Diversity of Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is one of the holidays I have the most appreciation for.  One would think that since I am Christian that the two Christian biggies would be at the top of my list of favorite holidays, if I were to make one, but to be as truthful as possible I do not celebrate Christmas and Easter as Christian holidays so much any more.  They are holidays to me, the significance of the birth and resurrection of Jesus something that I don’t like to reserve just for a holiday.  I can celebrate Christmas without making it about Jesus.  Easter to me is less of a holiday than it is a chance to worship through remembrance, the whole egg and chocolate thing separated from the faith, the worship and remembrance an every day thing for me.

The American observance of Thanksgiving is something everyone who lives here participates in.  As I take the day in, I know that there are so many joining with me, more united in purpose than any American observance I can think of.  It doesn’t matter what flavor of belief a person is, most celebrate and take time to give thanks in their own way, across the map of America.  Other countries have their own version of Thanksgiving, celebrate in their own unique way.  I dare say that most, whether they give God credit the rest of the year or not, take a moment to give thanks in some form during the Thanksgiving day.  Christmas, at least in America, is not a united holiday.  Neither is Easter.  Every religion has their own form of those holidays, a separate way to approach the holiday, and some want to take God away from the celebration of those holidays.  Thanksgiving is not that way.  I like that.  Peace on earth might be more appropriate for Thanksgiving than Christmas, not to take anything away from Jesus.

Tomorrow I will not be staring bleary eyed at the television with my brother in laws.  Since I was married 21 years ago that has been the way the majority of my Thanksgivings have gone.  Thanksgiving is usually celebrated with my wife’s family, sometimes at our house since we live closest to my father in law, sometimes we travel to Ohio or Iowa.  Every day has the food, the time to give thanks around the table before we start eating, a day where we share and rest together, catch up, enjoy a very simple time.  This year, however, is different than others.  Children have grown, moved away, and Mir’s sisters are all taken away to their own family celebrations.  Tomorrow it will just be the four of us.  I am really looking forward to that.  With the kids going their own directions so often, rarely do we spend a day together.  There is the possibility of disaster, but then there also is the chance to have a day of peace together, a chance to give thanks, to look at each other with thanks.  We will cook together, something we don’t do any other time of the year for the most part.  We will watch football, play games, watch movies.

I am going to hide the video game system, I think.

It’s also the last Thanksgiving year with Alyssa as a permanent member of my household.  Next year she is a college student.  She will likely be back with us for the holiday next year, but there is always the possibility of something or someone taking her away.  That gives me a big dad sigh.

So we will celebrate tomorrow.. with everyone, whether Jew or Gentile or Christian or Muslim or Agnostic or Goth or Gangbanger or whatever the person may be.  We will all give thanks.

 

Geez, It’s Higher Up Here Than I Thought

The fog is lifting?

There is a Mister Bean bit, one of my favorites of his, where Bean decides to visit the local natatorium (look it up, suckers).  As he enters the pool area from the locker room, clad in his swimsuit, Bean’s childish delight focuses on first the slides in the kiddie pool, then after being shooed from the area by the lifeguard his eyes take in the glory of the diving platform at the far end of the pool.  Bean is mesmerized, drawn to the fun of the platform, climbs to the ladder and emerges out on the concrete of the tall perch.  Only then does he realizes how high up the platform actually is and is frozen with fear.  As usual, hilarity ensued.

This morning I have climbed that ladder, put my foot out on the platform, and dang does it look higher up here than I thought.  Yep, it’s time to dive back in to work.  Thankfully, it’s only a three day week.  But I am sure there will plenty of surprises waiting for me, after two weeks away, when I walk through those doors in a few minutes.

Let’s hope my Speedo stays on when I hit the water.

A Talented New Author

The author is not me, but as close to yours truly as one can get.  The author is my daughter, Alyssa.  She asked me to read a short story she wrote and is editing for a class at high school.  I asked if I could share a bit of the story.  Dang.  I am proud of her.  The girl uses dialogue like she has been writing far longer than a few years.

Here is a bit of the story —

————————

It’s Not Easy Being Green

            I’ve been dying. It’s been nearly twenty birthdays. I’ve only got a few more birthdays to go. That’s what they tell me, anyway. I live in my room. It’s a nice room, with green walls. That’s my favorite color. Every birthday since I’ve been here, they’ve gotten me a gift. Much of the time, these gifts are green, since they know that’s my favorite color. They’ll do anything to get on my good side, and it has been many, many birthdays. My typewriter, this typewriter, is like my best friend. I’ve had it since I was little, which was a long time ago. Too long to remember, but I like to remember anyway. I remember how it was, how it used to be, before…well, never mind. My typewriter has been everywhere with me. It’s my best friend.

            I used to have a real best friend, like a human one. His name was Robby. When I was about ten, he lived on my street back in Boulder Hill. I went to school with him, we did everything together. Heck, he was even my best man in my wedding when I was twenty-six. I miss him like crazy sometimes, but then I remember where he is, and then I don’t miss him so much anymore. He had dark hair, darker than nighttime, and blue eyes. The girls at our high school went nuts over him. I didn’t get it, he was really immature, but hey, we all were back then. That was a long time ago. Too long to remember, but I like to remember anyway.

            Robby got married, a few years after I did, to his Sarah, one of our best friends. She was a great girl, and she loved him to death. He loved her too. They were perfect for each other. Ellie and I were really close with them, that is, before…well, never mind.

