We have a customer in a very average little town in northern Illinois. I think it's actually Illinois' second or third largest city, but let's just say it ain't Chicago. It reminds me of Anytown, only without the life that a major university brings (which, in Anytown, is the only life you'll find.) I absolutely love the people with whom I work there; to a person, they're the smartest and most fun group with whom I've had the privilege to associate. I've made some friendships there that transcend the job, and that's very cool.
But, other than those folks, the place has nothing which distinguishes it from any other very average town in the Midwest. Except this: from city limit to city limit, restaurant service is horrible. Upscale joint, local dive, national chain, doesn't matter. I've taken to calling the place the Land of the Eight Percent Tip.
And so it was that I found myself at a Steak 'n' Shake very late one night last week, and the shake I ordered never arrived. For me, it was just steak, no shake. So I dutifully put the 8 percent on the credit card slip, sighed and shook my head, and walked out the door. I got my keys out of my pocket, pointed them around the parking lot in one of my typical attempts to identify which rental car is mine, and then felt a chill of a high-20s evening.
That chill shook me a little bit; just enough to make me drop my keys.
In a storm drain.
I knew it was going to happen the millisecond they left my hand. And all I could do was calmly think, "Yep, they're gonna land in the drain." I could see them down there; about five feet down, just far enough to where getting them out was going to be a project.
After determining that the cover of the drain was indeed cemented down, and that I was indeed cold, and that it was indeed 12:30 a.m. and it was doubtful that anybody at Alamo Rent-A-Car was going to care at that hour (or perhaps at any other), I went back into the restaurant ... and pleaded my case with the kid to whom I had just granted 10 percent. I told him my tale of woe. He went to the back of the store and came back with a broom handle, a long hook-like rod and one of his friends.
We poked around in the drain for about 10 minutes, when the friend came up with an idea. In the absence of a flashlight (nobody had a flashlight!), the guy went back into the restaurant and came back with several paper placemats and a Bic lighter. He lit the paper on fire and dropped it in the drain. "Hope there's no gas in there," he said as he dropped it.
The idea was genius; not only did it warm us up, but it gave us sufficient light to coax the keys onto the hook with the broom handle. The waiter nudged, I hooked, and we brought the keys back to their rightful above-ground place.
I was, of course, grateful; so grateful that I gave the kid all the cash in my pocket, which meant that his 8 percent wound up being closer to 100. Being a kid -- and probably on some level aware that I had basically stiffed him -- he took the cash.
Good for him, I say. And from now on, I ... well, I'll probably still meet bad service with a bad tip. But I will add a new procedure to the travel system -- the keys stay in the pocket until I get to the car.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Fisher Price's My First Poker Blog
The casino in our city, Saturday night. Sat down at a $2 Texas Hold-'em table, started off with J-Kd, flop came up 2c-4s-9c, turn showed 6-c. I folded. It only got worse from there. But it's been a while since I had that much fun losing that much money.
The experience was diluted a bit by having a fight break out at the next table over, which was kind of distracting. The dealer at our table very much had a show-must-go-on attitude, which I guess he's trained to do, and kept slinging cards while he was yelling for security and we players were all watching for the inevitable firearm.
I take consolation in the fact that I never had good cards; I never folded too soon, basically. Had I played a little more pessimistically, the chips would have at least lasted longer, but I still doubt I'd be bragging about my winnings. I allowed myself to get rushed into a decision a few times, which seems to be the key difference between playing online and playing live (and with real money). I needed to give myself that extra second or two to think about what I was doing, and to get a read on the rest of the table.
But the fact that I've spent that many words analyzing what was possibly the weakest performance in the history of poker suggests that I'll probably be back.
-----
Overall, The Wife and I had a horrendously unsuccessful night at the casino. It was her first time in a casino, my fourth. The other three times (twice in Kansas City, once in Denmark) I came out a little bit ahead, mostly by playing blackjack. The Wife is apparently not Lady Luck. I'm not going to say how much we lost Satruday, lest people think we suddenly have a lot of disposable income and start calling us wanting loans. All I can say is thank God we have a big tax refund coming.
We spent most of the night giggling at our incompetence. We were flummoxed by the bingo game on the slot machines. We weren't sure why it was there, but we noticed that it seemed to change when we touched the screen, so we preceded every play on the slot machine with three taps on the bingo card.
In our state, gambling is only legal on "Native American land," which means the tribe buys up a few plots in the hotel district, plants its flag there and waits for it to start raining money. I consoled myself as we walked out, having drunkenly decided that I've made my reparations to the Indians for how my people treated them 150 years ago. We're even now.
-----
(To the overly sensitive, politically correct or Native American among us: That was a joke. Lighten up.)
