1 day ago
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Quote Of The Day
"Be careful, lest in casting out your demon you exorcise the best thing in you."- Nietzsche
Sunday, October 23, 2011
He left us behind, but he will never leave us.
Good friendships can begin in the most curious of ways. For Scott and I, it started by insulting each other, and lasted 30 years. It ended this past September 1st, when he died of cancer in a hospital in Buffalo. He was my best friend, plain and simple.
Scott and I met while attending college at the State University of New York at Buffalo. This was the 1980's, the era of big hair, Prince, Madonna, MTV, and the Macintosh computer, of which its descendant, the MacBook Pro, I am now typing this on. Scott and I worked on the campus volunteer ambulance corps, he being new at the time, and me being a seasoned five year EMS veteran. He had a great sense of humor, and could be a real ball-breaker at times, hence our less than auspicious beginning. He was also honest and to the point, was also from the Bronx, though he grew up on the west side, and I on the east side. I used to tease, as the Riverdale section of the Bronx was known as much for its being in the hillier part of the borough as much as its sense of snobbery. People there, when they addressed a letter, would never address it "Bronx, NY." They always addressed it, "Riverdale, NY."
Scott wasn't one of those types. Scott grew up in a middle class family, with his brother and mother. Scott's father died only about two years prior, and was as devastating to him as my own father's death would be about six years after we met. We shared a kinship in many ways, and after the first insults were exchanged, a deep and abiding friendship developed. I helped certify Scott as a crew chief. He had the right stuff, and it was obvious from the beginning, as he breezed his way through EMT training.
We formed the nucleus of a group of friends from that volunteer ambulance corps, but Scott always seemed to be its center, the one person everyone always gravitated towards. He and I spent many a night up late talking together. We spent a fair number of times drunk together. We were both handpicked to ride the ambulance the night the new university president decided to ride along with one of our crews to see what we were all about. An overly inebriated student wound up throwing up on the president that night during our attempts to restrain her on the stretcher. Both Scott and I looked at each other and were of one mind. We were never so happy as to see a drunk as we were this night. It gave the president just a glimpse of what we were up against, and from that point on, our ambulance corps got whatever we wanted. Scott and I would often look back at that moment and laugh, thinking that might have been our finest hour in EMS.
When my dad had a heart attack in 1984, he was there for me, working to help get me home a week later as my dad underwent cardiac bypass surgery. He was there again four years later, when my dad, who contracted HIV in a blood transfusion from that surgery, would succumb to AIDS.
I graduated in 1985, but Scott was still wandering in the wilderness, not really sure what he was wanting to do. I went home to NYC and began working full-time as a paramedic. Scott stayed in Buffalo, and eventually got his nursing degree. He got married, I was in his wedding party. I got married, he was in mine. We were both married by the same rabbi, in the same banquet hall, under the same gazebo. We would try to get together often, as my wife was from Buffalo, and we would visit several times a year. Sometimes, I would go to his place, sometimes, the other way around. He and his wife had a son, but there was trouble within the marriage that he couldn't even talk about with me.
His first marriage failed, he went out on his own. It wasn't until after he was separated that he began to open up to me, and things fell into place about certain things. This was Scott. He could be very stoic, stubborn, and not come forward with things, even to his closest friends. It would eventually, I believe, contribute to his death.
Years passed. Over time, Scott met someone else and married again. My wife and I moved to Rochester. I would talk to him often about the issues my wife and I were having, and the things I was trying to come to terms with. What happened about two and a half years ago would completely change his life forever. His scond wife announced one day that she was leaving him, for no apparent reason. No marriage counseling, no real explanation other than she wasn't in love with him anymore. One week after that announcement, Scott developed, Guillan-Barre Syndrome. It might have killed him, if it weren't for the fact that he was built like an ox. It did however, leave him unable to walk, and with extreme muscle weakness in both arms. The guy that I knew that could take you out with one punch if he so choose to, was left barely able to lift a pen.
Over the next year the condition resolved itself, and though he still retained some muscle weakness he was lucky in that it didn't kill him. His now ex-wife had originally stayed on for a time to help him, but eventually just left him in the lurch. What would happen next however, would not have as equally a lucky ending.
Around April of this year, he began having trouble walking with his right leg. It began swelling, with the swelling eventually involving his left leg as well. He didn't tell anyone about it. Not me. not anyone in his family, save for his son. Not his mother, who was living in Florida. It would become progressively worse, to the point that by the time his son graduated high school in June, there was no ignoring it by others. Still, he didn't do anything about it. His denial was killing him, as it would turn out.
In late July, I received a frantic phone call from him. He was bedridden, practically. His 90-plus year-old grandmother was in hospice in Florida, dying, and his being a nurse made everyone in the family turn to him for advice as to what to do. There was one problem: no one, aside from his son, had any idea how ill he was becoming. He never said anything. He had however, reached his breaking point, mentally. When I answered the phone, and heard the panic in his voice, I couldn't believe this was the same friend that just one year prior, helped me through my separation from my wife. He was distraught, and didn't know what to do. I calmed him down, and he finally opened up to me about what was going on.
