V-chips and popcorn

There's a new show on T.V. called Chuck. He's a young man who works at a store simular to Best Buy and he's somehow managed to become a secret agent. Last year our family would gather together in our living room laughing hysterically at his newly found predicaments. Popcorn was usually involved. Later my wife divulged that our oldest might have a secret crush on him...(and so it starts).
The year before it was a different show: Kyle XY. (I think the youngest was actually crushing on that character).Now both of these shows, while they are somewhat family oriented, deal a lot with adolescent behavior. The Kyle show was a bit too much for me, and on occasion I almost had to change the channel. In fact, I think I did once or twice. Chuck, on the other hand, is more in my comfort zone. But lately I'm starting to feel uncomfortable even in my own comfort zone. I find I'm changing the channels more often these days when the girls walk into the room (Oops...Can't watch that!) because it's just too crazy. And what the heck is going on with the Family channel? I'm just going to have to V-chip that network, along with Fox, ABC, CBS and NBC. And never mind the rest of them. Have you ever watched what they put on the cartoon network after primetime? Look closer to midnight when the kids are still up slumber partying. Now there's some scary stuff. I'm thinking we're going back to PBS and the History channel and in a whole heck of a lot of moderation.
But wait...What about the school grounds? Where's my censorship there? Who's going to dispel the rumors on the playground about grown up things. Teacher can't be everywhere and I certainly don't want just anybody (sorry, teacher!) curtailing those lenghtly versions about the birds and the bees. That requires a parental degree. And there are only two teachers qualified for that position: the mother and the father. I almost wept when I realized what kind of world we would be sending our girls out into. I mean actual tear drops left my tear ducts. I wasn't really bawling but, I had water on my face. I even called Lois at work explaining why I didn't want our girls going to public school - ever. But that's a different story.
Since then, alot has happened. And the cat is out of the bag. Those mother and daughter conversations have taken place to some degree and I am soooooo thankful that I didn't hear about any of it. (I would add more o's to the word soooooo, but there is not enough room on my laptop). Once again I owe my wife the biggest "Wife of the Year Award" for just everything. Thank You Honey. These days I really look forward to those popcorn nights, and the V-chip running it's scan and coming up empty.

The Notable Quote

You hear it all the time: "This is the first day of the rest of your life." Or, you may find it written down inside of a fortune cookie, "Live each day as if it were your last."They are meant to be words of wisdom or inspirational quotes. It is free advice that we don't always take. And, before this year, I think I was lacking in that area. I find that a little disheartening because it speaks of the self - myself. Like so many things in life, there are too many things we take for granted. The joys of life and the happiness in living shouldn't be one of them. Realizing that, I felt very small. Very human.

Lately that's changed. Lately I've taken noticed. I have a deeper sense of appreciation for certain things; mostly for my friends and family. And then there are all the little things. I really do stop and smell the roses. My wife says that I've changed. So do my daughters. They say that I'm a kinder, more gentler man. They say that I live more in the moment.

At first I didn't notice. But as each day passes I see things new. My daughters' smile may reveal a smudge of dirt on their face. I will feel the early morning temperature on my skin as I watch a sunrise. My wife's smile is followed with a grimace when she has an afterthought. These things add up, compounding all that is life, and I am overwhelmed and grateful for everything I have. There is this new quote I'm reading these days, and it rings of truth...

“One day at a time--this is enough. Do not look back and grieve over the past for it is gone; and do not be troubled about the future, for it has not yet come. Live in the present, and make it so beautiful it will be worth remembering.”

FENDER BENDER a bump in the night

Last night, while sitting at a red light, our car was hit by another car. It was a minor fender bender. It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened, and if Lois hadn't of said, "Someone just hit our car," I might not have figured out why there was a blue van rubbing up against the passenger doors. Our car gently swayed back and forth - something I couldn't quite understand. And then Lois said, "He's trying to drive away!" Things were slowly beginning to make sense, and then I realized I couldn't open up my door. The vehicle next to me had us pinned in. The first thing I asked everyone was, "Are you okay?" Rattling off name's one by one. When one of the girls didn't answer the question, I asked again. Everybody was okay. Lois had already gotten out of the car and I could hear her calling the police on her cell phone. I was stuck in the Mazda and I knew the only way I was going to get out of it was either through my window, or over the tiny console. When I rolled down my window I could see why the car was rocking. The driver was trying to drive away. The console it was...

