December 5

I remember the day with far too much clarity.  More clarity than a mental health professional would think healthy.  I was out field testing with my friend and systems engineer, John, the latest software version of our little government science project, micro sensor system.  The software load crashed, which was nothing new.  It was just after lunch.  I thought about going back to the office.  John sent me to the hospital instead.  I really didn't want to go to the hospital because I knew if I did IT would happen.  I didn't want IT to happen, so in my mind, as long as I stayed away, the world as I knew it would keep on spinning. 

This was a Monday afternoon.  Myself, along with my sister, mother and wife had spent the preceding Sunday in my father's ICU room watching the Colts play.  We had chicken, it was a nice Sunday.  My father was stable, but with AML, that is always a temporary condition.  We decided to go back to the semi routine of the previous few months.  My sister flew back to California, we returned to work with the intention of stopping by my father's hospital room with a chocolate milk shake from Brahms.  The hospital moved dad from the ICU room back to the 4th floor medical/surgical unit.  He was such a kind old gentleman, the nurses and staff loved taking care of him.  There was actually a minor turf war when they tried to move him off the floor to another unit.  The 4th floor nurses won that battle, which was bitter sweet. 

I walked into Dad's room and noticed they had him on a non re-breather oxygen mask.  The curse of knowing too much about medicine.  Removing the nasal cannula and putting him on a real O2 mask meant he was not doing well.  His color was bad.  He did not look good.  We talked for a short while about this and that.  I knew it was the end.  The last words I remember his saying was "Brent, I don't think I am going to beat it this time."  We did not talk much after that.  I sat in his room and prayed that if it was his time, please make it quick and painless.  Sometimes I hate it when prayer is answered.

Both my wife and mother came over.  We were all standing there when the people came in from the cardiac ICU telemetry unit with panic stricken looks.  Dad's nurse waved him off. I am not sure if he passed away at that instant or a few moments later when his hematologist came in and we were talking in the hall. 

The next few hours were a blur of painful phone calls while I paced the floor of the hospital.  My sister was in transit back to California and not answering her phone (even though I knew she was on a layover in Phoenix).  I suspect her process was like mine, don't answer the phone, then all is well.  The next week was worse yet.  I suddenly became the lone decision maker for the family.  A responsibility I felt ill prepared to assume. 

There is much more to say, but even 6 years later the pain is too great. Perhaps I shall finish the story another time.

In the moment

A repost from about 6 years ago...

There is a time of day that is neither light or dark, morning or night, just a few magical moments where we are two spoons nestled together in a drawer.

Time stops when I feel her torso pressed into mine, my hand resting lightly on her body, the weight of my arm on her ribcage. Our breathing in sync, there is only this moment, this time.

All things fade away. The problems of yesterday are gone. Today has yet to start, There is no IPhone, e-mail, no alarm clocks, no schedule, no obligations, no to-do lists. We exist only in this moment

The daily energy exchange has become mandatory to survive the next 24 hours. Intimate moments that fuel my day. Going back in my mind until we can start the cycle again, tomorrow morning.

Mattress dancing

An older piece of contemplation I didn't want to lose as my old blog site closes...

 

Consider if you will the coordinated movements of a couple in bed together for 6, 8 hours a night. Snuggled this way and that, spooned front to back and back to front, sleeping cheek to cheek, sole to sole, sometimes even; cheek to cheek and soul to soul. The rolling and turning together, all the while not pulling the covers off your partner. The give and take, the back and forth, the juxtaposition of male and female spending 1/3 of their day in a nightly close order drill. This is not synchronized sleeping, this is mattress dancing.

Understand this form of dancing has nothing to do with measuring the compressive strength of a coil spring mattress through marathon reciprocal motion testing. This is about a couple sharing intimate space in an intimate way. This is bonding so strong that it transcends thought, space and time. This is the next level.

The dance is difficult to learn and there are no short cuts. There is no Rosetta Stone CD; no immersion classes; no 90 day extreme program to teach the dance. It is something accomplished over not weeks, or months or even years, but decades of unconsciously and subconsciously dancing together. It cannot be done quickly.

After awhile the newness wears off, there are multiple false steps with frequent trips to the (if you will forgive me mixing metaphors) penalty box for elbowing, cross checking even high sticking. Snoring and bed hogging tend to be thrown about too. The thing to avoid is a major penalty for fighting. As time goes on, there are points where all you want to do is steal the covers and push your partner out of bed.

