Tag: family

the agonizing bystander

The hardest thing for a parent to do is to sick back and watch their children struggle. For all of the struggles that my family as a whole has endured my children have emerged relatively unscathed.

As a young parent, I stayed awake at night hoping that my children would never struggle in school, with bullying, or addiction or any other gremlin that would rob them of their happiness. I have known so many kids, my peers, and even their children, who were promising and well-adjusted kids until they crossed paths with that one force that eventually led to them dropping out, giving up or worse. It is a subject that I am well versed in.

When I was in 5th grade I was given a double promotion because I was breezing through my curriculum. My mother resisted the idea, fearing that such a leap would put me with kids much older and larger than me. I liked the idea and I entered a new school, we called it Junior High where I’m from. I was immediately the target of every asshole in the school. I was called names, slammed into lockers and my books were constantly knocked to the floor.
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Within the first full year of 6th grade, my grades plummeted. I was called “stupid” so many times I started to believe it. My parents, God bless them, didn’t pick up on the signs and I didn’t mention it. They were too busy focusing on the trainwreck that was my sister, who we had just adopted at 7, and all of the drama she could provide that the Nuns didn’t prepare us for. Long story short, my interest in school faded and I was a C student until it was too late to make a difference that any college would care about. Fortunately, I was a decent artist and got into college by means of my portfolio.

My oldest 3 children had a few scraps on the playground but nothing life-altering. They were taught that if hit, to hit back. They did and bullying was not an issue. Academically, they were solid and to my knowledge never had a taste for alcohol or drugs. My youngest, however, had to deal with some mean girls at an early age.

She began to come home from 3rd grade crying. Some of her classmates called her “the poor kid” and made fun of her clothes. One even went so far as to say “your father must not have a job”. I was particularly incensed at that one considering that I spent a lot of money I didn’t have so that she wouldn’t get a shitty crack like that.
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So we went the diplomatic route. We met with the teacher who could offer no help except to say that she knew it was happening but not in front of her. We knew the parents, all were wealthy high-profile families in town. Not particularly concerned about our own popularity my wife and I went to the Principal and asked for a meeting with them. It was granted and we all got in a room together, at which time all parents denied that their sweet little cupcakes would ever do such a thing. So I stood up and said:

“OK, I’ll make it easy for all the fathers in this room. If my fucking daughter comes home in tears one more fucking time I’m coming to your house. And then you’re going to cry”.

We were asked to leave. But it only took 2 school days to realize that it worked. Still, I will never forget the helpless feeling up to that point watching my little girl going through such a thing. It was heart-wrenching to see her cry because of heartless, cruel children. I was so very relieved that it never happened again.

I flashed back to those days last night. My little girl, now 16 has hada terrible patch of dry skin around her eyes. Red and swollen it really is concerning, She went to the Dermatologist yesterday and fortunately made a diagnosis and provided a treatment. But the caveat is no make-up. My daughter loves her make-up and to her knowledge, none of the kids in her new school have ever seen her without it. She told me she would have to go au natural for a week and her eyes, no joke, looked like a raccoon. With our shared hatred of the mean girls, I felt bad for her. Kids can still be cruel.

In addition, she was dealing with a mean teacher who refused to meet with her and explain why she had rejected a thesis topic, leaving her in a frustrated panic last night. That was something I could help her with. I told her to stand up for herself to the teacher and explain that she needs an alternative idea or an explanation otherwise she would go to the Dean of Academic Affairs. She kept refusing to do it until I finally convinced her to face her fears (she was afraid of this nasty teacher) or she would fail the assignment.

This may not all sound like much but I was on the phone with her for 2 hours last night and she went to bed very upset. I didn’t sleep well. I wanted to snap my fingers and make her rash go away, I wanted to storm into her classroom on a white horse and vanquish her enemy but I couldn’t.

She texted me at 3 to tell me that her face had almost cleared up overnight with just one dose of medication and that she gave her teacher the riot act and she now has a new topic and an extension. It worked out. I’m proud of her.

The world can have all the fun it wants with me. Just don’t fuck with my kids.

A scene from the Antique store

my first piece of fiction…I hope you enjoy

It was a beautiful fall day, a light breeze playfully toyed with the colorful leaves littering the small but bustling street. The street, much like the town, was old but well kept. The town, like so many small Anytown USA’s,was what was left after it had lost its “Big Company”, in this case a Textile Mill, and the jobs that it provided. Most of the younger families had long moved away but its loyal, remaining citizens insisted on preserving their little town. A particular source of pride was the row of shops on Main St, where a mother and her young daughter were walking hand and hand along the cobblestone sidewalk. They were clearly not local, their pace lacked deliberation as they alternated between staring in the storefront windows and glancing around in all directions. Their clasped hands suggested fear of separation more than that of a maternal bond. Mom looked nervous, out of her element, and intent on holding her little girl, no more than 8, as close to her as possible.

They continued down the sidewalk, almost going into several stores, only to turn and continue walking. It was not until they came upon one shop, more inviting than the others, that caused them to stop and stare. The name Yesteryear Today was displayed in golden letters on the thick glass window. The mother, clearly a lover of antiques, gently tugged her daughter through the massive mahogany door. A bell announced their arrival.

As they shook off the chill of the fall air, they were immediately greeted by the smell of cinnamon. Apparently no stranger to antique stores, the woman stood in the doorway, her daughter obediently clutching her hand, and surveyed the enormous room. She took in the afternoon sunlight streaming through skylights and illuminating 3 walls of shelves overflowing with pictures, dolls, books and knick-knacks (as her mother had called them God rest her soul) and a crowded floor littered with tables, chairs, desks, cabinets and sofas that she knew (from her mother again, God rest her soul) had names like Edwardian, Davenport, Divan, Fauteuil,  so many others. She noticed the conspicuous absence of the pungent, mildewy odor of old books and discarded memories common in most antique stores. Perhaps it was the cinnamon.

