Tom Petty was right: It's the hardest part (updated again)
The Young Daughter was diagnosed with the dread disease in October 2001, on her first birthday. Since then, we've learned more than we ever wanted to know about navigating the United States health care system.
She had her semi-annual MRI today. They're looking specifically at an optic glioma behind her left eye. We won't know until Tuesday at the earliest what they actually saw. We need for it to not have grown since October, when it was discovered in her previous MRI. We need for no new ones to be present.
An MRI is not a pleasant experience for a small child. First, there's the general anasthesia. At the exam in October, they had to triple-dose her to get her to the state of deep sleep necessary to keep her completely still for an hour. She wobbled around like a drunk for two days, I'm told. This all happened during the time when I was on the Edge and the rest of the family was still in Texas.
This time, they had a much easier time with the anasthesia -- they gave her a different type of medicine -- and by 6 p.m. tonight, she seemed to be on the upswing. Then I walked by where she and The Wife were laying on the couch, and patted the Young Daughter on the head. "Does she feel warm to you?" I asked, casually. "Yeah," said The Wife. We asked the thermometer for confirmation. It said 104. Yeah, that's warm.
This particular anasthesia wasn't supposed to have this particular side effect, according to our discharge papers.
So, it's Us vs. The System. We called our pediatrician, and left a message with the service. We called the hospital downtown, where the procedure was performed. All the people involved had gone home for the day, and nobody wanted to answer our questions. The person on the other end -- not a nurse, from what I could gather -- told The Wife, "If it were my child, I'd take her to the hospital." Hey, thanks for the tip.
After waiting a few more minutes for the pediatrician to call back, The Wife and the Young Daughter went on to the hospital -- the one out here in the 'burb, not the one downtown. As of this writing, four hours later, they're still there. I'm here with the other two kids, who are peacefully asleep. The Wife has called twice to assure me that everything is basically OK -- "they've given her Tylenol, and her fever's down a bit, and they'll see us eventually."
They wait. I wait. I'm sure everything's OK; she's just reacting to the medication. Our kids, like The Wife, tend to run high fevers when they run fevers anyway. A reading of 104 is barely past "cause for concern" in our house.
But they wait. And I wait. And we're not even to the part where we have to yell at the insurance company.
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11:20 a.m. Tuesday update:
The Wife and the Young Daughter made it out of the emergency room around 6 a.m. -- approximately 11 hours after they arrived. Apparently they had a full house in the ER last night, and my kid's high fever was less of a priority than the car accidents or potential SARS cases or whatever the hell they were seeing.
After 11 hours in the ER, they left with this: "Might be a urinary tract infection."
Excuse me. She had an MRI under general anasthesia nine hours previous. You're saying that she picked up a uninary tract infection out of the blue? The Wife reported that even the doctor wasn't convinced. But it had been a bad 11 hours in the ER for everyone involved, apparently, including the medical staff. I suspect this physician didn't want The Wife to leave with nothing, so he came up with his best guess.
I'm frustrated, and I wasn't the parent who had to spend 11 hours in the emergency room last night with a 2-year-old. Amazingly, the 2-year-old was the most calm of all the parties involved. When they came home, the sun was rising, and the Young Daughter was her usual cheerful self -- just like she had been all day.
Nobody told her she had been awake all freakin' night. Nobody told her she should panic. I wish they had forgotten to tell me.
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4 p.m. Tuesday update
The Young Daughter's pediatrican made the ruling: Aspirated pneumonia. Kind of like a urinary tract infection, only completely different. Suspected cause: She vomited while under anathesia, then inhaled it. I hope it sounds worse than it is.
Monday, April 28, 2003
Sunday, April 27, 2003
Saturday, April 26, 2003
Back to our regularly scheduled programming
Enough weak political commentary. I'm scaring myself with this hard left turn I've just taken. Let's instead tell yet another story from 1989, back when politics was the furthest thing from my mind.
And then, there was the girl who attempted suicide right in front of me.
Her name was Michele, with one "l." She was a year younger than me, tan, big brown eyes, a little on the heavy side. I met her through a mutual friend at school. I was intrigued by her slightly bizarre sense of humor and her really cool voice. We dated a few times. It turned out her sense of humor wasn't the only bizarre thing about her, so I, in my single-guy wisdom, decided that dating her a few more times probably wouldn't be a good idea.
I guess she didn't take it well. One Saturday night in May, about 8 p.m., my roommates and I got a hang-up call right as we were leaving the house. As soon as we determined the caller wasn't going to leave a message, we went out the door. I heard the phone ring again. "Wanna get that?" Mark asked. "Nope," I said.
It was a night for motorcycle riding, and ride we did. When we rode, we didn't drink. (We were at least that intelligent. The margin for error on a motorcycle is pretty small.) We rode until a little past midnight, and came home, clear-headed but tired. When we got home, the message light on the machine was flashing.
Mark hit the button. Michele's voice came from the machine. "Don't call me back, not that you will anyway," the quavering voice said. "By the time you get this, I'll probably be pretty sick." Then some really long soliloquy that I don't remember much of. Then, a pause. I thought the tape had run out. Mark's face was ashen, which surprised me. He didn't scare easily. And I wasn't particularly taken aback; this woman had a flair for the dramatic. I figured she was just doing her drama-queen thing. I wondered what he had heard that I hadn't. I was fully prepared to ignore it and go to bed.
Then: "It's been fun."
Click.
Mark was still looking at the phone. "Guess you better go check that out," he said.
I grabbed my helmet and started for the door. "You know," Mark said, "you probably should take your truck."
Yeah, I probably should. I drove to her apartment, which was near the university campus, wondering what I was going to see. I knew that Michele wasn't, shall we say, mentally stable. I didn't know her well enough to know where her line was. Was this some kind of ruse, or sick prank? Was she just trying to get me to talk to her?
I took a deep breath as I jumped out of my truck and walked to her door. I heard music coming from her apartment. I knocked a couple of times, then I tried the knob. Coincidentally, it was unlocked.
She was sitting in a rocking chair in the corner to my left. A strong smell of something was in the air. I determined it was some alcoholic beverage. This struck me as odd, because Michele wasn't the drinker that, say, I was.
"Hi," she said from her chair. I saw then why the house smelled like wine. The top part of the bottle was in her hand. I walked a little further and noticed the rest of the bottle -- and its contents -- were on the kitchen floor to my right. An empty bottle of store-brand aspirin was on the kitchen table.
It took me about .0023 second to compute the possibilites for that wine-bottle neck she was holding in her hand. It took me a hell of a lot longer to figure out what I should do about it. "Did you take the aspirin?" I asked. "Is that why that's there?" I pointed to the little bottle on the table.
"Yeah," she said. "It was almost full." I looked: 500 count. I doubted that was fatal in itself, but I figured in a few hours she was going to be pretty uncomfortable. And I didn't know how much, if any, of the wine she had consumed.
I was being fairly careful not to talk to her; I figured I had the right to remain silent, and anything I said could be used as an excuse to go off the deep end. I walked to the phone.
She moved in the chair, sitting forward. The bottle neck was in her left hand, sharp side pointing away from her. "Don't call anybody."
"I have to call an ambulance," I said, calmly, trying really hard not to belie my agitation. "You're going to be really sick."
"I'm not going to be really sick," she said. "I'm going to be fucking dead. Don't you understand that? That's what I want." She wasn't trying to hide her agitation. Next step: reasoning.
"If you wanted to be fucking dead," I said, barely above a whisper, "you wouldn't have called me."
