inspiration – The Tao of Bill

Moving forward

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Footprints

I’ve always been a lover of the “footprints” meme above. It was shown to me early in life and the message resonated with me. It’s a nice idea. The whole Jesus thing. Walk beside me, keep me company and hey, while you’re at it can you carry me through the rough terrain?
The problem is that I am not really a big “Jesus guy.”
I am not going to go too much into the religious and spiritual beliefs of Billy Mac. I’d done it in previous blogs and I just can’t do it again. I will give a brief synopsis for the sake of understanding what exactly the fuck I’m trying to say in this entry, but that’s it.

Here goes…I’m not an atheist because an atheist believes there is nothing. You’re an arrogant bastard if you believe that there is nothing else out there in the immeasurable vastness of the cosmos. Deductive reasoning therefore concludes that if you can’t say there’s nothing then there has to be something. With that in mind, I reluctantly accepted the possibility of a higher power. Sure, let’s call it GOD. As for a bearded guy in a flowing white robe judging and condemning everyone, I’m not so sure. As for his son, I can’t wrap my head around that part. It’s a nice story but it doesn’t fit my paradigm. But again, it’s in the nice idea department in my world.

But back to the Footprints. There was once a day when I would have resented the notion that I would have had to be carried anywhere, by fictional deity or by any man. Strength mattered the most to me and I swore that the day that I couldn’t deal with the weight of my life that would be the day that I would no longer want to engage in this dance. For the longest time I was able to pull it off.
It’s getting harder every day.

I’m failing in so many ways. My body is simply breaking down. Sure, there are physiological forces at work, understandable ones, I have a disease. I’ve had it for a long time and I have done a pretty impressive job of fooling everyone, especially my family. Until now, now I’m showing the cracks. I’m walking slower, in need of more recovery from the most basic of tasks, uninterested in making plans for fear of not knowing how I will feel when the day comes, I am becoming what I have always feared. Weak.

This morning I tuned in to my church’s online service. I’m not sure why, I rarely do so. The Reverend, a young family man with a fresh perspective, was just wrapping up the musical segment when I tuned in. He welcomed all of us and said, “let’s talk about Footprints.” I knew exactly of what he was speaking. I put my head in my hands and I listened. It was as if he was talking directly to me. I became emotional. I even cried a little. Why do I feel this way? I don’t want help. I hate asking for it. I don’t want to burden anyone. So why?

I have a great support system, I really do. Great friends, amazing family, my Masonic brothers and the resources of the entire fraternity. But I never ask them for anything. I swore that I would never be that guy. But I’m not in a good place lately and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I let someone carry me for a couple of blocks.

It might allow me to garner enough strength to go back to trying to convince people that I’m ok when I’m really not. Or maybe I can grow the fuck up and acknowledge that Plan A is just not working.

Where it all began

As I begin the healing process after yet another visit to the Hospital I find myself motivated to blog more. I found the urge curious, then I realized that, for better or worse, the Hospital is where this blog began.

I was at Tufts Medical Boston in 2017 for severe edema. My transplant had failed suddenly in 2016 and I had been plagued with ailment after ailment for months. One of the symptoms was retaining fluid in my legs. After retaining so much fluid in my legs that I couldn’t get my pants or a shoe on. My blood pressure was out of control and I was on the verge of heart failure. I would find later that they removed 30 pounds of fluid from me in 5 days. You read that right, 30 pounds.

When I had my transplant in 2011 I left the hospital like the Tasmanian Devil. I was back to work in 31 days, which was unheard of. As soon as I was able I hiked, biked, screwed, climbed, walked and hit the gym regularly. I had my health for the first time since I began failing badly in my 30’s. The expectation I was given was at least 15-20 years of health before maybe needing another Kidney. When it failed after 5 I was livid. I was mad at the world, mad at my Dr. for not telling me that my particular disease was known to stay in the body and attack the new organ. I felt betrayed, let down and without hope. I was miserable.

My Dr. came in on my third day and asked me if I had any interest in talking to a team of interns. His concern was that the current batch of students were adept at medications and protocols but lacked good ol’ bedside manner. In short, he felt their people skills sucked. He felt that my story would be a good one to share. I wasn’t going anywhere so I said yes. As he was leaving he turned to me and said, “Don’t just spill it, let them pull it out of you.”