“Cider?” a voice called out to her, surprising her. She had been so fixated on a rolltop desk to her left that she had not noticed the elderly man approach her. He appeared to be about 75, dressed in crisp khakis, a white shirt, a grey sweater and a bow tie. His appearance immediately struck her as meticulous, right down to the knot in his tie.
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“Beg your pardon?” she asked.

“Sorry to have startled you, Ma’am. I was offering you and your lovely little girl a hot cider. Fall is in the air you know. I may be a bit early but I admit it, I’m a sucker for the season, hot cider and all.” He turned his attention to the little girl, stooping down he said, “Do you smell the cinnamon, young lady?” I add real sticks to the cider.” The little girl hugged her mother’s leg and looked at the floor.

“You’ll have to forgive my daughter’s shyness, please don’t take it personally”.

“Don’t be silly, young lady, no offense taken. What is her name?”

“This is Lily”. She looked down at her daughter and smiled. “And I’m Kelly. Kelly Swanson”.

The old man’s brow furrowed and a concerned look crossed his face, “Any relation to the Hemlock Lane Swanson’s?”

“That’s the one”. He knows my family. “It’s been in probate for a year but since I just lost my apartment this seems to be my best, most logical move. We dropped off our bags this morning and decided to check out the town before we unpack. I hate moving.” Stop prattling on! she scolded herself. He doesn’t need to know your life’s story. He’s going to think you’re nuts and you just met him. She noted to herself that he was almost unsettlingly easy to talk to.

“Well, Miss Swanson, welcome to our town, circumstances as they are. I must say, that accident took a little of all of us. We haven’t had a crash like that in decades. Just awful. I’m so sorry for your loss. Again, may I please offer you a cider?” He gently steered Kelly and her daughter to the small table with the old-fashioned hotplate, on which was a small steel pot of cider. He ladled some into a cup for Kelly, then excused himself for the stated purpose of getting some ice cubes for the cup he was preparing for Lilly.

After he returned and had stooped to convince the very shy Lily to try his cider, he again turned to Kelly. “My name is Bernard Steele, proprietor of this fine establishment” and he bowed to her slightly. She was visibly taken back by his old-fashioned mannerisms as she was his pristine appearance. “Please look around the store, I take great pride in my collection of memories”.

“I will Mr. Steele, thank you so much.” She reached down for Lily’s hand and was surprised to not find it. Apparently, her shyness had worn off a bit. Kelly scanned the room anxiously and was relieved to find Lily intently staring at a old bicycle. Relax, she told herself, we’re not in the city anymore. She can be five feet away without calling in an Amber Alert. She fervidly wished to herself for the ability to lighten up and not worry so much. My mother smothered me, I’m not doing it to her dammit! She took a deep breath and exhaled, staring bemusedly at her daughter. She certainly looked like she was happy all the way over there. She again caught herself and looked away. Her gaze was immediately met by an old roll-top desk. If she didn’t know better it could be the one her Grandmother had had in her basement. She slowly walked over and studied the antique desk, running her hands over the aged Mahogany, marveling at the craftsmanship.

She was powerfully drawn to it, as if the desk was beckoning her to sit at it. Pensively, she pulled the wooden bench out under the rolltop and sat. What happened next she would have difficulty explaining to anyone.  It had to have been a vision, a hallucination even, whatever label applied, she found herself holding a fountain pen in her right hand. Beside her on the desk was a jar of black ink.  A partially finished letter lay under the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, barely visible below the fluttery sleeves of her blouse. I don’t own such a blouse! she realized in shock. Tucked into the corner of the leather blotter was a letter. Confused, her eyes furtively darted around the room, at which time she realized she wasn’t in the antique store anymore, but instead a room she had never been before. Puzzled yet intrigued she took the letter from the blotter, opened it, and began to read.

Dear Marion:

I’m so sorry I didn’t write you yesterday. We had a surprise inspection below deck that took all day. Then we spotted a Kraut Sub that we chased all damn day. I had KP at night so no letter time.
I hope you are doing ok with the little one, I’m sure she’s a handful. I saw the pics, she looks like the Milkman!. I kid of course, I know you wouldn’t do that to me. It’s a damn shame what’s happening to some guys though. Wives running off with Gardeners and handymen, war-dodging bastards, while their husbands are at sea. Not you. You wouldn’t do that to me would you, kid?
We have something big coming up. I can’t tell you much more but you may not hear from me for a few days. Letters home are being shut down. Please know that I love you and as soon as we win this damn war we’ll pick up where we left off.
Love you always,
Mel.

She then removed the letter from under the sleeve of her blouse and began to read.

 My dearest Mel,

I have been getting your letters. I wait for the mailman every day, but not like you joked about you silly man. I will never do that to you. Your daughter is growing fast and she wants to see her Daddy so do what you have to do and please come home so that we can

That was all she had written. The She pushed away from the desk with an audible gasp.

“Miss Swanson, are you ok?” Mr. Steele was standing over her, a look of consternation on his face. She was back in the store!? What the hell is going on here! She then remembered the letter.

“June , 1944!” she exclaimed. “That date! That’s just before D-Day!”

“I’m sorry Miss Swanson, but it’s clearly October and we are considerably past the year 1944. Are you sure you’re ok”?

“It was June, I mean it could’ve been. I…I don’t know. Something very strange just happened to me and I’m a little rattled”. She noticed the cup of spilled cider on the floor next to her and sheepishly apologized to Mr. Steele. He scurried off to find some paper towels. Kelly immediately turned her head and scanned the room for Lily.

