I’d love to say that it’s been an interesting summer, but the truth (at least for me), is that it’s been a fairly miserable summer. Before I sound like I’m going to throw a pity party for myself, I will fully admit that no great ill has befallen me. No natural disaster has rerouted the course of my life. In fact, the worst thing that I can say has happened to me is that “absolutely nothing” has happened.
Compared with those folks out in the real world who have been dealing with floods, tornadoes, oil spills, unemployment, wars and numerous other tragedies, my sad-sack whining is beyond pathetic. The realization of just how ridiculous it is to be burdened by nothing more than the microscopic weight of my own malaise is not just humbling, but more than a little bit humiliating.
I was tired coming into the summer. My travel schedule was heavier this year than ever, and there were added levels of stress related to that. I have always tried to follow a “work to live, not live to work” philosophy, but sometimes necessity becomes priority and your personal life doesn’t just get kicked into the back seat, but is wrapped in a tarp and thrown in the trunk.
Still, in these difficult economic times, I’m not going to complain about having a good job that just happens to keep me away from home more than I like. I understand that it’s not really the job but the way I handle things that cause me the most trouble. I am my own worst enemy.
For the last couple of years, one of the things that kept me busy and out of trouble was my relatively consistent scribbling in my blog. It didn’t really accomplish anything other than give me something to do and a way to vent, but that release valve was a crucial fulcrum in helping me balance the various stresses and weights I faced. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I stopped writing a few months ago.
I’m not really sure why I stopped. My excuse was that my brain was fried from too much travel, and that was partially true. I was exhausted and mentally spent from one trip after another; smiling and pretending to care about whatever new, almost always pointless way that someone had come up with to spend our tax dollars. I had dreams where I grabbed some of them by the collar and screamed “No one cares about what you’re doing! Go get a real job!” Of course, they could have just as easily done the same thing to me and I would have had no justifiable response. We were both just cogs in the machinery.
I did attempt to write…sitting in my hotel room with the television muted and the cold air blowing full force to try and fight off the oppressive summer heat...but the words were disjointed and randomly bitter. I couldn’t find a through-line to hang my intentions on.
As summer draws to a close, I’m hoping that the falling leaves of autumn will give me a new spark. Maybe it was just the incessant rays of the sun that baked away my energy and castrated all signs of creativity. Or maybe I had one too many eggs and my mind is roiling from salmonella. It’s difficult to say.
Either way, I’m going to force myself to write until it spills out easily again. It might not be pretty, and I don’t count on anyone reading it, but that’s okay. This is much cheaper than therapy.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Family
Summer is not my favorite time of year. When you’re overweight, out of shape, and work in an office with air-conditioning for most of your day, it’s not easy to step out into the thick muck of heat that has settled over us. It is only the beginning of July and we’ve already had more ninety degree days this year than all of last year; so to say that my mood has not been pleasant is an understatement.
I’m a fall person…or better yet…a winter person. I’d much rather put on more clothes than take anything off (and after taking a brief survey of both family and friends, they too agree that they would rather I put on more clothes than take anything off. It’s a rare moment of total agreement; although some of the survey comments were a bit more hurtful than I felt was necessary).
Last weekend Connie and I traveled to Kentucky for a family reunion of my father’s side of the gene pool. Shelby and Ashlyn had to work Friday night and Saturday morning, so they could not go, and Taylor was away at a church camp until Sunday, so it was a rare, but pleasant road trip for my lovely bride and me. We listened to the music we wanted to listen to, and we got to talk without constant interuption. Unlike most of the trips from our door in Oak Ridge to Mom and Dad’s door in Shelbyville, it seemed to pass by too quickly. I am sure I did not drive any faster than usual, but the 211 miles sped by in a blur.
When we arrived, Dad was out on the front porch, which is the throne from which he overlooks his little kingdom. Dad is an outdoor person and is as resistant to Air Conditioning as I am to heat. He has worked outside all of his life, from farm work as a child to hard, manual labor on the County Road Crews in his teens. Through his years as a truck driver, he drove with the windows down and his left arm lay across the edge to receive a dark, permanent tan.
Mom likes to give Dad a hard time about sitting on the porch, and I’m not sure why. I think she sees it as a waste of time, but the way I see it, if you’ve worked hard all your life and you’ve finally retired, then you should be able to do what you want to do.
Dad enjoys sitting on the porch more than sitting in the house watching television. He enjoys the feel of the sun and sound of the occasional breeze in the leaves of the dogwood tree nearby. He enjoys watching the cars pass by on their way into or out of town. He recognizes a lot of the people and waves…and they wave back. He sometimes waves at those he doesn’t know too. Most of them return the friendly greeting.
As the sun was slowly setting Friday evening and the air got slightly more bearable, I sat on the front porch with Dad and we waved at those driving by together. I had to admit it was relaxing.
When it got a bit darker, we went inside, where Mom and Connie had been sharing stories about mine and Dad’s problems and how they intended to fix them. Although I had told Mom we would eat dinner on the way and not to fix any food, she couldn’t resist breaking out some home-made pound cake and ice cream. Far be it from me to hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of her generosity.
We talked into the evening about family and the kids. Again, the lack of interruption was nice, but there was a bit of sadness in the undertone of the conversation. My kids were growing up and their absence was like a vacuum. Not only had I grown up and moved away, but now my kids were growing up and moving on with their own lives. They would visit again, of course, but not nearly as often.
Saturday morning Mom was up before five, starting a kettle of green beans. Dad had hoped for a mess of fresh beans from his garden, but we were about a week early so Mom was using canned. Still, a piece of salt pork for seasoning and a long time to simmer and they would taste just fine.
I had made a Mississippi Mud Cake, since it travelled easily, and planned to buy fried chicken from Kroger’s. Mom made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and Dad made his world famous banana pudding. We were prepared to feed the multitudes.
The reunion was supposed to start at 11am, but since everyone had been told that we wouldn’t eat until noon, that’s when everyone showed up. There was more food than there were people, and we had to add tables for desserts and drinks. Everyone out-did themselves with their favorite recipes, and when I say “out-did” I also mean that some went too far. I didn’t recognize what everything was…although it mostly resembled food.
There are some excellent cooks in my family¸ evident by the numerous shirts stretched near the point of fabric failure, but there are a few experimenters as well. I don’t mind trying new things, or new recipes, but I generally try them at home, where smoke detectors and waste baskets are close by. My basic rule at pot-lucks and reunions is that I don’t partake of foods that I can’t easily identify or if the ingredients aren’t obvious to my naked and extremely well-trained eye…especially if I have be somewhere in the next twenty-four hours.
Fortunately, there were plenty of the basics. Fried Chicken in all varieties except home-made (I guess no one actually fries chicken at home anymore), several batches of Mac and Cheese (with varying levels of cheesiness), corn, beans, potatoes, and a variety of casseroles with cracker toppings. One odd thing that Connie and I both noticed (and discussed in some detail on the way home) was that no one had brought “deviled eggs.” In retrospect, I still find it rather shocking.
Connie also noted (on our quiet drive home that evening) that my family was obviously a “mac and cheese” family and her family was a “hash brown casserole” family. It took only a moment’s thought to realize that she was absolutely right. No Warford family gathering seemed complete without a dish of baked macaroni and cheese, while the Dunkel family could not seem to meet without the hash browns. There is probably an interesting social study in that nugget of information, but I don’t really care. Fortunately, I like them both.
I always look forward to the reunion to see family members that I do not see the rest of the year (unless it is at a funeral). After the loss of my uncle Lee last year, there are only three siblings left in Dad’s family, from the original thirteen. Dad is now the oldest, followed by his brother Bill and sister Eleanor.