            My memory blocks out right around when I was thirty. From when I was thirty until I was thirty-five, the memories are lost. They say it’s because of the explosion, and my disease. I tell them they’re crazy, and it’s just because I’m getting old. Maybe I just need to clean out my room, I say. I bet I’ll find my memories from when I was thirty to thirty-five in there, in that heap of green in my closet. My last memory isn’t pleasant, so I pretend it doesn’t exist. I like to try to trick my brain into thinking that my last memory is of Ellie, kissing me goodbye, her belly full with our baby on the way, seven months pregnant. Yes, that’s my last memory. That’s what I tell myself.

            It seems like that was forever ago. After the war, things changed. I’m different. They tell me I’m going to die. In twenty-two years, they say. They say I have a disease. Ellie’s gone. Robby’s gone. All that there is…is me, and my green room, and my typewriter, and a few things they told me they found at the base that were mine. That’s all that’s left. That was twenty years ago, twenty birthdays ago. Before the war… That was a long time ago. Too long to remember, but I like to remember anyway. 

~~~

            My eyes flew open. I just had another one of my nightmares. It was the scary one, the one that I think comes from the years my brain has decided to block without my permission. My face was dripping with sweat, and my covers were all in disarray from a restless night of dreaming. My breathing was quick, shallow, but a relief. I was just glad that I was still breathing. Not being able to breathe was the scariest feeling I’ve ever known, and I’ve only had to feel it one time.

            A nurse, her name was Mattie, walked in my room.

            “Hello, Mr. O’Connell, how are you this morning?” Mattie asked, a fake smile on her face.

            “A l-l-little sh-shaken,” I stuttered, my eyes still wide with fear.

            “Did you have another one of your nightmares?” she said, a concerned look replacing her fake smile.

            “Yeah, I did.”

            “Let me get Doctor Larsen, you must be due for your treatment again.”

            It had been five months since my last treatment. I know because I counted. I always count the months in-between my treatments. The longer they get, the better I’m getting. That’s what they tell me, anyway. Sometimes I’m not so sure. Their fake smiles tell me I’m right.

            Doctor Larsen walked in my room, approximately five minutes after Mattie’s departure. He gave me the same fake smile Mattie did, and I gave him the most authentic frown back.

            “Hellooo, Mr. O’Connell,” he said. “I understand you had another nightmare?”       

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Well, can you tell me about it?”

            “I’d prefer not to.”

            Whenever I had nightmares, they usually consisted of things from a war. They always seemed just so real, and I was always incredibly shaken after I’d experienced one. They always tell me that these dreams are very serious things, and I need to take them seriously too. I never understand why. They’re just dreams, after all, right?        

            “Mr. O’Connell, you know that if you don’t tell me I can’t proceed with your treatment. If I can’t proceed with your treatment, you don’t get better. Now, please, tell me your dream.” 

            “But I don’t want my treatment.”

            He was silent for a moment, a rare occurrence.

            “Well, Mr. O’Connell. This is the first time we’ve had trouble with you this way. Is there something wrong?”

            I looked to the spot on my ceiling where a water-stain was forming. It seemed to grow by just a small amount every day, and it had gotten fairly large since last month. Yes, I thought. I want to get out of here.

            Instead, though, I just gave him a forced toothless smile.

            “No, there’s nothing wrong, Doc.”

            “Then tell me what your dream was.”

            “No.”

            His fake smile disappeared. His voice changed from cheery to deathly serious.

            “Mr. O’Connell. I’m afraid we’re going to have to give you your treatment whether you like it or not. I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me your dream.”

            I hesitated, a thought of giving in to his plea taking root, and then I decided not to tell him.

            “No.”

            A growl sputtered in his throat. He stopped himself, almost before I could notice. But I did notice.

            “Very well. I will be back later. We will do your treatment.”

            As efficiently as he had come in, he exited my room, closing the door and locking it behind him. I dismissed the fright that appeared in my brain as I thought of having treatment done again. I would not have treatment, I told myself.

            I glanced around my room. There were no windows. The door was locked. There appeared to be no escape. I slowly got up out of bed, trying not to make a noise. If I clunked around with clumsy feet, one of the nurses would come running, asking what I was doing, why I was out of bed, and for heaven’s sake, get back in bed before I had a heart attack. I’d been there for 7,302 days. I know because I counted.    .

I padded over to my closet. I pushed the curtain aside, making my way to the back. I found the little crack in the wall, the only slight possibility of the existence of the outside world. I grabbed the metal stick I’d taken from the old lamp in the corner. The nurses hadn’t noticed I’d taken it off. I was lucky. They wouldn’t have been happy. I knew this from experience. I scraped off silently another shaving of wall from the crack. I knew I was one shaving closer to escape. I scraped another, and another, and another. I scraped for hours. I checked my watch on my wrist. It was approximately eleven twelve and eighteen seconds. Darn it, I thought. I missed it. Every day, at eleven eleven, I made a wish. There were few days I missed it. I was so concentrated on scraping that I’d forgotten to check my watch. It didn’t faze me, however, because I knew that there was always tomorrow. Always. Until, that is, well…never mind.    

~~~

            “Here’s your lunch, Mr. O’Connell,” Mattie said, handing me a tray full of what seemed like yesterday’s breakfast cooked for too long. A horrid aroma of the kitchen’s obvious food scraps floated to my nostrils from the tray. I lifted the shaking fingers of my right hand up to my nose and plugged it. The spoon in my left hand twitched as I brought it up to my mouth. My eyes shut, and I took a bite, shuddering. I swallowed with hesitation.

            “See, not so bad, now is it?” Mattie smiled.

            I nodded, a look of disgust forming on my face. I could feel my stomach protest the next spoonful that was on its way to my mouth.