"You didn't call me back," she said. "You didn't care."
"I wasn't home," I said, still quietly. "I came as soon as I got your message."
A few minutes of silence ensued. It would be an understatement to call it an "awkward" silence. I was watching her for signs: Signs that she was going to do anything stupid with the bottle neck. Signs of her being sick. Signs of her not actually having taken the aspirin at all. Signs of this being some sort of silly melodrama. While I was watching her, a completely unrelated thought hit me: she was a lot heavier than she had been when I last saw her, three weeks previous. Probably 10 pounds, maybe 15. I don't know why this occurred to me at such a time, but it did. Hey, I was a 20-year-old guy. I noticed these things.
I took another step toward the phone. She sprang up out of the chair and pulled it out of the wall and threw it across the room with her free hand. The bottle neck was still in her left hand. I backed way off; I was standing at this point in the kitchen, one foot in the puddle of vino on the floor.
Apparently satisfied she had gotten her point across, she sat back down in her rocking chair. If it was merely silly melodrama, it had suddenly become quite a bit sillier. I really had no idea what she had done, and what the effect of whatever she had done was going to be, so I decided to go to Plan C: waiting her out. If she had taken several hundred aspirin, at some point, she was going to pass out. I'd make my phone call then.
I went back to Plan B, the "reasoning" approach. "OK, I'm not going to call an ambulance," I said, "but I have to use the phone."
"Who the hell are you going to call?" she asked weakly. Could she be on the downswing? I hoped, and feared.
"My mom," I said, calmly. My mom had experience dealing with mental cases and other unstable elements of society; she had worked in mental health for 10 years before becoming a corrections officer. I had no doubt she would know 1/what several hundred aspirin would do to someone and 2/how to deal with someone who was off her rocker in every way but literally. "I need to ask her a question."
"You promise that's who you're calling?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I promise."
Silence. Then, "OK."
Thankfully, the phone was still in pretty good shape. I plugged it in to the jack in her bedroom and dialed up my mom. It was a little after 2 a.m. I explained the situation as quickly and as neutrally as I could, knowing that Michele was listening. "How long has she been like this?" my mom asked. "I've been here about two hours," I said. "She'll fall asleep soon," my mom said. "You're safe until then."
I looked out the bedroom door, and my mom was exactly right. It appeared that Michele had fallen asleep in her rocking chair. I walked over, very slowly, and took the bottle neck out of her hand. "Gotta go," I said to Mom. "Time to call 911."
I called 911 and asked for an ambulance. A police officer showed up first. I was a little irked by that -- you know, she needs to go to the hospital, not to jail -- and a little more irked when I realized most of the cop's questions were directed toward me. I answered them, trying to keep my irkedness to myself, and the ambulance showed up shortly thereafter.
"You want to ride with her?" the cop asked.
I thought about it. There's my truck. If I ride with her, I'll have no ride home. "Yeah, I'll ride with her," I said.
Michele was completely unconscious by this time. The EMTs were scurrying, which made me feel a little safer; they were at least treating her like she was alive, which relieved me of the obligation to ask. They loaded her up. I rode up front, next to the driver. We made our way to the hospital, lights, no siren.
An awful thought occurred to me when we arrived, crashing through the doors like they do on ER: I had to call her parents. I had never met her parents. I wasn't even sure I could remember their names. It was by now well after 3 a.m. I decided to put that off for a while.
Doctors determined Michele had indeed taken the aspirin. Michele's stomach was pumped, she was given some form of medication, and she was awake and reasonably alert by 5 or so. "I have to call your parents," I said.
"No, no, no," she managed to say, shaking her head weakly. "Please don't."
"I have to," I said. "They need to know." Plus, I thought to myself in my most caring way, you're going home with them, not me. "What are their names?"
She told me, and I called. It was the most difficult phone call I had ever made in my life up to that point. I wasn't sure what I was going to say to these people I didn't know. I identified myself, and Michele's mom seemed to recognize the name. That helped calm me, a little bit. "Michele is in the hospital," I said. After the usual oh-my-gods and yeah,-she's-ok,-but, her mom said she and her husband were on their way. They had an hour drive from a small burg south of Anytown.
I stayed in the room and held Michele's hand until her parents arrived. Michele wanly made the introductions. I braced myself. Her mom gave me a big hug. "Thank you, thank you," she said. Uh, OK.
Mom and Dad assured themselves (and, indirectly, me) that they were going to be taking Michele home. Mom motions to me and asked, "Do you drink coffee?" I didn't at the time, but figured it would be a good time to start. We walked to the coffee machine down the hall.
Mom explained to me that Michele had not been in the best of mental health for a while. She had been living at home and had been doing reasonably OK, but then she rented this apartment in Anytown. She had only been there a few months; she had, in fact, rented the apartment since I knew her. "She got that to be closer to you," Mom said.
I mentally sighed and shook my head. "We told her not to, but she did it anyway," Mom said. She explained that she had decided it would be a good chance to test how Michele would do on her own. I guess they had their answer.
In my not-yet-21 self-centeredness, the main thing I was trying to figure out was if they were upset with me. I was reasonably assured they weren't. "I'm so glad you thought so quickly and helped her," Mom said. "God only knows what would have happened if you hadn't."
"I just did what I thought would be right," I said. "Listen," I added, "it's probably best if I said 'bye' to Michele and let y'all take it from here. I don't mean to be mean, but it's probably best if I'm not around." I wasn't sure how Mom was going to take that. Thankfully, she agreed. "If you need any help on this end, getting her lease canceled or whatever, let me know," I said. "Otherwise, I'm probably going to not call."
"I understand," Mom said.
"Does she need, you know, help?" I asked.
"Yeah, she does," Mom said. "And she'll get it this time." I wondered what had happened "last" time.
With that, I turned my attention to figuring out how I was going to get home. In a surprise development, I saw my mother in the waiting room. She had apparently listened to the whole thing unfold on the scanner. "Man, am I glad to see you," I said.
The sun was up. My mom took me home. I went directly to sleep and didn't wake up until just before I had to be at work that afternoon. At the time, I just chalked it off to another wacky event that had gone on around me.
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I didn't think about that night -- or Michele -- until just before Christmas.
She had sent me a Christmas gift and a card. I set it aside and called her after the first of the year. She asked me if I wanted to get together for coffee, or dinner, or something. "I'm taking medication," she said. "I'm not crazy anymore."
"I never thought you were crazy," I said.
"Well, I was," she said. "Or am, or whatever. That's what the doctors tell me, anyway."
I decided that meeting her for dinner wouldn't be a bad thing. Hell, I needed to eat anyway.
I was surprised to see her; she had changed visibly. She had lost a significant amount of weight since I had seen her last; she was, in fact, thinner than when I had first met her. She was no longer "a little on the heavy side."
She explained that her mental issues -- and her weight -- were caused by a thyroid problem of some sort. With the problem under medical control, she said, she was attacking both issues with equal gusto. Therapy and diet had returned her to a state of solid mental and physical health. She was back in school, down in her hometown, and she was doing well.
She invited me to come down to her parents' bar sometime. I did; that was another story. I only saw Michele one other time after that; a few months later, I was engaged to someone else, and the whole episode had become another footnote among my stories from the previous year.
But I did learn a lot about mental illness. There are some strains of mental illness that run in my family, but it was the first time I had encountered it in a peer, somebody my age. I learned that it's something to be taken seriously, both by those who have it and by those who know someone who has it.
