I’m just trying to be accountable.

The Case Manager

As I mentioned in the previous post, upon my recovery, I realized that the following life changes were within my grasp.

I could get my own place.
I could go back to work.
I could date again.
I could move back closer to my family, friends, and groups that I belonged to.

Let’s talk about going back to work. The only person more grateful for the gift of another chance at life was me in 2011, after my first Transplant. I was a grateful S.O.B. to the Nth degree. I resolved to hit the ground running while doing good and paying it my gift forward. I wasn’t trying to redeem myself, I was merely trying to be a better, more moral, kind, and humble person. Sitting in a hospital bed for extended periods of time, with the nights being especially dark and lonely, a man has much time to evaluate his life. During my recovery I concluded that I was not the man I wanted to be. Not bad, not immoral. I simply wasn’t being the person I knew I could be and wanted to be. So when I got healthy I was a new man physically and spiritually. Then I got sick again.
Sigh.
2011 Grateful me was no match for 2021 Grateful Me. That sonofabitch was motivated.
I wanted to go back to work. I wanted to reclaim something. I had missed the satisfaction of a job well done since leaving the workforce. I also missed helping someone in the process. I decided that I wanted to be a Recovery Case Manager at a Drug and Alcohol treatment center. I had heard from someone who worked at the local center. They said training was being offered. No previous experience was needed. They also said that I would be a good fit.

As it turned out, I was. The interview went swimmingly well. The lead Case Managers were impressed with my story, they recognized and appreciated my real-world experience and, as I was told later, they thought my personality was perfect for the job. Wouldn’t you know it? I was a natural fit for the job.

The training was long and difficult. Recovery patients are a particularly challenging demographic. They have little in common with each other than addictive tendencies and their ability to lie and manipulate. I could handle that. I have an excellent Bullshit detector and I know how to handle people. At first, my customer service background limited me, I had a customer is always right mentality. My trainers broke me of that quickly. I was allowed, even encouraged, to call out lies and BS in order to obtain breakthroughs. I soon became regarded as one of the best RCM’s at the facility. As it turns, my style was appreciated.

I loved the job. I worked hard and I gave my clients all that I had. My fellow RCM’s and managers told me not to give so much, that the clients would use me and my good nature against me. And they did. But still, I helped many more than I hurt. I say this without ego or hubris; I was great at it.

Until I started getting sick. All the time. The clients came in from so many hazardous conditions and places. Living on the streets, halfway houses, jails, post-benders. Many were sick and there I was, an immunocompromised transplant patient being sneezed on at the height of Covid. It would lead me to make a very difficult decision.

I was able to work due to the Social Security Disabilty Insurance Ticket to Work program. For up to 9 months, I could earn any amount of money while still collecting my benefits. At the end of the trial period, I faced a decision. I had to choose whether to go back to work and lose my benefits or stay on them. At 8 months, I was suffering from a head cold that I had enjoyed for over a month. I was constantly sick due to my weak immune system. My doctor sounded the alarm. My kidney would not withstand constant attacks on my system.
Reluctantly, I had to choose to stay on benefits.

I could tell you that I have regrets, but I made the right decision. I needed to accept, finally, that I had limitations that couldn’t be ignored. I really miss that job. It was strenuous, it paid poorly and I took it home with me every night. But I did some good, made a positive impact on some, and was part of some great stories. I wish I could do it again, but it’s just not wise. The new grateful me is also interested in living for a while longer

I’m sure I will talk about my time as a Case Manager frequently. It was a special time.

The challenges of surviving

I had a difficult time transitioning back into life on my own. I can’t help but wonder if I actually thought that I would recover from my illness. I had lost everything; my home, my career, my family, and most of what I owned. I spent years dealing with the immediacy of my condition and it took all I had to just get through each day. People describe me as optimistic, but I wasn’t. I merely summoned the strength to get through. In addition, I lied about how I was feeling and put a brave face on so that the people that love me wouldn’t worry about me. Inside, I was depressed at times, very weary of acting strong, and was ready to give up more than once. I actually considered suicide.