...Today as I thumbed through my digital camera I ran across a dozen or so pictures that I had taken last night. Halfway through them I saw the man that we had helped put in jail. Last night he was a drunk driver. This morning he woke up in a jail cell for a DUI.

"I need you to turn off your engine," I yelled through his closed window. His hand was still shifting gears, he repeatedly put his van into reverse and drive; yet going nowhere. Finally I chose the right words, "Take the keys out of your engine." The van went still. I immediately assumed he was drunk, but just to make sure I asked him if he was okay or if he was having any medical problems. It didn't take long to see that he didn't understand me. He tried to open his door but he was pinned in from his side. I opened up the passenger door and explained to him that he had to get out on my side. I told him that he had just run into our car. He slowly climbed out of his car, beer bottles clinked on the floor. We stood outside in the cold and I asked him for his car keys. He handed them to me and said that he was sorry. I don't think I've ever seen somebody look so sad. He pleaded with me to let him go. All I could think of to say was, "I'm Sorry." We were 1,000 feet away from the police station...

..."I'm sorry," said the dispatcher, "We'll get someone there right away." She was five stories above us looking right at us. Police cars were parked all around the building and nobody came. Ten minutes passed by; then twenty. It would be almost a half hour later by the time anyone showed up. The girls were bundled up in light sweaters we managed to round up out of the trunk. Ironically the squad car that showed up came from somewhere in the city. Not from the police station across the street. Now came the waiting.

In the time we were there I began to feel sorry for the man, but I had to remind myself, someone on that night could have died. My children, my wife, or any other innocent bystander. Somebody could have died...

...last night he was drunk driver. Today I hope his life has changed.

BIRD SHOT

Hmm...this stuff tastes pretty good.



Huh...wha?...where'd that go?

What are you looking at?

Can't a guy have a little peace?

I don't watch you eat.

Hey you guy's want to see a trick?

Wait for it...

Wait...

Yeah...I got nothing.

...this thing with OCD

I prefer my food to be served in equally divided proportions. None of it must be touching. I think it's this OCD thing I have going on. Or perhaps it's something I picked up in grade school. I remember my food being served on those pink rectangular trays that had all those little divided sections for your main course, fruits, vegetables and dessert. (I've only now just thought of this.) That might explain why I don't like my silverware touching my food.
This year I made a resolution to manage my sock drawer more better. I have eliminated 5 socks from the 90 pairs I already have stuffed in, around and on top of my dresser and in the four drawers I use for them. Three of the socks still haven't made it into the trash can yet because I have placed them into a throw away pile that I may or may not use. I haven't decided on that yet. I did however get rid of a couple dozen pairs thanks to my wife. I told Lois the girls could use some of them to clean the thin film of algae building up on the surface of their outdoor swimming pool. Only in my mind I thought that she was only going to take like five socks. I had no idea that she was going to empty out one of my drawers. I'm still a bit restless over that one, but I will survive.
Now...I can admit that I have an OCD thing happening. I was just unaware of it. When I used to walk the girls to school I should have caught on. That stepping on a crack and breaking your mom's back was a dead give away. And then there was all the counting. And had Lois never mentioned our daughters own behavior, I'd have just gone on living my life still unsuspecting. That is until this year. This year things changed.
One day at work I had to go out to the press and drop off some proofs. Had I not already been aware of my behavior, then I might have been horrified when I suddenly realized what I was doing. And as it was, I was horrified anyways; my suspicions just softened the blow.
As I moved among the presses making my way back to my department, I reached out and touched something. It was a post. I took two more steps and I did it again. What was this? My hand with a mind of its own? On the third time I muttered an audible expletive. I looked around to see half a dozen pressmen going about their business. A couple of them even nodded. I slowly slid my hands into my pockets and muttered to myself again, hoping that nobody noticed. But then I realized that somebody did notice. For 12 years I have been running out to the presses; at least a couple dozens times a day. Damn right somebody noticed! That's 24 time's a day, at fourteen days a month times twelve. Now multiply that by 12 years and tell me that nobody noticed me out at the presses touching things as I walked on by. I had this memory of Monk walking down the sidewalk touching every street meter that he passed. Luckily for me I've reached an age where I just don't care. Otherwise I'd be a mess. Now my sock drawer is a different thing, I still have issues with that. And my silverware touching my food, I'm working on that too. I mean...that's just dumb. How else am I supposed to eat my food?

