Insomnia is frosting on the turd cake of Chronic Pain
Why would someone in the position of Teacher or Advisor give an over-the-top harsh critique of a gifted writer – seeking to improve upon their obvious gift?
Is it believed that crushing someone (who is likely more talented than the critic) is somehow helpful, making them fight back and try harder?
Or is it just a display of jealousy.
This happened to an amazing writer that I proudly consider a friend.
She seems to be hurting from the opinion of one person who does not deserve the power to yield that affect on her.
I never sought to write (it could be argued that I don’t) nor expect it to go anywhere, so a critical attack on me or something that I’ve written might roll off my back with a grin and a middle finger – making me of little value in helping her.
How do you help a writer who has been damaged by hearing someone that they shouldn’t have?
I don’t even remember the first Time that I did it.
It was no big deal, not like forming some kind of habit.
Over Time I did it a little more often, I quietly killed some.
Sometimes it was fun, mostly just doing it out of occasional boredom.
Suddenly one day I was driven to obsession.
Murdering in mass and serial slaughtering consumed me.
Death now burned my eyes as they opened in the early hours.
Random methods to choke, smother and drown Time became routine.
Driving the need to kill Time and feed my aging Dragon.
SOME PEOPLE ARE STILL ALIVE ONLY BECAUSE IT’S AGAINST THE LAW TO KILL’EM, so reads the sticker on a motorcycle helmet. Some sayings stick in your mind.
Like most days, the terrible ones start out and move along in the same old way… Until they tear your heart out and show it to you. January Seventh, Two Thousand Three, was one of those days. I came the closest I have ever been to punching a female in the face. I didn’t, but I still wrestle with my decision. Every time I share my twist on this experience I go into it knowing the risk, but then again anyone who thinks less of me for ‘this’ and cannot get over it, can go Ffff…. Kiss my Ass.
Years ago I discovered that I have “a bit of a temper.” It seems normal people get angry for a few hours: I get stuck there for a few days. I learned that it is nothing to be proud of and keeping it under control, is for the best. I also have a tendency toward being Vindictive, when properly motivated. These traits, combined with a good memory, create lasting residual demons that live in my head. The misfortune of this day lit my blood on fire, woke up these demons and let them out. Rage is not always a bad thing, we discovered that day.
Inadvertently, I walked Sarrah into a life-changing event, a fight she could not win. We were walking our typical after dark evening route, around the block across the street so as to utilize the sidewalks and streetlights. This night was like many others, nothing special. Walking on the time twisted concrete past a tall weathered wooden fence, a few old cars in a dark driveway and a scraggly hedge of overgrown rose bushes, put us directly in front of a winding narrow stone walkway to the open front door of a one story house. In the yard were two large dogs with thick fur, curled tails and huge heads. One was white, the other dark. With wide expressionless eyes, they immediately, quietly, came straight for us. Sarrah started to panic and kept turning quickly to look back and forth at them with bug eyes. I tried to speed up and keep her moving as they began to methodically circle us. A few steps later, the closest sniffed Sarrah for a few seconds and then with swift silence, sunk its teeth into her hindquarter and hung on. Quiet air filled with a wounded shriek and ongoing crying sounds of excruciating pain. With no thought, I attacked the Offending dogs. I quickly Kicked! the second dog as it was moving in, two maybe three times as hard as I could in the ribs and stomach. Thankfully, it just walked away. I then dropped to one knee, punching on my way down, kneeling I Hit, Hit, and Hit the attacking dog in the eye area five to ten times. I was probably yelling, I do not recall. It finally let go of its bite hold on Sarrah and walked away. I assume that these dogs were more confused than hurt and were probably just regrouping from their crazy human experience. It seems that the noise from all of this strife eventually woke up someone in the house, to get up off the couch near the doorway. This tall person filled the backlit doorway about twenty feet from the sidewalk and appeared to stagger around.
“Send me the bill.” That’s all that she said. The dogs turned and quietly came in at her command. We walked down the sidewalk a few yards, to get away from that house so I could look Sarrah over. A neighbor who had just driven home, hopped out of his pickup and yelled at her, “It Fuck’n Happened Again!” I checked Sarrah out, the bite was into muscle and bleeding, but she could walk. While looking her over I spoke with this stocky guy around my age, we talked a bit about what happened and then walked her home.
