the lucky hat

“Did you get that at Fenway?”
Startled from my apparent trance I turned to the kind-faced gentleman behind me in line at the market and recognized that he was referring to my hat. My favorite hat, the Red Sox Scali Cap. “Yes I did, actually” I replied.

“Bet that set you back a few bucks” he said

“Yea, but it was worth it. It’s my good will hat. Besides, it hides my chrome dome” and for effect I took it off and gestured self-deprecatingly at my bald head. He laughed and I then realized it was time to pay the clearly annoyed cashier who obviously had much better places to be today. I paid and walked out.

As I walked to my car I reflected on how NH life was growing on me but I’m still taken off of my game when someone just initiates friendly conversation. While I am a big fan of it I come from an area where people will generally read a candy bar wrapper to avoid eye contact. Enjoying that brief exchange with a friendly stranger, I opened my car to put my groceries in.

“What did you mean by Good Will hat? I thought you said you bought it at Fenway?” My friend from line was parked next to me. He thought I bought it at a GoodWill store.

I told him the Chili’s story.

Many years ago I was at Chili’s restaurant knocking back a few with my buddy Chuck. I liked the bar a lot and I really liked the bartender. Jane was a slightly heavy, forty-ish woman who was a refreshing change from the usual younger, vapid bartenders that flashed cleavage for tips but had little personality. Don’t get me wrong, I love tits but I’m old fashioned and like to have a bartender I can talk to also. I was wearing my hat. Jane was obsessed with my hat. She also had asked me if I had bought it at Fenway. She kept telling me how good I looked in it and I kept telling her to stop hustling for tips. She laughed. Then she told me how much her brother would love a hat like mine.

Over the course of several more beers Jane told Chuck and I of her brother in VT. He was dying of stage 4 prostate cancer. She wanted to get him something to cheer him up. She got a little emotional as she talked of him. The subject was changed.

When I paid my bill, I put the money inside my hat and left it on the bar. When she came over I slid the hat across the bar and told her to give it to her brother. She teared up and I tore out of there. No drama for me that night. Chuck slapped me on the back and told me what a nice gesture that was. Not to be immodest, but I do stuff like that pretty often. If I see a chance to make someone smile, unless I’m really attached to something I will usually give it away,

The next day I saw my buddy Steve on the street. He asked me where my hat was. Unbelievable. I told him the story and he also thought it was great.

2 weeks later I heard a knock on my door and when I opened it there stood Steve with a new hat. “For you” he said. “I was at the game last night, saw this and had to get it for you. You paid it forward and now I am too. Besides, you need to cover that bald head.”

When I finished telling my supermarket friend the story he was full of smiles. ” All of that from one hat, huh?”

“Yup, and every time I wear it I am reminded to spread some good will. Small gestures my friend”.

As we parted ways I jokingly remarked ” do you want it?” He laughed and got in his car.

Small gestures can mean the world to someone.

People suck…or is it you?

“People suck” Steve said. He said this frequently.

“No, they don’t. I refuse to think that way.” I was getting weary of this conversation with my roommate. He is a real nice guy with a good heart but people, with very few exceptions, annoy him.

“Would you at least concede that a good percentage of people suck?”

“Define good percentage” I countered.

“95%, and I’m low-balling it”.

“Not even close, I said. 5% tops.”

“Well, I wish I was like you. You honestly believe that. It must be nice to be as tolerant as you”. By nice of course he really meant gullible, weak and maybe even a “sucker”.

We left it at that. There is no winner with Steve and I. He’s the competitive type who insists on a clear winner or loser, no grey areas. To me, it’s not that simple. Besides, we’ve had this conversation so many times and he has yet to get me to change my percentages. I love how much my faith in humanity, or as he would call it my “naive side”, disturbs him. To his credit, he has a few people in his life that are either bitter disappointments, terrible friends or just downright bad people. He is a good guy with a big heart but he has been burned, anyone can tell, and his inner circle is pretty hard to access. I’m one of the few people he likes and respects. I respect him as well, a lot in fact. And he stands by his numbers.

Me, I also stand by mine. I believe in people. I honestly try to live by the mantra “be nice to all you meet for they are fighting a hard battle”. I believe everyone has a reason that they act as they do. Everyone is dealing with what life is throwing at them, and the faces don’t tell the whole story. And that’s the point. You don’t know so don’t judge. I like people until I have a reason not to. Most people are decent, caring and want the same thing: to be safe, to have a roof over their heads, have food in their stomachs and for their kids to have a future. They are regular people.

People who “suck” are easily definable, bear in mind I am giving my opinion and no one else’s. Murderer’s, child rapists, any criminal who sets out with a clear head intending to hurt people. Add to that religious zealots that harm innocents, thieves who prey on the weaker among us, and those who simply lack empathy. We see those people on the news every day. To Steve’s point, those people do suck.The rest of us, even convicted criminals, may have had a reason to do what they did. And, provided they served some kind of punishment, deserve a chance to redeem themselves and receive forgiveness.