There were many of my cousins at the reunion, and many more that did not make it. The greeting etiquette of family members who have essentially become “strangers” is an odd, but consistent one: for male cousins, there is a quick handshake and a chipper “Hey ______, how have you been?” This is answered by a simple “Good, and you?” The response to this question can vary between “fine” and “great,” but never more detailed than that.
Female cousins sometimes get a hug, followed by the same general dialog. Occasionally someone will ask me if I still live in Tennessee, and I’ll say “yes.” They might follow that up (if we haven’t been interrupted by another arriving cousin) with, “now that’s near Nashville, right?” And I’ll say, “No, near Knoxville.” Since I’m always afraid of asking a question that I should already know the answer to or might not want to know, I generally shuffle my feet awkwardly and say something about how unbearably hot it is.
The heat was miserable. We were under a shelter, but it had a tin roof that seemed to be conducting the sun’s rays into a microwave. Dad and my brother David had brought some fans to sit around and people were not so casually situating themselves in front of them. Those spots were prime real estate and provided the only breeze and relief while trying to eat.
Despite a strong suggestion that we sit with people that we normally don’t see, everyone mostly broke up into their immediate family groupings. Old habits die hard, and we all gravitate to our comfort zone. Nothing is more comfortable than family.
Barely an hour and a half after getting in line to eat, people were packing up to go. It was just too hot to sit around and try to make conversation. It was really a shame though; because I think the longer we had stayed, the more we would have been forced to catch up. I might have actually learned what a few of my cousins do for a living.
My cousin Kevin, however, was the hero of the day. When a discussion arose about next year’s reunion, he suggested that we find a place indoors (even offering his church’s fellowship hall). As sweat dripped off my forehead and down the tip of my nose, I think it mixed with tears of joy at the thought that we would be in air-conditioned comfort next year. I quickly added my support to the idea and so did most of the others. (I think Dad was a little disappointed, but he was the only one present who didn’t look like he had just stepped out of the lake. He was as cool as the glass of ice tea he was holding).
Soon we were back at Mom and Dad’s house unpacking leftovers. I lifted the lid and looked down at my carefully and lovingly prepared Mississippi Mud Cake. One solitary corner piece had been removed. The rest of the cake sat there in the pan like some unwanted ugly stepchild. Connie noticed the cakes sad plight as well and said “Didn’t you get a piece of that at the reunion?” Yes, I nodded. One piece had been eaten from my cake and it was I who ate it. Kind of sad.
We visited a while longer, then hugged and kissed everyone before heading south toward home. I cranked up the air conditioning and set the cruise control. Another peaceful ride home, full of uninterrupted conversation and music of our choice. I couldn’t help but miss the kids.
I’m a fall person…or better yet…a winter person. I’d much rather put on more clothes than take anything off (and after taking a brief survey of both family and friends, they too agree that they would rather I put on more clothes than take anything off. It’s a rare moment of total agreement; although some of the survey comments were a bit more hurtful than I felt was necessary).
Last weekend Connie and I traveled to Kentucky for a family reunion of my father’s side of the gene pool. Shelby and Ashlyn had to work Friday night and Saturday morning, so they could not go, and Taylor was away at a church camp until Sunday, so it was a rare, but pleasant road trip for my lovely bride and me. We listened to the music we wanted to listen to, and we got to talk without constant interuption. Unlike most of the trips from our door in Oak Ridge to Mom and Dad’s door in Shelbyville, it seemed to pass by too quickly. I am sure I did not drive any faster than usual, but the 211 miles sped by in a blur.
When we arrived, Dad was out on the front porch, which is the throne from which he overlooks his little kingdom. Dad is an outdoor person and is as resistant to Air Conditioning as I am to heat. He has worked outside all of his life, from farm work as a child to hard, manual labor on the County Road Crews in his teens. Through his years as a truck driver, he drove with the windows down and his left arm lay across the edge to receive a dark, permanent tan.
Mom likes to give Dad a hard time about sitting on the porch, and I’m not sure why. I think she sees it as a waste of time, but the way I see it, if you’ve worked hard all your life and you’ve finally retired, then you should be able to do what you want to do.
Dad enjoys sitting on the porch more than sitting in the house watching television. He enjoys the feel of the sun and sound of the occasional breeze in the leaves of the dogwood tree nearby. He enjoys watching the cars pass by on their way into or out of town. He recognizes a lot of the people and waves…and they wave back. He sometimes waves at those he doesn’t know too. Most of them return the friendly greeting.
As the sun was slowly setting Friday evening and the air got slightly more bearable, I sat on the front porch with Dad and we waved at those driving by together. I had to admit it was relaxing.
When it got a bit darker, we went inside, where Mom and Connie had been sharing stories about mine and Dad’s problems and how they intended to fix them. Although I had told Mom we would eat dinner on the way and not to fix any food, she couldn’t resist breaking out some home-made pound cake and ice cream. Far be it from me to hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of her generosity.
We talked into the evening about family and the kids. Again, the lack of interruption was nice, but there was a bit of sadness in the undertone of the conversation. My kids were growing up and their absence was like a vacuum. Not only had I grown up and moved away, but now my kids were growing up and moving on with their own lives. They would visit again, of course, but not nearly as often.
Saturday morning Mom was up before five, starting a kettle of green beans. Dad had hoped for a mess of fresh beans from his garden, but we were about a week early so Mom was using canned. Still, a piece of salt pork for seasoning and a long time to simmer and they would taste just fine.
I had made a Mississippi Mud Cake, since it travelled easily, and planned to buy fried chicken from Kroger’s. Mom made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and Dad made his world famous banana pudding. We were prepared to feed the multitudes.
The reunion was supposed to start at 11am, but since everyone had been told that we wouldn’t eat until noon, that’s when everyone showed up. There was more food than there were people, and we had to add tables for desserts and drinks. Everyone out-did themselves with their favorite recipes, and when I say “out-did” I also mean that some went too far. I didn’t recognize what everything was…although it mostly resembled food.
There are some excellent cooks in my family¸ evident by the numerous shirts stretched near the point of fabric failure, but there are a few experimenters as well. I don’t mind trying new things, or new recipes, but I generally try them at home, where smoke detectors and waste baskets are close by. My basic rule at pot-lucks and reunions is that I don’t partake of foods that I can’t easily identify or if the ingredients aren’t obvious to my naked and extremely well-trained eye…especially if I have be somewhere in the next twenty-four hours.
Fortunately, there were plenty of the basics. Fried Chicken in all varieties except home-made (I guess no one actually fries chicken at home anymore), several batches of Mac and Cheese (with varying levels of cheesiness), corn, beans, potatoes, and a variety of casseroles with cracker toppings. One odd thing that Connie and I both noticed (and discussed in some detail on the way home) was that no one had brought “deviled eggs.” In retrospect, I still find it rather shocking.
Connie also noted (on our quiet drive home that evening) that my family was obviously a “mac and cheese” family and her family was a “hash brown casserole” family. It took only a moment’s thought to realize that she was absolutely right. No Warford family gathering seemed complete without a dish of baked macaroni and cheese, while the Dunkel family could not seem to meet without the hash browns. There is probably an interesting social study in that nugget of information, but I don’t really care. Fortunately, I like them both.
I always look forward to the reunion to see family members that I do not see the rest of the year (unless it is at a funeral). After the loss of my uncle Lee last year, there are only three siblings left in Dad’s family, from the original thirteen. Dad is now the oldest, followed by his brother Bill and sister Eleanor.
There were many of my cousins at the reunion, and many more that did not make it. The greeting etiquette of family members who have essentially become “strangers” is an odd, but consistent one: for male cousins, there is a quick handshake and a chipper “Hey ______, how have you been?” This is answered by a simple “Good, and you?” The response to this question can vary between “fine” and “great,” but never more detailed than that.
