I really want to post everyday. I really do. You would think that with all of the "free time" I have nowadays that I could. You would be wrong. There's still so much going on in the Adventures of Me, so I have to postpone. Plus, I've been reading some of the previous posts....they kinda suck. I know that I'm my own worst critic, but damn.
I majored in English (one of my many majors), and you wouldn't believe how many papers I had to write. I had a professor brag that she never gave out A's. "I've yet to come across a student who exemplified 'A' work in all my years of teaching." I got four in a row. Writing is very important to me, as is storytelling. Each, I approach like a job. Draft, rewrite, rewrite, start over from scratch, rewrite, say 'fuck it' and turn it in. But who has the time for that with a blog? I can hardly get through the first sentence before "someone who must not be named" stabs me in the side with a crayon to get my attention.
To be honest, I want to redesign the whole site. I'd like a unique logo, a different name (I chose mentalstorage because everything else I came up with was already registered, including my own first name), and more than anything I want to link a podcast to it. You should hear me tell the stories...waaaaay better when you hear them.
Anyway, I write all of this for the handful of people that I see keep coming to check each day for something new. I'm still alive, just really busy right now. So either you'll get nothing for a while, or it'll really suck (in my eyes). On the plus side, my personal life is looking up. "I got my swagger back," or whatever those young kids say these days.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
I'm Batman
One would think that with my daughter now being in daycare that I could shut down the Bat Cave, unplug the Bat Computer and hang up my cape. Nope. I haven't really had time to breathe, because it's enrollment season for public school. Now a while back I posted a status on Facebook wherein I cursed out every single person who got a spot in the DC Public School Lottery. The only ones safe from my wrath were those who actually grew up here and, as I consider it, paid their dues.
Little things like--I don't know--not having textbooks for a whole year and not having a Math teacher for three quarters of the year are character building exercises that I feel earned my child a spot in the new "We're supposed to care about kids?" public school system. School was closed a few months ago due to what I can only describe as 28 snowflakes, yet my knee and elbow still give me trouble almost twenty years after Cha-Cha Sliding down an icy sidewalk during a blizzard. I want my daughter to be a part of this new Age of Reason where the school being on fire is an acceptable reason to miss class.
I just feel like it's not fair that my daughter struck out at six schools on the lottery list. There shouldn't be a lottery for us 80s DCPS'ers. I should be able to whisper the name of the teachers that used to give us the answers to the CTBS test under the guise of "You'll repeat a grade if you fail" and someone just magically pull a chair out of the closet for my daughter at any school of my choosing (GoodFellas-style).
But that's not how the world works, and perhaps it's for the best. I still get to be Batman and who doesn't want to be Batman? I'm jumping from rooftop to rooftop going on last minute tours and gathering enrollment data. You're only supposed to enroll at one charter school at a time. I've been thoughtful and followed this rule, but that means that every time a new/better school calls to say we're off the wait list, I have to grab my grappling hook and swing around the city trying to drop off medical forms, birth certificates and DNA samples. I feel like I'm on Making The Band.
I spent last Friday running...to the train, to the daycare, back to the train, to the house to get the medical forms I forgot to bring with me, to the bus stop, to the school, back to the bus stop... It was a lot. But...I'm Batman.
Little things like--I don't know--not having textbooks for a whole year and not having a Math teacher for three quarters of the year are character building exercises that I feel earned my child a spot in the new "We're supposed to care about kids?" public school system. School was closed a few months ago due to what I can only describe as 28 snowflakes, yet my knee and elbow still give me trouble almost twenty years after Cha-Cha Sliding down an icy sidewalk during a blizzard. I want my daughter to be a part of this new Age of Reason where the school being on fire is an acceptable reason to miss class.
I just feel like it's not fair that my daughter struck out at six schools on the lottery list. There shouldn't be a lottery for us 80s DCPS'ers. I should be able to whisper the name of the teachers that used to give us the answers to the CTBS test under the guise of "You'll repeat a grade if you fail" and someone just magically pull a chair out of the closet for my daughter at any school of my choosing (GoodFellas-style).
But that's not how the world works, and perhaps it's for the best. I still get to be Batman and who doesn't want to be Batman? I'm jumping from rooftop to rooftop going on last minute tours and gathering enrollment data. You're only supposed to enroll at one charter school at a time. I've been thoughtful and followed this rule, but that means that every time a new/better school calls to say we're off the wait list, I have to grab my grappling hook and swing around the city trying to drop off medical forms, birth certificates and DNA samples. I feel like I'm on Making The Band.
I spent last Friday running...to the train, to the daycare, back to the train, to the house to get the medical forms I forgot to bring with me, to the bus stop, to the school, back to the bus stop... It was a lot. But...I'm Batman.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
My Version of A Heartwarming Story
Over the weekend my daughter and I watched Monsters Inc. I've never really liked that movie, so I don't know any of the character's names, but she enjoys it. I asked her what the big blue monster's name was and she said, "Daddy!" I thought she was trying to be funny. "Okay, well if that's me then who is that?" I asked pointing to the little girl in the movie. My daughter said her own name.
I don't really remember what happens in the movie, but the particular scene that was playing at the time involved the little girl being captured by a snake or something and the big blue monster trying to save her. He said something along the lines of, "Nothing else matters now. Boo's in trouble and I have to save her." He then went through a bunch of crap trying to save the little girl. At the end, he saved her and the girl gave him a hug. At that moment my daughter gave me a hug.
I could be looking too deep into it, but I realized at that moment that my daughter identifies me as that big blue monster going through hell and high water to protect, care for and entertain a little girl. She identifies herself as the object of that protection, care and entertainment, a.k.a., love.
Just at the moment of that realization, ninjas broke into my apartment (stealthily) and began cutting onions behind our couch. A single solitary manly tear fell.
I don't really remember what happens in the movie, but the particular scene that was playing at the time involved the little girl being captured by a snake or something and the big blue monster trying to save her. He said something along the lines of, "Nothing else matters now. Boo's in trouble and I have to save her." He then went through a bunch of crap trying to save the little girl. At the end, he saved her and the girl gave him a hug. At that moment my daughter gave me a hug.
I could be looking too deep into it, but I realized at that moment that my daughter identifies me as that big blue monster going through hell and high water to protect, care for and entertain a little girl. She identifies herself as the object of that protection, care and entertainment, a.k.a., love.
Just at the moment of that realization, ninjas broke into my apartment (stealthily) and began cutting onions behind our couch. A single solitary manly tear fell.
Monday, April 22, 2013
24
But it's been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise. I consider it a challenge before the whole human race and I aint gonna lose...
OH MY GOD! At the time of this writing it is 9:08PM Sunday April 21, 2013 the year of our Lord. I have everything from We Are the Champions to gospel songs playing in my head. I just finished my first weekend alone with my daughter since she was born. If you're reading this and a single parent...I kneel before Zod. Good Lord! As a matter of fact, add that Jay-Z song "Oh My God" to the list of things playing in my head with the woman screaming in the chorus, "Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord...said I feel like I'm dying!"
Now let's backtrack a bit for those just tuning in. Long before 'The Fall' I was a stay at home dad. I'm not the stereotypical man who gets a dose of reality when the mommy is gone for a while. To the contrary, my 918 days of stay at home dad-ness has made me a hall of famer when it comes to parenting. BUT...there was always a relief pitcher. There was somebody I could tag into the ring in the evenings. At 6:15 every night, I clocked out. I've never done a 24 hour shift before by myself, let alone two freaking days.
It all began Friday. Somebody called me right after my daughter fell asleep around 9:00 and I knew that I should've just gone to bed, but a part of me feels like "oldness" wins if I go to bed before 11PM. Pride cometh before the fall. I watched the clock and I did that thing that people usually do the night before work. "If I go to sleep right now, I'll get X hours of sleep." I lied to myself and said that my daughter was super tired and would sleep at least until eight. Bullshit.