"Stay away from my Cabbage."

I laughed when she said it, knowing how odd that it sounded. Only the five of us had any sense of what it meant. And certainly a passing stranger would find it odd. Probably thinking: "Stay away from my cabbage?" What's that mean?
It was another weekend. We all - all five of us - piled into the car on another adventure. Today we were on our way to see 3,031 flags. They stood in perfect uniform lines in Centennial Parkway in front of Sandy City Hall, spread out across two lawns. They were there in honor of all those who lost their live's in the 9/11 attacks. We didn't know it right away, but there was actually only 1,776 of them, and to only see a little over half of them was an impressive site. I was trying to imagine what 3,031 would have looked like. It was an honor to walk among this field of flags and share this experience with our two daughters and the neighborhood girl.
The neighborhood girl: I will call her Ayla because that's her name and because I think that's the way we spelled it two weeks ago when we took her bowling. Ayla...yes. I'm sure that's how we spelled her name on the scoreboard. Ayla - winner of the first game. She beat us all. Her presence has become growingly familiar. All summer long she has kind of lived at our house and has become a traveling companion whenever we go anywhere. And so now whenever we do something as a family the girl's will ask can we call Ayla? Can Ayla come with us? And so...that is the neighborhood girl. And she is never more than two feet away; even when she's more than two feet away she really isn't, because now they all have cell phones.
Last week we went to the museum. We saw the Monet to Picasso exhibit from the Cleveland Museum of Art. We would never have gone except for the youngest was privy to the fact that the exhibit was in town and she indicated that she really wanted to go. Plus teacher said that it would be good. Teacher was right. Once again we had all piled into the car - all five of us - for our weekend excursion. We visited the past and unanimously voted that Van Gogh laid on way too much paint. Did he really use a brush or were those just giant fingerprints? Rodin was amazing and Salvador Dali was...well...we all agreed he was just wierd even though he seemed to speak to all of us.
When we hopped into the car on Sunday to go see the flags Aly was moving at her usual snail pace chomping down on what I assumed was a chunk of lettuce. Ayla was already in the backseat of the car laughing and mimicking Aly by saying, "Stay away from my cabbage." It was perfectly natural to hear this. And the funny thing was, Aly really had cabbage. The bond these girls have formed is fun to watch. It's a new dynamic and I'm sure that it will grow in our household as the girls continue to make new friends and get older.
Last night Jeni told me how last year Ayla wrote on everyones T-shirt on the last day of school the same verbage. Thinking that she was writing an acronym for Have A Great Summer (HAGS), she went around signing FAGS on everybody's shirt because she read it wrong in homeroom. Jen and Aly caught up with her on the playground later that day and told her that someone was going around school writing FAGS on everyone's shirts. To which Ayla replied, "I know, huh. Isn't it cool." And then they explained it to her - oh the horror...

T.V. is not going to watch itself.

Two years ago we went to Yellowstone on vacation. It was a happy time. The temperature was close to perfect. My youngest daughter Alyson had just turned 9 years old. We bought her a Wii for her Birthday. Lois and I searched for weeks trying to find one. It wasn't until the day before we left on our trip that we finally found one. That morning Lois and I called around the valley until we reached the Game Stop and they said that they had a couple left. Lois raced across the valley and just barely purchased the last system when a young boy came in moments later asking if they had any left. Now that was close. Later when our trip was over we would all play golf or bowling. The girls and their friends use it quite frequently, getting together every so often when one of them happens to buy a new game. They'll hold marathon games and drag their gear from house to house until they all tire. Then the joysticks and paddles get put away until somebody else gets the next new game.