And I had never before been in a position where I had to simply trust my instinct. I could -- and still can -- question anything 10 ways to Sunday. But in the end, you have to do what strikes yourself as right.
Enough weak political commentary. I'm scaring myself with this hard left turn I've just taken. Let's instead tell yet another story from 1989, back when politics was the furthest thing from my mind.
And then, there was the girl who attempted suicide right in front of me.
Her name was Michele, with one "l." She was a year younger than me, tan, big brown eyes, a little on the heavy side. I met her through a mutual friend at school. I was intrigued by her slightly bizarre sense of humor and her really cool voice. We dated a few times. It turned out her sense of humor wasn't the only bizarre thing about her, so I, in my single-guy wisdom, decided that dating her a few more times probably wouldn't be a good idea.
I guess she didn't take it well. One Saturday night in May, about 8 p.m., my roommates and I got a hang-up call right as we were leaving the house. As soon as we determined the caller wasn't going to leave a message, we went out the door. I heard the phone ring again. "Wanna get that?" Mark asked. "Nope," I said.
It was a night for motorcycle riding, and ride we did. When we rode, we didn't drink. (We were at least that intelligent. The margin for error on a motorcycle is pretty small.) We rode until a little past midnight, and came home, clear-headed but tired. When we got home, the message light on the machine was flashing.
Mark hit the button. Michele's voice came from the machine. "Don't call me back, not that you will anyway," the quavering voice said. "By the time you get this, I'll probably be pretty sick." Then some really long soliloquy that I don't remember much of. Then, a pause. I thought the tape had run out. Mark's face was ashen, which surprised me. He didn't scare easily. And I wasn't particularly taken aback; this woman had a flair for the dramatic. I figured she was just doing her drama-queen thing. I wondered what he had heard that I hadn't. I was fully prepared to ignore it and go to bed.
Then: "It's been fun."
Click.
Mark was still looking at the phone. "Guess you better go check that out," he said.
I grabbed my helmet and started for the door. "You know," Mark said, "you probably should take your truck."
Yeah, I probably should. I drove to her apartment, which was near the university campus, wondering what I was going to see. I knew that Michele wasn't, shall we say, mentally stable. I didn't know her well enough to know where her line was. Was this some kind of ruse, or sick prank? Was she just trying to get me to talk to her?
I took a deep breath as I jumped out of my truck and walked to her door. I heard music coming from her apartment. I knocked a couple of times, then I tried the knob. Coincidentally, it was unlocked.
She was sitting in a rocking chair in the corner to my left. A strong smell of something was in the air. I determined it was some alcoholic beverage. This struck me as odd, because Michele wasn't the drinker that, say, I was.
"Hi," she said from her chair. I saw then why the house smelled like wine. The top part of the bottle was in her hand. I walked a little further and noticed the rest of the bottle -- and its contents -- were on the kitchen floor to my right. An empty bottle of store-brand aspirin was on the kitchen table.
It took me about .0023 second to compute the possibilites for that wine-bottle neck she was holding in her hand. It took me a hell of a lot longer to figure out what I should do about it. "Did you take the aspirin?" I asked. "Is that why that's there?" I pointed to the little bottle on the table.
"Yeah," she said. "It was almost full." I looked: 500 count. I doubted that was fatal in itself, but I figured in a few hours she was going to be pretty uncomfortable. And I didn't know how much, if any, of the wine she had consumed.
I was being fairly careful not to talk to her; I figured I had the right to remain silent, and anything I said could be used as an excuse to go off the deep end. I walked to the phone.
She moved in the chair, sitting forward. The bottle neck was in her left hand, sharp side pointing away from her. "Don't call anybody."
"I have to call an ambulance," I said, calmly, trying really hard not to belie my agitation. "You're going to be really sick."
"I'm not going to be really sick," she said. "I'm going to be fucking dead. Don't you understand that? That's what I want." She wasn't trying to hide her agitation. Next step: reasoning.
"If you wanted to be fucking dead," I said, barely above a whisper, "you wouldn't have called me."
"You didn't call me back," she said. "You didn't care."
"I wasn't home," I said, still quietly. "I came as soon as I got your message."
A few minutes of silence ensued. It would be an understatement to call it an "awkward" silence. I was watching her for signs: Signs that she was going to do anything stupid with the bottle neck. Signs of her being sick. Signs of her not actually having taken the aspirin at all. Signs of this being some sort of silly melodrama. While I was watching her, a completely unrelated thought hit me: she was a lot heavier than she had been when I last saw her, three weeks previous. Probably 10 pounds, maybe 15. I don't know why this occurred to me at such a time, but it did. Hey, I was a 20-year-old guy. I noticed these things.
I took another step toward the phone. She sprang up out of the chair and pulled it out of the wall and threw it across the room with her free hand. The bottle neck was still in her left hand. I backed way off; I was standing at this point in the kitchen, one foot in the puddle of vino on the floor.
Apparently satisfied she had gotten her point across, she sat back down in her rocking chair. If it was merely silly melodrama, it had suddenly become quite a bit sillier. I really had no idea what she had done, and what the effect of whatever she had done was going to be, so I decided to go to Plan C: waiting her out. If she had taken several hundred aspirin, at some point, she was going to pass out. I'd make my phone call then.
I went back to Plan B, the "reasoning" approach. "OK, I'm not going to call an ambulance," I said, "but I have to use the phone."
"Who the hell are you going to call?" she asked weakly. Could she be on the downswing? I hoped, and feared.
"My mom," I said, calmly. My mom had experience dealing with mental cases and other unstable elements of society; she had worked in mental health for 10 years before becoming a corrections officer. I had no doubt she would know 1/what several hundred aspirin would do to someone and 2/how to deal with someone who was off her rocker in every way but literally. "I need to ask her a question."
"You promise that's who you're calling?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I promise."
Silence. Then, "OK."
Thankfully, the phone was still in pretty good shape. I plugged it in to the jack in her bedroom and dialed up my mom. It was a little after 2 a.m. I explained the situation as quickly and as neutrally as I could, knowing that Michele was listening. "How long has she been like this?" my mom asked. "I've been here about two hours," I said. "She'll fall asleep soon," my mom said. "You're safe until then."
I looked out the bedroom door, and my mom was exactly right. It appeared that Michele had fallen asleep in her rocking chair. I walked over, very slowly, and took the bottle neck out of her hand. "Gotta go," I said to Mom. "Time to call 911."
I called 911 and asked for an ambulance. A police officer showed up first. I was a little irked by that -- you know, she needs to go to the hospital, not to jail -- and a little more irked when I realized most of the cop's questions were directed toward me. I answered them, trying to keep my irkedness to myself, and the ambulance showed up shortly thereafter.
"You want to ride with her?" the cop asked.
I thought about it. There's my truck. If I ride with her, I'll have no ride home. "Yeah, I'll ride with her," I said.
Michele was completely unconscious by this time. The EMTs were scurrying, which made me feel a little safer; they were at least treating her like she was alive, which relieved me of the obligation to ask. They loaded her up. I rode up front, next to the driver. We made our way to the hospital, lights, no siren.
An awful thought occurred to me when we arrived, crashing through the doors like they do on ER: I had to call her parents. I had never met her parents. I wasn't even sure I could remember their names. It was by now well after 3 a.m. I decided to put that off for a while.
Doctors determined Michele had indeed taken the aspirin. Michele's stomach was pumped, she was given some form of medication, and she was awake and reasonably alert by 5 or so. "I have to call your parents," I said.
"No, no, no," she managed to say, shaking her head weakly. "Please don't."