6:00 AM Saturday Morning"Tiger Uppercut!"
That's what she should've said. Instead she said, "Daddy!" The voice of an angel accompanied by three part harmony of my rib, lung and her fist/foot/something connecting. I can't know for sure, but if I replay it in my mind, then she had to have been jumping on the bed for a while to get the kind of height needed to land on me with that kind of force.
Anyway, that's how my weekend began. With a bang and a whimper. I was then instructed "Cook. Breakfast. Cook. Grits? Sausage? Cook?" The rest of the day is a blur, which is very sad considering it was YESTERDAY. I just remember being tired for most of it. I assumed that being up at six guaranteed a nap around noon. Nope. She sat in her bed singing negro spirituals until about 1:30 when I dozed off. I woke up at 2:30 and she was just nearing a crescendo. I don't remember much else, except learning from my mistakes and going to bed directly after her.
6:02AM Sunday Morning
She let me sleep in an extra two minutes. She was feeling merciful, I guess. It didn't last. I woke up to the Tiny Toon Adventures theme song being sang directly into my ear canal at about 200 decibels higher than the human ear can tolerate. I just stared at her. There was nothing else to do in that situation that won't get you put in jail. I just stared. She smiled and said, "Watch rabbits?"
Somehow I made it to the living room. Somehow grits, smoked sausage and a banana appeared on the table before her. I returned to the table with my bowl of grits only to see her bowl empty and her hands reaching up for my bowl. "Grits?" I handed her the bowl, she took my sausage too and then I just sat there and ate tasteless, flavorless Grape Nuts.
I was instructed to read every Fly Guy book that we have in addition to every Dr Seuss book. Then we watched Tiny Toons. Then we did some flash card app on the iPad because she thinks I'm the illiterate one. Then my desperation said, "Check the clock. It's gotta be time for her nap. It's gotta be noon." The devil is a liar. It was 9:08. I'm federal agent Jack Bauer and today is the longest day of my life.
We went for a walk. We went to the park. I tried inducing a nap by having her "race" me up a hill. She made it up and down twice before I got up the first time (wink, wink). We went out for a slice of pizza. I took exactly enough cash for two slices of pizza to prevent greedy-me from getting a whole one. Little did I know, they raised the price so I only had enough for one slice. She was nice enough to give me the pepperonis off of it. We went to the zoo. Oh yeah, all of this was on foot. We went somewhere else--can't remember--and then we finally came home. We went up to the roof to look at the sunset. We did everything a human being can possibly do...and now she's finally asleep.
So guess where I'm going.
OH MY GOD! At the time of this writing it is 9:08PM Sunday April 21, 2013 the year of our Lord. I have everything from We Are the Champions to gospel songs playing in my head. I just finished my first weekend alone with my daughter since she was born. If you're reading this and a single parent...I kneel before Zod. Good Lord! As a matter of fact, add that Jay-Z song "Oh My God" to the list of things playing in my head with the woman screaming in the chorus, "Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord (bump) Good Lord...said I feel like I'm dying!"
Now let's backtrack a bit for those just tuning in. Long before 'The Fall' I was a stay at home dad. I'm not the stereotypical man who gets a dose of reality when the mommy is gone for a while. To the contrary, my 918 days of stay at home dad-ness has made me a hall of famer when it comes to parenting. BUT...there was always a relief pitcher. There was somebody I could tag into the ring in the evenings. At 6:15 every night, I clocked out. I've never done a 24 hour shift before by myself, let alone two freaking days.
It all began Friday. Somebody called me right after my daughter fell asleep around 9:00 and I knew that I should've just gone to bed, but a part of me feels like "oldness" wins if I go to bed before 11PM. Pride cometh before the fall. I watched the clock and I did that thing that people usually do the night before work. "If I go to sleep right now, I'll get X hours of sleep." I lied to myself and said that my daughter was super tired and would sleep at least until eight. Bullshit.
6:00 AM Saturday Morning"Tiger Uppercut!"
That's what she should've said. Instead she said, "Daddy!" The voice of an angel accompanied by three part harmony of my rib, lung and her fist/foot/something connecting. I can't know for sure, but if I replay it in my mind, then she had to have been jumping on the bed for a while to get the kind of height needed to land on me with that kind of force.
Anyway, that's how my weekend began. With a bang and a whimper. I was then instructed "Cook. Breakfast. Cook. Grits? Sausage? Cook?" The rest of the day is a blur, which is very sad considering it was YESTERDAY. I just remember being tired for most of it. I assumed that being up at six guaranteed a nap around noon. Nope. She sat in her bed singing negro spirituals until about 1:30 when I dozed off. I woke up at 2:30 and she was just nearing a crescendo. I don't remember much else, except learning from my mistakes and going to bed directly after her.
6:02AM Sunday Morning
She let me sleep in an extra two minutes. She was feeling merciful, I guess. It didn't last. I woke up to the Tiny Toon Adventures theme song being sang directly into my ear canal at about 200 decibels higher than the human ear can tolerate. I just stared at her. There was nothing else to do in that situation that won't get you put in jail. I just stared. She smiled and said, "Watch rabbits?"
Somehow I made it to the living room. Somehow grits, smoked sausage and a banana appeared on the table before her. I returned to the table with my bowl of grits only to see her bowl empty and her hands reaching up for my bowl. "Grits?" I handed her the bowl, she took my sausage too and then I just sat there and ate tasteless, flavorless Grape Nuts.
I was instructed to read every Fly Guy book that we have in addition to every Dr Seuss book. Then we watched Tiny Toons. Then we did some flash card app on the iPad because she thinks I'm the illiterate one. Then my desperation said, "Check the clock. It's gotta be time for her nap. It's gotta be noon." The devil is a liar. It was 9:08. I'm federal agent Jack Bauer and today is the longest day of my life.
We went for a walk. We went to the park. I tried inducing a nap by having her "race" me up a hill. She made it up and down twice before I got up the first time (wink, wink). We went out for a slice of pizza. I took exactly enough cash for two slices of pizza to prevent greedy-me from getting a whole one. Little did I know, they raised the price so I only had enough for one slice. She was nice enough to give me the pepperonis off of it. We went to the zoo. Oh yeah, all of this was on foot. We went somewhere else--can't remember--and then we finally came home. We went up to the roof to look at the sunset. We did everything a human being can possibly do...and now she's finally asleep.
So guess where I'm going.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
An Inconvenient Truth
There are times when my life feels like Groundhog Day. No that's not right. I'm gonna say that it feels more like Die Hard 2. There's a scene in that movie where Bruce Willis is running down a tunnel or something and says, "How can the same thing happen to the same guy twice." I find myself saying the same thing from time to time. Today was no exception.
As you all know, this has been a hellacious year for me. A few weeks ago my best friend suggested I get out of dodge for a little while, so I bought a ticket to Philly. Now I like to believe that I have a sixth sense about things. Either that or I'm about as paranoid as a meerkat. Whatever the case may be, something told me that this trip would be problematic. So I flipped a coin to pick the date. Don't ask how a two sided coin can select the date and time of departure/arrival. I'm gifted.
Anyway, I picked April 17th and train number 86 to Philly. Now, if you have any free time and want to check the news to verify if I just make these stories up...you'll find that at approximately 10:30 some poor soul became overwhelmed by life and jumped in front of a speeding train. That's about the time that my train did something weird. It didn't really rattle or anything. There was just a noise and then they slammed on the brakes. There was this smokey smell soon after that I assumed was from the brakes, but so close to the Boston bombing, you can understand how people would be slightly rattled.
"Attention passengers, we hit an (pause) obstruction on the tracks. We're going to inspect the tracks and train."
A few minutes later...
"Ladies and gentlemen, that obstruction turned out to be a person. We have a suicide on our hands. We will be here indefinitely as we await the police, coroner and EMTs. This train is now part of an investigation and likely you will be placed on a rescue train, but we don't know when that will be."
