Tag: thumbed-down

Clutch driving!

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First of all, I want to say it was all my fault. My daddy didn’t raise no lazy pedal pusher. No sir! I was taught right! I was raised in the old school, learning the art of clutch-shift-gas-engage. My first car had a five speed, manual transmission – as every car I’ve had since. I went WAY old school when the synchronizer for second gear went on my ’77 Civic – exposing me to the way of the double-clutch.**

WAY!

No, it was all my lazy foot’s fault.

I stalled in traffic.

Oh, the humanity!

I don’t claim to be a great driver, but I’m pretty good in the clutch. I’m smooth as a gravy sandwich (said in an Aussie accent). I drive with pride, but today knocked me down a notch. Neither hill nor speed nor stop-and-go kept me from the true path – until today. I can’t remember the last time I suffered the indignity of turning my key surrounded by idling engines.

Please, don’t tell my daddy. I couldn’t live with the shame.

**And now for a moment of honesty: most of the time I wound out first gear, much to my passenger’s delight, and went straight to third.

With these rings

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I’m almost sure I’m revisiting this topic, but it’s a worthy subject.

What? You don’t believe me?

The other day Cheryl was talking to someone about her grandmother’s wedding ring. Cheryl wears it on the “other hand,” in addition to her own, which she wears on her “right hand,” which of course is her left. I had a little too much fun writing that sentence.

“Is that the first one?” someone asked. It was (is) her grandmother’s first – but only if you accept the premise of subsequent wedding rings. Later it was revealed her cousin had “the other wedding ring.”

Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I can be the ornery sort. Once I get something in my head and circle the logic wagons, I can be pretty dern’ stubborn. The first thing that came to mind was, “what? Was she married to someone else later who I don’t know about?” I knew she hadn’t. (I’m a big fan of rhetorical questions, as long as I’m doing the asking.) It was spontaneous sarcasm – which can be remarkably similar to sponateous combustion when used in the wrong setting. Luckily, I kept my first thought to myself. My second thought was simple.

“No.”

“What was that John?”

“No. There is no ‘other’ wedding ring. There’s one wedding ring – the one when you get married. There’s one ring that represents the commitment, trust, and love of marriage. Everything else is just jewelry.”

“But the other one was blessed….” someone replied.

And that’s when I upped the rhetorical ante.

“I don’t care if you put it in your mouth and sucked on it like a Lifesaver, it’s still not a wedding ring.”

God, I loved that line when it left my lips. Who am I kidding. I still love it. I’m so proud. My problem started when no one else at the table was nearly as impressed, including my mate. A good line deserves a chuckle, or at least a grin. I got nothing. No snorts, exagerated breaths, or changes of facial expression.

How do you spell trouble? In my case, there are times when it can’t be spelled.

Maybe I’m a sentimental fool, or just plain too poor to keep my wife properly bejeweled, but surely I’m not the only one. Why bother with ceremony? Why bother observing the sacrament, believing in the real presence of your creator in the crowd, if your just going to upgrade the one durable/tangible symbol of it all when you get your first big bonus check at work? Does symbolism or sentiment have any value, or are we just plain vain?

Maybe you believe marriage is overrated, and that’s fair. Maybe I’m placing too much value in a thing, when the real prize is my wife. My ring may be plain, but it’s something my wife gave me on one of the most important days of my life. I’ll no sooner replace it than my wife.

My, what a high horse I have, eh? I could go on and on… but I’d have to get another shovel. I’ve just about worn this one down to the handle.

Medicated me

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This is how medicine works for me.

Last month (around the time I was living in the attic) I found a treatment that seemed to work. In this case I slept… all night… really well. The next day I felt great, except for a nagging ache in my right shoulder and tingling feeling radiating down my arm into my hand (like it went to sleep). I called my doctor’s office and they said, “you need to stop taking (that drug) immediately.”

According to The AMA Guide to Liability Mitigation, Twenty-Eighth Edition (Revised), this phrase is reserved for those circumstances when potential liability is greater than $999,999.