Female cousins sometimes get a hug, followed by the same general dialog. Occasionally someone will ask me if I still live in Tennessee, and I’ll say “yes.” They might follow that up (if we haven’t been interrupted by another arriving cousin) with, “now that’s near Nashville, right?” And I’ll say, “No, near Knoxville.” Since I’m always afraid of asking a question that I should already know the answer to or might not want to know, I generally shuffle my feet awkwardly and say something about how unbearably hot it is.
The heat was miserable. We were under a shelter, but it had a tin roof that seemed to be conducting the sun’s rays into a microwave. Dad and my brother David had brought some fans to sit around and people were not so casually situating themselves in front of them. Those spots were prime real estate and provided the only breeze and relief while trying to eat.
Despite a strong suggestion that we sit with people that we normally don’t see, everyone mostly broke up into their immediate family groupings. Old habits die hard, and we all gravitate to our comfort zone. Nothing is more comfortable than family.
Barely an hour and a half after getting in line to eat, people were packing up to go. It was just too hot to sit around and try to make conversation. It was really a shame though; because I think the longer we had stayed, the more we would have been forced to catch up. I might have actually learned what a few of my cousins do for a living.
My cousin Kevin, however, was the hero of the day. When a discussion arose about next year’s reunion, he suggested that we find a place indoors (even offering his church’s fellowship hall). As sweat dripped off my forehead and down the tip of my nose, I think it mixed with tears of joy at the thought that we would be in air-conditioned comfort next year. I quickly added my support to the idea and so did most of the others. (I think Dad was a little disappointed, but he was the only one present who didn’t look like he had just stepped out of the lake. He was as cool as the glass of ice tea he was holding).
Soon we were back at Mom and Dad’s house unpacking leftovers. I lifted the lid and looked down at my carefully and lovingly prepared Mississippi Mud Cake. One solitary corner piece had been removed. The rest of the cake sat there in the pan like some unwanted ugly stepchild. Connie noticed the cakes sad plight as well and said “Didn’t you get a piece of that at the reunion?” Yes, I nodded. One piece had been eaten from my cake and it was I who ate it. Kind of sad.
We visited a while longer, then hugged and kissed everyone before heading south toward home. I cranked up the air conditioning and set the cruise control. Another peaceful ride home, full of uninterrupted conversation and music of our choice. I couldn’t help but miss the kids.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Emergency!
I hate hospitals. It’s not an irrational hatred or a paralyzing fear reaction, and it’s certainly not a lack of respect for the fine individuals who provide such necessary and life-saving care, but like most people I simply would prefer never to step inside one again. Of course, I rarely get what I prefer.
Sunday night one of those things happened that you can’t predict or plan. Rather than a quiet evening of television and an early bedtime that we were expecting, Connie and I ended up in the emergency room of Oak Ridge’s Methodist Medical Center with our daughter Ashlyn. She had been complaining about her stomach hurting throughout the afternoon, but as dusk began to fall it became more obvious that it was not just “something she ate.”
Since my aim here is not to write a medical mystery or a draw out the concern for her well-being, let me say upfront that Ashlyn is okay. The final diagnosis was that she had a cyst that was causing the pain and after a few days it should go away.
To borrow from Connie’s favorite quote, however, this is about the “journey, not the destination.”
Hoping to avoid a trip to the Emergency Room, we called our family doctor for some advice on Ashlyn’s malady. Of course, being the weekend, we ended up talking to the phone service and then to an intermediary person whose primary job seemed to be keeping us from talking directly to a medical professional.
There were several calls back and forth, each with a new list of questions and answers, and finally we were asked to have Ashlyn jump up and down. Apparently, this is a standard tool for over-the-phone diagnosis, because when she admitted that “yes,” her abdomen did hurt more after jumping, we were instructed to go to the hospital.
The emergency room experience is unlike any other, except maybe for the green room of The Jerry Springer Show during an episode entitled “Cousins Who Marry.” I am actually tempted to spend some evenings there with my camera so I can start the next Internet sensation: PeopleOfTheEmergencyRoom.com.
The lady at the registration desk was very professional. I assume she has seen and heard a lot over the years, so she has removed any sign of emotion or compassion from her face or body language. She questioned me in more detail than my last home loan application and then took my insurance card and driver’s license to make a copy. I was not surprised by this, but was concerned when she said I would not get them back until Ashlyn was discharged. I wanted to ask her why, but I was a little concerned that she was related to the “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld and might say “no Emergency Care for you!” For the good of my daughter, I kept my mouth shut.
We had barely taken our seats in the waiting area when Ashlyn’s name was called out from across the room. We excitedly stood and made our way toward the sound of the voice but could not find where it came from. There were about five doors on that side of the room and none of them were open. We stood there dumbly, wondering if all three of us had somehow imagined it together.
After a few awkward minutes of feet shuffling, one of middle doors cracked open and a man’s head poked out. “Ashlyn Warford!” As soon as he said it, his head disappeared and the door shut again. It was a little disconcerting. Were we supposed to go in there? Or was he just practicing name pronunciations?
I went to the door and knocked. The man quickly opened the door and said, “Warford?” We nodded yes and he let us in. Once inside, he did not seem so anti-social, and even joked some with Ashlyn, who was smiling and laughing despite her abdominal pain. His tag said he was an RN, and he took Ashlyn’s vitals and description of her problem. He agreed that the symptoms appeared to suggest Appendicitis, and then informed us that they had received several ambulances in the last hour and had no beds available. They would get to us as soon as they could.
We returned to our seats in the waiting area and spent the next three hours watching a parade of interesting, sort of scary, oddly dressed characters come and go. I was surprised at how many came in wearing their pajamas, and mentioned to Connie that I would have to bleeding profusely or passed out not to throw on some clothes before going out in public.
While we and a few others walked in with a dazed and confused look on our face, searching for signs to tell us where to go and what to do, most of the people who entered that evening looked like they were visiting their grandmother’s house. They seemed to know where everything was, and several even knew each other. I felt like we had stumbled onto a reunion of some sort.
To keep ourselves occupied as the hours passed, we tried to guess which person of each new group was the actual patient in need of Emergency care. It was more difficult than you would think.
A young woman came in carrying a sleeping baby and was followed by a heavyset, older woman pulling an oxygen tank. The woman with the tank moved slowly and wheezed with each unsteady step. To the untrained eye she was the obvious patient, but I was a quick learner that night and put my money on the infant. I was right.
After signing in, the three sat nearby and I was amazed that the baby could continue to sleep over the constant hacking cough and coarse, honking whistle that accompanied every labored breath the woman made. The only time there was some quiet from that side of the room was when the woman staggered her way back outside to smoke a cigarette.
There were an abundance of “coughers” in the waiting room that night, and I told Connie that if a person wasn’t sick when they got there, they would almost definitely have something before they left. One woman was there before we arrived and continued to wait; called back at the same time we were, minutes after midnight. We tried to guess her ailment, but except for an occasional cough (which she refused to cover with her hand), she seemed in good health. She spent most of her time on her cell phone, laughing and talking. We could not understand why anyone would sit for so long if they didn’t have an actual “emergency” concern. I think I could wait until morning to see someone about a cough, but that’s just me.
After a while, it became obvious that this was not necessarily an “emergency room” for many of the people there that night, but their only form of health care available. Without insurance they couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Here, they could show up for almost anything and receive treatment.
A man and a boy who looked to be around ten years old had been waiting since we arrived and Connie and I were both touched by the father’s attentiveness. The boy was definitely sick. Pale and weak, he lay down beside his father and slept most of the evening. The father would occasionally lay his hand on the boys shoulder or carefully touch his brow. At one point he gently shook him and said that he had to go the bathroom and was sorry to wake him but he didn’t want him to be scared if woke up and he was not there.
