Tag: life

Something big between my legs…part 3

To bring you up to speed, you can catch up here .

I had just been asked, nay, commanded by my captivating temptress to meet her at a destination some 25 miles away for a steamy rendezvous. Having absolutely no control over which head was doing the thinking, I jumped on my motorcycle and rolled out of my driveway on my way to what was certain to be another afternoon of memorable debauchery.

The route I needed to take was largely highway followed by a series of back roads that seemed slow and endless, as if designed to discourage the impatient from traveling them, therefore preserving the quaint little towns they rolled through. I hated highway riding on the motorcycle but looked forward to the side roads. And of course the destination.

Massachusetts drivers are notoriously rude and aggressive and bikes often become victim to overzealous tailgaters and lane-changers. Despite the hormones raging through my body, I maintained a safe speed on the 2-lane highway for the entire 18-mile stretch. Speed wasn’t my thing. I rode to experience, to savor, to be a part of the road and everything around it. This made me a major burden and obstacle to other drivers. As expected I was passed as if sitting still several times and I was cut off more than my fair share of times. I wasn’t angry, I took great satisfaction knowing that my destination likely held way more fun in store than theirs.

As I got closer, the soaring seagulls above me and the salty taste of the air stinging my face teased my sense of urgency. I would be pulling off of the highway soon. Before I knew it I was at my exit and I pulled off. The treacherous part of my journey was over and the scenic part was upon me. I downshifted, felt my steed angrily and loudly object and began the last leg of my journey.

The road was one of those roads that you can lose yourself in. With few stop signs, an abundance of woodland briefly interrupted by the occasional beautiful home on each side, it is a road that you could “zone out” and not remember riding it but know you loved it. I was coasting along, leaning into the winding corners when I noticed in my left mirror a car coming up on me very quickly. I tensed up a bit, I wasn’t the most experienced rider and tailgaters made me very anxious. He got on my rear wheel pretty close and I knew I had to let him by me, but where? There were no houses in sight and the shoulder was soft and loose. After one very anxious and angry mile, I spotted a pull off. I could see from a distance that it was a scenic spot that many people used to pull off and enjoy the view (the sand dunes were visible at this point). I could see that it was all dirt and rocks so I signaled and slowed in preparation to turn off.

As I shifted down to pull onto the shoulder the driver behind me accelerated. Underestimating my speed he hit my left leg and foot rest. My bike and I sharply shot to the right and plunged into a section of deep sand. My bike stopped. I didn’t. I was thrown from the bike and my last recollection was of slamming into a old, rusty guardrail. I hit it and rolled down an embankment where I vividly recall frantically gasping for air futiley three times, realized that breathing wasn’t possible, thinking to myself “I’m dead” and then blacking out.

to be continued…

Something big between my legs…cont’d

schwing

Hopefully you read my last installment and you are hanging on like I did when I was 13 reading Penthouse forum. Unlike those stories, this actually happened. Tune in here for part 1. Here is where I left off

I had just been propositioned by a beautiful, sensuous and did I mention older (?) woman at work. Up until this point I thought that we were only playing around. Surely a woman ten years my senior is out of my league. It’s akin to a dog chasing a car…what would he do if he caught it? Slowly realizing that this was for real I kicked the remaining vendors the hell off of my dock for lunch. One vendor saw the exchange between us and gave me a coy smile as he left. I locked up, punched out and headed for the Leggs van, or as I have forever known it as, the original “shaggin’ wagon”.

It was running. As I approached the window I saw that the driver’s seat was empty. I looked in and a voice called out

“in the back!”

I went to the back of the van, opened the panel doors and she motioned for me to hop in. After what seemed like seconds of small talk, she began tearing my clothes off. Nothing, I repeat nothing like this had ever happened to me in my life. I immediately knew that every sexual experience I had had up to this point was with girls. I was now with a woman. She truly rocked me to my foundation that afternoon. When it was over, she nonchalantly got dressed and informed that she had to finish her route. I checked my body for skid-marks,  put out a couple of small fires, got dressed and went back to work.

walk-of-shame

As I walked back to the market I asked myself, was I just used for sex? My brain responded immediately with a profound “what’s your point? Go with it!”