I had dreams of what the other side of illness would look like, but they were just that. It’s a tough revelation but I stand by it, I didn’t think it would happen for me and I had resigned myself that I was probably going to die. It really fucked up my plans when I lived.

Well shit, what was I going to do now? Suddenly, I had to come up with a plan for after my recovery. All the things that I wanted to do but thought I never would were now within the realm of possibility.
I could get my own place.
I could go back to work.
I could date again.
I could move back closer to my family, friends, and groups that I belonged to.
I could do anything I wanted without carrying the extension cord to the dialysis machine.

So far I have tackled all of these things. They are all a work in progress and they all proved to be challenging, even daunting. Much madness, joy and sadness ensued, as well as some really great stories. If nothing else, they are great inspirations for blog posts.

A voyeur of my own life

I’m not depressed. Really I’m not. Maybe if I say it enough times then I’ll believe it.
Who am I kidding? If it is or isn’t, this is just what I do.
I isolate. It’s better for me if I acknowledge that I don’t have the stamina that I used to. I’m disabled, maybe I should admit it. When you’re disabled you have to remind yourself that you only have so much in you each day and when you’re tired, then go with it. Lately I’ve been embracing that notion, to perhaps an unhealthy level.

But people are worrying about me. They don’t understand what I’m trying to do. I’m doing a reset. Truth is, I like being alone.
I do my best thinking. I save money. By avoiding people I avoid piquing my anxiety, which is running roughshod over my weak ass lately. I’m safe in my little space. Not safe like a little Gen Z snowflake afraid to get his feelings hurt, just safe from encountering extra stimuli that is going to serve as the proverbial straw that broke the Camel’s back. That’s why I isolate. There is nothing that says that I have to be out there doing stuff all the time. It’s ok to spend time alone.
Did I mention that I was never like that before this year?
It’s true. This is very new. I used to be the guy that needed to be around people all of the time. I suppose that’s before people in my life started letting me down, or just the day that I noticed a lack of equity in my relationships. Equity is a nice way of saying that I’m tired of giving more than I’m capable of and getting the minimum monthly payment back. Disclaimer, I do have some very good friends. But there are a couple that hurt me recently and I’m not going to lie, it stings. It’s causing me to reevaluate how much I give of myself to those that don’t deserve it. While I’ll never pull it off, I’m tempted to dump my trademark “be kind” and not be so fucking nice all of the time. You can be a good person without being a punching bag. Fuck the high road, and fuck anyone that did me dirty.

I have thought a lot about my isolation recently. I have been forcing myself to go out and do something each day, no matter how small. Last night I decided to take the bike out. It was a hot day but by 7 it cooled enough and it was perfect riding weather. I could have called several friends, any one of who would have joined me but I went alone. I drove to a lake and sat at the edge looking at nothing and everything like a first year Philosophy student. Other than some serenity, I didn’t feel much of anything.

Therein lies the problem. I don’t feel anything anymore. Until very recently I was basking in that post-transplant glow. Full of promise, a new lease, the ability to do things that once appeared to be unavailable. Now, I’m joyless. I don’t feel things like I should. I spend my TV time watching Documentaries on subjects that irritate me, made by people I don’t like or respect. I watch indie dramedies in search of that amazing love story that rips my fucking heart out, because I don’t have that but I want to FEEL IT! I’m challenging my entire paradigm to figure out why I am a voyeur in my own goddamn life.

How can I be a spectator of my own life?

Legacy?

I was recently asked how do I want to be remembered? What an incredibly timely and often thought-about topic.

See, I am all about Legacy. I live my life every day in such a way that should I not wake up the next day, I hope that I will be remembered fondly. I leave each person in my life in such a way that should it be the last time we see each other, that memory would be good and not a regret.

Having said that, I am not living to die. If you knew my medical history, and how truly close I have come (several times) to dying from a chronic illness and related episodes, then it would make more sense. But I, more than most people, really don’t have a lot of time left and I can justify such a mentality. I want to build a legacy, and perhaps most importantly, I want to do it by changing the world, my world, one charitable of kind transaction at a time.