"I have to," I said. "They need to know." Plus, I thought to myself in my most caring way, you're going home with them, not me. "What are their names?"
She told me, and I called. It was the most difficult phone call I had ever made in my life up to that point. I wasn't sure what I was going to say to these people I didn't know. I identified myself, and Michele's mom seemed to recognize the name. That helped calm me, a little bit. "Michele is in the hospital," I said. After the usual oh-my-gods and yeah,-she's-ok,-but, her mom said she and her husband were on their way. They had an hour drive from a small burg south of Anytown.
I stayed in the room and held Michele's hand until her parents arrived. Michele wanly made the introductions. I braced myself. Her mom gave me a big hug. "Thank you, thank you," she said. Uh, OK.
Mom and Dad assured themselves (and, indirectly, me) that they were going to be taking Michele home. Mom motions to me and asked, "Do you drink coffee?" I didn't at the time, but figured it would be a good time to start. We walked to the coffee machine down the hall.
Mom explained to me that Michele had not been in the best of mental health for a while. She had been living at home and had been doing reasonably OK, but then she rented this apartment in Anytown. She had only been there a few months; she had, in fact, rented the apartment since I knew her. "She got that to be closer to you," Mom said.
I mentally sighed and shook my head. "We told her not to, but she did it anyway," Mom said. She explained that she had decided it would be a good chance to test how Michele would do on her own. I guess they had their answer.
In my not-yet-21 self-centeredness, the main thing I was trying to figure out was if they were upset with me. I was reasonably assured they weren't. "I'm so glad you thought so quickly and helped her," Mom said. "God only knows what would have happened if you hadn't."
"I just did what I thought would be right," I said. "Listen," I added, "it's probably best if I said 'bye' to Michele and let y'all take it from here. I don't mean to be mean, but it's probably best if I'm not around." I wasn't sure how Mom was going to take that. Thankfully, she agreed. "If you need any help on this end, getting her lease canceled or whatever, let me know," I said. "Otherwise, I'm probably going to not call."
"I understand," Mom said.
"Does she need, you know, help?" I asked.
"Yeah, she does," Mom said. "And she'll get it this time." I wondered what had happened "last" time.
With that, I turned my attention to figuring out how I was going to get home. In a surprise development, I saw my mother in the waiting room. She had apparently listened to the whole thing unfold on the scanner. "Man, am I glad to see you," I said.
The sun was up. My mom took me home. I went directly to sleep and didn't wake up until just before I had to be at work that afternoon. At the time, I just chalked it off to another wacky event that had gone on around me.
-------------------------------
I didn't think about that night -- or Michele -- until just before Christmas.
She had sent me a Christmas gift and a card. I set it aside and called her after the first of the year. She asked me if I wanted to get together for coffee, or dinner, or something. "I'm taking medication," she said. "I'm not crazy anymore."
"I never thought you were crazy," I said.
"Well, I was," she said. "Or am, or whatever. That's what the doctors tell me, anyway."
I decided that meeting her for dinner wouldn't be a bad thing. Hell, I needed to eat anyway.
I was surprised to see her; she had changed visibly. She had lost a significant amount of weight since I had seen her last; she was, in fact, thinner than when I had first met her. She was no longer "a little on the heavy side."
She explained that her mental issues -- and her weight -- were caused by a thyroid problem of some sort. With the problem under medical control, she said, she was attacking both issues with equal gusto. Therapy and diet had returned her to a state of solid mental and physical health. She was back in school, down in her hometown, and she was doing well.
She invited me to come down to her parents' bar sometime. I did; that was another story. I only saw Michele one other time after that; a few months later, I was engaged to someone else, and the whole episode had become another footnote among my stories from the previous year.
But I did learn a lot about mental illness. There are some strains of mental illness that run in my family, but it was the first time I had encountered it in a peer, somebody my age. I learned that it's something to be taken seriously, both by those who have it and by those who know someone who has it.
And I had never before been in a position where I had to simply trust my instinct. I could -- and still can -- question anything 10 ways to Sunday. But in the end, you have to do what strikes yourself as right.
Thursday, April 24, 2003
I like French wine and the Dixie Chicks. Do something about it
I just composed a long post bemoaning our country's lack of tolerance for dissent. I decided it was worthy of a good ass-whupping from my favorite trio of thugs, Click, Drag and Delete.
Not because I didn't believe what I wrote. I did. I still do. But it was badly constructed and would have reflected poorly on my skill as a writer. I don't give a flying fuck that some of you might have thought it reflected poorly on my patriotism.
I'll come back to this when my thoughts are in a little better order. In the meantime, I offer this:
After some effort -- more effort than it should have required -- I have located the text of the Patriot Act passed in 2001, without any accompanying opinion, analysis or interpretation. Do me this favor. You read it, and you decide for yourself whether it's a full frontal assault on your civil liberties or whether it's a necessary shield to protect this country against a repeat of the atrocities we saw committed against our friends and neighbors and fellow Americans on Sept. 11, 2001.
And then do this:
If you think it's the former, please locate your representative and determine whether he or she voted for the bill. Then, in the next election, do a little research and determine his or her opponent's stance on civil liberties. If it matches yours, vote for that person and not the incumbent.
If you think it's the latter, please click here and explain to me why you think it's OK for us to give up our civil liberties. And then read this (it's a PDF file, Acrobat Reader required) and tell me if you're ready to take that next step.
And, if you think it's the latter, that's your right as an American. I would die to defend that right. But I dare you to tell me that I think it would be OK for another Sept. 11 to happen because I think it's the former.
I just composed a long post bemoaning our country's lack of tolerance for dissent. I decided it was worthy of a good ass-whupping from my favorite trio of thugs, Click, Drag and Delete.
Not because I didn't believe what I wrote. I did. I still do. But it was badly constructed and would have reflected poorly on my skill as a writer. I don't give a flying fuck that some of you might have thought it reflected poorly on my patriotism.
I'll come back to this when my thoughts are in a little better order. In the meantime, I offer this:
After some effort -- more effort than it should have required -- I have located the text of the Patriot Act passed in 2001, without any accompanying opinion, analysis or interpretation. Do me this favor. You read it, and you decide for yourself whether it's a full frontal assault on your civil liberties or whether it's a necessary shield to protect this country against a repeat of the atrocities we saw committed against our friends and neighbors and fellow Americans on Sept. 11, 2001.
And then do this:
And, if you think it's the latter, that's your right as an American. I would die to defend that right. But I dare you to tell me that I think it would be OK for another Sept. 11 to happen because I think it's the former.
Getting old, growing up
As part of the brainwashing activities all managers in my company must go through, I'm taking the Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator. This is the second time I've taken this test. The first time was in 1998. Apparently, I've changed quite a bit in five years.
Five years ago, I was not yet 30. My personality type was ENTP, which is described as follows: "Quick, ingenious, stimulating, alert and outspoken. Resourceful in solving new and challenging problems. Adept at generating conceptual possibilities and then analyzing them strategically. Good at reading other people. Bored by routine, will seldom do the same thing the same way, apt to turn to one new interest after another."
Now, I'm looking down the barrel of 35. My personality type has morphed to INFP, described thusly: "Idealistic, loyal to their values and to people who are important to them. Want an external life that is congruent with their values. Curious, quick to see possibilities, can be catalysts for implementing ideas. Seek to understand people and to help them fulfill their potential. Adaptable, flexible, and accepting unless a value is threatened."
(The Wife went through the questions, too. It turns out we're direct opposites, which surprises neither of us.)