Several hours later 5 interns entered my room. They pulled chairs and gathered around me. They asked me several questions and, while following my Doc’s advice, I let them pull it out of me. Over the course of an hour they heard the tale of Bill. Bankruptcy, foreclosure, lost job, divorce pending, behind on rent and a insidious and debilitating disease. One of them actually wiped tears away from her face. I don’t need to be told how it went, they left changed by the experience.

I sat back in my bed that night and it occurred to me that maybe others may benefit from the shitshow that is my life. I knew that one platform was a blog. I had blogged before to mixed results. I wasn’t consistent in my theme or my frequency and I let it die. But this time I was inspired. I wanted to tell my story anonymously to the world just to get it out and relieve the weight on my shoulders. Ok, I asked myself, what is the name going to be? Immediately I recalled an argument I had once had with my wife in which she was haranguing me to be honest and open with our youngish children about the severity of my disease. She was mad that I sucked it up and faked how badly I felt in front of them. That was what I did, it kept them happy. I also hid it from my employer as long as I could for obvious reasons. As the argument peaked she yelled at me, “OK Superman I guess you’re fucking bulletproof!” and stormed out of the room. It hit me.

“Superman can’t find a Phone Booth” was born.

I knew that it was a dated reference. Many of my readers have never seen a phone booth or the old reruns of Clark Kent running to a phone booth and changing into his suit and saving the day. It was a perfect metaphor for how I felt. In the face of evil, in this case disease, I was running out of ways (phone booths) to find a suit of strength to combat my disease.

I swore that I would pull no punches. It would be what my early readers (some of you are still around and I love you for it) would describe as raw, visceral, inspiring and brutally honest. I told my story. One reader commented that it was the best blog she had ever read and posted about it.

There was a time recently that I thought that I was done telling my story, that it had run its course. But now I know that Superman is back. I managed to remove that Kryptonite necklace hanging around my neck. I found a phone booth and my suit is back from the dry cleaner.

Expect some more raw, some more visceral, some more brutal honesty as I continue to tell the tale of the shitshow that I call my life.

the reminders are everywhere

Last night I came home exhausted. Sometimes dialysis leaves me a crampy, washed out mess. Yesterday was one of those days. My sofa was calling my name. But it was not to be. Mom needed help.

We have contractors coming Saturday morning to rip the roof off of our garage and they needed us to get all of the junk in the upstairs of the garage moved to the back. It’s a project I’ve been planning but I was putting it off until the fall because in August the attic of the garage is blistering hot. I wasn’t about to make mom do it alone so I sucked it up and headed up.

It was hot. Africa hot. After a few minutes I was dripping. Ten sweaty, swamp-ass minutes later I was down to two unmarked cardboard boxes. I went over to them, dragged them from the overhang and opened them. They contained Dad’s miniature truck collection.

Dad drove a truck for 35 years. Retail home oil delivery. Over the road Gasoline hauling. He could legally drive anything with wheels. He loved trucks. By extension I did also. By the time I was 12 I could name any truck by name, model and approximate year by the headlights alone (still can). It wasn’t enough that he spent 60-65 hours a week driving, he also had to have his den covered with replicas of 18 wheelers with Wal-Mart, Harley Davidson, etc. markings. Dump trucks, concrete mixers, you name it he had it. Until he passed and my mom put them in storage. I had forgotten about them.

Many years ago Dad gave me some model trucks as presents. I brought them to work with me but they never had a proper place so they sat in the corner of my office in their boxes. When he passed in 2013 I broke down and bought a large bookcase for my office. I dedicated 2 large shelves to mementos of him. The trucks, a collectible baseball that he bought for me, a portrait of him and a license plate from 1929 that I found in my Grandfather’s garage. It was on his first car.

When people came in my office they were naturally drawn to my homemade shrine. It afforded me the opportunity to talk about my dad. Of course, its primary purpose was to inspire me when I was down. He taught me to work hard. To act with integrity. To always do what I say and do it well. To be a man that takes pride in what he does.

They look like just trucks. But they represent so much more to me. Hard work, dedication and pride. He may have been only a truck driver but he was the only one in his family to pull himself out of abject poverty and make something out of himself. And he did it by learning a skill, dedicating his life to it and raising his family through his efforts.

I will spend the day Sunday finding a place to display them again. I miss him more than words can ever express, but there is never a moment when I see a truck, real or model, that I don’t think of him.