Let’s get this out of the way right away. I don’t want to be remembered in a lofty way. I don’t care for people to be in awe of honors, accolades, and accumulated wealth. I have earned very few honors, I hate accolades, and I am poor and expect to be until that day comes. 

Here’s what I want. I hope that when I die, my son will honor my request to give me a casual service and an open bar. At that bar, I most desire that a glass would be raised to my character. I hope that my friends and acquaintances will remember me as a good guy, a charitable soul and that I made a difference to somebody. Then I want people to share stories of the weirdest/funniest/most awkward/stupid/embarrassing thing that I did or said in front of them.

See, I haven’t had much luck laughing at myself in my life. But I have no problem with others doing it for me. As long as their memories of me make them smile.

Everything must go

I’ve been struggling lately. I am reluctant to say that I have been sad, but I have been isolating more than usual and feel like I’m searching for something. Despite my lack of physical activity this past week, the mental energy expended was triathlon level. I have been evaluating everything, challenging my own viewpoints and beliefs, and wondering why someone with such a fulfilling life can feel such despair.
I sought the advice of a friend, which is hard for me because I don’t tend to share the very personal with people. I tend to laugh off, minimize and generally suppress that which gnaws at me. To my amazement, after hearing about my funk, he asked me if I ever properly processed the difficult events in my life.
I scoffed at him, it’s what I do.
He was ready for that. He knew that was what I do. So I thought about it, and I wasn’t happy with what I came up with. I may have handled the situation(s) but I never dealt with them.

Yes, those who know me may assume that the myriad of health problems that I have experienced would be the most traumatic experiences of my life. They would be wrong. Health is easy to deal with. With illness, it may take a while but you deal with it. You accept it, if you’re smart you will follow directions and maybe change some habits, and leave the rest up to fate. You either live or you don’t, the very “out of ones hands” nature of illness makes it that simple. The only obstacle is pain, but you get used to that as well.
What I never dealt with is the emotional trauma, which goes way back, of everything from the bullying in school to my failed marriage and everything in between. It was a nice revelation but I am clueless to how to act on it.

Enter one of the things that I do like about myself, my persistent tendency to always be on the lookout for a sign. I believe in signs. It is my belief that the universe communicates with those in tune through signs. I actively look for them everywhere and in everything; by studying my surroundings with an open mind and heart, in my choice of shows or movies, even in interactions with others. I have been inspired by the smallest of things and in the most unlikely of places. Today, I found great inspiration and even some answers in a Will Ferrell movie, of all things.

Everthing Must Go is a sleeper movie that slipped under the mainstream but caught the attention of a few respected movie critics. It is the rare Drama done by a comedian considered to be out of his depth that surprises you. Not unlike Reign Over Me with Adam Sandler and Moscow on the Hudson with Robin Williams. Of course, Robin Williams would go on to be a respected dramatic actor but you get the point.
In Everything Must Go, the main character loses his job and marriage on the same day. Both due to his chronic alcoholism. He returns to his house to find all of his belongings in the front yard, door locks changed and his bank accounts frozen. With no funds or other means to do anything, he chooses to live with all of his belongings in his front yard. In the ensuing days he endures a crash course in confronting the issues of his life. As expected, what unfolded was a painful emotional roller coaster. One that I related to almost to the point of tears.
He was forced to deal with his alcoholism, his choices, his accountability for his role in the failure of his marriage and career, and I was held in rapt attention. The familiarity was staggering. The impact of alcohol on his life was particularly poignant. The failure of his marriage was downright painful. All of it was just too close to home. And it proved to me that my friend was SPOT ON correct that I never dealt with my marriage, my choices, my place in life and my deeply repressed emotions on ALL of it.
Watching the movie unfold, I felt the despair, the frustration, the longing, the pain as if it was my own. And like my life, the story did not have a happy ending. Yes, I know my life is not over but I’m not expecting great things in the future.
The only positive takeaway I have is that it was a movie. I still have time, not to recover that which was lost, but to finally deal with the trauma of my past. It’s critical to mention here that my use of the word “trauma” is a rarity. I tend to downplay, even be derisive, of people who use the word. But it’s time that I face up to it, finally.
Being minimized at work and home, being forced to tolerate rampant abuse by employers who knew that I needed the job and could do nothing about it, being a mere roommate to my wife, and then finally having the chewed-up carcass of what was left of my life spit out by chronic illness nearly destroyed me.
That is trauma. The fact that I am still standing notwithstanding, it needs to be dealt with.

