TODAY WAS VERY STRANGE

Today Was Very Strange

Those of you that follow this blog and the few that know my secret identity also know I am 52 year old overweight office worker with the chronic health conditions typical for that demographic.  Consequently I see the family doc twice a year to reset, renew and reload the standard batch of meds.  Today was that day.  You know, plan the trip to the doc for about 15 minutes , scales, blood pressure, pee in the cup and draw some blood, be at work by nine.  Not today.

My day ended 13 hours later; but, only after four doctors, one hospital, one clinic, two MRI procedures and four, count them, four blood draws and a separate procedure where they stick non-blood in the blood veins so the MRI -MRA machines can more accurately  perform their tasks.    

In other words, I spent the day in the company of very earnest, very serious professionals intent on performing their tasks in a workmanlike fashion.  Stated differently a group of people utterly devoid of humor  in a situation desperately in need of humor.  I believe I was called of the lord to create humor for these people who have no humor .  I'm pretty sure the guy in the next room was told he has a very short time to live.  He desperately needed humor and he needed it then. So there I was.

I filled out six page history forms at five locations in this very strange very unexpected day.  So, I decided to have fun.  They wanted my weight; but didn't specify a unit of measurement, so, I just said "way to much" .  The form asked for my occupation.  I responded out of work  major league pitcher or in the alternative, grumpy lawyer.  I laughed out loud when each nurse or physician asked "how are you doing"?  Did you ever want to smile like Miss America and say "like shit or I wouldn't be here".  Well, today, I did, four times. 

My crowning achievement was when the unsmiling desk clerk asked for my emergency name and my emergency phone number.  Please note, she did not ask for an emergency contact person; rather, she wanted my emergency name .  I decided on the spot that in the event of an emergency, my emergency name would be "Johhny Danger" and that my emergency phone number would be 911.   Yes, that was entered in my permanent records.  Wouldn't you like to be the 911 operator who gets the call from Baptist Hospital asking for Johnny Danger's mommy,  Mrs. Beulah Danger?  911 calls are recorded, this might actually happen. 

I actually had myself ( or my alter ego, Johhny Danger) paged in two doctors' office and one hospital lobby.  You be amazed at how few people got the joke.

Well, I felt led by the Lord to make others smile today and though I met with only limited success, a few, a very few, smiled.  Perhaps I earned a jewel for my crown.

Johhny Danger signing off.  See you next time, God willing.

It Happened Again

It Happened Again

 

It happened again.  Son 1.0 left for college and Wife 2.0 and I stood in the street waiving madly and fighting back another round of tears.  This is third such departure; but, the first that Son 1.0 made alone. 

The first year involved an overnight trip with a stay in a hotel.  We arose at 5:30 and were the first in line to unload at the dormitory at 7:00.  We were through by 8:00 and Son 1.0 was REALLY ready for us to leave so he could start the college experience.  We managed to hang around till 8:30; but, finally had to leave our baby in a strange city.

The second year involved not a dormitory; but, rather, a fraternity house.   While we were frightened of the dorm, we were absolutely terrified when it came to the [insert fraternity name here] house.   The denizens made no effort to hide the tequila bottles and beer cans.  And, yes, that thing on the table in the common room was in truth and fact, a hookah.   The next several minutes were spent listening to a very earnest young person (NOT Son 1.0) explaining that a hookah really isn't the same thing as a bong.  My momma [Mom 1.0] tells me I was born at night; but, as I explained to the earnest young person, it wasn't last night.  Yes, I remember the 60's and the 70's quite well.  You teach them as best you can and can only hope they will behave better than you did at the same age.

In any event, 2.0 and I spent a few hours rehabilitating the frat room following its previous residents, what we believe to be a herd of goats.  The trip was accomplished in a single day but nevertheless involved tears and desperately anguished parents.

Son 1.0 spent the summer with us while working at an internship.  It's amazing how much growing up takes place between one's 18th and 21st birthdays.  2.0 and I suspect this was the last time Son 1.0 will live in our home for an extended period of time.   Next summer is the time between the junior and senior years, the time when an engineering student gets a serious internship in a distant state and the summer that follows will involve a degree and a more or less permanent job.  If Son 1.0 gets his way, that job will likewise be in a distant land.  So, this was probably our last summer with our baby.

So, yes, I did stand in the street and weep.  Unabashedly.  Unashamedly. 

See you next time.  God willing.

Because They Don’t Want To

I love my wife, I really do.  Those of you who follow my writing know that the current model is wife 2.0.  Because there was a 1.0, I know just how truly blessed I am with 2.0.  But…..

