Tag: real life

The Scorpion and the Frog

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The first time I heard the story of the Scorpion and the Frog it stuck like glue. After all, isn’t one of the eternal questions “can man really change?” I wanted to believe that people are capable of change but as I get older I am less confident. I do believe that people can improve, but our demons, our bad habits, are still there.

I used to be an unforgiving prick. I once told an old high school classmate, who had tracked me down (before the age of FB when it was a lot harder) in my early twenties. He had sought me out to apologize for wronging me in HS. He was in step 9, making amends. Despite his great effort and sincerity, my answer was to tell him to go Fuck himself. Not a proud moment. I’m not a hateful guy, in fact, I am generally known as a nice guy. I just have a problem with forgiveness.

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As I got older, and my blood pressure was increasing, I taught myself to let some things go. Part of that was to forgive. It required me to control, not change my nature. Anger, stress, and bitterness are a burden to carry around. It is a weight that affects your body as much as carrying actual weight. I committed to it. Since then I have forgiven people that deserve it, and some that don’t. I have given second chances to people that I normally wouldn’t. It’s the right thing to do. I’m better, and lighter, for it.

A self-aware man is a walking dichotomy. He is two men; the one he is and the one he wants to be. The only way to achieve the second is to improve and refine the first. He needs to recognize his flaws, move past his own ego and change it. This is a great way to ensure a great future. It does not, however, do anything about his past.

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Past behavior is a great descriptor of a man’s nature. Your “nature” is usually defined as your most visible, known attribute. It is what people reflect on at your funeral. “Ahhhh, he was a real genuine guy”, “he was a generous guy”, “she was a kind soul”. My father measured a man’s nature by whether or not someone would or would not “give you the shirt off of his/her back”.  It’s your legacy.

I have become very concerned about my legacy lately. Even though I have twenty +- years left I have had enough reality checks to know that it is not too soon to work on my legacy. It isn’t a tremendous undertaking, I have rectified most of my past mistakes in which I think I may have hurt someone. But I have a few left.

Today, on my way up from a doctor’s appointment I decided to do a pop-in on an old friend who had just bought a business near me. He and I go way back but haven’t spoken in many years because I offended him at his wedding. I brought to his wedding a guest that he warned me would upset his new bride. He was correct on that one. It wasn’t pretty and I took a lot of heat about it. We really haven’t spoken since.

I found his place and I gathered myself in the car before I went in. I found him under the hood of a ’79 Lincoln doing what he does best. I got his attention by cracking a weak joke about a car that I used to bring to him. He recognized me right away and we began to talk. It really never reached friendly, I could tell he wasn’t any happier to see me than a guy selling him a new socket wrench. I didn’t offer the apology today, it wasn’t the right time. I just asked if we can get together sometime for a beer and talk. He gave me a non-committal “sure that sounds great” and excused himself to go back to work. I left.

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He’s still pissed and that’s ok. I’m the first person to tell you that just because someone is willing to be forgiven doesn’t mean someone is ready to forgive him. He probably thinks that I haven’t changed. That my nature is still the hard-charging, screw the consequences type that I was twenty years ago.

There is still time for him to decide if he would let me get on his back for a ride across the river.

Facebook and real friends

“Hi, I’m Bill and I’m addicted to Facebook.” Sorry, wrong meeting.

I have the same love/hate relationship with FB that I have with alcohol. I use both frequently but monitor myself carefully for addiction.

FB has served my generation well because I didn’t have it when I was young so I remember life before it. It allows me to recognize the difference between FB life and real life. There are FB friends and then there are real friends. You can have both on social media.

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Here are my thoughts on different types of FB users.

It is very useful and enjoyable to keep up with the lives of people I went to school with or formerly worked with. I like knowing what they are up to, it’s like following their lives.

I hate the vague posts begging for attention. People who put up shit like “grrrr so aggravated!” without explaining why are clearly begging for someone to say “awww what’s the matter honey?” or “I love you sweetie let me know if I can help you.”. Those compliment-baiters drive me crazy.

People don’t need to check in everywhere they go. First of all, nothing says “break into my house I’ll be gone for awhile” like detailing every step of your Tuesday afternoon shopping trip. And I don’t need to see a pic of every meal you eat.