Later, after hours of waiting, the boy sat up and his father felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think your fever has broke,” I heard him say. The boy said that he felt better. They waited twenty more minutes and with a quiet look at each stood and walked silently to the door and into the night. I nudged Connie and said, “They either heal you here or make you wait long enough to get better on your own.”
When the clock struck midnight and my patience neared a breaking point, we got called back to a room. While we thought that we were at last making progress, we had merely switched tracks to another slow train to nowhere. The waiting with a different view had begun.
Sunday night one of those things happened that you can’t predict or plan. Rather than a quiet evening of television and an early bedtime that we were expecting, Connie and I ended up in the emergency room of Oak Ridge’s Methodist Medical Center with our daughter Ashlyn. She had been complaining about her stomach hurting throughout the afternoon, but as dusk began to fall it became more obvious that it was not just “something she ate.”
Since my aim here is not to write a medical mystery or a draw out the concern for her well-being, let me say upfront that Ashlyn is okay. The final diagnosis was that she had a cyst that was causing the pain and after a few days it should go away.
To borrow from Connie’s favorite quote, however, this is about the “journey, not the destination.”
Hoping to avoid a trip to the Emergency Room, we called our family doctor for some advice on Ashlyn’s malady. Of course, being the weekend, we ended up talking to the phone service and then to an intermediary person whose primary job seemed to be keeping us from talking directly to a medical professional.
There were several calls back and forth, each with a new list of questions and answers, and finally we were asked to have Ashlyn jump up and down. Apparently, this is a standard tool for over-the-phone diagnosis, because when she admitted that “yes,” her abdomen did hurt more after jumping, we were instructed to go to the hospital.
The emergency room experience is unlike any other, except maybe for the green room of The Jerry Springer Show during an episode entitled “Cousins Who Marry.” I am actually tempted to spend some evenings there with my camera so I can start the next Internet sensation: PeopleOfTheEmergencyRoom.com.
The lady at the registration desk was very professional. I assume she has seen and heard a lot over the years, so she has removed any sign of emotion or compassion from her face or body language. She questioned me in more detail than my last home loan application and then took my insurance card and driver’s license to make a copy. I was not surprised by this, but was concerned when she said I would not get them back until Ashlyn was discharged. I wanted to ask her why, but I was a little concerned that she was related to the “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld and might say “no Emergency Care for you!” For the good of my daughter, I kept my mouth shut.
We had barely taken our seats in the waiting area when Ashlyn’s name was called out from across the room. We excitedly stood and made our way toward the sound of the voice but could not find where it came from. There were about five doors on that side of the room and none of them were open. We stood there dumbly, wondering if all three of us had somehow imagined it together.
After a few awkward minutes of feet shuffling, one of middle doors cracked open and a man’s head poked out. “Ashlyn Warford!” As soon as he said it, his head disappeared and the door shut again. It was a little disconcerting. Were we supposed to go in there? Or was he just practicing name pronunciations?
I went to the door and knocked. The man quickly opened the door and said, “Warford?” We nodded yes and he let us in. Once inside, he did not seem so anti-social, and even joked some with Ashlyn, who was smiling and laughing despite her abdominal pain. His tag said he was an RN, and he took Ashlyn’s vitals and description of her problem. He agreed that the symptoms appeared to suggest Appendicitis, and then informed us that they had received several ambulances in the last hour and had no beds available. They would get to us as soon as they could.
We returned to our seats in the waiting area and spent the next three hours watching a parade of interesting, sort of scary, oddly dressed characters come and go. I was surprised at how many came in wearing their pajamas, and mentioned to Connie that I would have to bleeding profusely or passed out not to throw on some clothes before going out in public.
While we and a few others walked in with a dazed and confused look on our face, searching for signs to tell us where to go and what to do, most of the people who entered that evening looked like they were visiting their grandmother’s house. They seemed to know where everything was, and several even knew each other. I felt like we had stumbled onto a reunion of some sort.
To keep ourselves occupied as the hours passed, we tried to guess which person of each new group was the actual patient in need of Emergency care. It was more difficult than you would think.
A young woman came in carrying a sleeping baby and was followed by a heavyset, older woman pulling an oxygen tank. The woman with the tank moved slowly and wheezed with each unsteady step. To the untrained eye she was the obvious patient, but I was a quick learner that night and put my money on the infant. I was right.
After signing in, the three sat nearby and I was amazed that the baby could continue to sleep over the constant hacking cough and coarse, honking whistle that accompanied every labored breath the woman made. The only time there was some quiet from that side of the room was when the woman staggered her way back outside to smoke a cigarette.
There were an abundance of “coughers” in the waiting room that night, and I told Connie that if a person wasn’t sick when they got there, they would almost definitely have something before they left. One woman was there before we arrived and continued to wait; called back at the same time we were, minutes after midnight. We tried to guess her ailment, but except for an occasional cough (which she refused to cover with her hand), she seemed in good health. She spent most of her time on her cell phone, laughing and talking. We could not understand why anyone would sit for so long if they didn’t have an actual “emergency” concern. I think I could wait until morning to see someone about a cough, but that’s just me.
After a while, it became obvious that this was not necessarily an “emergency room” for many of the people there that night, but their only form of health care available. Without insurance they couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Here, they could show up for almost anything and receive treatment.
A man and a boy who looked to be around ten years old had been waiting since we arrived and Connie and I were both touched by the father’s attentiveness. The boy was definitely sick. Pale and weak, he lay down beside his father and slept most of the evening. The father would occasionally lay his hand on the boys shoulder or carefully touch his brow. At one point he gently shook him and said that he had to go the bathroom and was sorry to wake him but he didn’t want him to be scared if woke up and he was not there.
Later, after hours of waiting, the boy sat up and his father felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think your fever has broke,” I heard him say. The boy said that he felt better. They waited twenty more minutes and with a quiet look at each stood and walked silently to the door and into the night. I nudged Connie and said, “They either heal you here or make you wait long enough to get better on your own.”
When the clock struck midnight and my patience neared a breaking point, we got called back to a room. While we thought that we were at last making progress, we had merely switched tracks to another slow train to nowhere. The waiting with a different view had begun.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Pondering...
I am a fortunate man. I may not have great looks, wealth or fame (or many of the other attributes that people associate with men of good fortune), but when I take the time to stop and look around, I know that I am blessed beyond what I deserve.
I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, such as the fact that not only are both my parents still alive, but they are still married and living together (in the very same house I grew up in). Although they bicker a bit and don’t seem to communicate with each other in a way that I fully understand, they go together like biscuit and gravy. It’s as if they always were…and always will be.
The relationship of child to parent is much different now than it was when I was growing up. My parents did not feel the need to entertain us or be our friend. I can’t remember ever being asked my opinion on where to go out to eat or where to go on vacation. Of course, I can count on two fingers the number of times we went out to eat as a family prior to my sixteenth birthday, and vacations usually consisted of visiting family in Indiana.
No, my parents didn’t read a book on how to raise a child. They didn’t get advice from Dr. Spock or a government study on child psychology. There weren’t people on the news every morning telling them what they were doing was wrong, and if there were, my parents would have been too busy to watch. They fed us, clothed us, took us to church and made sure we brushed our teeth. If we had homework, we were expected to do it, no excuses. We had chores. We didn’t get an allowance. We got clothes and a couple of toys from Santa Claus at Christmas and a new pair of jeans and a toy on our birthday. It was more than enough.
I never worried when I was a child…about anything…and that might have been my parent’s greatest gift. I lived under a dome of their protection. I somehow knew, despite it never being said or even thought about, that they would keep me safe and taken care of. I wasn’t smothered in hugs at home, nor told each day that I was loved, but there was never a doubt in my mind that either one of them would have died to keep me safe. I slept well in my parent’s house.