Both descriptions of me are frighteningly accurate -- the old then, the new now. Five years ago, I was a lot more outspoken than I am now. I was less aware of my "values" and was probably less driven by them. I remain adaptable and flexible, right to the point where it starts cutting into my family time. I'm not as driven by career as I used to be. I am more aware of ways that I can help other people. I am idealistic, but not in the way most people think of the term.
Five years ago, I was midway through my first stint here on the Edge of America. Between then and now was three years in Texas, a place where I was able to spend a lot of time finding myself and confirming a value system. I was working at a job that bored me to tears for two-thirds of the time I was there, but it did allow me time to bond with my family in a way that I wasn't able to when I was here the first time. Now that we're back here on the Edge, I'm back in a job that requires a great deal of my time and energy. Five years ago, I accepted that as part of the deal. This time, I don't, and I think that inner struggle contributed to my little burnout episode.
Am I growing into the person I want to be? I don't know. I'm still a little too worried about money and about material stuff, and it's hard for me sometimes to find the balance between idealism and realism. I was probably better at my job back when I was more outspoken.
But at least I'm evolving. Even with the struggles it brings, evolution is a good thing.
As part of the brainwashing activities all managers in my company must go through, I'm taking the Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator. This is the second time I've taken this test. The first time was in 1998. Apparently, I've changed quite a bit in five years.
Five years ago, I was not yet 30. My personality type was ENTP, which is described as follows: "Quick, ingenious, stimulating, alert and outspoken. Resourceful in solving new and challenging problems. Adept at generating conceptual possibilities and then analyzing them strategically. Good at reading other people. Bored by routine, will seldom do the same thing the same way, apt to turn to one new interest after another."
Now, I'm looking down the barrel of 35. My personality type has morphed to INFP, described thusly: "Idealistic, loyal to their values and to people who are important to them. Want an external life that is congruent with their values. Curious, quick to see possibilities, can be catalysts for implementing ideas. Seek to understand people and to help them fulfill their potential. Adaptable, flexible, and accepting unless a value is threatened."
(The Wife went through the questions, too. It turns out we're direct opposites, which surprises neither of us.)
Both descriptions of me are frighteningly accurate -- the old then, the new now. Five years ago, I was a lot more outspoken than I am now. I was less aware of my "values" and was probably less driven by them. I remain adaptable and flexible, right to the point where it starts cutting into my family time. I'm not as driven by career as I used to be. I am more aware of ways that I can help other people. I am idealistic, but not in the way most people think of the term.
Five years ago, I was midway through my first stint here on the Edge of America. Between then and now was three years in Texas, a place where I was able to spend a lot of time finding myself and confirming a value system. I was working at a job that bored me to tears for two-thirds of the time I was there, but it did allow me time to bond with my family in a way that I wasn't able to when I was here the first time. Now that we're back here on the Edge, I'm back in a job that requires a great deal of my time and energy. Five years ago, I accepted that as part of the deal. This time, I don't, and I think that inner struggle contributed to my little burnout episode.
Am I growing into the person I want to be? I don't know. I'm still a little too worried about money and about material stuff, and it's hard for me sometimes to find the balance between idealism and realism. I was probably better at my job back when I was more outspoken.
But at least I'm evolving. Even with the struggles it brings, evolution is a good thing.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
Tunes in my head
I have previously professed my love for Maria McKee in this forum. A mid-'80s album from her days as the lead singer of Lone Justice is still in my regular CD rotation. Her new album just came out this month. She performed earlier this week on the Tonight Show. She was awful. She had a much better voice when she was a blonde.
And then, I noticed in the It's-Stalking-Me ad above an offer to buy a CD of children's music by Nicolette Larson. (The name was misspelled Nicholette, but, oh well.) For reasons that were known only to my 11-year-old head, I had tremendous crushes on Nicolette Larson and Melissa Manchester in the late 1970s. Larson was kind of a one-hit wonder -- "Lotta Love," a song written by Neil Young, made some top-40 noise in 1978 -- but she had hair down to here and an intriguing voice to boot. Plus, I really liked the name "Nicolette" for some reason. Most boys my age at that time were pinning up posters of Farrah Fawcett and Daisy Duke and Suzanne Somers. Me, I had album covers of Nicolette Larson and Melissa Manchester.
Because I was curious, I decided to follow the links to see what became of Nicolette Larson. Imagine my shock to learn she died five years ago. Died of a cerebral edema at 45, leaving behind a daughter who's now 13 and a husband. And her one hit.
I have previously professed my love for Maria McKee in this forum. A mid-'80s album from her days as the lead singer of Lone Justice is still in my regular CD rotation. Her new album just came out this month. She performed earlier this week on the Tonight Show. She was awful. She had a much better voice when she was a blonde.
And then, I noticed in the It's-Stalking-Me ad above an offer to buy a CD of children's music by Nicolette Larson. (The name was misspelled Nicholette, but, oh well.) For reasons that were known only to my 11-year-old head, I had tremendous crushes on Nicolette Larson and Melissa Manchester in the late 1970s. Larson was kind of a one-hit wonder -- "Lotta Love," a song written by Neil Young, made some top-40 noise in 1978 -- but she had hair down to here and an intriguing voice to boot. Plus, I really liked the name "Nicolette" for some reason. Most boys my age at that time were pinning up posters of Farrah Fawcett and Daisy Duke and Suzanne Somers. Me, I had album covers of Nicolette Larson and Melissa Manchester.
Because I was curious, I decided to follow the links to see what became of Nicolette Larson. Imagine my shock to learn she died five years ago. Died of a cerebral edema at 45, leaving behind a daughter who's now 13 and a husband. And her one hit.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
If we don't have newspapers, we won't need the Pulitzers
A journalist for whom I have a great deal of respect wrote a piece on an industry web site bemoaning the fact that in the last few years, a disproportionate number of Pulitzer Prizes have gone to the nation's biggest newspapers.
I have to confess I'm a lot less worried about small newspapers' Pulitzer chances than I am about their chances for survival.
After 17 years in the business – at papers ranging in size from the 60,000-circulation paper in my Missouri hometown to the nation's eighth-largest newspaper – I have reached a conclusion about the future of print journalism, and it is this:
The print newspaper will someday die. Its death will be a suicide.
The corporations are going to kill the newspaper by continuing to allow smaller newspapers to be bad.
I don’t know off the top of my head the percentage of the population that lives outside the top 50 markets, but I’m sure it’s a significant number of potential readers. Yet, in many cases, we give these readers two choices:
An under-staffed, under-newsholed, under-funded Gannett or Knight-Ridder profit center, or
a first edition of a possibly faraway metro, which might well have gone to bed as early as 9:30 or 10 p.m and as such lacks key information, such as sports scores.
Meanwhile, the corporations funnel a disproportionate amount of resources, talent and funding to their large papers.
I'm not saying that the paper in Grand Forks, N.D., or Rome, Ga., should be a Pulitzer contender every year. But so many sub-100,000 circulation papers are barely serving their readers, never mind fighting for awards. This is something that should be a matter of great concern among those who have a vested interest in the continued health of the newspaper industry.
Many people choose to live in small towns and cities. These people deserve a good newspaper.
Many other people grow up in small towns and cities and move away. They never pick up the newspaper habit because the local rag isn’t worth reading. As an industry, we need to figure out how to get an interesting product to those people so that when they do move away, they won’t equally ignore The New York Times or the San Francisco Chronicle.