Too much politics and hate. We all have an opinion, it comes down to how we express it. Getting political on FB is asking for trouble because of Facebook Balls, the phenomena in which complete strangers get real tough and mean with you from the safety of their keyboards.  

It causes more divorces than can be measured. The tendency to flirt through messenger or reach out drunkenly to the “one that got away” leads to bad things. I know of what I speak. Moral of the story, if you can’t stop, learn how to use the delete button.

I use Facebook to keep up with people. I follow a lot of (credible) news sites. I belong to several pages dedicated to my chronic illness on which I have made some good friends, gotten and given valuable support. I only post positive things that I would want my own mother to see. I keep my content clean and positive and I eliminate those who piss on my threads. Every once in a while, however, Facebook shows you something special.

Sunday I shared a sentimental blog post that I wrote about the anniversary of the passing of my father

https://goodtobealivetoday.wordpress.com/2017/12/03/talking-to-granite/

to Facebook (almost no one on this site read it but I digress). It was emotional and I think it was well-written. It generated a ton of response. Some real love flowed onto my page. It occurred to me too late that such a post can be construed as an attempt to elicit sympathy. NOT what I was going for. I was simply imploring people to tell those in their lives that they are loved…before it is too late to tell them. But I found that there are people on my friends’ list that I thought were only FB friends but were instead actual friends. One response was particularly moving.

As soon as the post appeared on my wall I got an inbox message from James, my former assistant.

“Hey bro, I was just thinking of you and your post popped up. I wanted to tell you how much I miss working with you, you’re one of my favorite people in the world. How are you?”

We went back and forth for a while. I was truly moved by some of the things he said. James was my assistant for 5 years. He was a great, and frustrating co-worker. Intelligent but cocky; resistant to being taught anything but a quick learner when he did; a classic underachiever yet thorough and reliable. I sometimes wondered if he ever absorbed any of the things I tried so hard to teach him. It turns out he did. I am grateful for him as well, he balanced me out. He isn’t just a co-worker or a FB friend. He is an actual friend.

Talking to granite

I never thought I would be the guy to sit in a cemetery and talk to a piece of granite. I have lost many, too many, friends and family and I always make my visits to their places of rest. But I don’t sit and talk. That changed when I lost my Dad.

Yesterday was the 4th anniversary of his death. I wasn’t in the mood to write yesterday, it’s a tough day for me. Living in a house that he built doesn’t help. I see his touch everywhere in the woodworking, design, and collectibles. As I write this I’m sitting in his favorite chair with his beloved dog sleeping at my feet.

4 years later I still tear up when I think of him and when I attempt to talk about him I invariably choke up. I have been fortunate to have been asked to speak at some events I am a part of and have foolishly attempted to speak of my father and consequently blubbered in front of packed rooms. Historically, I am not a crier. But when it comes to Dad I can’t control it.

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As a guy with a long family tradition of “sucking it up and moving on” I am puzzled why it is not getting easier as the years pass. Time heals all wounds, but it doesn’t fill all voids. His loss occurred at a time in my life I probably needed him the most. I was finally coming around to understanding the things he said. Things that I rejected in my youth that I later learned he was dead on about. I had just started to appreciate his simplistic approach to life; be nice to people, tell the truth and work hard and the rest will come. I had just started to recognize that people with his value system and work ethic were slowly vanishing and his presence was a treasure. I was at a point when I needed his eternal optimism to fuel me as I entered the worst chapter of my life. He was minimalism at its finest…less is more. Less showboating, less ego, less drama, and aggravation.

I miss him. The world was a better place with him in it. He deserved better. He worked so hard for so many years to provide for his family and build a retirement. He retired early because his co-workers were all dying young. He enjoyed about 3 years before Parkinson’s reared its ugly head. It reduced a strong, proud man to a mere shell in a long 8 years. Those years took more than his mobility, they took his pride and his independence. Death was a relief for him, I saw his face when he took his last breath.

