Tag: inspiration

Let’s talk about mortality

I woke this morning in the mood for a bit of spiritual refreshment. Yesterday, I spent most of the drive back from MA listening to Christian-Stoner music, an interesting genre, and I went to bed a little emotional. I decided to go to Church.

The day started off with Mom telling me in the car that I need to sing along with the hymns and read along with the “Responsive Readings.” Oy, I thought to myself, If she only knew how many times I had gone to church just to make her happy and she won’t stop pushing me. This is why I don’t often go. I had to remind her of my stance on the church. I hate the songs and I hate the responsive readings but I enjoy the sermon and the calming presence of many people in one room exhaling pure positivity into the otherwise tainted air. I stand but don’t sing or recite, and during prayers, I choose to have a moment of silence and contemplate an issue that is plaguing my heart. It’s still a positive experience. I’m just not into traditional religion. I call it the Kayak theory.  It goes as follows: Religion is sitting in church thinking about Kayaking, Spirituality is sitting in a Kayak thinking about God. She doesn’t get it.

The Unitarian Church in town in a nice place to be, for 186 years it has accommodated many faiths and served as a wonderful nucleus of the community. As can be expected, everyone knows everyone. What is not expected is the extraordinary generosity of spirit and resources for such a poor NH town. So even though I don’t necessarily enjoy church, I get to see the people in town that I have grown fond of. They pray for me, are always asking about me so I show up once in a while.

We were early. While the early arrivers mingled I picked out a nice inconspicuous place to sit. I often get judgmental looks when I don’t sing or read along so I choose my seat carefully. Mom and Dave can sit together as a couple, I’ll just hide over here. As I waited for things to start I scanned the room for my buddy John. He was a regular and I fully expected and hoped to see him. He is one of my few friends up here. Despite the fact that he is 86 years old.

I felt a surprise tap on my shoulder, I turned and it was John. He had sat down behind me. He looked terrible. Gaunt was the first word that came to mind. Worse than the last time I saw him. We made small talk, I asked him rhetorically how he was feeling and before we knew it the service was starting. He leaned in and said, “I have to talk to you after.” I nodded him an assurance and we settled in. I had a bad feeling.

The service began with a prayer. I said one of my trademark Billy Mac prayers. Something along the lines of:

Dear higher power, whatever or whoever you are. Give me the strength to deal with ignorance and the patience to not strangle the idiots in my life. While you’re at it, let me know why I’m here and what you want from me. Please take care of the good people and back the Karma bus over the jagoffs. And if it’s not too much would you mind getting that little cutie in the next row to notice me, yeah the one wearing what appears to be a very poor choice of undergarment to church (thank you for that btw). Oh yeah, no one ever asks you how you are…hope you’re doing great. Peace brother…

After several agonizing hymns and a lot of sitting and standing, I sat through a very enjoyable sermon. It put me into the state of mind that I came in hoping to achieve. Before I knew it we were heading to the back room for some badly needed coffee. I found John sitting in a chair near the door, I marveled at how fast he got there. I grabbed a hot cup and sat down next to him. I asked him what he wanted to talk about.

“My funeral”, he said matter-of-factly. I was taken back a bit and it probably showed on my face.

“You mean the one that’s hopefully many years from now?” I inquired despite knowing that it wasn’t the case.

“Billy, I’m on the way out. I know it. I’m not wasting valuable time. I’m planning my funeral and I want you to promise that you’ll be there as a brother.” You see, John and I are fellow Freemasons, we refer to each other in our fraternity as “Brothers”. It is a bond that runs strong and deep.

He then began to list the other arrangements he was working on. He calmly recited the list, as one would a list of what was needed at the market. A full Military funeral was in the works. There would be a Navy contingency and a Marine contingency because he served in both. As he continued to list the details it became achingly apparent to me the life this man has lived. He knows what he has done in his life, and despite his humble nature, he wants it to be recognized. He has been guaranteed participation by all involved except by the Masons. And that’s where I come in. To relieve his anxiety over not receiving the service most valuable to him, the Masonic Funeral.

I assured him that I would make it happen. He patted me on the leg and said “I’ve known you for a year and from day one I knew you were a man of integrity. I know you won’t let me down.”

I was at a loss for words but I managed to say,“no more Billy Nason’s.”