I don’t sleep as well anymore. Worry is strong caffeine. I have the weight of my own children’s well-being upon me. I worry that I can provide what they need and nurture their self-esteem. I worry about the choices they will make and what outside influences will affect those choices. I worry about the diminishing list of things I can control and the ever-expanding list of things I cannot.
I also worry for my parents. Age and health issues have gradually chipped away at them, as it will to all those fortunate enough to see time pass. Dad survived a bought with cancer ten years ago, and steps a little slower after the fight. Mom has suffered through heart surgery, poor vision, high blood pressure and back problems. They have their good days and their bad days.
I was able to spend most of Mother’s Day weekend with my parents in Kentucky. Each year I tell myself that I will make it a priority to go there more often, and each year I fail miserably. I had not been “home” since late December, hindered from returning sooner by many seemingly reasonable excuses. Like most things that keep us from doing what we should, each excuse made sense at the time.
Sunday morning, as Connie and the girls hurried to get dressed for church; I stood at the back door and watched my parents walk to the car on the way to Sunday school. Mom walked slowly…eyes down and watching the familiar sidewalk as she carefully took each step. She could not afford a fall. Her bones are too fragile now and her skin prone to tear. A broken hip could take her independence in a matter of seconds, and recovery would be difficult. I pray that her feet continue to land firmly and her balance stays true.
I worry too about my father driving. At 81 he’s still much sharper than I about many things, but when I see big SUV’s and trucks speeding through town and weaving through traffic, I worry about his reaction time. How much longer can he keep his focus on the road, and who will tell him to hand over his keys? Will I do the right thing when the time comes, and protect them like they have for so long protected me?
It’s very hard to live so far away from my Mom and Dad. It helps to know that my brothers are close by and willing to do anything necessary, but I feel guilt over that too. I want to do my share. Despite the fact that my parents have cared for me my entire life with no expectations and no interest charged, I owe them that.
I am fortunate that my children have gotten old enough to have good memories of my parents. They know the warmth of my parent’s home, and I know they feel comfortable there. They love their “Mamaw and Papaw,” and I know that they will carry that love and those memories for the rest of their lives.
I hope that for however long I am blessed to have my parents on this Earth, they know how much I love them and how much they mean to their family. I hope they can forgive me for the stupid things I’ve said and the stupid things I’ve done; those things were “in spite of” not “because of” anything they taught me. They’ve placed me in the frustrating position that when I do stumble, I don’t have the excuse of saying, “I didn’t know better.”
Because of their example, I have always known better.
I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, such as the fact that not only are both my parents still alive, but they are still married and living together (in the very same house I grew up in). Although they bicker a bit and don’t seem to communicate with each other in a way that I fully understand, they go together like biscuit and gravy. It’s as if they always were…and always will be.
The relationship of child to parent is much different now than it was when I was growing up. My parents did not feel the need to entertain us or be our friend. I can’t remember ever being asked my opinion on where to go out to eat or where to go on vacation. Of course, I can count on two fingers the number of times we went out to eat as a family prior to my sixteenth birthday, and vacations usually consisted of visiting family in Indiana.
No, my parents didn’t read a book on how to raise a child. They didn’t get advice from Dr. Spock or a government study on child psychology. There weren’t people on the news every morning telling them what they were doing was wrong, and if there were, my parents would have been too busy to watch. They fed us, clothed us, took us to church and made sure we brushed our teeth. If we had homework, we were expected to do it, no excuses. We had chores. We didn’t get an allowance. We got clothes and a couple of toys from Santa Claus at Christmas and a new pair of jeans and a toy on our birthday. It was more than enough.
I never worried when I was a child…about anything…and that might have been my parent’s greatest gift. I lived under a dome of their protection. I somehow knew, despite it never being said or even thought about, that they would keep me safe and taken care of. I wasn’t smothered in hugs at home, nor told each day that I was loved, but there was never a doubt in my mind that either one of them would have died to keep me safe. I slept well in my parent’s house.
I don’t sleep as well anymore. Worry is strong caffeine. I have the weight of my own children’s well-being upon me. I worry that I can provide what they need and nurture their self-esteem. I worry about the choices they will make and what outside influences will affect those choices. I worry about the diminishing list of things I can control and the ever-expanding list of things I cannot.
I also worry for my parents. Age and health issues have gradually chipped away at them, as it will to all those fortunate enough to see time pass. Dad survived a bought with cancer ten years ago, and steps a little slower after the fight. Mom has suffered through heart surgery, poor vision, high blood pressure and back problems. They have their good days and their bad days.
I was able to spend most of Mother’s Day weekend with my parents in Kentucky. Each year I tell myself that I will make it a priority to go there more often, and each year I fail miserably. I had not been “home” since late December, hindered from returning sooner by many seemingly reasonable excuses. Like most things that keep us from doing what we should, each excuse made sense at the time.
Sunday morning, as Connie and the girls hurried to get dressed for church; I stood at the back door and watched my parents walk to the car on the way to Sunday school. Mom walked slowly…eyes down and watching the familiar sidewalk as she carefully took each step. She could not afford a fall. Her bones are too fragile now and her skin prone to tear. A broken hip could take her independence in a matter of seconds, and recovery would be difficult. I pray that her feet continue to land firmly and her balance stays true.
I worry too about my father driving. At 81 he’s still much sharper than I about many things, but when I see big SUV’s and trucks speeding through town and weaving through traffic, I worry about his reaction time. How much longer can he keep his focus on the road, and who will tell him to hand over his keys? Will I do the right thing when the time comes, and protect them like they have for so long protected me?
It’s very hard to live so far away from my Mom and Dad. It helps to know that my brothers are close by and willing to do anything necessary, but I feel guilt over that too. I want to do my share. Despite the fact that my parents have cared for me my entire life with no expectations and no interest charged, I owe them that.
I am fortunate that my children have gotten old enough to have good memories of my parents. They know the warmth of my parent’s home, and I know they feel comfortable there. They love their “Mamaw and Papaw,” and I know that they will carry that love and those memories for the rest of their lives.
I hope that for however long I am blessed to have my parents on this Earth, they know how much I love them and how much they mean to their family. I hope they can forgive me for the stupid things I’ve said and the stupid things I’ve done; those things were “in spite of” not “because of” anything they taught me. They’ve placed me in the frustrating position that when I do stumble, I don’t have the excuse of saying, “I didn’t know better.”
Because of their example, I have always known better.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
And on the seventh day...
I don’t remember it myself, but I’ve been told that I was first taken to church when I was two weeks old. Since it was my mother telling the story, I tend to believe it. From then until I got married, I didn’t miss a lot of Sundays, and very few Wednesday nights. Church was as much a part of our life as eating or breathing. I never knew anything else.
Our church was small, averaging sixty or seventy in the congregation each Sunday morning, and if you weren’t related to them in some way or another, then you at least knew their business. Most were hard working, God fearing folk. The men wore suits, with blue ink pens and a pack of camels in the pocket of their crisply ironed white shirts. The ladies wore dresses and shoes with low, sensible heels. Their hair was always perfect, held in place with enough bobby pins to shield them from a nuclear blast. When I got older and realized that half of the older ladies were wearing wigs, it was almost like learning that there was no Easter Bunny.
As a child, I remember going to the front of the church for “Children’s Choir” after Sunday school. It was not really a “choir” since we never rehearsed ahead of time. I’m still not sure of the point of what we were doing other than to show off our miniature suits and ruffled dresses, but it was always fun to sing the songs; “This Little Light of Mine,” “Zacchaeus,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” and my personal favorite, “The Happy Day Express.”