There are a lot of unpleasant or difficult people out there that deserve their own category. The power-hungry mean boss, the back-stabbing co-worker, the aggressive driver that cut you off and then gave you the finger, the list goes on. These people are known as assholes, and they too deserve forgiveness. Because they are not worthy of the anguish they cause. We are a people of forgiveness, understanding, and empathy and we can overcome almost anything.

Steve points to my life and chalks my different attitude up to my circle. As a Freemason, I know a lot of good people. As a frequent volunteer at charity events, I see a lot of nice, giving people. In my professional life, I always had friendly relationships with all of our customers and vendors. With my friends, I am usually the one laughing and slapping backs. He points to these things and says that I live in a bubble. What he fails to see is that I created my situation and the ensuing happiness. I chose to join a fraternity to meet good people; I volunteer to create a positive experience and combat bad situations, I chose to be kind to even the most difficult of professional contacts in order to work better with them; and I choose my friends based on who I want to spend my time with. I control it. The people I can’t control, I deal with them by not giving them the time or the effort. I cut them off like oxygen to a fire.

We are mired in negativity and a lot of people are acting badly. Just like John Coffey said…”I’m tired boss, I’m tired of people being ugly to each other.”

Some people suck. That is true. Anyone who celebrates death and calls 59 deaths at the hands of a shooter in Las Vegas a “community service” because they are likely supporters of the candidate who beat yours…yeah, they suck. People who attack you on social media for your beliefs…yeah they suck. But there’s a block feature or you can scroll through it. We can control it. But the more of us who believe that people suck, I hear people say it all the time and I hate it, are missing the point. We can make a point to find the good, to forgive, and for Christ’s sake let some things go without reacting to it. But don’t give up on them.

the youngest one in the room

Shit! I thought to myself. Where am I going to sit? I told my mother that if you want me to go to a football party with your friends can we at least be early.?

“Here,Billy take a seat over here” said a guy with a kind face, a grey beard and a pot belly who I soon learned was named Charlie. I was then greeted by a bunch of people who I vaguely knew, all greeting me and asking me how I was feeling.

Seeing the opportunity to only have to say it once I told the whole room ” I am feeling better thank you for asking”. That seemed to work and they all went back to what they were talking about when I walked in. “They” are Mom’s friends. A kindly bunch who all seem to make my Mother happy, have somehow been involved with caring for my late father, and have apparently have been kept apprised of my health issues by my mother. I really like the ones that I have met, and I have no doubt that I will like Charlie and everyone else that I will meet during the course of this game. I sat back, grabbed a handful of Smartfood and watched the game. I inserted a couple of wise-cracks, after all it was a room that had never heard any of my jokes, and before I knew it half-time was here.

Enter the buffet.

Arlene, our gracious host and dear friend of Mom had laid out quite the spread. The living room cleared and headed for the kitchen. I politely waited for the line to settle. I’m a little claustrophobic in lines and I hate being bumped into. Personal space matters. Besides, I wanted to see some some half-assed analysis by the sportscasters.

I finally elbowed my way into the kitchen. There was beer. Nope you swore off of it for a while.

Ooh! Antipasta! Dude do you know how much salt is in that “salad”? Your legs will swell like Rosie O’Donnell’s ass!

Chips and dip. Oh man you can’t eat a little you’ll open up that fat guy inside you today if you eat them.

I settled on Chicken wings with no sauce, a piece of Rice Ball Fried (shit I have to eat something!), some antipasta without the prosciuto, carrots and Ranch dressing. I grabbed a diet coke and headed back to my seat.

As I picked at my restrained meal I looked around the room at the happy people, loading up on Arlene’s sweet spread, laughing and having a great time. I wondered to myself how many of them are thinking about their blood pressure right now? Who is concerned about their cholesterol? Who is thinking shit! my legs are going to be so blown up tomorrow? Who is thinking about anything but being in the moment? Just me.

It then occurred to me that I am probably the only one in the room, at half-time on a beautiful day in September thinking about my mortality. And here’s the kicker, By at least 20 years I am the youngest person in the room.

 

where are the flowers?

There they sat. Ken and Keith. Two big guys sitting on two small chairs in my dimly lit hospital room. Despite my pleas otherwise, they had come to visit me. Dear friends and Masonic brothers. We call each other brother to denote how devoted we are to each other, especially when one of us is in distress. I had just finished telling them about how I had given a vase of Sunflowers to the Nurses. They were sent by one of my customers and a masonic brother from Maine. A very thoughtful gift.  Ken challenged me on giving them away. They’re just flowers I told him. Not a big deal to me, a big smile for the Nurses.

