Empathy: Identification with or understanding of the thoughts, feelings, or emotional state of another person.
Sympathy: A feeling of pity or sorrow for the distress or suffering of another.
I experienced a little bit of the manipulative force of the active alcoholic during my father's final days. I forget how good we become at manipulating people, or trying to, at least. The Book talks about some of our defense mechanisms: no one knows we're drinking; we're only hurting ourselves; a lively bender is a good man's reward; we're going to work and supporting the family so fuck off already; and so on and so forth. Dad raised the ante, trotting out the "its the only thing I have left" argument, particularly effective and awfully sinister for the unprepared. After mom died he used this one to devastating effect on my sister, unprepared for this level of cynicism as she was.
I have been musing on his state of mind and soundness of body during his last days. The fact of the matter is that he came from healthy stock, sturdy Germans who lived to advanced ages, and he didn't really have any serious health issues, even at the very end. The doctor termed his demise as "Failure to Thrive," meaning that he wasn't trying to thrive any more. He wasn't ill or diseased or cancer ridden - he quit eating and drinking, and waited to die.
A few years back he took some nasty falls outside, slipping on the ice in the winter and crashing down hard. His back was a mess - he wasn't mobile, couldn't drive, undoubtedly experiencing a lot of discomfort. I felt a lot of empathy for him - I wished that he was in finer mettle - but not a lot of sympathy, befitting a recovering alcoholic with many years of experience dealing with non-family members who try to blame their problems on other people, places, and things. While I have no proof he was drunk or drinking when he fell, the circumstantial evidence is compelling. It's one thing to ponder the existential unfairness of cancer or an accident striking down an otherwise healthy individual - another one altogether to gaze upon self-inflicted damage. I know that sounds a little clinical. I know it's hard for the alcoholic to stop alcoholizing. Still, it can be done.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Monday, May 30, 2016
The Three Absolutes
Absolute: Complete; utter; outright; unmitigated; entire; total; not qualified or diminished in any way; without limitation.
One of the most powerful benefits of The Program is that it gets us in the habit of talking about everything, especially important in the sex, money, power instinctual departments, those most troublesome of departments. I have some guys that I can easily talk to about everything. I also have lots of guys - and some women, too - that I can talk to about just about everything and with whom I could make the transition to the absolutely everything department if I the need became acute. Generally, I leave the gory details of these instincts at the door when I walk into a meeting. Everybody there knows the general tenor of my instinctual problems and I go into specifics to make a point but I am careful not to get too personal. People don't need to hear every last twist and turn of the problems I occasionally have with money, power, and sex, problems that all of us are going to have from time to time. There are very few absolutes in The Fellowship but that's one of them.
My sponsor listened to my reflections on my parents and how they positioned money in their lives. I have to remember that my folks grew up in a much different world than I did, lest I get into the "You're Doing It Wrong" state of mind that seems to predominate my worldview. He told a story about his father buying a new refrigerator and trying to talk the appliance store into loading it in the trunk of his car - a Cadillac, for chrissake - to save the $10 delivery charge. They kindly told him that they'd be happy to waive the fee and deliver the refrigerator for free.
Before dad got very sick I had been looking at replacing SuperK's car. Spandex has been having a few problems with his old car, so we had a casual conversation about whether my vehicle might be a good fit for him. Spandex is one of the guys that I talk to about absolutely everything so he has patiently listened to my money musings after dad died - while there's no connection between the new car and dad's death I will admit it has taken a little of the pressure off. He suggested that maybe going out and splurging once might be a way to reduce that pressure - give yourself a treat and then drop back into your old lifestyle.
"So you're suggesting that I buy that new car?" I said, never missing a chance to needle someone.
"Well," he said. "I was thinking more along the lines of a nice dinner."
I think the point is that as long as I'm leaving no impulses in my secret never-telling-anyone place that I end up behaving pretty well.
One of the most powerful benefits of The Program is that it gets us in the habit of talking about everything, especially important in the sex, money, power instinctual departments, those most troublesome of departments. I have some guys that I can easily talk to about everything. I also have lots of guys - and some women, too - that I can talk to about just about everything and with whom I could make the transition to the absolutely everything department if I the need became acute. Generally, I leave the gory details of these instincts at the door when I walk into a meeting. Everybody there knows the general tenor of my instinctual problems and I go into specifics to make a point but I am careful not to get too personal. People don't need to hear every last twist and turn of the problems I occasionally have with money, power, and sex, problems that all of us are going to have from time to time. There are very few absolutes in The Fellowship but that's one of them.
My sponsor listened to my reflections on my parents and how they positioned money in their lives. I have to remember that my folks grew up in a much different world than I did, lest I get into the "You're Doing It Wrong" state of mind that seems to predominate my worldview. He told a story about his father buying a new refrigerator and trying to talk the appliance store into loading it in the trunk of his car - a Cadillac, for chrissake - to save the $10 delivery charge. They kindly told him that they'd be happy to waive the fee and deliver the refrigerator for free.
Before dad got very sick I had been looking at replacing SuperK's car. Spandex has been having a few problems with his old car, so we had a casual conversation about whether my vehicle might be a good fit for him. Spandex is one of the guys that I talk to about absolutely everything so he has patiently listened to my money musings after dad died - while there's no connection between the new car and dad's death I will admit it has taken a little of the pressure off. He suggested that maybe going out and splurging once might be a way to reduce that pressure - give yourself a treat and then drop back into your old lifestyle.
"So you're suggesting that I buy that new car?" I said, never missing a chance to needle someone.
"Well," he said. "I was thinking more along the lines of a nice dinner."
I think the point is that as long as I'm leaving no impulses in my secret never-telling-anyone place that I end up behaving pretty well.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Bag Of Torments
Conundrum: A difficult choice or decision that must be made.
More money reflections . . .
I sent my sister a picture this morning of my food pantry where I have about 97 cases of generic flavored carbonated water stacked up. See, I got a coupon from my grocery store offering me a $5 discount if I purchased $50 worth of food. The conundrum for me was that I didn't need $50 of food. The conundrum was complicated by the fact that I didn't want to buy things I wouldn't ordinarily buy, for this would mean that the grocery store had won a round, enticing me into spending money on things I didn't need just to get the discount - which IS $5, by the way. I defeated the system by purchasing this staple that won't be affected by sitting in my pantry for several eons. Unfortunately, I snapped my ankle hauling in what seemed to be around 212 pounds of carbonated water.
But I had a coupon!
Even better is the fact that the cash register generated this $5 coupon after I had successfully redeemed a $6 coupon on a $30 order. Obviously, the 6 on 30 - or 20% - is better than the 5 on 50 - or 10% - but $5 is $5 right?
Loaded up on my phone is a picture of a small notebook that I liberated from one of my mother's stockpiles of odd things. I'm using the notebook as a journal. Anyway, the notebook is from the aforementioned variety chain store that went out of business in 1994, so it's not holding up too well - paper begins to weaken and break down as the decades stack up. I've had to resort to holding the front cover on with a rubber band which I think was originally used to hold together a bunch of radishes that I bought from the grocery store that gave me the coupon, come to think of it! Maybe I even bought the radishes with the coupon, the net result being some free radishes to me! Suck on that, grocery chain - I have your free radishes AND a free rubber band!
Anyway, I've been thinking about my mother and father and their relationship with money. I have to remember that these are people who grew up in the Great Recession and during WWII when things were scarce, the future uncertain, protections and care from anyone but one's self not guaranteed. I think that money, to a certain extent, was a comfort rather than a luxury. I think that mom/dad enjoyed the security blanket of having a money cushion more than they would have enjoyed a BMW. When I bagged up the clothes dad had in the nursing home so that we could donate them to his church I was not surprised to see that they were . . . ahem . . . nicely aged. Now, dad didn't care about clothes and he viewed clothes shopping as something Satan has in his bag of torments but still, a new sweat shirt or two? My sister would have gladly picked those up for him.
Because money is one of those things that is fraught with peril for me I talked to my sponsor about it. He listened, he chuckled, he said: " I think your folks would want you to enjoy the money. I'm sure you'll make good decisions."
Had to cancel that order for a $1,800 Fendi wallet when I got off the phone.
More money reflections . . .
I sent my sister a picture this morning of my food pantry where I have about 97 cases of generic flavored carbonated water stacked up. See, I got a coupon from my grocery store offering me a $5 discount if I purchased $50 worth of food. The conundrum for me was that I didn't need $50 of food. The conundrum was complicated by the fact that I didn't want to buy things I wouldn't ordinarily buy, for this would mean that the grocery store had won a round, enticing me into spending money on things I didn't need just to get the discount - which IS $5, by the way. I defeated the system by purchasing this staple that won't be affected by sitting in my pantry for several eons. Unfortunately, I snapped my ankle hauling in what seemed to be around 212 pounds of carbonated water.
But I had a coupon!
Even better is the fact that the cash register generated this $5 coupon after I had successfully redeemed a $6 coupon on a $30 order. Obviously, the 6 on 30 - or 20% - is better than the 5 on 50 - or 10% - but $5 is $5 right?
Loaded up on my phone is a picture of a small notebook that I liberated from one of my mother's stockpiles of odd things. I'm using the notebook as a journal. Anyway, the notebook is from the aforementioned variety chain store that went out of business in 1994, so it's not holding up too well - paper begins to weaken and break down as the decades stack up. I've had to resort to holding the front cover on with a rubber band which I think was originally used to hold together a bunch of radishes that I bought from the grocery store that gave me the coupon, come to think of it! Maybe I even bought the radishes with the coupon, the net result being some free radishes to me! Suck on that, grocery chain - I have your free radishes AND a free rubber band!
Anyway, I've been thinking about my mother and father and their relationship with money. I have to remember that these are people who grew up in the Great Recession and during WWII when things were scarce, the future uncertain, protections and care from anyone but one's self not guaranteed. I think that money, to a certain extent, was a comfort rather than a luxury. I think that mom/dad enjoyed the security blanket of having a money cushion more than they would have enjoyed a BMW. When I bagged up the clothes dad had in the nursing home so that we could donate them to his church I was not surprised to see that they were . . . ahem . . . nicely aged. Now, dad didn't care about clothes and he viewed clothes shopping as something Satan has in his bag of torments but still, a new sweat shirt or two? My sister would have gladly picked those up for him.