I was dumbstruck. I drove to Buffalo and helped get him to an ultrasound appointment, as he finally went to get help a little while prior to calling me. Part of the problem was that he was being misdiagnosed (No need to go into the particulars). His primary doc was suspecting a blood clot in his leg, related to his long term diabetes. It would turn out to be anything but that. He finally had to tell his mother what was going on, as his grandmother died, the funeral was going to be in NY and there was no way he could get there. To say his mother was beside herself would be an understatement. Here she was, in the process of arranging a funeral for her mother, and her son was severely ill.
I would go back to Buffalo again a few more times, before in early August, he collapsed at home. He had enough consciousness left in him at the time to call 9-1-1, and they rushed him to the hospital in septic shock. It would turn out that it was a severe infection, e. coli, that was destroying his legs, most especially the right one.
He went straight into ICU, was put on a ventilator, as he could barely breathe. His mother immediately flew in from Florida, and I picked her up at the airport. I had not seen her in some time, and while it wasn't the best of circumstances, she was nonetheless, happy to see me. We drove to the hospital, and I was shocked to see the condition he was in. He was being kept heavily sedated, and they were still trying to get a handle on precisely why he was in septic shock. He was taken in for a CT scan, and that's when they found it: A tumor on his adrenal gland. A big one.
He went into surgery for his right leg, as it looked as though it might needed to have been amputated. It didn't but there was a lot of damage. Finally, once he was stable enough, they were able to biopsy the tumor. It was malignant, and had spread to his liver and bone. A pheochromocytoma. Extremely rare, and 90% of the time, benign. Scott somehow fell into the 10% that becomes malignant. If he had spoken up sooner, when his leg issues started, it might have been caught earlier, and he might have had a chance. As it was, as much as we hoped, he had none, and I knew it. All my instincts from all my years as a paramedic knew it.
He went down fighting to his last breath. It took almost a month. He fought and fought. Finally, two days beforehand, I got a call from his son that his body was starting to break down. I called off of work and ran out to Buffalo. I joined his mother in a talk with the main doctor that was caring for him. Myself and another mutual friend picked up his son, now in college, and drove him back to the hospital.
It was time to say good-bye.
I sat beside his bed, and gripped his hand. I told him he was,and always would be my best friend. I told him to let go. Even as much as I wanted him to fight, I knew it was time for him to let go. He needed permission. A nurse came into the room, and I told her the story about the practical joke he played on me while we were in college, involving a lot of alcohol, and a Resuci-Annie manikin. We laughed, I laughed through my tears, and somehow, I knew Scott was laughing too. He took a great deal of pleasure over the years in that joke he played on me. Of course, the time I told him about the joke I helped play on a paramedic involving a horseshoe crab, he said I finally outdid him.
I left the room, and joined the rest of the family. a little less than two days later, on September 1st, at 11:25 am, Scott gave up fighting. I got a text message from his son, soon followed by a call from his mother. He died on the same day that his father died. He died on the same day one year later that I left my home, and marriage. He left us behind, but I will never leave him far from me.
The next day, there was a memorial service in Buffalo for his friends and co-workers, as his body was being shipped down to NYC for the funeral. He was going to be buried in cemetery next to the one where my dad is buried. The memorial was gathering of some of us that attended college with him, family, and co-workers. Scott had become the head of nursing at a head trauma rehabilitation center in Buffalo. I emceed the event, brought a bottle of single malt whiskey with me, drank a toast to him and sang "The Parting Gass" for him. Others spoke, including his son. The biggest surprise came when his boss came up to offer his thoughts.
He announced to everyone that the building where Scott worked was to be renamed in his honor. It was Scott, you see, that spearheaded the process to get them certified as a head trauma rehab center. It really was Scott's baby, and he saw it through and made it happen. I couldn't think of a better, and everlasting memorial.
I left the memorial drunk, not on alcohol, but with the memories and feelings I had. I was hurting, not only for my own loss, but for his family as well. I was also angry at him. I couldn't wrap my brain around the fact that he didn't seek out help sooner. Even when he told me what was going on, I wanted to yell at him, but couldn't. All I could do was to stay calm and figure out what to do to give him a hand.
My last memory of him will be the best though. about ten days or so before he collapsed, I went over to his place, and brought a movie with me, "Snatch." He never saw it, which I was a little surprised at, as it contained two things he liked: comedy and guns. We watched it with his son, and as in pain as he was, he still laughed at a lot of it. That is the memory I will take away with me. He was the one usually making me laugh. I was glad I could return the favor.
Good-bye my best friend.
Scott and I met while attending college at the State University of New York at Buffalo. This was the 1980's, the era of big hair, Prince, Madonna, MTV, and the Macintosh computer, of which its descendant, the MacBook Pro, I am now typing this on. Scott and I worked on the campus volunteer ambulance corps, he being new at the time, and me being a seasoned five year EMS veteran. He had a great sense of humor, and could be a real ball-breaker at times, hence our less than auspicious beginning. He was also honest and to the point, was also from the Bronx, though he grew up on the west side, and I on the east side. I used to tease, as the Riverdale section of the Bronx was known as much for its being in the hillier part of the borough as much as its sense of snobbery. People there, when they addressed a letter, would never address it "Bronx, NY." They always addressed it, "Riverdale, NY."