“What about you though”  he asked. “They were for you. You know your happiness is important also. At some point you need to make you a priority”. What about me? I thought to myself. I was bloated, miserable, tied to an IV bag and sick of being in a goddamn bed. Other than the now donated flowers the only pretty thing in the room was the occasional twenty something nurse that would trickle in and out. Every time they came through they stopped and admired the flowers. They enjoyed them. I felt that they would be better served at the Nurses station so that they could all enjoy them. I thought it might make their tough day a little more pleasant. And by all accounts it did. But Ken was right also, I didn’t put my own happiness first. I’m not sure I even know what happiness is.

It’s July 2016 and I am in the hospital for the 3rd time that year. I had become so affected by edema (excessive swelling in the face, torso and legs) that I had to be admitted. I was being administered massive doses of diuretics to rid me of the excess fluid and bring my BP down to safe levels. If I could have summed up my mood in one 3 word sentence it would have been fuck my life. That morning I had been informed by my Nephrologist that my kidney function was in decline, that my 5 year old transplant was indeed failing. My dream of having a 15 (or longer) year stretch of good health was now gone. Apparently the disease that ruined my original kidneys was now working on round 2. I was angry. Why wasn’t I told that this could happen?

Conversation shifted from the flowers to other things. I was on day three and my days had been a blur of naps, being woken for blood work, different doctors traipsing in, a restricted diet and being up all night. Then I remembered a particularly interesting encounter from the day before.

I relayed to my brothers how my Nephrologist had come into my room, sat down and asked for a favor. He had medical students with him that day and he was having them interview select patients. Dr. G was concerned with the lack of “bedside manner” in today’s interns. There is more to “doctoring” than pills and charts he explained. He said “Bill you have a great story, will you meet my students and let them pull that story out of you?” Where was I going? I agreed.

The students had come in. I made it hard for them. They had to ask me the questions, dig into my history. They didn’t know what they were getting into. As they refined their questions they heard about personal and professional failures due to health. They heard about family issues, kids who wanted Dad to play ball but Dad couldn’t get off the sofa. They heard about losing a house and filing bankruptcy. They heard about the battle between a mind that visualizes a level of performance that the body simply cannot deliver. I got emotional at points, and they did as well. Dr. G would later thank me and tell me that my story had profoundly affected his interns.

When I was done telling Ken and Keith about this I caught Ken’s direct gaze. He excitedly said “you should write about all of this!” We talked about it some more. Maybe it would be cathartic to write about my experiences. Maybe someone would want to read it and possibly benefit from it. Most importantly, it would help me define my situation before the situation defined me.

The next morning I got a visit from my brother in Maine. After we exchanged pleasantries I saw him looking around the room cautiously. I said “let me guess…you want to know where are the flowers? Funny story…”

 

going slow as fast as I can…

The sun is finally coming out. Almost time to take off my flannel shirt.

A horsefly noisily announces itself as it buzzes my ear. Tiny Dragonflies dance on the tall grass that is the un-manicured part of our yard. At the top of my line of vision is “Beaver Hollow” (as I call it), once a vibrant section of forest that is now a desolate acre of dead trees and beaver dams. The beavers provide some entertainment sometimes, but the damage is done. One perk of Beaver Hollow is the Bullfrogs and Herons. The Herons nest in there and are quite majestic when they come in from wherever they go each day and the bullfrogs often get my attention with their cacophony. Of course I can’t hear anything right now over the pounding in my head. I am sitting on a stack of pallets trying to get my wind again.

The woodpile and 15 pound mall (like an axe but heavier) call to me, I assure them that I will be back at it in a moment. I can’t help but notice that the pile is about half of what it was. That would explain the aching in my neck, the calloused hands and the pounding heart that I can feel thumping in my head like a marching band, This woodpile is my therapy, my rehab and one contribution to my mother by way of helping her out. This woodpile is the last tree that my dad took down before he died. She has been looking at it out of her kitchen window for the last 4 years. It needs to go for so many reasons. But it is no small project, the wood is old and very dry and splitting is a bitch. Despite having an industrial log splitter in the garage, I told Mom I am doing it by hand. She thinks I’m nuts and she’s probably right. But she noticed today how much I’ve gotten done.

I have been out of the hospital for 6 weeks now. When I first got here to convalesce I couldn’t navigate a flight of stairs without gasping for breath. I saw that woodpile and I knew that it would be my recovery. When I was a young boy I would split wood for our fireplace every afternoon in the fall. On a clear October or November day the wind would gust and the leaves would swirl around me as I hammered away. I was strong, lean and my lungs were full of clean air. Like a heroin addict looking for that first exhilarating high again I now hope that swinging an axe and stacking a pile will bring back the old me. And in a way it has. I may do three or four logs and then sit down on my pallets for a bit. I may go three days without doing any of it. Some days I might only do a couple and then quit for the day. But I’m doing it. And 6 weeks after not being able to climb stairs I am swinging away with strength and accuracy.