For the remainder of the afternoon, and I suppose of the entire week before I would see her again I was consumed by the memory of that day in the van. I was curious what would happen when I saw her again. Was it a one-time thing or the beginning of many? I was a man obsessed. I was also becoming an overnight legend. I was spotted getting in and out of the van and it didn’t take long before my name was immediately followed by “the guy who banged the Leggs lady.” You may choose to believe me or not, but I didn’t welcome the notoriety. I respected women as much then as I do now and I was a gentleman. But it was out there none the less.

Friday afternoon would roll around again and like clockwork, she showed up at 11:30. We exchanged smiles as she came in with her dolly stacked high with product. It was taller than she was. She went about her business and I was very busy with deliveries. As she left she handed me her paperwork to sign. I reviewed everything, signed off on it, kept my copy and gave her back her copies. She handed me a piece of paper and said:”this copy is for you” and winked. I looked down, it was an invitation to meet her at  “The Cove” a popular section of beach in a town nearby at 8:00. Scrolled at the bottom was “bring the bike”.

In the days before cell phones, it was exceedingly difficult to coordinate meetups like this so I asked her how I would find her. She told me to look for the van.

Thus began a tumultous, wild ride that I would never forget. We met up at various places; my house, no-tell motels, and of course the van. But I didn’t take the time to notice that we never actually went in any establishments, we always met outside of places. I figured that she was outdoorsy and loved the summer. I did as well so I went with it. We rode my bike, had incredible sex all over the east coast of MA and hit the repeat button as often as possible. Life was indeed good that summer.

One Friday I decided to take the day off. I had some friends over and we were hanging out in my backyard. My home phone rang (remember no cells then) and it was Cheryl. She was calling from the market.

“Why aren’t you working?” she asked.

“I took the day off. I forgot Friday was your day.”

“I want to see you. I showed up today expecting lunch in the van and you weren’t there. You owe me now.” Her voice was throaty, sexy and incredibly matter of fact. I had never met such an assertive woman. Parts of me were scared stiff. Well, one to be exact.

just go

I explained to her that I had friends over. She simply told me to get on my bike and meet her at a market about 25 miles away. She “needed” me. I told her to hold on and updated my boys on the situation. They unanimously agreed that I would be the world’s biggest putz if I didn’t take this opportunity.

I told her to give me 45 minutes, got rid of the boys and fired up the Honda. It was a hot day, I was in a hurry and I decided that the sneakers, tank top and shorts would have to do. I was off for another afternoon of Van-rocking debauchery.

Little did I know that I wouldn’t make it to see her that day.

to be continued…

A beautiful lake sunset

It was the twilight of a beautiful late Spring day. The sun was setting, the sky golden, and the water still as glass. From the deck of the seasonal home, the chairs the two men were sitting in were mere silhouettes in a painting that could be found in any New England Art Gallery. The woman gently leaned on the rails of the deck and watched the men for a few moments. It looks like their ‘little talk’ is going well, she mused to herself as she turned to go inside the house.
The chairs were situated in the shallow water, several feet off the shore, just before it dropped off. Small waves gently lapped at their feet. The older man splashed his bare feet in the cool water. He stared at his pale legs, revealed by his rolled pant legs, and laughed to himself.
“Can’t wait to get some sun on these legs. Been a long winter.”
The young man on his right nodded in agreement.
“Now, where were we?” the older man asked, as he stared straight ahead. “Oh yes, respecting my daughter.” He paused and chewed on an unlit cigar as he continued to stare straight ahead.
“I had reservations about you. But my daughter asked me to give you a chance. She saw something in you. I didn’t see it. But here’s the thing, son. It doesn’t matter if I see it. It’s up to me to support my daughter. So I just figured, and this is going to be blunt so I hope you’ll forgive me, but I figured she’d see what I saw eventually and dump you. With me so far?”
The younger man nodded in agreement.
“I taught my daughter, who you know means fucking everything to me, to not only insist on a man respecting her but to respect herself. Girls need to be tougher than boys, and I raised her tough.” He paused to chew on his cigar, spitting a few scraps of wrapper. “And I told you when we met that you and I will get along just fine if you respect my little girl. Still with me?”
The younger man on his right again nodded his head.
“Now, as a father that means that I have to stomach the idea of things like you sticking your tongue down her throat, and doing worse things than that, when my instincts are to wrap her in bubble wrap. To protect her from this world. Because my daughter will always, no matter how long I live, be my little girl. It’s a tough thing to let go of.”
He stopped to observe a mama duck and her ducklings boldly paddle by them, unafraid of them despite their closeness.
“Then I saw the bruises on her arm.” He paused, his right fist clenched, his knuckles white. “She said you two were playing around, that I shouldn’t worry about it. But, you see, I know my daughter. I knew she was lying to me. And that I cannot handle. So I pushed her a bit. Just enough for her to tell me the truth. And you know what, I’ve got a big problem with it.”
He paused, looking around for the ducks. They had disappeared from sight on a bend in the twisted shoreline.
“I’m so worried in fact that I simply have to, I just can’t live with myself if I don’t, do something about it.” He leaned to his right, stared intently at the man, and said, “You get that, right?”
The younger man frantically squirmed in his chair, rocking it back and forth.
The older man placed his unlit cigar on the wooden arm of his chair and stood up. He positioned himself behind the young man’s chair and made sure the ropes binding the hands together were secure. He went around to the front and checked the man’s bound feet to see they were secure as well.
He leaned in to the young man’s face, placed a 9mm against his temple and raised a finger to his own lips, shushing him. He then tore off the thick slab of duct tape that covered his mouth. The young man winced in pain as he stared into his captor’s eyes.
“Don’t speak. It’s waaaay too late for that. Just look at my eyes. This is the face of a father. A man who loves his child more than you will ever know. I tried to explain such a love to you, but you didn’t get it. Maybe didn’t appreciate it.”
He laughed caustically. “Perhaps you thought I was joking.”
He walked to the rear of the young man’s chair.
“See, when I said ‘You and I would get along just fine’, that’s another way to say that ‘I won’t have to kill you’. But you hurt my daughter, and I really have no choice now, do I? After all, I am a man of my word.”
“Please don’t, please…I’ll do anything!” the young man pleaded.
“Son, it’s just a bit too late for apologies.”
The older man positioned his right leg behind the chair and kicked it forward, plunging the young man face down into the water.

