A Cancerous Gratitude

You know those moments of pure surreality when you aren’t quite sure if you are dreaming or not?

When my girlfriend winked flirtatiously at me as blood dripped down her chin with a dazed expression while sirens were screaming all around us and paramedics running up to our car… yeah, I guess I’d call that the mother of all surreal moments.

On May 22, 2021 life changed forever. My then-girlfriend (wife now) had a grand mal seizure while we were driving. Fortunately, she was a passenger and not the driver, or I probably wouldn’t have been typing this. We most likely would be residing under some grass and a carpet of fallen autumn leaves and a block of Missouri Red granite with our names and dates would be squarely at the head of the little plot of eternal real estate.

Instead, we spent the evening at the ER and worrying about how to pay the medical bills (she had just begun a new job and wasn’t eligible for their insurance yet. So like many low income people, she took the gamble of no coverage for the two month window because “what’s the worst that could happen”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA FML

We declined the more expensive tests and procedures and just did the bare basics to make sure she was stable.

And I will spare you the litany of medical experiences, tests and appointments and give you the highlights:

It was a brain tumor that caused the seizure. Wanna know how we found out this little golden nugget? Some tech uploaded the information into her MyChart account before we had a chance to hear from a doctor. Isn’t that a delightful way to learn of your life threatening situation? 10:30 at night getting ready for bed. Her phone dings with a notification and she looks at the information in utter disbelief.

“I have a brain tumor.” Her tone was flat and lifeless.

Then came tears and panic and anger and a very sleepless night. She kept saying “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die” and all I could do was try to hold her and comfort her while trying to wrap my own mind around what had just occurred.

(A side note: I’m still very angry at the doctor’s office for this. And to this day, we have never received a call from that office with an explanation, an apology or even an acknowledgement… I will be dealing with them for the nightmares they caused)

That little incident led us to immediately switch doctors and we found an AMAZING care team at SLU Hospital, but I jump ahead…

Prior to the seizure, we had just begun discussing getting engaged and talking about the wedding we wanted to have in a couple of years. After the revelation of the brain tumor, we realized that we didn’t know if we were going to have a couple of years or not so on July 25, we had an impromptu wedding under a tree with just our immediate family in attendance. Our hearts had wanted a fall wedding (our favorite season) but we didn’t have the luxury of a guarantee of that choice. A fellow crafter made her a beautiful fall-colored headpiece (and wouldn’t accept a dime in payment) that she wore that day bringing a touch of fall to that hot summer afternoon and a VERY emotional ceremony for us.

A week later we had a informal “reception” with some friends and family at a winery where my best friend’s band was playing. We received one of the most beautiful gifts: my friend and his bandmate learned our favorite song and played it for us to dance to. I half sang and half cried along with the lyrics as we danced, thinking the whole time that I didn’t know if we would ever dance together again. And as I hugged the man afterwards (who has been my friend for 40 years or better), I realized that he gave us the perfect treasure of a memory. I hope that you have a best friend like my best friend.

Fast forward to surgery day. Another almost sleepless night as we both contemplated the egg sized tumor that was going to be removed from her brain. She held herself together until a resident doctor whipped out electric clippers and unceremoniously started shaving her head. The panic in her face and tears in her eyes made me ask the doctors for some anti-anxiety medication to help her. And as they wheeled her off to surgery, I wondered if I would see her alive again or if my last minutes with her just passed with her absolutely terrified and crying.

I can’t put into words what that felt like.

The surgery went well, but it took 2 months to get the final diagnosis.

Oligodendroglioma. Try saying that three times. A type 2 to type 3. Not a doom tumor but a nasty one nonetheless. The kind that is known to regenerate even after removal.

Now we go every morning to the cancer center for radiation and she takes chemotherapy meds when she first wakes up. Side effects from the meds have landed us in the ER more than once.

Seeing her and her hairdresser cry together as they talked about shaving her remaining hair off…

And yet through all of this I am thankful.

I am thankful for the kindness of a dozen friends who sent us gift cards for restaurants. I am extremely grateful for our very generous, kind and understanding employers who have supported us WELL BEYOND the level that anyone could ask from an employer (We love you Austin and Misty). We are thankful for family who check on us and help us when we need it. I have been shocked by the kindness of perfect strangers who donated wedding gifts to us and or money to our Gofundme. I am thankful that she and I have chosen to live life much more fully and completely since the diagnosis.

