Tag: People

hipster

I see you there
with the skinny jeans
your Che Guevera shirt
surplus military jacket
and silly wool hat
In the summer heat
You’re so delightfully ironic
Take another selfie
The world is waiting
Holding its breath
To LIKE your pic

You reject all that is
the status quo
Just one thing?
Do you know
what it is that you don’t?
You talk the talk
You’ve learned your lines
Your indoctrination complete
but can you speak for yourself?
You challenge
Rebel and dispel
Then expel
the lies you are fed
As easily as you reject
Those that know the world
Yet it would be odd
If the young had wisdom

Free thought is still free
But you join the sheep
grazing on the grass
that was planted for you
yonder meadow calls
if you have the goddamn balls
to put down the phone
and try some of its own
different
controversial
unpleasant
real grass

Youth is wasted on the young

The Reunion

When the 5th Reunion invite arrived I immediately discarded it. Likewise with the 10th. I wasn’t ready. The scars were still fresh and sore to the touch. When I opened my mailbox to see the invitation to the 15th, I decided I would go.

I arrived, with my wife of three years on my arm and a bad attitude. I had caustically joked to her in the elevator that “the same people that didn’t talk to me in HS can have the luxury of not talking to me tonight.” I left that night not knowing if I was right or wrong, her father had a heart attack and we hurriedly left after only an hour.

I skipped the 20th. And the 25th. I was too busy, too tired, too fat, too poor, too unsuccessful…let’s face it…too full of excuses. I just wasn’t in a good place. I wasn’t prepared to talk to people about my life because I felt like a failure. I had visions of regaling people with details of my remarkably mediocre life and then sit in the corner and drink until it was time to slip out the door.

I went to the 30th with a slightly better attitude. I reconnected with a few old friends and made small talk with quite a few people. But I confirmed that I was still largely a Ghost. The people that didn’t talk to me in HS didn’t talk to me then, my caustic joke  of 15 years before had proved correct. It would later occurr to me that I didn’t talk to them 30 years ago either. It was a sobering, powerful lesson. You get what you put into things. I decided that I hated reunions and would likely not attend another.

My terribly negative, yet persistent view of Reunions had clearly stemmed from my HS experience, or lack of therein. I left HS unfulfilled and unhappy. I had few friends, few prospects, and few memories. I tried too hard to fit in. When I failed to, I drew within. I walked the halls looking at my feet instead of making eye contact. I worked a lot. I dropped out of clubs and quit teams when I got the slightest bit of grief from classmates. I ran Cross-Country because it was a solitary sport.  For years to come I blamed others for my lack of fulfillment because I wasn’t yet mature or aware enough to put the blame squarely where it belonged, on myself.

It was liberating to stop casting blame. Reviewing my High School years with a clear, honest eye, I realized that it was mostly a giant missed opportunity. A regrettable one at that.

When I received the invitation to the 35th Reunion I immediately decided that I would go. It was time to cast the monkey off of my back once and for all.

When I arrived at “The Shoe”, the place was full. I took a deep breath and walked in. I wasn’t concerned with “measuring up” against others, and I was genuinely interested in the lives of my peers without the burden of jealousy or envy. Fully prepared to say, if asked:

“Hi, I’m Bill. You probably don’t remember me. I was the color of the walls in HS. I went on to have a unremarkable career and a failed marriage. I’m on Disability. I lost almost everything to End Stage Renal Disease and I may not be alive for the next one of these. But I have 4 amazing children that I live for.
It’s goddamn good to see you though. Hey, where are you going?!?!?!?!?”

I never had to say that. Here is what happened instead.

Everyone looked great. Everyone was happy. Drinks flowed and conversation roared. The people that I recognized, I talked to.  I had a few conversations with people that I didn’t know so well. I saw most of the people that I had hoped to and definitely missed opportunities to chat with some that, after 35 years, were still strangers to me. I mused to myself, as I sat in the corner nursing a beer, the old proverb “A stranger is a friend you haven’t yet made.” As true as it was, it was a bit late for that with most in the room. I needed to be OK with that.

I left early. I didn’t feel well and was struggling with light-headedness and headaches all night. But I’m glad that I attended. For so many years I actually thought that I was the only one who had struggled in HS. That everyone else loved High School and would all grow to be happy, well-adjusted adults but me. It was when I realized that life maybe didn’t turn out for them as planned, that they maybe struggled in HS, and life after as well, that I finally gave myself a break. Life doesn’t always turn out the way you planned. All I can say is, I struggled for years to find myself, until I realized I was me all along.