Because money is one of those things that is fraught with peril for me I talked to my sponsor about it. He listened, he chuckled, he said: " I think your folks would want you to enjoy the money. I'm sure you'll make good decisions."
Had to cancel that order for a $1,800 Fendi wallet when I got off the phone.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
A Simple Plan, Starring Bill Paxton and Billy Bob Thornton and Some Other Guy Who Was Pretty Good, Too
Simple: Uncomplicated; taken by itself, with nothing added.
What happens to their simple plan, of course, is that it becomes more and more complicated. People get hurt, people get killed, the situation deteriorates into a spectacular unmanageability. At the end of the movie only one of the three is alive - he still has the money - and it looks like he's going to get away with it. Then . . . he finds out from the cops that they had recorded the serial numbers of the cash before they handed it over as a ransom.
The look on the going-to-get-away-with-it guy is priceless. He's sitting in the shambles of his ruined life - it was portrayed as a good but unspectacular existence in the opening scenes - aware that he'll never be able to spend any of the ill-gotten money.
I reflect on my own relationship with money. As I've stayed sober - like most of us - I've been able to save a little. It's amazing how expensive drugs and bars and lawyers can get - my little nest egg got bigger when I quit shoveling shovelfuls of it into those black holes. In one of the many great (and cruel?) ironies of my existence I find that I value money less and less. It seemed so important and now that I have more of it I see it isn't as important that I thought it was. Don't get me wrong - I'm grateful that I have a cushion and that I can pamper myself from time to time. Not all of us get to that point and there's nothing worse than a guy getting out of a Porsche and counseling prudence in money matters (Ed. Note: I DO have a Porsche, too - it's jet black, has a cool fin and wicked tires and fits in the palm of my hand. I also have a similarly sized Ferrari).
It was a good film to watch as I battle my out-sized instincts with the investment guy. Unspectacular but simple.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Annuity!??
I'm trying to sort through some of the money matters from my father's estate. It's not that it's a lot of money - it's the fact that it's any money that is around the vicinity of my hands or pockets. I'm trying to maintain a healthy disconnect from the money - doesn't matter how much or how little - because for me it can be a really violent, suffocating instinctual drive, one that can take me into dark, selfish places. I think it has caused more problems in the history of mankind than sex and power, and those two dudes have caused a whole lot of trouble. I find that I can get bent around the axle over the smallest sums if I think I'm getting cheated or hustled or bamboozled in any way.
Mom and dad invested some money in a thing called an annuity, a Greek word for "a very complicated, opaque, money-suck." This annuity was sold to them by an organization associated with their particular church sect. This means that it is a perfectly safe investment administered by god-fearing people who would never, ever do anything that wasn't in the best interest of the clients, in this case my parents.
Well, I don't know about that. I took a look at an annuity many years ago and I found it to be an incredibly confusing contractual financial product sold and administered by life insurance companies. It isn't a life insurance product, exactly, begging the question as to why it's being sold by a life insurance company. I think I'm pretty good with math but I have no idea what the fuck this thing is or what it cost or anything. I'm at this company's mercy at this point.
I met the salesman once. I thought he was a decent guy. I don't think he cheated anybody and I don't think he behaved in an unethical, let alone illegal way. I think he works for a company that makes a whole shitload of money selling confusing stuff to worried old people who don't really understand what they're buying and definitely don't understand what it's costing them, stuff that is stacked heavily in favor of the company, and imagine that in this day and age.
I contacted this guy with some questions. They were pretty hazy questions with an underlying odor of "how quickly can I get these funds out of your selfish company." He took his time replying; he didn't answer the questions although he provide me with a lot of information; he told me he was going to deal with my sister first, and then me; and that he was out of the office for a week.
Somebody's starting to get on my shit list and I'll give you a minute to figure out who.
I responded that my sister and I had discussed this, and that since I was the executor of the estate that he should start out with me. I asked very politely if someone else in the office could help me in his absence? I did not ask very snarkily that if I had called up asking for help in investing the sum of money that I was trying to withdraw if, at that point, someone would have been able to help me? That would have been dickish but oh, so satisfying.
See? See how it starts? I'm at war already and I'm looking for someone to fight. I must really like war, battling, Don Quixote getting knocked head over tails by a windmill that is surely a fire-spitting dragon.
It's all going to work out OK. The money has been invested in this account for 20 years so another couple of weeks isn't going to make any difference one way or another. It is annoying that he's responding when he finds it convenient - I feel like the little kid trying to get the ball that the big kid is holding up in the air just out of my reach, watching me flail and jump to no avail. I'm sure this guy has decided it's in his best interests to drive a wedge between my sister and me and I'm sure he's starting with the woman, not the guy who fired off a list of pointed questions. My sister - busy raising too kids and exhausted from taking care of a sick man for a year - took the information and passed it on to me and I contacted the guy again.
He has no idea who he's dealing with. I can outlast this guy. I'm tireless. He's got my money and I'm either going to get it or I'm going to make him regret ever being born, and I say that in the nicest way.
:)
Well, I don't know about that. I took a look at an annuity many years ago and I found it to be an incredibly confusing contractual financial product sold and administered by life insurance companies. It isn't a life insurance product, exactly, begging the question as to why it's being sold by a life insurance company. I think I'm pretty good with math but I have no idea what the fuck this thing is or what it cost or anything. I'm at this company's mercy at this point.
I met the salesman once. I thought he was a decent guy. I don't think he cheated anybody and I don't think he behaved in an unethical, let alone illegal way. I think he works for a company that makes a whole shitload of money selling confusing stuff to worried old people who don't really understand what they're buying and definitely don't understand what it's costing them, stuff that is stacked heavily in favor of the company, and imagine that in this day and age.
I contacted this guy with some questions. They were pretty hazy questions with an underlying odor of "how quickly can I get these funds out of your selfish company." He took his time replying; he didn't answer the questions although he provide me with a lot of information; he told me he was going to deal with my sister first, and then me; and that he was out of the office for a week.
Somebody's starting to get on my shit list and I'll give you a minute to figure out who.
I responded that my sister and I had discussed this, and that since I was the executor of the estate that he should start out with me. I asked very politely if someone else in the office could help me in his absence? I did not ask very snarkily that if I had called up asking for help in investing the sum of money that I was trying to withdraw if, at that point, someone would have been able to help me? That would have been dickish but oh, so satisfying.
See? See how it starts? I'm at war already and I'm looking for someone to fight. I must really like war, battling, Don Quixote getting knocked head over tails by a windmill that is surely a fire-spitting dragon.
It's all going to work out OK. The money has been invested in this account for 20 years so another couple of weeks isn't going to make any difference one way or another. It is annoying that he's responding when he finds it convenient - I feel like the little kid trying to get the ball that the big kid is holding up in the air just out of my reach, watching me flail and jump to no avail. I'm sure this guy has decided it's in his best interests to drive a wedge between my sister and me and I'm sure he's starting with the woman, not the guy who fired off a list of pointed questions. My sister - busy raising too kids and exhausted from taking care of a sick man for a year - took the information and passed it on to me and I contacted the guy again.
He has no idea who he's dealing with. I can outlast this guy. I'm tireless. He's got my money and I'm either going to get it or I'm going to make him regret ever being born, and I say that in the nicest way.
:)
Monday, May 23, 2016
$4 OR $50
One of my surrogate grandchildren from next door won a prize at her school for attaining a perfect 4.0 GPA. When I heard about this from her grandparents, as they were climbing into the car to attend the ceremony, I sprinted into the house and retrieved a couple of two dollar bills that I had found in the back of one of the dressers in my dad's bedroom.
"Tell her 4 bucks for a perfect 4," I said, handing them over.
A few days later there was a knock on the door. It was my granddaughter and her impossibly cute little sister.
"Thank you for the 4 dollars," she said. "And I'm sorry about your father."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about your father, too," the little one chimed in.
I knew this would happen. And it isn't why I gave her the money - that impulse came from a good place inside me. She may have come up with the visit on her own and she may have gotten a little nudge and reminder from her no-bullshit grandparents. It doesn't matter a whit to me which is which - the deal is she did it.
A few days later I got an email from a relative who was volunteering for a charitable cause. I never hear from this very good child unless money is involved. There is never a personal note attached, either - I'm just included in a string of names on a mini-mass emailing. I gave $50. It's a charity that I approve of and I'm happy this kid is volunteering. When I clicked on "Donate" it showed me that she had raised the grand total of $75 from everyone else. Maybe it was early in the process and the money was starting to flow in. Maybe. I have not heard a word of thanks from her yet. And this isn't why I gave her the money, either.
Need I say that one of these families doesn't have any extra money and one does? Care to guess which is which?
"Tell her 4 bucks for a perfect 4," I said, handing them over.
A few days later there was a knock on the door. It was my granddaughter and her impossibly cute little sister.
"Thank you for the 4 dollars," she said. "And I'm sorry about your father."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about your father, too," the little one chimed in.
I knew this would happen. And it isn't why I gave her the money - that impulse came from a good place inside me. She may have come up with the visit on her own and she may have gotten a little nudge and reminder from her no-bullshit grandparents. It doesn't matter a whit to me which is which - the deal is she did it.
A few days later I got an email from a relative who was volunteering for a charitable cause. I never hear from this very good child unless money is involved. There is never a personal note attached, either - I'm just included in a string of names on a mini-mass emailing. I gave $50. It's a charity that I approve of and I'm happy this kid is volunteering. When I clicked on "Donate" it showed me that she had raised the grand total of $75 from everyone else. Maybe it was early in the process and the money was starting to flow in. Maybe. I have not heard a word of thanks from her yet. And this isn't why I gave her the money, either.
Need I say that one of these families doesn't have any extra money and one does? Care to guess which is which?
Sunday, May 22, 2016
True Dat
Truth: Conformity to fact or reality; correctness; accuracy.