He nodded in agreement, I had hit the nail on the head. Billy Nason was a police officer from my hometown that moved up here to retire. He was a good friend of my Father’s. He was a Mason for 62 years. Despite the fact that he was ill for a long time and his death was expected, the local chapter of Masons failed to galvanize enough support to give him a proper Masonic sendoff. I, and a few local brothers were seriously pissed off. A true Mason knows that there is nothing more important to a Mason than our ancient ceremony to send a brother to the Celestial Lodge above. I’m not sure anyone feels stronger than I about it and John knows it.

Freemasonry operates in obscurity. For hundreds of years, men of good character have gathered in privacy and operated with anonymity. It is the most charitable organization in the world. We don’t talk about it or advertise it, we just do it. For the wives and families of a Mason, it is not uncommon for them to not know what it is that the Mason in their home actually does when he is away from home. Yet they faithfully supported the brother in his endeavors. The Masonic funeral is the one service performed publicly, for the benefit of the family, to show them a bit of what he was involved in and how much his labors were valued. I have participated in at least a dozen, many times for a brother that I never met. I didn’t have to know him, I knew what type of man he was. Every time, the family was absolutely grateful for us doing it. It’s an enormous show of respect for a good man. Yet, some Masons fail to see the importance and the turnout can be small. It’s a sad display when a fraternity of millions worldwide draws 3 or 4 guys because they simply don’t get it.
Pike

Not me, I get it. My new but dear friend has entrusted me with ensuring a very important part in the send-off of a wonderful man. I won’t let him down.

It was a morbid yet transcendent moment. It was disconcerting to have a dying man, one that you respect deeply, talk about his own mortality but I was deeply honored that he tasked me with such an important role.

It was an eye-opener for sure. I went to church on a whim, feeling somewhat aimless. I left with a direction and a purpose. That’s what I went in for. Mission accomplished I suppose.

200 posts

I wrote my first blog post on August 24th of last year. It was not my first attempt at blogging but at that time I had promised myself that I would give it a real shot.

At first, it was difficult, I was showing my ass to the world as I discussed with a faceless, anonymous audience my innermost feelings, beliefs, and vulnerabilities as I entered what I can still call the lowest period of my life. At first, no one read my work. Then, a few people took notice and seemed to gravitate towards my brutally honest but generally positive style. Those people became my reason for keeping on and I now can’t imagine my life without their valued insight and friendship.

It’s not about likes or follows, it is about the cathartic effect of writing, especially when you pour pain to paper and people, maybe just one, gets something out of it.

Thank you for letting Superman fly over your airspace these 200 times, I don’t expect to stop anytime soon.

Right place, right time

I can’t help but notice that lately, I have found myself in exactly the right place at the right time.

Last weekend, at Wal-Mart, I was walking in the right place when a young boy broke free from his mother’s clutch in the parking lot.  I took two steps and grabbed him by the arm before he made it into the path of traffic. The mother gave me a breathless Thank you and I tipped my beloved Red Sox Scalli Cap at her and went on my way.

Yesterday I was at the Supermarket and I noticed a sweet old lady staring helplessly at an item on the top shelf. I knew she wanted it, I knew she wouldn’t ask for help and I also knew no one was going to even if she did. I approached her, asked if she would like some help and retrieved the item for her. She was so grateful, it’s sad that the world has come to this. Then, one aisle over, a very short mother with two toddlers caused an accidental avalanche of cereal boxes by reaching and I caught several boxes before they hit her on the head.

None of these things were too out of the ordinary, but they were bunched pretty tightly together. As I tend to do, I was reminded of a memory, a time when being in the right place at the right time became a day that I will never forget. One that also, for the first time, convinced me that my Dad may have been right when he told me that everything happens for a reason.

After my Kidney Transplant in 2011, I chose to join the Fraternity of Freemasonry. It was something that I had always thought about as a younger man. It started as far back as my Great Uncle Cyrus’s funeral. He was a wonderful man that just lived too far away so I barely knew him as a child. We exchanged letters and my Grandmother said that he was quite fond of me despite our few meetings.

In 1981 Cyrus passed away. My Mom, Dad, Grandparents and I made the trek to clean out his stately house on the coast of Cape Cod. It took the whole weekend to dig through his belongings and it would conclude with the reading of his last will and testament. I don’t remember everything about it but I do remember when the attorney announced that I was to receive his late wife’s car, a 65 Ford Falcon ( a real gem that I had for years). The other standout from that day was my the dismayed look on my Grandmother’s face as a seemingly endless list of $5000.00 donations to various institutions and charities was read. It was money that she thought she would get as the Executrix of his will. I would later find out that those donations were made in the name of Freemasonry, the oldest and most honorable fraternity in the world. I was intrigued, to say the least.