Sure enough (according to a thorough review of the internets), in extremely rare cases the drug can lead to sudden coma and death. Although the symptoms leading those poor, rare exceptions down life’s off-ramp didn’t exactly match mine (did I mention the extremely rare part?), try telling that to a hypochondriac. I needed medication to deal with the anxiety caused by a vivid imagination for poor prognosis.

It occurred to me the tingling could have been from sleeping soundly yet awkwardly, twisting and pinching tissues that would rather not be pinched – or twisted for that matter. Now two sets of doctors agree – on one hand proving my keen intellect and medical instincts, but also making it harder to ignore my inner hypochondriac. As a bonus, one doc says I may be developing a pinch of carpal tunnel syndrome.

Setting aside two Doctor’s reassurances (a degree, no matter how well deserved, is no match for irrational fear), we arrive at a hypochondriac’s dilemma: do I risk near certain death for a good night’s sleep? There are so many things left in life I want to accomplish. I want to finally buy a new pair of shoes for work. I want to follow through on growing a beard. I want to be the first man to swim across the Straits of Florida naked, while confirming the south Florida legend that a 24 hour marinade in alligator urine is an effective shark repellant.

It’s very likely the only thing standing between me and a good night’s sleep is fear, and it’s killing me. Not literally, mind you… I think you’ve got the gist.

Going against the grain

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Weather wise, it was a great weekend. Emotionally, it wasn’t so great. Depression had the claws out. And yet, it was a productive weekend. Determined to do something, I did – a project I’d been putting off for cooler temperatures. Unfortunately, this meant while many of you were enjoying the mild weather, I was crawling around in our attic.

Why? I’d been meaning to expand our network to Adam’s room and while I was buying cables, I decided to go ahead and buy enough to upgrade the rest of our network – making it gigabit ethernet “ready.”

Why? In my defense, I do a lot of file sharing between my Macs, and eventually I’d like to hook up a network drive for backups and storing large files. Transfering data measured in gigabytes makes you appretiate network speed.

Why? Wouldn’t doing something fun ease the blues more than a close encounter with fiberglass and pine?

No. Depression eats fun for breakfast, but it can’t touch my kid’s smile and what it does for my soul. Putting in a day of work to put it there, running cable through the attic and snaking it down through the walls, was just what I needed.

I’m wearing my battle scars proudly today – countless nicks and scrapes from crawling/swinging around and through rough cut trusses. In between mindless tasks at the office, a smile of my own creeps up.

Mutiny on the pitch

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It didn’t take long. Adam just had his first soccer practice, and already the parents are planning the coach’s ouster. From what I hear it might be deserved, but I’ve never coached little kids so what do I know?

First, there was the last minute way it was organized… as in: nine o’clock the night before we got a call from the coach – complete with a shopping list of what Adam would need.

I suspect she’s a stay at home mom – not that there’s anything wrong with that.

When the kids showed up the next evening our coach organized a game of tag. Meanwhile, the other team (from the same age group) was led through some basic drills, and went over some basic rules – like not using your hands. Our coach’s son was playing catch.

When she did decide to run some drills, her son practiced his kicking on the cones she was setting up (when he wasn’t making a break for the parking lot). The chorus rang out: “If you can’t control your son, how will you control a team?”

When the parents asked if she wanted some help she replied, “I don’t know.” When one of the parents offered to help set up a drill, or go over some of the basics she replied, “Oh no, that’s ok. I thought the kids would just play this time. You know, get to know each other.” The chorus rang out: “Can my kid play for that other team?”

When she finally got a drill set up the kids had spent an hour playing tag. The chorus rang out: “The kids have to go home now.”

The other night we got a clandestine call from one of the parents, planning to go rouge on drills. “I figure we need to set up three drilling stations. I’ve got one parent who’s agreed to run one of them. Will you run the other? The kids should learn at least a little soccer.”

Their first game is this Saturday. It’ll be fun to see how well tag translates to soccer. It’ll be almost as fun as explaining to Adam why adults can be just as bad as the kids.

They say sports can teach you a lot about life, but I wonder if we’re headed for understatement country.

