Jane

Before I closed the door, I took one more look. I felt horrible that I had to leave; leave her all alone. She covered her face with a blanket, it was the way she liked to sleep, however, it looked strange due to the fact that she was sitting straight up in her chair in the den, the new one that lifted her to her feet with the push of a button. She resembled a mummy or perhaps a mannequin who had been covered for storage. I told her that I would see her in a few weeks, which was more of a wishful thought than it was a promise. She did not reply. The truth was, I wasn't sure when I would see her again, maybe she knew that. In the blink of the moment that I looked back before closing the door, I hoped that I would see her again before it all ended.

November 20, 1951 my aunt was born and any hopes that she would be alive to see very much of 2010 was slim to nothing. She had called me crying nearly 3 years earlier to tell me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, specifically HER2-positive breast cancer. HER2-positive is a breast cancer that tests positive for a protein called human epidermal growth factor receptor 2 (HER2), which promotes the growth of cancer cells. In about 1 of every 5 breast cancers, the cancer cells make an excess of HER2 due to a gene mutation. This gene mutation, and the elevated levels of HER2 that it causes, can occur in many types of cancer. It is also very aggressive and a real son of a bitch to kill.

By 2008, we had fought the good fight, been cancer free for a year and had strong hopes that things were going well. And they were; until the dizziness started.

She originally had thought that it was side effects from the bevy of medicines she was taking. She had asked the doctor about it and the doctor, thorough practitioner of medicine that he was, suggested they do scans of the brain for any abnormalities. Sure enough, tricky little tumors had set up camp on the Pons, a section of the brain stem.

It was late summer 2009 when I stole that glance back at her before shutting the door. I had vowed to myself on the 12 hour drive home that I would make the trip from Maryland to Kentucky every few weeks in order to fit in as much time with her as I could. It sounded good, but it was unrealistic.

I was, however, dead set on spending Thanksgiving with her, but as some of you may recall, I spent that Thanksgiving on the couch with piggy death cough. I was to sick to travel and my wife kept reminding me that I was contagious and I could do more harm to her than good by going. In short, I could pass the germs to her and with the fragile state of her immune system, it could kill her. She was right, I was just being irrational.

I did not make it back to Kentucky until March 2010.

I had routinely called, of course, to check her status and to see if she needed anything. Every time I called I got the sense from those that I spoke with that I was only being told half the story and that what I would consider to be major milestones in the decline of health, such as losing sight and the ability to walk, were little more than set backs that were par for the course. I needed to see her again, to make sure he knew I was there and that even though I was unable to keep my word at my regular visits, I had not abandoned her fight.

When I arrived she had some our family and the nurses from Hospice around her bed. She was awake but heavily medicated. I walked into the room and stood towards the back absorbing the sight of my aunts devastated body. They announced to her that I was in the room and with her one good eye I could see that she opened it a little wider and began scanning the faces around her looking for me. I stepped from the back and took hold of her hand. She looked at me and whispered I love you, over and over and over again. It was the last thing she ever said to me.

I stayed with her for two weeks before she passed. After the first day, when she whispered that she loved me, she had stopped talking all together, her breathing had become intensely labored and you could see her body, like the blades of a fan, slowly winding down to a stop. Her vitals such as blood pressure, heart rate, etc., were erratic going from horribly low one day to rapid the next or normal the next.

The day she died, she spent most of the day sleeping. In fact, I do not recall her waking up at all that day. I would go in and sit with her off and on through out the day and night. Speaking with the nurses or simply talking to her about old times. That day, however, I spent a majority of the time in the den just outside of her bedroom sitting in that chair, the one the raises you to your feet with the push of a button, reading. That evening, the nurse came to me and said that I should come in the room because she thought it was close to "time". I went upstairs, told my mom she should come down and we both stood by her bed side, holding her hand, stroking her head, watching her go. Five minutes later, I lost my only aunt.

We had the funeral services two days later. Nearly 500 people showed up to show their respect for my aunt who had been a life long citizen in that town and had spent over 30 years as a teacher and ultimately the elementary school Principal. She retired officially from her job a few months before she passed away. She had planned to retire that summer anyway and had booked a trip to Paris, France, but she never made it. She had to retire a few months earlier than expected, but up until she lost most of her abilities, she spent most of the day working on the administrative duties for the school on a laptop from home. If she was anything, she was dedicated.