In 2012 I was consumed with the desire to “pay it forward” after a wonderful person stepped out of the shadows and gave me a life-saving organ transplant. I decided that it was the perfect time to look into Freemasonry, to honor my Great Uncle and better myself. You may have heard that Freemasonry, or Masonry, is highly secretive. To a degree that is true. We have some. But it is no secret that men join to become better men; better husbands, fathers, brothers, friends etc.,. they are known to do this through those things which are larger than oneself. Charity chief among them.

I applied, petitioned for membership and in February, a date that I hoped my father would live to see (he died the previous December), I became a Master Mason. It was the beginning of my journey to being a better person and I had a fire in my belly.

That very February I learned about a Masonic program called the “HELP” program. It is created by, managed and operated exclusively by Masons, all of which are unpaid volunteers. It is an incredible program, we collect donated medical equipment and supplies from families who have either lost a relative or recuperated from a serious illness. It is a program spread by word-of-mouth only and is free to the public for as long as they need it. I knew that I had to check it out so I signed up to volunteer the following Saturday morning.

The local chapter of the Help program was in the parking lot of a local Masonic lodge where they worked out of locked storage containers. We were fortunate to have an unseasonably warm day for February. It wasn’t hard to imagine how unpleasant it must have been on cold, wintry days. Being my first day, I knew nothing about what to do other than signing in. So I took the opportunity to survey the equipment they had to offer. I was actually amazed at the number of motorized beds, mattresses. walkers, commodes, adult diapers and therapeutic equipment available to the public. I was also quite impressed with the amount of fellow Masons, or Brothers as we call each other, toiling away repairing and cleaning equipment and preparing for the rush. As the Newbie, I just sat back and watched.

It wasn’t long before “the rush” began. Cars filled the parking lot and people were milling about looking at the equipment. I was standing awkwardly at the back when a woman walked up to me and abruptly asked me if I “worked here”. I quickly replied that I was a volunteer but I would be glad to help her. To be honest, at first impression I didn’t like her. She was abrupt, seemed impatient and she violated my cardinal rule, she didn’t say hello to me. Fortunately, I quickly reminded myself where I was and why people came here. They had a very ill person to care for. I gave her my full attention.

She truly had no idea what she needed and after aimlessly dragging me around she admitted it. I inquired of her who was sick and the condition. To my amazement, she answered that it was her father, 74, who was in the advanced phase of Parkinson’s disease. I was floored. Just 2 months before I had lost my father, at 74, to Parkinson’s. I became emotional but I adhered to the task at hand. I began to show her all of the equipment that we had available that would make caring for her father easier. I got her a walker, a commode. a lift that helps get a person out of bed and many more items. We spent over an hour picking the items out and talking about our dads.

After we “checked out” all of the equipment I walked to her van to help her load everything into her car. As I was lifting one of the heavier items she asked me why I (we) do this. I explained to her that Masons are a charitable group and we, by definition help people. She asked me if I was here every Saturday. I explained that it was entirely up to me how often I volunteered. She looked me in the eye and asked me,

“What are the odds that you and I would pick this Saturday and that I would end up asking you, perhaps the best person ever to help me out, for help?”

“I think this is a moment that was meant to happen. I sincerely hope that it will be of assistance to your father.”

She smiled, reached in and hugged me (catching me completely by surprise) and walked around her car to get in. As she ducked out of sight into her seat she smiled again. It was a sad smile, almost forced through a face heavy with sadness, but it was one I will never forget.

There were many lessons learned that day but the predominant theme was that it was an incredible case of “right place, right time.”

And it is a tough act to follow.

 

People change

I had dinner with my wonderful oldest daughter last night. She seemed very preoccupied so I prodded her a bit to see what was wrong. She was very upset over a dinner she had recently had with her bestie from HS, Nicole. Nicole and my daughter have been best friends since they were 8 years old. I consider Nicole family. Her sweet, kind and generous personality masked the pain she has always endured from chronic illness. She has always had some kind of medical issue as long as I’ve known her and my daughter has been by her side the entire time. I admire her strength.