Status

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It’s not as bad as it sounds, or will sound (if you can make any sense of it). This week I’ve been sick (again/still – pick your adverb) and between medications. I’ve been weening myself from caffeine, on doctor’s orders, and I’m suffering the consequences. My meds of choice for headache are no longer part of the arsenal – due to the caffeine, so I’m doubly screwed. The doctor who recommended I stop the caffeine (not all at once) said I should go see my primary about my headache medication, and like an idiot I didn’t rouse myself to do anything about it until it was too late. My primary’s office was closed for the week. Throw in a new medication that made things MUCH worse (the one and only time I took it), and the few days it’s taken to get back to where I was before, which wasn’t great to begin with, and you get a really bad week for ya. If memory serves, that’s the English approximation for the Russian word for “me.” Or maybe it’s “I.” Maybe it works as both. Dr. Mann would be so disappointed in me. Я не знаю!

So don’t worry. I wrote this post last night, during a particularly dark mood. Today already feels like a better day. Autumn came in earnest this morning, with a little bit of cool air, and I love it.

—

I don’t mean to mislead you. I have none – status that is. I’m (probably wrongly) assuming you’ll think of the kind you’d equate to someone’s standing in the community. Heck, I’d be happy to be standing at all.

I’ve been floating. It’s been a while now. I’ve tweeted a bit. I’ve punched the clock. Yeah, The Clock. I’ve seen a doctor. I’ve seen another. I’ve seen my mother.

Yep, that kind of status.

Cheryl wants me to see yet another – doctor that is. My doctor brought it up too. I asked the other, but she changed the subject. Damn psychiatrists.

I think… no, I take that back. I haven’t been thinking. I’ve been hurting. That’s my status. How often do you see that on Facebook? Maybe you’ve seen it a lot. Hurt has a way of turning you inward. It’s hard to see others when you’re looking the wrong way. I keep waiting for a doctor to turn me around. I think… no, I know everything would be better if hurt went away, if I let myself look in the right direction.

I’d just like to enjoy things again. This month has been birthday season in my family. Almost all if them come within a few weeks of right now. I’ve been MIA for most of it. I’ve been checked out, either physically, emotionally, or both. We celebrated mom’s birthday this week. It was the first time in a while I’ve been in the same room with my first family. Even that couldn’t pull me all the way back. I sat next to my sister, across from my wife and two adorable kids, just down from my parents, and the baby of the family at the other end with her family. I still wasn’t all there.

I have flashes. Some days something throws a switch and I’m me again. The pain that visits behind my right temple, or behind my right ear, visits someone else. The dark cloud of depression that fills up my mind, crowding out nearly everyone and everything else, blows out to sea. The infectious invaders are beaten back by my immune system, sometimes with an assist from my MD. I feel good. I feel like I can make the people around me feel good. But it doesn’t last nearly long enough. It doesn’t happen nearly often enough.

To be honest, things probably look a little worse than they really are right now. My doctor recommended (strongly) I give up my favorite drug: caffeine. I’m in the process of weening, and my body’s in the process of jonesing. Oh, and did I mention the nifty little sinus bug that’s got some game? Take your pick: caffeine withdrawal, sinus infection, my garden variety headache, or what the heck… may be a combination of all three.

I’d give anything to someone with the power of the prescription pad right now. Or would I? Should I? Oncology. Immunology. Psychiatry. Dermatology. Ophthalmology. Otolaryngology. My plain ‘ole GP. Sleep Medicine (I tried to find an appropriate “-ology” and wikipedia failed me). More than one person suggesting neurology. An ominous comment from a friend about one of them in particular, and my wife wishing I’d pick another. Not enough or too much?

I wish someone knew something. “You definitely look better.” A week goes by. “You definitely look worse.” For a couple years I’ve heard some variation of “I’d like to try….” I don’t blame anyone though. I know they’re really trying. I wish medical science knew more. I wish there was a little less error. I wish I wasn’t the trial. I wish I believed something else had an answer. A week between visits I lost more weight than I should have. My blood pressure dropped… a lot. (My heart rate is fine though.) They’re drawing more blood. My doctor is working on insurance approval for extensive scans. Go fish.

I wish I could tell you about something else, but the last thing I need is trouble there.

I wish I could stop wishing.