I may have to focus on that for a while.

Dad talk

I was recently asked what my Dad was like when I was younger.

I love talking about my Dad. In fact, I visited him yesterday. I talked a lot, in fact, I did all the talking. Primarily, because he can’t hear me through 6 feet of dirt and a Veteran’s Grave marker. He may have died 10 1/2 years ago but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. 

One of the things I remember most about my Dad was a conversation we had towards the end of his life. As Parkinson’s ravaged his body, transforming him into a shadow of the mighty Oak he once was, he became briefly interested in his legacy. He didn’t have much regard for how people felt about him and he wasn’t a man with many regrets, but he was concerned about how he was as a Dad. I was shocked when he brought it up.

“Do you resent me for being out of the house so much”?

I had never really thought of it. He worked all the time. Side jobs, overtime, helping my Grandfather. “Out” wasn’t out with the boys or time spent on himself. It was work. Other than that he was home being a great Dad. And, it wasn’t as if I had a reference point to compare his time home to others. All of my friends’ Dads worked, most of them a lot. I always thought that’s how it was supposed to be, the parents provide so the kids can thrive.

“Not at all, Dad”, I replied. “I didn’t resent you ever, about anything. I admired your work ethic and I always looked to you with pride for your accomplishments.”

A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He caught my reference. I was reminding him of something he thought about every day of his life, his upbringing. My Dad came from very humble beginnings. He lived in the poorest section of town, one of 4 kids. Of he and his multiple cousins, Dad was the one with the work ethic, the good eyesight and the desire to do better. I mention eyesight because it has been theorized that my Dad was the product of an affair. His entire family wore thick glasses, Dad could spot a feather out of place on a Hawk’s tail at 2000 feet. Dad was also the only one to make something of himself. He joined the military, learned a skill, joined a Union, bought a house. Instead of being happy for him, he was chided by his family as the “Rich one”. To them, Middle Class was rich. Me, I was the “Rich Kid”. I hated them for that. I developed a “fuck’em” attitude early on.

So, knowing all of this, I never had a problem with his hard work. It was all for us.

But the real matter at hand here is what was my Dad like when he WAS home. The answer is simultaneously simple and complex. He tried too hard, because someone in his life didn’t try hard enough. He had very high expectations for me, but he forced a lot of them on me because he never had the opportunities I had. He wanted to be an amazing father and husband, but he put on metaphorical “hats” (Hubby hat, Dad hat, Neighbor hat, etc) and in the process denied himself some of the more genuine moments of family life because he couldn’t just relax and be himself. Those moments were rare but so very special.

I am not a revisionist historian. I don’t paint the past pretty colors in an attempt to make it more palatable. I didn’t always get along with my Dad. He pushed me very hard at a time when I was too mixed up to handle my own problems. He didn’t recognize those times when I needed him to take off the damn hat and just be there for me. I don’t blame him, I just feel that at times he was more worried about outrunning his childhood than being present in mine.

I am glad to say that, later in life we became close. We closed the gap, evened the playing field as it were. He went on to be a loving and doting Grandfather to my children and I think he made peace with most of his demons.

He died young from a terrible disease. He is missed by a lot of people. Most of all by me.

Quality time

I’ve always enjoyed “Down-time”. Somehow, I went from never having any time to myself; I worked a lot through school and carried a maximum course load, I pulled at least 2 all-nighters per week in college and worked full time, and after college, I worked 2 jobs. Once I became a family man, my life only got busier. I always craved a day, or even a few hours to myself life never really allowed it. In the off chance that I did have some free time, time without a wifey-issued “Honey Do” list or a parental commitment, I enjoyed finding a movie or a documentary that interested me and I would enjoy it with a whiskey and maybe a hit or two of some stinky weed. That was all my life allowed.