He sat back in his chair, struck a wooden match, and lit his cigar. He took a deep drag, marveled at what a beautiful night it really was. Despite the splashing sounds as the chair in the water rocked and thrashed frantically.
“How’d it go?”, his wife called from the deck.
“Good. Good talk” he loudly replied. “Be in in a minute.”
As soon as the bubbles stop, he grinned.

Doing my part

We are not a secret society. We are not affiliated with the Illuminati. We are not the Knights Templar. We can barely handle a take out order. But we are a fraternity that values faith, hope, and above all Charity. We vow to support one another in our lives and endeavors in an unparalleled commitment to each other. We are Freemasons, the oldest Fraternal Organization in the world.

My great uncle Cyrus was an esteemed Freemason. I rarely saw him when I was younger because he lived a good distance away. But I knew of his extreme generosity. I learned the full extent of this when I attended the reading of his Last Will and Testament. As the attorney read a laundry list of 5000 dollar donations to a series of hospitals, burn units, food pantries and schools I learned that those were his Masonic charities. It intrigued me how a man of meager means could be so generous. So I looked into Freemasonry. I concluded that someday I would pursue it.

It wasn’t until I was in my late forties that I acted on my desire to join.
My kids were older, my marriage wasn’t worth staying home for and perhaps most important, I had just received a life-saving kidney transplant from a co-worker and I wanted to pay it forward. I joined a lodge in my hometown in MA. I chose it because it was close to my current town and I knew many of the members.

It was a small but bustling group of guys and I immediately fit in. The only thing I had to do was reconcile my faith. Freemasonry demands that a man believes in a higher power. No denomination or names required, just no atheists. I came to the conclusion that no man can be arrogant enough to be absolutely sure that there is nothing up/out there and that was enough. Soon after I kneeled at the consecrated altar and took an obligation to simply be a better man.

I jumped in and was thrilled to endeavor in wholesome, charitable and community-oriented activities with some very good men. I got involved with the few skills I had. I cooked at all functions, I organized events and I called guys that hadn’t been in a while and personally asked them to come back. I joined the line of Officers and tried to be a leader as well. I became a popular, well-respected member. I made wonderful friendships that I never would have made had I not sought out this fraternity. It has changed my life in so many ways. It was where I belonged.

Unfortunately, I was a bit of a Pollyanna in one respect. I thought that ALL Freemasons were man of impeccable character. I soon learned how wrong I was. Most, a good 85% are indeed great men. But some are Masons for the wrong reasons, seeking social stature or just enjoy titles. My biggest disappointment was that politics exist within our walls as well because we are, after all, just mortal men.