I was texting with Massachusetts D about my great love, great affinity, great talent in the arena of lying. He made the excellent suggestion that I try to wrap all of the various fake occupations into one big clump of deception. If someone interrupts the lie with a pesky question that requires an expounding, and threatens to unravel the lie, simply move further into the lie. Double down. Sort of like countering a challenge to a dubious statement with the answer: "I don't remember. I had just returned from shopping for a new speedboat . . . " Usually, the speedboat thing snaps the attention away from the thread that was potentially unraveling.
My only reservation to the big ball of lies is that complexity can be a threat. I have a strict policy - not inviolable but strict - against complication in my lying. I think the biggest downfall for liars is that we forget what we've said sometimes which leaves us open to challenges: "Hey, I thought you said . . . " etc etc. NOTHING is worse for the liar than getting caught in a lie. We abhor that. One of the great beauties of telling the truth is that you don't have to remember what you've said.
But sometimes we have to go for it, stretch our wings a little, get experimental. I'm always up for a good challenge.
I was texting with Massachusetts D about my great love, great affinity, great talent in the arena of lying. He made the excellent suggestion that I try to wrap all of the various fake occupations into one big clump of deception. If someone interrupts the lie with a pesky question that requires an expounding, and threatens to unravel the lie, simply move further into the lie. Double down. Sort of like countering a challenge to a dubious statement with the answer: "I don't remember. I had just returned from shopping for a new speedboat . . . " Usually, the speedboat thing snaps the attention away from the thread that was potentially unraveling.
My only reservation to the big ball of lies is that complexity can be a threat. I have a strict policy - not inviolable but strict - against complication in my lying. I think the biggest downfall for liars is that we forget what we've said sometimes which leaves us open to challenges: "Hey, I thought you said . . . " etc etc. NOTHING is worse for the liar than getting caught in a lie. We abhor that. One of the great beauties of telling the truth is that you don't have to remember what you've said.
But sometimes we have to go for it, stretch our wings a little, get experimental. I'm always up for a good challenge.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Good Old Bartleby
Scrivener: A professional writer; one whose occupation is to draw contracts or prepare writings.
A friend asked me if I had read the short story "Bartleby the Scrivener" by Herman Melville. The character, a valued employee of a law firm, suddenly stops doing his assigned work, saying only: "I prefer not to." He will not be swayed, eventually dying in prison.
The question - I assume there's a reason I was asked but didn't pause long enough to find out what it might be - triggered a wide-ranging set of related thoughts. Such as:
When people here in Vacation City ask me what I do or what I did for a living I usually say: "I sold equipment used in process control and predictive maintenance." This is mostly true and I know enough about these two areas to fill in the blanks if I'm pressed further, which I rarely am. From time to time I've said I was a consultant because I enjoy the looks of confusion and awe on people's faces. But because I'm often talking to people who I know I'll see again or who may know SuperK I keep my oral creative writing under wraps.
In The Old City I tell people I'm from Vacation City and that I'm either an illustrator or an animator. I have no idea what either of those things are or if they even exist. I've thought about being an Event Planner but I could see some starstruck individual pursuing that line of thought, digging uncomfortably deeper, even though, in such an eventuality, I've decided to say that I'm a supervisor, that I have people who do the actual illustrating or animating or even planning for me. So far nobody has touched it with a ten foot pole. I enjoy the feeling of power that comes with being a Vacation City illustrator supervisor.
I have always wanted to say that I'm a chiropodist but haven't gone there yet. I think I should try "scrivener" someday.
There's a famous Seinfeld episode where Jerry runs into a guy - the fastest kid in their high school - that he beat in a race long ago by getting away with a false start. Dubious, the kid repeatedly asks Jerry for a rematch, to which he replies: "I choose not to run." Some schools of thought imagine this as a reference to Bartleby, some to a bastardization of Calvin Coolidge saying: "I do not choose to run for President in 1928."
I have read the story but long, long ago. Sounds like it's due for a re-reading.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Got No Idea What I'm Doing Most of the Time
More from the pool . . . Maybe I should set up a tent in the corner and live there - I bet breathing chlorine fumes 24/7 wouldn't do any more damage to my body than some of the shit I drank, smoked, snorted, inhaled or injected.
I was gasping for oxygen at the end of one of my four sets, chatting with Tom, one of my swimming buddies. He's faster than me - as are most people - but not too much faster so I don't resent him overly much. When people inquire after my well-being I'm just telling them that my father died. I'm not trying to be dramatic or to elicit sympathy but I do want to make sure I'm getting this stuff out.
I was telling him about my last words to dad when I noticed his jaw trembling - he was choking up. It was a very moving moment for me - we all wonder if, at the end, we will do or say the right thing. His reaction made me think I was in the ballgame at least.
Spandex was asking me about the characterization of the final hours as sacred. I felt that those final words eased things for me or opened a new awareness or made things more significant. You know, I didn't plan on saying anything that night and I didn't practise those words or think much about what I said after I said it. I acted.
I continue to marvel at the sentiment that we will begin to intuitively handle things which used to baffle us, which was about everything. I think that if we pursue spiritual growth to the best of our ability we'll start to have these powerful intuitions. I don't try to figure it out anymore. It's too spoooooooky.
I was gasping for oxygen at the end of one of my four sets, chatting with Tom, one of my swimming buddies. He's faster than me - as are most people - but not too much faster so I don't resent him overly much. When people inquire after my well-being I'm just telling them that my father died. I'm not trying to be dramatic or to elicit sympathy but I do want to make sure I'm getting this stuff out.
I was telling him about my last words to dad when I noticed his jaw trembling - he was choking up. It was a very moving moment for me - we all wonder if, at the end, we will do or say the right thing. His reaction made me think I was in the ballgame at least.
Spandex was asking me about the characterization of the final hours as sacred. I felt that those final words eased things for me or opened a new awareness or made things more significant. You know, I didn't plan on saying anything that night and I didn't practise those words or think much about what I said after I said it. I acted.
I continue to marvel at the sentiment that we will begin to intuitively handle things which used to baffle us, which was about everything. I think that if we pursue spiritual growth to the best of our ability we'll start to have these powerful intuitions. I don't try to figure it out anymore. It's too spoooooooky.
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Something is Better Than Half of Nothing
Rigorous: Allowing no abatement or mitigation; scrupulously accurate; exact; strict; severe; relentless.
Honesty: The condition of being scrupulous with regard to telling the truth; not given to swindling, lying, or fraud; upright.
(Ed. Note: lotta scrupulousness in there . . . )
Some more of the Frontier brand of customer service . . .
In the last installment our hero Stevie Seaweed was stymied at every term by a seemingly intractable customer service apparatus. Wiser than he looks, he withdrew to fight another day.
I'm married, after all, aware that I can only win some of the fights which entangle me - sometimes regrouping is best. Hiding is not unheard of. Lying on my back, exposing my soft underbelly happens more often than I'd care to admit.
Still, I soldiered on.
I procure a letter from the funeral home, packed with important dates and numbers, and send it to the customer service people. I listen to Frontier MasterCard advertisements for about 20 minutes while they try to locate the fax. I'm picturing a storage area that looks like the basement of an 82 year old compulsive hoarder - faxes piled everywhere, stuffed willy-nilly into filing cabinets, tall stacks teetering precariously, collapsing into dusty corners from time to time, old fluorescent light tubes dimly flickering.
My nice customer service agent comes back.
"We need the death certificate," she declares.
"This is not what you told me last time," I pointed out, entirely correctly, aware that I had no physical documentation that this was so. A bad lawyer would quickly shred me to bits in a court of law.
She goes away, comes back, goes away, the process repeating itself a few times, interspersed with requests that I be patient, apologies for the delay, etc etc etc.
"What we can do," she says. "Is give you half the refund now and half when we get the death certificate."
I'm impressed with these people. They don't bend easily and when they do they don't do what they say they're going to do. It's quite a system. It's hard to beat a system like that. After all, they have my money and until they give it back saying that they will give it back doesn't help me at all. The saying is the easy part - the giving, apparently, is the hard part. Remember how, when you were drinking and you told people you were going to quit or moderate your drinking - for the 973rd time - you didn't get a very positive response? I'm kind of at that point with Frontier.
"Okay, fine," I say. I have never expected to get anything so half of something is not nothing.
"How much is the credit going to be for?" I ask, as a total afterthought.
The amount she quotes is the cost of the entire ticket, not the rebooking. I almost laughed out loud. I also got off the phone without pointing out her error. The last thing I wanted to do was give her an excuse to pause the act of giving me something. I figure I can call back if they give me too much. See how they like it when someone doesn't give them something they want.
The Big Question: will I do this?
(Ed. Note: As of this very second nothing is still the amount I have been given).
Honesty: The condition of being scrupulous with regard to telling the truth; not given to swindling, lying, or fraud; upright.
(Ed. Note: lotta scrupulousness in there . . . )
Some more of the Frontier brand of customer service . . .
In the last installment our hero Stevie Seaweed was stymied at every term by a seemingly intractable customer service apparatus. Wiser than he looks, he withdrew to fight another day.
I'm married, after all, aware that I can only win some of the fights which entangle me - sometimes regrouping is best. Hiding is not unheard of. Lying on my back, exposing my soft underbelly happens more often than I'd care to admit.
Still, I soldiered on.
I procure a letter from the funeral home, packed with important dates and numbers, and send it to the customer service people. I listen to Frontier MasterCard advertisements for about 20 minutes while they try to locate the fax. I'm picturing a storage area that looks like the basement of an 82 year old compulsive hoarder - faxes piled everywhere, stuffed willy-nilly into filing cabinets, tall stacks teetering precariously, collapsing into dusty corners from time to time, old fluorescent light tubes dimly flickering.
My nice customer service agent comes back.
"We need the death certificate," she declares.
"This is not what you told me last time," I pointed out, entirely correctly, aware that I had no physical documentation that this was so. A bad lawyer would quickly shred me to bits in a court of law.
She goes away, comes back, goes away, the process repeating itself a few times, interspersed with requests that I be patient, apologies for the delay, etc etc etc.
"What we can do," she says. "Is give you half the refund now and half when we get the death certificate."