Well that turned out to be about three hours later. It was standing room only on the next train and I rode that for the next 30-45 minutes to Philly. Some people took offense to what happened. They openly discussed how "selfish" the suicide was and how the person didn't have to ruin everyone else's day (Several people actually said this aloud).
I saw it as an unfortunate event. Having had a hell of a year so far, I can understand that we're all just a few bad days away from giving up. Plus, I don't have cancer, so things kinda roll off my back now. I made it to Philly, I hung out with my friend, and we had a great day. On the way back to the station, the running joke was, "You'll be fine as long as no one else decides to jump in front of your train on the way home."
I get to the station and no more than five minutes after I get there the little board scrambles around and says, "DELAYED." I asked one of the people at the information counter if this was just a normal delay. The woman responded:
"Honestly, I'd get comfortable. They had a suicide on the tracks."
"Oh, I know about that. I was actually on the train that hit the person this morning. I'm talking about the southbound train to DC."
"So am I. There was a suicide this morning and one just a moment ago. The train heading south to DC hit someone. Wait, you were on the train this morning too?"
So for the next two hours, I found myself regaling people with my tale. For whatever reason, random strangers struck up conversation: "Hey, someone said there was a suicide this morning too, but I can't imagine two in one day."
"It's true. I was on that one."
"Wow, what are the odds?"
"Hey, I heard the delay is because of a suicide. Can you imagine being on the train that hit someone? That's gotta be awful."
"Yeah, I was actually on the one that hit the person earlier this morning."
"Wait, there were two? In one day? And you've been around for both? That's freaky."
While it wasn't exactly the trip I had in mind, I felt a little relieved. Things were bad earlier in the year, but not so bad that I felt that was the way to go. I don't care what anyone says, killing yourself isn't a coward's way out. It isn't the right one either, but I have to believe that jumping in front of a moving train is anything but an easy decision. It's an act of desperation and indicative of the world in which we live where it can happen twice in one day and in both times I witness a people talk about how inconvenient someone else's death was for them.
As you all know, this has been a hellacious year for me. A few weeks ago my best friend suggested I get out of dodge for a little while, so I bought a ticket to Philly. Now I like to believe that I have a sixth sense about things. Either that or I'm about as paranoid as a meerkat. Whatever the case may be, something told me that this trip would be problematic. So I flipped a coin to pick the date. Don't ask how a two sided coin can select the date and time of departure/arrival. I'm gifted.
Anyway, I picked April 17th and train number 86 to Philly. Now, if you have any free time and want to check the news to verify if I just make these stories up...you'll find that at approximately 10:30 some poor soul became overwhelmed by life and jumped in front of a speeding train. That's about the time that my train did something weird. It didn't really rattle or anything. There was just a noise and then they slammed on the brakes. There was this smokey smell soon after that I assumed was from the brakes, but so close to the Boston bombing, you can understand how people would be slightly rattled.
"Attention passengers, we hit an (pause) obstruction on the tracks. We're going to inspect the tracks and train."
A few minutes later...
"Ladies and gentlemen, that obstruction turned out to be a person. We have a suicide on our hands. We will be here indefinitely as we await the police, coroner and EMTs. This train is now part of an investigation and likely you will be placed on a rescue train, but we don't know when that will be."
Well that turned out to be about three hours later. It was standing room only on the next train and I rode that for the next 30-45 minutes to Philly. Some people took offense to what happened. They openly discussed how "selfish" the suicide was and how the person didn't have to ruin everyone else's day (Several people actually said this aloud).
I saw it as an unfortunate event. Having had a hell of a year so far, I can understand that we're all just a few bad days away from giving up. Plus, I don't have cancer, so things kinda roll off my back now. I made it to Philly, I hung out with my friend, and we had a great day. On the way back to the station, the running joke was, "You'll be fine as long as no one else decides to jump in front of your train on the way home."
I get to the station and no more than five minutes after I get there the little board scrambles around and says, "DELAYED." I asked one of the people at the information counter if this was just a normal delay. The woman responded:
"Honestly, I'd get comfortable. They had a suicide on the tracks."
"Oh, I know about that. I was actually on the train that hit the person this morning. I'm talking about the southbound train to DC."
"So am I. There was a suicide this morning and one just a moment ago. The train heading south to DC hit someone. Wait, you were on the train this morning too?"
So for the next two hours, I found myself regaling people with my tale. For whatever reason, random strangers struck up conversation: "Hey, someone said there was a suicide this morning too, but I can't imagine two in one day."
"It's true. I was on that one."
"Wow, what are the odds?"
"Hey, I heard the delay is because of a suicide. Can you imagine being on the train that hit someone? That's gotta be awful."
"Yeah, I was actually on the one that hit the person earlier this morning."
"Wait, there were two? In one day? And you've been around for both? That's freaky."
While it wasn't exactly the trip I had in mind, I felt a little relieved. Things were bad earlier in the year, but not so bad that I felt that was the way to go. I don't care what anyone says, killing yourself isn't a coward's way out. It isn't the right one either, but I have to believe that jumping in front of a moving train is anything but an easy decision. It's an act of desperation and indicative of the world in which we live where it can happen twice in one day and in both times I witness a people talk about how inconvenient someone else's death was for them.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Batting A Thousandth
I don't think I'll ever take my self-esteem for granted again. If there's one thing that Saturday has taught me, it's that you can never have too much of it. You see, now that I'm in the free agent pool, I've found it necessary to do a bit of "calisthenics." As Louis CK put it, "I didn't exactly keep THIS (pointing to my gut) up." You just kind of assume you'll be signed with the same team forever annnd you kinda let yourself go. So I've been trying to get myself back into shape.
So far, I've been doing good. AND, I almost have a six pack. It's more like a chalk outline where the fat person I once was has died, but still, it's progress and if you catch me under muted light RIGHT after I finish doing that Ab Ripper X video, then you can kinda see it. You'll have to look down on the floor, because I often find it hard to stand up after that workout, but my tears tend to collect near my abdomen and they glisten off my soon-t0-be six pack.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I've been running like three miles a day (in under 30 mins, believe it or not) and doing pull ups and sit ups and trying to bring sexy back or whatever, and I figured that it was time for me to go pro. I signed up for Adult Kickball. Saturday was my first practice.
I got there early and decided to kill time at the batting cage across the street. When I look in the mirror I see an athlete staring back at me now, so I figured I could "Bo Jackson" it and do two sports in one day.
Warning: Objects in mirror are a goddamned lie.
There were three pitching options available to me: Slow, Medium, Fast. I knew that slow was beneath me, but the fast cages were full. Some kid jumped ahead of me and ran into the last medium cage, so I took the slow cage. I figured that I'd just have fun knocking 'em outta the park.
Yeah, about that.......For a buck, I got 14 pitches. I didn't see the first four. I only knew they went by because I heard them hit the pad behind me. I saw the next few, but my bat was defective so it wasn't hitting them for some reason. But those last three...Maybe not a homerun, but singles all day!!! Meanwhile, the person beside me was hitting like Barry Bonds. As I was leaving I felt what was left of my self esteem die as I realized it was the little kid who jumped ahead of me...in the medium cage.
So far, I've been doing good. AND, I almost have a six pack. It's more like a chalk outline where the fat person I once was has died, but still, it's progress and if you catch me under muted light RIGHT after I finish doing that Ab Ripper X video, then you can kinda see it. You'll have to look down on the floor, because I often find it hard to stand up after that workout, but my tears tend to collect near my abdomen and they glisten off my soon-t0-be six pack.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I've been running like three miles a day (in under 30 mins, believe it or not) and doing pull ups and sit ups and trying to bring sexy back or whatever, and I figured that it was time for me to go pro. I signed up for Adult Kickball. Saturday was my first practice.