Most of all I am thankful that she is sitting on the couch behind me with our cat Chuck on her lap, drinking a healthy smoothie and knowing that we have just a few more days of treatment before a one month break. I’m grateful that I have to go to a cancer treatment center instead of a cemetery.

I thank you for reading this. May this Thanksgiving hold some reasons for you to be grateful as well.

Ode to one lucky SOB

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Friends, I owe you an apology.  It’s been too long since I’ve written to you.  When I started this blog years ago, I had no idea what to write about.  It wasn’t a loss for words.  It was a genuine concern for whomever allowed their eyes to land on this and whether or not I felt that their/your time would be well spent perusing what I wrote.

My natural instinct is self-deprecation, so I’ve always questioned my skills and ability as a writer and a speaker.  And as I looked back, it always seemed that what I wrote was an unburdening of whatever washboard road of life I was travelling, and the last thing I ever wanted to do was have this turn into a soapbox for incessant bitching and whining.

So I hit the pause button and stopped.

I think of writing nearly every day.  Every. day.  It’s built into me, like my hair color or cigarette habit.  But I wait/delay/procrastinate because whatever it is, I want it to be worth your time to read.

Today I want to say thank you.  For whatever part you play in the theater of my life, be it a main character or a cameo walk on, I thank you.

My life is not free of pain, difficulty or disappointment but I certainly never consider myself as having the worst lot in life.  On the contrary…when I allow myself to see through the smokescreen and gaze upon the vista of my particular peak, all I can do is stop and remind myself

I am one lucky SOB.

I can say that I’ve become what I set out to be.  A master of words.  My words have moved people.  My words have comforted, inspired, calmed and seduced.  A few people have even shelled out there hard earned dollars to PAY for my words.  When I consider all of these things, I very recently allowed myself to stop calling myself a fraud when I a referred to myself as a writer.  My grammar isn’t flawless nor do I always write/speak perfectly (Papa Hemingway, Mr. Twain and HST would all level fair criticism, I’m sure), but I have corralled and harnessed the power of words like an obstinate herd of cattle.

Which brings me to my second point of gratitude:  whatever job I truly set out to get in this life, I have gotten.  Looking back, I can say that even stints as a cowboy or a private detective were accomplishments.  Childhood dreams fulfilled even if the reality didn’t quite match up.  And the impact that I have made on those I have touched in the careers of adulthood is a badge of honor.  For more than a quarter of a century I’ve tread the path that most go to great lengths to avoid…the end of life.

It has been an overwhelming privilege to care for those in the sunset days of their existence.  One of the most significant moments was when I stepped in for a son whose father was actively dying.  He was exhausted and starving but didn’t want to leave his father out of fear that he would die with no one at his side.  His dad was a fan of old country music, as am I, so I brought my CD player with some George Jones and Johnny Cash and played it softly while I held the dying man’s hand so the son could go have some lunch and rest briefly.  I knew that it was working when I saw his restless thrashing ease a bit.

Dear friends, I can’t even put into to words how that made me feel but can only say that it was one of the longest, hardest and best hours of my life.

Making a difference is all that I have ever wanted out of this life.  To contribute something good in this world to counter the epic selfishness that seems to be increasing exponentially in this age of social media obsession and addiction.

It’s a mission that I hope I never give up on.  I’m thankful for the work that I have been able to do.  For me, the idea of some paper-shuffling cubicle-dwelling career strikes me as a fresh Hell with every waking day.  I’m not knocking those who do those jobs, as they are necessary.  I’m simply saying that kind of life was not what I believe that I was put on this earth for.

No matter what job I had, whether a very humble gig driving a taxi or flying first class and staying in luxury hotels while working for a consulting firm (I’ve done both, actually in quite close proximity to each other) I put my heart into my work.  I may not have enjoyed the financial success that I could have, but my heart was 100% engaged.

And nowhere have I put more heart into than into being a funeral director.  Despite verbal slaps in the face questioning how much the funeral home charges for this or that or receiving the brunt of a family’s anger because of how their loved one’s appearance displeases them…I gave them my heart.  I did everything I could to help them not feel alone as they walked this awful stretch of their journey in life.

Many days, I want to quietly pack up my things and simply walk away.

Or never show up in the first place.

But some days I drive home riding a rushing wave of gratitude for being able to do what I do.

It’s a wonderful terrible job.  And it’s no surprise that funeral directors have very high divorce, addiction and suicide statistics associated with the work.

Even if I give it all up tomorrow, I am grateful for being able to say that for more than 20 years I took the best possible care of the dying, the dead and their families.