It was almost six o’clock when I started calling local vets. One answered and told me “We’re closed” and that they “could not help.” I replied, “Then why did you answer the phone?” and slammed it down. After a few calls and phonebook searching I found what I was not prepared for. My day ended with taking Sarrah into the vile blend of disinfectant and urine stained twenty-four hour emergency veterinary hospital in Auburn. It was deemed that they had to perform some torturous repairs and keep her overnight. I had to leave her in this concrete warehouse filled with caged cries and howls of despair.
Following a mostly sleepless night, I picked her up as early as I could the next morning. She was drugged and out of sorts, but greeted me with a lone tail thump. Her body was shaved of some white and black fur with three “ports” of perforated surgical tubing connecting the bite wounds under her pink and black skin, extending out each blood-caked oozing side and sutured in place. A far-away voice explained that this was done so that a disinfectant solution can be flushed thru with a syringe to clean them out, to avoid infection, as damage heals. Sarrah’s glazed brown eyes closed as I carried her outside.
After I got her comfortable in the safety of her garage, I typed up a brief letter and returned to that house. No one answered the doorbell or knocking, so I taped it to the door and left. It read:
“Dear Akita Owner,
Please mail a reimbursement check (see attached) for the emergency veterinary work performed on my dog, due to the attack by your two dogs last evening. I will mail any subsequent bills incurred by this event.
This entire situation is unfortunate and disturbing as we were merely walking on the public sidewalk, obeying the leash laws. The vehicles in your driveway, combined with a lack of light made it impossible to see your unattended dogs until we were in front of your house—at which point they attacked.
For the future safety of all people and pets in our neighborhood, I hope that you no longer allow them to wander freely.
An apology from them at this time would have just pissed me off, more.
I would rather live in a world where people take care of their own problems, not by simply punching three numbers on a phone. A favored saying of my friend Jeff is “Nobody likes a Squealer”, though I completely agree, I did. As I thought it over… Most people would not be dumb enough to fight with dogs, nor lucky enough to win. Anyone else walking Sarrah probably would have met with a different ending. Besides, years of experience on that street I had seen other dogs and kids walking them in the same area. I stewed on all of this for most of the day following the attack, argued with myself a little and then pulled the trigger. I decided that if another attack happened, whatever the outcome, it would “Be on Me”, so I broke my own rule and called.
That evening I answered the door for the Animal Control Officer, who to my surprise in our small town is also a Cop. She arrived in full police issue gear: jumpsuit, combat boots, vest, gun, handcuffs, pepper spray and all. I took her to Sarrah and told her what had happened, while she photographed the damage and made notes. She also strongly advised against fighting with dogs, suggested walking with pepper spray and something like a walking staff for the visual and physical defense as many times spray does not stop dogs in attack mode. Though not exactly how she advised, I have never walked unarmed, again. The officer was very sympathetic and nice to us, but she lied to me. As we spoke on the phone I stressed that I did not want the animals destroyed. But the instigator dog was confiscated later that night, detained for a few days of testing and then put down. Charges were filed. I also had no interest in pressing charges. I would have been okay with reimbursement, an official visit and the proverbial ‘slap in the face’ wakeup call that comes with it. I learned a valuable lesson; by making ‘the call’ I put our legal process in motion simply becoming part of “Citation No: 2003-096” and what I wanted, had nothing to do with it.
The process of flushing her ports two to three times per day for two weeks was excruciating, for me. I cannot imagine what it felt like for Sarrah, but she tried to stay still. I can’t imagine what she was thinking while I held her down and painfully cleaned her, but she seemed to know that I was helping her. Each time I got ready to clean her wounds she gave me a look that could tear a real human heart, if nothing else scar it. A few times this routine brought tears to my eyes, once vomit to the back of my tongue and always blood pressure that could kill. I held her and tried to comfort her after each cleaning, while my blood boiled.
The road of recovery also included a few trips to Sarrah’s regular veterinarian. She was never happy to go there, but whatever was done behind closed doors after the attack caused her to tremble when we went back. Even driving toward that general area caused her to be alarmed and wail, for the rest of her life.
The Animal Police Officer’s second lie came to light, I got subpoenaed for court. Being no stranger to court myself, mostly due to moments of youthful renegade wildness and heavy-footed tendencies, this was my first time as “Plaintiff”. I was not happy about being hauled into court twenty-nine days later, simply to say, “Yes, that is what I said happened.” People gathered in the large white overly lit silent courtroom, to wait in this place without windows and breathe controlled air. I sat on one of the hard dark wood benches in a section with people I recognized to be other residents of that street, including the guy who yelled at the woman that night. I guessed that these people were other witnesses to our trouble and possibly other problems. One quietly told me “Those dogs killed every pet we ever had.” Some of these people momentarily seemed a little pleased to be part of this event and offered solemn nods of approval.