It was great to see everyone. I wish I knew you all better. I wish I had made more memories to laugh and reminisce about. Alas, as the saying goes…there is no second chance to make a first impression.

 

The End of Faith? — Tom Being Tom

Faith. Many of us have struggled with it our entire lives. Many of us will never truly reconcile the notion of a higher power. Unfortunately, we also fall terribly short in being able to discuss our differences on this complex and polarizing subject.

And then Tom of Tom Being Tom wrote this. Which I will now share for your reading pleasure. Do you follow Tom? If not I only have one question…why wouldn’t you?

I don’t believe in gods. Those of you who know me know that well, and those of you with even a passing sense of who I am probably understand that, too. 38 more words

via The End of Faith? — Tom Being Tom

My week thus far…

Friday I received a call from my new Nephrologist. He had spoken to my Transplant team and it was decided that dialysis was needed immediately, despite the fact that the fistula I had recently had installed was not mature yet. He had made arrangements for me to report to a local hospital on Monday morning at 10 to have a temporary “port” installed. It was also scheduled that I would have my first dialysis treatment the next day. They clearly weren’t playing around.

I spent the weekend in a bit of a funk. Despite knowing that dialysis was inevitable, I still dreaded it. Despite all accounts that it would make me feel better, I had this horrible picture in my head of what it would be like. I was also dreading the surgery.

I reported at 9:45 to registration and was immediately led by the charming and matronly Alicia to the surgical prep area. I dutifully removed my clothes and signed all of the paperwork that I commonly refer to as the “I will not sue your ass if you fuck me up on the table” forms. Alicia was great, very comforting as she explained the process to me. It sounded rather unpleasant but hell, I would be knocked out, right?
“So, who is driving you home?” Alicia asked me.
“Ummmm….I am.”
“Oh dear.” Alicia replied.
“Oh dear, what?” I asked incredulously.
“If you drive yourself home after anesthesia you will be driving under the influence of a narcotic. Your surgery will have to be done with a local only.”
“When I talked to Doc on Friday he gave me the choice of driving myself or getting a ride. Not to be a bother I didn’t ask my mother. The info you just gave me would have been helpful.”
“Sorry, hun.”

I was wheeled into the Surgical room. I was injected with a local and a numbing agent. A tent was put over my face and I was told to lean my head as far to the left as possible. I was then told to relax. Yeah, right. My surgeon then, with the assistance of a radiologist, snaked a tube through my neck, into a major vein stemming from my heart and then pulled it back out my chest. A tube was then attached to my chest. It’s there until my fistula is ready. I felt everything. I can only describe it as having a giant fish hook inserted into my neck and pulled through my chest. My head was screaming, my neck was killing me and the entry point at my neck was excruciating.

Then I was told that it was all over.

“Good job.” I said to the surgeon.
“I should say the same to you.” She replied. “I’ve never done this surgery without full anasthesia. You did great. I’d want to be knocked out until Christmas to do what you just did.”
“Thanks. But remember that there is a fine difference between brave and stupid.”

I was sent home with no painkillers but Tylenol. I was up all night in excruciating pain.

The next morning I arrived at Dialysis. When I pulled into the parking lot part of me wanted to put it in reverse and explore other options. Then I went in anyways.

A sign at the door said ring bell for assistance. As soon as I did a tiny nurse wrapped in scrubs and a mask opened the door and greeted me by name. She was expecting me. To break the ice I said “Hi, I’m here for my oil and filter change.” My tiny nurse laughed.

I went inside. My first reaction was that everyone looked so sick. Yes, I know that I am sick but I really don’t look it. That’s no accident. The patients in this room were fragile, thin, asleep. Not one person was anywhere close to my age. The gentleman next to me looked just like my father…a month before he died.

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. I have painted a terrible picture of dialysis when in fact I did feel a little better when I left. In a 2 1/2 hour session I lost 3 lbs of fluid. That’s a good thing. I’m easily carrying 20 lbs of fluid that is doing nothing but putting a strain on my heart. The only thing I don’t like is I’ve never sat in a chair for 4 hours before. By Saturday I will be up to 4 hour sessions. But I’ll manage. I had a TV, headphones. a blanket and a fucking great book written by a fellow blogger that I am almost done with.

I can do this.

Now if I can only get used to this turkey baster sticking out of my shirt and the constant bleeding at the surgical site I will be just fine.

Everyone has been treating me like I’m going somewhere. Allow me to take this opportunity to tell you that I’m not. I still have a lot of shit to do.