Why not you?

I’ve talked about it before. The prevalent “victim” mentality that surrounds us. Maybe it’s a lack of general toughness in today’s world, a lack of people who, like me, were raised with a “suck it up” mentality. My parents taught me that everyone has problems to deal with, how we deal with our own will define us. Toughness was a virtue. Toughness evolved into kindness as we evolved into empathetic creatures who learned to treat all they meet with basic courtesy with the understanding that they are dealing with their own problems.

I’m a pretty tough bastard by all accounts. I’ve even been told that I’ve inspired a few people as I continue to persist against and fight like hell the constant obstacles in my path. I’m stubborn as a bull and I hate to lose. I may someday be the conquered, but I will never be the victim. It starts with one simple learned behavior. Never utter the words “Why me?”

Why NOT you? is the question that begs to be asked.

What makes me, you, or anyone so special? Whether it is pre-ordained or written in the stars, fate or karma what happens to you is your story and there is nothing you can do about it except deal with it. I choose to deal with it by defining it as my mortal enemy. Illness and death are foes to be vanquished, the bastards that cannot win as long as I have anything to say about it. Happiness is the ultimate prize, the Holy Grail.

I admire the strong among us. Today, I am downright enamored of one beautiful woman who is ten times stronger than I will ever be. She has been dealt one giant shitburger after another and has come back for seconds. Her story saddens me, angers me and inspires me. One thing I will never do is pity her because she is anything but helpless.

If I hadn’t actually seen her I would think she looks like one of the Amazon women from the comic books. Tall, packed with glorious muscles and adorned with a cape and wings. But she is not, she is a normal, if not beautiful woman with the heart of a warrior and her cape is only visible if you hold her delicate hand. There you see the scars. The scars of fighting back, of refusing to be the victim, the battle scars that come from never, ever giving up.

You are my hero. My inspiration. My partner in the fight against those bastards. It will be my honor to march headlong into battle together, as a team that can never be vanquished. Your strength will empower me. The bastards will never beat us.

“Why me?” will never be uttered by our lips.

You know who you are, now you know what you mean to me. You are my Lois.

Humility

“Some would be scantily clad if only clothed in humility.”
Author unknown.

Inspiration indeed comes from many places. The above quote was displayed on the local church billboard. It’s not original, but it’s great.

Humility is a virtue. It is a value. It is a moral construct. It is also woefully absent in today’s world.

Webster defines humility as a modest or low view of one’s own importance. How many people do you know that act in accordance with this?

It’s difficult today. We live in the “selfie” era. The age of “look at me”. Social media has created an atmosphere of constant exposure, of the creation of celebrity, which is merely the status of being famous for being famous. No merit requested or required. We measure our worth by the number of followers we have, many of them not unlike WordPress.com followers…I follow you in hopes that you will follow me.

Sigh…

I find myself wanting to reach out to some people and tell them to “get over themselves”. Explain to them that I know who they are, what I want to know is what do they do? Do you contribute to society at large or do you use society to contribute to you? The least accomplished generation is also the most documented.

I am a firm believer that our deeds define us. I believe in Service. I believe that we are, in large part, here for the benefit of each other. Sure, some cynic will ask, “if we’re here for others than what are others here for”. That is when I am forced to amend it and say, “we are here for each other.”

I used to be an enormous follower of Ayn Rand. Her philosophy of Objectivism appealed to my conservative sensibilities. She taught that man is innately a creature of reason, craving accomplishment and achievement. She consequently dismissed the less accomplished in our world as victims of their own choices and should be left to pull themselves up and only then will they be worthy. I broke with her on this. By that logic, screw the addict, screw the homeless and screw anyone else who made a mistake in life. She called for the embracing of selfishness. While I do understand what she meant, that we owe it to ourselves to chase our own happiness, she neglected to touch on the value-added proposition of the achievement felt when helping someone. Most especially those that have nothing to offer you in return. I have experienced this and it is an achievement indeed. It made me a better person.

Today, people will step over a bleeding body in the street. They will film a person getting beaten and bullied and not attempt to help. The “hits” on the YouTube video matter more than helping another human being. They will blame the media, the video game, the music of the era but will never acknowledge that they only care about something in relation to how it affects them. They would be naked and cold if only clad in their humility.