            “Alright, well, I’ll be back later to collect your dishes. Finish your lunch.”

            She turned and walked out of the room, closing the locked door.

            I scoped the room with my eyes, making sure I truly was alone again. Once the vicinity was clear, I shoved the tray away roughly, attempting vigorously to remove the wretched taste from my tongue. I stood and walked over to my closet.

            The rod was still perched by the crack in the wall. I began scraping, each second passing slower than the previous one. One. My brain counted subconsciously. Two.Three. I watched the worn green shavings come off. Four.Five.Green.Green.Six.Seven.Closer.Closer.Eight.Nine. The hole continued to expand ever so slightly.TEN. My brain screamed. I felt my heart’s beat quicken at the word. TEN.TEN.I stopped scraping, clasping my chest. TEN.I felt myself slipping to the ground. TEN.The world was closing in around me. There was no escape. I felt my pulse racing, faster, and faster still. TEN.TEN.NINE.EIGHT.SEVEN.SIX. My brain fell into the strangely familiar pattern of decrease. FIVE.FOUR.THREE.TWO.ONE. I blacked out and within seconds, found myself standing in full uniform on the old camouflage army bus used to transport us to our posts. My brain knew it was all an illusion, an illustration of the past, but my heart knew no such thing. It was real, and I felt the same as I did that day. The ticking started, and my brain counted subconsciously. One. Two. The tempo of the ticking seemed to be picking up, louder each second. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Faster. Faster. Eight. NINE. The ticking sounded more like a scream now. TEN.I turned, but all I saw was a green shirt fly into my face simultaneous to the ear-splitting…BOOM! Glass shattered, the bus took to the air, and fire broke loose. I put my hand up to my forehead. Bringing it back into my line of sight, I started to feel dizzy, so dizzy that I was almost oblivious to the blood dripping from my fingers. The world was closing in around me. There was no escape. I tried desperately to cry for help, but no sound came out of my bloodied lips. Everything slowly faded to black, and I focused on the green shirt that had moments before been attached to a live body, until the world was all black.

            I breathed. The room faded back to green. I looked at my hand, expecting to see blood, but instead, I found my hand clasping the rod. It was all just an illusion, an illustration of the past. But my heart was still racing, and my pulse still was uncontrollable. I breathed, and I breathed some more. Oh, how good was it to breathe. I silently thanked the Lord for the air I was breathing, and the stable wall of which I had not hit my head on. I turned my head, observing the hole in the wall. It was growing day by day, thankfully. I wanted to get out of here.

            I tried to push the memories that had just haunted me out of my mind. That was many birthdays ago. I was only twenty-eight. That was a long time ago. So long that I wish I didn’t remember, but I always remember anyways. I needed to leave here. I needed to get out. I stood up, and continued scraping for hours. When I finally decided to get back in bed, it was 5:30 pm. Dinnertime. Mattie would be here soon with a poor excuse for food, and I would have to eat it. Before I got in bed, I paced the room ten more times, then slid back in bed. I wanted to keep the blackouts a secret, because I know that blackouts equal double treatment. I needed to leave here. I needed to get out.

            Knock. Knock.“Mr. O’Connell?” Mattie said, poking her head into my room. “I’ve got your dinner right here, Mr. O’Connell.”

            I nodded, taking the tray from her.

            I didn’t know what it was, but I knew I had to eat it. I shoveled a few spoonfuls into my mouth, hoping that quantity might affect quality, yet knowing it would do no such thing.

            “How has your day been, Mr. O’Connell?” Mattie asked.

            “Relatively uneventful,” I responded in between shovels.

            Fake smile. “Fantastic, I believe Doctor Larsen will be in soon. I’ve been informed that you have your treatment again tonight.”

            I turned to stare at the wall next to the bed.

            “Now, eat this, then, send the tray through the shoot. Doctor Larsen will see you shortly.”

            Mattie turned and walked out the door, locking it behind her.

            I shoveled one last bite down my throat, then, tossed the tray through the opened garbage shoot next to my bed. I took a look around the room one last time. In the midst of all this monotony, I’d found one fact riveting. I knew there were other people in the building. Real people, not just doctors and nurses. I knew this because one night, many, many days ago, I snuck out of my room. It had been the middle of the night, and I couldn’t sleep. I’d had another nightmare the night before, of which I hadn’t informed Mattie or the doctor, and I felt it might put me at ease to tell them what I’d dreamt. I went in search of them, but instead, I found another old man. He’d looked oddly familiar, but not familiar enough to put a name to his face. I wondered now if he was still alive. I hoped so. Each night, I thought about who else might be here, or even in the real world, if such a thing still was in existence.

            Knock. Knock.

            The door swung open, and Doctor Larsen walked through the door.

            I shuddered.

            “I hope you realize what time it is, because I know you will give me what I need to know. You will, won’t you? Because if you don’t, I will force the words from your old, cracked lips. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

            The doctor came over to my bed. I stared at him with angry eyes.

            “I would like to get out of my room. I don’t believe that I’m in any danger with my health any longer.” The words had just slipped from my mouth.

            “Why, of course you are. If you leave, you will be in great danger. You see, you are still sick.” The doctor smiled, pleased with his dodging of the real matter at hand.

            “No, I really think I’m ready to leave.”

            He sighed, long and annoyed.

            “Well, either way, you will need your treatment. I will be back later, and you will tell me.”

            He turned and walked out of the door.

            I stared at the door for a long time after it was closed. Why couldn’t I just go home? I wanted to get out of here.