She watched Lily as she admired an old bicycle. It was one similar to the one she had ridden as a little girl, complete with the rainbow-colored tassles on the handlebars and a “banana seat”. She had loved that bike. Lily’s concentration was intense, bordering on a trance.

Lily was indeed in a trance. In her head, she was riding the bike. The fact that she didn’t know how to ride a bike had no bearing on the experience for her. She was not only riding, she was cruising, and having a fine time for herself as she did. She was riding with friends down Main St, Lily was unsure what to make of the experience but she didn’t want it to end. She felt wild and carefree, as immersed as she was in the experience she had the awareness to know that in her real life she was anything but. She pushed that revelation aside and enjoyed the moment, a huge smile lit up her face. She felt like nothing could ruin this moment. Until she heard her mother’s voice calling out to her.
“Lily!”
Ignoring it, she thought to herself, No, this moment can’t end. Again, her mother’s called “Lily!” and again she ignored it. Suddenly she felt a hand grab her shoulder and she pulled away quickly. The loud crashing sound of the bike hitting the wooden floor startled her.  Almost as much as the look on her mother’s face as she stared at her.

“Lily, are you alright? I called you twice and you were just looking off into space like you were in a trance. Here, let me hold you…” and extended her arms for a hug.

“No” Lily said and pushed the outstretched hands away. “I’m ok, I don’t need a hug. You hug me too much. I want to ride my bike now”.

Her mother kneeled down and said. “Ok, no hug. But honey, you don’t know how to ride a bike”.

“Yes, I do. I can do it all afternoon and ride all over town with no adults watching me or my friends.” She crossed her arms indignantly.

Kelly leaned in, “Sweetie did you see something special when you touched that bicycle? Because something happened to me. You can tell me. I promise it won’t sound crazy. In fact, I hope it is.” Crazy is the only explanation she remarked to herself. I was just in 1944 and now she knows how to ride a bike! At that moment, a sad realization occurred to her that the reason Lily had never learned to ride a bike was because she never let the girl out of her sight. She had reasoned it away by memorizing crime statistics and watching the news, but the fact was she had sheltered the girl. How many times did she take your hand before you took hers she asked herself. She knew the answer, and she wasn’t pleased with herself. But, she rationalized, her father left us when she was 3 in a shithole neighborhood and I did the best that I could. She shook her head, refocusing herself. She needed to stay focused on her daughter.

“May I interject?” asked Mr. Steele.
“Yes, of course Mr. Steele.
“Never underestimate the power of old things. I believe they have a memory of their own. It’s a powerful thing when you think about it. To think that objects may capture and retain moments. I find it fascinating! I like to think of my little store as a magical little museum of memories” he offered as he flamboyantly gestured around the room. “May I suggest, young lady, that you just experienced a bit of magic?” He leaned into Kelly and whispered, “perhaps you did too, my dear?”

“See Mommy, it’s Magic. That’s why I can ride a bike. Well, I could. I mean I just did. Awwww you know what I mean”. She was clearly coming back to reality.

“Sweetie, I think we need to leave now. It is getting late and I don’t want to unpack too late tonight.”  She gently but persistently nudged Lily towards the door. “Say Thank you and goodbye to Mr. Steele”.

“Goodbye, Mr. Steele, Thank you”, Lily said. They then started for the door. As they stepped outside and closed the door behind them, the loud bell accentuated their departure. Lily said to her mother “Is it alright if I just walk beside you, you know, without holding hands? I’ll be ok, I feel safe here.”

“I’m sorry I’m so protective honey, I just worry about you. I can’t help it.” She was still instinctively thinking about reaching out for her hand. She fought the urge and instead put her hands in her pockets, it was getting chilly anyway.

“I saw and felt something in there, Mommy. I felt warm. I felt safe. And I didn’t feel like you were worrying about me. I was just doing stuff and having fun without getting hurt or chased by bad guys.” She was acting so grown up, so independent. Maybe I have to let her go if she wants to grow. She smiled and said “Something happened to me in there also. I’ll tell you all about it when we get home. Just hold one second.

She turned to the Antique store and opened the door. She looked to make sure Lily was still there (habit) and stepped inside. “Mr. Steele?” she called out.

Bernard Steele emerged from the back room. “Yes, Miss Swanson. I trust all is well with you and the young lass?”

“Of course, Mr. Steele. I just want to say that while I’m unsure what happened here today, you do indeed run a magical place. I may be back later in the week to talk about that desk. I believe my new cellar has a perfect corner for it.”

“Indeed, Miss Swanson. I look forward to your return. And again, welcome to our little town.”

“I want to buy that bike” Lily called from the doorway.

Bernard Steele laughed heartily. “Absolutely, my dear child. I look forward to it. But you must ask your mother, not me. Your mother may become angry with me”.

“Thank you, Mr. Steele. You’re my first new friend here.” Kelly said. She waved to him. As he waved back he winked at young Lily, who would later swear that she saw a twinkle of light, like a star streaking across the Autumn sky.

They stepped outside, the heavy door closing behind them with the ringing of a bell. Together, but unjoined at the hands, mother and daughter walked towards the edge of the square to Hemlock, their steps deliberate and with purpose.

“Dad, I’m good”

 

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Sometimes when I first wake I have a blank moment before I start planning my day. It is like a suspended reality where I contemplate the dreams of the night before and I just feel without thinking. I love the “morning fog” as I call it, it is the calm before the storm.