The dance is hard, and I mean REALLY hard to learn. The hard part of the dance is the requirement that each partners let go of themselves, so they can forge a new being. The you and I becomes an us. Actually you don’t really ever learn it. The dance is ever evolving into a more complicated being, unknown steps are discovered, and the depth and richness of the dance grows with each passing year. The end result is a melding of spirits into a creature never seen by human kind before. Like most things of great value, it is the process, not the end result that matters.

I can hear you yelling at me now. WHAT GIVE UP WHO I AM? It is not so much giving up who you are as much as it is a new you, functioning inside a framework that includes another person’s energy and spirit. I remain, in large part, a grumpy loner who loves woodworking and wordsmithing. My partner loves crafts and baking. We are still very individual people. The difference is when making a decision; my first thought goes to my partner, not to me. She is the priority.

The dance is successful because you both commit to it fully. This dance (using my third and final metaphor) requires you go all in, all the time.

 

You succeed not because of yourself, but in spite of yourself.

The Ex Wives blog

I have made many attempts at writing about my oldest brother. None have been published because they always came out sounding petty and mean spirited. Last week he flew back to the US from Kiev for open heart surgery. He (somehow) managed to talk ex-wife number five (See Note 1) to fly over (literally) from Siberia to be his post op nurse. While by brother was confined to the hospital for pre op work, we have had a blast hanging out with my ex sister in law. It occurred to me the best way to write about my brother was to write about the women he married.

Wife number one is Patty, a brown haired version of Peggy Lipton from Mod Squad. Patty is beautiful and smart with an Irish temper. She should be nominated for sainthood based on the fact she was married to my brother for a dozen years. As an open heart surgery nurse, she managed to raise two pretty awesome kids with no help from her ex. This is a good thing.

Wife number two is Malona. Being just a kid at the time, I was actually an unknowing participant in the transition from wife one to two. Malona was a bank teller. My brother would use his sports car to go through the bank drive through in order to hit on her. On one vacation to see brother and wife #1, he would “take me out for a spin in the Alfa.” A spin always ended up at the bank. It was years later I figured out what was going on. He told Malona he was divorced. This was prophetic since Wife 1 tossed his butt out a short time later. The marriage to Malona was quick and lasted about 10 years. At 10 years younger than he, she was the trophy wife. They also had 2 kids. He ended up abandoning her and moving on to the next. The pattern is the next model is always loaded and ready to go.

Wife number three begs the question, what do you call the wife AFTER the trophy wife? I would accept either Carol or the mistake. Wife #3 I met but once. She was very strange. It was a very fast marriage and an even faster divorce. As it turns out he was husband number 5.

From wife number three he transitioned to domestic partnership number one (See Note 2). She was a very cute and equally crazy dentist. That lasted but 18 months before she figured out he was full of crap. The upside to the dentist (I cannot recall her name) was he goaded him into finishing his undergrad degree.

There was a quiet period with only near and long distance relationships. No marriages or ‘domestic partnerships’ were declared. (See Note 3)

Domestic partnership number two happened in Kiev, Ukraine. The exact circumstances are still vague and subject to interpretation. Apparently they registered to live in the same location, even though he was still technically living in Colorado. He made frequent trips to Kiev. Eventually they broke up when he did not move her to the US or he to Eastern Europe. Eventually he relocated to Kiev where he transitioned concubine number two to the status of wife number four. This was deemed a wise energy saving move although both domestic partner number two and wife number four shared the same mental health issues.

Wife number five is a beautiful woman from Siberia. She is smart and funny with a love of crafts. Retired, she was the perfect late in life match for a high mileage, high maintenance man in his early 60’s. As stupidity would have it, he abandoned her for a nut job gold digger who thinks she is cohabiting with a rich American. His last shot at reconciliation was the trip to the US for surgery. Happily she is staying with us while is recovers in the hospital. The current plan is to stuff him (and sadly her) in an extended stay hotel until he is cleared to travel.