            I knew I had some time before he came back, so I got up from my bed and walked over to the closet. I grabbed the rod, and turned to the hole in the wall.

            Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. If he wouldn’t let me out, I would find a way out myself.

Contemplation

English: male belly button (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have done a lot of contemplating in the last 24 hours.  My navel.  My new navel.  My new navel not numb no.  My new navel no numb nor nude.

Enough of that game.

My navel really is new.  New to me even.  No longer is it a button.  My navel is more like a swirling vortex, not in a toilet sort of way, but in a black hole sort of way except with a bottom.  When the surgeon removed my gall bladder, he took it out through my belly button.  Neat, eh?  Until yesterday afternoon, I had not seen my navel for close to two weeks.  I missed it.

Come to think of it, I really have never contemplated my navel (not much at least) for quite a while.  Let’s just say that the nurse who prepped me for surgery had to use a weed whacker to clear the way for the surgeon.  TMI?  There is never TMI in my book.

Which I am not writing?  I have devoted more time this week to my blog than my NaNo.  I am OK with that.  I am having fun with both.

Why did I put a question mark in the first sentence of my last paragraph.

My surgeon did the post op exam yesterday afternoon.  I am declared healthy once again.  Yippee.  Yahoo.  I can go back to work.  Um.  yip.  I can ride my bike again as long as I am careful.  Yahooey.

And I can contemplate my swirling vortex, which I have done with some delight in the past 24 hours.  There was a bandage over it since November 11.

I leave you all to contemplate.  Ohm.

Approval

Woman’s one-piece bathing suit, c.1920 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I wrote a note at the end of my blog yesterday, one that showed me something about my attitude toward my wife, an observation that should have been clear to me long ago.. and probably has been.  In a way, it was an honest admission that I have been avoiding longer than I should.  A friend just challenged me to write about it, timed just as I contemplated the blog I wrote today — and the example my own father gave and still gives to me.

Praise.

My Dad has always been very proud of my mother.  Vocally proud.  Tears in his eyes type of proud.  He is that way about my brothers and I, but never so much as he is proud about his wife.  My mother.

Dang it, Dad, why do you have to be such a good example?

Acknowledgement

Want to know what my mother does well, has always done well?  She accepts the praise my Dad offers to her.  She knows Dad likes to be proud, sees that as a good thing, never rejects what he says about her.  I like the confidence and trust that portrays, the acceptance that allows each of them to be Terry and Becky, nothing hidden because there is nothing bad about the other person.

Wow.  I love that.  I see that.

And then I say ARGGGGGGHHHHHH.

I don’t do that.  When I started blogging here, I used to write glowing blogs about my wife, talking about the little things I love about her.  They were true, but I always knew that part of my motivation for writing those blogs was my need to be my Dad.  That’s right.  I want to be openly proud of my wife.  Unfortunately, she is not my Mom.  So what?  Normally, expecting your wife to be your mother is unhealthy.  But what I want my wife to do is be like my mother in one way —

Acceptance.

That means the phrase “no I am not” or “why do you think it’s OK to say that?” should not ever be uttered.  Accept my pride.  Please.

So I have retreated into my blog, my blog no longer available to my wife.  She lost that privilege years ago.

I blame her.

I avoid her closeness, a dare to cross the line I have drawn, a hope that she indeed will do so.  My own refusal to accept her now so clear that she throws it at me every time we clash, something that occurs more and more these days.

Overly anxious.  Cold.  Obligated.  Disrespectful.  Unaccepting.

Those are words or attitudes I express nearly every day.

How do I change that?  Most importantly, how do I make it so I want to change those words and attitudes?

Follow my father’s example, I suppose.  Praise.  Shut my mouth, change my attitude by changing what I think and say about my wife.

Arghhhhhhhh.

My wife plays the guitar.  I love that.  I wish she would play the guitar for me.

Ask my Dad who is the best pianist in the world.  It’s Mom.  Don’t ask me how many times I have heard him say it.  Her talent is his crown.

My wife can be very funny and she used to laugh with me.  I miss that.  I can’t remember the last time she laughed at something I said or enjoyed something that makes me laugh.

Dad has shows and his own entertainment that makes him laugh.  He sings.. badly, but Mom still plays the piano for his musical ventures.  They enjoy movies and TV shows together, and I have never heard Mom talk negatively about anything my Dad enjoys or vice versa.

My wife is a blue eyed blonde, still thin and shapely at fifty years old.  While she has always been a lights out person, private and reserved to the point where it has been hard for me to appreciate her looks, I do have some memory of the glimpses I have had of what makes a wife special to her husband.  I wish those memories were recent.  It has been a long, long time.

There is a picture my Dad keeps around of my Mom posing in a one piece bathing suit next to one of their automobiles.  Dad remarks now and then about her killer legs, about how that gangly girl become his lovely woman.  I still notice the meaningful touches between them, subtle now more than before, but it’s there.  Although it’s difficult to understand, I think Dad still looks at my Mom as that woman in the bathing suit.  That’s not her in the picture I used for this blog.  I just think that picture is cool looking!

I want to feel like she is mine.  Have I ever felt that way?  Never completely and probably never close to being much more than an obligation.

There has never been a question that my parents belong to each other.  I can see that in the way they treat each other, need each other, mourn when the other is sick, serve each other in a way that has never seemed like an obligation and so natural that it will never seem that way.

If I decide to try it, then it may be tough to do.   Those last few paragraphs demonstrate that, my negativity increasing as I wrote.

Or should I just give up?

Here I go again…..