I suppose what I want to say here is that I learned quite a bit from the death of my aunt. It affected me quite profoundly, spiritually even. The moment that my aunt passed away I began to look around the room, expecting something to be different, hoping maybe to see which direction her soul went, or maybe a sign to show me that there is a metaphysical chain reaction to something as powerful as life and death. I was looking up when I felt it. It was warm; actual heat. It was in my chest, surrounding my heart. I looked down and noticed for the first time that my aunt's eyes were open for the first time that day. She had taken one last look before crossing the bar. She must have thought we would be alright, but just for good measure, I think her energy, soul, Id, whatever you call it, touched us to let us know she would be alright too.

In the end I offer only this advice (even if I am incapable of following it) and that is to slow down, look around and enjoy the pure random.

Where has the time gone?

The good news is that I did not die from the awful virus I suffered from nearly a year ago. The one that seemingly swallowed me from the face of the Earth. I have been, however, very busy. For those who follow, this is simply a re-introduction. For those who stumble across, it is a table of contents. In the last year, and this is in order of appearance not importance, I have lost a loved one, had a child, moved my family hundreds of miles from where we were, began a new job, worked the largest oil spill in U.S. history, redefined my relationships with my parents and have finally decided what I want to be when I grow up.

Oh, we have alot to talk about.

Now I just need to find the humor in all of it and we can begin.

As usual, enjoy the pure random.

Chemical warfare, warfare, warfare

So, it is now Monday after Thanksgiving and tomorrow I will go back to work. This has been by far the worst Thanksgiving imaginable. On the bright side, when I show up to work tomorrow and people ask me how my holiday was, I will be able to speak to them without sounding like mush mouth from Fat Albert thanks to all the blisters in my mouth finally clearing up.
Perhaps I should back up a little and tell you how this all got started.
I had big plans for the Thanksgiving holidays. The wife and kids and I were headed south to visit with my mom and aunt, both of whom I haven't seen in quite awhile. The trip also held a particular importance to me due to the fact that my aunt hasn't been doing that good lately and I wanted to see her, be with her, for the holidays. So, on the Saturday before we were to leave, we head a few hours north to drop my two dogs off at my neice's house. We planned on staying the night, which actually turned out to be for the best. As soon as we arrived, I began suffering through cold chills. The types of chills that no matter what you do, you can't warm up and your teeth are sporadically clicking together like one of those plastic wind up mouths that chatter and jump around on those little feet. By the next morning I was running a pretty serious fever.
Over the course of the next five days, I sat on the couch suffering through a 103 degree fever. My wife and children stayed away from me, with the exception of the time she came home from work on her lunch break to take me to the emergency room and drop me off. The professionals at the E.R. diagnosed me with Bronchitis and a upper respitory infection. I was prescribed an antibiotic and some pain relievers. I suppose I was hoping for something a little more helpful. I was pretty sure I had H1N1, but the doctor seemed to dispell that notion by simply saying, "We haven't seen that to much lately." I tried again to suggest that perhaps I did have the serious version of the flu and he once again stated that he hadn't seen it around lately. As though that couldn't certainly mean that I had it. I mean, after all, if this guy hasn't "seen it in awhile", it musn't be, right?
Anyway.
My fever finally broke on Thanksgiving afternoon but my mouth was filled with canker sores so I couldn't eat. I didn't eat much at all prior to Thanksgiving. That night was the first time I was able to eat solid food since I hadn't gotten sick. We had what my daughter referred to as Thanksgiving Mac and Cheese. We shared one box of that processed cheese delicacy.
It is now officially 9 days since the start of my sickness and I am almost back to 100% with the exception of some of the larger blisters hanging on to make talking, chewing and breathing a laborious and somewhat painful evolution. Additionally, I have lost 12 lbs. My skin is returning to its normal color vs. the grayish color it has been over the last week. All of this, just in time to go back to work. I never made it to see my mom and aunt, I didn't get to eat Turkey until last night and I had to spend hours in the emergency room, which I can't stand. What a nightmare this holiday has been.
I apologize for the rant and even more for the mispelled words and improper grammar, but I wanted to let you all know that the Piggy Death Cough pulled my card and took me out of the running for a second, but I am back now. Slightly thinner, and a little less cocky about the "war" on the flu, but back just the same.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Batman, disabled dancers and more