I am grateful.  Grateful for a thank you note.  Grateful for an online comment expressing appreciation for what I wrote or did.  Grateful for the opportunities to improve someone’s life even by the smallest measure.

Grateful for people like you who read my words, put up with long absences and rambling paragraphs…

Thank you.  I’m one lucky SOB.

 

 

A 48 year old secret that I want to tell you…

As this Sunday dawns. I stand at the threshold of my 48th year….and it’s time that I revealed the secret burden that I’ve been hiding from you the last few months.

This may divert from my usual “gee, this past year kinda sucked but was kinda OK” birthday post.

Because this last year was freaking AMAZING.

The kind of year of my life that I had always dreamed and hoped for.

It wasn’t perfect.  But it was jaw-dropping at times…in all the best ways.

And a 47 year old mystery dissolved in a matter of minutes and a lifelong burden lifted.

Some of you may know that I was adopted when I was six weeks old.  For some adoptees, myself included, this comes with a wagonload of questions, issues, etc.

Speaking for myself, I spent most of my life feeling unwanted and out of place, even with my own family and those closest to me.   At home, at work, it didn’t matter.  Apparently it’s quite common among adoptees, and I empathize with those among us who fought that battle in their life.

I always knew that I was adopted.  It was never a secret, my parents told me from the moment that I was able to comprehend the concept.

And as kids are wont to do, I used that in shitty ways.  I remember my mom being mad at me for something and my reply was “Well I’m gonna go find my REAL parents” (Sorry Mom) or words to that effect.

Of course I never did.

Until this past March.

The law preventing adoptees from accessing their original birth certificate was quietly changed in Missouri a couple of years ago and as of January 1, 2018 adoptees can now request their original birth records…so I did.

Unless you have no idea what your biological roots are, you may not have any idea how powerful the concept of not knowing who you are or where you came from can be.  Now I did a DNA study a couple of years ago, which answered a few questions and you can find a post about it on this blog.

After sending in my requests, the months of agonizing wait ensued until a chilly Friday in March, when a nondescript envelope was waiting for me when I got home from work.

I’m pretty sure that I was weeping before the envelope was fully opened.  Nope.  I’m positive that I was.  In fact, I pretty well cried that whole weekend and freaked the shite out of my kids who I kept trying to reassure between bouts of tears that I really was okay.

I called my sister before I even left the mailbox.  She’s also adopted (from a different family) and would understand better than anyone what I was going through.  We cried together on the phone and I promised to keep her informed as to anything I found out.

Here’s what I found out:

My birth name was Robert John.

This surprised me because I had fully expected to see “Baby Boy Jones” or something along those lines.

And it also listed my birth mother’s name but no father’s name.  Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, in literally 5 minutes, I located a likely individual matching the name, approximate age and profession (my parents had always told me that my birth mother was a nurse.)

I studied her Facebook profile, poring over her photos and wondered…could this be she?

Then I pondered what to do for several days.  I realized that I was opening a 47 year old can of worms and possibly disrupting a peaceful life for her which was nothing that I took lightly.  I did not want this to be a negative experience for anyone.  I’m not that selfish.

The following Wednesday, I wrote a carefully worded letter and mailed it to the address that I had found with no expectations.  In the letter, I expressed my thought that she could POSSIBLY be my birth mother and if she she was indeed my birth mother, I would understand if she could not respond to this letter, for whatever reason.

A few days later, I was elbow deep in replacing the rear brakes on my girlfriend’s car when my cell phone rang.  I saw the area code and knew instantly who it was.  I grabbed my phone and hustled to my car to have some privacy for this moment.

For the first time ever in my 47 years, I heard my birth mother’s voice.

Her voice was soft and kind as she confirmed that she was indeed my birth mother.  She told me my birth father’s name and gave me a bit of the history of what happened.

I tried to keep it together and keep the conversation from getting too emotional.  We ended the conversation after about 20 minutes agreeing to keep the line of communication open.

The feelings that followed are hard to put into words.

All I can say is I have a sense of peace about who I am and where I came from.

And a tremendous sense of relief.  I had a host of fears about this contact.  None of them came true.

I have creeped on my biological father’s Facebook page.  My birth mother told me that he looks like Mark Twain.  She’s not very far off.  But I’ve taken no steps to communicate with him.  I just have this gut feeling that it won’t go well.  Knowing who he is is enough for me now.