This morning I woke earlier than usual. My first (of three) alarms goes off at 6AM each morning. I rarely get up until about 7:30 but today I was awake at first bell. The Sun was streaming in my window, teasing me of approaching Spring and that soon I will be woken by the morning chatter of the birds. As I lay there on my back I felt oddly at peace with myself. As refreshing as natural light in my room was, that wasn’t it. As my morning fog wore off I realized that 2 of my awesome kids were not 100 miles away today, but instead were downstairs sleeping. As they have been each morning this week. That was the peace, at that particular moment, all was right with the world.

The past 5 days have been some of the best in recent memory. They have been like 5 Saturday’s in our former life. They both slept late, my youngest son later than my daughter. I made pancake batter first thing when I woke and I drank coffee until the daughter woke up. I gave her a “temporary” breakfast to hold her over until the boy got up. At around 11 I went downstairs and made noise until he woke. I would then fire up the griddle and the first batch of pancakes would be on his plate when he stumbled upstairs. After the breakfast carnage, they went to watch TV and I cleaned up. Every day started like that.

We kept busy in the afternoon doing everything and nothing. We spent hours shopping and they also spent many hours fiddling with their iPhones. I didn’t push them to be busy, they were on school vacation and they were with me. That was all I needed.

The nights proved to be the most fun, as they always were when we were together. I would make a dinner from scratch and as I puttered around the kitchen they sat on the island stools snacking on tidbits and we just talked about whatever came up. The aroma of the food, the sorely missed sound of laughter, the chattering of my daughter as she frenetically tried to update me on everything I’ve missed since I’ve last seen her. The boy messing with her at every opportunity and trying to squeeze in his own stories. Then we ate, and they swooned at the meal stopping only to tell me how much they missed my cooking. After dinner, I lit the wood stove and handed the remote over to them. Whatever they wanted to watch was fine with me. At one time this was my normal routine, having been away from it for so long it was now magical.

The highlight of the week occurred last night at dinner. We were talking in the kitchen, I was throwing together a stir fry and sipping a drink when the conversation turned to the living situations we are all in. They wanted to know if I was going to stay here and the answer of course was yes, I have nowhere else right now. We then talked about theirs. They are both living with my wife, who is desperately trying to find someplace else to live. The boy likes it there, my daughter is absolutely miserable. Visibly upset about the situation I remarked that I wish I could have done better by all of them. My son then spoke and nearly floored me:

“Dad, I’m good. You really need to stop acting like this is your fault. I can only speak for me but it’s not that bad. I’m doing fine”.

It was a very surprising and proud moment. What a fine young man he was. If I could wish one thing for my children besides good health it would be adaptability. He has it. He rolls with things and deals with whatever comes his way. My moment was dampened when I looked at my daughter, she was not so good. I felt awful again but somewhat relieved knowing that her moving was in the works. I feel hopeful for her.

We talked for hours last night. It was candid, it was relaxed, it was revealing and it was real. It was also cathartic. It may be the first time since I have moved away from them that I truly felt that everything was going to be ok. We may never be together again but if my persisting dream is that they find happiness and consistency in their life again then there is hope after all. It seems that what I was unable to provide in money, housing and sustenance they overcame by flexibility, strength, and character. I would like to think that this is my contribution to the gene pool.

The day may be approaching where I can make peace with the recent past and focus on my future recovery. In the process of blaming myself and feeling bad, I’m not sure that I considered the outside possibility that they don’t need me in their lives so much as they want me in their lives. I would take both, but one is way better than the other. After all, if I am questioning my body of work as a father, wouldn’t strong and resilient children count as a mark in the win column?

What a week, easily my best memories to date.

Want to read a great post about memories? Check out my buddy Tom being Tom

www.tombeingtom.com/happiest-memory/

 

 

 

 

my week in review

I try to post something every day. In addition, I try to post something of quality. I committed to writing every day to improve my skills and I have rarely missed a day. Yet I have missed the last four. I was on the verge of missing today also but I have forced myself to sit down and put pencil to paper, as it were.

I’m going to tell you about my week:

Wednesday was to be a big day. It was the day of my first divorce hearing. Financials were gathered, forms were printed signed and Notarized. We were ready to go. Soon it would be official, I could finally have some closure. Additionally, I am carrying my entire family’s income on my insurance and if I show income I would put us over and lose my insurance. Once divorced I could start working legitimately again. The hearing was canceled with no reschedule date. Now we are in limbo.

So I went to work with the guy who so generously has let me work for cash to help with my situation. I gave him two great days, one of which was highlighted by his normally stoic and stressed out CFO making a point to thank me for the contribution I have been making. Always expecting the other shoe to drop, I wouldn’t have to wait long for it. As I left on Thursday afternoon, Ben pulled me in and told me that he will have to reevaluate our situation because our arrangement is too expensive for him. He’s right, I’ve been lucky so far. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate what I do, it is expensive to come out of pocket. He said he will leave it for now but with no divorce date in sight, it’s going to come to a head. This arrangement is not without its headaches as it is. It’s a lot of driving and extra time. But I have gotten so much satisfaction as I briefly returned to doing what I love.

Some good news, my mother-in-law has agreed to help my wife with an apartment. This was a surprise to me. I soon found out what had changed, my mother-in-law had made a deal with her: commit to going to therapy and she will help. My wife has finally acknowledged that she has a problem and I am so genuinely hopeful that she finds a way to be happy. But the hammer came down on the apartment, however, when the apartment complex she didn’t meet the income requirements and they wouldn’t accept the mother-in-law as a cosigner. Not exactly back to square one, there is now hope that she will be rid of the fucking Manson family she’s living with, but it is discouraging.