Mortal men are capable of gossip, they lose interest, make promises they fail to keep, struggle with personality differences, grapple with resentment and grudges, and can be petty and unrelenting. It goes against everything we strive for but it happens, even in a room that is dedicated to be different than the world outside its walls. This has happened in my own lodge.

But in recent years, membership has fallen way off, attendance is down and we are in trouble.

I missed almost all of last year due to my move (I’m 100 miles away from the lodge now). I went a few times but I had to drop out of the officer line due to my health and distance and created a gap for them to fill. They couldn’t. The failure of others to step up and fill mine, and other vacancies in addition to failure to collect dues put our Lodge in Receivership. In essence, Grand Lodge has us on probation and we either get it together or we sell our building, lose our charter and merge with another lodge.

The brothers charged with handling our rebuilding/probation asked me if I would re-join the officer line. They felt that my presence would help to galvanize the membership. But it would not come without sacrifice. It would require me to drive to MA once a month for 10 months of the year. 200 miles round trip and I would have to find a place to sleep. Reluctantly, I agreed.

I decided that if my lodge needs me I will do my part. I will find a way to make a weekend out of it. My dialysis schedule actually permits it. I have it on Saturday and then have 2 days off. I can go down Sunday and see two of my kids on the way down. I can then stay at my buddy Jeff’s house Sunday night and see my other two kids on Monday. The meeting is Monday night and I can drive up after. It’s a commitment on my part but I’m willing to ake it because Freemasonry, and my lodge, means that much to me. Also, it does give me something to look forward to and plan for. That is something we Chronically Ill need to keep going.

Last night I was installed Senior Warden of my lodge. My next step is Master. At which time I will assume leadership of my beloved lodge. My first priority will be that my members always remember that they made a commitment to God, their brothers and themselves that they would strive to be better men. While this implicitly implies that they should work towards being better than their former selves, I also hope to inspire them to step up, to be accountable, to get involved and to not wait for others to do it.

That’s what the people outside our walls do, and we as Freemasons need to do better. I’m doing my part, some think I’m doing more than my part. Again, it means that much to me.

“Playing the card”

It is truly a great thing to meet a blogger that you become actual friends with outside of the blogosphere and its routine of merely reading, liking and commenting on posts. I have such a friendship and we had breakfast Sunday morning.

Much of the conversation revolved around our health. She is a recent Cancer patient, note that I did not say “Survivor” and she is well versed on my situation so it was to be expected that our health challenges would be a part of the conversation. After a hell of an ordeal, she looks great. Healthy, fit and her attitude and demeanor are positive. Me, I like to think that I am the same. I live my life in a way that I hope nobody will say “Hey, that guy looks sick.” It was like talking to a female version of me sitting across the table. Like I said, refreshing.

It’s something that I have blogged frequently about, the inevitable spiral of being chronically ill to the point where you become the “Sick person.” The unfortunate reality when the first thing someone says when they see you is to ask how you are feeling. It is not that it isn’t appreciated, it certainly is, but it tends to be your identity above all else that you are, offer, or aspire to be. It can become your identity. If you let it. She and I both refuse to let it.

But then the conversation went in a related but refreshing direction when she uttered a phrase that is not new or original, but timely as hell and needed to be said.

“Everyone has a card to play.”

It really struck a chord with me and we talked about it at length. The words “survivor”, “sufferer” are an extrapolation of the victimhood culture we live in. People fall back on identity to define themselves, inject their ordeals into unrelated conversations and situations to elicit a response, sympathetic of otherwise, or in the worst case scenario, to obtain an advantage or alter an outcome. My friend and I are both tired of it and refuse to “play our card”. We don’t care if you are a minority, a woman in a man’s world, Gay, trans, poor, or misunderstood. Don’t let victimhood be your defining trait. Just live your life.

Everyone has a burden to bear. That is the origin of the famous saying,
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”
But the true warriors don’t announce their burden to the world, they generally go about their business the best they are able. Yet many insist on letting their burden define them.

As we wrapped up, we inadvertently revealed that we both derive great pleasure helping and supporting others It serves several purposes; It is our obligation as human beings to support each other, it takes your mind off of your own struggles, and most importantly, it reminds us that everyone has something to deal with.