And for the first time in my life, I am celebrating my birthday knowing exactly what had escaped me for all my years prior.

Join me as I raise my glass to 48, Daniel Gerard/Robert John.  Thanks to all of your for being a part of the journey.  If 48 is anything like 47, I’m in for a hell of good year!

 

 

 

 

 

Restless spirits speak at Old Baptist Cemetery ~ Hannibal, MO

Years ago, I watched an old cemetery caretaker locate occupied, unmarked graves using dowsing rods. George was a devout Christian, yet seemed to have no issues utilizing this bit of witchery to accomplish his tasks.
Last Wednesday, using the same technology, I conversed with some restless souls at old Baptist Cemetery in Hannibal.
It was ostensibly your standard haunted tour, with stops at various decaying structures and stories of “what happened one time” but I did NOT expect the tour to end this way.

It was hotter than Hades, with barely a breath of breeze stirring except when our tour trolley was in motion. There was the expected aforementioned stops and tour guide banter, but as the trolley struggled up the last hill to reach Old Baptist Cemetery, the energy changed. The evening cicadas sang and ancient headstones leaned drunkenly, if they stood at all. Years of obvious neglect had left it in a shambles, and the professional side of me cast a slight frown on the use of a cemetery for tourism, but all that vanished when the dead began to speak.
I got my pair of dowsing rods, grasping them as George had shown me years before, and cleared my mind of any expectation or anticipation.

Then they moved.

They aimed to my left so I turned and they straightened as I faced their desired direction. My footfalls were soft, deliberate as I followed each gentle swing of the rods. Finally, I found myself at a clump of shrubbery, with a jumble of headstones underneath.
The conversation was silent, all mental, with the rods speaking for the other side. If the tips touched, the answer was yes. If they didn’t move, it was no.

Is this where I’m supposed to be?
Yes

Are you buried here?
Yes

I wanted to take a picture of the stones, but it didn’t seem right to do so with asking.
May I take a picture of the headstones?
Yes.
I moved some branches aside and snapped a few camera shots, including the one above.

I didn’t know what to ask next so I turned and started to see where to check out next.
The rods quickly swung around, pointing back to the headstones I just turned away from.
OK, I thought. Unfinished business.

We aren’t done visiting yet?
No

Is there something I can do for you?
A pause…
Yes

I had a strange feeling coming about me… not necessarily sadness but more of gentle anger, if that makes sense.

Are you upset?
Yes

I wasn’t sure what to ask next. Then thought occurred:

Would you like me to say a prayer for you? (Now this goes against my heathen nature, but in days of old it was tradition to pray when visiting the graves of family.)
Yes

Are you a Christian?
Yes
I mustered out a prayer that this restless soul would find peace and rest in the next world.
I paused for a moment, thanked and bid farewell to this soul and turned to see if the rods would swing back that way.

They didn’t.

I had a shorter experience at some toppled markers along the tree line. In short, I think they just wanted their presence known.

Now, as this experience unfolded, I had memory of visiting a palm reader and spiritualist a few years back. As she touched my hands, she yanked them back almost immediately, almost as if she had gotten an electric jolt from me.

She seemed very unsettled and surprised as she stammered out a question.

Have you had a lot of relatives die recently?

Ummm nope.

She continued “I see death all around you” and it obviously didn’t sit well with her.

I smiled. I told her that it was probably my job.

And with that, she relaxed. That makes sense, she said.

She went on to say that I had a unusually large number of spirits attached to me.

Now that surprised me.

She explained that they were attracted to me because of the kindness I had shown them.

Them?

She smiled. Yes. Don’t you realize that very often you are the last person to touch their physical form on Earth?

I guess that I had never thought about it, but it sort of made sense.

She closed her eyes. There’s one in particular right out front. A little boy, 8 or 9, maybe. Dark hair. He’s very close to you.

At that moment, I realized exactly who she was talking about. One of the worst funerals I ever had to do. A true heart breaker. A nine year old who died in a house fire. His service was so stressful that I had started smoking again because of it.

I asked her if there were any spirits attached that I needed to be concerned about. She said no. No evil or ill intent found among them.

As I stood in that cemetery, I decided that I would ask if she was right.

Are there spirits attached to me?
Yes

Is one a little boy named Brian?
Yes

Are there any spirits attached that I need to worry about?
No

At that point, the tour guide summoned us all to return to the bus. Others with me had some experiences just as interesting. If you find yourself in Hannibal, take the tour. Place your skepticism aside and take a walk through Old Baptist with an open mind. Ask questions that only you know the answer too.