I consider my Dad to be an expert, or at the very least, extremely knowledgeable, in numerous subjects. For example, I call him the "Human Calculator". The name speaks for itself, but until you see him mentally calculate compounding interest on a Roth IRA account based on an average success rate of the stock market over the last 70 years in the same amount of time it takes you to remember what a Roth IRA even is, you have no idea. Additionally, he is well versed in old cars, motorcycles and holds a 2nd degree black belt in Taekwondo. He also has a vast knowledge of weapons and weapon history. It really doesn't matter what kind of weapon you may have a question about, as long as it is hand held and makes a loud noise, chances are he owns one, has shot one or knows the history of it. It was because of his library like knowledge of weapons that I called him earlier today with a question.
The question itself was fairly simple and the conversation was quick. Nothing really remarkable about it as Dad and I have had similar conversations in the past, but what I considered later struck me oddly. I use my Dad as a resource for knowledge and advice. I trust him. He has what I would consider a great deal of credibility. That fact got me thinking about what MY children might be able to call me about when they grow up. What "expertise" will I hold in their eyes? How “credible” will I be?
I never really have considered myself overly knowledgeable about any subject, let alone numerous subjects. It never occurred to me before today what information my children would rely on me for. This is, of course, beyond the regular lessons that a father is expected to teach their young ones like the value of hard work, integrity and what it means to give your word. I am not speaking about those lessons, I am talking about the smaller, perhaps more interesting things that make up an individuals particular “specialties” or talents. You know, the good stuff that Dads are supposed to know.
At this point in my life, I am pretty knowledgeable when it comes to music history, Batman comic books, photography, some art history and I used to know how to make explosives out of pool cleaning materials and tin foil. A quick glance at that kind of knowledge and I don’t see anything worth passing on to future generations.
Up until now, I suppose I never really thought about my kids seeing me as a credible source. I did, however, expect that my advice might be worth something to them, but an expert? Hardly.
I suppose I simply figured they would tell stories about me to their children and their children's children. Stories of how Grandpa Edwards once swam where the equator meets the dateline, or how he was a published photographer or perhaps they would prefer to tell more embarrassing stories such as how, after walking in to the den and glancing at the T.V., he mistakenly announced to a room full of people that the dancers currently being featured on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade “sucked”, only to be told by Grandma Edwards, in a near whisper, that the particular group of performers being shown were actually physically disabled. In hindsight, I suppose that’s why I thought they were uncoordinated.
I didn’t mean to be a jerk about it, it was an honest mistake, but fairly typical of the open mouth insert foot policy that rules a majority of my “social mistakes”.
So what will my kids call me for? I don't widdle wood; I can't fix a car engine, I don't know the best way to grow a vegetable, and apparently I am a pretty insensitive guy. In short, I better get a hobby if I expect to keep up with the standard my father has already set. A hobby that I can do in my spare time and can speak about with some credibility. Something, no matter how superfluous, that my kids will think to say, "Hey! Dad knows about that." Whatever I decide on, I'm sure that my kids will at least let me believe I'm an expert, at least I hope they grant me that.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Fat Spiderman Owned by Pigeons

The title pretty much sums it up, "Fat Spider Man Owned by Pigeons". It's not new, but it is funny. I would submit that if we, as a species, were going to send something out into space with the intention that one day it would be "intercepted" by another race of beings to be reviewed, I would say our humor would be most appropriate. I wouldn't necessarily send out the entire catalog of YouTube, but send a few videos like this, the series "The State", anything from Seth McFarland, Cheech and Chong and Benny Hill.
Until next time, enjoy this piece of pure random.

Oh, grow up.