Here’s to being strong. Here’s to taking advantage of opportunities and not problems. Here’s to standing tall. Here’s to the day when equality is assumed and not demanded. Here’s to the end of the victim mentality. We all have so much to offer the world if we shed those shackles.

Most of the bloggers I follow have some kind of Chronic Illness. NONE of them complain. They just want to be normal.

What is normal? I suppose that is a topic for another day.


Buzzcuts, beauty and BS

“Bill, I’ve got a woman on the phone and I really can’t figure out what she wants. Will you talk to her?”
“Sure, Kristen. Just give me 3 minutes to get back to my office and transfer it over. Got a name?”
“Harley.” Kristen smiled and walked back to her section of the office.
“I’m intrigued.” I called after her.
“Knew you would be” she replied. She had seen the entire shelf of miniature Harley Davidson models in my office.
I made my way back to my office to take the call.

She was a very sweet woman and I knew I liked her from the onset of the call. It soon became evident that Harley’s call was better suited for the Sales Department but I gladly gave her my time. Her need was simple, she needed information on a Handicapped Accessible vehicle for her adult daughter who was afflicted with Cerebral Palsy. She had heard from one of her friends that worked with us that we were a good finance company. The problem is that we don’t sell vehicles, we only finance the dealers who do.
She not only needed financing, she needed to find a vehicle as well.

I really couldn’t do anything for her but a little voice in my head was whispering to me that I needed to try. I took her information and told her that I would call her back. She was thankful for my time.

I dedicated myself to spending as much available time at work to helping Harley and her family. I searched the websites of my dealer base for anything that remotely met her needs. Coming up empty, I searched outside my network. Everything I found was highly specialized conversion vans and they were over 30,000 dollars. Harley’s single mom budget was less than 10,000. The hydraulics alone on these vehicles were more than that.
The next option was full size vans, the ones that Municipal services used. There were an abundance of those, all higher mileage but meticulously maintained until they were retired. I found a reputable dealer and made the call.

Having negotiated a near wholesale price on a older, but very clean van I asked the dealer to stand by, that I would call him back as soon as I could. I called Harley and explained to her what I had come up with. It was not her first choice but recognized that it was all she could afford. I asked if she wanted to proceed. She did. I explained that she needed to file a credit report and an application. Once she did I would take it from there.

Everything checked out. Now the wheeling and dealing had begun. I had to coordinate with one of our registered dealers to buy the vehicle and then sell it to Harley. I jumped through hoops to get this done. But I did it.

Having never met Harley face to face, when the day came for her to pick up her vehicle I insisted that I be there. My manager and I drove to our retail store and waited for her to show up. Before long, a beat-up sedan pulled in. Harley stepped out and I immediately knew that she was named right. A short, strong woman built like a beautiful motorcycle. Big, beaming, ahem…headlights, a strong chassy and built for speed. She was beautiful. I watched her as she went to her trunk and took out a wheelchair, opened the rear door and lifted her adult disabled daughter out of the car unassisted. When she was done, and Breauna was secure in her chair, she stretched and winced. Her back was clearly killing her. She then turned and asked,
“Which one of you is Bill?”
I stepped forward and introduced myself. She threw her arms around me and thanked me for my efforts. Her smile could launch ships.

My manager and I made small talk with her for a bit. She then went in to sign the paperwork. Once she was done I showed her how to use the hydraulics for the lift. It became clear that it would be a process to get her daughter in and out with all of the steps involved in strapping her in but it was what she asked for.

After a few pics for the scrapbook, they drove off.

The next day, Harley called me in the office and asked me for my cell phone. I gave it to her. She called me that night. I learned her entire back story. Harley had been diagnosed with breast cancer 3 years earlier. Her headlights were not stock, they were surgical. She bounced back from that to suffer a back injury in a motorcycle accident. She still managed to carry her daughter unassisted for years. She wanted me to know everything about her and I gladly listened. We became FB friends that night and stayed in touch.

Last night Harley posted a picture on FB. Her head is shaved. Her trademark smile as broad as ever. She boldly announced to the world that she has cancer in three areas of her body and she asked for prayers.

I will gladly pray for her. She is always in my thoughts. She is an example of those times when a job can be a real vessel of positive change, to make a difference in someone’s life. But thoughts and prayers aren’t enough, I want real answers as to how this poor woman, despite her outward strength is forced to endure such physical and emotional trauma. It’s total bullshit to me.