If it was just a “dog and pony” show of “see how cute they are,” then we were extremely willing participants. Besides, I can attest that forty years later I remember the words to every single song.
As kids we were never allowed to wear jeans to morning service. It was just not done. We were also expected to behave. No talking, laughing or cutting up was allowed. It was rare, but I did see a few young boys taken by the hand and solemnly led outside by their Daddy, only to return some time later with splotchy, tear streaked faces and a much more subdued attitude. That usually only had to happen once.
We were a small, independent church…full of independent people. We were “interdenominational,” which means we were not affiliated with any specific religious organization. We weren’t Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic or Pentecostal. As I got older and more cynical, I sometimes joked that “interdenominational” meant that we didn’t know what we believed, but that was far from true.
In those days we used the King James Version of the Bible. Now most people say that it is too hard to understand, but even as a child, I didn’t have a problem grasping the central concepts. I think the fact that the language was different than the way we speak made us think about it more. It’s sort of like the way kids today are allowed use calculators in math class: if you make it too easy, people tend to miss the basics.
I always worry a little about some of the various translations of the Bible. I’m sure that they are all well intentioned, but how many different ways can you say the same thing without losing the original intent? Also (and here’s my cynical side coming out), what if a complete lunatic wrote a translation and people actually believed it? I might know that it would be a bad idea to do a Bible study using “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Bible Translation,” but some people are always looking for what’s new and different, so I wouldn’t put it past them to take take every word as fact.
When I met Connie, I didn’t know quite what to expect. First, she was a Baptist. Second, she was a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t know much about Baptists, except that whenever a stray Baptist joined our little Interdenominational Church they tended to stir up trouble. But I had heard about “preacher’s kids,” and was told that they could go to extremes either way. Either they were “holier than thou” sticks in the mud, or rebellious hellions bent on a campaign to shock and awe.
Connie threw both my preconceptions out the window and was a perfect balance of a good hearted person who was also full of surprises. The only shock was how she filled me with awe and inspiration. We had a Baptist wedding in a Baptist Church presided over by her Baptist Preacher father. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was now “Baptist by marriage.”
When we moved to Tennessee in 1988, we weren’t in a hurry to join a church. We had spent most of our young lives attending church services, and although we both treasured those memories, we started to enjoy the freedoms of a church free Sunday. We slept late and took day trips. We communed with nature. There was always an excuse not to go. It was our rebellious period.
In early 1990, when we learned that Connie was pregnant with Shelby, we knew that it was time to settle down and return to church. We visited a few churches in the area and were almost afraid to keep looking when on three consecutive Sundays at three different worship services, the Pastors resigned. It made for an awkward visit. By the third resignation we began to joke that we might be some kind of jinx, but in the back of my mind I had to wonder if our mixed marriage of “interdenominational” and “Baptist,” along with our prolonged break from church-going, had somehow offended God. It was a little un-nerving.
We finally found a new church home at Robertsville Baptist Church, and they welcomed us with open arms. Connie and I joined the choir and became involved in Sunday school. We developed a close bond with a group of other young married couples and made some of the best friends of our lives.
As I tried to acquaint myself with “Baptist ways” I realized that there were many similarities with my old home church. Primarily, both churches shared a strong preoccupation with all things food. Whether it was a major event like Homecoming, Revival or Vacation Bible School, or just fact that it’s the second Wednesday night of the month, church people can always find a reason to have a meal.
At a certain point I realized that we were going to be raising our kids "Baptist," and I had to come to terms with that. Any qualms I had were quickly over-ruled by the fact that Connie had turned out pretty well, so between us (and a lot of prayers) we might end up with some well rounded Christian kids.
(...there's much more to this train of thought, and I might even write about it)
Our church was small, averaging sixty or seventy in the congregation each Sunday morning, and if you weren’t related to them in some way or another, then you at least knew their business. Most were hard working, God fearing folk. The men wore suits, with blue ink pens and a pack of camels in the pocket of their crisply ironed white shirts. The ladies wore dresses and shoes with low, sensible heels. Their hair was always perfect, held in place with enough bobby pins to shield them from a nuclear blast. When I got older and realized that half of the older ladies were wearing wigs, it was almost like learning that there was no Easter Bunny.
As a child, I remember going to the front of the church for “Children’s Choir” after Sunday school. It was not really a “choir” since we never rehearsed ahead of time. I’m still not sure of the point of what we were doing other than to show off our miniature suits and ruffled dresses, but it was always fun to sing the songs; “This Little Light of Mine,” “Zacchaeus,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” and my personal favorite, “The Happy Day Express.”
If it was just a “dog and pony” show of “see how cute they are,” then we were extremely willing participants. Besides, I can attest that forty years later I remember the words to every single song.
As kids we were never allowed to wear jeans to morning service. It was just not done. We were also expected to behave. No talking, laughing or cutting up was allowed. It was rare, but I did see a few young boys taken by the hand and solemnly led outside by their Daddy, only to return some time later with splotchy, tear streaked faces and a much more subdued attitude. That usually only had to happen once.
We were a small, independent church…full of independent people. We were “interdenominational,” which means we were not affiliated with any specific religious organization. We weren’t Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic or Pentecostal. As I got older and more cynical, I sometimes joked that “interdenominational” meant that we didn’t know what we believed, but that was far from true.
In those days we used the King James Version of the Bible. Now most people say that it is too hard to understand, but even as a child, I didn’t have a problem grasping the central concepts. I think the fact that the language was different than the way we speak made us think about it more. It’s sort of like the way kids today are allowed use calculators in math class: if you make it too easy, people tend to miss the basics.
I always worry a little about some of the various translations of the Bible. I’m sure that they are all well intentioned, but how many different ways can you say the same thing without losing the original intent? Also (and here’s my cynical side coming out), what if a complete lunatic wrote a translation and people actually believed it? I might know that it would be a bad idea to do a Bible study using “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Bible Translation,” but some people are always looking for what’s new and different, so I wouldn’t put it past them to take take every word as fact.
When I met Connie, I didn’t know quite what to expect. First, she was a Baptist. Second, she was a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t know much about Baptists, except that whenever a stray Baptist joined our little Interdenominational Church they tended to stir up trouble. But I had heard about “preacher’s kids,” and was told that they could go to extremes either way. Either they were “holier than thou” sticks in the mud, or rebellious hellions bent on a campaign to shock and awe.
Connie threw both my preconceptions out the window and was a perfect balance of a good hearted person who was also full of surprises. The only shock was how she filled me with awe and inspiration. We had a Baptist wedding in a Baptist Church presided over by her Baptist Preacher father. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was now “Baptist by marriage.”
When we moved to Tennessee in 1988, we weren’t in a hurry to join a church. We had spent most of our young lives attending church services, and although we both treasured those memories, we started to enjoy the freedoms of a church free Sunday. We slept late and took day trips. We communed with nature. There was always an excuse not to go. It was our rebellious period.
In early 1990, when we learned that Connie was pregnant with Shelby, we knew that it was time to settle down and return to church. We visited a few churches in the area and were almost afraid to keep looking when on three consecutive Sundays at three different worship services, the Pastors resigned. It made for an awkward visit. By the third resignation we began to joke that we might be some kind of jinx, but in the back of my mind I had to wonder if our mixed marriage of “interdenominational” and “Baptist,” along with our prolonged break from church-going, had somehow offended God. It was a little un-nerving.
We finally found a new church home at Robertsville Baptist Church, and they welcomed us with open arms. Connie and I joined the choir and became involved in Sunday school. We developed a close bond with a group of other young married couples and made some of the best friends of our lives.
As I tried to acquaint myself with “Baptist ways” I realized that there were many similarities with my old home church. Primarily, both churches shared a strong preoccupation with all things food. Whether it was a major event like Homecoming, Revival or Vacation Bible School, or just fact that it’s the second Wednesday night of the month, church people can always find a reason to have a meal.