Chase your goals. Work towards your dream. Achieve and accomplish. But remember that as you climb the ladder it is important that you remember not to kick on the way up what you may have to kiss on the way down. People are not stepping stones, they are our fellow residents on this earth. Our deeds are forever, and they are how we are remembered. The best deeds are anonymous ones, they are the embodiment of charity. It doesn’t matter how many people know what it is that you did…you’ll know. If someone finds out, be humble. Think less about yourself and more for others.

Think of your upcoming funeral. Will someone say, in hushed tones, “I can’t believe there are so few people here, she had a huge Instagram following and thousands of FB friends.”

Stay humble and fully clothed my friends, it’s worth it in the end.

Don’t let him win

A team of doctors frantically work to save the life of the patient on the table. One of the doctors yells “Don’t let the bastard win!”
Later, an observer to the scene leaned in to a doctor and asked “What did he mean, ‘Don’t let the bastard win?’ Who was he talking about?”
The doctor calmly replied, “Death. The bastard is Death.”

This was a scene from MASH, one of my all time favorite shows. The doctor was none other than “Hawkeye” Pierce. The part of Death was played by, well, Death of course. A character that transcends a TV show, it is a very real thing.

And it is a Bastard.

I remember the first time I saw that episode, it resonated deeply with me. I caught it on re-runs the other night and it knocked me out of my chair. It spoke to me.

I have been a obstinate, stubborn, insanely driven lover of a good fight my entire life. The best way to get me to do something, my father always joked, was to tell me that I couldn’t do it. Through the years I became known for it, and as my health deteriorated, it became my calling card. When I met a challenge, I overcame it. I found that it inspired people, and that was a role that I could live with.

Now, I don’t have a lot of challenges or enemies. Not much is staring me in the face. With the possible exception of my mortality. It’s taunting me, telling me to lie down and accept its inevitability. To just go with it. After all, it says teasingly, it’s only a matter of time after all.

Fuck you, you bastard. I’m not listening.

I see people every day that have given up. They are just going through the motions, waiting for death. Not me, man. I’m scouring for donors, I’m exercising, I’m being positive because it’s only one of the two choices I have.

So many days I have felt tired and weak. So many days I have sat on the sofa unable to do anything. So many nights I have laid in my bed, sleepless and exhausted counting reasons to go on vs giving up. The term “quality of life” bounces around in your head during those moments. When you don’t feel well, life can not feel like it’s worth living. You can even begin to welcome the sweet release of death.

I’ve been close to death 3 times in my life. I’m not scared of it. I’m also not ready for it. I have a lot of people in my corner who want me around. So it’s up to me to get myself in a place in which I want to be around.

Today, I started week 3 of my workout routine. Treadmill, kettlebells, pushups and resistance bands. My strength is pathetic, my stamina is woeful and my body begs me to stop. I pushed through and now I feel like I have accomplished something. I did more than I was able to on week 1. That is forward progress.

If death is coming for me, he needs to know that it won’t be without a fight. I’m not letting the bastard win.

Just Jot it January day #29–Dirty

Dirty – #JusJoJan 2019 Jot #29

The prompt word, “dirty,” for today’s post is brought to you by Jim! Thanks, Jim! To find his “dirty” post, click here. And say hi while you’re there!

There is so much talk about “Toxic Masculinity” these days. Guys my age struggle with this. I was raised with the words “be a man”, coming from my father, society, and my own recollections.

“Being a man” wasn’t a difficult concept to live by. Boys don’t cry was a common mantra. I was encouraged to be strong, to open and hold doors for a woman, to always pick up the check, to not drive off until my date was safely inside. Of course, I was also encouraged to be a lothario.

I witnessed my male counterparts as they cat-called, crotch grabbed, whistled and otherwise made fools out of themselves in front of women. I always knew the line and when it was crossed. I was (and still am) flirty, but not dirty, and I am respectful of women.

In turn, I also have expectations of women to be strong and able to handle themselves. When a man crosses the bridge from flirtatious to inappropriate I expect, and have seen it on many occasions, a woman to put a man in his place. I love those women. There is never an excuse for a man to offer unwanted advances or lay a hand upon a woman.

See, I know that a woman can open her own door. I know that she has her own coat and umbrella on a cold or rainy day. I may not need to follow her home to make sure she is safe. But I still do these things, because that’s how I was raised.

It’s not toxic. It’s part of being a man.