I got there early and decided to kill time at the batting cage across the street. When I look in the mirror I see an athlete staring back at me now, so I figured I could "Bo Jackson" it and do two sports in one day.
Warning: Objects in mirror are a goddamned lie.
There were three pitching options available to me: Slow, Medium, Fast. I knew that slow was beneath me, but the fast cages were full. Some kid jumped ahead of me and ran into the last medium cage, so I took the slow cage. I figured that I'd just have fun knocking 'em outta the park.
Yeah, about that.......For a buck, I got 14 pitches. I didn't see the first four. I only knew they went by because I heard them hit the pad behind me. I saw the next few, but my bat was defective so it wasn't hitting them for some reason. But those last three...Maybe not a homerun, but singles all day!!! Meanwhile, the person beside me was hitting like Barry Bonds. As I was leaving I felt what was left of my self esteem die as I realized it was the little kid who jumped ahead of me...in the medium cage.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Clark Kent
A friend posted this on Facebook:
Remember how safe and secure you felt as a child when you held an adult's hand? What gives you that same feeling now?
Rather than be one of those people who runs a coup d'etat on someone's page, I figured I'd just write my own post.
I remember when my grandmother was Batman to me and her house offered the protection of the Batcave. When I was six, I had a nightmare that an alien spaceship hovered outside my window and was trying to abduct me. I woke up screaming. My mother ran in the room and tried to calm me down, but at just 22 herself, she wasn't big and bad enough to protect me from an extraterrestrial threat. No, I needed someone more seasoned. I needed someone older. I needed Grandma.
My mother actually loaded me up into the car at eleven at night and drove all the way across town so that I could spend the night at my grandmother's house. My grandmother sat beside me on the bed until I fell asleep, but not before giving me an egg and bacon sandwich at almost midnight and some Kool-Aid. I slept like a baby. I was under the protection of The Justice League.
Fast forward 25 years and I'm donning my own cape and tights. My daughter sees me as Superman, but the truth is that I'm only Clark Kent. I can't stop bullets or speeding cars running red lights. The only superpower I have is not allowing her to see my fear. I'm afraid of the world too. I know that there are very bad people out there who mean us harm and while the instinct to protect her to the point of my own destruction is hardwired into my DNA, the sad reality is that there may come a day when everything that I am and everything I have won't be enough. And that scares me. But again, my superpower is a poker face.
So I hold her hand like my grandmother did me all those years ago, and I look her in the eye and tell her that everything is going to be okay because Daddy's here. And when she's not looking, I pray to God that it's true.
Remember how safe and secure you felt as a child when you held an adult's hand? What gives you that same feeling now?
Rather than be one of those people who runs a coup d'etat on someone's page, I figured I'd just write my own post.
I remember when my grandmother was Batman to me and her house offered the protection of the Batcave. When I was six, I had a nightmare that an alien spaceship hovered outside my window and was trying to abduct me. I woke up screaming. My mother ran in the room and tried to calm me down, but at just 22 herself, she wasn't big and bad enough to protect me from an extraterrestrial threat. No, I needed someone more seasoned. I needed someone older. I needed Grandma.
My mother actually loaded me up into the car at eleven at night and drove all the way across town so that I could spend the night at my grandmother's house. My grandmother sat beside me on the bed until I fell asleep, but not before giving me an egg and bacon sandwich at almost midnight and some Kool-Aid. I slept like a baby. I was under the protection of The Justice League.
Fast forward 25 years and I'm donning my own cape and tights. My daughter sees me as Superman, but the truth is that I'm only Clark Kent. I can't stop bullets or speeding cars running red lights. The only superpower I have is not allowing her to see my fear. I'm afraid of the world too. I know that there are very bad people out there who mean us harm and while the instinct to protect her to the point of my own destruction is hardwired into my DNA, the sad reality is that there may come a day when everything that I am and everything I have won't be enough. And that scares me. But again, my superpower is a poker face.
So I hold her hand like my grandmother did me all those years ago, and I look her in the eye and tell her that everything is going to be okay because Daddy's here. And when she's not looking, I pray to God that it's true.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
I Think I Can, I Think I Can
It's supposed to be 91 degrees today and my apartment complex hasn't switched us over to A/C yet. Who can blame them? It is...APRIL! I've said it before and I'll say it again. I really think that Mother Nature is going through "the change" and all we can do is just stay out of her way.
So here above is a photo of what I like to call, "The Little Fan That Could." I'm too cheap to go out and buy a bigger one because, well, central air is a feature that drives my rent to where it is. Plus, considering my neighborhood, putting an old box fan in the window might just get me deported back to Southeast.
Oh, and pay no mind to my daughter's makeshift Disney cot in the corner. Eventually she'll upgrade to not only a real twin bed, but a bedroom all of her own. But until the evil wizard, Daycare, stops siphoning my money...she better be grateful she's allowed in the room.
I won't say any names, but I knew a guy once (who looked exactly like me) whose mama used to use access to her air conditioned room as some kind of reward for good behavior. I don't think my mother meant any harm. Maybe she was just trying to build character, but there is nothing meaner than saying, "It's hot in here. I'm going to lay down" and then closing your air conditioned bedroom door and leaving your child out in the Sahara living room.
Being the Doc Brown wannabe that I was, I used to try and make my own A/C. First, I tried putting a bowl of ice cubes and bags frozen vegetables in front of the window fan. That didn't work. Then I sat a fan on the nightstand and pointed it my direction. I had a little spray bottle in my hand and I would mist myself every two or three minutes. Didn't work.
Finally I came up with the idea that I used from 3rd grade to my last day at home before college: Take a shower, don't dry off, drink a quart of water and lay down in front of a fan in nothing but boxers and pray you fall asleep before you dry off. And that works!
You have a 4 minute window to fall asleep before you dry off completely. You will sweat throughout the night, especially if you live in an old house with windows that don't open like my grandmother's house, but that's what the quart of water is for. Anytime you can drink that much water and not wake up to use the bathroom...you're sweating profusely. But it does wonders for the pores and my skin is flawless.
So anyway, yeah my daughter has a Disney prison cot, but at least she gets to share in the majesty that is the Little Fan That Could. Although, knowing her, while I'm sleep she'll just take it down and turn it to face her. I can't hate. I may or may not have switched off the circuit breaker to my mother's room once or twice to help her appreciate the sahara along with me.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Blackmail Picture Day
Of all the things that I've been through this year, nothing is as difficult or challenging as what I'm about to share with you:
To buy or not to buy my daughter's first school pictures
I'd just as easily choose which arm I don't want. I have very fond memories of my own school pictures experience. My voyage home with the "letter to the parents" was usually met with a hearty, "I don't have any money."
If any of my relatives ever read this blog, they'll certainly say "You make us sound so bad." No, there's a reason why a six year old feels the need to keep a stash of cash hidden in the hollow leg of his "activity table." The way my family talked about money (or lack thereof), I knew it was valuable from day one. That's why my grandmother taught me how to apply interest to the $50 I loaned (REDACTED) when I was seven. But I digress.
So anyway, it's now D-Day. The money for the pictures is due and of the four poses they sent home, she's only smiling in one of them. She's sitting down on the floor and looking slightly over her shoulder and up at the camera. It's not a bad picture at all. It's also not worth $27 for one 5X7, two 3X5's and eight wallets.
When I look at it, all I'm really paying for is for them to take the word "proof" off the front of the picture. Because truthfully, I have no shame scanning the proofs and putting them on Facebook. In my ongoing journey to stop being ghetto, I'm seriously considering buying a package, but I don't want the pose that I mentioned. It's a nice picture, but one that I can probably get from the beauty school dropouts at the Walmart photo center for just five bucks.
No, I want the "setup" picture. I want blackmail. There is a pose where she's sitting in front of the infamous forest backdrop. THAT is the one that I want. She's sitting on a clearly fake rock twiddling her thumbs and you can tell by the look on her face that she either just finished crying or was about to start crying. If she were an adult, I'd say the look on her face says "Just got fired from work. I'm about to beat up my manager."