Scott wasn't one of those types. Scott grew up in a middle class family, with his brother and mother. Scott's father died only about two years prior, and was as devastating to him as my own father's death would be about six years after we met. We shared a kinship in many ways, and after the first insults were exchanged, a deep and abiding friendship developed. I helped certify Scott as a crew chief. He had the right stuff, and it was obvious from the beginning, as he breezed his way through EMT training.
We formed the nucleus of a group of friends from that volunteer ambulance corps, but Scott always seemed to be its center, the one person everyone always gravitated towards. He and I spent many a night up late talking together. We spent a fair number of times drunk together. We were both handpicked to ride the ambulance the night the new university president decided to ride along with one of our crews to see what we were all about. An overly inebriated student wound up throwing up on the president that night during our attempts to restrain her on the stretcher. Both Scott and I looked at each other and were of one mind. We were never so happy as to see a drunk as we were this night. It gave the president just a glimpse of what we were up against, and from that point on, our ambulance corps got whatever we wanted. Scott and I would often look back at that moment and laugh, thinking that might have been our finest hour in EMS.
When my dad had a heart attack in 1984, he was there for me, working to help get me home a week later as my dad underwent cardiac bypass surgery. He was there again four years later, when my dad, who contracted HIV in a blood transfusion from that surgery, would succumb to AIDS.
I graduated in 1985, but Scott was still wandering in the wilderness, not really sure what he was wanting to do. I went home to NYC and began working full-time as a paramedic. Scott stayed in Buffalo, and eventually got his nursing degree. He got married, I was in his wedding party. I got married, he was in mine. We were both married by the same rabbi, in the same banquet hall, under the same gazebo. We would try to get together often, as my wife was from Buffalo, and we would visit several times a year. Sometimes, I would go to his place, sometimes, the other way around. He and his wife had a son, but there was trouble within the marriage that he couldn't even talk about with me.
His first marriage failed, he went out on his own. It wasn't until after he was separated that he began to open up to me, and things fell into place about certain things. This was Scott. He could be very stoic, stubborn, and not come forward with things, even to his closest friends. It would eventually, I believe, contribute to his death.
Years passed. Over time, Scott met someone else and married again. My wife and I moved to Rochester. I would talk to him often about the issues my wife and I were having, and the things I was trying to come to terms with. What happened about two and a half years ago would completely change his life forever. His scond wife announced one day that she was leaving him, for no apparent reason. No marriage counseling, no real explanation other than she wasn't in love with him anymore. One week after that announcement, Scott developed, Guillan-Barre Syndrome. It might have killed him, if it weren't for the fact that he was built like an ox. It did however, leave him unable to walk, and with extreme muscle weakness in both arms. The guy that I knew that could take you out with one punch if he so choose to, was left barely able to lift a pen.
Over the next year the condition resolved itself, and though he still retained some muscle weakness he was lucky in that it didn't kill him. His now ex-wife had originally stayed on for a time to help him, but eventually just left him in the lurch. What would happen next however, would not have as equally a lucky ending.
Around April of this year, he began having trouble walking with his right leg. It began swelling, with the swelling eventually involving his left leg as well. He didn't tell anyone about it. Not me. not anyone in his family, save for his son. Not his mother, who was living in Florida. It would become progressively worse, to the point that by the time his son graduated high school in June, there was no ignoring it by others. Still, he didn't do anything about it. His denial was killing him, as it would turn out.
In late July, I received a frantic phone call from him. He was bedridden, practically. His 90-plus year-old grandmother was in hospice in Florida, dying, and his being a nurse made everyone in the family turn to him for advice as to what to do. There was one problem: no one, aside from his son, had any idea how ill he was becoming. He never said anything. He had however, reached his breaking point, mentally. When I answered the phone, and heard the panic in his voice, I couldn't believe this was the same friend that just one year prior, helped me through my separation from my wife. He was distraught, and didn't know what to do. I calmed him down, and he finally opened up to me about what was going on.
I was dumbstruck. I drove to Buffalo and helped get him to an ultrasound appointment, as he finally went to get help a little while prior to calling me. Part of the problem was that he was being misdiagnosed (No need to go into the particulars). His primary doc was suspecting a blood clot in his leg, related to his long term diabetes. It would turn out to be anything but that. He finally had to tell his mother what was going on, as his grandmother died, the funeral was going to be in NY and there was no way he could get there. To say his mother was beside herself would be an understatement. Here she was, in the process of arranging a funeral for her mother, and her son was severely ill.
I would go back to Buffalo again a few more times, before in early August, he collapsed at home. He had enough consciousness left in him at the time to call 9-1-1, and they rushed him to the hospital in septic shock. It would turn out that it was a severe infection, e. coli, that was destroying his legs, most especially the right one.