A lot has happened since then. Whenever I think about Yellowstone I think about that Wii game. I was thinking pretty soon I might just benefit from that gaming system. I hear they are working wonders in convalescent homes and it is fastly becoming the new physical therapy session among the elderly. What's more, I hear they are fun. I suspect I'll be cashing in on that physical therapy aspect real soon. I feel weaker these days. The ol energy level is way down. My biggest problem is I have no discipline. I keep telling myself T.V. isn't going to watch itself. But that's just a pack of lies. I know that now. Just thinking about getting off the couch to ride the bike is exhausting.

There are things happening to my body. My breath is short and I feel irregular heartbeats from time to time. I really do feel sick. My heart sinks when the nausea comes or when I get dizzy. It makes me want to cry. I Pray to God that nothing makes me sick because I'm afraid that once it starts it won't stop. My mind says that I have to keep it at bay. But I know this flood is on its way.

Hero's

I have been thinking a lot about life and death lately, and all the people I love and miss. Right now I really miss my mom. She died a few years ago from cancer. The whole process was difficult on all of us. Lois and I did home hospice for her in the middle of our living room. Her bed sat in the corner away from the front door. An oxygen machine rested near one wall; it had become a part of the décor. There was an IV stand next to her nightstand and a suction pump under her bed. Bags of liquid dispersed their magical formulas. This one is medicine. This one is food. This one gets flushed down the drain. A mass of transparent tubing was tangled beneath her bed like co-axial cables behind the entertainment center. Each one served a different function. Each had a different route – in & out. IN & OUT... I have never talked about this. That would be too hard. Occasionally Lois will ask me something that goes like this: Do you remember the time when your mom was sick and she was in our living room…adding a context to the subject. I would then mumble a reply reflectively thinking back to those days.
I remember when Halloween came, we joked about the sick old lady in the corner of the room who struggled to sit up every time the doorbell rang so that she could look at all the costumes. Talking to the ghouls and goblins, she would ask them to come over so that she could see them. Without her false teeth she must have sounded like Margaret Hamilton from The Wizard of Oz screaming, "Come here my little pretty, and bring your dog Toto too." Because we lived in multi-level home, it was the only place that made sense to turn into a hospital zone. We recruited Lois' brother David to help us out when we were away at work. He graciously gave up all of his time and came to help immediately. Never once did he show a hint of emotion that resembled complaint or grumbling. It was all a labor of love. I never thanked him for that. Toward the very end, my brother-in-law became my mom's best friend, and I never thanked him for that.
Looking back, my memory is cloudy. I remember the constant heparin flushes and the TPN. I remember the awful noise that the suction pump made. It was a constant reminder screaming, "No good will come from this". Later that proved to be true. Later there would be the phone call and the racing home. Later there would be the ambulance.
My mom was a fascinating woman who led an interesting life. She lived through Nazi Germany and survived. She would rarely talk about it, but when she did she was very somber. You could actually feel the mood of the room change and you had to lean in to hear what she was saying. If you knew my mom than you would know that you never had to lean in to hear what she was saying.
Germany broke her heart. I can picture her crossing the war torn country as she made her way through the Black Forest. I can picture this pale skinny child as she's being tossed over the fence of a concentration camp to steal food. The few memories my mom shared with Lois and I amazed us, but you could tell by the look on her face that they haunted her. She would begin to talk, only to stop and grimace, most of the time never finishing what she began. Before I ever understood what scars were – the ones of the heart – I knew she wore them. They were the lines in her face or the look in her eyes. They are some of my earliest memories. Mom hurts. I would not understand why until years later. By then it was too late. The doors had closed. The sharing of past was over. Drudging up old memories was not her style. She would give me that…"Oh Henry, now why do you want to talk about that" look and move on.
My mom was my hero. She was one of the strongest people I ever knew. In our living room, the weeks had turned into months. At days end we'd gather together, thick as thieves. Reliving the day's events, or talking about old ones. Our daughters wandered about oblivious to what was going on. Grandma's sick was all they knew. The oldest – my mom's pride and joy – had taken to shying away. It was one of those pangs too hard to bear. I winced every time I saw it. "It's all the tubes," my mom would say. And it was.
After the ambulance ride, my mom would spend the rest of her days in the hospital. Our daily living room routine had been reduced to hourly visits on our days off and after work. For weeks this went on. One night Lois picked me up after work. Instead of going to the hospital like we normally did, my mom told me over the phone to go home and get some rest. I could visit over the weekend.
The phone call came early the following morning. My heart sank as the nurse explained to me who she was and why she was calling. All I really got out of it was 'come quick' or 'hurry'. Something to that effect.
When I got to the hospital my mom was unconscious. Her condition had changed during the night. I went in and held her hand. There was no response. The doctors told me her body was shutting down. The best thing we could do was make her comfortable. I wanted to know if she was going to wake up. I was told that she wouldn't. It never occurred to me that I would never be able to talk to my mom again. The thought had never crossed my mind. This moment - the one we knew was inevitable - had finally come, and I was unprepared.
Lois had dropped me off at the hospital. She was on her way to the airport because she was heading to Vegas to cover a story. Without knowing what waited inside, I told her to go. Weeks of planning had already gone in to this trip. Whatever was going on could wait. She would be back in five days.
Thirty minutes later Lois called me from the airport. Thirty minutes later she was at my side. For the next 18 hours that's where she stayed, by my side.
My mom was the strongest and bravest person I ever knew. She was a rock. From the moment she found out that she had cancer, her worry was for me. She didn't want to see me get hurt. When she went through chemo and her hair started falling out, she'd run out of the room to get sick and then apologize for doing it. She would actually come back into the room and ask if I was alright.
My mom was amazing and my mom is my hero.