This is not necessarily an anti-corporate journalism rant. Plenty of family-owned small newspapers are gawdafwul. Every newspaper I've worked for has been owned by a large corporation. I'm lucky to work for a corporate-owned newspaper that has the resources to have a serious commitment to quality journalism, despite not being the corporate flagship.
But I've seen -- and have tried to read -- too many examples of the opposite. And I think as an industry, we’re only a few years away from really regretting that we let that happen.
A journalist for whom I have a great deal of respect wrote a piece on an industry web site bemoaning the fact that in the last few years, a disproportionate number of Pulitzer Prizes have gone to the nation's biggest newspapers.
I have to confess I'm a lot less worried about small newspapers' Pulitzer chances than I am about their chances for survival.
After 17 years in the business – at papers ranging in size from the 60,000-circulation paper in my Missouri hometown to the nation's eighth-largest newspaper – I have reached a conclusion about the future of print journalism, and it is this:
The print newspaper will someday die. Its death will be a suicide.
The corporations are going to kill the newspaper by continuing to allow smaller newspapers to be bad.
I don’t know off the top of my head the percentage of the population that lives outside the top 50 markets, but I’m sure it’s a significant number of potential readers. Yet, in many cases, we give these readers two choices:
Meanwhile, the corporations funnel a disproportionate amount of resources, talent and funding to their large papers.
I'm not saying that the paper in Grand Forks, N.D., or Rome, Ga., should be a Pulitzer contender every year. But so many sub-100,000 circulation papers are barely serving their readers, never mind fighting for awards. This is something that should be a matter of great concern among those who have a vested interest in the continued health of the newspaper industry.
Many people choose to live in small towns and cities. These people deserve a good newspaper.
Many other people grow up in small towns and cities and move away. They never pick up the newspaper habit because the local rag isn’t worth reading. As an industry, we need to figure out how to get an interesting product to those people so that when they do move away, they won’t equally ignore The New York Times or the San Francisco Chronicle.
This is not necessarily an anti-corporate journalism rant. Plenty of family-owned small newspapers are gawdafwul. Every newspaper I've worked for has been owned by a large corporation. I'm lucky to work for a corporate-owned newspaper that has the resources to have a serious commitment to quality journalism, despite not being the corporate flagship.
But I've seen -- and have tried to read -- too many examples of the opposite. And I think as an industry, we’re only a few years away from really regretting that we let that happen.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Security provided by Keystone Kops
A 15-year-old boy was killed and three other students were injured Monday in a school shooting in the rough part of New Orleans.
The school was equipped with metal detectors and a security guard. Yet somehow, three thugs and an AK-47 managed to get past all that.
This from an Associated Press account of the incident:
Councilman Oliver Thomas, among city officials who went to the scene, said it was understandable that the parents were upset.
"He didn't go through the system. We don't have electrical fences around the building. How do you stop a kid if he wants to get in? He'll find a way."
Parents in the crowd were jeering school offiicals who were trying to assure them their kids were safe -- while simultaneously blocking their entrance into the building. When the parents were finally let in, a mob scene apparently ensued.
So let me get this straight: Three thugs and an AK-47 can get into this school, but a scared parent can't?
It wasn't that long ago school shootings were all the rage. Media outlets were falling all over themselves every time something popped at a school. Which, in a way, is probably a good thing. We should be shocked when a building which houses our children comes under attack.
This one, as I write this, is not on the home page of msnbc.com nor cnn.com, less than 12 hours after it happened. However, right now on msnbc.com, clicking on an image of Monica Lewinsky takes you to a story about the TV show she's hosting.
I'd like to think this story isn't getting much attention because of the war. Or because only one student died.
I'd like to think it's not being ignored because it might have been gang-related and it happened in an impoverished, predominantly minority section of New Orleans.
A 15-year-old boy was killed and three other students were injured Monday in a school shooting in the rough part of New Orleans.
The school was equipped with metal detectors and a security guard. Yet somehow, three thugs and an AK-47 managed to get past all that.
This from an Associated Press account of the incident:
Councilman Oliver Thomas, among city officials who went to the scene, said it was understandable that the parents were upset.
"He didn't go through the system. We don't have electrical fences around the building. How do you stop a kid if he wants to get in? He'll find a way."
Parents in the crowd were jeering school offiicals who were trying to assure them their kids were safe -- while simultaneously blocking their entrance into the building. When the parents were finally let in, a mob scene apparently ensued.
So let me get this straight: Three thugs and an AK-47 can get into this school, but a scared parent can't?
It wasn't that long ago school shootings were all the rage. Media outlets were falling all over themselves every time something popped at a school. Which, in a way, is probably a good thing. We should be shocked when a building which houses our children comes under attack.
This one, as I write this, is not on the home page of msnbc.com nor cnn.com, less than 12 hours after it happened. However, right now on msnbc.com, clicking on an image of Monica Lewinsky takes you to a story about the TV show she's hosting.
I'd like to think this story isn't getting much attention because of the war. Or because only one student died.
I'd like to think it's not being ignored because it might have been gang-related and it happened in an impoverished, predominantly minority section of New Orleans.
Saturday, April 12, 2003
Some things I think
It's my forum, so I can indulge in this moment of self-centeredness with no regrets.
I think good handwriting is sexy.
I think marijuana, prostitution and gambling should be legal -- despite the fact that I have no personal use for any of the three.
I think the United States is making a major tactical error with its invasion of Iraq. I hope I'm wrong about that.
I think the daily newspaper as we know it will cease to exist before I can retire.
I think the USB port is one of mankind's greatest inventions.
I think speed limits are unnecessary.
I think "stay-at-home mom" is one of the most important occupations in the world.
I think if a woman chooses not to stay at home and pursues career goals instead, that's also wonderful.
I think it's great to have the freedom to choose.
It's my forum, so I can indulge in this moment of self-centeredness with no regrets.
Friday, April 11, 2003
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Monday, April 07, 2003
What the hell is this?
In print design, we don't have to let you look at the prototypes. In cyberspace, apparently, everything is laid bare. Hang with us while we fix the awfulness. Yes, I know, that damn blue background has got to go. However, I've been kicked in the ass by Daylight Saving Time, having lost an hour of my life that I'll really never get back. So it's too late. Must log off and sleep.
But we'll fix it. After we fix it, I'll tell you about a fabulous weekend -- 48 hours that have put me well on the road to recovery from the shame spiral.
Until then, if you can read this with your eyes closed, please do. If your eyes need a rest, go to The Vault; I haven't f-ed up the archives yet.
In print design, we don't have to let you look at the prototypes. In cyberspace, apparently, everything is laid bare. Hang with us while we fix the awfulness. Yes, I know, that damn blue background has got to go. However, I've been kicked in the ass by Daylight Saving Time, having lost an hour of my life that I'll really never get back. So it's too late. Must log off and sleep.
But we'll fix it. After we fix it, I'll tell you about a fabulous weekend -- 48 hours that have put me well on the road to recovery from the shame spiral.
Until then, if you can read this with your eyes closed, please do. If your eyes need a rest, go to The Vault; I haven't f-ed up the archives yet.
Thursday, April 03, 2003
Yet another black square from my checkered past
I saw something today that referred to "Sunday, Feb. 4, 1990." It's an ad that's been running in the Classified section of the Edge-of-America Beacon at least since 1996, when we were here the first time. In the early morning hours of Feb. 4, 1990, a woman disappeared from her shift at a 7-Eleven somewhere near here. They're still looking for her.