He went straight into ICU, was put on a ventilator, as he could barely breathe. His mother immediately flew in from Florida, and I picked her up at the airport. I had not seen her in some time, and while it wasn't the best of circumstances, she was nonetheless, happy to see me. We drove to the hospital, and I was shocked to see the condition he was in. He was being kept heavily sedated, and they were still trying to get a handle on precisely why he was in septic shock. He was taken in for a CT scan, and that's when they found it: A tumor on his adrenal gland. A big one.
He went into surgery for his right leg, as it looked as though it might needed to have been amputated. It didn't but there was a lot of damage. Finally, once he was stable enough, they were able to biopsy the tumor. It was malignant, and had spread to his liver and bone. A pheochromocytoma. Extremely rare, and 90% of the time, benign. Scott somehow fell into the 10% that becomes malignant. If he had spoken up sooner, when his leg issues started, it might have been caught earlier, and he might have had a chance. As it was, as much as we hoped, he had none, and I knew it. All my instincts from all my years as a paramedic knew it.
He went down fighting to his last breath. It took almost a month. He fought and fought. Finally, two days beforehand, I got a call from his son that his body was starting to break down. I called off of work and ran out to Buffalo. I joined his mother in a talk with the main doctor that was caring for him. Myself and another mutual friend picked up his son, now in college, and drove him back to the hospital.
It was time to say good-bye.
I sat beside his bed, and gripped his hand. I told him he was,and always would be my best friend. I told him to let go. Even as much as I wanted him to fight, I knew it was time for him to let go. He needed permission. A nurse came into the room, and I told her the story about the practical joke he played on me while we were in college, involving a lot of alcohol, and a Resuci-Annie manikin. We laughed, I laughed through my tears, and somehow, I knew Scott was laughing too. He took a great deal of pleasure over the years in that joke he played on me. Of course, the time I told him about the joke I helped play on a paramedic involving a horseshoe crab, he said I finally outdid him.
I left the room, and joined the rest of the family. a little less than two days later, on September 1st, at 11:25 am, Scott gave up fighting. I got a text message from his son, soon followed by a call from his mother. He died on the same day that his father died. He died on the same day one year later that I left my home, and marriage. He left us behind, but I will never leave him far from me.
The next day, there was a memorial service in Buffalo for his friends and co-workers, as his body was being shipped down to NYC for the funeral. He was going to be buried in cemetery next to the one where my dad is buried. The memorial was gathering of some of us that attended college with him, family, and co-workers. Scott had become the head of nursing at a head trauma rehabilitation center in Buffalo. I emceed the event, brought a bottle of single malt whiskey with me, drank a toast to him and sang "The Parting Gass" for him. Others spoke, including his son. The biggest surprise came when his boss came up to offer his thoughts.
He announced to everyone that the building where Scott worked was to be renamed in his honor. It was Scott, you see, that spearheaded the process to get them certified as a head trauma rehab center. It really was Scott's baby, and he saw it through and made it happen. I couldn't think of a better, and everlasting memorial.
I left the memorial drunk, not on alcohol, but with the memories and feelings I had. I was hurting, not only for my own loss, but for his family as well. I was also angry at him. I couldn't wrap my brain around the fact that he didn't seek out help sooner. Even when he told me what was going on, I wanted to yell at him, but couldn't. All I could do was to stay calm and figure out what to do to give him a hand.
My last memory of him will be the best though. about ten days or so before he collapsed, I went over to his place, and brought a movie with me, "Snatch." He never saw it, which I was a little surprised at, as it contained two things he liked: comedy and guns. We watched it with his son, and as in pain as he was, he still laughed at a lot of it. That is the memory I will take away with me. He was the one usually making me laugh. I was glad I could return the favor.
Good-bye my best friend.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
A quote...
...is sometimes the best post:
"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes." ~William Gibson
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
We're all doomed, it seems.
"He died of cardiac arrest."
That was the sentence in my local paper today in an article about the death of a pro football player that was a big influence on his team, the Buffalo Bills. There is a big fan base here for the Bills, as their training camp is held here before the start of the NFL season, and Rochester being only one hour east from Buffalo, of course. But that's not what pissed me off. Look at that sentence again:
"He died of cardiac arrest."
How many times have you read that same sentence when it refers to the death of someone in a newspaper, website, etc? Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Each and every time I read that similar sentence I want to scream, "ONE DOES NOT DIE FROM CARDIAC ARREST!" Sheesh! I don't know if this is a case of lazy journalism, or simply no one telling them what condition a person had that was the actual cause of their death. It's as though cardiac arrest were a disease unto itself. It's not. It's a condition that results from something else. If it is indeed a disease unto itself, than it is more deadly than AIDS, cancer, or just about anything else combined.