Words I would use

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My mother-in-law called me earlier. She told me it was 63 degrees in New Hampshire, but it was raining.

Everything before the comma was good natured taunting – it’s still seat sticking hot here. Vinyl seats are cruel and unusual punishment. I think the raining bit was supposed to cushion the blow, but I’m the odd Floridian who doesn’t like this much sun.

I would replace the but with an and. It would be all taunt. My face would strain with the effort to contain my grin.

There’s hope on the horizon though – storm clouds blowing in. We’ll get the rain part right tonight. It’ll be a few months until I can enjoy it properly: on the front porch in an old pair of sweats, listening to the trees absorb thousands of tiny flicks from the sky. It’s coming up quick though – my favorite time of year.

I can’t wait.

Ok, I can. I just don’t want to.

Joy sink

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“Grandma’s coming home tomorrow right? I can’t wait!”

That was Beth Wednesday night, talking to me and our pastor on the first night of confirmation class this (school) year.

“So when will she be coming HOME home?”

That was when Beth realized home can be a relative term.

“Oh,” she replied, crestfallen.

That was when I told her the truth, unvarnished, like I usually do.

Trust is a precious commodity. Cliche, I know – but for good reason. I don’t like being a kill-joy, but I want her to believe me when anxiety has its grip on her, and I tell her why everything will be ok. She’s old enough to remember the times I told her everything wasn’t, that I don’t shy away from inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unsettling truths. I hope she remembers those moments of candor when the truth doesn’t hurt.

Although folks say I’m too skinny these days, there’s a big but in the room.

I realize there’s still a need for comfort; that there’s a way to discuss disappointment in a way which doesn’t flatten wide swaths of hope. I suppose I’m like a lot of parents when I say I wish I was better at it.

Maybe this is one of those times I should let myself off the hook. Words can’t solve every problem, sooth every ill. Many lessons are learned best through experience, and she’ll see things are much better, even if they don’t live up to her original expectations.

The good news is she’ll get to see this weekend, along with the rest of us.

Just passing through

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People come and go in my life, like passengers on a subway. We share a small piece of our lives until opportunity, circumstance, or chance steers us to another train. I’m used to it, and I’m not. I know it happens, then it does, and I get over it.

I’ve been really lucky. It’s been a pleasure to share my ride with most of the people I’ve bumped into along the way.

Pat was one of those people. She was an old hand when I started my career in state government. She was gracious answering questions. She was understanding when I needed to vent. She was my friend.

She was my audience when I needed reassurance before delivering a best man’s toast. She was my accomplice when stress and/or a pizza jones struck. She was there with me that day in court when it was an effort to move, listening to second and third hand reports as the country pressed pause to deal with shock and horror.

She retired years ago and we haven’t spoken since. The closest we’ve come is Christmas cards crossing in the mail. Many people have come and gone since, and I don’t think about her much any more, besides the brief updates around the holidays. But I am today, having learned she passed away on Tuesday.

Its hard to say what I feel. She was one of the people who left an impression, even though we shared a ride for a brief time. But it’s not loss I feel. It’s not regret either. Life takes people in different directions. Friends come and go, even if it’s easier for me to count them all than some.

Although I feel sad for the family I never met (it just seemed like I had), I feel thankful. I had a friend when I needed one. I feel hopeful. Every day is an opportunity to enrich someone’s life, no matter how brief the opportunity.

Lunchtime thoughts

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What gets your attention? What does it take to create enough spark for you to read more than a few words, or stop pressing the channel up button? Does the quality of content suffer from too much quantity, for reasons beyond dilution?

I’ve only got a few more minutes before I should get back to work. Every day I need time to get away, hide, and decompress. It’s not because I find my job inherently stressful. It’s being around other people I find exhausting – even though I really enjoy being around my coworkers.

I am chuck full of contradictions.

Today I’m hiding in my car. A storm is rolling in, the rain starting to flick at the roof and windows, and I’ve found contemplative peace. Today I’m thinking about a few questions many have asked, but not for the reasons you might think. I’m not sure I could care less about my hit count. I haven’t looked in some time. I’m thinking big picture. I’m thinking about tomorrow’s picture.

Time’s up.