God bless you, Harley. I’m still here for you. As you have been for me. You look beautiful in your buzzcut, because your beauty is beyond physical. It shines right from your gorgeous soul.


the strut

I’d lost my strut. My Foghorn Leghorn Strut. I had it for decades.

The origin of the Foghorn Strut goes all the way back to my supermarket days. A young and confident gym rat with a buzzcut, I was known for my strength and attitude. I could be seen carrying 2 50lb bags of dog food on each shoulder, pushing absurdly long rows of carriages and lifting the heaviest of boxes.

One day a new cashier, who I happened to be digging on, asked me if I knew how I looked when I walked. I told her no. She said that I was like a Rooster. Chest puffed out, shoulders back with a “don’t fuck with me look.” I laughed. After all, Foghorn Leghorn was my favorite cartoon character (alright a close tie with Bugs Bunny). The strut became a thing.

The strut was always part of me. I went through life tall and proud. I might as well have had an actual chip on my shoulder with a sign I dare you to knock this off. It worked for me. More than one person said to me something along the lines of “when I first saw you I thought you were a jerk but you’re a nice guy.”

Thank you. I think.

Exercise was always a part of my life. Even before my transplant, when I was actually pretty sick, I was playing basketball with my teenagers and their friends, running trails and hiking, riding bikes and lifting weights. After my transplant, I jumped right back into all of it and made a recovery that amazed my doctors.

Then I got sick again. This time, exercise was not feasible. Excessive swelling, rampant blood pressure, massive weight gain and fatigue made merely functioning difficult.

Then I started dialysis and I resigned myself to being sick and weak. Goodbye Foghorn, I hope to see you again someday.

This week I reintroduced myself to Foggy. As I sat, post dialysis, tired and fatigued it occurred to me that there is nothing that says I can’t at least try to recover some of my former self. I decided to start working out again.

This week I have been walking on the treadmill, swinging my kettlebells, doing pushups and calisthenics and using my exercise bands for arm and shoulder exercises.

I feel great. My stamina is woeful, my strength is a joke. But each day is better than the last. Sure, my days of doing 50 pushups in one set, benching 405 and squatting 500 are over. I will likely never see those results again. But I can do something.

No one is going to look at me and say “Hey, that guy looks like he is on dialysis.”

Hopefully, someone will once again say “he walks like a Rooster.”

Welcome back, Foggy. I’ve missed you.

A sidearm of reality

Most weekdays at about 4:30 I can expect a call from my buddy and Masonic brother Jeff. He likes to call me on his ride home as he is stuck in traffic. It’s his time, no wife and small children demanding his attention and he chooses to call me. It is a special friendship, and due to his complete dedication to his family he doesn’t have many. This is not lost on me. The respect I have for him is immeasurable and his friendship will never be taken advantage of. It should also be noted that he is one of the few people that can say whatever he wants to me without fear of offending.

Yesterday, true to form I got his call. I was happy to hear from him.

We talked about the usual stuff, his family, his job, the state of our Masonic Lodge. He never fails to prod me about my health, knowing that I usually sugar coat it he pushes me until I tell him the truth. I’m not sure why I try. Yesterday, the conversation took an unusual twist.

“So, you mentioned that you bought a new 9mm last month. Tell me about that” he said.
“Not much to tell, bud. I found a good deal and I bought it”, I replied.
“Do you carry it?”
“Of course.”

The silence on the other end was deafening. Finally, he spoke.

“I was going to save this for a face to face, but I need to get this out”, he said.
“Get what out?”, I asked him.
“Why? There, I said it.”
“Because I can, I suppose. My father always carried. I believe in the Second Amendment. I like to be prepared to defend myself or be a good Samaritan. I feel very comfortable with it strapped to my waist. And before you say it, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Listen”, he said. “I’m all for it, the whole Second Amendment thing. The protection of life and property, I get it. But you’re…”
“I’m what?”
“You’re different.”
“How am I different?”
“People in your situation are prone to Depression. I read up on your condition and there is a very high suicide rate in CKD patients and dialysis patients in particular. I’m worried that you might use the 9mm and take my buddy away.”

I thought for a moment. I couldn’t argue with his facts or begrudge him his motives. He is a great friend.