I want that one because it's timeless. When she gets older and starts to think she's cute, I'm breaking that one out. Every time she brings something home from school that's begging for money (like a yearbook sponsorship page), I'm breaking that out. I will post that thing in every yearbook, church anniversary booklet...whatever! And it's not to be mean. It's a right of passage. Don't believe me?
[caption id="attachment_3284" align="alignnone" width="284"]
BOOM! I look like a kid you sponsor for 26 cents a day[/caption]
This is me when I was three. I remember bringing these pictures home. My grandmother cursed me out like I stole money out of her purse. "I didn't waste all that goddamn money for you to go over there and take a picture like this. Why the hell did you make that face?"
Now keep in mind that this is the same woman that I love to death. Don't be put off by the harsh words. To say that you need thick skin to be around her is an understatement. You need to be wearing armor and carry a shield. The day of the pictures she lathered me down in Vaseline because that's what old people do in the winter and she told me,
"Now remember, you have an ugly smile. I'm not saying you're ugly. Just your smile. It's not ugly necessarily, it's just too wide. Your smile goes all the way across your face. I'm not paying all this money to see all your teeth. So just smile halfway. It's a smirk. You know how to smirk? Well when you get there, do that. I don't care what those people tell you. I'm the one paying for it, so don't smile. Smirk."
So that picture up there is my attempt to smirk. As for the "Homeless Clothes Drive" sweater that I have on...It was 85-86. It was in fashion, I think. Haircut...also not my responsibility at that age. It was the winter and my grandmother used to say that having hair on top of my head would keep me warm.
So anyway, how can I pass up this opportunity to continue family tradition. I must get my daughter's blackmail picture. I simply must.
To buy or not to buy my daughter's first school pictures
I'd just as easily choose which arm I don't want. I have very fond memories of my own school pictures experience. My voyage home with the "letter to the parents" was usually met with a hearty, "I don't have any money."
If any of my relatives ever read this blog, they'll certainly say "You make us sound so bad." No, there's a reason why a six year old feels the need to keep a stash of cash hidden in the hollow leg of his "activity table." The way my family talked about money (or lack thereof), I knew it was valuable from day one. That's why my grandmother taught me how to apply interest to the $50 I loaned (REDACTED) when I was seven. But I digress.
So anyway, it's now D-Day. The money for the pictures is due and of the four poses they sent home, she's only smiling in one of them. She's sitting down on the floor and looking slightly over her shoulder and up at the camera. It's not a bad picture at all. It's also not worth $27 for one 5X7, two 3X5's and eight wallets.
When I look at it, all I'm really paying for is for them to take the word "proof" off the front of the picture. Because truthfully, I have no shame scanning the proofs and putting them on Facebook. In my ongoing journey to stop being ghetto, I'm seriously considering buying a package, but I don't want the pose that I mentioned. It's a nice picture, but one that I can probably get from the beauty school dropouts at the Walmart photo center for just five bucks.
No, I want the "setup" picture. I want blackmail. There is a pose where she's sitting in front of the infamous forest backdrop. THAT is the one that I want. She's sitting on a clearly fake rock twiddling her thumbs and you can tell by the look on her face that she either just finished crying or was about to start crying. If she were an adult, I'd say the look on her face says "Just got fired from work. I'm about to beat up my manager."
I want that one because it's timeless. When she gets older and starts to think she's cute, I'm breaking that one out. Every time she brings something home from school that's begging for money (like a yearbook sponsorship page), I'm breaking that out. I will post that thing in every yearbook, church anniversary booklet...whatever! And it's not to be mean. It's a right of passage. Don't believe me?
[caption id="attachment_3284" align="alignnone" width="284"]
BOOM! I look like a kid you sponsor for 26 cents a day[/caption]This is me when I was three. I remember bringing these pictures home. My grandmother cursed me out like I stole money out of her purse. "I didn't waste all that goddamn money for you to go over there and take a picture like this. Why the hell did you make that face?"
Now keep in mind that this is the same woman that I love to death. Don't be put off by the harsh words. To say that you need thick skin to be around her is an understatement. You need to be wearing armor and carry a shield. The day of the pictures she lathered me down in Vaseline because that's what old people do in the winter and she told me,
"Now remember, you have an ugly smile. I'm not saying you're ugly. Just your smile. It's not ugly necessarily, it's just too wide. Your smile goes all the way across your face. I'm not paying all this money to see all your teeth. So just smile halfway. It's a smirk. You know how to smirk? Well when you get there, do that. I don't care what those people tell you. I'm the one paying for it, so don't smile. Smirk."
So that picture up there is my attempt to smirk. As for the "Homeless Clothes Drive" sweater that I have on...It was 85-86. It was in fashion, I think. Haircut...also not my responsibility at that age. It was the winter and my grandmother used to say that having hair on top of my head would keep me warm.
So anyway, how can I pass up this opportunity to continue family tradition. I must get my daughter's blackmail picture. I simply must.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Time-Lock Kid
Here are two seemingly unrelated stories, however, if you know me, then you know that I can find a link between anything.
Story 1
Do you know that bank vaults are on a time lock? Perhaps this will deter some would-be bank robbers (although I've been wrong before). For those who don't know what that sign on the door of 7-Eleven means when it says, "Time Lock Safe in Place," it means that there's basically a mechanical clock/timer on the safe. It can only be opened after a certain time. Even if you know the combination, the thing won't open unless it's within the allotted time window. The whole point is to deter criminals from trying to rob the place, because no one can open it.
Story 2
A friend recently told me about an issue she had with the neighbors underneath her. Around 4:30 in the morning their 3 year old started beating a drum. She went downstairs to complain, but no one answered the door. Shortly after, the drumming stopped. The next day, the drum was sitting out front in the trash.
What's the Point?
There comes a time in every parent's life when their kid wakes up at the most inopportune time. Scholars call this moment "everyday." It starts when you bring them home from the hospital. They don't even sleep when they're that young. They just have extended blinking sessions. By the time they cross the burning sands to preschool age, you're so used to not sleeping that you welcome any distraction that will buy you a few extra minutes of sleep that you can get your hands on, even a drum.
My daughter woke up at 5:30 this morning. Today is Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday. I remember being in a deep sleep, then being stabbed in the face with the pointy end of a tube of Aquaphor. I'm guessing my daughter didn't feel like climbing onto the bed and I was too far back for her to just "CHARLIE MURPHY!!!" me. She used the tube to poke me in the face until I woke up. Then I heard, "BATHROOM!"
I took her to the bathroom and then had to make the critical war decision of whether or not to risk putting her back in her bed. It was 5:30, so technically she had eight hours of sleep by that point. Her bed...well, it sucks. It's a toddler bed and anything that can be put together in 15 minutes with an Allen wrench and good intentions probably sucks. My bed, on the other hand, is a rejuvenation chamber. It heals broken bones and cures the sick. If I let her lay in the bed with me then she'd definitely fall back to sleep.
If you don't have a kid, then you probably think it was a no brainer. There are no easy victories in war. Both sides always end up losing something. In my case, it's called a rib cage. I put her in the bed with me once before and I still have those footprints on my lungs to prove it.
Desperate, I said what the hell and put her in the bed with me, only she wasn't tired. I fell right back to sleep almost instantly, but she didn't. I woke up two minutes later to her lifting my upper lip and counting my teeth. "Stop." Then I woke up to a finger in my ear. "STOP!" Finally, I woke up to her arching my eyebrows with the talons on her hands.
I reached over and handed her anything I could find on the nightstand without opening my eyes: A brush, a phone charger, a tube of chapstick and finally I unlocked my phone and told her to go crazy.