My guess is that you’ll find the answers among the tombstones.

Caution: Adult themes ahead…

Well, I did it.

I wrote and published something on Amazon for sale to the general public.

I took the leap.

All of the years of procrastination, the fear of rejection, the worry…

I decided to chuck it all.

Caution has been dispatched without ceremony.

And now, I prepare myself for the results.  Success and reward or folly and failure.

The die has been cast.

But all of this with a twist.

The genre which finally allowed me to break the barrier is, shall we say, of an ADULT nature.

So needless to say, this is not Shakespeare, nor Hemingway… not even Danielle Steele.

But it’s mine.  And my hope is that it leads to more.

Self-control did get the better of me.  It’s written under a pen name to shield my personal and professional connections.

So this is no flack advertisement.  No link included for you to follow in order to purchase this torrid tome.

If you want to read it bad enough, most of you know how to contact me.  I’ll send you a link and your purchase stays forever in the vault of my discretion.

It’s certainly a side of me that very few people know existed.

But damn, does it feel good.

I’m more relieved than anything, to be honest.  And someone has already been kind enough to purchase it.

One sale down, hopefully many more to come.

My irresolution was fulfilled before the end of the second month of the year.

So I listened to “Raise Your Glass” as I put the final touches on it and pushed “Publish” and these lyrics played out as the mouse button clicked:

So raise your glass if you are wrong,
In all the right ways,
All my underdogs,
We will never be never be, anything but loud
And nitty gritty, dirty little freaks
Won’t you come on and come on and raise your glass,
Just come on and come on and raise your glass.

Finally, after all the years that my words never produced a penny, I am beginning the journey to if not producing an income, at least supplementing my income.

It was time to raise my glass.

And for the bravery to put my words out to the masses, whatever source that came from;

I thank you.

I thank you.

This spring, my hope be eternal.  And to quote the Shawshank Redemption

Hope is a good thing.  Maybe the best of things.

So raise your glasses, and join me in a virtual smashing of the champagne bottle across the bow of my writing career.

The horizon’s clear and seas are calm for now.

 

A Resolution For the Irresolute

I’ve had a long standing agreement with my life… if there’s anything about it that I really don’t like, I procrastinate dealing with it until I hit one of two milestones…either my birthday or January 1…

It’s a shitty plan, admittedly.  And many times I just hit a mental “Postpone” button (kinda like that Windows Update that keeps cropping up on my screen… you do it, too.  Don’t judge me.)

I’m not a believer in resolutions.  I’m firmly irresolute.  The only thing that I do believe about resolutions is that they usually wind up left at the curb with the dried Scotch pine and broken light strands of the holidays somewhere mid-month.

As I write this, it’s 7 degrees outside, I’ve got a fire snapping and popping in the fireplace about 3 feet away, but I have something burning much more intensely inside.

The urge to write.  To create fantasy.  To actually make my living from all of the demented fermentation of thoughts, words and ideas sloshing around in the ol’ skull… at least while I still have enough synapses connected to accomplish that.

You only have so many good years on the planet.  I’ve been counseling my youngest on that very fact.  He spends an inordinate amount of time worrying about deep life issues that a 13 year old needn’t occupy their thoughts with.  But that’s a tale for another day.

As I lecture him from my Paternal Pulpit, a little voice distracts me.

“Great advice there, Pops.  Now, when does the physician heal himself?  When do you start taking your own advice?”

I firmly and politely tell that voice to piss off.  I’m tending to my fatherly duties.

“Sure, Pops.  You’re 47, you know.  Ain’t getting any damn younger, that’s for sure.  Just when do you expect this wonderful writing career to start?  Another year just flew past you.  Another year that you could have been living the life you want to, but you let it slip past.  It’s gone.  Adios.  Sayonara.”

Yeah, yeah.  I get it.

“Do you?  Do you get it?  I happen to recall YOU telling a co-worker that life was short…and if he was unhappy, he should retire.  You told him not to waste any more of his life being miserable.  You should have been having that conversation in the mirror, pal.”

And so on and so forth.  I won’t bore you with the rest of the mental debate,  but I’m pretty sure that the voice called me a dumbass and other less nice things.

But it’s true, folks.  Not just for me but for you as well.  You ain’t getting younger either.  So if you are as irresolute as I, skip the resolutions and instead pick one goal to accomplish.  I don’t care if it’s racing in the Cannonball Run, or creating art or simply getting your damn laundry caught up.  Accomplish that goal and then pick another.  Baby steps, just like Bill Murray’s mantra in “What about Bob?”