When illness took me out of the “busy” phase of my life I found myself with the opposite problem, too much time on my hands. It was dreadful for me, the transition of paces. In addition, much of the downtime was, and I’m not sure if I’m phrasing this properly, but much of it was unusable. For starters, I was on dialysis. Dialysis is incredibly time-consuming and none of it is valuable. It consists of waiting, forcing yourself to be still for over 4 hours with a painful needle in your arm, and treatments often resulted in my feeling nauseous or outright sick. When I was home, between sessions, I slept a lot and generally felt ill.

Unusable.

Once I got used to dialysis and managed to find some quality of life, I recognized that I needed to get some joy in my life. It is fair to say, as I look back, that I had limited expectations of my longevity. So I created a bucket list. Instead of accomplishments and destinations, I made a list of things that would make me happy. Having concluded long before that real happiness has eluded me in the past, I was determined that if I can’t die accomplished, then I would at least die at peace.

The first item on my list was therapy. Not in the form of a psychiatrist or Psychologist, but in wind. Wind therapy is expensive but remarkably simple. All you need is a motorcycle. So despite feeling sick all of the time, despite lacking funds and despite the naysayers who warned of the dangers I bought a bike.

I absolulely love riding my motorcycle. While I enjoy the comraderie it provides, motorcycling is very social and many treat it as a Brotherhood, I also enjoy accumulating bugs in my teeth while riding alone. The fresh air and smells of the countryside does wonders for my mood, and hanging corners provides just enough adrenaline to remind me that I am ALIVE.

I really can’t close on a better note. There is a difference between prolonging the inevitability of death and actually feeling alive.

Getting outside, preferably with my Iron Steed, is the simple pleasure in life that keeps me going.

I did that

I was recently asked what I have made that I am most proud of. It was an intriguing question that, to answer properly, and tell the story that first comes to mind, required that I take the word “made” out of context a bit. Because the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the words “Made”, and “proud”, the very first thing I think of is my children.

Without putting too fine a point on it, biologically speaking I “made” my children. Putting aside the obvious and fun fact that “making” a baby is a very nice thing, I would also like to think that I helped make them who they are.

This may shock some, but I think all of my children are pretty great. I say that because everyone thinks their kids are great. Sure, many are. Then again, Ted Bundy’s mother thought hers was pretty special also. But I digress. 

My children are a source of great pride to me because they are all good human beings. They have values and act on them. They have big hearts and use them. They are smart, hard-working, caring, generous, and there for each other. They love, and most importantly forgive each other. And their mother and I. That’s a big one.

My children grew up in a tumultuous household with a stressed-out, sick father and Borderline personality (diagnosed later in life) mother. We had plenty of moments of fun and frivolity, as well as loving, tender moments. But many bad episodes ranged from tiptoeing around someone’s bad mood, all the way to F-bombs and words exchanged that can never be taken back. Or forgotten. There were some moments, post-calamity in which I sat back and genuinely feared that the damage done to my children, due to their parent’s inability to control themselves, would be crippling and irreversible. Those moments overpowered me.

I can’t expect someone that hasn’t been through something like that to understand, so I’ll point out the crippling part of such a moment. When you fear repercussions, long-term and crushing ones in which you may have potentially ruined your children’s concept of marriage, relationships, how to treat a man/woman properly, etc., it is not only an unbearable weight but it is also something that will take a long, long time to come to fruition, if at all. All you can do is wait and hope for the best.

Somehow, they all grew up relatively unscathed by the absurdity of their parents’ behavior and are all in healthy, wonderful relationships.

Bullet Dodged. 

I am truly a lucky man to be able to walk free of shame or guilt because my children turned out well. It’s always the goal but there’s never a guarantee of the outcome. I am father to 4 great people, ones that, long after I am gone, will continue to make the world a better place. When people tell me what great kids I have, part of me beams because, let’s face it, I had something to do with it. 

I helped in making them.