My life has been especially challenging lately. I am trying to maintain the family optimism and positivity. It’s getting harder. I wish I still had him telling me that everything is going to work out. I suppose while I’m wishing for things I wish that he could have enjoyed his retirement. I wish that he could have celebrated his 50th wedding anniversary. I wish I could tell him how many things he was right about.

I wish that I didn’t have to tell a granite slab things that I wanted to tell him to his face.

Tell the people in your life how you feel about them today, don’t wait. Tomorrow is not a guarantee. You may find yourself sitting in a cemetery talking to granite also. If you’re reading this it’s because I chose to share it with you. Because I care about you and I won’t wait until it’s too late to tell you. Regret is as eternal as granite.

Light at the end of the tunnel

So relaxed, like never before

My arms nailed to the bed

My legs won’t move

Too numb to speak

No desire to try

Peace hijacks my body

the pain has fled

Is that a light I see?

Am I moving toward it?

I don’t care

I’ve longed for this

Free at last, done with it all

I surrender

Take me now

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Bright lights. Screaming. Calling my name

Come back to us they say

Yelling and prodding at my mortal shell

Are you in there…What is your name?

He’s back! someone says. The questions ensue

I’m back from where? 

It felt so good…

One of my late Grandfather’s favorite jokes was “I’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s a train.” He was a funny bastard. But I beg to differ, and here is why.

 

“Cellulitis. Isn’t that the stuff that you suck out of the Real Housewive’s fat asses?” My doctor was not amused. I assured her that I was joking, that I was already intimately aware of what cellulitis is. I had it once before and my nervous joking didn’t cover how alarmed I was at this diagnosis. I was prescribed an aggressive antibiotic and given a phone number to call if the infection’s redness crept past the outlines she drew on my wrist and leg. I was on my own for the weekend. Football and bed rest.

I couldn’t help but reflect on the last time I had it. I remember it like yesterday.

I woke at 5:30 AM one morning in July feeling awful. Nauseous, raging fever and confused. My children were small, I knew that they couldn’t be left if my wife drove me to the hospital so I called my father. He rushed over and took me to the hospital. As we pulled into the dropoff area I opened the truck door, fell out and vomited all over the parking lot. Emergency techs got me into the ER. I had a fever of 104. An hour later they still didn’t know why.

I was admitted. In order to get me to relax they gave me morphine. The nurse working with me joked that I, and all men in general, were “big babies.” I wasn’t in the mood to justify myself, I let the morphine do its thing. What happened next will stay with me forever, I will need that long to explain it.

I felt such peace. I felt more relaxed than I had ever felt. My arms and legs felt as if they weighed hundreds of pounds each, I couldn’t move them. And I didn’t want to. All pain left my body. I saw blinding white light and I’m pretty sure I felt as if I was moving towards a tunnel. It was amazing. Until I came back. See, everything I just detailed I recalled later. What actually happened was the morphine attacked my weakened kidneys and I went down. Unresponsive for at least 3 minutes. My heart never stopped but I know that I was dead or awful near it. My nurse had come back in and seen that I was slipping away.

I woke to at least 5 doctors and nurses yelling at me, bright lights and beeping machines, repeated inquiries of “can you hear me?”, and “come back to us”. After what seemed like hours I was able to tell them my name and date of birth. I could see my mother and father’s concerned faces in the sea of people surrounding me. I was back.

After everything quieted down my nurse came in and tearfully apologized for calling me a baby. I didn’t care. As she leaned over my bed she leaned on my right leg and I screamed in pain. She pulled the sheet up and exposed my leg; it was twice as thick around as my other. I was immediately transferred to the ER. Cellulitis.

I spent 8 days in the ER. I almost didn’t make it. They couldn’t stabilize the infection. One hazy memory is of my wife walking in with my then 8-year-old daughter as I vomited all over myself. A bad moment indeed. I spent most of my time in a haze, frantically trying to figure out what I had experienced. I asked my mother about it. She said that I was down for the count. As if I had been dead for hours. She was terrified. As I put the pieces together I realized that I had seen the other side. And I am not afraid of it. I know that I will feel relaxation and peace, 2 things I have never had enough of.

Of course, I recovered, I would not be writing this otherwise. But today I was jolted to think that I could go through that again. I just hope that this new antibiotic works by Monday. Otherwise, I’m getting admitted again.