Tomorrow isn’t a guaranteed delivery.  The only thing that you know is that you have the moment now.  Take action.  Put paint to canvas.  Carve unflattering soap sculptures of your sister-in-law.  Seek and destroy whatever is creating that godawful funk in your teenager’s bedroom.  Whatever it is that you have been putting off, your time to do it is now.

Before another year passes you by, buttercup.

(But seriously, find out what in the hell is causing that smell.  The stench is overpowering)

Thanks for a great 2017.  I appreciate you and especially those who have been kind enough to give me comments and feedback.

Meanwhile, Imma get busy writing.  I’m going to try my hand at erotica, but I can’t post that stuff on a wholesome family blog like this…

Or can I?

(laughs wickedly and then coughs and hacks… damn cigarettes)

 

 

 

 

 

The unexpected magic of an ancient cat…

Allow me to introduce you to Minka… she’s 21 years old (101 human years old, according to Cat World)… she’s a tiny little lady, with a soft rusty purr and and a crabby sounding meow.  She’d rough-looking and graying but carries herself with the never-ending pride of cat attitude.  She’s fighting the ailments of any geriatric cat and she lives at a local animal clinic that was going to be closed over the holiday weekend.  And I got roped into cat-sitting her.

I had no idea how happy she would make me.

This little lady gave me such a warm sense of the holiday… it’s hard to put into words.

She spend the holiday weekend in the warm carpeted confines of my son’s closet, which she took to immediately.  She got lots of attention and love, mainly from my boy who was happy to volunteer his room for her guest room.

For some unusual reason, the knowledge that there’s a good chance that this would be her last Christmas gave me a tremendous sense of purpose.  If the cat gods call her home before next December 25, I will have the satisfaction of knowing that her final Christmas was not spent alone in a steel cage, but taking naps with a teenager curled up on the floor next to her… gentle face rubs and lots of friendly words.

Sometimes, I would sneak away from the family activities to run upstairs and lay on the floor.  She’d rouse herself from her soft, warm bed to come greet me, get a few pats and issue a gravelly meow and then head back to her bed to relax.

And that was enough to put me back into a great holiday spirit.

An act of kindness towards someone (or something) that can never repay you is an exquisite feeling.  It’s indescribable.  It’s as if you’re making a deposit back into that Bank of the Universe that has shown you the occasional kindness or stroke of good fortune.  And it allows you to feel grateful for all the good things that you enjoy in your life.

The beauty of magic (especially Christmas magic) is that you can’t predict the source or timing… but even an ancient cat can be the gateway for a little magic of your own.

This won’t be a lengthy post.  Just enough to say thank you to Minka.  Thank you for spending the holiday with us.  Thanks for the rusty purrs as you got your face rubbed.  Thanks for helping Christmas feel like Christmas again.   And if you’re still with us next Christmas, you’ve got a standing reservation at my place and the welcome mat is out.

And to you, dear readers, may 2018 bring you magic, happiness and peace.

47 years and counting…

A few years ago, I wrote a post on my birthday called Reflections on 44. It remains one the most popular posts I’ve ever written.

I know that many, if not most posts I write are dark. I don’t know why that is, other than for some strange reason, the darkness rouses the Muse and words flow more freely. In case you were wondering, I don’t spend my days in some sort of gothic state of depression. Quite the contrary, I am happy most of the time. But it isn’t those moments when I am driven to the keyboard.

So today, on this auspicious 47th anniversary of my entering this world, I decided to reflect on the good in my life.

The first thing that I want to mention is you. Knowing that you take precious time out of your day to scan these words brings me hope…hope that one day, I might turn this habit of verbal doodling might become my life’s work. That’s there still value in these thoughts that bubble up in my brain. That one day, I may truly become a writer, complete with paycheck. Thank you for your presence, the words of encouragement that you leave me and for the gift of your time.

I thank the gods for my friends. You know who you are. The trials of the past year would have been unbearable without you.