My daughter didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. She had a strong personality, refused to compromise her beliefs and behaviors and was, let’s call it what it is, a little bitchy. She had buddies, but Nicole was her only true friend.

When they went to dinner it had been a while since they had seen other. Nicole was finishing college and my daughter was working full time. She was pleased to see that Nicole had lost almost 60 pounds, was looking very pretty and feeling good for a change. She also observed, after what she described as a painfully long and unpleasant dinner, that Nicole was a different person. Self-absorbed, only talking about herself, monopolizing the conversation and saying uncharacteristic things. My daughter felt like she had lost her friend. Tragically, she asked me after telling me all of this “what did I do wrong?” I asked her why she would think that she did anything wrong? What if it is just a phase? Her next statement broke my heart:

“She’s the only friend I have!”

The only answer I had to offer from the bottom of my broken heart is that people change. Wait, where the hell did that come from? I never believed that!

In 1985, 2 years out of high school, I walked out of the theatre after seeing John Hughes’ classic The Breakfast Club and I called Bullshit. Sure, I liked the movie. I liked the cast, the score, there were some memorable lines i.e., “Does Barry Manilow know you raided his wardrobe?” and I appreciated the overall concept. I just didn’t believe for one second that those kids would be friends the following Monday. Sure, they shared a moment, but the Gollum we call the High School Clique would surely see that they were forced right back into their neat little boxes with their labels of Nerd, Freak, Jock, and Princess. I firmly believed that people don’t change.

I was severely traumatized by High School. I was bullied badly in the 9th grade and I crawled into the cocoon of obscurity for most of my remaining school years. I was a straight-A student until the middle of my Freshman year, I was pulling straight C’s at the end of the year. I became afraid to walk the halls for fear of getting slammed into a locker, I refrained from raising my hand in class for fear of being called Stupid and I somehow got it in my head that being invisible was the best way to go. I hung out in the Art Room whenever possible, Drawing and painting were my escapes from my own head. I would duplicate album cover art from the 70’s, I still have my drawing of Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell album in a closet somewhere. Because being an artist wasn’t unpopular enough, I was also in the band. I had a few friends in the band, but I was consumed by the stigma associated with that also.

I graduated with little pomp or circumstance, firmly entrenched in the middle of my class. Very few people signed my yearbook and when I graduated I went to college as an Art major. I lasted about a semester and a half and I dropped out. I was way too busy at my mediocre, nowhere job at a supermarket where someone scrawled my name next to “Is a fucked up shithead” on the men’s room stall, and honing my skills at alcoholism and denial.

Flash forward to my 15 year HS reunion. I had skipped 5 and 10. My wife and I went and it was as miserable as I thought it would be. The same people who didn’t talk to me in HS didn’t talk to me then either. When my wife got a call that her father was rushed to the hospital, it was almost a relief as we made our escape. When my 20th came around, I declined the invitation. The head of my class, also the organizer of the event, called me and asked why I didn’t want to go. I told her, in not so many words, that I just didn’t need a reminder of how obscure I was in HS. We ended up having a nice talk, she told me how things, and most importantly people, change and that she would really like me to go. I again declined and she said, “how about a quote for the board then?” Without thinking, I replied:

“It took me 20 years to find myself, I then realized that I was me all along.”

She was floored, she loved it. As it turns out it was a huge hit at the reunion. Or so I’m told, I didn’t go. But that quote changed something inside of me. First of all, I don’t know where it came from (like a lot of things I say) but it opened a door. I started to take a hard look at some of the more traumatic and regrettable memories in school and asked myself if maybe some of it was my fault, or could I have at least done something different to change the outcome? Was it even as bad as I thought it was?

It was at that point that I began to embrace my quirks and peccadilloes instead of running from them. I came to the very painful conclusion that a lot of it was on me. I was just a confused teenager, who probably would’ve benefitted from having an older brother, who spent too much time in his own head. Once I embraced that, I needed to learn to forgive myself and finally give myself a fucking break.

When my 30th reunion rolled around, I RSVP’d yes. I was going with an open mind. I was in a good place, I had just recovered from my Transplant, my career was going well and I felt comfortable that I could go, face my demons and not have to lie about who and what I am. As it turned out, it wasn’t a bad experience. I saw a lot of people that I had forgotten about, some of whom were happy to see me. Some of the people I disliked immensely were now friendly and inviting. Sure, some of the people that ignored me 30 years prior continued the trend, but I didn’t need their validation anymore. I had found out who I am, I was me all along!