Oh well, worst case scenario is that I compare notes with my funny grandfather about the whole tunnel/light thing.

 

 

too soon…?

You wouldn’t know by looking at her, she is 5 foot 2 and 104 lbs, but my mom is a real tough woman. Nothing gets her down. After burying her second husband in 3 years she went to a “grief group”. Once. She never went back, she said the people there needed to “get over it already”. I thank God every day that I inherited her ability to bounce back and not dwell on the past. She’s not cold, she just insists on always moving forward. This is a wonderful quality. At least it was until she decided she wanted to date again and joined a dating website.

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I am torn by this. She says that she has never been alone and part of her needs a relationship. She’s not looking for a husband, just someone to spend time with. I don’t want to stand in her way but I warned her of what she is getting into. But, convinced that our area is too small for her to meet anyone she insisted. I myself have never done online dating but I know many who do and they have told some stories. I quietly sat back and waited for the storm.

My mother is an attractive woman. She doesn’t look her age and she has a very youthful attitude. Her profile exploded the day it was posted. Men from as far away as Oregon contacted her, opening with lines such as “willing to relocate”. Not one response from anyone less than 100 miles away. Against my advice, she responded to most and gave out her cell # and email. She became as glued to her iPhone as my 15-year-old daughter. She wouldn’t tell me but she was chatting for hours with these guys. She didn’t share what was going on with me until one night when she said “this one says he loves me” and shook her head in disbelief. He loves her, by email. He’s 5 states away.

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I had to step in. I asked her to let me use my (quantified) ability to judge a person’s character and assist in the “weeding out process”. In doing so I discovered the real problem; she is too nice to shut someone down. If they email her she will respond. I told her she needs to set parameters. Set a distance requirement, not divulge her cell #. So far she has had 2 lunch dates, one of which was nothing like his profile and the other used a profile pic that was at least 20 years old. She has had 2 “very successful” men find themselves stranded at customs without credit cards asking her for money. To her credit, she eventually told them to stop contacting her but she let it go too far. I had to take the phone from her once to tell one guy that he was to stop calling her or he would have to deal with me. I wasn’t very pleasant and I think he soiled himself.

I am very bothered by this process but I am helpless to stop it. It’s what she wants. I love my mother, I want her to be happy and I won’t stand in her way. But I find myself in hyper-protective mode. She is fairly well-off financially and I fear that someone will take advantage of that. My worst fear, of course, is that someone may harm her. I find that the roles are reversing. She raised me and protected me. Now I find myself protecting her. I can handle the role, but I feel awful bad for the poor bastard that does her wrong.

 

delays, delays

I haven’t been able to write lately. I wasn’t feeling it. I have been reading the works of the great bloggers that I follow but that’s it. I’m in pain. This is notable because I have a notorious tolerance for pain and I’m still suffering here.

Last weekend I had my youngest son for the long weekend. It was great having him. We were fortunate enough to have a couple of unseasonably warm days so we were outside a lot. Target practice with the pellet guns and yard work. He wanted to learn how to split wood so I indulged him. He’s one of those kids who is immediately good at everything he tries and it wasn’t long before he was splitting logs with the ax with precision and strength. I let him chop while I stacked. But I made the mistake of standing too close and as he struck one log I watched helplessly, as if it was slo-mo like on TV, as a half log shot left and hit me on the left shin. I yelled out initially then curbed my reaction so that he wouldn’t feel bad, it wasn’t intentional. But it hurt like a sumbitch, and it still does.

Fast forward to Tuesday and I can barely walk. The pain is the kind that radiates through the entire body. In addition, I noticed that my fistula, a surgically created port for dialysis, is swollen, red and sore to the touch. I have had it for 8 years, it has never been used because I was fortunate enough to get a transplant without being on dialysis. It has never been swollen, red or sore. I knew I had a problem. So I called my transplant team.