Trust me. I worked as a paramedic for far too many years. I know what cardiac arrest is, and is not. I treated people who went into arrest, by the way, and sometimes it wasn't quite fatal. Rare was the case, but sometimes they would, in the image of Monty Python, be "getting better." How did they get into the condition of cardiac arrest? The causes are varied. It could be a gunshot, a car accident, a heart attack, stroke, or simply having been forced to sit through the newest Keanu Reeves movie by one's significant other. (Okay, The Matrix was good, but the sequels made me want to reach for the defibrillator.)
The point here is this: In the end, we're all going into cardiac arrest. How we get there is open to speculation from both the religious and scientific communities, but you can be absolutely certain we will all suffer from this condition someday. What happens after that is also open to speculation from those same communities, but I can tell you this: If I read an obituary or other article after my death that states I died of cardiac arrest, I'm going to haunt the newspaper that published it, and the reporter that wrote it, until the end of their days.
Yep, in the end, we're all doomed.
That was the sentence in my local paper today in an article about the death of a pro football player that was a big influence on his team, the Buffalo Bills. There is a big fan base here for the Bills, as their training camp is held here before the start of the NFL season, and Rochester being only one hour east from Buffalo, of course. But that's not what pissed me off. Look at that sentence again:
"He died of cardiac arrest."
How many times have you read that same sentence when it refers to the death of someone in a newspaper, website, etc? Hundreds? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Each and every time I read that similar sentence I want to scream, "ONE DOES NOT DIE FROM CARDIAC ARREST!" Sheesh! I don't know if this is a case of lazy journalism, or simply no one telling them what condition a person had that was the actual cause of their death. It's as though cardiac arrest were a disease unto itself. It's not. It's a condition that results from something else. If it is indeed a disease unto itself, than it is more deadly than AIDS, cancer, or just about anything else combined.
Trust me. I worked as a paramedic for far too many years. I know what cardiac arrest is, and is not. I treated people who went into arrest, by the way, and sometimes it wasn't quite fatal. Rare was the case, but sometimes they would, in the image of Monty Python, be "getting better." How did they get into the condition of cardiac arrest? The causes are varied. It could be a gunshot, a car accident, a heart attack, stroke, or simply having been forced to sit through the newest Keanu Reeves movie by one's significant other. (Okay, The Matrix was good, but the sequels made me want to reach for the defibrillator.)
The point here is this: In the end, we're all going into cardiac arrest. How we get there is open to speculation from both the religious and scientific communities, but you can be absolutely certain we will all suffer from this condition someday. What happens after that is also open to speculation from those same communities, but I can tell you this: If I read an obituary or other article after my death that states I died of cardiac arrest, I'm going to haunt the newspaper that published it, and the reporter that wrote it, until the end of their days.
Yep, in the end, we're all doomed.
Friday, October 14, 2011
The shape of things to come.
A definitely dreary day here, and from what I've noticed so far, a poor fall colors season as well. The leaves you see on the pic below are pretty representative of the fall colors this year, and I suspect all the wet weather we've had is probably the culprit, or at least a big contributor.
My favorite time of year is not so much this time around, and I have a bad feeling is a portent of another bad winter here. Yeah, no use complaining about the weather, especially if one like myself voluntarily moved up to this part of NY state. I think that given the somber weather it might be time to unload about the incredibly hard summer I had, but that will be the next post around.
In short, I lost my best friend of 30 years on Sept. 1. More later.
My favorite time of year is not so much this time around, and I have a bad feeling is a portent of another bad winter here. Yeah, no use complaining about the weather, especially if one like myself voluntarily moved up to this part of NY state. I think that given the somber weather it might be time to unload about the incredibly hard summer I had, but that will be the next post around.
In short, I lost my best friend of 30 years on Sept. 1. More later.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Common sense from an uncommon source.
I miss Frank Zappa. Really. While known to many, and misunderstood by just as many, he was a brilliant composer, arranger, guitarist, and life agitator. He made you think. His work was often thought of as crude, but if you really got down to business and paid attention to his words, you'd realized that he carried more common sense in his pinkie than most people had in their entire bodies. He championed the cause to stop censorship of music back in the late 80's. (Anyone remember Tipper Gore and the PMRC?) He could make social commentary through his work just as easily as singing about the girl in the poncho that he did it with until he could do it no more.
People called him crazy. I suspect he was a hero to someone like Steve Jobs. Why? Because he was an innovator. Yes, his work was not for everyone, but where's the fun in that? So the next time you call for a repairman that takes forever to finish a home repair, put on a copy of "The Flakes," and take comfort that you're not in California, where they seem to have the most of them. How do I know? Well, Frank told me so.
Monday, October 10, 2011
The unbearable lightness of my wallet.
So, the time finally came when I was able to purchase a long wanted MacBook Pro. I use to have a MacBook G4 that a friend gave me some time ago, but it bit the dust about 2 years ago, and I was using a loaner PC from him. It gave me the ability to work as well, but it was about six or seven years old, and a bear to work with. Still, I couldn't complain, but the time had come where I had the financial means to get a brand new Mac, and one that I could put Windows on via an emulator, so that I could use it for my work at home job, and use it for my writing and theatre work on the Mac OS side of things. I bought it last Friday, and it didn't take long to remember how Mac works, and to get most of my files transferred over to it.