This isn't Happening!

I am dying. There… I have finally said it.
The thing of it is we’re all dying. There‘s no getting past that. I am however in a unique position of knowing when I’ll die. This in a way circumvents all boundaries. I’m not really happy about that. It takes away from the illusion of destiny. Nobody should know too much about their own destiny, especially when their time is marked by moons. That just doesn’t seem right.
On the brighter side of things there is the possibility that I won’t die. Maybe time will weigh in and destiny will prevail. Maybe I’ll get my liver and we won’t have to go through the death thing after all. I’m really counting on destiny.
Recently at night I’ve taken to lying awake until my eyelids are so heavy they won’t stay open anymore. It is a new thing I’ve started doing. I don’t know if it’s the disease I have that’s responsible, or if it’s my current mind set. I’m guessing a little of both.
I will steal glances at my nightlight and than make a concerted effort to reach over and turn it off. Most often I succeed; it is easy enough to do. I just have to do it. My biggest problem is I don’t want to do it. I want that light on. And so…I lie in wait.
I can hear my pigs quietly move around in their cages. There is the quiet rustling of straw and bedding, and the occasional sounds of slurping as they drink from their water bottles. Lucy will sneak upstairs to sleep in the girls’ bedroom. You can tell by the sound of her dog tags that she is being ever so quiet, careful not to be noticed. Even so, it is her weight that gives her away as she thumps against the floor when she has finished walking around in a circle three or four times trying to get settled in.
I don’t know when it happened; I can’t remember. I just know that it did. I’ve suddenly become afraid of the dark. I think it’s because I don’t want to miss out on anything. The recent discovery of my fate is overwhelming and the things I have learned are starting to haunt me.
This year over 17,000 people in the United States will need a liver transplant; of them only about 6,000 people will receive one. The demand for donor organs’ outweighs the supply. Those who do not receive organ transplants will be pushed back into the following year and sadly some of them will not receive one. Those statistics scare me, especially now that I’ve become one of them.
I do not know what the next two years will be like. I can only imagine. The progression of the illness is different for everyone. Right now all I have is the word of the people and the doctors. They all say the same thing. "Your going to have to get real sick to get better."
On August 27th 2008, I was officially listed. The countdown begins...