2.0 recently traveled to the very edge of the state for a mission trip and of course, the automobile surrendered.  Several phone calls to dealers, mechanics, Triple A, etc, resulted in the car being towed across state lines to the nearest dealer for a very expensive repair.  That, of course, is when I got involved.  Several calls to the dealer “tomorrow, we promise” and no part.  Internet research and multiple calls to other dealers reveal the part for the 11 year old car is on national back order and 200 are expected in three months.  We are 395 on the list.  For the 200 that “should” be available in three months. 

2.0 is not happy.  It is very hot on the mission trip and the plumbing is suspect.  Son 1.0 is unhappy because it is really his car.  Both want to know what I am going to do about it.  Please note that I didn’t take the car on the trip and I didn’t break it.  But, what am I going to do about it?

It turns out that many years ago (multiple decades) I had a job that required purchasing salvage auto parts.  So, multiple calls later, I’ve located the part at a salvage yard.  But, the yard is short handed and they can’t pull the part until very late in the day.  It is a 4 hour drive to the current location of the car and I must deliver the part because the dealer isn’t allowed to purchase used parts directly.  Well, as noted above, many years ago I spent years in and around salvage yards; so, white shirt, dress pants, tie, and I go to the salvage yard and retrieve the part (a very large hard to get at part).  I load the part in my car and because the site of the mission trip is on the way to the dealership, and because I really, really, hate driving alone, I asked 2.0 if she would ride the last hour with me.  You know, one hour over, one hour back.  Keeping me company for two of the seven hours I would drive to deliver the part fo her car.  In addition to the three hours retrieving the part in the first place.  Because, I really really hate driving alone.  Seven hours.  Alone.

Well it went like this.  “Honey, will you ride with me to the dealer?”  “No.”  I really hate driving alone and I am making this trip for you.”  “No.”  Well, I drove three and one half hours to deliver the part to the dealer in the next state and about 30 minutes into the return trip, 2.0 calls to ask if I will divert on the return trip and bring her home, early, because it is really hot on the mission trip and because she really really wants to come home early.  So, despite the message above, and because she is 2.0, yes, I made the trip.

If you are wondering about the title to this story, it is the answer to the following question:  “Why don’t husbands outlive their wives….”
 

It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again

It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again

 While there are the occasional genetic miracles, for the most part, those of us on the north side of fifty have come to grips with our aches, our pains and most significantly, our mortality and the mortality of others.  I remember as a young person as my father prepared for his 30 year high school reunion.  In what must have been an anomaly, the class of 1946 reached 1976 with 100% of its membership alive and well.  Some years later when the class of 1979 attended its 10 year reunion, we had already lost three members and ten later had lost four more.  It wasn’t in me to attend my own 30^th.  I hoped that if I wasn’t present, death would pass us by.  It didn’t.

Those of us in our early 50’s tend to have parents in their late 70’s to late 80’s.  It is somewhere about this point on the time continuum that a subtle shift begins to occur.  Over a period of years we become our parents’ parents.  Subtle, almost imperceptible; but, with absolute grinding certainty it happens.  For some this is a labor of love.  For others it is just a labor.  Some remember Christmas carols and family game night.  Our existence looked nothing at all like the Norman Rockwell paintings my friends seemed to live.  But it really doesn’t matter.  We become our parents’ parents.  We handle the medical issues, the decisions, the angry recriminations from the parent cum child.  We just do it.

Dad recently passed.  It fell my lot to manage the last few months of his life and those issues that accompany death.  The man of whom I was afraid all of my young life.  The man who spent most of his life, and all of mine, disappointed in me.  The man who insisted I leave his home when I was 16.  That man needed me to manage his medical visits, pay his bills, arrange his living arrangements and at the end, who asked that I intervene with the medical staff on his behalf and let him go quietly.  That man needed me.  There was no comfort, no satisfaction, no victory.  He was a fall down drunk that beat his kids.  Then he got old and died.  But at the end of his life he needed help and it fell my lot to help him.   For those of you yet to live through the slow death of a family member, it is a draining, gut wrenching process.  And, then, its over.  But, you can’t stop.  You find yourself wound up, unable to breathe or step away from the warp speed pace of completely managing the affairs, every minute of every day of another person’s life.  A person that really didn’t care for you in the first place.

 It took an extra two weeks to decompress; but, I think I’m there.  Hence the title for this post borrowed from one of my favorite crying in a dark bar kind of songs.  “It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again.”   

Matthew.  Someday you will manage my final days.  You will handle my affairs and you will handle my funeral.  But, you will do it with fewer burdens.  I hope there has never been any doubt; but, just in case:

I love you.  I always have.

I am proud of you.  I always have been.

I have never been ashamed of you. Never.  Not one second.

You are great human being, a great son.

 

During my last days, smile, laugh, be happy.  For when that time comes, we will have had a good run.  “It Feels So Good Feeling Good Again”.

 See you next time, God willing.