I'm impressed with these people. They don't bend easily and when they do they don't do what they say they're going to do. It's quite a system. It's hard to beat a system like that. After all, they have my money and until they give it back saying that they will give it back doesn't help me at all. The saying is the easy part - the giving, apparently, is the hard part. Remember how, when you were drinking and you told people you were going to quit or moderate your drinking - for the 973rd time - you didn't get a very positive response? I'm kind of at that point with Frontier.
"Okay, fine," I say. I have never expected to get anything so half of something is not nothing.
"How much is the credit going to be for?" I ask, as a total afterthought.
The amount she quotes is the cost of the entire ticket, not the rebooking. I almost laughed out loud. I also got off the phone without pointing out her error. The last thing I wanted to do was give her an excuse to pause the act of giving me something. I figure I can call back if they give me too much. See how they like it when someone doesn't give them something they want.
The Big Question: will I do this?
(Ed. Note: As of this very second nothing is still the amount I have been given).
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Logically Intuitive
Intuition: Immediate cognition without the use of conscious rational processed; a perceptive insight gained by the use of this faculty.
"In thinking about our day we may face indecision. We may not be able to determine which course to take. Here we ask God for inspiration, an intuitive thought or decision. We relax and take it easy. We don't struggle. We are often surprised how the right answers come after we have tried this for a while."
And then, of course, the famous: "We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us."
I was in the pool the other day - I know, I know, everyone is sick of the pool stories but this is a pool story featuring me behaving well - telling a friend who had inquired about my absence where I had been. At one point I shared with him the last words that I had spoken to my father before he died - my father, not the friend in the pool, who definitely did not die. I noticed that he appeared to be on verge of tears because he was, in fact, on the verge of tears. It made me feel good, partially because it's nice to know that others share your pain but mostly because it confirmed that what I said to my dad, the sentiments I tried to convey through the shreds of physical reality that he was clinging onto, were reasonable and appropriate.
I think a lot about intuition. As a general rule it doesn't play a big part in determining the behavior of personality types like mine - INTJs are big into logical planning and practical action. We make flow charts, do research, pull the trigger on actions that make solid, rational sense. Standing back, getting a feel for something, and then letting it rip isn't who we are. Still, there I was, confronting a dying parent - my one and only chance to do this - and I came up with something that felt right to me and sounded right to some others.
Weird shit, man, weird shit.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Dandelion Seeds In The Wind
I have been spending a little bit of my Quiet Time thinking about all of the people and places in my past, as a way of trying to honor those who came before me, those who loved me and drove me crazy and made me who I am. I have continued - a year and change down the road - to tell my sponsor Kenner and my ma that I love them and I miss them, and now pop is on that list, too. I have dropped my prayer for my father's peace of mind and spiritual contentment and acceptance of the woeful state of his balky body. For obvious reasons.
In my mind's eye these people look relaxed and content, beatific almost, smiling down at me. I see them gathered around a round table having coffee and sweet rolls, in no rush to go anywhere, just pleasantly sitting there. For some reason Kenner is calling my mother "Miz Seaweed." I wouldn't put anything past that guy. Sometimes I go back and pay homage to my grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. They all look pleased and robust, with a pinkish hue to their skin. In my mind I walk through the old houses, climb stairs, poke around basements and garages, the memory of the smells, where the light switches are, how furniture is arranged, almost visceral. In my family of modest means the furniture was solid and in place - it never moved, was never replaced. There was no redecorating, no discarding. When we were cleaning out dad's apartment my sister and I would both remember where an old end table sat, what wall a picture graced.
I was part of an email thread with some old high school friends discussing the respective scattering of our families. There was some sense of regret over lost places and things and relationships. But here we all sit - every single one of us - in distant and far-flung places. There isn't much of a sense of place in America. We are a restless people, on the move, looking elsewhere. Some of the folks on the thread were so far removed that the connections were hard to remember.
It made me think of my nuclear family: all of my grandparents were raised on farms but all of them moved to the small town in their county. I don't think any of them graduated from high school. My father and aunt were the first college graduates and they moved to different cities in the same state. My cousins and I scattered farther afield. When I was back for the funeral I thought of the large families that each of my grandparents had - every one of them had many brothers and sisters. The families have gotten smaller and have dispersed.
It kind of made me sad.
In my mind's eye these people look relaxed and content, beatific almost, smiling down at me. I see them gathered around a round table having coffee and sweet rolls, in no rush to go anywhere, just pleasantly sitting there. For some reason Kenner is calling my mother "Miz Seaweed." I wouldn't put anything past that guy. Sometimes I go back and pay homage to my grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. They all look pleased and robust, with a pinkish hue to their skin. In my mind I walk through the old houses, climb stairs, poke around basements and garages, the memory of the smells, where the light switches are, how furniture is arranged, almost visceral. In my family of modest means the furniture was solid and in place - it never moved, was never replaced. There was no redecorating, no discarding. When we were cleaning out dad's apartment my sister and I would both remember where an old end table sat, what wall a picture graced.
I was part of an email thread with some old high school friends discussing the respective scattering of our families. There was some sense of regret over lost places and things and relationships. But here we all sit - every single one of us - in distant and far-flung places. There isn't much of a sense of place in America. We are a restless people, on the move, looking elsewhere. Some of the folks on the thread were so far removed that the connections were hard to remember.
It made me think of my nuclear family: all of my grandparents were raised on farms but all of them moved to the small town in their county. I don't think any of them graduated from high school. My father and aunt were the first college graduates and they moved to different cities in the same state. My cousins and I scattered farther afield. When I was back for the funeral I thought of the large families that each of my grandparents had - every one of them had many brothers and sisters. The families have gotten smaller and have dispersed.
It kind of made me sad.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
A Little Something
I'm cruising along pretty nicely here, to be honest about it and, surprisingly enough. The fact that my father was pretty miserable and lonely, trapped in a painful, broken body, and ready to go, to all appearances, is probably making it easier on me. And being there as he was dying I believe has made a big difference. And seeing his body moments after the moment of death has helped, too. And seeing his straightened, relaxed form in the casket was big, even though I was a little perplexed by this part of the grieving process. It was unexpected. In her response to the gratitude letter that I sent the funeral director expressed relief that we had decided to proceed with an open-casket funeral, obviously of the opinion that it's a helpful, healthy part of the process of letting go.
That's all I go today.
That's all I go today.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Incoming Letters
I got the following note from a much-beloved, too-rarely-seen, ancient, ancient friend of mine, who heard of my father's passing through one of those grapevine word-of-mouth things I can only marvel at.
I have let thoughts burble up to the surface as they will over the last 10 days - not forcing them or trying to control them, not judging them, not marking them as good or bad, just watching them float up out of the murk. As I took a long, satisfying, introvert-caressing hike through the mountains east of my home yesterday I worked this letter over in my mind.
My response follows:
Big M:
I wanted to thank you again for your note on balance and acceptance. It came at a time when I was struggling to accept my father's imperfections and rejoice at his strengths. I did, after all, get my sense of humor directly from the man and my hair-trigger temper, too.
Dear Seaweed:
Just wanted to write and express my condolences upon the death of your father.
We only get one Dad – imperfect, heroic, frustrating, lovable, and much to be missed.
I wish his best qualities to be nurtured and strengthened in you.
And the fondest memories enriched.
Big M
I have let thoughts burble up to the surface as they will over the last 10 days - not forcing them or trying to control them, not judging them, not marking them as good or bad, just watching them float up out of the murk. As I took a long, satisfying, introvert-caressing hike through the mountains east of my home yesterday I worked this letter over in my mind.
My response follows:
Big M:
I wanted to thank you again for your note on balance and acceptance. It came at a time when I was struggling to accept my father's imperfections and rejoice at his strengths. I did, after all, get my sense of humor directly from the man and my hair-trigger temper, too.
I wrote yesterday about how he must have felt as a sportsman, athlete, church deacon to have spawned such a wimpy child of chaos. It must have been a burden from time to time - even knowing that he loved me and accepted me to a large degree. I wonder what went through his mind when I said: "I won't be there for Christmas - I'm going to be on the Mekong River in Cambodia." Fuckin' kid, he probably thought.
I'm also working hard to maintain a sense of balance about my behavior. I think right after death - the ultimate, undisputed, irrevocable slamming of a door, a no-parallel event, no nuance, no going back, no bargaining, no second chances - there's a very human tendency to feel regret over our own failings. As in: "Dad's pretty old - maybe I should hold off on the Mekong until next year."
I'm not wobbling too far out of balance, I don't think, but I am trying to be vigilant about keeping my thinking on an even plane.
Much love,
Seaweed
I'm not wobbling too far out of balance, I don't think, but I am trying to be vigilant about keeping my thinking on an even plane.
Much love,
Seaweed
Monday, May 9, 2016
Incoming Texts
Here are a few texts I got as I was going through this whole thing. I'm not an text-addict generally, preferring the human contact of a voice but I was busy and stressed out so these things were the rage for me for the better part of two weeks. They came winging in, landing forcefully.
"One of my customers told me when my brother was on his last leg to be as present as you can because what's going on is very sacred. Lifting you up the best I know how in prayer." Later in the week, from a different friend: "This is a sacred, challenging time. GODSPEED." The whole sacred blog arose from these two very different men moving along together on the same 5th dimension plane.
In response to hearing my last words to my father: "Beautiful, beautiful, that's all I can say, man." Then a few minutes later: "Better yet - fuckin' A."
"I was thinking - which you know is dangerous - when you said recovery prepares you for this. It almost seems that sobriety and recovery allowed you to say what you needed to say for your dad and for yourself."
"Of course, your mission remains the same: love, patience, tolerance, compassion, etc. You have been training for this for years now. Keep in constant contact (with your higher power is implied there)." Again, I liked the singleness here - you have been preparing for this difficult task - you have been putting in the time.
"Self-care. These are challenging visits. To guarantee that there are no martyrs on our jobs."
"On this day . . . THINK ABOUT GOD. Step 11."