Hope

If I could pick one thing that I have always had an abundance of, I would say it is hope. I have left many impressions on those around me, some good and some not so much, but most everyone saw me as optimistic. As life kicked me to the ground repeatedly, often at my own request through stupidity, ignorance and drunkenness, I got up and dusted myself off and looked to tomorrow to be a better day. It wasn’t forced, it was just how I was. My glass, usually containing beer or scotch, was usually half-full and always refillable.

I came to rely on my optimistic nature as I became sick. Despite being diagnosed with a potentially life-altering (and possibly ending) disease in my early twenties I refused to let it define me. I cruised through my twenties at a frenetic, often drunken state and really never gave it a thought. When I had a “episode” of peeing coca-cola colored urine, searing lower back pain, severe fatigue and bedrest I was of course reminded in the starkest of ways. But when the symptoms went away I pushed it to the back of my mind again.

In my thirties my disease progressed. My “outbreaks” were more frequent. I was forced to face up to it more often. In the interest of protecting my family from worry and my employers from firing me, I tucked it deep down inside. I then added denial to the mix, because “not thinking about it” wasn’t doing the trick. I still had so many things to accomplish.

Despite being in crushing debt I was hopeful that a big break would come so I worked crazy hours to make more money. All that I achieved was higher blood pressure and the knowledge that no matter how much I made my wife was spending it as if she was a drunken sailor with a fist full of Viagra.

My higher objective was to make the best possible life for my family. The hours, the career changes, the constant worrying about money was in the interest of making sure that my family had everything they needed. My larger hope would be that I could somehow save something for their future. Alas, that was not to be either.

I cruised through my thirties on my rocket ship of denial, fueled by hope. I even entered my forties with just a few outbreaks. Then, at age 41 I was told that a transplant was definitely in my future, there were no other options. I was initially floored. I will admit that there was a emotional breakdown involved. When you avoid crying most of your adult life you are only sticking your finger in the dyke. Eventually the dyke will burst, and this one did. But just like that, I was over it and I was overcome by a powerful and inexplicable sense that this it work out. I had a deadline, and that was to avoid dialysis at all costs. It was my father’s influence on me, he always, to a fault, said that “everything will work out, it always does.” My Dad had a shit life, but he had an abundance of hope.

In my late 40’s, teetering on the edge of dialysis and in the hospital again with a renal-related infection, I was told by my boss that in my absence from work a co-worker had stepped up and offered to be tested for donation. A girl that I barely knew. I had hope. I was told that the odds of her, my only donation offer at this point, being a match were slim.
She was a perfect match. Hope wins. Despite the odds.
We did the surgery 4 months later. I came out of the surgery like a bull out of the gates. I was full of energy, the desire to be better at what I knew, and to tackle those things that I didn’t. I committed myself to recovery. I was back at work in 33 days, that has to be a record. My doctors told me to take it easy. I told them to get lost.

I mountain-biked with the big boys. I set a personal best on the bench press. I lost weight.  I joined a charitable fraternity and paid it forward. I got propositioned by a smoking hot 27 year old Latina at work. Things were great. Well, my marriage was still a train wreck and my finances were in a shambles but I felt great. This continued for 5 years. Then one night, while serving a charity dinner, I suddenly cramped up and was unable to stand. I knew what it was. The next day my doctor confirmed that my new kidney was failing.

I was crushed. I felt betrayed. How could they have not told me that my disease could return? I felt that I had been given false hope. It was only later that I realized that if I was told the potential of failure I may not have tackled life post-transplant as I had. I may have just sat on my ass and waited for it to happen.

When I got divorced, moved in with my mother and applied for disability I pretty much lost hope. The last year has been a year of hibernation. I miss my family, I miss my friends and I miss working. I miss tackling each day like a warrior.

Then, last month I was fortunate to be offered the prospect of another transplant. Again, I have hope. Yet I am cautious. I am nervous. I find myself withdrawing from my friends and family. I am haunted by the prospect of it not happening, or not working out. Every day, every Dr visit is part of the waiting game. I am deathly afraid of false hope.

That’s why I have been posting poetry and dabbling with my “Jack Valentine” saga. I am dabbling in the fantasy world to avoid reality. Writing about my real life, as I have always done with a modicum of success, seems out of reach.

Maybe I need more of the one thing I have always lacked.

Patience

 

The kindness of strangers

I wrote a post many, many months ago challenging those who say the lovely, always productive phrase “people suck.” You can find it Here.

I’ve always hated that expression. I believe, I want to and have to, that most people strive to be the best person they can be. I also believe that the best way to reveal character is not in the year of your car, the size of your watch, how much you have in the bank or how many Instagram followers you have but instead by your deeds towards others.

I’m less interested in whether you have stood with the great. I want to know if you’ve sat with the broken.