I am using this as a stepping stone, and inspiration to start blogging regularly again. I feel as thought I have a computer I'm comfortable with again, and believe it or not, it makes a difference. So, here we go, and I'll consider something to write about tomorrow.
I am using this as a stepping stone, and inspiration to start blogging regularly again. I feel as thought I have a computer I'm comfortable with again, and believe it or not, it makes a difference. So, here we go, and I'll consider something to write about tomorrow.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
It is what it is.
Beginnings and endings. This is the stuff of life. We're born, we die. We move to a new place, and move out again. People come into our lives and then they leave. Relationships come and go. Marriages are created with the hope of lasting until the end. Usually, that is intended to mean one or the other dying. There is of course the other way, where one or both people end it for a myriad of reasons.
The end has come for mine. A few weeks ago, I received divorce papers in the mail. The reality is that it probably ended before these papers came, even before I moved out. Marriages can die a slow and painful death, and this is what happened with mine. We tried hard to revive it, but in the end, there were too many hurts that would not heal. Getting the papers delivered to me the day after I came back from a trip home to NYC was still something of a shock. I expected that it would be me that would make this decision, and in fact I was still wrestling with when and how I would do it. In many ways it was something of a relief, as now that decision was lifted from my shoulders. It still doesn't make it any easier emotionally in terms of knowing that there is now a finality to this journey that we both started so many years ago. I also think that this is the way for her to regain not only some control over the situation, but also as a way for her to go on with her life, to move forward.
I still love her, and always will, though I suspect she will always doubt it, and curse me for the rest of her days for leaving. It's what I had to do. Not a question so much of wanting, but had to. I could no longer see any other option. There was too much pain between us, something that even she had admitted. I look at the bare spot on my left hand's ring finger where there used to be an indentation after I took it off. There is nothing there now, no indication that there was a gold band that occupied it for 21 years. The ring that symbolized she and I now sits in a ceramic bowl on my dresser in my apartment bedroom. I don't have the courage in myself to put it away just yet.
And so now, after all we went through together, after all the joys and sorrows, the laughing and the fights, laughing together and the crying together, we're left to take our own separate journeys. It's not what I imagined our lives would come to back when we took our vows, but it is what it is.
The end has come for mine. A few weeks ago, I received divorce papers in the mail. The reality is that it probably ended before these papers came, even before I moved out. Marriages can die a slow and painful death, and this is what happened with mine. We tried hard to revive it, but in the end, there were too many hurts that would not heal. Getting the papers delivered to me the day after I came back from a trip home to NYC was still something of a shock. I expected that it would be me that would make this decision, and in fact I was still wrestling with when and how I would do it. In many ways it was something of a relief, as now that decision was lifted from my shoulders. It still doesn't make it any easier emotionally in terms of knowing that there is now a finality to this journey that we both started so many years ago. I also think that this is the way for her to regain not only some control over the situation, but also as a way for her to go on with her life, to move forward.
I still love her, and always will, though I suspect she will always doubt it, and curse me for the rest of her days for leaving. It's what I had to do. Not a question so much of wanting, but had to. I could no longer see any other option. There was too much pain between us, something that even she had admitted. I look at the bare spot on my left hand's ring finger where there used to be an indentation after I took it off. There is nothing there now, no indication that there was a gold band that occupied it for 21 years. The ring that symbolized she and I now sits in a ceramic bowl on my dresser in my apartment bedroom. I don't have the courage in myself to put it away just yet.
And so now, after all we went through together, after all the joys and sorrows, the laughing and the fights, laughing together and the crying together, we're left to take our own separate journeys. It's not what I imagined our lives would come to back when we took our vows, but it is what it is.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
A funny thing about comedy...
...it's not as easy as it looks, but it provides healing in the most stressful of times. There is an oft quoted acting maxim, attributed to several sources: "Dying is easy. Comedy is hard." Of course, this refers to the art of using comedy in performance. However, it crosses over into real life as well.
When I was waiting for my liver transplant, one of the things I struggled to maintain was my sense of humor. So many people would tell me to "keep my spirits up," without any real suggestions on how to do that. I figured out that all I needed to do was what I have always done, and that was gravitate towards those things I found hilarious. I watched a lot of Robin Williams, George Carlin, TV shows that would make me laugh my ass off all the time, funny movies - you get the gist. What I also found were ways to make myself laugh, along with others.
I made up two lists of "Top Ten Ways Of Knowing You've Been Living With Liver Disease Too Long." While very esoteric, I was able to share with friends that I met through transplant and liver disease support groups, as well as the medical people that were taking care of me.
It made them laugh. It made me laugh.