People Are Interested In My Mom’s Underwear

Tags

fatherhood, marriage, parents, underwear

There are times when it is perfectly clear to me why a certain blog I have written is read more than others.  In my world that means that the blog entry gets read a hundred times or more.  My blogs, especially here at WP since my appearance here nearly a year ago, have been a lot more personal, my angst thrown in so much that it keeps me from really wanting to publicize my blog.  Sooner or later that will need to change.  I want to have fun with my writing, get away from therapeutic writing, challenge myself a bit more.  When I write a personal blog, I do not expect it to be read much, expect that it will likely drive away readers.

I like comfortable clothes, especially this twenty year old corduroy pullover that my Mom approves of, my daughter hates.

Occasionally I will write a blog that reflects the passion I felt as I wrote the blog.  Over the years, not necessarily on WP but on other blog providers, I have had a few blogs that were read by so many people that I could not keep up with comments.  One blog that I wrote about being the only white family at a Baptist church service, even made its way to the hands of a Chicago radio station and was read during a discussion about reverse racism.  I caught part of the discussion, heard my blog being read, and had one of the coolest experiences I have had as a blogger.  Passionate blogs like that don’t come very often.

I like that stats feature offered by WP.  Like most bloggers here, I check my daily stats regularly.  My numbers are no where close to staggering, so there is no pride there, but what I do see is what blogs are read on a regular basis.  Since I have the time right now, I took the opportunity to see which blogs have been read the most since I began writing here.  There was one I was interested in seeing the numbers on, a blog I wrote a little over a month ago, one I see pop up as being read every day and more than once.. and not by me.

Moms and Underwear

People must be interested in my Mom’s underwear.  Or underwear.  Or Moms.  I am not sure why.

There are reasons why the blog is one I enjoyed writing and enjoy reading.  For one, I can see how my perception of my parents’ relationship has matured, my understanding evolving as I experience marriage, as my interaction with them has gone from child to adult.. although I am clearly still their child.  I also can see how my appreciation for my father is increased, important to me not only as a son, but also as the father of a male child.

Want to know what my boy said to me last weekend, as I sat and listened to him angrily spew his teenage perceptions of me?  I want you to see the word I used — listened.  Instead of react to what he was saying, I wanted to hear what he was saying to me instead.

Dad, I think you are a really good dad, most of the time you are better than other dads, but I don’t think you are being a good dad right now.

I know what he is going to remember because I know what I remember about my own dad.  I remember the positive my dad offered to me — the support, the freedom to learn about life on my own and the care to offer his take when I asked for it (wish I had asked more), a unique ability to never shove my mistakes down my throat.  It didn’t hurt that Dad was also an excellent baseball player, just as cool to me then as it is now, as well as a talented amateur carpenter who built houses for his family even while working a full time job as a computer systems analyst.

Dad also shared with me and showed me more about his relationship with my mother than I realized.  He was frank with me without asking me to take a side, praising her, worrying about her, letting me know that there were things about her that were a challenge to him, but somehow doing that in an acceptable way.  Now, when he talks to me about her, I can go back in my memory, see where they were and how they got to where they are as a couple today.

I like that underwear blog for that reason.  That blog reflects what I have observed about my parents and their relationship.  Mom was sick when I wrote that blog, Dad adapting to her being sick and enthusiastically taking on the caregiver role with her.  That time was painful for Dad, a struggle, and it showed to me the strength of a relationship that will survive into eternity.  No wonder that blog is one of my favorites.  Maybe that is why others are reading it.

Mom is a whole lot better.  I talked with her at length on the phone this past Monday.  Maybe the best way to close this blog is with a quote of something she told me in that conversation:

“Steve, I can’t wait to start cooking again.  I miss baking my pies and all the recipes I used to make.  I hope I remember how to cook them.  But your Dad is having such a good time in the kitchen, I am not sure I am going to be able to get him out of my way…..”

The Road To Stir Crazy Starts Here

Tags

customer, customer service, Farmers Insurance, fatherhood, marriage, medical leave, procrastination, recovery, stuff, writing

I’m telling myself that writing a blog this morning will get the gelatin that may be called my brain jiggling enough to start back writing the greatest American novel.  My bar is set high.  It’s set high enough for this 6’1″ tall man to walk under it without combing my ear hair down.

The coffee is kicking in.  I can feel the jello vibrating a bit more right now.  Woooooook.  That feels good.  This really was a good idea.

This is the second week of medical leave for me, part two.  Those who have been following along are aware that there was a part one last January, three weeks for foot surgery that left me physically incapacitated until nearly May.  Notice that I say physically incapacitated.  Let’s not get that confused with my usual mental state.

As I write, I am waiting for the morning circus to begin.  I am downstairs in the kitchen, the place where many of the pictures I use for this blog are taken (I will use one for this blog).  My coffee is just the right temperature, the Cream of Wheat cooling, Chester the cat sitting on the chair opposite me peering out the sliding glass door of the deck.  We both enjoy the early morning quiet.  Chester also likes the morning birds, his bird meow a pure joy to me.  We both know that in a few moments our revelry will be interrupted by first an overly anxious Miriam as she goes through her morning rituals to get out the door, followed by Alyssa as she arrives fresh and ready to take the food and coffee her mother shoves at her, then Nate will amble in with shuffling feet to slip his shoes on.  I try not to smile as he tells her to chill.  He always does.  That is something he has learned to do this year.  Last year he would have been panicking along with her, a perfect duo.  This year is different, a calmer boy prevailing, one that went from a D & F grade student to an A & B student this year.  Hmmmmm.