The dogs belonged to arrogant examples of oxygen wasting beings; these average-looking middle-aged people were even a little cocky in the courtroom, talking with their eyes while sharing quick smirks and sarcastic grins before and after those in charge were paying attention. Court went very quickly. They plead guilty and said that they were “very sorry” in court, to the judge. More to my satisfaction we all heard the list of court ordered matters of compliance that these people were to do to keep their other dog:
- Reimburse me, (which they already had done).
- Rebuild their backyard fence, updating it to adequately contain “a potentially dangerous animal”.
- Post a ‘Beware of Dog’ sign on the front of their house.
- Muzzle their dog when walking it.
- No one under eighteen would be allowed to walk their dog.
- I think there was a fine as well, but I do not recall.
The scars that we carried with us after the battle with the dogs and their people, changed us. Sarrah’s physical scar tissue bothered her hip, even after time had passed. Massage could not completely remove the residual damage. Sarrah’s mental scar faded, faster than mine. After she healed, we did walk around that block, on the other side of the street, Armed, eventually Sarrah was no longer afraid of that area. We had a point to prove, I had a best friend to heal, and potential for who knows… Later I did forgive the dogs, after all they are genetically bred to quietly stalk and kill. But I did not, will not forgive their people. My mental scar still glows brightly, if something makes me focus on it. Mine is rage-based loathing for ignorant animals, in human form.
In fairness, Officer Jan is a good person who deeply cares for animals. She told me what I wanted to hear so that she could do her job and what she believed needed to be done. I am certain that she would be much happier if the actions of Dumb Animals would stop requiring their pets to be “destroyed.”
After a year or so of blatantly ignoring the court ordered requirements with in your face demonstrations (they were too lazy to walk often, so this was no big deal to me). I heard about another problem near that address. Their remaining dog attacked a Labrador Retriever being walked by a mother, carrying her baby in a papoose carrier. The woman was knocked down and her dog was hurt. History repeated and that Akita was put down, too. Soon after these idiots sold their house and moved away. Hopefully some kind of poetic shape shifting happened, trading places of sorts with these dogs and their humans.
Around this time, at the end of each day; before I went to bed I would say “Good Night” to Sarrah. In addition to normal evening chores, I rubbed her ears, touched my forehead to hers and whispered, “Every Day is a Gift.”
* * *
I decided to post this improved version of FUgly (I added [DRAFT] to the title of my first version). It made sense to me to have both versions for those interested in comparing them. This improved version came after having the group of writers that I spend Tuesday evenings with, “Workshop” it (read it in their spare time and have a group discussion on its strengths and weaknesses). This discussion and the returned copies with their notes helped me rework this chapter using some better words and sentences to weave in more details that living in the eye-of-that-storm makes it hard for me to see objectively. I did leave most of my usual ‘bent literary rules’… such as using Capital letters mid-sentence, to make words Bigger.
I’m sure this new version will continue to evolve… as I learn.
I took another Writing Class at the Hugo House,
“Asking The Right Questions: Self-Inquiry in Memoir” by Suzanne Morrison.
She started by having us write answers to the following questions and then share our answers.
– Write one sentence about the story we are or want to be writing. “My story is a reflection on learning about life, from living with a dog.”
– A memoir we love. “A Big Little Life by Dean Koontz”
– A song we love. “Into the Mystic by Van Morrison”
– A word we love. “Perhaps”
Then after some discussion about how to dig for questions and capturing feelings by writing about “Glimmers” (moments that cause recollection and reflection in sensory detail) we were given our first prompt.
1 – Write about a Glimmer that comes to mind that has occurred in 2014.
“Winter had many days shrouded in thick dense fog. The mysterious cool wet precipitation now causes my hip to sing with searing pain, before I even go outside. Walking in the fog makes me recall numbing pain from football hits, stinging burns from Kung Fu kicks and the flames from a car accident that I could not walk away from.
2 – Take one thing from your writing that links back in time, ten years or more.
“The slow motion of impacting into the side of a pickup came suddenly from the left. Deafening explosions of glass and metal distracted enough to not anticipate running into a little house on the right. Crunching wood replaced the sharp memory from a few seconds earlier, only to be erased by the fire where our windshield used to be. Laying in the mud watching the burning car with my feet still in it seemed like a fitting end, at least it was quiet.”