I can’t say with any certainty how many people I went to HS with grappled with the same issues I did. I don’t know how many of the mean girls are sorry, how many of the bullies are now failures, and I don’t know if they even think about this shit as much as I do.

But I do know that I have changed, so it’s entirely possible that others can as well. As for Nicole, I assured my daughter that it is only a phase, and they would become close friends again. Her situation, unlike mine, was not her fault.

I still call Bullshit on the Breakfast Club, however. All 960 times that I have watched it.

Thought for the day

Every 2 weeks I have lab work to test for anemia. I receive my shots in an oncology center. It is a sobering place, normally full of some very sick people. It is rare when I leave there to not thank the powers that be that I only have Kidney disease. My heart aches for the people fighting for their lives and I have such respect for the endless compassion shown by the Nursing staff.

Today, I was the only one there and all of the nurses were standing around chatting.

What a wonderful sight it is to see an empty Oncology center. I only wish it would stay that way

the man who said NO

I’ve been everything I hate lately. I am a lazy, joyless sofa-bound fuck. The will to do anything has been sucked out of my body and I feel helpless to do anything about it. Even though I know I will kick this pneumonia eventually, I have just been down. If you have ever read me, quality of life is everything. By that logic, I have lost everything.

I can’t breathe. I am exhausted after the most minor exertion. I procrastinate on everything because I just don’t feel it. My life now consists of Dr.’s visits, consequent runs to the pharmacy, and sitting on the sofa. Last week I drove to the pharmacy and instead of going in I sat in my truck listening to the radio. I never went in, the seat was too comfortable and the front door was too far away.

Pain is temporary. A disease is treatable. It is very feasible that at some point I will walk around like a normal person. Right now that moment eludes me. I walk slow, resent those that breeze past me, breathing heavy and my body language reeks of “I’m done.” The day that I hoped would never come is here, it is now affecting my psyche. I’m acting out like never before. I am unfollowing friends on FB because I can’t look at how fucking happy they are; frolicking in the Bahamas on vacation, out at restaurants at tables full of smiling friends and family, scuba diving in Australia. I started leaving FB groups that I follow about mountain biking and weightlifting because they are terrible reminders of the dreaded used-to’s. I have been getting angry seeing people laughing and enjoying themselves doing activities that used to be routine for me. I watch TV and I see so many things that elicit anger and frustration. Or worse, the realization that I used to be able to do that thing and I never will again. A year ago I would have said “Someday”. Now I say “Yeah, you wish.”

On top of everything else, I have become the Introverted Extrovert. Yes, it’s a real thing. The introverted extrovert likes people but is prone to finding ways to avoid making or following through on plans. Once you’re there, you’re fine, it’s getting there that’s the problem. In short, I’m saying NO way more often than I used to. I have shut out my only asset, my support network. Something that I need now more than ever.

I don’t know how to shake this. I’ve never let the physical affect the emotional side of me. I have maintained an almost cheery attitude in the face of everything. But lately, I have felt like giving up. The worse part, I don’t even know what that means anymore. Give up on what? I don’t do anything!?
yes man

I was thinking this morning about a Jim Carrey movie that gave me a good chuckle. Inspiration comes in many forms and sometimes a silly movie will do it. Yes Man is about a guy who just won’t engage. He goes to great lengths to avoid interaction outside of work, either for fear of rejection or getting hurt. His favorite word is NO. Sound familiar? Until he attends a seminar that preaches one simple message…say yes to everything. Through all of the silliness and suspension of disbelief the movie attempts, it makes a good point. Saying yes is opening a door, saying no is hiding behind one. I’m definitely hiding right now behind the door of illness. It’s not even a screen door, at least that would provide some fresh air.

I need to find a way to embrace life again, to look forward to each new day as an opportunity, not another obstacle. I need to get back to enjoying my life, regardless of my position in it. I need that one moment where I leap out of my chair, fist clenched and scream at the top of my lungs YES, FUCK YES!

Today, that task seems insurmountable. Tomorrow it may be possible. I suspect that the outcome is largely up to me.