Thinking about Nate in that light, well, it gets that brain gelatin vibrating a little more.  He has changed in one aspect of his life.  Maybe there is hope for the way he and I relate.  After all, he did tell me this past weekend that I am a very good dad.. and in the same breath said he did not think I was being a very good dad at the moment.  As Nate I heard that, I couldn’t help but process the positive in that while also admiring the way he said it.  Now what lead to and followed that moment was not positive, but I chose the passive and mostly silent response, listening better for the both of us than me reacting.  This past Saturday and Sunday was packed with a spousal contradiction, can of Mountain Dew bursting, frank discussion before church, tornadoes, delayed football game, TV battle, video game irritation, soul search, rainbow contemplation.  By Sunday morning I did not want to be in the house, the conflict so overpowering that my recently repaired gut was complaining mightily.  Thankfully there was the week gleaming on the near horizon, my experience from medical leave part one enough to keep my head straight.  I knew that Monday morning would return me to healing, including the damage the conflict was trying to inflict on me during the weekend.

That may be why I came into Monday morning with energetic enthusiasm, my gut still feeling the surgery from a week ago but not as much as it had over the weekend.  One of the challenges of the weekend had also been mechanical problems with the family van, so I had to make sure my PT Cruiser ran well enough for Miriam to drive, which it did.  The PT has become the problem child that requires me to stay a step ahead of it, which I do, but Miriam is not familiar with the PT’s quirks.  I needed to drive the family van, an aging Nissan Quest with lots of upside in spite of it just plain showing signs of wearing out.  150K miles does that to a vehicle no matter how good it is.  My friends from Panera had been sending me messages hinting that they hadn’t seen me for a while and wanted to know how I am doing.  How can I resist that?  I can’t.  It makes me feel like the celebrity I am not.  They are the only people, for the most part outside of my old blogs, that have heard (not read) a portion of my fictional writing and for some reason they seemed to like it.  Either that or they are just really nice people who are just encouraging me, which they are, but I like to hold a bit of hope that maybe they really did like what I wrote and read to them.  So off I went to Panera in the family van after using the jump charger to bring it to life, the displays and headlights dim until the battery was charged enough to support the vehicle’s accessories.

Monday was the day I got stuff done.  Even though I had the benefit of quiet while the kids were at school, I spent the day doing the tasks that I normally would not be able to devote my attention to.  In the office or even at home with my family around, it is near impossible to get the privacy to get issues that must be resolved over the phone done.  One task hanging over since the middle of September was a final premium bill from Farmer’s Insurance that was ridiculous from a fairness point of view (so much so that I had no issues in questioning it — sometimes I feel that the other side has its reasons) and presented to me with such a mean spirit that I could not believe it.  To make the story short (unlike this blog), after a week of wrangling with Farmers over a doubled auto premium that was going to come due again in less than two weeks, I had to cancel simply because Farmers was dragging their feet to try to resolve my issues with the doubled premium.  On the second business day, I received a bill from Farmers Insurance for the final premium — due upon receipt.  And I received a collection notice for that bill this past Friday.  So I called Farmers on Monday, negotiated an automated phone tree that seemed very much designed to handle anything but any customer with service issues, spent a lot of time on hold, negotiated firmly with a nice but stubbornly company line customer service associate who eventually turned me over to someone in accounts who had the power to resolve my issue with the final premium bill.  She did what should have been done in the beginning, applied payments and the discounts due to me, and issued a refund instead of a bill.  Had I not had the time (it took close to two hours), energy, privacy, and rest that call required from me, it likely would not have been resolved.

When one has the time and the rest that provides more control over the calm, one can take the deep breaths necessary to stop, advise the person on the other end of the line that you have reached the point where you are going to be upset.  I have learned that one.  It works.  You don’t have to yell and it’s fair to the person on the other side, who probably hates that they don’t have the power to help you the way you need to be helped, take a deep breath also and let their brain work enough to figure out a solution.  Sometimes a customer service person does not have the power to help, so I let him know that it did not have to be him that provides the resolution, but maybe another department or supervisor could.  I could almost literally hear the bell go off.  He told me he had an idea, was going to put me on hold for a while, came back to check in and let me know that the accounts person was working on it, then came back a few minutes later with her on the line.  Bingo.  In a few minutes, my situation with Farmers had gone from adversarial to peacefully and positively resolved.

There is no way I would recommend that company, no way I would do business with them again — there was too much trouble necessary to reach resolution.  There is a lot of my life I will not get back from that tiny refund.  A customer focused company would have been able to resolve my issues within five minutes, not the countless time and phone calls that resolution required, as well as the energy retaining my patience required.

It’s nice to ‘win’.  That changed my outlook on Monday.  By the evening, I no longer felt sick.  I had turned a corner.  I relaxed.

So what did I do yesterday?  Very little.  I did learn a little.  Online video games are changing the mindsets of the immature.  I am not talking about myself.  I am talking about 8 to 14 year old boys trying to cuss and talk like military hardened soldiers.  I played a lot of Call of Duty online yesterday, something I play as a game (play Call of Duty online sometime and you will know why I highlighted the word game).  Children and adults used the terms nigger, fuck, shit, dick, suck, eat me, gay, etc. so much that I had to use the mute feature of the game or quit in disgust.

However, I am now friended in the game by a black teen who calls himself “MyNigga”.  He calls me “Old White Nigga”.  Word.

What am I going to do today?  The bad weather here in the Chicago area ripped a large section of shingles from my back yard shed.  I may be able to do that without hurting myself.  Mir thinks I should not do that.  I may listen to her on that one.  I may be having a good week, but another week will drive me to the stir crazy world of allworkandnoplaymakesjackadullboy.  I am trying to write, after all, and that is my plan for the day.