Happiness is not a state of being, I’ve come to realize. Happiness is in enjoying the moments that fill our every day and being fully present within them. My own are the simplest: that first cup of coffee in the morning quiet of my front porch, smoking and watching the hummingbirds zip and dive around my neighbor’s feeder. When my newly adopted cat jumps up on the couch and onto my lap, hesitantly craning her neck out to touch her nose to mine. When I have my kids on the couch next to me, their presence (even though they are enraptured by their phones/tablets) brings me peace and joy.
Singing along (badly) with a favorite song while I drive. Flopping down and watching an episode of “Longmire” at the end of a long day. An unexpected message from someone. Watching the sun go down. Listening to the night sounds while I smoke the last cigarette of the day before bed.

That is happiness to me. And my days are filled with those moments.

Surprisingly, these days I have an abundance of hope. I can’t explain why, but I have a concrete sense that no matter what, everything will turn out ok.

Cheers to 47 years. I don’t know if I have 47 more, but I will make the most of those I do have. I plan on making changes for the better in the coming days and weeks ahead.

Thank you for your birthday wishes. Thank you for continuing to read. Thank you for being you. My wish for you is health, happiness and hope in the coming year.

What you think about, you bring about. Never forget that.

“Walk tall, kick ass and take no guff from those swine.” – HST

A Suicide In My Brain

“Man looks into the abyss, and there’s nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that’s what keeps him out of the abyss.” – Wall Street

A few months back, a high school classmate posted his suicide note on Facebook. Although I hadn’t laid eyes on him in 25+ years, I joined the frantic effort from his friends and family members in vain attempts to reach out to him. Hours passed, and while I knew that he had seen some of my messages, he stopped looking at them or responding.
My spirit bottomed out. I feared that our efforts would be fruitless, wasted with a culmination on some lonely dead end road.
It stirred up a black swirl of my own memories, when dark days prior to my separation and divorce led to even darker days that followed it.
Many nights spent lost in shadowy thoughts. Where internal debate rages between the fear of death and the pain of life and like some evil role call every single misstep and bad decision comes prancing out of lightless corners in the mind and each one happy to burden the scales in favor of ending it all.
Voices from nowhere reminding me what I waste I was, how I had squandered my life, ruined my family, destroyed my finances…
The gift of words that I had been blessed with I rarely used.
I felt that I had disappointed so many people.
Why was I continuing to remain here? What was the point?

I don’t endorse/condone suicide in any way, shape or form.(I don’t include terminal disease/medically assisted cases in this)

But I understand it.
Oh do I ever.
When the burdens grew nearly intolerable…I called my best friend and handed my gun over to him to keep. I told him that I was worried about security at the extended stay hotel I was at, but it was so much more than I could bear to talk to even him about. I asked him to hold onto it for safekeeping.
I let him hold onto it for months.

Until the internal debate simmered down.
Until I felt like my head was on straight.
Until I felt like I could breathe again.
Until I could look my children in the face and not feel like I was collapsing into a emotional disaster.
Until the dark thoughts finally dissipated.
Until I realized that there was hope.
Until I allowed myself to feel the love of those who rallied around me.
Until I could study the sunset and look forward to tomorrow.

As I write this, there is a story on Yahoo about Katy Perry and her own experience with suicidal thoughts. Even the young, wealthy, famous, gorgeous aren’t immune from the siren’s song…

And if there’s a battle raging inside of you or someone you know, act and act quickly. For your own good. For the sake of your loved ones. Because there is always hope. There’s always good things in the future. There is always a reason to keep on living.

As for my high school classmate, he was found at a hospital. I don’t have all of the details except the most important one…he is alive.
And for that I am thankful.

24 hours in Heaven and Hell

You know, the past 24 hours have been such a whirlwind, I really don’t know where to begin…

So I guess that I will just begin at the beginning.

I was about to have dinner with a friend, when she got the call that every parent dreads.

A phone number that she didn’t recognize.

A frightened voice telling her that her daughter had been in a car accident.

As the fates would have it, the accident was a mere 100 yards from her front door.  We ran to the car and we could hear the sirens howling in the distance.  Panic crossed her face, as it would any parent hurling themselves headlong into this sort of surreal nightmare.

If we weren’t on the scene in less than a minute after hanging up the phone, we were pretty damn close.  And the scene that greeted us was nothing less than the very picture of what haunts parental dreams.  Brilliant flashing red and blue lights.  Smashed and twisted steel.  Concrete strewn with debris and moonshine diamonds of shattered glass.  Emergency vehicles racing up the road.  Screams of pain.  Glowing red road flares.