The signs are everywhere. I see them in the mirror, I see them in my personality, I see them in my actions, my words, and my thoughts. I am getting older, there is no denying that, but why don’t I "feel" older? I figured by now, as a somewhat worldly man in my 30s, that I should at least start feeling more mature. I'm not even sure what being mature means really. My "vision" of what defines maturity is spotty at best. Should I smoke a pipe and talk about politics while attending some theatre play or art exhibit opening? I haven't the foggiest.
This isn’t to say that I am immature and can't take care of my life in a responsible manner, I do. I am a devoted husband and father of (soon to be) three children. I take care of my two dogs. I ensure my house is clean and well maintained. I work hard and have enjoyed success in my career. I pay my bills on time and am friendly with my neighbors. Even though all of these "attributes" seem to qualify me as a responsible adult, I still feel like I did when I was a kid when it comes to things I should care about; or at least the things I’m told to care about.
Some would say that perhaps that means I am young at heart. What I see instead is only a semi-adult, an apprentice of adulthood, a learner of life lessons. I have found myself speaking with men, not much older than myself, and feel as though I am less an adult than they are. That their maturity levels surpass me by such a large margin that what I am thinking must be true, that I have not fully "arrived" at adulthood. I still laugh at farts for crying out loud! How can I be a mature full-fledged adult when I still laugh at a fart?
Now, granted, some of the feelings I had when I was 17 have worked themselves out and I am slightly less moronic than I was then. I was never really the kid who cared much about what you thought. Whether it was about me, the way I dressed or the friends I kept. However, now as an adult, I REALLY don't care what anyone thinks outside of say, my wife, but I am at least respectful of our differences now. Additionally, I am not as unsure about my life or who I am now as I was back then. I have a clearer picture of all that. I didn’t have much of what you would consider a “life plan” back then and now, I can plan and pursue while still maintaining some flexibility to account for change.
See, that is exactly what I am talking about.
My attitude towards planning a life and still maintaining flexibility is very mature, especially since it is coming from a guy who is counting down the days until Modern Warfare 2 is released. Yes, I purchased the Prestige Edition, and yes, I am very excited to try out the night vision goggles that come with it.
Trying to determine whether or not I am a real adult reminds me of what a friend of mine once said about his father. He referred to his dad as having "Peter Pan Syndrome". I asked him what that meant, and he said, "My father never grew up". There are plenty of people out there like that. All of them looking to get by on the minimum, get something for nothing and wonder across the face of the Earth like zombies in search of hand outs instead of "brainsssssss". I don't feel as though I belong in that category, but I am trapped somewhere in between responsible and ridiculous.
I see recent pictures of people that I went to high school with or knew as a child and, for the most part, they all look like adults. They talk about their families or careers and have opinions on health care reform or the current status of global economics. Perhaps I am ridiculous because I don't care to engage in conversations about these types of things. I suppose that is what I mean by feeling like a kid. The opinions on topics which are the drive for so many water cooler conversations don't interest me that much. Its not that I am not concerned with health care reform or global economics, I am, and so is my Roth IRA, but I am just not as concerned as what people are saying about them. For example, I think I would rather turn on my Playstation than sit through a town hall meeting regarding the town landfill. It just doesn’t interest me like I think that maybe it should.
In closing, I may not have taken a big ol’ sip of the maturity laced Kool-Aid, but I am doing alright anyway. I take care of what needs to be taken care of, I consider and reconsider options and act accordingly and more importantly I am trying to raise responsible and sensible future adults. I do all of this while still occasionally getting in some video game time or having burping contests with my three-year-old.
Since I have been writing this article, I think I may have gotten a little more mature. I think I may now hold an opinion on landfills; they smell like a fart.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.

Let me "stress" this...

Let's talk about mechanisms. Not the type of mechanisms associated with biology, chemistry or philosophy. Not even the mechanisms associated with sociology, technology or engineering. I am referring specifically to coping mechanisms. The little cogs in the machine of life that are designed to directly, or in some cases indirectly, deal with stress.
I have a tendency to write, organize, plan and simply "do" when I am stressed. These are my methods of coping. In an environment, like our everyday lives, that is so random, these methods seem to make sense to me. I can create order where there is none, see organization out of a disorder and piece together a plan out of nothing but variables. It's pointless, it's frustrating; it's my coping mechanism.
When I was younger, I used stress as a motivator to accomplish my goals. The higher the stress level, the "sharper" I was. I covered alot of ground very quickly thanks to stress. One thing I realized as I got older, however, is that the more you depend on stress to get you through, the harder it was to shake that "edgy" feeling you get during and afterwards. It's almost like adrenaline, but dirtier. Now, I can hardly relax at all. Unfortunately, I don't have the energy of an 18-year-old anymore, so the "doing" part of my coping is sometimes shelved until I can get up motivation to "do" something.
Hobbies are good ways to alleviate stress. In fact, that is a good portion of the reason I began to write this blog. It is a hobby that takes time, planning, some time to research, organize and produce. It's a perfect fit for my desire to produce while trying to make sense out of something that is impossible to detail.
Perhaps if I had more money I could have hobbies that made more of an impact on either my life or the world. Certainly more of an impact than simply blasting out my opinion on every subject that happens to lazily wander across my path. Maybe I could skydive, or even better, skydive for charity! I suppose I am not altruistic enough to pursue such lofty sounding acts for the good of the order. Like most, I can only do what my time, energy, circumstance and disposition will allow, although, I'm sure I could do more if I tried.
In the end, I'm sure that at some point in my life I will look back and see a variety of mole hills I crushed, mountains I leaped over and opportunities that I flat out missed, all while applying my tactics for sanity and peace. Luckily, I have the support of family and friends that will make that journey not only manageable, but meaningful.
So, with all of that, I suppose what I am saying is that stress is the result of the journey and being tired is a side effect of the trip. A little fatigue certainly beats the alternative.
Until next time, enjoy the pure random.