At one point, early in the visit, overwhelmed, I texted: "This is more than I can bear." A few hours later: "Not the Truth. Step outside and bask in this glorious atmosphere (it was a lovely Spring day). Again, BREATHE. (I was forgetting to do this in a healthy fashion - my head was cinched up around my ears.) Think about the Great Spirit. 'How can I best be of humble service today?' ' Why have I been give so, so much? . . . most unearned, just given?' "
"See Eastern sky. Think about GOD. Now, take a walk. Get outside."
"Good morning, Humble Servant. You can endure anything and thrive on this day. One day at a time. FOCUS: The Gift is in ALL things and all people."
"You, my friend, have a front row seat to witness the collision of the material world and the Spiritual world. The Spiritual always 'wins.' Sometimes the meeting is gentle, like a transition. I hope this is the case for your dear dad. Don't miss a moment."
Good stuff, isn't it? How blessed I am to have friends like this.
I have always said that dying is part of life. That sentiment sounds pretty cool when no one I know is dying. Sucks when someone is.
"One of my customers told me when my brother was on his last leg to be as present as you can because what's going on is very sacred. Lifting you up the best I know how in prayer." Later in the week, from a different friend: "This is a sacred, challenging time. GODSPEED." The whole sacred blog arose from these two very different men moving along together on the same 5th dimension plane.
In response to hearing my last words to my father: "Beautiful, beautiful, that's all I can say, man." Then a few minutes later: "Better yet - fuckin' A."
"I was thinking - which you know is dangerous - when you said recovery prepares you for this. It almost seems that sobriety and recovery allowed you to say what you needed to say for your dad and for yourself."
"Of course, your mission remains the same: love, patience, tolerance, compassion, etc. You have been training for this for years now. Keep in constant contact (with your higher power is implied there)." Again, I liked the singleness here - you have been preparing for this difficult task - you have been putting in the time.
"Self-care. These are challenging visits. To guarantee that there are no martyrs on our jobs."
"On this day . . . THINK ABOUT GOD. Step 11."
At one point, early in the visit, overwhelmed, I texted: "This is more than I can bear." A few hours later: "Not the Truth. Step outside and bask in this glorious atmosphere (it was a lovely Spring day). Again, BREATHE. (I was forgetting to do this in a healthy fashion - my head was cinched up around my ears.) Think about the Great Spirit. 'How can I best be of humble service today?' ' Why have I been give so, so much? . . . most unearned, just given?' "
"See Eastern sky. Think about GOD. Now, take a walk. Get outside."
"Good morning, Humble Servant. You can endure anything and thrive on this day. One day at a time. FOCUS: The Gift is in ALL things and all people."
"You, my friend, have a front row seat to witness the collision of the material world and the Spiritual world. The Spiritual always 'wins.' Sometimes the meeting is gentle, like a transition. I hope this is the case for your dear dad. Don't miss a moment."
Good stuff, isn't it? How blessed I am to have friends like this.
I have always said that dying is part of life. That sentiment sounds pretty cool when no one I know is dying. Sucks when someone is.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
In Retrospect
Fulcrum: A crux or pivot; a central point.
A few years ago my sister and I decided to buy my parents a new TV as a house-warming gift. Total cost: the princely sum of $200, split two ways - you do the math. I ordered the TV, paid for it with my credit card, and arranged for it to be delivered to their new apartment. My sister never paid me for her half even though she accepted my parent's thanks as if she did, even joking about it a few times with me. I let the debt slide, eventually, unwilling to let that small amount get too far into my hear, eventually getting my revenge a few years later when one of my nieces sent me a letter asking if I'd contribute to some kind of charitable cause she was involved with. I told my sister, via email, to just go ahead and give her daughter the $100 that she owed me and we'd call it even. I do not know if that ever took place. I doubt it. I never heard a word from my niece and she's a pretty polite girl.
Other than that I have never been given the slightest reason to suspect that my sister is anything but honest with money. I'm the executor of my parents' estate and my sister and I understand - and agree - that my parents' wish is for everything that remains to be divided equally. And as the executor I'm sort of the fulcrum for the whole process and I don't even know what a fulcrum is.
Still, in this time of stress, my head wanders off into swampy places. She was there with my dad as he declined. She had gotten authority to write checks out of one of their accounts (and thank god for that - my dad was in no shape to stay on top of the few bills that came due) and she used their credit card to buy stuff dad needed, like beer and vodka. Tired, stressed, my head began to run the show. A few days earlier she had called to ask it if made sense to transfer money into her own checking account from theirs so that she could pay bills. This made a lot of sense - dad was accruing medical bills and once he died his money would be tied up until the estate made it through probate.
For about 18 hours I worked myself into a frenzy of anxiety, imagining that I'd never see my half. Remind you, I had no reason to believe this beyond fantasies arising from emotional strain and physical exhaustion. Moreover, we were on the hook for a good chunk of money for the funeral, the final month's rent on the apartment, and his remaining medical bills, all of which would come out of this account. More-moreover, if my worst fears came to pass my life would change not one whit. It wasn't enough money to worry about.
The next day when she came over I asked if we could sit down and talk about a few things, in between the church rummage sale ladies and the furniture movers. I told her that I was proud of her, that she had done so much for my father at the end while I was lolling in the sun in Vacation City - she was on the firing line and I was grateful for that every day, knowing that dad had an advocate. I told her that she had done a great job raising two wonderful kids. And I asked: "We're on the same page with the money, right?" I believe neither of us wanted or expected to see a penny of my parents' money - I would have been thrilled if mom had called to tell me they were charting a private jet to fly to Sicily. I would have loved it. We talked about things until the next appointment needed to be kept. I'm embarrassed that I had to bring it up but glad that I did - maybe she was thinking the same thing about me, who knows?
Everything is fine. As I knew it was going to be.
My head is not my friend.
A few years ago my sister and I decided to buy my parents a new TV as a house-warming gift. Total cost: the princely sum of $200, split two ways - you do the math. I ordered the TV, paid for it with my credit card, and arranged for it to be delivered to their new apartment. My sister never paid me for her half even though she accepted my parent's thanks as if she did, even joking about it a few times with me. I let the debt slide, eventually, unwilling to let that small amount get too far into my hear, eventually getting my revenge a few years later when one of my nieces sent me a letter asking if I'd contribute to some kind of charitable cause she was involved with. I told my sister, via email, to just go ahead and give her daughter the $100 that she owed me and we'd call it even. I do not know if that ever took place. I doubt it. I never heard a word from my niece and she's a pretty polite girl.
Other than that I have never been given the slightest reason to suspect that my sister is anything but honest with money. I'm the executor of my parents' estate and my sister and I understand - and agree - that my parents' wish is for everything that remains to be divided equally. And as the executor I'm sort of the fulcrum for the whole process and I don't even know what a fulcrum is.
Still, in this time of stress, my head wanders off into swampy places. She was there with my dad as he declined. She had gotten authority to write checks out of one of their accounts (and thank god for that - my dad was in no shape to stay on top of the few bills that came due) and she used their credit card to buy stuff dad needed, like beer and vodka. Tired, stressed, my head began to run the show. A few days earlier she had called to ask it if made sense to transfer money into her own checking account from theirs so that she could pay bills. This made a lot of sense - dad was accruing medical bills and once he died his money would be tied up until the estate made it through probate.
For about 18 hours I worked myself into a frenzy of anxiety, imagining that I'd never see my half. Remind you, I had no reason to believe this beyond fantasies arising from emotional strain and physical exhaustion. Moreover, we were on the hook for a good chunk of money for the funeral, the final month's rent on the apartment, and his remaining medical bills, all of which would come out of this account. More-moreover, if my worst fears came to pass my life would change not one whit. It wasn't enough money to worry about.
The next day when she came over I asked if we could sit down and talk about a few things, in between the church rummage sale ladies and the furniture movers. I told her that I was proud of her, that she had done so much for my father at the end while I was lolling in the sun in Vacation City - she was on the firing line and I was grateful for that every day, knowing that dad had an advocate. I told her that she had done a great job raising two wonderful kids. And I asked: "We're on the same page with the money, right?" I believe neither of us wanted or expected to see a penny of my parents' money - I would have been thrilled if mom had called to tell me they were charting a private jet to fly to Sicily. I would have loved it. We talked about things until the next appointment needed to be kept. I'm embarrassed that I had to bring it up but glad that I did - maybe she was thinking the same thing about me, who knows?
Everything is fine. As I knew it was going to be.
My head is not my friend.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Couple of Letters Later
Because I'm so quick to find fault and so loath to see the good in the world I wrote both to the retirement community where my parents lived - I shared this letter a few days ago - and also to the funeral director that handled my father's body. We were hesitant about having an open casket at this wake because the last few years were so hard on his body and were thrilled that his body was so well prepared. (Ed. Note: I had a LOT of trouble with the words there having no experience with the linguistics of corpse preparation - everything sounded like a pot roast was being assembled with a side of vegetables and a good, thick gravy).
The response from the managing director of the retirement home . . .
Dear Seaweed,
The response from the managing director of the retirement home . . .
Dear Seaweed,
Thank you so much for this wonderful email, I cannot wait to share with my team! I agree I could not be more proud of Team Seasons at all levels of care, they are an amazing group of people. Both your mom and dad were so much fun and thank you for allowing us to be part of their life.
Wishing you both peace and happiness.
Sincerely,
Russ
And the one from the funeral director . . .
Thank you for your compliments. You have no idea how much that means to me. It also means a great deal to me for people to be able to see someone prior to their being buried, so I like to make that happen whenever I can.
If there is anything more you may need from me, please let me know.
Warm regards,
Jane
It's really actually not that hard to be nice. I should try it more often.
And the one from the funeral director . . .
Thank you for your compliments. You have no idea how much that means to me. It also means a great deal to me for people to be able to see someone prior to their being buried, so I like to make that happen whenever I can.
If there is anything more you may need from me, please let me know.
Warm regards,
Jane
It's really actually not that hard to be nice. I should try it more often.
The Birds May . . . Or May Not . . . Have Been There
Because death is a weird thing, things are going to get a little weird here. Willie and I had a pretty weird phone conversation - 38 minutes, very weird for two guys who are usually falling all over each other trying to get off the phone. He's always saying: "I'm pulling up to an account here so I'm going to let you go" which is a totally transparent lie seeing as it's coming from a guy who tells me repeatedly how little he works. It's better, I guess, than me saying: "Are we about done here?" which I am not making up and which is blunt way past the point of politeness.