Off to the shower.  I will leave you with a picture of my dog child Nick, who I just had to go outside and force back inside.  He loves cold weather and is waiting for his beagle friend from next door, Casimir, to come outside and play.  Nick stays in the unfenced yard until he gets a little stir crazy.  Like human, like dog.

(Some quick notes on this blog — 1.  Don’t think I don’t notice the attitude I have regarding my wife, the way I portray her in this blog shows in the way I describe her, phrases like “overly anxious”.  I am aware of it but am not sure I can change it.  There is a lot of prayer going on to address it, but I am not at the point where I want to change it — mainly because I am at the point where I am sure it can not because she is not going to change.  I am going to try to stop writing about that.  2.  To those who read this blog through the FB link, I may not link to a blog any more if I deem it too personal.)

Nick did not want to come inside, refused to, so unlike my usually master pleasing pup.

Weathering the Seasons

There is a maple tree in my backyard that holds on to its leaves as long as it possibly can every year, foliage so dense during the summer months that my house is shielded from view from my neighbors, the tree seemingly so proud of the gift of ample leaves that it refuses to let go until it can no longer resist.  When that maple begins to drop its leaves, usually mid to late November and weeks after the rest of the trees in this area, I know that winter has begun to reach us.  On cue, this past week we had our first freezing temperatures and snowfall of the season, frozen puddles and frost.  My maple tree knew it was time to make the cold weather adjustment.

Last Sunday was my last mow for the year, the day I chop the leaves into the lawn then put the mower away for the season.  I had a little talk with my back yard maple this morning, chiding it a little for causing me a bit of inconvenience.  It reminded me that I have known it long enough to know what was going to happen.  Yeah, you’re right, I had to admit.

The season here is on its march towards January, a bit colder each week, the sunlit days of warmth disappearing until the cycle comes back around next March or April.  Unlike many of the people I know around this northern Illinois area, I relish the cold weather season, a chance to adapt to the challenges the frigid temperatures and elements provide.  The challenges are not huge around here, it’s not like this is a desolate arctic wilderness, but there are still adjustments that are necessary.  I like that.  I like the adjustments.

Learning to exist outside has been one of the joys to this time of year.  As a cyclist, I personally do not like the treadmill existence that some retreat to as the weather turns cold.  I want to be outside, active rather than static, moving rather than pedaling nowhere in puddles of sweat.  To survive outside as a cyclist in cold weather, you not only need to know how to dress, you need to be aware of your own body, how it warms itself, where your body is coldest and how that part of your body affects the rest of your body.  When I ride outside, I pay attention to my ankles and wrists just as much as my core, knowing that if my blood is warm there, then my feet and hands will also be warm.  I also know how easy it is to over heat in the cold weather, watch not only the temperature outside but the elements, do my best to wear just enough so that when exercise begins to move the warm blood throughout my body, I will not be cooking in too many clothes.

There is a sense of victory, of accomplishment, and satisfying pleasure when I realize I am outside on a freezing cold day, comfortable, doing what I like best.  It’s a balance that is worth the adjustments required.

I wish life’s adjustments were that simple.  When it comes to life I may be one of those warm weather only types.  Oddly enough, there are times when I see the seasons of my life changing around me, want to make the adjustments.  I just seem powerless to do so.  Some of it has to do with expecting the people I have invested in change or make the changes for me.  Slowly I am learning that it has to be the other way around.  Probably my most significant investment, my wife, is not going to do that.  If the quiet of this week has taught me anything, it is that she is not going to make an effort to change.  She is never going to be able to control herself, doesn’t want to, is content to wade in a morass of panic and anxiety, as much a product of stubborn refusal to live sensibly than anything else.  I have watched her this week, watched her waste time so much that it disgusts me.  Will it do me any good to say anything to her?  No.  She doesn’t want to please me.  That is obvious from what has happened this week.  Maybe I expect to much, but she has made zero effort to do anything for me during my recovery, not even a meal, only expecting me to fix things for her that I can’t fix, because she expects me to do it for her.  Yes.  Do it for her.  That is what I am learning.

Crazy thing is that I wish I could do it for her.  I can not.  I have not made the adjustments or sacrifices required to be able to do so.  It’s not with my wife where I have not made the adjustments.  It is with my job, a place I have given 24 years to but really have nothing tangible, at least not physical, to show for my efforts.  As my life has moved into winter, my job has not really provided for me what is necessary to survive through the harsh times, more willing to endure the discomfort and accept punishment over reward than to risk losing the meager accomplishment of sticking it out, hopeful that one day I will see the reward that I doubt ever comes.  The man that pays me is too concerned about keeping the luxuries he enjoys than noticing the struggles I am having, even when I try to tell him about them.  If that part of my life is going to change, then I am going to have to quit expecting him to reward me without my asking.  That is tough.  And thinking about it makes me feel frozen to the core more than any winter day could do to me.

So what do I do?  Move on to warmer weather.  Keep adjusting?  Maybe.  Some do, realizing that warmer weather will come again.  Some realize that even though warmer weather will come again, they don’t have to be in the same place in order to enjoy that warmer weather.  They are ready when it comes again.

I see the leaves fall.  I feel the temperatures begin their dip.  I see the signs around me.

If only it were as easy as finding the right clothes to wear.

———–

 

Clanging Cymbals

Tags

God, I try to think, people, science

A bible from 1859. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I want to propose a statement, one that I suppose could be profound if properly discussed, but as a statement by itself, well, it’s a statement:

Science will never catch up with God.