3 – Write about something from the second Glimmer that embarrasses you.
“Being an only child makes it easy to be your Mother’s favorite. A certain burden comes along with being the chosen one, one that does not allow for making bad choices. Choices that put you in the hospital after a silent ride in an ambulance, after a noisy life-changing event. Parents do not like life changing events in the early morning hours, on Mother’s Day.”
4 – Write about something that has happened to someone else that is tied to your last writing.
“My friend Dan decided not to wear his seatbelt, he never did. Driving too fast in the foggy drizzle to get home a little sooner seemed to him like the thing to do. The other older driver of the pickup shared that perspective and had a similar smelling breath.”
The next few were given as homework.
5 – Reminds you of a subject you’re interested in.
“I’ve always been drawn to cars, in particular muscle cars of the sixties. I also have what my grandfather called “A heavy foot” after my mom asked him how I did when he taught me to drive his pickup, the summer after sixth grade, on the gravel roads near his farm in North Dakota.
6 – Something that you don’t understand.
“Despite several documented examples of getting into trouble and a few painful episode’s resulting from traveling fast, I still have a love affair with the nasty bitch we call Speed. All forms of logic and punishment cannot seem to make me completely part with this mistress of blood rushing excitement and the tastes of adrenaline laced moments.
7 – Riff on one word or phrase that has potency.
“I still have a love affair with the nasty bitch we call Speed. I’m not sure what to do with this one but Love is a drug and perhaps so is Speed.”
Spring is a favored time of year, when warmer days grow longer bringing the season of growth. Almost all are re-energized and happier, unless, something is wrong. Time had made Sarrah and I a pair of aged Pals, hanging on to moments, savoring them as they slipped… away…. I figured that one way or another; this would probably be my last summer with Sarrah.
In the winter at the beginning of Two Thousand Ten, I started another prescribed pharmaceutical experiment in my quest to relieve some of the struggle with my dragon. This drug called Gabapentin, in my understanding is supposed to block some nerve pain, was added into my plight to relieve some back pain and hopefully help with the incessant foot irritation that showed up after the car crash.
When I started with this drug the Doctor said that he wanted to draw some of my blood in order to form a base line and check it again, monthly, to “Monitor my liver”. I asked, “Why, does this drug fry the liver?” With a wry look, he said, “No, just want to be thorough”. The drug worked for about a week and then the gains trailed off…. When I returned for blood work and discussion, he doubled my dosage, which achieved the same results. And a month later he again, doubled my dosage, which would probably achieve… This last time I held off and thought it over for a couple of days. I decided “Screw It!” and phased myself off of this drug entirely, over the period of a week, for good.
About a month later I was back to the Doctor at which time I told him that I’d had enough of Gabapentin and had stopped taking it. He replied that was probably good and that “My latest blood test showed an elevation in some liver enzyme numbers” and that he thought it was “Probably nothing, but that an ultra-sound test of my liver would confirm this”. He asked me if I’d like to schedule the test. My facial expression must have portrayed what I was thinking, but I said “Yes” to be certain and he scheduled the test. I did not mention any of this to anyone as I figured it was probably just due to the use of the drug.
A few weeks later I had the test done, which leaves you with a nice coating of slippery stuff on your clothes to enjoy for the rest of the day, to help remind you… that something might be wrong. While the lab tech did the test I saw something a little different on the screen and apparently so did she, as she seemed to revisit that area, a few times. I asked her if she had found something and got the ‘matter of fact’ reply that she “Just does the testing, the Doctor would Interpret the results”. I left semi-reassured with the understanding that “If Anything suspicious was found, they would contact me Immediately”.
Some more weeks passed and I was back to be seen by the Doctor at which time I was told that “Well, I see something in the ultrasound results. But these tests aren’t really very good, that another test, a CT Scan would be much more accurate and conclusive.” What he saw in the ultrasound test “Looks like a 3cm mass, but could be a shadow from a rib or something.” Somebody forgot to call. As always I asked him speak with blunt honesty, using words that anyone could understand. He said, “Well, medicine sometimes speaks with a forked tongue, It could be Nothing or It could be Cancer.” “Would I like to have a CT Scan, to be more conclusive?” To give this smart man the benefit of the doubt, I assume that such stupid questions are borne in the legal ass-end of the vile beast we accept as our insurance industry.