“Jeff, you know me as well if not better than anyone, but when have you ever seen me exhibit signs of depression?”
“Truthfully, I haven’t. But I can’t believe that you haven’t with all of the shit that you’ve been through. And I know you lie to me a lot when I ask you how you are.”

He had me there. Guilty as charged. My entire family accuses me of the same thing. And they all think that I must be depressed. But I’m not a Theater-trained actor, I wear my heart on my sleeve and I’m a terrible liar. Yet they, and now Jeff don’t believe that I’m fine.

I explained to Jeff that I’m fine. He apologized for speculating as to my mental health. I assured him that it was fine, that his reasons were admirable, and thanked him for his concern.

After we hung up, I thought a little deeper on it.

I have lied to a lot of people about my health, not to worry them or out of a desire to just be treated normal, not as the “sick guy.” But I never lie to myself. I am not depressed.

My Doctor’s, my family, the nurses at my clinic constantly ask how my mental state is. It’s no big secret that patients like me get angry. Angry with life, with God. One guy committed suicide last month. He left a suicide note that simply read “I cant take the pain anymore.” It’s a real thing.

But not me. I am the anomaly. I am the happy patient. The jokester. The guy that plans for his next good day instead of living for treatment days. I really feel ok most of the time and most importantly I still find JOY in life.

I have a wonderful family. I get along famously with my ex-wife. My relationship with my children is tremendous. My oldest daughter tells me she loves me almost every day by phone or text. My oldest boy trusts and confides in me all the time. When he had food poisoning on Monday, he called me at 6:30 AM because I was the first person he thought to call. My youngest boy both admires and respects me and looks forward to opportunities to just sit and talk. My youngest daughter, she adores me. She tells anyone that will listen that I am her best friend. My mother, she welcomed me into her home at the lowest point in my life and has made me her first priority. All of these things equal one big conclusion.

These people are my reason for living.

If I was to die of natural causes, something I work hard at trying to avoid, they would be sad. If I committed suicide they would be devastated. Bottom line, I recognize the lure of suicide but I could never willingly cause pain to the ones I love. It’s selfish. And that is not me.

So where does the gun fit into all of this? Does anyone think that I didn’t think about the suicide thing when I decided to purchase it? I thought long and hard and I decided that it wasn’t an issue. Because I’m secure enough to know that I’m not at risk. I am a perpetually positive person with things that I want to do and places I want to go. There are weddings I want to go to and future grandchildren I look forward to bouncing on my knee.

The gun is just what it is. Protection. A sense of security. A manifestation of a Constitutional right. And maybe, just maybe, it is a reality check. Knowing that I can end it any time can keep me on the right path and in some morbid way, remind me to look at what I have to live for.

We all need something like that in our lives.

What’s your Superpower?

Up next on the “Never gonna happen but it’s fun to think about” list is…
“What would be your Superpower?”

It is only fitting that Superman would ask this question but bear in mind that of all of my Super abilities are really of no great help to me in achieving satisfaction (would lingerie-penetrating X ray vision count towards my happiness?…you decide).

There are several things that I wish I could control, a lot involve a re-do or reboot of sorts but I have learned that to do certain phases of my life over I would not have certain things that I cherish, my family for example. And for all of my misdeeds they have had the positive effect of making me into the person I am today. I kinda like who I am now so I will table the redo.

This is by no means number one on my list. Of course healing the sick and feeding the poor are certainly noble pursuits that I wish I was capable of, let’s call them a given. But the thing that has become a true passion of mine is the preservation and love of wildlife.

I wish that I could cause violent, explosive diarrhea while driving on anyone who shoots big game. How small is your dick that you need to slaughter a noble and beautiful elephant, giraffe or Tiger?

I wish for anyone who abuses animals to be locked in a room with a Televangelist and a Lawyer as they debate politics for a week with no food and water. After that, I want them shot.

I want to be the “animal whisperer”. I’m the guy at the party sitting on the floor with the dog. I wish that every dog would love me. I wish that no animal feared me. I wish that I could bear hug a Bear, roll around with a Lion, scratch the whiskers of a purring Bengal Tiger, cuddle a racoon and slide down an iceberg with an Emperor Penguin. All with no fear for my personal safety. I want to tell them that they will be ok, and be able to assure such a thing.

I know it’s silly, but my love of animals domesticated and otherwise is a passion and my heart breaks daily at what they are subjected to.

What’s yours? I can’t wait for your feedback…