Yesterday I went to the local hospital so the vampires can suck more blood and copays to find that not only am I not anemic as expected, but my hemoglobin is getting higher. Which is good but makes absolutely no sense. For the sake of consistency at least my blood pressure was astronomically high. Stroke-level high. And my weight is up. They were so concerned they called my transplant surgeon’s office while I was there. The water retention in my legs is the culprit and it is not even close to funny anymore. Everything I drink goes to my legs like cupcakes to a fat kid’s ass. I was prescribed a larger dose of diuretics and went to the pharmacy to wait for it. An hour later I was told that it requires an insurance override that won’t be happening today. The only positive is that I walked the food aisles and read labels for sodium content. Something has got to change in my diet and I am prepared to cut/change whatever I have to in order to feel better and get my BP down to the point where I don’t hear bass drums pounding in my ears.

I spent yesterday afternoon slumped in my chair feeling generally shitty about things. Thanks so much to a good friend who was there for me (you know who you are) to talk me off of the ledge. I don’t often feel bad for myself but the entire week hit me like a sledgehammer to the face yesterday afternoon. I was disappointed at the possibility of not working at the job I’ve come to like so much. I was sad for my wife and my two youngest who are living with her in a bad house. I was disgusted and confused how I can be feeling good and yet so unhealthy, to be wearing the same clothes yet somehow almost 20 pounds heavier. I was daunted by the task of making extreme changes to my lifestyle and diet. And I was really starting to dwell on how mad I am that some miserable government desk jockey clerk has the fucking balls to make the decision that I don’t qualify for Disability! I rarely use this word but do you know what, this is one thing I deserve.

I do have one good thing to report, I am goint tonight to pick up my two youngest to spend the entire school vacation week with me. Maybe that will put me back on track and remember what it is that I’m fighting for.

Cheers and thanks for listening

A life of moderation

The other day a dear friend of mine posted on Facebook “thinking that a life of moderation is the way to go this year”. Several “likes” later I commented “Works for me”. Many would go on and agree with she and I. I can’t speak for their reasoning but as for myself, I live the simple life because I was forced into it. A year ago, I had a lot of stuff. Now I don’t. Apart from not having everyone together anymore, I am happier in many ways. I am free of the worry brought on by increasing costs of living and shrinking incomes. I don’t need to work more for a bigger house to find room for more stuff. More stuff that didn’t make me happy, didn’t fulfill me or give me any sense of lingering purpose, other than to live long enough to pay for it all. I never would have voluntarily given up my stuff because my family needed it. But now, I am free of it and looking for the real meaning in, not of, life.

“I think everybody should get rich and famous and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer.” Jim Carrey
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Jim Carrey turned a few heads when he made this comment. Some thought that he was mocking people with his wealth, that he was another rich celeb that wanted us to feel bad for the problems of the rich and famous. He wasn’t. He was simply pointing out that every thing in the world is not enough if you are not at peace with yourself. I am related to a walking and talking example of this.

When I first began dating my wife in the early 90’s I learned that her Aunt was married to a local Real Estate Mogul, nicknamed “The Condo King”. At the time we began dating the “King” had recently fallen from Grace. He was jailed for multiple counts of fraud, influence peddling etc., and sent to prison. Not before, nice guy that he was, he hid all of his money in his girlfriend’s name leaving his wife and 2 kids with little. The oldest son would go to jail soon after for working with Dad. It was a big shock for them but they would survive. They downgraded from living in an actual castle to a modest condo. The Aunt had a Real Estate license also so she could work. Little Suzie, whose Batmitzvah was a $50,000 event starring Debbie Gibson, painted her face white and hid in her room for a whole year in shame.

I met the aunt shortly after at a pool party. I knew the whole story of course but I had promised not to say anything. I was doing pretty well until the Aunt began to openly complain about being forced to drive a *gasp* Camry (a brand new one, mind you). This snotty snippet forced me to blurt out, “hey, tell you what, it’s a lot nicer than my car. Poor you.” I was promptly pinched hard enough to draw blood. Fuck her, I didn’t care. She was a snob, so elite she had no idea what the rest of the world lived like. All she cared about was money and without it, she was lost. For ten years this went on. Fortunately for them, she married another millionaire, the Princess daughter married a guy who owns 10 shopping malls and is part owner of the Miami Heat, and the son is now his own version of the “Condo King”. But are they happy? I think it’s all they know. They know that they were miserable without the money. Maybe that’s their “Happy”.

My favorite episode of The Twilight Zone is “A nice place to visit”. A petty criminal is shot by police while fleeing a crime scene. Visited by a man in a white suit and offered to go to a special place, he assumes he is going to Heaven. When he arrives, he finds that everything goes his way. He wins at gambling every time. When he flirts with a woman she falls for him. He wins at everything. It became so easy it was boring. He approached his friend in the white suit and said “I don’t belong in Heaven, see? I want to go to the other place.” The man in the white suit then delivers the whammy: “Heaven? Whatever gave you the idea you were in Heaven, Mr. Valentine? This is the other place!!”
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All of the stuff in the world is meaningless if it doesn’t provide quality. Only quality can create happiness.

Having everything I want is one thing. Wanting everything I have is entirely another. Sure, there are things that I want that I don’t have. But I don’t need anything. And when I do, the need will be different than before. I will likely want a smaller, more practical and maintainable model of whatever it is. Enough to satisfy the need, but not enough to be a slave to it.

I never reached the pinnacle of success financially, but I did do pretty well for a long time. I recognize that money is a necessity. I don’t fault or in any way resent those that have more than I. I can only speak for myself when I say that the quest for more always created less satisfaction and more aggravation. Once you’ve reached the peak of one mountain, you look for another, higher one. It never ends, that’s what Jim Carrey was speaking of.