I chose to continue keeping this misadventure to myself, completely, at least until after the test results. While going through the process of having the scan done, one of the two technicians asked, “Why I was having the test done?” With a smile I said “Could be Nothing, or Cancer”. I’m guessing my reply wasn’t normal, from their reactions, but we all agreed and hoped for nothing. Afterward, I walked Sarrah around their beautifully landscaped parking lot in the sunshine. She found a few suitable flowering bushes to sniff and some manicured grass, to pee on.
During the periods of waiting, I did a lot of thinking…. I don’t see how a person could avoid over-thinking and maybe a bit of self-pity in a situation like this, mostly I found my mind racing with it all while trying to keep a chin up, poker face. At times, maybe half a dozen, I would be in a crowd and would sort of drift off watching everyone else scurry around all caught up in the minutia of just another day.
I also did a bit of online research, while most people were busy sleeping. I have heard that you should not surf the Internet searching for possible medical issue information, but come on, really? How can you not?! With the advent of smart phones, a person does not even need to get out of bed. I did a little web surfing and found a few disturbing factoids. Liver Cancer is: in the top five most painful, top three worst odds and does its thing quickly. I don’t remember much else.
I maintained my silence, even as the odds shifted more against me. Not having to talk about It was beneficial in trying to not be consumed by constantly thinking about It. I did not discuss all of this with anyone, other than Todd, my Acupuncturist for an alternate opinion and maybe some educated friendly guidance mostly about how I was handling “the waiting game”, and keeping it to myself. He concurred with how I was handling it, or at least claimed to, which helped a little.
I was betting on the “Could be Nothing” gift horse. Also, I kept believing that there was Nothing to lose by keeping it to myself, except of course the probable eventual backlash for doing so. While many may find fault with me for not sharing, many others do not. I believe the person in the tough spot gets to decide how to play their dealt hand. After all there was a fair, OK slim chance that it was nothing and I didn’t want to freak people out, for nothing. I felt that I needed to spare others from this medicinal test and wait game, at least until there was actual news, for everyone’s sake.
I began keeping a Journal. In one of those ominous clinical looking (until decorated) Black & White speckled composition books. Journalizing seems to be something many want to do, some do and most stop. I wanted to capture my Brain Droppings. Some notes and reflections recorded to see how I dealt with it for short and long-term souvenirs’, something to look back on one day, maybe. I wrote thoughts; some rambling’s, made a list, and kept a few practicing medicinal notes and a couple crappy-sketched doodles. If nothing else, the journal would be left for others to have after, later. I drew great strength, as always, from my speckled friend. Sarrah was happy to do whatever I needed; walk, rest and listen to me think out loud or simply reflect in silence. Not being a practitioner of journalizing (unless assigned or purpose specific), I now felt driven to do it. I found that writing in my journal relieved a little of the pressure, from my mind.
Yep, in my journal I made a ‘life is short list’ page and started on with it, one that if I only had a few months left and needed to squeeze the most from each day. I had watched the movie “The Bucket List” a couple of times before this, as noted in my journal, “Wake up, time is short reminder”. That movie has a different vibe now, but still offers a good message for me, as before. I have always tried to keep ‘my list’ short, by experiencing those things deemed important and seizing many opportunities, as they became available. But now I felt an urge to make a quick short list of some things that I would be grateful for experiencing, before being too far gone, to create some fresh memories for me and others. A favorite one on my list was to eat more Seafood! Kind of a bittersweet goal as I had developed an “Intolerance” around my birthday ten years earlier, to my favorite food making me violently ill. I ate a bunch of it anyway, convinced that I could “Power Through It” and did, mostly.
For whatever reason, I have the recollection of a creative writing assignment (from a class that I did not take) in which the students had to ‘write their own obituary’. This was always a little morbidly interesting to me, but then again, after all who better to sum it up?! This became a little more important to me, but also in an additional, different, evolving way.
About nine months earlier, I had relented to all of the invitations and joined the cult of social networking known as Facebook. I chose to think of it a little as a self-directed montage with my directing of the world, as seen through my eyes. I felt fortunate to have started this in the event that someday, someone, like my Granddaughter Gracey may find it interesting years from now. I still plan to generate an ‘old school’ obit and keep it up to date, in my words. Then again maybe enough has already been written.
I contemplated the possibility that if I did have this insidious disease, spending the last of my time, making the best of it instead of in torturous treatment (to end up essentially the same) would deserve an honest look. In other words, I probably would have gone to a beach instead of a hospital.