At age 65 he has managed to talk a 45 year old woman to move in with him, closing the story with what is now at domestic partnership number three. According to wife number four, the stories being circulated include professional race car driver, famous actor and TV producer (my brother is NOT Paul Newman). There is a microscopic bit of truth in each statement (he did race cars in a club, he did once work for a theater company as their marketing guy and he once sold time shares for Lawrence Welk). He is famous for making unsubstantiated statements and omitting information. His greatest trick is pushing you down a path, allowing you to come to your own (incorrect) conclusion. We are waiting for the bloom to fall off that particular rose. What she thinks is a bed of roses is actually a bag of flaming dog poo.

I have no idea how he keeps talking all these wonderful women into marriage. We all love wives one, two and five. They are all on my speed dial and we keep in at least yearly contact. When my father fell ill out of state, ex wife one was close by. We sent her over to get the scoop while we were on the way down. Wife two stays with us if she is in the area. You already know we are unwilling to give up wife five, although we see it coming this weekend.

The others, not so much. Apparently he attracts only 2 models, wonderful and nut job. So far he is running 50-50.

Note 1: In February of 2012 a request was submitted to the commissioner’s office (See Note 4) for a decision on the number of times he was married. After a meeting of the rules committee, the official number is five. The rational being five is the number of marriage ceremonies he has gone through. Called into question is the Ukrainian law stating you are “married” if two unrelated people of the opposite gender register to live at the same address. In their written response, published in May of 2012, the commissioner stated:

“Under current guidelines, the Ukrainian registration act is classified as a ‘domestic partnership.’ Incumbent on being considered a legally binding marriage are the requirements of a license and ceremony as well as an exchange of consideration (traditionally rings although it could be nontraditional such as vials of blood for those so inclined).”

“The commissioners court has officially set the count at five marriages and three ‘domestic partnerships’ one of which later converting to an official marriage. Because the length of time and separation of space between the termination of the domestic partnership and subsequent marriage was sufficient, the marriage was deemed to be a new event, even though the same parties were involved in both the marriage and the domestic partnership. Unofficially the name has been changed from “double dip” rule to an “Eric Event.”

Note 2: To be recognized as a ‘domestic partnership’ he must declare a state of cohabitation to a family member or meet the minimum residency requirements as established by the sanctioning body. Since it was never declared the two year relationship with the “Boston Woman” is therefore recognized as a long distance relationship rather than a ‘domestic partnership’. By maintaining a primary domicile in the state of Colorado, he did not meet the minimum residency requirement. It is suspected there were other domestic partnerships that met the residency requirements; however they remained undeclared and therefore cannot be counted in this summary.

Note 3: This scribe submits the following theory. A meeting was held by all of the women in North America. My brother was declared unfit for dating, let alone cohabitation or marriage. A general warning was issued which forced him off the North American Continent. With reciprocity agreements between the US and the EU, he was forced to either the Eastern Europe or to East Asia Pacific regions.

Note 4: (see not 5) The Commissioner’s office is a lesser known part of the Bureau of Industry standards, a part of the Census Department.

Note 5: I have never footnoted an entry this many times nor used footnotes that were this lengthy

Father's Day

I was recently reminded that I have not written anything in a long time.  Ignoring my creative impass, something written.....

Father’s day is a week from now.  I really don’t enjoy father’s day.  For me I would just as soon sacrifice some bit of beef or swine (Father’s day has no kosher dietary restrictions) on the grates of the sacred grill being sanctified by the holy smoke of Texas, mesquite.  Along with grilling, I would be happiest plinking around in my shop with no muss or fuss.

This is the 5^th Father’s day since my father passed away.  I still struggle with the events of December 5 2006.  Every time I even begin to think about describing that day, I am engulfed in what might be called a school of “darkness fish.”¹ It is only recently I have stopped feeling the ghost of my father in the shop.  I still have his folding chair set up in front of his 1949 Chrysler as a minimalist shrine. 

When my father went into the hospital in October I did things a son should never have to do for his father.  He passed away just short of his 85^th birthday, following suit of the men in my family never reaching 85.  We all hope to buck the trend but it isn’t looking so good based on two of my brothers dying before age 60 (it was death by lifestyle, but dead none the less).  My father worked on his car until the day before he went into the hospital. I am glad he went that way.

Compared this to my 90 year old mother who is currently stored in a facility, stacked much like cord wood.   For a 90 year old, she is in good shape.  I compare her quality of life to how my father went.  Unable to drive (safely) she depends on us to drive her to the doctor, get groceries and take her shopping for any and all sundries.  The dementia is getting worse, and watching her slow spiral down is difficult. 