I really wish kids had a time-lock feature like those safes I was talking about. I can't imagine what it would be like to set the combination and just put her in the bed with the comfort of knowing that she wouldn't wake up for any reason until she got the full 12 hours of sleep that the parenting books lie and say she'll have each night.
Story 1
Do you know that bank vaults are on a time lock? Perhaps this will deter some would-be bank robbers (although I've been wrong before). For those who don't know what that sign on the door of 7-Eleven means when it says, "Time Lock Safe in Place," it means that there's basically a mechanical clock/timer on the safe. It can only be opened after a certain time. Even if you know the combination, the thing won't open unless it's within the allotted time window. The whole point is to deter criminals from trying to rob the place, because no one can open it.
Story 2
A friend recently told me about an issue she had with the neighbors underneath her. Around 4:30 in the morning their 3 year old started beating a drum. She went downstairs to complain, but no one answered the door. Shortly after, the drumming stopped. The next day, the drum was sitting out front in the trash.
What's the Point?
There comes a time in every parent's life when their kid wakes up at the most inopportune time. Scholars call this moment "everyday." It starts when you bring them home from the hospital. They don't even sleep when they're that young. They just have extended blinking sessions. By the time they cross the burning sands to preschool age, you're so used to not sleeping that you welcome any distraction that will buy you a few extra minutes of sleep that you can get your hands on, even a drum.
My daughter woke up at 5:30 this morning. Today is Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday. I remember being in a deep sleep, then being stabbed in the face with the pointy end of a tube of Aquaphor. I'm guessing my daughter didn't feel like climbing onto the bed and I was too far back for her to just "CHARLIE MURPHY!!!" me. She used the tube to poke me in the face until I woke up. Then I heard, "BATHROOM!"
I took her to the bathroom and then had to make the critical war decision of whether or not to risk putting her back in her bed. It was 5:30, so technically she had eight hours of sleep by that point. Her bed...well, it sucks. It's a toddler bed and anything that can be put together in 15 minutes with an Allen wrench and good intentions probably sucks. My bed, on the other hand, is a rejuvenation chamber. It heals broken bones and cures the sick. If I let her lay in the bed with me then she'd definitely fall back to sleep.
If you don't have a kid, then you probably think it was a no brainer. There are no easy victories in war. Both sides always end up losing something. In my case, it's called a rib cage. I put her in the bed with me once before and I still have those footprints on my lungs to prove it.
Desperate, I said what the hell and put her in the bed with me, only she wasn't tired. I fell right back to sleep almost instantly, but she didn't. I woke up two minutes later to her lifting my upper lip and counting my teeth. "Stop." Then I woke up to a finger in my ear. "STOP!" Finally, I woke up to her arching my eyebrows with the talons on her hands.
I reached over and handed her anything I could find on the nightstand without opening my eyes: A brush, a phone charger, a tube of chapstick and finally I unlocked my phone and told her to go crazy.
I really wish kids had a time-lock feature like those safes I was talking about. I can't imagine what it would be like to set the combination and just put her in the bed with the comfort of knowing that she wouldn't wake up for any reason until she got the full 12 hours of sleep that the parenting books lie and say she'll have each night.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Happy Birthday Anonymous Person
This late edition of Mental Storage is dedicated to a young woman who shamelessly requested that I write a post about her. I normally don't take requests (for free), but I'll make an exception because it's her birthday. Plus, I owe her.
The year was 1999 when we first met. I was Obama before Barack was Obama: Class president two years in a row and doing double duty that second year with SGA President added to my title. It was like being President of the United States AND Canada. Take that Obama! Slacker!
So anyway I was out walking the halls being...presidential (I guess) and this girl stopped me and asked me to sign her jacket. I didn't know who the hell she was or why she was walking around asking upperclassmen to sign her jacket, but nothing feeds my ever-hungry ego like a request for an autograph. I signed it with the moniker that I like to pretend I came up with and no one else in the history of time has ever thought to use:
'The One and Only'
Ordale J. Allen
She was so captivated by my Sanskrit-like handwriting that we became friends immediately. One night, she called me severely sad and depressed. Perhaps she just wanted someone to lean on, or maybe she was just venting. Little did she know, I was a budding motivational speaker.
She told me that she thought about killing herself and I knew right away that whatever I said next had to consider the delicacy of the situation. When people are suicidal the slightest thing can inadvertently push them over the edge.
"I think you should kill yourself."
"Huh?"
"I support you. You're smart. If you've decided that death is for you, then go right away. Do not go gently into that goodnight. Run into that shit full speed!"
"What?"
"But if you're gonna do it, might I suggest going through the window? I say open your window, sit on the ledge facing the inside of your room and just fall backwards. That way you can think about all the shit that gets on your nerves on the way down without being distracted by the sight of the ground rushing toward you. But the fear of not knowing when you're gonna hit it might make you see your problems a bit differently. It's entirely possible that the minute that you realize that life wasn't so bad you'll probably slam into the ground. Either way, good luck."
It's really a tragedy that I let that talent go to waste. Anyway, a few months later it was her turn to help me out. The demands of the presidency (and a crappy home life) got the best of me and it started to show in my schoolwork. Actually, that's not true. You have to go to school in order for stress to show up in your schoolwork.
According to one administrator, I had 13 absences and 24 tardies by the middle of the third quarter. Oh, and that was JUST for that quarter, not for the year. "If you're late or absent one more time we're gonna...blah blah blah." They just don't train school administrators like they used to. When someone is depressed it's ill-advised to threaten them with expulsion from the very place they consider to be the source of their stress and depression. "One more shanking and we're kicking you out of this prison."
The next morning my alarm clock went off as usual. I didn't hear it. My backup alarm clock went off. I didn't hear that either. But I did hear my loud phone ringing.
[Grumpily] "Who the hell is this?"
"This is your wake up call. Wake up. You have to go to school or you'll get put out."
"Goodbye."
"No, for real. Wake up."
"I'm up. Seriously. I'm up."
5 Minutes Later
[Grumpily] "Who the hell is this?"
"Okay seriously. Wake up. I'm gonna keep calling."
"I hate you."
"You could jump out the window."
"The house isn't tall enough. I'd just shatter something and then they'd roll me to school. I'm up."
This went on for the remainder of the school year, I believe. I didn't get expelled. I graduated. And for that...I thank the anonymous person who doesn't want me to use her name because she believes that somehow the government will track her if she puts her name on a blog or Google+ or Facebook. Little does she know, people like her are probably the ones that the government is looking at right now from a tree outside her apartment.
There's only one way to be safe...go out the window.
The year was 1999 when we first met. I was Obama before Barack was Obama: Class president two years in a row and doing double duty that second year with SGA President added to my title. It was like being President of the United States AND Canada. Take that Obama! Slacker!
So anyway I was out walking the halls being...presidential (I guess) and this girl stopped me and asked me to sign her jacket. I didn't know who the hell she was or why she was walking around asking upperclassmen to sign her jacket, but nothing feeds my ever-hungry ego like a request for an autograph. I signed it with the moniker that I like to pretend I came up with and no one else in the history of time has ever thought to use:
'The One and Only'
Ordale J. Allen
She was so captivated by my Sanskrit-like handwriting that we became friends immediately. One night, she called me severely sad and depressed. Perhaps she just wanted someone to lean on, or maybe she was just venting. Little did she know, I was a budding motivational speaker.
She told me that she thought about killing herself and I knew right away that whatever I said next had to consider the delicacy of the situation. When people are suicidal the slightest thing can inadvertently push them over the edge.
"I think you should kill yourself."
"Huh?"
"I support you. You're smart. If you've decided that death is for you, then go right away. Do not go gently into that goodnight. Run into that shit full speed!"
"What?"
"But if you're gonna do it, might I suggest going through the window? I say open your window, sit on the ledge facing the inside of your room and just fall backwards. That way you can think about all the shit that gets on your nerves on the way down without being distracted by the sight of the ground rushing toward you. But the fear of not knowing when you're gonna hit it might make you see your problems a bit differently. It's entirely possible that the minute that you realize that life wasn't so bad you'll probably slam into the ground. Either way, good luck."