There you have all of my collective wisdom summed up in six…er.. wait.  SEVEN words.

The statement is easy to make, difficult to dispute, simply because there is no real way to prove the statement can’t be true.  One can take the high road, say the only realistic argument is to say there is no God.  Yeah.  Say that if you want.  But what if you don’t know, if you can’t say without a reasonable doubt that God does not exist.

So you are left with deciding what you believe about God.  Where does God really rank?  Is God creator?  Sustainer of life?

Does science exist because of God?

Oooooooo, good question, Steve.  Stevie may be a profound idiot at times, profane even, but maybe just maybe he asks a good question.  If you hold to the concept of God as creator, then it is reasonable to propose that science does exist because of God.

So does math.

So does art.

So does pretty much anything that exists, mundane or complex.

I might even go as far as to say that religion will never catch up with God.  Why do I think that?  Because I believe that there is too much man in religion, that we can reach as much for God as we want, but we will never find a perfect way on our own to please the God.

Of science.

What man has succeeded to know is that no matter how much we invent and find out, there is always more to discover.

I like what Billy Graham said, a much quoted line from one of his sermons.

There is a mystery to it.

Funny thing is that we are told that there always will be a mystery.  Why?  Because we will never completely see the world as it is, see ourselves or others or anything else as it is, until we fully see God.

And that will never happen while we are alive.

The love chapter of what I believe is God’s message to us, the Bible, tells us this:

¹² For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.  – I Corinthians 13:12

Oddly enough, Paul is not talking about science or the mysteries of this world.  Paul is talking about love.  He is talking about people.

Perhaps my statement should be this — people will never catch up to God

Anyone want to tackle that question?  I can’t.  I can talk about how it’s nearly impossible, no matter how hard we try or no matter how close we come, to look at God’s ultimate creation in the same way that God does.

Might change what Christian people say to people about their sin.  They might choose to look at the person instead, letting God address the sin (or even perceived sin).

Might change what people say about the church and/or believers (Christians).  Perhaps they will cut them some slack, let them make a mistake, quit expecting people who believe in God to be the One they believe in.

Might change boundaries.  Could change a lot of things.

Wouldn’t that be heaven?

I think that’s the place we’ll catch up.

Challenges Beyond The Physical

Tags

family finances, health, recovery

More reports from the recovery bed today.  My body is taking the next step towards recovery, which basically is that purge stage that gets everything back to working order.  I feel different today than I did yesterday.  That is a good thing.

My guess is that the other challenge I am facing with surgery is the one that most everyone else also experiences — the financial challenge.  One of the blessings I am experiencing is that the company I work for decided about a year ago to quit going cheap on the employee health plan, switching plans to BCBS, a much superior and very accepted health plan, complete in so many ways.  Since this year has been the year of surgery for me, with my foot surgery happening in January and the gallbladder removal this past Monday, I am giving that health plan a good test.  It is passing with flying colors, so far so complete that there have been little to no worries about coverage and payment.  Everything is quick and I know exactly what my responsibility is.  Because my deductibles were met earlier in the year, the out of pocket expense for the current surgery is expected to be zero.  That, my friends, is a blessing.

But, of course, a second surgery also means a second short term disability claim.  I have very little vacation or personal time left to use towards the five working day delay before the medical disability kicks in.  I may actually have to write a check to my company next week to cover the weekly paycheck insurance deductions.. and I will not get a paycheck for my time away this week.  That hurts.  At least it complicates life a bit — we have to figure out how we are going to survive through the next few weeks on what is left at the moment –$87.  Yikes.  And that is before I write that check for the insurance deduction.

Of course, our cat became sick yesterday.  He has sort of urinary thing going on.  Mir dropped him off at the vet this morning.  Yeah.  Let’s all heave a collective sigh together.  I just did.  It never freaking stops.  Never.  Ever. 

I am still on that long road to try to turn my family finances around.  There are things I need to do, but the main thing is to cut my family off to accessing my pay.  Sound cruel?  It feels that way.  But it seems to be the only way.  More than one person has suggested that I open another bank account, at a bank different than the one we currently use, and an account that only I have access to.  I am slow doing that, but I know it’s the only way.  Despite the dire financial straits, my family still does not get the urgency, my wife used to being bailed out.  She does not understand that planning, self control, and a bit of common sense will go a long way to changing our situation for the better.  I keep giving her chances, giving her a cash budget for groceries, for instance.  Out of $240 given to her for groceries in two paychecks, there were no planned meals and little groceries in our family store.  How does that happen?  Yet our son is constantly stocked with soda pop, they come home with sacks from their fast food forays almost every day, and even though Mir knew I was cooking dinner with ice cream in the freezer for desert last night, they still came home with McDonalds and hot fudge sundaes after school.  Un freaking real.

I should not write about this stuff.

But a lot of that last bit of information also falls on my shoulders.  Looks like I am going to have to be the tough leader, probably a bit of a dictator, by cutting them off totally.  I am slow making the steps necessary, but I am getting there.

Soooooooo, the challenges really are beyond the physical when it comes to recovery.  Really, getting physically better is the easiest part of this whole thing.  I am getting support from my own family though, my brothers and their families, both doing very well financially, have both sent gifts to me, one of the reasons I was able to pay the mortgage this week.  My mom did make sure that there was food in the fridge when she and dad visited this past Monday after my surgery.  I need to look at the blessings.  They are there and one of those blessings is the support I get from friends and family.

And the challenges will keep coming, I am sure.