 

My Walden

Many of our greatest American poets and writers penned their best work while admiring a body of water. Robert Frost was inspired by hiking the woods in both winter and summer and waxed poetic about the beauty of the seasons in New England. Henry David Thoreau was inspired by the serenity of Walden Pond. Reading Walden as a young man I could relate to the notion of hiking through thick woods, to come upon an opening in the thicket and stumble upon an oasis. A body of water, glimmering in the summer sun, or the frozen surface glistening in the sparse hours of daylight while in the throes of winter. They both convey such a calming image that inevitably leads to a moment of reflection and wonder. I have 2 bodies of water that invoke the spirits of Frost and Thoreau. One is Ossipee Lake, which I am not in sight of year round. The other is my beloved duck pond.

The duck pond is the single one thing that makes the lot we live on graduate from great to awesome. It captivated my mom and dad when they bought it in the 80’s. The lot is two acres but is surrounded by wetlands which mean that despite not owning it, we have the luxury of enjoying another three acres with the security that it can’t be built on. Our view is ours to keep.

The house was clearly constructed with a view of the pond in mind. The main entrance, two sliding glass doors, and many windows all face it. I find myself drawn to the pond year round. Many mornings I have had coffee on the deck and spotted a deer or two that ventured to the water line for a drink. It teems with birds of all kinds, mostly Canadian Geese, and Mallards but occasionally the great Heron with the six-foot wingspan will swoop in like a Concorde Jet landing at a Municipal Airport. I love the birds, all of them. It pleases me to the core to see the small V-shaped ripple in water as a solitary duck makes its way across the pond.

At night, the pond shifts gears from quiet oasis to a bustling ecosystem as frogs loudly make their presence known, crickets (Cicadas?) create a cacophonous symphony, and the industrious beavers work tirelessly at their latest monument. It is deafening in early spring but like everything else, you get used to it.

With the late Spring in New England this year, I have looked eagerly to the pond each morning for signs of my favorite season. The pond tells all, year round. In the fall, the decreasing bird population signals the approach of winter. In the early winter, the encroachment of ice indicates the arrival of winter. In the spring, I monitor daily the receding of the ice and the return of my beloved birds. This year, the pond didn’t give me what I wanted, despite my constant pleading. By the middle of April, it was still in the throes of winter. And then, I think this week, Spring suddenly showed up. The ice is gone, my birds are back and last night the Crickets were deafening, much to the pleasure of my ears. Spring is actually here, I saw both a Wasp and a Tick this morning while walking the dog.

This afternoon, I had a coffee on the deck and admired my pond. My ducks are there, the sun reflected on the ripples suddenly brought on by a light but satisfying afternoon breeze. I have not been outside much lately. My sickness has made me tired, weak and cold. On days that I used to wake early and race outside, I have found myself sleeping late and spending my waking hours under a warm blanket. As I sipped my coffee, reflecting on my life recently, it occurred to me that my beloved pond can serve as a powerful metaphor for my life.

The seasons are fundamentally about change. In New England, we always have four seasons (sometimes in one week) and we can count on it. Change is inevitable. I see it coming by studying my pond. This Spring, my pond shed its blanket of ice and welcomed back all of the creatures that depend upon it. It embraced the change and is now doing what it is supposed to. Today, I shed my actual blanket for the first time and took a step, albeit a small one, towards shaking off the cold, grey winter that has occupied my soul for months. Like my duck pond, I let the sun hit me and I eagerly absorbed it, seeking enough light to allow it to warm me, reflect off of me and have enough in the tank to shine it for those that depend and count on me. I need to welcome back the desire to go on as if the urgency of a coming fall and winter was fast approaching. It is indeed that urgent.

Today, like Frost and Thoreau, I have found inspiration. I don’t know if they ever sat on the edge of their beloved oasis’s with a heart as heavy as I have of late but I can see how it inspired them to put it to paper for others to read and enjoy. It has certainly inspired me to do so, and I hope someone will enjoy reading this. It may be just a blog, but it could also be the first entry in a great epiphany in which a lost soul gets his mojo back.

Imagine that, all this about a bunch of ducks.