I don't believe either of us is what you would call traditionally religious. Yet there we were talking about my father dying and his brother dying not long before that and all of the pretty weird shit that may or may not have been happening. We wondered whether the shit was indeed weird or was it shit that was normal, shit that we bent into weird shapes because we wanted it to mean something, you know? You probably don't know. I don't know, that's for sure.
I mentioned that my dad liked to sit next to a picture window with a pair of binoculars and a bird book. The last few hours of his life he kept mentioning, chuckling, with a look of wonder and surprise, that there were flocks of birds congregating in the corner of the hospital room. "Where are all of those birds coming from?" he'd ask. At first I'd tell him that they're were no birds in the room, eventually deciding that the best course of action was simply to agree with him. "Unbelievable, right, dad?" I'd say. One night I came in and the nurse said that he was pestering her for some birdseed, worried that they weren't getting anything to eat.
The next day, after he had died, I was cleaning out the little storage closet they had off the side of their balcony - my folks, not the birds - and I found a couple of inches of old hummingbird sugar-water. I poured it in the feeder they had hanging on the deck. I hate to waste anything even though I knew that hummers usually turn their beaks up at nectar that is older than a few weeks. Bam, boom, a hummingbird was right there at the feeder.
I told Willie: "Could that have been my mom stopping by, saying goodbye?"
He didn't laugh. He shared a story about seeing a vapor or form or pillar of smoke rise from his father when he died. Why not? I thought. Why couldn't that happen? Sounds weird but my mom never took the form of a hummingbird when I was alive, and I had just suggested that possibility.
I made my way back home to Vacation City. The first morning I got up and started my Quiet Time. We have some doves in the neighborhood that we can hear tooting their mournful song from time to time. I swear that they must have been sitting right on top of my chimney because the hooting came down into the house as if it was amplified. I could hardly hear myself think, and I think real loud.
I can't see very well but have a robust sense of hearing. Maybe I can hear stuff on a level that Willie can't. Maybe he has a heightened sense of vision and can see things that are invisible to me. Maybe that form was right there for anyone to see - he picked it up, I couldn't.
I did a little research on bird mythology. Here's what I found. . .
Birds assume a variety of roles in mythology and religion. They play a central part in some creation myths and frequently appear as messengers of the deities. They are often associated with the journey of the human soul after death. Many myths have linked birds to the arrival of life or death. With their power of flight, these winged creatures were seen as carriers or symbols of the human soul, or as the soul itself, flying heavenward after a person died. A bird may represent both the soul of the dead and a deity at the same time.
I don't believe either of us is what you would call traditionally religious. Yet there we were talking about my father dying and his brother dying not long before that and all of the pretty weird shit that may or may not have been happening. We wondered whether the shit was indeed weird or was it shit that was normal, shit that we bent into weird shapes because we wanted it to mean something, you know? You probably don't know. I don't know, that's for sure.
I mentioned that my dad liked to sit next to a picture window with a pair of binoculars and a bird book. The last few hours of his life he kept mentioning, chuckling, with a look of wonder and surprise, that there were flocks of birds congregating in the corner of the hospital room. "Where are all of those birds coming from?" he'd ask. At first I'd tell him that they're were no birds in the room, eventually deciding that the best course of action was simply to agree with him. "Unbelievable, right, dad?" I'd say. One night I came in and the nurse said that he was pestering her for some birdseed, worried that they weren't getting anything to eat.
The next day, after he had died, I was cleaning out the little storage closet they had off the side of their balcony - my folks, not the birds - and I found a couple of inches of old hummingbird sugar-water. I poured it in the feeder they had hanging on the deck. I hate to waste anything even though I knew that hummers usually turn their beaks up at nectar that is older than a few weeks. Bam, boom, a hummingbird was right there at the feeder.
I told Willie: "Could that have been my mom stopping by, saying goodbye?"
He didn't laugh. He shared a story about seeing a vapor or form or pillar of smoke rise from his father when he died. Why not? I thought. Why couldn't that happen? Sounds weird but my mom never took the form of a hummingbird when I was alive, and I had just suggested that possibility.
I made my way back home to Vacation City. The first morning I got up and started my Quiet Time. We have some doves in the neighborhood that we can hear tooting their mournful song from time to time. I swear that they must have been sitting right on top of my chimney because the hooting came down into the house as if it was amplified. I could hardly hear myself think, and I think real loud.
I can't see very well but have a robust sense of hearing. Maybe I can hear stuff on a level that Willie can't. Maybe he has a heightened sense of vision and can see things that are invisible to me. Maybe that form was right there for anyone to see - he picked it up, I couldn't.
I did a little research on bird mythology. Here's what I found. . .
Birds assume a variety of roles in mythology and religion. They play a central part in some creation myths and frequently appear as messengers of the deities. They are often associated with the journey of the human soul after death. Many myths have linked birds to the arrival of life or death. With their power of flight, these winged creatures were seen as carriers or symbols of the human soul, or as the soul itself, flying heavenward after a person died. A bird may represent both the soul of the dead and a deity at the same time.
The flight of the soul - numerous myths have linked birds to the journeys undertaken by human souls after death. Sometimes a bird acts as a guide in the afterlife. In Syria, figures of eagles on tombs represent the guides that lead souls to heaven. The soul guide in Jewish tradition is a dove. In some cultures, it was thought that the soul, once freed from the body, took the form of a bird. The ancient Egyptians believed that the soul, the ba, could leave the dead body in the form of a bird, often a hawk. They built their graves and tombs with narrow shafts leading to the open air so that these birds could fly in and out, keeping watch on the body. The feather cloaks that Central American and Mexican priests and kings wore may have been connected to the idea of a soul journey.
The Greeks and Celts thought that the dead could reappear as birds. The Sumerians of the ancient Near East believed that the dead existed as birds in the underworld. According to Islamic tradition, all dead souls remain in the form of birds until Judgment Day, while in Christian tradition, the gentle dove became a symbol of the immortal soul ascending to heaven. Birds also appear in Hindu mythology as symbols of the soul or as forms taken by the soul between earthly lives. The connection between birds and souls is sometimes reflected in language. A Turkish saying describes somebody's death as "His soul bird has flown away."
Friday, May 6, 2016
The Letter
I took the time to put together the following letter which I sent to the managing director of the retirement community where my parents lived. Like most people (Ed. Note: I use the phrase 'like most people' right before I admit to some crappy, selfish behavior. It's a fancy way of saying 'we all do it,' a phrase indicating a lack of humility of great intensity) I am quick to pull the trigger when I'm aggravated and slow to praise when I'm pleased. I felt as much grief writing to these good people as at any time during the last week.
I am writing to express - in conjunction with my sister - our profound and sincere thanks for the care our parents, Mr. and Mrs. Seafood Senior, received while they were members of your community. It was easy to see that the affection everyone had for my them was sincere and heartfelt. It was easy to see that the staff was not just doing a job - they were providing a service that they felt was important. And this goes for those who were based in the independent living wing, the rehab unit, and the skilled nursing facility.
I am writing to express - in conjunction with my sister - our profound and sincere thanks for the care our parents, Mr. and Mrs. Seafood Senior, received while they were members of your community. It was easy to see that the affection everyone had for my them was sincere and heartfelt. It was easy to see that the staff was not just doing a job - they were providing a service that they felt was important. And this goes for those who were based in the independent living wing, the rehab unit, and the skilled nursing facility.
I hesitate to mention anyone by name because I honestly can not remember a single instance when my parents, my sister, and I were treated in a manner that was anything but exemplary. And since I live out of state I didn't get the chance to commit everyone's name to memory. That being said a few people really stood out during my short visits.
Stephanie and Christine in the skilled wing who patiently stood and listened to every single word that I said and explained what was going on with my father's care.
Rachel, his social worker, who honored my father's wish to continue to try rehab even though our family and everyone involved with his care knew that it was very unlikely that dad would follow through, that he was likely just trying to ease the path for my sister and me.
Kimball from housekeeping whom my parents loved. He said "your folks were like another set of parents to me." He was the first person I saw after dad died. There I was, hugging this man, tears rolling down my cheeks, thinking: "I don't even know this guy's last name."
The two young women who stopped by as I was cleaning out dad's room in the nursing unit. I remembered their faces but not how they were involved with dad's care. They spoke of my father in a way that let me know that he wasn't another patient dying of old age. I thought: "Yeah, that's dad. That's dad that they're talking about."
Angel at the front desk who handed me a sympathy card the day after dad died. And every single person who staffed that desk knew who I was and that I was there visiting my folks.
The woman who ran the dining hall at independent living who called my father, tried to get him to continue eating well, when he was grief-stricken after mom's death.
One evening, as I was cleaning out the apartment, I ordered dinner to be delivered. The young guy who brought the food handed me an extra container: "I know you got the chocolate cream pie. I brought an extra piece. Your dad always got two desserts." I ate both pieces.
Again, this is only a partial list and I apologize if I've gotten anyone's name wrong or left anyone out, as I surely have.
Gratefully,
Little Stevie Seaweed
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Something Else
Else: Other; in addition to previously mentioned items.
So I call the airline a couple of weeks ago to change my ticket when it became obvious that I would have to return early to see my father. Incredibly, they agreed to refund the $99 rebooking fee if I provided a letter from the nursing home, signed by the doctor, indicating the severity of my dad's condition and my flight confirmation number - OYIB6N, seared in my memory forever and a day for reasons that will become apparent. Fax that bad boy in, they say, then place a follow-up call in a couple of hours to verify that the document was received.
This I do.
One half an hour of phone time later, with numerous stops and starts, comings and goings, permitting me to memorize an entire register of Frontier Airlines commercials, I'm told to call back later. System problems. I note that The System has never, ever failed when I'm being asked to supply money, only when I'm trying to get it back. Still, it's their game and their rules.
All in all, I'm impressed that I'm even in the refund game so I clam up and soldier on.
Later on . . .