Being who I am, of course, I always bring things back around to me. Wonder what I was doing on Sunday, Feb. 4, 1990? I asked myself. Then I remembered: That was the day when I realized I might have a problem.
I remember a lot of the previous day very clearly, because it was a hell of a lot of fun. But there's a huge chunk of it I don't remember now, 13 years later. I didn't remember it 13 hours later, either, and haven't remembered it since.
Saturday, Feb. 3, 1990, was the zenith -- or nadir, depending on how you look at it -- of my pre-marital drinking days.
As mentioned previously here, I turned 21 in July 1989, but I had a several-month head start on a just-turned-21 drinking binge. I was at one point consuming a 12-pack a night. The cycle went something like this: work until about 12:30, rush to the bar (which closed at 1) and drink as many beers as you could in 15 minutes, rush to the one package store in Anytown that stayed open until 1:30 (all the Anytown readers' minds just went to the intersection of Glenstone and Grand; we've all been there) and buy a case or two, which my co-workers and I would split while listening to Billy Joel records and/or playing Nerfoop in L's apartment on Bennett Street. The sun would come up about 5 or 6 a.m., and that was our signal to go get breakfast. The breakfast of choice was served at a place called George's, where they served a $3.99 Steak and Eggs special that L called "Secretariat and Eggs."
After Secretariat and Eggs, I'd drive home -- very carefully -- and fall asleep around 7 a.m. By 11 on most days, I was back at the Y playing basketball. Shower, lunch and go to work at 4 p.m. Then repeat the cycle.
On my days off, the cycle was a little different. At the time, I was usually off on Tuesday and Wednesday. One of the people who lived at our shithole abode only worked when he needed money; the rest of the time, he lived the casual life of the unemployed. On my days off, he and I would go to lunch at a joint called Casey's, which served a kick-ass steak sandwich and 2-for-1 beers at lunch. "2-for-1 beers" meant two huge mugs of draft brew for $1 -- very appealing to a guy who was usually unemployed, and equally appealing to me. After lunch, we'd go buy a six-pack of something and polish that off while we waited for our friends with normal jobs to get off work. We'd go to the bar about 9, and get a head start on my co-workers, who'd make the mad dash to get there by 12:45. Then we'd do the cycle mentioned above.
I probably did a few stupid things that I don't remember, but my stupidest things simply involved spending a lot of money. I was clearing about $200 a week from my job, and pretty much everything that wasn't going to my car payment or rent was going to beer. When rent became inconvenient, I moved back in with my mom. I viewed car insurance as optional. When the cash flow started to get spotty, I used a Conoco gas card to buy beer at the Conoco convenience store.
It was that Conoco card that got my friend and I started on Feb. 3. We were headed down to Branson to visit an ex-girlfriend of mine, M, whose mom and dad owned a local bar on the non-tourist side of town. I had gotten this girlfriend out of a pretty bad jam (that's another story) a few months previous, and her parents wanted to meet me and express some gratitude. So, at about 11 a.m., F and I headed down there after stopping off at the Conoco to buy some Pony bottles of Bud. Our thinking: Pony bottles stay cold all the way to the bottom, because they're smaller, and we didn't have a cooler. There was a science to this drinking thing.
We had killed the Ponies about the time we reached Branson 45 minutes later. We showed up at M's parents' dive, and M's mom greeted me with a big hug and two bottles of Budweiser. "M told me you guys like Bud," she said. I reached into my wallet, but M's mom said, "It's on the house." Well, woo-hoo!
F and I played some shuffleboard, despite my having no idea how to actually play. We shot the shit with M's mom. M wasn't there; I don't know where she was that day. Probably working. The bottles of Bud proved to be bottomless. Every time we turned around, there was a fresh bottle waiting for us. I was beginning to wonder if I had driven my truck into a ravine back on the highway and somehow made it into my version of Heaven.
F and I had tickets to a basketball game in town that night, so we said our goodbyes around 4:30 p.m. and headed back north to Anytown. I probably would have blown .23 into a generous Breathalyzer at that point. F's tolerance was a little higher, but he wasn't in much better shape than I was.
I have a clear memory of taking an exit we shouldn't have taken and winding up on a farm road. I discovered the error and backtracked. By backtracking, I mean driving about 25-30 mph in reverse. F said, "Man, you're scaring me now." I laughed a bit, until I realized he wasn't being funny.
That was around 5 p.m. Then there's a period of blackness. It's not like me to not remember a sequence of events. I remember nothing of that evening between that incident and about 10:30, when we were sitting in a local pizza joint after the game listening to a local band of musicians who specialized in parodies. The guy at the piano announced to the crowd that Buster Douglas had beaten Mike Tyson. "No way," I said. "Did I hear that right? I'm not that drunk. Must have been a gag." By that time, I was drinking water, making my way down.
The next morning's newspaper confirmed that my school had won its basketball game the previous night. Usually, even if I wasn't covering the game, I'd remember a lot of the details. I searched my brain. Nothing. No idea. I know I was at the game, but I remember very small bits of it. My ticket stub was in my pocket and torn. That was the only confirmation that I had been there.
That was the first time I was aware of having had an hours-long alcohol-induced blackout.
It didn't happen again.
I began to reassess a lot of things, starting by coming to the realization that my pickup truck must have been guided by the hand of some deity for most of that day. This is why I'm pretty sure I'll never win the lottery; I used up all my luck by not driving into somebody or landing in jail during that time. Driving around like that isn't even funny. It's just stupid. I'm not the least bit proud of it.
I started making my way off the cycle. I still made the mad post-work dash to the bar, but I started skipping the package store and headed instead to bed. I noticed the impact from that in my checkbook almost immediately. I still shot hoops, but I skipped the four-beer lunch on my days off.
This is not to say I went on the wagon. I still enjoyed -- and for that matter, still enjoy -- a good buzz.
But not every day, and sure as hell not behind the wheel.
I saw something today that referred to "Sunday, Feb. 4, 1990." It's an ad that's been running in the Classified section of the Edge-of-America Beacon at least since 1996, when we were here the first time. In the early morning hours of Feb. 4, 1990, a woman disappeared from her shift at a 7-Eleven somewhere near here. They're still looking for her.
Being who I am, of course, I always bring things back around to me. Wonder what I was doing on Sunday, Feb. 4, 1990? I asked myself. Then I remembered: That was the day when I realized I might have a problem.
I remember a lot of the previous day very clearly, because it was a hell of a lot of fun. But there's a huge chunk of it I don't remember now, 13 years later. I didn't remember it 13 hours later, either, and haven't remembered it since.
Saturday, Feb. 3, 1990, was the zenith -- or nadir, depending on how you look at it -- of my pre-marital drinking days.
As mentioned previously here, I turned 21 in July 1989, but I had a several-month head start on a just-turned-21 drinking binge. I was at one point consuming a 12-pack a night. The cycle went something like this: work until about 12:30, rush to the bar (which closed at 1) and drink as many beers as you could in 15 minutes, rush to the one package store in Anytown that stayed open until 1:30 (all the Anytown readers' minds just went to the intersection of Glenstone and Grand; we've all been there) and buy a case or two, which my co-workers and I would split while listening to Billy Joel records and/or playing Nerfoop in L's apartment on Bennett Street. The sun would come up about 5 or 6 a.m., and that was our signal to go get breakfast. The breakfast of choice was served at a place called George's, where they served a $3.99 Steak and Eggs special that L called "Secretariat and Eggs."
After Secretariat and Eggs, I'd drive home -- very carefully -- and fall asleep around 7 a.m. By 11 on most days, I was back at the Y playing basketball. Shower, lunch and go to work at 4 p.m. Then repeat the cycle.