Before the snow falls this pile will be done. And I hope that my last grunting swing, the last splintering sound as the wedge drives through the log, the last echo of the strike bouncing off of the trees all around me reminds me of when I was that young man again. Wearing a tee shirt when everyone else was wearing jackets, working when they were playing, and feeling like I could move mountains. I miss that feeling and I want it back.

I’ve got 2 hours or daylight left let’s see what I can do with it.

the gift that can’t be repaid

“No mom I really don’t feel like going to dinner tonight. I still feel like your friends are looking at me like your loser son.” She’s been trying to get me to mingle with the people up here. It’s not that I’m unsociable or that they’re not nice people. I just don’t like the circumstances and don’t want their judgement.

“Don’t be silly” she said. “they all want to meet you. And you may be interested in hearing the speaker, he’s a double organ transplant recipient and he’s telling his story.

That changes things. I can certainly relate to this topic. I showered and we went. The Community Club. To my surprise there were close to 90 good citizens there. In this town that is quite a turnout. After checking in and a very long social period with a refreshingly non-judgmental group we were seated to a really good BBQ chicken dinner. As volunteers cleaned up many old people flocked to the refreshment table for coffee and pastry. I read the itinerary. Our speaker has had quite the story. I’m a good story, this guy is a fucking great story.

David needed a kidney and a liver. Crohn’s disease had destroyed both. He was, and I hate this word, literally 48 hours from dying when a patient downstairs in ICU slipped from a coma to death. The family was asked if the deceased (their son) would have been interested in donating life-saving organs and they agreed. Their son, who had fallen off of a ladder and sustained a life ending head injury, was a perfect match for David and two other fortunate souls. He saved three lives that day.

The detail and the passion in which David told his story was moving for the whole audience. Of course it hit me right at home. While we had some very different circumstances we shared a lot also. His description of his symptoms as he deteriorated and the despair that went with it echoed mine. His new lease on life and the joy of good health after years of illness also echoed mine. But there were many differences also. He was relying on a cadaver donor, I received my kidney from a live donor. His relationship with the donor family is quite different from mine. The best day of his life was the worst for his donor’s family. When I see my donor, I greet her with gratitude. When David’s donor’s family sees David it is largely accompanied by grief. Of course they are happy that their son’s passing did such good for so many people but it surely is a sobering event for them.

I will write much more about my transplant, and my special relationship with Deb at a later date. It is a formative event of my life. I will part with this, Deb must be wondering why out of nowhere she got a text this morning that simply stated ” please know that I love you for your amazing gift.”

 

the unfortunate reality part 2

In “the unfortunate reality part 1” I detailed my most recent hospital stay and the despair I was feeling. I can say that several weeks later I am feeling better. The pneumonia seems to be subsiding a bit, as predicted by the doctors. When I first got here I couldn’t handle a flight of stairs but now I am breathing pretty well. I blame the NH air but my blood pressure is down and the edema in my legs, a real killer, has virtually gone away. The kicker is I feel like I can go back to work but I know that if I do I will, eventually, get sick again and I will be back to square one. I am embracing feeling better, it is something I haven’t felt in a long time. But I miss working and the prospect of not working full time again really bothers me. For what has made me better is the absence of stress. And I got stressed from working. But I love to work. Hence my dilemma.

By pursuing disability I have resigned myself to a significantly lower monthly income that basically vaporizes my aspirations of owning a home again. Now it looks like it will be a struggle to just get the family back together at all. SSDI isn’t a very big check. I used to make a pretty good living so it’s a big adjustment.

I miss my family a lot, being this far away requires planning. My last visit, while fun was over-scheduled. It felt like a court ordered visitation.

But I also really miss working. I’m one of those guys whose profession was very integral to his identity. Not my income, I’m not a snob I do not think less of those with less nor do I envy those with more. But I accomplished a lot in my career and I am proud of it. I am not particularly bright, I did not go to a great school or do that well at it and I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life (do I now?) for quite a while. What I did do was choose to change my life at great personal risk. I was stuck in a restaurant job where I was going nowhere and I got sick. More on that later. But let’s say that I was recuperating from surgery, I had some time to think and I made the decision to change my life. And that move to a more “professional” job allowed me to climb a ladder that culminated in a real satisfying career. I became a guy who was integral in decisions, people went to for advice and most important I was able to help people. After that job of 9 years ended I never reached that point again, I became just like everyone else. And now I’m not doing anything. This I do know, when I am able to work again (part time of course) it will be something that in some way allows me to help people. That was what made me walk like a man, it was my cape and I loved to let it blow in the wind.