I want an endless pile of Real, of Quality, and Genuine. Everything else is just stuff and I’ll take that in moderation. I’ll miss it less when it’s gone.

Spring is coming

 

February is my least favorite month of the year. Despite the days getting a bit longer, it tends to be a cold, grey and boring month. Football is over, and I am a fair-weather Basketball and Hockey fan at best. Fortunately, it’s a short month.

We joke in New England that the first snow falls it is a Glorious occasion when all is white and pure, each flake unique and beautiful. By February the very mention of snow has you hurling F-bombs at the TV. That’s where I’m at right now. I’m just sick of winter.

It snowed again last night. The weather forecast last night called for an inch or two so when I woke up to see about 6 inches of powdery aggravation I wasn’t pleased. I would have “geared myself up” for the shoveling, spreading of rock salt and cleaning off cars. Wanting to get it over with, I skipped my morning coffee and went right to it. It was light snow so I made quick work of it. Stopping to gather my breath, I felt warmth in the air. I looked around and I noticed that melting had already started. I took off my hat and gloves and just stood on the deck, staring at the landscape around me. I could feel it, it’s almost over. Spring will be here soon.

Spring is my favorite season. I thrive on warmth and sunlight. I barely tolerate winter, I accept it as a necessary evil if I am to live in this region but the short days and lack of sunlight take a terrible toll. On the first warm day of Spring, I will be found outside face skyward, soaking in the rays like a desert flower after a terrible drought.
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It is New Years Day for Mother Nature, a new beginning as grass turns green, leaves bud on trees, the little critters poke their heads out of hiding, and the Red Sox are in Fort Myers, Florida gearing up for another long season of glorious Baseball.

I can’t think of Spring without thinking of Baseball, and I can’t think of Baseball without thinking fondly of my Dad. When I was a kid, my father was still working his way up the seniority list at his job and he would be laid off almost every Spring. Dad was a Heating Oil Delivery driver and the warm weather meant slow business. I was thrilled to have him around, he worked almost around the clock during the winter. I never saw him. Spring became an association for me. Warm weather, school vacation, Dad is home and we’re gonna watch the Sox.
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Dad and I didn’t have a whole lot in common, but we loved Baseball. He taught me to play and we loved to talk about it. One of my favorite memories was watching games on our 3 season porch on a 19-inch black and white Emerson TV with “rabbit ears” antennae. Dad and I would make sure all of the yard work was done in time to sit down for the game. I would listen to him attentively as he explained the strategy of baseball, his most and least favorite players and why he rated them so. It was the only time he wasn’t bustling about and trying to keep busy. When a game was on he was in his seat, beer in hand and relaxed. Until the Bullpen blew a lead, which happened often, at which time he was not so relaxed. Those were hard times economically, but they were special to me.

Today I saw a glimmer of my favorite season. I see on my Calendar that there are 10 days left of my least favorite month. While March can often suck weather-wise, it can also be a good month. And it is one month closer to Spring. Even though I still have 6-foot snowbanks all around my house, I can almost smell the fresh-cut grass, hear the crack of the bat, the children excitedly cheering each other on. And I can still see Dad, Tanned and sweaty, in his faded Boston Red Sox Hat and wife-beater T-shirt calling me, telling me to “hurry up” before I miss the first pitch.

What I wouldn’t do to hear that just one more time.
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A life of virtue

I almost had to peel myself out of bed this morning, reeling from fatigue and another inconvenient gout flare-up. This time it’s in my ankle and my right elbow. It’s excruciating. Apparently, the 1000.00 per month medication prescribed to prevent gout is a real winner. I choked down 25mg of Prednisone in hopes that I would be able to support weight on my left foot by noon. I headed out at 9:15 to the local food pantry at the local church, where I volunteer almost every Saturday.

I really enjoy volunteering. There is a real need in my community, there is a large segment of poverty on the fringe of all of the “old money” in town. This need requires volunteers, which are few. In the winter the population is 25% of what it is when the sun is out. Of the remaining 25%, many go to Florida. By being there every week in the winter I help make sure   that they have enough coverage.

A morning at the food pantry consists of a rotating cast and crew of really nice people. Most of them know my family so it wasn’t hard to blend in. Each week, anywhere between 10-15 families come in and we set them up with a lot of healthy goodies. It’s about 3 hours of steady moving, packing and small talk. Today, as I was checking my email during a break. dear sweet Bonnie said to me, “Bill, how come we never see you at church on Sunday?” Oh boy, here we go. As I began to formulate my answer I realized that all eyes were on me, as if to all say “yea, how come?” Not wanting to get into it, I explained to them that I’m just not a “church guy”. The hymns, responsive readings, symbolism, and idolatry don’t do it for me. I explained that I have a complex relationship with Spirituality that is still in progress. I left them with the Kayak quote:

“Religion is sitting in church thinking about Kayaking. Spirituality is sitting in a kayak thinking about God”

That seemed to satisfy them. We moved on. I limped out of there on time and went home, hoping the prednisone would kick in enough to force a quick 1/2 hour on the hamster wheel before I run out of spoons for the day.

As I was making a quick sandwich, Mom said “Going to Church tomorrow?” I facepalmed dramatically. “What?” she said. I explained to her that I just went through this. Mom has always thought that I don’t like church because of an incident I had in high school with a sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch minister who slapped my cousin. I have spent the last 30 plus years trying to convince her otherwise. In the moment, I decided to have this conversation for hopefully the last time. I looked at her and said,

“Church or no Church, aren’t I living a life of virtue”? I went on to explain that I try always to be nice, courteous, respectful, charitable, etc, isn’t that as good as going to Church for an hour a week and stare at the plaster ceilings, waiting for the cracks to appear? She doesn’t get it, she never will. Even the Kayak quote wasn’t pushing this one over the curb.