Anything other than a cold or flu goes through my transplant team due to my history. When I explained to them what was going on they referred me to PCP. I questioned them on that, isn’t the fistula a pretty major thing? But they were insistent so I made an immediate appt for the next day. Yesterday I drove 2 hours to meet a Dr. whose first reaction was “why didn’t your transplant team feel that this was worthy of their time?” Facepalm moment. She immediately left the room and called them. I was confused by her urgency. My confusion was eradicated when she came back in. She had told them that I have cellulitis, a potentially deadly bacterial infection, in my fistula. She then told me that they now want to see me. Facepalm again.

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I wish that people would just listen to me. I am in tune, I know what is going on with my body. Now I am going to have extra appointments and more driving. Which I can’t do because I’m ordered to have the leg and arm elevated until the antibiotics kick in. I take cellulitis seriously, it almost killed me in 2006. White light, tunnel, the works. A random bed check is the only reason I’m alive today. I’m not going to lie, beyond annoyed at unnecessary delays I’m a little concerned.

Day 17… a letter to my friends as a whole

I have really gotten off track on the whole 30 letters in 30 days but it is still very therapeutic to write these.

Dear Friends:

There are 3 types of friends. The Facebook friend: a friend who you keep in contact with after you or they leave a job and their life interests you enough to follow them. This category also includes the high school classmate because us Baby Boomers (I’m the last year but it counts) didn’t have social media back then and we, of course, we lost touch. We follow each other to see what each other is doing and to know when one of us dies.

The second type of friend is the actual friend. Someone who has been to your house, met your family, has answered the phone and been there for you when you needed something. You all share some type of memory with me.

The third type of friend is the “3 AM friend”. Just as it sounds, if we called each other at 3 AM and needed anything it was just done. This is a short but important list. If you are on mine then you are special.

To all of you, I want to ask you to bear with me. I have moved much farther away and getting together is more difficult. Driving to get-togethers is simply too much driving for me. I won’t be seeing you much.

But that doesn’t mean that I have forgotten about you. I am still here for you and if it is within my ability I will help you in any way that I can. Even just to talk.

If you are indeed my friend, you will know that my theory of friendship is no matter how much time elapses, we pick up where we left off. I plan on letting all of you know just how much you mean to me. Just give me time.

pass the papers…I mean stuffing

Thanksgiving is always a difficult day for me. I love the day itself, having the family together for a big meal and quality time with the kids. Relatives and friends visiting. Turkey coma and football. The reality of Thanksgiving in my house has always been a wife who hates all holidays and her anxiety and misery would infect the entire house. Relatives stopped coming over, family stayed away and I found myself barely getting through the day without the help of a good Irish Whiskey. This year I was expecting the worst ever when I found out that my wife had told the kids we were divorcing.

My mom and I arrived at my wife’s new place around 12. I took great strides to make this holiday easier for everyone. I made the turkey and stuffing, all she had to cook was a couple of sides, some dinner rolls, and an appetizer. There would be no alcohol because I had a long drive ahead of me. Everyone was there already.

The day couldn’t have gone better. We got the table ready, we all sat and had a great meal with great conversation. Completely unlike every Thanksgiving before.

At the end of dinner as the Tryptophan set in and conversation slowed a bit my wife came in from the kitchen and sat down, a pile of papers in her hand. “When do you want to come down next week and take care of this?” The papers were divorce paperwork. I looked around the table and the expressions on everyone’s faces suggested that this was just no big deal. I was shocked. She might as well have asked me to pass the stuffing.

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I had agonized over getting a divorce for years and it turns out everyone is fine with it. The fact that we are not fighting over assets and custody is a blessing. It’s just so surreal.

Driving home that afternoon it occurred to me that all it took to finally have a good holiday without stress was to get a divorce. How about that?

Not what I expected

I remember it like it was yesterday. But it was 7 years ago. We had just had a terrible argument, in front of the kids of course, and I had stormed out of the house to go to work mad as I had done so many times. I could hear the coffee mug smash against the other side of the door a second after I had slammed it. It was going to be a great day for sure.

My first call was to my mother. She was always my go-to when this shit happened. I called her to talk, and while I was at it I asked her if I could stay in my Grandmother’s house for a while. She was maintaining a nice house one town over that was in probate. My Grandmother would never live there again. It made sense for me. She gladly agreed to let me stay there.