An additional one half of an hour of phone time is required to be told that they do indeed have the letter. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed, and not for the better from my perspective. My letter is now moot. It indicates that my father is, in fact, dead, not gravely ill. A new letter is required. From the funeral home, not from the doctor. Dead trumps ill, in the refund game. The fact that the ill led to the dead holds no sway with the refunders and that's really the only sway that's important.
I'm a pretty patient guy but it has been a long week.
"Let me get this straight," I say. "The letter says that it was imperative that I return home at an earlier date because my father was ill - for which you agreed to waive the rebooking fee - but since he has died - which would seem to confirm the gravity of the illness - a new letter is required? Why wouldn't you just honor your original offer - no rebooking fee for a grave illness? The fact that he died doesn't have anything to do with anything, in the rebooking fee refund world that you are so cavalierly prancing and mincing around in. My father and I have honored the 'gravely ill' requirement." I may have thrown the word "fucking" in there once or twice. Maybe not. My memory is unclear. It wouldn't surprise me.
The agent holds her ground, then adds: "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Well," I replied, quite reasonably. "You really haven't helped me with anything yet. The 'else' implies that you've already helped me with a thing - which you have not. The 'else' permits me to infer that I have been helped already with at least one other thing."
I was inordinately pleased with myself. I thought it was a big finish. It did not move any refunds my way, however.
So I call the airline a couple of weeks ago to change my ticket when it became obvious that I would have to return early to see my father. Incredibly, they agreed to refund the $99 rebooking fee if I provided a letter from the nursing home, signed by the doctor, indicating the severity of my dad's condition and my flight confirmation number - OYIB6N, seared in my memory forever and a day for reasons that will become apparent. Fax that bad boy in, they say, then place a follow-up call in a couple of hours to verify that the document was received.
This I do.
One half an hour of phone time later, with numerous stops and starts, comings and goings, permitting me to memorize an entire register of Frontier Airlines commercials, I'm told to call back later. System problems. I note that The System has never, ever failed when I'm being asked to supply money, only when I'm trying to get it back. Still, it's their game and their rules.
All in all, I'm impressed that I'm even in the refund game so I clam up and soldier on.
Later on . . .
An additional one half of an hour of phone time is required to be told that they do indeed have the letter. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed, and not for the better from my perspective. My letter is now moot. It indicates that my father is, in fact, dead, not gravely ill. A new letter is required. From the funeral home, not from the doctor. Dead trumps ill, in the refund game. The fact that the ill led to the dead holds no sway with the refunders and that's really the only sway that's important.
I'm a pretty patient guy but it has been a long week.
"Let me get this straight," I say. "The letter says that it was imperative that I return home at an earlier date because my father was ill - for which you agreed to waive the rebooking fee - but since he has died - which would seem to confirm the gravity of the illness - a new letter is required? Why wouldn't you just honor your original offer - no rebooking fee for a grave illness? The fact that he died doesn't have anything to do with anything, in the rebooking fee refund world that you are so cavalierly prancing and mincing around in. My father and I have honored the 'gravely ill' requirement." I may have thrown the word "fucking" in there once or twice. Maybe not. My memory is unclear. It wouldn't surprise me.
The agent holds her ground, then adds: "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Well," I replied, quite reasonably. "You really haven't helped me with anything yet. The 'else' implies that you've already helped me with a thing - which you have not. The 'else' permits me to infer that I have been helped already with at least one other thing."
I was inordinately pleased with myself. I thought it was a big finish. It did not move any refunds my way, however.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
The Old City, In The Rearview Mirror
Last night in The Old City. I stayed in one of the guest rooms at the retirement home last night, following a day of helping some folks from my dad's church pick up some stuff for a rummage sale, supervising a couple of guys who moved furniture from the apartment to both my sister's house and the church, and then the final clean-out/inspection of their place. Another long, grueling, emotionally exhausting day. I walked back upstairs before I collapsed into bed last night to take one last look at their home. Eerie, echoe-ey, empty. I could see the shadow of each piece of stuff in its proper place.
I think my parents would be pleased that everything went to my sister or to their church. Inevitably, there were a few things that had sentimental value that were hard to release. My parents' one and only bedroom set. A grandfather clock. My maternal grandmother's china closet. My sister took a lot but she has a garage jam-packed with other stuff from the house-to-apartment move that took place two years ago. And we're talking about 85 years worth of stuff and stuff from both of my grandparents and stuff from my mother's grandparents. Lots of stuff.
I also think my mother would be pleased that whenever I came across some staple or cleaning supply or medical item that was somewhat used or partially depleted - but still good! still holding value for someone! - I took it to the laundry room and put it on a table with a note: "Moving. Please help yourself." A wholesale scarfing is taking place. I'm sure a few things wii get pitched but I'm pleased - being a thrifty sort, my mother's son - that they're being used.
So the question that has been surfacing, up through the muck of my perception, is where does this leave me with The Old City? My folks are gone. My sister and her family have an open invitation to visit me in Vacation City, keeping in mind I'm upon her 12 to 0 in the visiting department. This was the first trip where I didn't run into anyone I knew at a coffee shop or grocery store or the exercise club. The meetings - while still stocked with some familiar faces - are largely unknown to me. It has been 5+ years since I left - life moves on. The old friends - dearly loved, still - are becoming increasingly distant in my experience. It's hard to maintain connections over such a distance and over such a length of time.
I have to ruminate on this.
I think my parents would be pleased that everything went to my sister or to their church. Inevitably, there were a few things that had sentimental value that were hard to release. My parents' one and only bedroom set. A grandfather clock. My maternal grandmother's china closet. My sister took a lot but she has a garage jam-packed with other stuff from the house-to-apartment move that took place two years ago. And we're talking about 85 years worth of stuff and stuff from both of my grandparents and stuff from my mother's grandparents. Lots of stuff.
I also think my mother would be pleased that whenever I came across some staple or cleaning supply or medical item that was somewhat used or partially depleted - but still good! still holding value for someone! - I took it to the laundry room and put it on a table with a note: "Moving. Please help yourself." A wholesale scarfing is taking place. I'm sure a few things wii get pitched but I'm pleased - being a thrifty sort, my mother's son - that they're being used.
So the question that has been surfacing, up through the muck of my perception, is where does this leave me with The Old City? My folks are gone. My sister and her family have an open invitation to visit me in Vacation City, keeping in mind I'm upon her 12 to 0 in the visiting department. This was the first trip where I didn't run into anyone I knew at a coffee shop or grocery store or the exercise club. The meetings - while still stocked with some familiar faces - are largely unknown to me. It has been 5+ years since I left - life moves on. The old friends - dearly loved, still - are becoming increasingly distant in my experience. It's hard to maintain connections over such a distance and over such a length of time.
I have to ruminate on this.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
A Few Dollars More
I have expressed my irritation over the years with my parents cavalier attitude as regards my money. I have a strong belief that they were not averse to situations that forced me to spend it. I don't think they spent much time pondering my money at all. Of course, it is my belief that everyone is thinking about me all of the time. They are doing things to me. This is my great belief. This is how I perceive the world: me, at the center, everyone swirling around me, with me at the center, the focus of everyone's thoughts.
Yes. Yes, of course.
I was mulling over how many times I've returned home since I left five years and three months ago. I calculate that this is my 11th or 12th trip. I did have some work obligations at the start and I do enjoy my family and my friends and visiting old haunts, but not 11 or 12 times worth. I can recall maybe one instance where my folks offered to chip in for anything and it's not like we were trading off on the travel. No one has come to visit me yet. I have been frequently annoyed by this. On one trip I asked mom if I could use their car to save me the expense of a rental, that I only absolutely needed it for one specific time to get to a dentist appointment, other than that I'd work around their schedule - they never used the thing - and my mom refused: "We might need it." Once or twice my annoyance flared up and boiled out of my mouth, but mostly I keep my pie-hole closed. So, to my credit my mouth remained shut. To my detriment my thinking . . . well . . . sucked wind.
Over the years I reflected on how frugal my parents were. Sometimes their reluctance to spend money affected me greatly, was a deterrent to my comfort, and occasionally a hardship. I was remembering my freshman year at college, horribly homesick, having to walk several blocks once a week so that they could drive down to my father's office and make a toll-free call on a company line. I know it saved some money. Maybe it was the only way they thought they could chip in on my education, which was almost completely my responsibility.
I have been getting my parents' financial affairs in order this week and was surprised to see that I have some money coming my way. Not as much money as I want, of course - there's never enough of that - but more than I expected. It is going to pay for my trips back, at least. So I'm glad I kept quiet. Maybe this is how they wanted it to be. Maybe they planned on this. Maybe it would have irritated the hell out of them to kick in a few bucks here and there, preferring to dump it on me in a lump sum.
I don't do things this way. Ergo, it's the wrong way to do things. Shit, what do I know, anyway?
Yes. Yes, of course.
I was mulling over how many times I've returned home since I left five years and three months ago. I calculate that this is my 11th or 12th trip. I did have some work obligations at the start and I do enjoy my family and my friends and visiting old haunts, but not 11 or 12 times worth. I can recall maybe one instance where my folks offered to chip in for anything and it's not like we were trading off on the travel. No one has come to visit me yet. I have been frequently annoyed by this. On one trip I asked mom if I could use their car to save me the expense of a rental, that I only absolutely needed it for one specific time to get to a dentist appointment, other than that I'd work around their schedule - they never used the thing - and my mom refused: "We might need it." Once or twice my annoyance flared up and boiled out of my mouth, but mostly I keep my pie-hole closed. So, to my credit my mouth remained shut. To my detriment my thinking . . . well . . . sucked wind.
Over the years I reflected on how frugal my parents were. Sometimes their reluctance to spend money affected me greatly, was a deterrent to my comfort, and occasionally a hardship. I was remembering my freshman year at college, horribly homesick, having to walk several blocks once a week so that they could drive down to my father's office and make a toll-free call on a company line. I know it saved some money. Maybe it was the only way they thought they could chip in on my education, which was almost completely my responsibility.