When I used the word virtue, it just kinda popped out. It is a lofty word with multiple synonyms that range from purity to righteousness, to morality. I will only go so far as to say that I try to live my life with integrity. I grappled for years with virtue, wondering how I could lead a good life without religion. It wasn’t until I reconciled that good vs evil is the same thing as good vs bad that I made any significant strides. I asked myself, do I need 10 commandments to know not to steal, kill or shag my neighbor’s wife? Any decent person knows this. I always try to do the right thing, that’s all.

I always tried to pay attention to little things like pausing in supermarket aisles to offer to reach items on the top shelf for little old ladies, carrying heavy items for people, opening doors, buying a coffee for the guy ringing the bell outside the WalMart at Christmas. Small, human gestures.

Post-transplant, full of “pay it forward“, I stepped it up and joined a fraternal organization dedicated to self-improvement and community. Blood drives, community breakfasts, an anonymous foundation for charitable giving to school kids with needs that don’t fit traditional programs, working the registration tent at a Down’s Syndrome “Buddy Walk”  became my Saturday mornings. They were all small gestures that helped people and gave me a real sense of purpose in life.

Unfortunately, I got sick again just as I was really starting to get going. It wasn’t long before I found myself as I am now. Weak in body, Spiritually available to what the Universe has in store for me. With this spirit in mind, I have scaled back my goals to just trying to be a good person. It’s all I have. Energy availability aside, I know that I have enough in me to be kind to strangers. I can certainly say please and thank you. I will continue to treat those that serve me with kindness and dignity. I am able to hold a door and grab something off of the top shelf for someone. I can muster the strength to listen to a friend who needs someone to talk to. I can find the energy to not lie, cheat or steal and to be good to my word, shake a man’s hand and look him in the eye.

I found my purpose. Not to be a good Christian or a benevolent Pagan. My purpose is to be nice. It takes almost zero energy to just be nice. So few are willing to take the job and my resume is a mess anyway, so I’ll take the job. If Jesus is real, I’ll let him decide my worth. I don’t know if that is what a “religious” person considers to be a life of Virtue but I would certainly think it will get me a pass to sleep in on Sunday morning. At least until Kayak season.
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Perhaps I will show my mother this post, and put this to bed forever.

 

a day of rest

I’m so tired today. It’s that feeling that kidney patients have difficulty explaining to others. I don’t have a virus, I’ve been washing my hands. Yes, mom I’m taking my meds. I’m just washed out. I woke up as tired as I was when I went to bed last night. Cold, weak and the very thought of doing anything is dismissed as impossible. Carrying my laptop seems a Herculean task.

I am prone to feeling useless on days that I don’t accomplish much. I’m still transitioning to the stage where I openly accept that I’m not capable of doing as much in one day as I once was. I’m getting there. I spared myself the mental beat down today. I actually feel quite accomplished for a refreshing change.

I put in 3 very solid days at work this week. I am starting to feel comfortable in the office. My co-workers seem to have accepted me. I don’t think for a second that they didn’t like me, instead they probably were just curious of my sudden appearance, my lack of a learning curve, and why the owner and I are so comfortable with each other. In addition, I have found a niche. Without getting into detail I recognised a need and tackled it. My ability to dig into the source of issues and resolve them by putting new systems in place has been a contribution. That’s all I ever wanted, to be of use and contribute.

In addition to a productive day, I made a date for last night. An hour after I left work, I was getting a giant hug from a very beautiful, special lady. My youngest daughter. We went to our favorite diner, ordered off of the breakfast menu and just talked. It was so great to just sit, listen (even when I had no idea what she was talking about sometimes) to her prattle on excitedly about everything from boys to school to makeup. She seems to be doing well and I am so relieved.

To think that I once joked that if she were Native American her name would be “Alcohol-related-accident”. She wasn’t planned but today I cannot imagine my life without her. My other children would hate me to hear this but in July the only thing I could come up with for a reason to live was her. It’s not that I don’t love all of them to death, it’s about how much I mean to her. If I had done what I wanted to, it would have destroyed her. As I looked across the table, I wanted to thank her for saving my life.

As tired as I am today, I feel better about things. That things are getting better for everyone. As if my dad was again sitting with me over a beer telling me his favorite, comforting sentiment…

Things always seem to work out.

I didn’t really believe that when he was alive. Now I’m starting to. Tomorrow is a new day and I’ll get as much accomplished as I can. And feel good about it.

Peace my friends

 

The cool dad

The one thing I will never get used to is not seeing my children as often as I used to. I went from every day to a few times a month in one fell swoop. I keep my complaining to a minimum, it’s been hard for all of us. When it all collapsed, we went separate directions, no one’s situation was ideal. My problem was that I never felt right with the world once I was deprived of my nightly conversations with them.

When they were younger I would famously extend bedtime by telling extra stories or watching another show. I was complicit, if not the architect. of some serious bedtime schemes. My oldest daughter came up with her famous “asthma-scam” when she was 7. She has asthma so she would fake a raspy cough, I would get the nebulizer and give her a breathing treatment. Mom never figured it out that she was getting an extra 20 minutes with Dad on the sofa. I had something like this with all of them. I wasn’t home a lot of nights until almost bedtime so, selfish as it was, I found ways to get more. As the kids got older, the books and TV shows became nightly talks. Each kid had that one thing that they liked to discuss with me. Occasionally these talks morphed into conversations that most parents dread, but they happened so organically that it became easy. My kids talked often of their “Dad time” to their friends. We often had a yard full of neighborhood kids. I was the “cool dad”. Even as they got older my kids would tell me how much their friends liked me, that I was different than their own Dads. I was just being me. It wasn’t that difficult, I listened to them. I let them make their mistakes and I gave reasonable advice, not guilt trips. I fostered open communication and a friendly relationship without compromising my role as a father.
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After the collapse, I found myself 100 miles from them. I make the trip down as often as I can but when I do it is a long, carefully planned ordeal because they are all over the place. Two here, one there, one I need to see at his or her work, etc. It sucks but it isn’t going to change anytime soon. I make the most of the time I have with them.