On my days off, the cycle was a little different. At the time, I was usually off on Tuesday and Wednesday. One of the people who lived at our shithole abode only worked when he needed money; the rest of the time, he lived the casual life of the unemployed. On my days off, he and I would go to lunch at a joint called Casey's, which served a kick-ass steak sandwich and 2-for-1 beers at lunch. "2-for-1 beers" meant two huge mugs of draft brew for $1 -- very appealing to a guy who was usually unemployed, and equally appealing to me. After lunch, we'd go buy a six-pack of something and polish that off while we waited for our friends with normal jobs to get off work. We'd go to the bar about 9, and get a head start on my co-workers, who'd make the mad dash to get there by 12:45. Then we'd do the cycle mentioned above.
I probably did a few stupid things that I don't remember, but my stupidest things simply involved spending a lot of money. I was clearing about $200 a week from my job, and pretty much everything that wasn't going to my car payment or rent was going to beer. When rent became inconvenient, I moved back in with my mom. I viewed car insurance as optional. When the cash flow started to get spotty, I used a Conoco gas card to buy beer at the Conoco convenience store.
It was that Conoco card that got my friend and I started on Feb. 3. We were headed down to Branson to visit an ex-girlfriend of mine, M, whose mom and dad owned a local bar on the non-tourist side of town. I had gotten this girlfriend out of a pretty bad jam (that's another story) a few months previous, and her parents wanted to meet me and express some gratitude. So, at about 11 a.m., F and I headed down there after stopping off at the Conoco to buy some Pony bottles of Bud. Our thinking: Pony bottles stay cold all the way to the bottom, because they're smaller, and we didn't have a cooler. There was a science to this drinking thing.
We had killed the Ponies about the time we reached Branson 45 minutes later. We showed up at M's parents' dive, and M's mom greeted me with a big hug and two bottles of Budweiser. "M told me you guys like Bud," she said. I reached into my wallet, but M's mom said, "It's on the house." Well, woo-hoo!
F and I played some shuffleboard, despite my having no idea how to actually play. We shot the shit with M's mom. M wasn't there; I don't know where she was that day. Probably working. The bottles of Bud proved to be bottomless. Every time we turned around, there was a fresh bottle waiting for us. I was beginning to wonder if I had driven my truck into a ravine back on the highway and somehow made it into my version of Heaven.
F and I had tickets to a basketball game in town that night, so we said our goodbyes around 4:30 p.m. and headed back north to Anytown. I probably would have blown .23 into a generous Breathalyzer at that point. F's tolerance was a little higher, but he wasn't in much better shape than I was.
I have a clear memory of taking an exit we shouldn't have taken and winding up on a farm road. I discovered the error and backtracked. By backtracking, I mean driving about 25-30 mph in reverse. F said, "Man, you're scaring me now." I laughed a bit, until I realized he wasn't being funny.
That was around 5 p.m. Then there's a period of blackness. It's not like me to not remember a sequence of events. I remember nothing of that evening between that incident and about 10:30, when we were sitting in a local pizza joint after the game listening to a local band of musicians who specialized in parodies. The guy at the piano announced to the crowd that Buster Douglas had beaten Mike Tyson. "No way," I said. "Did I hear that right? I'm not that drunk. Must have been a gag." By that time, I was drinking water, making my way down.
The next morning's newspaper confirmed that my school had won its basketball game the previous night. Usually, even if I wasn't covering the game, I'd remember a lot of the details. I searched my brain. Nothing. No idea. I know I was at the game, but I remember very small bits of it. My ticket stub was in my pocket and torn. That was the only confirmation that I had been there.
That was the first time I was aware of having had an hours-long alcohol-induced blackout.
It didn't happen again.
I began to reassess a lot of things, starting by coming to the realization that my pickup truck must have been guided by the hand of some deity for most of that day. This is why I'm pretty sure I'll never win the lottery; I used up all my luck by not driving into somebody or landing in jail during that time. Driving around like that isn't even funny. It's just stupid. I'm not the least bit proud of it.
I started making my way off the cycle. I still made the mad post-work dash to the bar, but I started skipping the package store and headed instead to bed. I noticed the impact from that in my checkbook almost immediately. I still shot hoops, but I skipped the four-beer lunch on my days off.
This is not to say I went on the wagon. I still enjoyed -- and for that matter, still enjoy -- a good buzz.
But not every day, and sure as hell not behind the wheel.
Relief
I gave myself a small break from the terrible imagery and the pressure and all the other stuff that makes up my career. I instead delved into some therapeutic activities, and it occurs to me these are things for which I should daily carve out time:
A bike ride through my neighborhood. I actually live in a pretty nice neighborhood. The developers who built the houses here in the mid-1980s didn't feel the need to cut down all the trees, and they set up a series of trails that wind between the houses and backyards. I should get out and appreciate it more.
A beer. It had been a while since I enjoyed a beer at home. Never underestimate the therapeutic qualities of a single beer.
A two-hour session with the C.F. Martin on the back porch, playing better than I've played in a long time.
A walk with the kids. It was not totally without stress, as is true with any activity involving all three children, but it was fun anyway.
The wife came home from her evening out with a friend and announced we have weekend plans. We're going to go out of town, just us. This will be a very good thing. Then I thought, "What if we hit Baghdad this weekend?" The news has all but dissolved my life. I shake my head even as I write this.
I have one more day of self-imposed paid administrative leave. Tomorrow's activity might involve a head-clearing drive in the country. Maybe there'll be some inspiration out there.
I gave myself a small break from the terrible imagery and the pressure and all the other stuff that makes up my career. I instead delved into some therapeutic activities, and it occurs to me these are things for which I should daily carve out time:
The wife came home from her evening out with a friend and announced we have weekend plans. We're going to go out of town, just us. This will be a very good thing. Then I thought, "What if we hit Baghdad this weekend?" The news has all but dissolved my life. I shake my head even as I write this.
I have one more day of self-imposed paid administrative leave. Tomorrow's activity might involve a head-clearing drive in the country. Maybe there'll be some inspiration out there.
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
There it is, in a nutshell
I found this on another person's online journal. It's a long, involved story about the process of making a record, and it's funny as hell. But I was struck dumb by this paragraph, because it sums up a lot of what I'm going through right now:
And anybody that thinks I should blindly skip through life satisfied at being unproductive so long as I’m being compensated for such activities, isn’t considering the negative effect that lack of accomplishment can have on the brain. The act of accomplishing nothing other than wastefulness is both exhausting and debilitating to the soul. And while in the short term it may be self-serving to my financial well being to participate in such unproductiveness, the resulting waste only serves to sicken me.
I'm making a pretty good living, which is cool. I feel like I'm accomplishing very little, which isn't. The former really doesn't make up for the latter.
I found this on another person's online journal. It's a long, involved story about the process of making a record, and it's funny as hell. But I was struck dumb by this paragraph, because it sums up a lot of what I'm going through right now:
And anybody that thinks I should blindly skip through life satisfied at being unproductive so long as I’m being compensated for such activities, isn’t considering the negative effect that lack of accomplishment can have on the brain. The act of accomplishing nothing other than wastefulness is both exhausting and debilitating to the soul. And while in the short term it may be self-serving to my financial well being to participate in such unproductiveness, the resulting waste only serves to sicken me.
I'm making a pretty good living, which is cool. I feel like I'm accomplishing very little, which isn't. The former really doesn't make up for the latter.