We dashed across the traffic lanes and were blocked by police until she heard her daughter screaming for her and she damn near lost it.  The officer relented, let her through and she fell to her knees next to her daughter who was being carefully tended to by the first paramedics that had arrived.  She was crying out in pain, the heart rending sound that makes a person feel so helpless.  Her mom was overcome and had to take a moment to gather herself so I knelt by the girl, holding her hand like the most fragile, delicate piece of glass I could imagine, saying every comforting and soothing word I could think of.  Kind hands on my shoulders as a fireman said “It’s ok, dad.  We are taking good care of her.”  I didn’t bother to correct him or clarify my status.  At that moment it seemed trivial.  Those same kind hands purposefully guided me away, giving them the space they needed to work.

I turned to the teenage boys that were with her in the car and who were pacing nervously, almost as if lost.  The story was coming in bits and pieces, but we managed to gather the basics but the penultimate detail was that the girl was ejected from the vehicle through a back window.  That was about all we had the chance to gather before the girl and her mom were loaded into an ambulance and fired off.

I stayed behind and tried to wrap my mind around what had happened.  I spied a shoe that the girl had been wearing left on the street.  I picked it up and searched for the other.   It wasn’t the only item missing from my sight.  As I looked at the car she had been in, I noticed that the right rear wheel was gone.  As was the tailgate of the car.  Not just flat, bent or damaged.  Fucking gone.  I looked all around and could not see them anywhere.  I wrenched open the battered driver’s door, grabbed the girl’s purse and found her other shoe still inside the car.

Incredible.  Surreal.  I was stunned as my mind pictured the immense impact and I couldn’t shake the horrible image of the girl flying out of the window in a glittering explosion of glass and winced as I pictured her body thumping against the pavement and coming to rest.  I dropped into the front seat of my car and lit a cigarette.  I closed my eyes and took a few moments  before I did the impossibly long (at least it seemed) drive to the hospital without the benefit of lights and siren or even a visual of the ambulance, but wasted no time nonetheless.

I parked the car and hustled into the ER Entrance.  As I approached the trauma room I saw swirl of scrubs and white lab coats.  Machines and monitors beeped, ticked and blinked.  Her clothes had been cut off and lay in a dejected pile on the floor.  I put my arm around my friend and did my best to keep her calm.  She described the ambulance ride as we stood just outside the room, as no space for even a single other person was available in the bustle of that room.

Minutes turned to hours to hours as staff gradually trickled out, their roles complete.  The girl seemed pitifully small on the hospital bed.  We took turns gently talking to her, delicately stroking her hair and reassuring her that we were still there and were not going anywhere while they rolled her to CT scans and paced until she was brought back.

Finally, around midnight, a relieved looking surgeon cataloged her injuries, a concussion, bruised bones and pulled muscles, cut and bruises and an ugly patch or two of road rash but nothing broken.  Nothing serious nor life-threatening.  She would spend the night in the hospital for observation purposes, but could go home in the morning.

Which in my humble opinion, is nothing short of amazing.

A few weeks ago, my youngest asked me if I still believed in God.  It brought to mind a scene from a movie where a fallen angel asks a man who once studied to be priest;  “Do you still believe?  Any of it?”  And the priest didn’t.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth, that life had battered that out of me over the past few years.  I didn’t want to break his little heart, so I told him that I still did.

I don’t know what to believe anymore, but dear reader I can tell you this I surely believe in miracles.  And when that girl shyly and hesitantly walked up to me (after I brought them home from the hospital) and wrapped her arms around me in one of the sweetest hugs that I had ever received, I knew that I was holding a living miracle at that moment.

In the midst of all of this,  I get contacted by a high school friend.  After texts back and forth, he tells me that his mother is dying.  A woman who was a second mom to me in those terrible awkward years of my life.  A woman who I had shared countless hours, cigarettes and RC colas with.

I pondered this crazy life of mine.  One moment joy and relief, and the next, sorrow.

And a few hours later, a simply worded text.  His mom had passed.  And all of the breezes that had filled my sails earlier vanished.  In a matter of hours I shall be sitting with my friend, doing my best to be the person that I need to be for them.  I will give them the gift of my time and my love and friendship.  The longer I live, the more I believe that those simple gifts are the only currency that don’t devalue.

And some day, I hope that this life will make some sense to me.  In the closing scene of the movie “Tombstone” Wyatt Earp is visiting Doc Holliday as Doc lay dying and Wyatt is lamenting his inability to live a normal life.  To which Doc replies:

“There’s no normal life, Wyatt.  There’s just life.  You’ll get on with it.”

Truer words seldom spoken.

I guess I’ll just get on with it.