Saturday I got a call from my oldest, asking me when I was going to meet her new boyfriend, who she is apparently semi-living with, and my new Grand-dog Coda. a six-month-old Husky. I told her I would come down Sunday morning. I then called my youngest 2 and found that one was available and one was at a sleepover. I told him when I would pick him up. I then reached out to my oldest son to see if he was working. He was moving into his new apartment that day so he would be available. I called my oldest and informed her that her boyfriend was going to meet all of us except our youngest and my wife, who was working. Her reaction was “John is going to freak out”. I assured her it would be alright. And don’t forget to bring the Dog.

We met at the restaurant at noon. Just by meeting him in the lobby I knew that the boyfriend was exactly as nice as my daughter had described. We got a table for 5 and sat down. John and I got along great. My daughter seemed happy. I caught them smiling at each other and heard her whisper I told you you’d like him. Dinner was great, probably because the one that would have stressed everyone out was at work. I picked up the tab, despite great resistance from John and we parted ways. I would not get to meet the dog that day but I was now off with my oldest boy to see his new apartment.

When we got to the new bachelor pad I parked and told him to lead the way. I grabbed the 30 pack of Bud that was in my trunk and we went in. When we got to the top of the stairs, I handed the 30 pack to them and said “Housewarming gift. I thought of giving you food but I knew you needed this more”. They were pumped. I did my tour and I left.

I dropped the younger boy at his house, bid goodbye and began my 2 hour ride home. I turned my Spotify on and ignored my phone the entire ride. When I pulled into my driveway I opened my text messages. There were 2, one from the oldest daughter and one from my oldest son. They read, respectively.

“John can’t believe how cool you are!”

“Dad, my friends said that I have the coolest dad ever”.

How about that? I’ve still got it!
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You don’t look sick…conclusion

This series began as a discussion of what it was like, speaking for myself only, to deal with an increasingly visible illness. It has evolved into me telling my story. I have detailed my struggle to not let my illness define me, to avoid the default greeting of “how are you feeling”? Not because I have a problem with people caring enough to ask, but because I don’t want people’s first thought when they see me is, he’s “the sick guy”.

So, to catch up, I managed to avoid the above problem for the most part through “putting on a good face”. While people knew I had something going on, they didn’t see it on me and it basically went away. My wife called it Denial, and I have to admit it may have looked like it, but in actuality, I just didn’t want to think about it. There was a positive to it, there were people that had known me for a while and were not aware of my health issues that were inspired by my attitude. What they didn’t understand is that I am just a hard-headed guy who has never seen the point of feeling bad for myself. Stay busy, stay productive and hope the sun rises tomorrow. My doctor, post-transplant, would tell me that my denial was the best thing that I ever did. I entered the surgery much fitter and stronger than the typical patient. My wife never forgave the doctor for validating the behavior she detested.

Post-transplant I almost put an end to the “how are you feeling” era. I was up walking 2 days after my surgery, not the week that was recommended. I was back at work in 33 days, not the 90 days recommended. I dropped weight and I had color in my face for the first time. I didn’t look sick. For five years I kept it up. People knew that I was feeling good.

One night in 2016 I was serving a dinner at a Masonic function. I prepared a meal for 85 people all by myself. I was in my element, the kitchen. Moving and grooving, flipping pans and slinging some grub was fun for me. While serving the main course I suddenly grew fatigued and my hands cramped into a claw, making any dexterity impossible. I needed help to finish the dinner, people grew concerned. People who didn’t know me pre-transplant, they never saw the sick me. They wanted to know what was the matter. I knew. It was back.

In 2016 I would lose 48% of function in my new kidney. I would experience symptoms that were highly visible. My cramps happened to the point that I couldn’t hide them, my legs were swollen to the point that I could barely walk. I would contract a lung infection in July that would end up hospitalizing me for the entire month. I was out of work and out of options. I applied for disability. It was finally official, I was the sick guy.

By now, the fight was gone. I had hit bottom. That’s when I began this blog. To reap the cathartic, therapeutic benefits of putting my thoughts to paper. I embraced my illness, stopped trying to hide it and find a way to share a bed with it. Now, it is all about accepting that I have a condition that needs to be controlled, embraced and placed front and center. My reward for finally doing this is I have achieved so much peace of mind. Once you are at the very bottom you have nowhere to look but up.

20 years old…” how are you feeling?”. Good
30 years old…” how are you feeling?”.  Ok, why do you ask?
40 years old…” how are you feeling?”. I can’t tell you, so I’ll say great
45 years old…” how are you feeling?”. I would love to tell you, but I can’t afford to. I’m ok
52 years old…” how are you feeling””. I’m alive, thanks for asking.

There’s no escaping it anymore. Some days I feel great, other days I have an episode of crippling cramps in front of 5 old ladies while volunteering at the food pantry. Most people I know are aware that I am pursuing a disability claim.  I do my best not to look sick otherwise.

The other day I posted a picture on FB of the mountains of snow we have up here for my MA friends. The first person who responded didn’t ask about the snow, instead, she typed…wait for it…

“How are you feeling?”

I replied, “Fine, thanks for asking”.