My next call was to my wife. I stepped outside after the morning meeting at work and told her, in no uncertain terms, that I was done. No more fighting in front of the family, it was too much for all of us. Her first reaction, to my absolute dismay, was to tell me that I was not to expect to “just waltz in any fucking time you want to see your kids because that’s not happening”. I always suspected that she was that type but there was my proof. I just told her that I would be by later to grab some of my stuff. She would be at work so it would be fairly easy. Except of course for the kids. They would by this time have already heard my wife’s version of our conversation.

When I got home that night, the wife was at work as expected. What I did not expect was my 4 kids sitting me down. Intervention style. My oldest daughter, then 16 led the charge.

“Dad, you can’t leave. It will be so much worse for us without you here.” I was very taken back. She went on to tell me that I’m the glue that keeps the family together. How I offset the toxic influence of their mother. That their lives would be much more difficult if I didn’t live there. That I needed to stay. For them. I knew what I had to do right then and I told them that I wasn’t going anywhere.

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One big takeaway was to wonder what my wife would have thought if she was to hear that! She would have been crushed and pissed off at the same time. What a cocktail of doom for all involved. I never betrayed my daughter for saying that.

Fast forward 7 years. My wife and I just had a conversation about finally getting a divorce. We have the papers and have agreed to terms. I am confused by my own reaction, I should be doing cartwheels but I’m sad about it. I was especially worried about the reaction of the kids. Especially my youngest. She is now 15 and she has always been very hopeful that she would see her parents be happy together.

Yesterday I texted my wife and asked her when we should talk to the kids about the divorce. We were going to be together for Thanksgiving and I wanted to gauge how awkward it was going to be. She replied that she already told all of them. Last week. I was floored. So many things pissed me off and I couldn’t finger what bothered me the most. That she told them without me?  That she didn’t tell me that she told them? Or that none of my kids, who have known for a week, said a single word to me about it? What are my expectations here?

I suppose it is possible that they can be uncomfortable and not surprised at the same time. They’re not going to give me a cookie for my staying in a horrible marriage for those extra years. It was the right thing to do and I’m glad I did it.

It’s funny that after all of the years of wanting this moment to come, I wasn’t ready when it did.

Quality of life

“February?” I asked incredulously.

“Yup, that’s what they told my wife. They didn’t think I could handle it. She told me though”. He ripped open another box of frozen turkeys and moved them closer to the tailgate of his truck.”They was wrong. I can handle it.”

“I don’t suppose I should point out that it’s late November huh?”. Pete looked at me and shook his head. ‘Nuff said. This guy had stage 4 lung cancer, had less than three months to live and here he was; out in the cold at the local food bank handing out frozen turkeys with me to the less fortunate in our community.

After spending 10 minutes with Pete I felt that I was destined to have met him. He is the walking example of how I want to be when I have less than 3 months to live. He is aware, he is doing what he wants to do, he is following his doctor’s orders and keeping his house in order. He has focused on quality of life.

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With the exception of a few low points, I am not the feel sorry for myself type. I don’t believe in it. I continue to believe that if I take care of myself and do what the Dr’s tell me I may live long enough for a cure. And if one doesn’t come around, I will have inevitably added years to my life by not thinking negatively. I only have one caveat, I insist on having a quality of life. Until the day that I am not strapped to a dialysis machine 7 days a week, I will strive to have a quality of life.

I spent the entire 4 hours of the food drive with Pete. He told me his story in bits and pieces as we opened boxes and carried food to people’s cars. He never smoked, he was exposed to asbestos while in the military. He is a life-long member of the community. He is an avid game hunter and fisherman. He told stories of hunting in his backyard when he was 14  before all of the houses were built. He went hunting as recently as last week with his grandson. He still works in his yard. He hopes to take his motorcycle out for one last ride but it’s too cold. He’s taking a ton of medications that make sleep difficult but he doesn’t mind because he can “sleep all he wants when he is dead”.

I am so glad that I met him. He reminded me never to get sucked into the bottomless pit of self-pity. He won’t let his illness define him. He is doing what makes him happy for as long as he can. He is exactly how I want to be when I get to that stage.

It’s not the years in your life, it’s the life in your years.