At a certain point I realized that we were going to be raising our kids "Baptist," and I had to come to terms with that. Any qualms I had were quickly over-ruled by the fact that Connie had turned out pretty well, so between us (and a lot of prayers) we might end up with some well rounded Christian kids.
(...there's much more to this train of thought, and I might even write about it)
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Through the looking glass...
Probably before the doctor spanked my bare, chubby newborn bottom someone had placed a pair of glasses over my visually impaired eyes. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t worn them; from the black plastic “kick me” glasses of elementary school and the massive face shield models of the late seventies to the smaller John Denver inspired wire rims I tend to wear today, they are the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I take off at night (…sorry for any disturbing images that might have created).
My eyes have always had a weakness for distant viewing. Anything further than six or seven feet was slightly off clear and past fifteen or twenty feet was full on fuzzy. Fortunately, I had been able to see up close, and have been able to read with both my glasses on or off. Until now.
Last summer I got new glasses with the same basic prescription that I have had for years. For about three months everything was perfectly normal (or at least normal for me). Then one morning in September I woke up in a Bethesda, Maryland hotel and put on my glasses…and the world was different. I didn’t know it until I opened the door to my room and picked up my complimentary copy of USA Today, but as I brought it up to look at the headlines, I realized that there was something wrong.
After a few minutes of unscientific testing I came to the conclusion that I could no longer see clearly within a couple of feet of my face while wearing my glasses. Just outside that range and beyond my eyesight was still clear, but I could no longer read while optically enhanced.
When I returned home I made an appointment with my optometrist and was soon sitting in his office, demanding new glasses. I argued that obviously my prescription was wrong and the glasses were faulty. He humored me long enough to perform a quick exam, then kindly shook his head and explained that my eyes had “changed,” and that as we get older it is bound to happen. I told him that I understood and expected my eyesight to shift with age, but this “change” was not only fairly drastic, but had also occurred overnight. He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me his best Marcus Welby impression of concern. “It happens,” he said.
He went on to explain in more technical detail about the degeneration of my eyes and then suggested that I probably needed bi-focals. I told him that I could still read just fine without my glasses, so why would I want bi-focals. He said, “So you won’t have to take off your glasses to read.” I didn’t buy it. I made the decision right then that as long as I could read with or without my regular glasses, I would not get bi-focals. I had to make a stand somewhere, and that was where I drew the line.
Since that day I’ve become very accustomed to taking off my glasses. I was surprised to learn just how often throughout the day I actually read things that are not what I normally consider “reading.” It’s not just picking up a book or a magazine; there are menus, memos, business cards, package descriptions, pill bottles, instruction booklets, etc., etc., etc.
Aging is a funny thing. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I don’t feel all that different than I did in high school or college. My mind dances with dreams and possibilities. I feel alive with the promise of a new day. Then I start to move and the aches and pains I’ve accumulated tap me on the shoulder, back and knees. I remember quickly that I am no longer so young and have somehow jumped into a vehicle that seems to be racing downhill with no brakes.
It reminds me of a comedian I once heard talking about growing older. He said that when you’re a kid it seems like forever between special events. You’ve got Birthdays and Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day. Then there’s Easter, Memorial Day, July 4 and the long wait until Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving. The year seemed long in a child’s eyes.
As you get older, they fly by in dog years. Pretty soon, the comedian said, the calendar turns so quickly that it’s “birthday, birthday, birthday…you’re gonna DIE!”
I thought his joke was funny when I heard it, but I was much younger then. Now I think about it and realize that despite its humor and supposed accuracy, it’s far too cynical a concept to let yourself fall into. Yes, the years might be spinning by a bit faster than I would wish…and my body might be slowing down or “changing,” but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up just yet.
I’ve decided that there can be a gracefulness and elegance in removing my glasses to read. (Occasionally, if no one is around, I whip them off with a dramatic flourish, just for the fun of it). I’m trying to look on the positive side, which has not always been my strong suit, but is something I will probably need to cultivate as I get older.
Because even with my bad eyes, I still want to see my daughters grow up and start their own families. I want to see the faces of my grandchildren. I want to watch many sunsets with my agelessly beautiful wife. I don’t want to do all these things with a frown of worry on my face. I want to enjoy each day for the amazing gift that it is…and I’m going to try very hard not to lose sight of that.
My eyes have always had a weakness for distant viewing. Anything further than six or seven feet was slightly off clear and past fifteen or twenty feet was full on fuzzy. Fortunately, I had been able to see up close, and have been able to read with both my glasses on or off. Until now.
Last summer I got new glasses with the same basic prescription that I have had for years. For about three months everything was perfectly normal (or at least normal for me). Then one morning in September I woke up in a Bethesda, Maryland hotel and put on my glasses…and the world was different. I didn’t know it until I opened the door to my room and picked up my complimentary copy of USA Today, but as I brought it up to look at the headlines, I realized that there was something wrong.
After a few minutes of unscientific testing I came to the conclusion that I could no longer see clearly within a couple of feet of my face while wearing my glasses. Just outside that range and beyond my eyesight was still clear, but I could no longer read while optically enhanced.
When I returned home I made an appointment with my optometrist and was soon sitting in his office, demanding new glasses. I argued that obviously my prescription was wrong and the glasses were faulty. He humored me long enough to perform a quick exam, then kindly shook his head and explained that my eyes had “changed,” and that as we get older it is bound to happen. I told him that I understood and expected my eyesight to shift with age, but this “change” was not only fairly drastic, but had also occurred overnight. He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me his best Marcus Welby impression of concern. “It happens,” he said.
He went on to explain in more technical detail about the degeneration of my eyes and then suggested that I probably needed bi-focals. I told him that I could still read just fine without my glasses, so why would I want bi-focals. He said, “So you won’t have to take off your glasses to read.” I didn’t buy it. I made the decision right then that as long as I could read with or without my regular glasses, I would not get bi-focals. I had to make a stand somewhere, and that was where I drew the line.
Since that day I’ve become very accustomed to taking off my glasses. I was surprised to learn just how often throughout the day I actually read things that are not what I normally consider “reading.” It’s not just picking up a book or a magazine; there are menus, memos, business cards, package descriptions, pill bottles, instruction booklets, etc., etc., etc.
Aging is a funny thing. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I don’t feel all that different than I did in high school or college. My mind dances with dreams and possibilities. I feel alive with the promise of a new day. Then I start to move and the aches and pains I’ve accumulated tap me on the shoulder, back and knees. I remember quickly that I am no longer so young and have somehow jumped into a vehicle that seems to be racing downhill with no brakes.
It reminds me of a comedian I once heard talking about growing older. He said that when you’re a kid it seems like forever between special events. You’ve got Birthdays and Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day. Then there’s Easter, Memorial Day, July 4 and the long wait until Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving. The year seemed long in a child’s eyes.
As you get older, they fly by in dog years. Pretty soon, the comedian said, the calendar turns so quickly that it’s “birthday, birthday, birthday…you’re gonna DIE!”
I thought his joke was funny when I heard it, but I was much younger then. Now I think about it and realize that despite its humor and supposed accuracy, it’s far too cynical a concept to let yourself fall into. Yes, the years might be spinning by a bit faster than I would wish…and my body might be slowing down or “changing,” but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up just yet.
I’ve decided that there can be a gracefulness and elegance in removing my glasses to read. (Occasionally, if no one is around, I whip them off with a dramatic flourish, just for the fun of it). I’m trying to look on the positive side, which has not always been my strong suit, but is something I will probably need to cultivate as I get older.