Day 3 of the 3 day challenge

The rules:

  1. Thank the person who nominated you.  – Thanks again Steve                         (
    (MSich Chronicles)
  2. Share a post each day for three consecutive days (3 quotes total)
  3. Explain why you like the quote
  4. Nominate three bloggers to play along

Today’s quote comes from my Grandfather Mellen Barnes. One of the biggest influences in my life, his memory is with me every day. He was a wonderful, simple man who never took anything, except being a virtuous man, seriously. His wit and dry humor sustained an entire family for decades and I would like to pay homage to him. Today’s quote is not unique to him but he was the first person I ever heard say it:

“I’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a train.”

This quote is significant to me because it, of course, reminds me of him. A man like no other from a generation that can never be duplicated. Everything to him was ripe for satire and the goal was a laugh. Today I am still at a low point but thinking of him and his corny jokes sustains me.

Here are 3 bloggers I would like to ask for a great nugget of food for thought

1) Morpetheroad by Michael. This is a great blog and Michael is a real nice guy as well as supportive and encouraging to other bloggers. His blog features a variety of content from original works to writing challenges to poetry. He is not afraid of taking risks and it shows. A sample. Give us a gem Michael, it’s not an award after all.

2) Gail, author of Moonlight Reflections. This is a great blog, full of varied content but brimming with positivity and old-fashioned values. Anything from food suggestions to candid posts about parenthood, sample here, it’s always a good read. Give us a gem, Gail.

3) TonysBologna. Here is a guy who tells it like it is. I really can’t say higher praise than he is just funny as hell and a lot of what he writes resonates immediately with me. I started following when I read this post. C’mon Tony give us one some of your faves.

Well, that completes this challenge. Check out these blogs, I guarantee you won’t be disappointed. Ciao for now…

Day 2 of the 3 day challenge

Now that I know what I’m doing, here are the rules:

1. Thank the person that nominated you.

2. Write one quote each day for three consecutive days (3 quotes total)

3. Explain why the quote is meaningful for you.

4. Nominate three bloggers each day to participate in the challenge

Thanks again to Steve at MSich Chronicles for the nod. Steve is a great writer and a goddamn warrior in the Chronic Illness community.

Here is my quote for Day 2.

“I thought about quitting. But then I noticed who was watching”
–author unknown
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This quote moved me so much when I first saw it and I was reminded of it today. I have been in the hospital since Thursday. I have had far too much time to think and I’m in a bad place. I have been consistently sick and I have been dwelling on the whole “quality of life thing. Having once crossed the threshold once already I am not scared of death and my thoughts are darker than I care to acknowledge. And then I get the call from my youngest daughter, the concern in her voice so omnipresent, her concern so unabashed, her love for her father so sincere…I was floored.

She is watching me, looking to me for inspiration, to tell her that everything is going to be ok. If anything was to happen to me she would be completely crushed. All of my children love me, but this one is special. I’ll keep fighting, for her.

I would like to nominate the following three bloggers to offer up their fave nuggets of wisdom.

1)The incurable dreamer. I love this blog. Self-effacing, funny as all hell, brutally honest and thought-provoking she really is a must-read. She had me at this post. Check it out, if you don’t laugh I’ll eat a bug. I would love to hear a few nuggets of wisdom from her.

2)Cage Dunn. This is a great blog. A storyteller, a published author and an extremely grounded writer who tells it like it is. I was hooked at this post. Check this blog out, you won’t be disappointed. I’m sure she has some nuggets of wisdom to share with us.

3) Biff Sock Pow. Biff is a favorite of mine. He has a great mastery of the nuances of absurdity. He can make a boring Tuesday into a funny as hell post. And he doesn’t take himself too seriously. Check him out, you won’t be disappointed. He had me hooked with this post.

Check out these blogs and we’ll do this again tomorrow…

Kicking the can down the road

Six and a half years ago I came out of anesthesia to find myself in a room draped in plastic, many beeping machines, looking up at a Doctor wearing enough protection to make me think that I had been exposed to Miley Cyrus. Through a mask, he asked me when the last time I had worked.

I clumsily and foggily replied, “what day is it?”

“It is Tuesday evening” he informed me.

“Monday.” It was coming back to me. I had worked until noon on Monday, my donor and I received a huge sendoff (we worked together) and we were at Tufts Medical Center at 6:30 AM the next morning. Deb and I had sat with our families, who made nervous small talk until we were called in for prep. Soon we would be counting down from 10 and hoping to open my eyes again in about 6-8 hours.

“Admirable”, he said with an obnoxious sarcasm, “Have you ever been on dialysis?”

“No, thank God.”