I have been getting my parents' financial affairs in order this week and was surprised to see that I have some money coming my way. Not as much money as I want, of course - there's never enough of that - but more than I expected. It is going to pay for my trips back, at least. So I'm glad I kept quiet. Maybe this is how they wanted it to be. Maybe they planned on this. Maybe it would have irritated the hell out of them to kick in a few bucks here and there, preferring to dump it on me in a lump sum.
I don't do things this way. Ergo, it's the wrong way to do things. Shit, what do I know, anyway?
Monday, May 2, 2016
Upon Reflection
I like to think of dad sitting up in heaven right now in a body that is totally repaired, free of old defects and injuries and pain. It was something to see all of the pictures of him when he was young, before time began to take its inevitable toll. He's content now, anxiety free, resting comfortably, standing tall, moving easily. One of my visions of heaven is as a place where I'm just completely relaxed. No fear of the future - no regret about the past.
I see today how much he missed my mom. It was a hard year for him without her and it would have been a hard year for him even if she had still been around. When they were together he could be short with her so it was easy to get the impression that they didn't have much to go on. Why would I think that two people who had been together for 65 years would be that way?
It was weird to think of him as an athlete and a sportsman - he golfed, played volleyball and softball and handball, was an avid fisherman and hunter. I shot a gun once 50 years ago - knocked me back on my ass. I rarely eat meat for chrissake - why would I want to go shoot an animal? And I have the hand eye coordination of a bonobo on LSD so sports was never one of my strong suits. It must have been frustrating for him at times raising a son who didn't have any of the same interests. I remember climbing into the batter's box during a Little League game, terrified wondering why I was being forced to play a sport that was incredibly hard for me. Was I even asked if I wanted to play? If so did I say yes only to please him? Why didn't someone buy me a guitar or pay for piano lessons when I so clearly loved music?
We're all doing the best we can. We all have unreasonable expectations of other. He disappointed me sometimes? Well, I disappointed him sometimes.
I went to a tiny high school that was forced to travel long distances to find games to play against similarly sized schools, often ending up in small out of the way rural towns, in the upper Midwest in the winter, at night, in the dark. This was before the age of the super-involved parent who today seems to live right on top of their children. My dad was almost always in the stands to watch me play basketball, a sport I could at least compete in, if only by stint of the fact that I was tall. There weren't any other fathers there, either. THAT'S what I should remember about my dad.
I should learn to look at the good and look at the bad, too, as a general spiritual principle. Don't focus on the bad but don't pretend that it doesn't exist, either.
I see today how much he missed my mom. It was a hard year for him without her and it would have been a hard year for him even if she had still been around. When they were together he could be short with her so it was easy to get the impression that they didn't have much to go on. Why would I think that two people who had been together for 65 years would be that way?
It was weird to think of him as an athlete and a sportsman - he golfed, played volleyball and softball and handball, was an avid fisherman and hunter. I shot a gun once 50 years ago - knocked me back on my ass. I rarely eat meat for chrissake - why would I want to go shoot an animal? And I have the hand eye coordination of a bonobo on LSD so sports was never one of my strong suits. It must have been frustrating for him at times raising a son who didn't have any of the same interests. I remember climbing into the batter's box during a Little League game, terrified wondering why I was being forced to play a sport that was incredibly hard for me. Was I even asked if I wanted to play? If so did I say yes only to please him? Why didn't someone buy me a guitar or pay for piano lessons when I so clearly loved music?
We're all doing the best we can. We all have unreasonable expectations of other. He disappointed me sometimes? Well, I disappointed him sometimes.
I went to a tiny high school that was forced to travel long distances to find games to play against similarly sized schools, often ending up in small out of the way rural towns, in the upper Midwest in the winter, at night, in the dark. This was before the age of the super-involved parent who today seems to live right on top of their children. My dad was almost always in the stands to watch me play basketball, a sport I could at least compete in, if only by stint of the fact that I was tall. There weren't any other fathers there, either. THAT'S what I should remember about my dad.
I should learn to look at the good and look at the bad, too, as a general spiritual principle. Don't focus on the bad but don't pretend that it doesn't exist, either.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
The Endodontist
Involve: To engage thoroughly, to occupy, employ, or absorb.
I'm what you would call a teeth grinder. I wear this highly engineered, custom-fitted, very expensive, indestructible piece of plastic in my mouth when I sleep, even when I nap. I would have my chompers ground down to small, prehensile nubs without this thing lodged firmly between my teeth. Sometimes in the morning I really have to pry at it to get it out of my mouth. I don't think I grind my teeth when I'm awake, but can't speak to the other hours when I sleep the sleep of the dead.
So I got my teeth cleaned on Monday. On Tuesday I noticed some soreness in my upper left rear molar - I chalked it up to the aftereffects of having someone probe around in my sensitive, damp mucous membranes with extraordinarily sharp stainless steel instruments. On Wednesday it hurt enough that it was difficult to chew on that side, plus I had kind of a sinus pressure in the cheek right around that tooth, not unheard of in The Old City in the spring, where the yellow pollen falls from the sky in thick clouds, in waves of particulate. Having lost my tolerance for pain I called the dentist, a guy I love and trust. He referred me to something called an endodontist. If you need to see a medical person who's title contains a Latin prefix that you can't decipher you know it isn't going to be good. (Ed Note: endo: Prefixes indicating, within, inner, absorbing, or containing so I STILL don't know what an endodontist is). When your dentist says: "Fuck if I know what's going on" you're not in a good spot. This guy agrees to see me and slots enough time so that if the nerve on that tooth is "involved" then he can just go ahead and do a root canal.
The only thing better than having your dad die is to have a root canal the next day. I confess to being fascinated by the use of the word "involve." It has a good, strong, vaguely sinister timbre to it, not aggressively threatening but promoting the sense that it could lead to some bad shit.
I have the ability to go from a resting state to disaster in a nanosecond. I was fully prepared for the worst news. I was capable of worsening the worst news, imagining a dying nerve cause by a cracked tooth. I have no dental training but I'd guess this would require a root canal and the replacement of the destroyed tooth with an artificial one. The receptionist said: "Before you come in let me go over the cost of the procedure." It was quite a cost. I could afford it but it was not a little number. They wanted to make sure you were ready to pony up some scratch, like right then, before you left the office.
I'm one of those people who can handle just about anything as long as I know for sure what it is. I figured "Root canal. $1200." I wasn't happy about either of those pieces of information but I was at peace as I eased down into the comfortable dentist . . . excuse me . . . endodontist chair.
The first thing the guy says is "Well, someone did a root canal on this tooth and they did a beautiful job." Then he taps on my teeth with a little hammer, has me bite down on cue tips, blows liquid argon onto each tooth - I made up that last thing which he definitely did not do - to confirm that the tooth giving me trouble was indeed, that tooth. I had a root canal already so I didn't need another one and the tooth had already been removed and a crown put in place so I didn't need a crown, either.
I told him about my dad.
"You're grinding your teeth," he said. He took a burr off the tooth, prescribed Tylenol or Advil, and sent me on my way, sixty bucks lighter.
Stress will come out. It will come out in your body or it will rot your mind.
(Ed. Note: spellcheck suggests "unexploded" for endodontist. It doesn't know what the fuck an endodontist is either).
I'm what you would call a teeth grinder. I wear this highly engineered, custom-fitted, very expensive, indestructible piece of plastic in my mouth when I sleep, even when I nap. I would have my chompers ground down to small, prehensile nubs without this thing lodged firmly between my teeth. Sometimes in the morning I really have to pry at it to get it out of my mouth. I don't think I grind my teeth when I'm awake, but can't speak to the other hours when I sleep the sleep of the dead.
So I got my teeth cleaned on Monday. On Tuesday I noticed some soreness in my upper left rear molar - I chalked it up to the aftereffects of having someone probe around in my sensitive, damp mucous membranes with extraordinarily sharp stainless steel instruments. On Wednesday it hurt enough that it was difficult to chew on that side, plus I had kind of a sinus pressure in the cheek right around that tooth, not unheard of in The Old City in the spring, where the yellow pollen falls from the sky in thick clouds, in waves of particulate. Having lost my tolerance for pain I called the dentist, a guy I love and trust. He referred me to something called an endodontist. If you need to see a medical person who's title contains a Latin prefix that you can't decipher you know it isn't going to be good. (Ed Note: endo: Prefixes indicating, within, inner, absorbing, or containing so I STILL don't know what an endodontist is). When your dentist says: "Fuck if I know what's going on" you're not in a good spot. This guy agrees to see me and slots enough time so that if the nerve on that tooth is "involved" then he can just go ahead and do a root canal.
The only thing better than having your dad die is to have a root canal the next day. I confess to being fascinated by the use of the word "involve." It has a good, strong, vaguely sinister timbre to it, not aggressively threatening but promoting the sense that it could lead to some bad shit.
I have the ability to go from a resting state to disaster in a nanosecond. I was fully prepared for the worst news. I was capable of worsening the worst news, imagining a dying nerve cause by a cracked tooth. I have no dental training but I'd guess this would require a root canal and the replacement of the destroyed tooth with an artificial one. The receptionist said: "Before you come in let me go over the cost of the procedure." It was quite a cost. I could afford it but it was not a little number. They wanted to make sure you were ready to pony up some scratch, like right then, before you left the office.
I'm one of those people who can handle just about anything as long as I know for sure what it is. I figured "Root canal. $1200." I wasn't happy about either of those pieces of information but I was at peace as I eased down into the comfortable dentist . . . excuse me . . . endodontist chair.
The first thing the guy says is "Well, someone did a root canal on this tooth and they did a beautiful job." Then he taps on my teeth with a little hammer, has me bite down on cue tips, blows liquid argon onto each tooth - I made up that last thing which he definitely did not do - to confirm that the tooth giving me trouble was indeed, that tooth. I had a root canal already so I didn't need another one and the tooth had already been removed and a crown put in place so I didn't need a crown, either.
I told him about my dad.
"You're grinding your teeth," he said. He took a burr off the tooth, prescribed Tylenol or Advil, and sent me on my way, sixty bucks lighter.
Stress will come out. It will come out in your body or it will rot your mind.
(Ed. Note: spellcheck suggests "unexploded" for endodontist. It doesn't know what the fuck an endodontist is either).
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