At this time I decided upon a park bench for a memorial of sorts, probably somewhere along the Long Beach Peninsula, with the simple words “Bryan Goffe was Here” (in a font resembling a ‘carved with a pocket knife’ look) alongside an embedded paw print. Instead of a tradition marker, I merely want a bench. Leaving something useful in a nice place that’ll possibly evoke and contribute, giving those who wish a place to visit and enjoy a bit of tranquility and maybe even some occasional mischievous debauchery.
This life event also solidified a thought that I’d had prior; to have my ashes launched out of an airplane onto the sleeping volcano Mt. Rainier. I grew up in the once small town of Enumclaw where the plateau meets the foothills with this majestic mountain for a daily view and think this would be a nice place to return to the earth. Maybe half of’m by my bench. I am sure there are rules against such things, but also have faith in my friends’ abilities to overlook minor issues like that. Besides, we try to live with too many… rules. I still want the bench, now. I would like to select the locale and enjoy the view, myself on occasion. Now, I usually spend a moment with each memorial bench that I come across and wonder…
One selfish motive for silence was that I wanted a normal Father’s Day, the kind that should never be taken for granted. I never knew how much I wanted this, until it got closer to actually happening. Perhaps I had lived too long with a touch of mental defense against the perceived improbability. This year’s was to be my first Father’s Day celebration with my daughter, on the actual day, and Possibly my last. The big weekend arrived; my parents, Nissa, Heather, Gracey and of course the cats and Sarrah all gathered at the Beach House. I got what I wanted and needed, for all. Even the weather was on its best seasonal behavior. We had a very nice memorable family weekend, without anyone worrying about me and treating me differently. It was my most special, gifted Father’s Day, Ever.
It was a long tough day, waiting for the afternoon Doctor appointment to learn the results of my CT Scan. As I wrote in my journal the morning of June Twenty Eighth, Two Thousand Ten,
“Yesterday was my toughest, so far. Probably in part because I was alone with Sarrah and the cats, working on things around the house. Of course I meet with Dr. Marinkovich today to see/hear what the CT Scan found, which is “real pressure” not to mention a gihugous distraction of the mind.”
That day my clock went crazy. The ticking sounded off, as if the pendulum was slowed. But when I did look at the clock, the hours were passing quickly, faster than normal. I cannot remember the forty-five minute blur of a drive; I must’ve been on some kind of mental autopilot. I got to the clinic early and soon was taken to one of the rooms, to wait. I sat there watching… their clock. He was running late. I was mentally trading places with him, wondering what ritualistic psych-up things I would have to do, to prepare myself to tell someone “Hey, guess what…” The later he was, the longer the clock ticked off time, the more I was convinced that “I was Doomed”. He finally entered the room, twenty-three minutes later than I did.
The words “Your liver is Healthy” were awesome! We wrapped up the appointment quickly and I got out of there. To celebrate Sarrah and I walked around the parking lot and down the cut-off trail to some other clinical buildings, for the last time. We were never coming back here, to this place, ever again. I also called Nissa at work to give her ‘the news’. It was an odd conversation as she was blindsided and absorbing it all must have been a little overwhelming. I posted a brief comment on Facebook and received several relief-oriented comments and a few remarks of surprise. The residual benefits of making the most of each day could now be even sweeter… I would now continue to focus even more on making the best of Summer time.
I suppose this Scare Dance with Cancer and the possibility of it, was another of life’s unintended hidden gifts. Being forced to focus on the bright side and making the best of each day, while coping with burdensome facts of mortality is something that I do not think I could have done as completely without having gone through this twist of fate. I was deeply compelled for a few weeks to constantly feel that each moment, of each day, Is really a gift (Even the Shitty ones). At least that how is it began appearing to me, in the rear view mirror. Not enough people get the experiences gained from seeing the end of a road, without it ending.
As my friend Jeff’s mom Alice (she was known as Al to friends, many of whom were considered extended family) told me around twenty years ago, “We’re all Dying of Something, Make the Best of the Time you have”. Being the oldest known person living in the United States with Scleroderma for forty two years, made her a torture humbled, overqualified advisor in such matters of perspective. I always remembered her saying this to me, but don’t think that I actually really understood it. Now I think that I do, or at least on a deeper level and will always hear her sharing those thoughts with me, Thank you Al. (Al passed away January Twenty Eight, Two Thousand Eleven. I hope she’s dancing to her heart’s content!)