“Sir, we have guidelines for dialysis. A number, if you will, that determines how due, or overdue in cases such as yours, a patient is for dialysis. A typical number would be approximately 10. For conversation’s sake would you care to learn what your number was?

“Sure, indulge me.” His snarky attitude was pissing me off.

“110.” He paused for effect. “I’m glad to see you doing so well sir but your behavior was nothing short of reckless. Please be more careful in the future.” He then patted me on the shoulder with his gloved hand and left the room.

Other people may have been concerned, maybe even felt bad. But what I heard was a chorus of soccer hooligans yelling “YEAH, you pulled it off you wanka! Good job mate!” I had avoided dialysis. Reckless or not, I didn’t give a shit. I did it. His dire warning wasn’t even the first for me. Approximately one month before my surgery I received an email from my doctor. Most doctor’s don’t send personal emails.

Your lab work suggests you may be in danger of a heart attack. Please, Bill if you feel chest pain, shortness of breath or light-headed admit yourself immediately.

I read it and dismissed it. I assured myself that I will make it. Repeat after me, I told myself, Death before dialysis. I was kicking the can down the road and I didn’t care.

I have had Kidney disease since I was a teenager. I have met every single challenge with enough denial and/or bravery to move on to the next obstacle. I always knew that a transplant may be in my future and I even prepared myself for the possibility of death. One thing I refused to entertain was dialysis. The snarky doctor, despite his attempts to minimize my accomplishment, had actually validated it. I had vanquished my enemy.

Until now.

After yesterday’s appointment, my Doctor’s best estimate is that I am 3-6 months from dialysis. My transplant has finally reached the unpleasant milestone of failed. The moment that I have fought, nay, railed against since my diagnosis is upon me. I can’t wrap my head around it.

I am an exceedingly logical person. I believe that when you do the work you reap the benefits. I believe that if an expert says A + B = C then I will do my best to add them properly. In this case, A and B were to strictly follow my Doctor’s orders regarding nutrition, sodium intake, alcohol and caffeine and exercise. C would be the result, C would be extending the life of my transplanted kidney another 3 years (we had this conversation 6 months ago. I did it, all of it, and it accomplished fucking nothing and now I have to finally accept that my life is only going to be as long as the extension cord in my dialysis center.

joke break…

A man and his wife are discussing end of life matters. The husband loudly declares
“when it’s my time, I refuse to be glued to some machine living off of a bottle!”
The wife unplugged the TV, threw his beer in the trash and left the room.

I used to love that joke. It’s dark and twisted and completely inappropriate just like me. It also played into, or to be more clear downplayed, my crippling fear of dialysis

I don’t fear a lot. I always look to the bright side. I haven’t dwelt on the number of years and instead have focused on quality of life. Dialysis represents to me the end of quality of life. It is forcing me to (finally) accept my limitations and to admit that I am finally sick and, to touch on a familiar theme, I’m going to look it.
It represents a complete lack of freedom and independence. I may not have plans to spontaneously pack my shit and just go somewhere but in 3 to 6 months the fantasy is just that. I will need to plan everything based on that extension cord.
I can look forward to infections, setbacks and more hospital stays because dialysis patients always get sick from treatments.
I view it as death’s waiting room. Sit, listen to the machine whirring, wonder where you are on the transplant list (if I’m even eligible), read a book about how it’s not so bad and wait for the next shoe to drop.

I’m not ready for that shoe to drop. Despite how wrong I may be wrong about a lot of what I just said, I can’t change my mind about it. I hate it and I’m scared.

I know that I’ll pull through this as I have everything else. But I’m not there yet. Right now, I’m mad and scared. I know myself enough to know that I have to get this out of my system, regardless of whether my blog has read like a Sylvia Plath poem lately. If I don’t get my anger out of my system I will be unable to move on to fucking dealing with it and moving on with my life. See, I know that overly dwelling on the future only cheats me out of the present but at the moment I don’t see the future in a bright light. I need to finish this blog, go outside and scream with clenched fists some FUCK YOU’s to the universe for kicking me in the ball again and then, and only then, move on to what I’m going to do next.

If you have made it this far, this is not a post fishing for sympathy. I don’t need anyone to offer uplifting sentiment. I just need to get this off of me because I want to move on, get back to a position of strength, loosen up and find Superman again. Before the Kryptonite of Dialysis defeats me.

Thanks for listening…