One thing I can say for certain, as you age all filters are off and you are no longer able to hide your true self.  If you happen to be a bitter, greedy young person, but manage to be socially acceptable before the age of 70, after 70 the social convention wears off and your true self comes out.  On the upside you fart quite a lot and don’t have to apologize.  

So this father’s day, after putting on a brave face for my family; this means going to lunch and playing nice.  Afterwards I will go to the shop and pay homage to my father.  More than likely I will do woodworking, although a more appropriate thing would be to sand the fender on his car.  I will face the swarming Darkness Fish² and attempt to contemplate things far beyond my feeble understanding.   Part of this process has to be how you compared to when.  Compared to going at age 84.75 and literally working on a pet project until you die, versus being hermetically sealed in a storage unit for 10 years with death coming in 1,000 increments; I know my preference.   

1 – Darkness fish is credited to my friend from a long forgotten blog in a long forgotten place.  Having chased each other through three different forums, I am assuming online friendship, she has always said yes, so therefore working under the doctrine of implied permission.  

2 – The little bastards did not wait until Sunday to attack.  They started swarming last night.  I decided to let them circle around in my head for a few days.  Between work and home, there is quite a lot of chum that needs to be consumed before I try to run the buggers out. 

Today was a good day

I did not get fired
I did not quit
I did not spill any blood.
In class tonight I meditated on the fact the issues I am having are mine alone.  

This has been a good reminder that putting the ivory tower under siege was a stupid idea.  The ivory tower is full of various forms of fecal matter. The closer you get to it, the more fecal matter you are covered in. Rather than charing up the hiss it is better to be happy and living in the meadow, by the brook, with the big shade tree.  I cannot be their equals when it means lowering my standards and morals.

So I decided a man should enjoy food and drink and find satisfaction in his work.  For this pleasure is from the hand of God. Ecclesiastes 2:24

I have seen the enemy...

In martial arts training (same for military, or police, etc) the process is to suck your brains out then have your teacher reinstall them in the proper order.  In my previous training, the brain removal process has been fairly slow process.  I started my Yondon (understood as 4 degree black belt although that is a misnomer) training tonight.  My brains were sucked out in the matter of 4 minutes.  It was painful.  I feel stupid and totally inadquate. 

This type of training is very difficult for me.  I am not gifted physically (insert last person picked for any game story here).  As a person with above average intelligence, I tend to overthink.  Not kinda overthink, but Olympic gold medal overthinking.  This is a bad combination.  I have 2 months to get my crap together. 

A few Iaido observations

Iaido is a strange martial art.  Generally speaking, sword schools don’t recruit like a Karate or Tae Kwan Do dojo.  You have to find them.  You have to want to join.  Wanna be ninja’s and fighters are discouraged from joining (in a very polite Japanese way, told to bugger off).  No kids under 16, even then the lack the maturity to keep up the training.  There are schools who practice cutting straw mats, fruit and the like.  My particular sect doesn’t do anything sexy like that.  We cut air and imaginary opponents.

Watching Iaido is much like watching paint dry.  The practice isn’t much better for the first year or so.  Prospective students must watch a class to see what they are getting themselves into.  Most talk a good game but never come back.  Those that do, 75% get bored in less than 6 months and quit.  I would  estimate, 90% of those who practice Iaido long are ranked in other martial arts. 

The connection going back 475 or so years is still there.   The way it is taught has remained unchanged for centuries.  It is up to the student to watch and learn. There is very little (as in no) conversation during a class.  The teachers demonstrate corrections.  There is no coddling or encouragement.  Compliments are not given lest the ego start to take over.    

It is a strange art where one practices practicing the ritual beheading of a Samurai and 1,001 ways of killing a person with a sword in a world where this knowledge is completely obsolete.  I mention this only because for the past few weeks we have been practicing the oldest and most advanced forms; stuff that is way over my head and ability.  We got into some especially weird shit last night where at the end of class the teacher said it was fringe for our style.  This is the type of movements you would only see in a Kurosawa film.  When practiced over a lifetime, you too can kill 4 opponents from a seated position sliding across the floor on your knees.  Not this white boy.  The last observation made last night was I need to significantly tighten up the midsection to keep up with the freaky shit we were doing.