Because even with my bad eyes, I still want to see my daughters grow up and start their own families. I want to see the faces of my grandchildren. I want to watch many sunsets with my agelessly beautiful wife. I don’t want to do all these things with a frown of worry on my face. I want to enjoy each day for the amazing gift that it is…and I’m going to try very hard not to lose sight of that.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
...it will last longer
It’s no surprise to my daughter Ashlyn that I am preparing a slideshow for her upcoming 16th birthday party. In fact, she reminded me not long ago that she was expecting one. She didn’t need to worry. I have been planning it in my mind for quite some time, and was already gathering pictures when she mentioned it.
I did my first slideshow on video for our tenth anniversary. Back then I had to set our big, clunky camcorder on a tripod and then carefully zoom in and film individual photos as I counted “1001, 1002, 1003.” After the video was complete, I had to copy it to another video tape, feeding in a separate audio line to give it a soundtrack. It was quite the complicated procedure, and I’m very glad that I can now do it on a computer with software that makes me look much smarter than I am.
Three years ago I did a slideshow for Shelby’s 16th birthday. As I’ve learned throughout the growth of my three girls, anything I do special for one is required to be done for the others. Some things I do grudgingly, despite the equality of love for them all, but the slideshows are not like that. It is with a great, gleeful and selfish pleasure that I make them.
In the last several weeks I have sifted through several thousand photographs from the last 16 years. The early photos were stored in boxes and albums, hidden in closets and drawers. Every time I thought I was done, I’d find more. Those had to be scanned, rotated, cropped and cleaned up for the pc. It took a while.
We got our first digital camera in 1998; a cheap little Wal-Mart Polaroid that I thought was the greatest thing ever. Throughout the years our photo quality improved with our camera upgrades (Polaroid to Kodak; Kodak to Fuji; Fuji to better Fuji; then a couple of Canon’s and a Nikon). As I searched through the yearly backups of digital photos, I eventually got to the obnoxious 2008 and 2009 sections where there were folders called:
-Bruce’s Fuji March
-Connie’s Canon Spring
-Shelby’s Canon
-Shelby’s Nikon
-Ashlyn Camera
-Taylor’s Camera
In the last couple of years, we have stored thousands of photos of virtually the same subject, which are practically identical except taken from five slightly different vantage points. We take our responsibility to document our lives very seriously. However, as I opened folder after folder, year after year of visual memories, I wished we had taken even more.
We’re encouraged not to live in the past. We are reminded to “look to the future” and “live in the now,” but there’s an incredible comfort in visiting the warmth of days gone by. My mind was flooded with memories as I perused the pictures of Ashlyn’s life, and I willingly, blissfully drowned myself in them.
I beat myself up sometimes (quite often, in fact) for my failings as a father. My travel schedule keeps me away from home too much, and I’ve missed things that I’ll never get back. Worse than that, I sometimes return home a stranger; too many nights alone in a DC hotel room can makes me anti-social and chilly, even to the welcoming smiles and hugs of my family. Sometimes I thaw out quickly, but other times I can be the Snow Miser for days, and the women in my home have sadly learned that I am best left alone.
I’m a loner by nature; most comfortable in my own sullen company where I don’t have anyone to disappoint or bother except myself. Comfort, however, does not necessarily equate to happiness, and in looking through those sometimes awkward, crazy family moments that we’ve captured through years of photographs, I quickly realized that there has been no greater joy in my life.
The weight of responsibility that parents feel to provide for the needs of our children can sometimes pull us down, growing so heavy that we can’t even lift our heads to look around and see what it is we’re working for. I love doing these slideshows because they are a hammer to my head and a jolt to my system. They wake me up and remind me of just how blessed I am.
Photos are moments frozen in time, capturing birthdays, Christmas’s, vacations, camping trips, or just silly moments around the house. Each image jogs my memory and takes me to that place; hearing voices and laughter, smelling campfires or fresh baked cookies.
While I finished Ashlyn’s slideshow this week, sitting in my quiet hotel room, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and spirit of my four ladies. It’s not that I don’t love them all the time, but as I watched their faces flow across the screen, it almost seemed that a window had opened and a fresh breeze blew through me. Like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow three sizes that day. I hope it stays all swelled up with the love I feel right now. It’s a fantastic feeling.
I did my first slideshow on video for our tenth anniversary. Back then I had to set our big, clunky camcorder on a tripod and then carefully zoom in and film individual photos as I counted “1001, 1002, 1003.” After the video was complete, I had to copy it to another video tape, feeding in a separate audio line to give it a soundtrack. It was quite the complicated procedure, and I’m very glad that I can now do it on a computer with software that makes me look much smarter than I am.
Three years ago I did a slideshow for Shelby’s 16th birthday. As I’ve learned throughout the growth of my three girls, anything I do special for one is required to be done for the others. Some things I do grudgingly, despite the equality of love for them all, but the slideshows are not like that. It is with a great, gleeful and selfish pleasure that I make them.
In the last several weeks I have sifted through several thousand photographs from the last 16 years. The early photos were stored in boxes and albums, hidden in closets and drawers. Every time I thought I was done, I’d find more. Those had to be scanned, rotated, cropped and cleaned up for the pc. It took a while.
We got our first digital camera in 1998; a cheap little Wal-Mart Polaroid that I thought was the greatest thing ever. Throughout the years our photo quality improved with our camera upgrades (Polaroid to Kodak; Kodak to Fuji; Fuji to better Fuji; then a couple of Canon’s and a Nikon). As I searched through the yearly backups of digital photos, I eventually got to the obnoxious 2008 and 2009 sections where there were folders called:
-Bruce’s Fuji March
-Connie’s Canon Spring
-Shelby’s Canon
-Shelby’s Nikon
-Ashlyn Camera
-Taylor’s Camera
In the last couple of years, we have stored thousands of photos of virtually the same subject, which are practically identical except taken from five slightly different vantage points. We take our responsibility to document our lives very seriously. However, as I opened folder after folder, year after year of visual memories, I wished we had taken even more.
We’re encouraged not to live in the past. We are reminded to “look to the future” and “live in the now,” but there’s an incredible comfort in visiting the warmth of days gone by. My mind was flooded with memories as I perused the pictures of Ashlyn’s life, and I willingly, blissfully drowned myself in them.
I beat myself up sometimes (quite often, in fact) for my failings as a father. My travel schedule keeps me away from home too much, and I’ve missed things that I’ll never get back. Worse than that, I sometimes return home a stranger; too many nights alone in a DC hotel room can makes me anti-social and chilly, even to the welcoming smiles and hugs of my family. Sometimes I thaw out quickly, but other times I can be the Snow Miser for days, and the women in my home have sadly learned that I am best left alone.
I’m a loner by nature; most comfortable in my own sullen company where I don’t have anyone to disappoint or bother except myself. Comfort, however, does not necessarily equate to happiness, and in looking through those sometimes awkward, crazy family moments that we’ve captured through years of photographs, I quickly realized that there has been no greater joy in my life.
The weight of responsibility that parents feel to provide for the needs of our children can sometimes pull us down, growing so heavy that we can’t even lift our heads to look around and see what it is we’re working for. I love doing these slideshows because they are a hammer to my head and a jolt to my system. They wake me up and remind me of just how blessed I am.
Photos are moments frozen in time, capturing birthdays, Christmas’s, vacations, camping trips, or just silly moments around the house. Each image jogs my memory and takes me to that place; hearing voices and laughter, smelling campfires or fresh baked cookies.
While I finished Ashlyn’s slideshow this week, sitting in my quiet hotel room, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and spirit of my four ladies. It’s not that I don’t love them all the time, but as I watched their faces flow across the screen, it almost seemed that a window had opened and a fresh breeze blew through me. Like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow three sizes that day. I hope it stays all swelled up with the love I feel right now. It’s a fantastic feeling.
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