It's really a tragedy that I let that talent go to waste. Anyway, a few months later it was her turn to help me out. The demands of the presidency (and a crappy home life) got the best of me and it started to show in my schoolwork. Actually, that's not true. You have to go to school in order for stress to show up in your schoolwork.
According to one administrator, I had 13 absences and 24 tardies by the middle of the third quarter. Oh, and that was JUST for that quarter, not for the year. "If you're late or absent one more time we're gonna...blah blah blah." They just don't train school administrators like they used to. When someone is depressed it's ill-advised to threaten them with expulsion from the very place they consider to be the source of their stress and depression. "One more shanking and we're kicking you out of this prison."
The next morning my alarm clock went off as usual. I didn't hear it. My backup alarm clock went off. I didn't hear that either. But I did hear my loud phone ringing.
[Grumpily] "Who the hell is this?"
"This is your wake up call. Wake up. You have to go to school or you'll get put out."
"Goodbye."
"No, for real. Wake up."
"I'm up. Seriously. I'm up."
5 Minutes Later
[Grumpily] "Who the hell is this?"
"Okay seriously. Wake up. I'm gonna keep calling."
"I hate you."
"You could jump out the window."
"The house isn't tall enough. I'd just shatter something and then they'd roll me to school. I'm up."
This went on for the remainder of the school year, I believe. I didn't get expelled. I graduated. And for that...I thank the anonymous person who doesn't want me to use her name because she believes that somehow the government will track her if she puts her name on a blog or Google+ or Facebook. Little does she know, people like her are probably the ones that the government is looking at right now from a tree outside her apartment.
There's only one way to be safe...go out the window.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
The 300
So yesterday was...educational.
For the past two weeks I've been trying to convince myself that I don't have cancer. Part of my self-reassurance was the fact that no one actually told me that I had it. I was simply referred to see someone whose receptionist answers the phone with, "Oncology Department." Hematology and Oncology are linked practices, so it was very well possible that I was just going to see a hematologist.
So I get there and all the while I'm telling myself that her office just happens to be on the same floor and they're gonna point me down the hall to a little room with a lowly hematologist WAY on the other side of the floor from the oncology department. This did not happen.
"Oh no, you're in the right place. Have a seat."
I was the youngest person there and got the same pitying stares that I got when I was the youngest person in pre-op for my heart surgery. Only this time I was there by myself and for the first time in my life, I didn't want to be alone. Perhaps it was the combined weight of all the other things that have happened this year--the biggest of which caused me to join the free agency rather than willingly losing my starting spot--but I finally felt the hull crack. I was starting to lose it.
One of the people behind the desk asked me to check in, which means giving them my insurance card and them putting a wristband on me with all of my vital information. Then she handed me a packet that outlined "living with cancer" and told me the duties of my social worker. I broke down. I didn't cry, not that I'd be ashamed if I did. I just sat there and everything became background noise.
I could hear my heartbeat rising. I don't know how, but I could. I felt like throwing up. More than anything, I was insulted by the routine of it all. A packet. A wristband. A woman telling me things as if reading off a script. Your job is to tell people that they're gonna die. Pretend it's your first time. I went back to the waiting room chair and just felt overwhelmed by it all.
At my best, I could handle cancer. I could kick its ass up and down this hospital. In the end, it may win, but it'd be so battered and bruised that it'd think twice before going on to the next person. But I wasn't at my best. If you haven't figured out by now from the thinly veiled analogies, my wife and I separated earlier this year. I defined myself by two things: Fatherhood and Marriage. Losing one was like being physically cut in half and no one survives that.
I can't describe how heartache feels, and believe me, I've tried. All I can tell you is that I never felt this much pain because I never loved anyone or anything this much. I could tell you about how I cried almost everyday for hours on end, and I wouldn't give half a damn that it makes me look soft. Heartache can reduce a mountain of a man into rubble, so what chance did I have? At its worst, you feel like dying, which brings my story full circle.
In the midst of my misery, I get hit with this. But before I can find a way to shift my focus to this, I get hit with some concerns about my daughter's health. I absolutely positively won't go into detail about that, but you can understand how the stress could be overwhelming.
So there I was sitting in the waiting room of the cancer research center with a packet that might as well have said, "You're gonna die." And I realized that I just don't have time for it. I gotta take care of my baby, although I would willingly give my life and my health if it'll make her okay. So a part of me is thinking, "I can't be sick, because she needs me." The other part is thinking, "Kill me right now if you need anything to help her." It's conflicting. And then there's this side thought of, "Remember when you were crying on the floor a few weeks ago and thinking that you wanted to die? Wish granted."
By the time I got to the back and saw a nurse, my blood pressure had spiked. My pulse was 46, which to her was extremely low, but for my particular heart condition, that was a racing pulse. I waited another 15 minutes for the doctor and spent all of that time thinking about what I could accomplish if they gave me a year, six months or three. I thought about what I needed to do for my daughter and how, even though it didn't seem like it two weeks ago, there are bigger things in the world than heartbreak.
The doctor ran some more tests and concluded that I don't have cancer. I don't have many white blood cells which is strange and, in her own words, "I've never seen someone with so few." She said that the number keeps going down, and, based on last year's results, if I were gonna die, it would've been back then. No clue really how I can fight off even a common cold, but the fact that I'm alive right now...my immune system is functioning fine with what it has.
So if I could bring any humor to this long sad story, it would be this. My white blood cells are The 300. They're few in number, but they're Spartans. They do the job 10,000 couldn't do. And if 300 cells in my body are that strong by themselves, then what does that say about the collective power of every cell in my body? She told me, "You're fine. Go live a long happy life." I intend to do just that. Perhaps this was a wakeup call.
I got the message.
Now let's take care of this baby and move on.
For the past two weeks I've been trying to convince myself that I don't have cancer. Part of my self-reassurance was the fact that no one actually told me that I had it. I was simply referred to see someone whose receptionist answers the phone with, "Oncology Department." Hematology and Oncology are linked practices, so it was very well possible that I was just going to see a hematologist.
So I get there and all the while I'm telling myself that her office just happens to be on the same floor and they're gonna point me down the hall to a little room with a lowly hematologist WAY on the other side of the floor from the oncology department. This did not happen.
"Oh no, you're in the right place. Have a seat."
I was the youngest person there and got the same pitying stares that I got when I was the youngest person in pre-op for my heart surgery. Only this time I was there by myself and for the first time in my life, I didn't want to be alone. Perhaps it was the combined weight of all the other things that have happened this year--the biggest of which caused me to join the free agency rather than willingly losing my starting spot--but I finally felt the hull crack. I was starting to lose it.
One of the people behind the desk asked me to check in, which means giving them my insurance card and them putting a wristband on me with all of my vital information. Then she handed me a packet that outlined "living with cancer" and told me the duties of my social worker. I broke down. I didn't cry, not that I'd be ashamed if I did. I just sat there and everything became background noise.
I could hear my heartbeat rising. I don't know how, but I could. I felt like throwing up. More than anything, I was insulted by the routine of it all. A packet. A wristband. A woman telling me things as if reading off a script. Your job is to tell people that they're gonna die. Pretend it's your first time. I went back to the waiting room chair and just felt overwhelmed by it all.
At my best, I could handle cancer. I could kick its ass up and down this hospital. In the end, it may win, but it'd be so battered and bruised that it'd think twice before going on to the next person. But I wasn't at my best. If you haven't figured out by now from the thinly veiled analogies, my wife and I separated earlier this year. I defined myself by two things: Fatherhood and Marriage. Losing one was like being physically cut in half and no one survives that.