About two months before my transplant I gave a lecture to a group of EMT students on death and dying. It drove home a lot of what I lectured about, looking as sick as I was and also being funny at the same time. The lecture was more focused on what they will encounter out in the field as EMT's, but certainly had a bigger impact having it delivered by someone that was dying by degrees right before their eyes. The opening part of the lecture was a series of video clips I put together of how Hollywood views death, both seriously and comedy-wise. This is one of the clips I used:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9tAKLTktY0
It had a great impact on those students, and I can only hope they understood what I was trying to get across and use in their daily working lives.
Now to that end, I'm organizing a similar presentation to my transplant support group here in Rochester, with a little twist. The idea is to show how to use comedy as a coping mechanism, and is part lecture, part floor show, with some local improv actors that I'm friends with and have worked with. It's all in the planning stages now, but hopefully we can make this work.
"I'm always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and I realize I'm listening to it." - George Carlin.
When I was waiting for my liver transplant, one of the things I struggled to maintain was my sense of humor. So many people would tell me to "keep my spirits up," without any real suggestions on how to do that. I figured out that all I needed to do was what I have always done, and that was gravitate towards those things I found hilarious. I watched a lot of Robin Williams, George Carlin, TV shows that would make me laugh my ass off all the time, funny movies - you get the gist. What I also found were ways to make myself laugh, along with others.
I made up two lists of "Top Ten Ways Of Knowing You've Been Living With Liver Disease Too Long." While very esoteric, I was able to share with friends that I met through transplant and liver disease support groups, as well as the medical people that were taking care of me.
It made them laugh. It made me laugh.
About two months before my transplant I gave a lecture to a group of EMT students on death and dying. It drove home a lot of what I lectured about, looking as sick as I was and also being funny at the same time. The lecture was more focused on what they will encounter out in the field as EMT's, but certainly had a bigger impact having it delivered by someone that was dying by degrees right before their eyes. The opening part of the lecture was a series of video clips I put together of how Hollywood views death, both seriously and comedy-wise. This is one of the clips I used:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9tAKLTktY0
It had a great impact on those students, and I can only hope they understood what I was trying to get across and use in their daily working lives.
Now to that end, I'm organizing a similar presentation to my transplant support group here in Rochester, with a little twist. The idea is to show how to use comedy as a coping mechanism, and is part lecture, part floor show, with some local improv actors that I'm friends with and have worked with. It's all in the planning stages now, but hopefully we can make this work.
"I'm always relieved when someone is delivering a eulogy and I realize I'm listening to it." - George Carlin.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
The job market is pants...
...or so sayeth Zoe. This is why I love Brit slang. Far more descriptive, in my mind than what we have here. Of course, the Irish have my fav, all time one: gobshite. Yeah, it doesn't get better than that. It is however, a perfect description for this job market. One would think that after all this time, and all these reports that things are starting to improve, that there would be something out there that I could capitalize on. Nothing since October. It's been a dead zone here.
There is something else that popped up on the university job board this past week, and while I have about 3/4 of the qualifications for, I don't have the rest, so I'm debating as to whether or not I should apply. Even in healthcare institutions around here, the bulk of the jobs are clinical in nature, and that is not an option for me anymore.
Sigh...supposedly two million jobs have been created? I'd take about 1-2% of that for around here to at least give me a fighting chance.
There is something else that popped up on the university job board this past week, and while I have about 3/4 of the qualifications for, I don't have the rest, so I'm debating as to whether or not I should apply. Even in healthcare institutions around here, the bulk of the jobs are clinical in nature, and that is not an option for me anymore.
Sigh...supposedly two million jobs have been created? I'd take about 1-2% of that for around here to at least give me a fighting chance.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
A demonstration of why our Constitution works...even when we may not like it.
"To preserve the freedom of the human mind...and the freedom of the press, every spirit should be ready to devote itself to martyrdom; for as long as we may think as we will and speak what we think, the condition of man will proceed in improvement." - Thomas Jefferson
I read the news today, oh boy. I read it, and at first and was decidedly stunned. Stunned at the decision of the Supreme Court, and stunned that the majority of both Conservative and Liberal justices were very clear: Freedom of speech, however ugly, deserves protection. You should perhaps, read this first before you go on.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/03/us/03scotus.html?_r=1&hp
I personally hold the Westboro Baptist Church in a state of utter contempt. I first learned about them back in 2000, while I was in the play, "The Laramie Project." Eight actors playing sixty characters. two of the characters I played were Matthew Sheppard's father, and in a complete 180 degree direction, Fred Phelps, the "pastor" of this church. It was through researching Phelps and his church that my disgust for him and his ilk grew.
It was his protests at Shepard's funeral that first garnered Phelps national attention, and he's been in it ever since, most notably in the last few years by the incidents outlines in the article above. He is the worst sort of religious zealot, and while his followers are few, they are vocal and know how to attract attention.
On to the Supreme Court decision. It partly made me sick to my stomach. I am no arch right wing conservative by any means, nor am I an uber-liberal, but I thought what the Westboro protesters were doing was in every way equivalent to a neo-Nazi march. Free speech is one thing. What they were doing, in my opinion was beyond what are the normally accepted boundaries of free speech. I felt they were infringing upon the rights of the families of soldiers that were killed in battle to conduct their mourning unencumbered by the rantings of people whose religious/social opinions differed with others.