I received a call from a Masonic Brother last week. He was checking in to see how I was feeling. I told him the truth. Virtually sofa-ridden, fatigued and in need of dialysis. He appreciated the update. We talked for a while and he then excused himself because he had something to do. I put down the phone, put my head back and settled in for the ninth nap of the day (I may be exaggerating a bit). Several minutes later my phone starting blowing up with FB notifications. I took a look.

He had excused himself to compose FB posts on every MA FB page related to Masonry regarding my condition and my need for another donor. It was overwhelming.

The messages began to pour in. Due to my brother’s gesture I have six, yes six people who have asked to be tested in order to donate a kidney to me. 4 of them I have never met or even heard their name before.
download (46)

I am humbled, excited, honored and blessed by this outpouring of support. It has given me something that I have not experienced, nor expected to, for over a year. What is that you ask?

Hope, I now have hope.

If I ever have the privilege of speaking to any of you, please don’t ever tell me that people suck. I’m not the guy who will buy into that mentality. The good ones are out there, maybe you have to look a little harder. Just remember…

If you can’t find one, become one.

Civilization and Its Ironies — A Light Circle

I wrote a piece recently on prejudice, bias, racism and acceptance recently. I did my best to cover a lot of material in a medium that rewards short and concise. It came out ok. When I read this piece, I was floored. M.P. Baecker, with the usual inimitable writing style, completely and totally nails the issue. 

I feel compelled to share. If you are not following this blog, I recommend you start.

Racism. Xenophobia. Prejudice. Discrimination. It seems every word written against these forms of hatred will be ignored nonetheless. People feel targeted, shamed, belittled when hate is addressed. After all, hate is an emotion we all feel. Whenever these topics are brought up, whether privately or publicly, reality tends to shift a bit towards the severe, […]

via Civilization and Its Ironies — A Light Circle

38,325 days…a life truly lived part 6

If you have been following this series you will know that it is a dive into my family history, concentrating on the role of my deceased Grandmother who lived to almost 105 years old. If you would like to catch up you can here, here, here, here, and here.

Through my early teens, I didn’t have 2 things. Friends, and the trust of my parents. So, without a friend’s house to go to, and to spare me the indignity of a babysitter at 13, I continued to hang out at my Grandmother’s house on Friday night and Saturday morning. Come to think of it, my dignity still being a small factor, I really didn’t have a sitter because I tossed a rubber snake onto the lap of a sitter at age 12, effectively scaring the shit out of her, so sitters were no longer an option.

Grandma was glad to have me. The breakfast would continue to be the main event, but the rest of our ritual changed a bit, I would help her around the house, do housework or painting with Grandpa or just hang out and read a book. I enjoyed it. At age 13 Grandpa taught me how to use a lawnmower and I would cut his grass. At his suggestion, I began to solicit neighbors to do theirs as well, my neighborhood as well as theirs. As these things happen, I started to get busy cutting lawns and spent less time with Grandma.

At 15 I got a job at a local supermarket. Deciding that if I don’t come to her, my Grandmother would come to me. She did all of her food shopping on Saturday morning and I made sure that I made time to talk to her. She would stroll in, very upright and proper, dressed as well as she would for church. My friends and co-workers thought she was wonderful, and she soon became royalty. My co-workers bent over backward to see that Marion got whatever she needed. One of them once asked of her, “Marion, you’re retired. You could shop any day of the week why do you put up with the crowds on Saturday.”

“Because,” she said, “Billy isn’t here on a Tuesday morning now is he?”

‘Nuff said. I hadn’t actually realized that was why until she said it. But that’s Marion. A creature of habit and everything is done for a reason.

In 1983 my Grandparents celebrated their 50th Wedding anniversary at a Country Club in town. We managed to surprise them. Over 200 guests came to see Marion gracefully drag her clumsy but smiling husband across the dance floor. She was majestic, proud and as it occurred to me then, virtually ageless. When my turn came, it was my honor to dance with her. And I don’t dance with anyone.

Sadly, as life got busier for me I saw my Grandparents less and less. It wasn’t just on Holidays, but it was nothing like before. Life happens. But I always made it a point to call them and make sure they were ok. They always were.

In 2002, my beloved Grandfather passed away. He contracted pneumonia, which in turn “activated” dormant pockets of Asbestos in his lungs that he contracted while working on warships in the Navy. He was 92. He died, in their marital bed, holding my Grandmother’s hand. She was rightfully devastated. But not defeated. Many speculated that she, like many spouses of elderly, would go soon after. My mother, father and I all said No Way to that, she’s got a lot of years left in her.

We had no idea how right we would prove to be.

To be continued…

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.