I can't describe how heartache feels, and believe me, I've tried. All I can tell you is that I never felt this much pain because I never loved anyone or anything this much. I could tell you about how I cried almost everyday for hours on end, and I wouldn't give half a damn that it makes me look soft. Heartache can reduce a mountain of a man into rubble, so what chance did I have? At its worst, you feel like dying, which brings my story full circle.
In the midst of my misery, I get hit with this. But before I can find a way to shift my focus to this, I get hit with some concerns about my daughter's health. I absolutely positively won't go into detail about that, but you can understand how the stress could be overwhelming.
So there I was sitting in the waiting room of the cancer research center with a packet that might as well have said, "You're gonna die." And I realized that I just don't have time for it. I gotta take care of my baby, although I would willingly give my life and my health if it'll make her okay. So a part of me is thinking, "I can't be sick, because she needs me." The other part is thinking, "Kill me right now if you need anything to help her." It's conflicting. And then there's this side thought of, "Remember when you were crying on the floor a few weeks ago and thinking that you wanted to die? Wish granted."
By the time I got to the back and saw a nurse, my blood pressure had spiked. My pulse was 46, which to her was extremely low, but for my particular heart condition, that was a racing pulse. I waited another 15 minutes for the doctor and spent all of that time thinking about what I could accomplish if they gave me a year, six months or three. I thought about what I needed to do for my daughter and how, even though it didn't seem like it two weeks ago, there are bigger things in the world than heartbreak.
The doctor ran some more tests and concluded that I don't have cancer. I don't have many white blood cells which is strange and, in her own words, "I've never seen someone with so few." She said that the number keeps going down, and, based on last year's results, if I were gonna die, it would've been back then. No clue really how I can fight off even a common cold, but the fact that I'm alive right now...my immune system is functioning fine with what it has.
So if I could bring any humor to this long sad story, it would be this. My white blood cells are The 300. They're few in number, but they're Spartans. They do the job 10,000 couldn't do. And if 300 cells in my body are that strong by themselves, then what does that say about the collective power of every cell in my body? She told me, "You're fine. Go live a long happy life." I intend to do just that. Perhaps this was a wakeup call.
I got the message.
Now let's take care of this baby and move on.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Off to See The Wizard
Today I go to The Wizard (or The Wiz if you're feeling ethnocentric) to see if he can give me some new blood. I'd ask for a new heart, but I've already had "minor" heart surgery once already. Not a fan. Sure, it's all fun and games until the painkillers wear off. One minute you're high out of your mind telling the nurse that some day (and that day may never come) you'll call upon her to do a service for you. The next thing you know, you're curled in the fetal position at 2 in the morning trying to summon the overnight nurse with your mind because your chest hurts too bad to yell and breathing hurts even more. Still, nothing hurts as bad as that $200k medical bill, although I have to agree that I'm worth every penny.
No, I think I'll skip asking for a heart. What I really want is a return on my investment with all of this healthy eating. Now don't call me ungrateful, because it could very well be possible that the only reason I'm still alive is because I changed up my diet years ago after watching Super Size Me. Still, I can't help but wonder why I seemed to be in perfect health when my diet consisted primarily of mumbo sauce and fatback. Could it be possible that I'm some rare breed of Southeast-ian who needs unhealthy food to survive?
When I was little I remember feeling down and lethargic many a day, but a quick trip to the ice cream truck and (a pack of Cheetos Paws, a pack of Now-and-Laters, one Chick-o-stick, one Trix Pop and a Little Hug aka Gummy Beary Juice later) I had unlimited energy. Going to play freeze tag after that was like watching the Crackhead Olympics...nobody lost/got frozen because nobody got caught.
Then again, that era was fraught with unexplained headaches, depression, blurred vision, heart palpitations and constipation. It could all just be a random coincidence. We'll never know because I had a shitty insurance plan called Group Health which was the precursor to Kaiser. Their solution to everything was to keep a log.
"So the other day I was coughing up blood and my mommy said I should come in."
"Hmm. That's unusual. The next time it happens write it down."
"I can't see out of one of my eyes."
"If your vision comes back, write down what you were doing at that moment and I'll look at it."
Ah, good times. Anyway, fast forward to today and I'm anxiously awaiting this appointment. I just feel blessed that I have money for a copay. I remember blacking out one day in high school just as I was running up the stairs in the hallway. It only lasted a second, but long enough for me to go tumbling down the stairs. I considered that a "log-worthy" moment.
This was back in the day when DCPS decided to save money by not having the school nurses come everyday. I didn't plan my random blackout accordingly, so she wasn't there. I told the Dean of Students who said I just wanted to get out of class (her educator heart was two sizes too small), so then I told the Gym Teacher and she said that I should talk to the sports trainer (who DCPS could afford everyday but not a nurse). He said he had no idea and told me I should go to the doctor.
I went to the payphone and scheduled my own appointment at Kaiser. I wrote up a note to leave school and signed my mother's name on it and then caught the bus to the doctor. It was there that I was told that I couldn't be seen because I didn't have my $10 copay. I told the woman that I was a minor and thought it was an emergency and asked to be billed later. She told me to go to an emergency room if it was a real emergency. I told her I had eight dollars and asked if she could spot me two. She said she wasn't allowed to do that. So I left and went back to school.
Years later, when the heart surgery thing came up, I was asked by a cardiologist, "Did you ever have heart palpitations or black out growing up?"
"Yep."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"I kept a log."
No, I think I'll skip asking for a heart. What I really want is a return on my investment with all of this healthy eating. Now don't call me ungrateful, because it could very well be possible that the only reason I'm still alive is because I changed up my diet years ago after watching Super Size Me. Still, I can't help but wonder why I seemed to be in perfect health when my diet consisted primarily of mumbo sauce and fatback. Could it be possible that I'm some rare breed of Southeast-ian who needs unhealthy food to survive?
When I was little I remember feeling down and lethargic many a day, but a quick trip to the ice cream truck and (a pack of Cheetos Paws, a pack of Now-and-Laters, one Chick-o-stick, one Trix Pop and a Little Hug aka Gummy Beary Juice later) I had unlimited energy. Going to play freeze tag after that was like watching the Crackhead Olympics...nobody lost/got frozen because nobody got caught.
Then again, that era was fraught with unexplained headaches, depression, blurred vision, heart palpitations and constipation. It could all just be a random coincidence. We'll never know because I had a shitty insurance plan called Group Health which was the precursor to Kaiser. Their solution to everything was to keep a log.
"So the other day I was coughing up blood and my mommy said I should come in."
"Hmm. That's unusual. The next time it happens write it down."
"I can't see out of one of my eyes."
"If your vision comes back, write down what you were doing at that moment and I'll look at it."
Ah, good times. Anyway, fast forward to today and I'm anxiously awaiting this appointment. I just feel blessed that I have money for a copay. I remember blacking out one day in high school just as I was running up the stairs in the hallway. It only lasted a second, but long enough for me to go tumbling down the stairs. I considered that a "log-worthy" moment.
This was back in the day when DCPS decided to save money by not having the school nurses come everyday. I didn't plan my random blackout accordingly, so she wasn't there. I told the Dean of Students who said I just wanted to get out of class (her educator heart was two sizes too small), so then I told the Gym Teacher and she said that I should talk to the sports trainer (who DCPS could afford everyday but not a nurse). He said he had no idea and told me I should go to the doctor.
I went to the payphone and scheduled my own appointment at Kaiser. I wrote up a note to leave school and signed my mother's name on it and then caught the bus to the doctor. It was there that I was told that I couldn't be seen because I didn't have my $10 copay. I told the woman that I was a minor and thought it was an emergency and asked to be billed later. She told me to go to an emergency room if it was a real emergency. I told her I had eight dollars and asked if she could spot me two. She said she wasn't allowed to do that. So I left and went back to school.
Years later, when the heart surgery thing came up, I was asked by a cardiologist, "Did you ever have heart palpitations or black out growing up?"
"Yep."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"I kept a log."