The justices decided otherwise, and at the end of the day, as conflicted as I am, their rationale is sound. It is at the heart of our freedoms in this country. Their are many who read this blog from places outside the U.S. who probably find our country confusing, and downright contradictory at times. let this article serve as an example of what we can be at our finest. I see examples of curbs on free speech in Europe, even with the best of intentions, and cringe at them.
I'll leave with a quote from the writer Evelyn Beatrice Hall, which is often mistakenly attributed to Voltaire:
"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,"
I read the news today, oh boy. I read it, and at first and was decidedly stunned. Stunned at the decision of the Supreme Court, and stunned that the majority of both Conservative and Liberal justices were very clear: Freedom of speech, however ugly, deserves protection. You should perhaps, read this first before you go on.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/03/us/03scotus.html?_r=1&hp
I personally hold the Westboro Baptist Church in a state of utter contempt. I first learned about them back in 2000, while I was in the play, "The Laramie Project." Eight actors playing sixty characters. two of the characters I played were Matthew Sheppard's father, and in a complete 180 degree direction, Fred Phelps, the "pastor" of this church. It was through researching Phelps and his church that my disgust for him and his ilk grew.
It was his protests at Shepard's funeral that first garnered Phelps national attention, and he's been in it ever since, most notably in the last few years by the incidents outlines in the article above. He is the worst sort of religious zealot, and while his followers are few, they are vocal and know how to attract attention.
On to the Supreme Court decision. It partly made me sick to my stomach. I am no arch right wing conservative by any means, nor am I an uber-liberal, but I thought what the Westboro protesters were doing was in every way equivalent to a neo-Nazi march. Free speech is one thing. What they were doing, in my opinion was beyond what are the normally accepted boundaries of free speech. I felt they were infringing upon the rights of the families of soldiers that were killed in battle to conduct their mourning unencumbered by the rantings of people whose religious/social opinions differed with others.
The justices decided otherwise, and at the end of the day, as conflicted as I am, their rationale is sound. It is at the heart of our freedoms in this country. Their are many who read this blog from places outside the U.S. who probably find our country confusing, and downright contradictory at times. let this article serve as an example of what we can be at our finest. I see examples of curbs on free speech in Europe, even with the best of intentions, and cringe at them.
I'll leave with a quote from the writer Evelyn Beatrice Hall, which is often mistakenly attributed to Voltaire:
"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,"
Thursday, February 24, 2011
First, let me pull this foot out of my rear...
...courtesy of Violet Sky. She gently (in her calm Canadian manner) reminded me that I promised to start blogging again. Last December. Did I actually promise that? I'm lucky these days if I wake up and can remember what day it actually is, I've been so busy.
A quick catch-up: Mrs. Nighttime and I are legally separated as of the beginning of this past December. I don't want to go too much father into that, out of respect for her privacy. I will only say that this has been the hardest thing I have ever endured. I feel as though I have severed a part of my own body off, and quite frankly, it was easier in many respects to endure a liver transplant than to leave my marriage. I know she is still incredibly angry with me, bu I'm hoping that with time, she will forgive me for what I felt was my only option.
In December, I did a play at Blackfriars. It kept me sane, and also provided me with one of the best acting experiences of my life. It was the best ensemble cast I have ever worked with, and there was a lot of laughter both on and off stage.
Nothing really new on the job front, however, an opportunity popped up two weeks ag that has turned into the most potential since the debacle I had back in October. Through the help of a friend, I am now the assistant press officer for one of the two leading candidates for mayor of Rochester. We're having a special election on March 29th, as the current mayor left office in January to become the Lt. governor of NY State. My friend became his press officer, and asked me to help him as his assistant. If our guy wins the election, there is the very good potential that we could all go to city hall with him.
That's all for now. Yes, it's boring, but it's a way to start blogging again.
A quick catch-up: Mrs. Nighttime and I are legally separated as of the beginning of this past December. I don't want to go too much father into that, out of respect for her privacy. I will only say that this has been the hardest thing I have ever endured. I feel as though I have severed a part of my own body off, and quite frankly, it was easier in many respects to endure a liver transplant than to leave my marriage. I know she is still incredibly angry with me, bu I'm hoping that with time, she will forgive me for what I felt was my only option.
In December, I did a play at Blackfriars. It kept me sane, and also provided me with one of the best acting experiences of my life. It was the best ensemble cast I have ever worked with, and there was a lot of laughter both on and off stage.
Nothing really new on the job front, however, an opportunity popped up two weeks ag that has turned into the most potential since the debacle I had back in October. Through the help of a friend, I am now the assistant press officer for one of the two leading candidates for mayor of Rochester. We're having a special election on March 29th, as the current mayor left office in January to become the Lt. governor of NY State. My friend became his press officer, and asked me to help him as his assistant. If our guy wins the election, there is the very good potential that we could all go to city hall with him.
That's all for now. Yes, it's boring, but it's a way to start blogging again.
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