-----
I'm not an early adopter; I'm just catching on to this poker thing. I'm playing at one of the few online sites compatible with Macs. I won my first few hands, then buzzed through my fake bankroll with alarming speed. Thankfully, refilling is as easy as clicking a button, and I'm now comfortably a few hundred fake dollars ahead.
Poker is a game that's well suited for my conflicting personality traits. I don't trust anybody and I tend to over-analyze situations, but I'm also one of the most optimistic people I know.
I do prefer to take my risks in environments I control (which is why I have no qualms with riding a motorcycle 140 mph but won't get on a rollercoaster). Ultimately, knowledge is control.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sources of knowledge out there. Cousin Otis has managed to make a career out of this, having extracted himself from the grind of mainstream journalism to become a globe-trotting poker blogger. That's so 2006; writing online about a game that incredible numbers of people are suddenly watching on television. Cards on TV? My parents played cards in the kitchen when I was a kid. My dad and mom and aunts and uncles would get together nearly every weekend to play canasta or some other equally uncool game. I can't imagine watching that on TV.
But I found myself on a Song flight recently with the little TV in the seat, watching ESPN during off hours. And there it was ... guys sitting around the table playing cards. After having successfully ignored the poker boom in the last two years, other than to occasionally marvel at the blogs, I found myself mesmerized. I found myself wondering why the hell So-and-So called with 5-2 offsuit. And then, I went online.
It'll be a long, long while before I'm comfortable using my kids' college money on a card game. But I now understand the appeal, and it probably won't be long before I'm seeking out a game.
The experience was diluted a bit by having a fight break out at the next table over, which was kind of distracting. The dealer at our table very much had a show-must-go-on attitude, which I guess he's trained to do, and kept slinging cards while he was yelling for security and we players were all watching for the inevitable firearm.
I take consolation in the fact that I never had good cards; I never folded too soon, basically. Had I played a little more pessimistically, the chips would have at least lasted longer, but I still doubt I'd be bragging about my winnings. I allowed myself to get rushed into a decision a few times, which seems to be the key difference between playing online and playing live (and with real money). I needed to give myself that extra second or two to think about what I was doing, and to get a read on the rest of the table.
But the fact that I've spent that many words analyzing what was possibly the weakest performance in the history of poker suggests that I'll probably be back.
-----
Overall, The Wife and I had a horrendously unsuccessful night at the casino. It was her first time in a casino, my fourth. The other three times (twice in Kansas City, once in Denmark) I came out a little bit ahead, mostly by playing blackjack. The Wife is apparently not Lady Luck. I'm not going to say how much we lost Satruday, lest people think we suddenly have a lot of disposable income and start calling us wanting loans. All I can say is thank God we have a big tax refund coming.
We spent most of the night giggling at our incompetence. We were flummoxed by the bingo game on the slot machines. We weren't sure why it was there, but we noticed that it seemed to change when we touched the screen, so we preceded every play on the slot machine with three taps on the bingo card.
In our state, gambling is only legal on "Native American land," which means the tribe buys up a few plots in the hotel district, plants its flag there and waits for it to start raining money. I consoled myself as we walked out, having drunkenly decided that I've made my reparations to the Indians for how my people treated them 150 years ago. We're even now.
-----
(To the overly sensitive, politically correct or Native American among us: That was a joke. Lighten up.)
-----
I'm not an early adopter; I'm just catching on to this poker thing. I'm playing at one of the few online sites compatible with Macs. I won my first few hands, then buzzed through my fake bankroll with alarming speed. Thankfully, refilling is as easy as clicking a button, and I'm now comfortably a few hundred fake dollars ahead.
Poker is a game that's well suited for my conflicting personality traits. I don't trust anybody and I tend to over-analyze situations, but I'm also one of the most optimistic people I know.
I do prefer to take my risks in environments I control (which is why I have no qualms with riding a motorcycle 140 mph but won't get on a rollercoaster). Ultimately, knowledge is control.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sources of knowledge out there. Cousin Otis has managed to make a career out of this, having extracted himself from the grind of mainstream journalism to become a globe-trotting poker blogger. That's so 2006; writing online about a game that incredible numbers of people are suddenly watching on television. Cards on TV? My parents played cards in the kitchen when I was a kid. My dad and mom and aunts and uncles would get together nearly every weekend to play canasta or some other equally uncool game. I can't imagine watching that on TV.
But I found myself on a Song flight recently with the little TV in the seat, watching ESPN during off hours. And there it was ... guys sitting around the table playing cards. After having successfully ignored the poker boom in the last two years, other than to occasionally marvel at the blogs, I found myself mesmerized. I found myself wondering why the hell So-and-So called with 5-2 offsuit. And then, I went online.
It'll be a long, long while before I'm comfortable using my kids' college money on a card game. But I now understand the appeal, and it probably won't be long before I'm seeking out a game.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Way, way too close to home
You probably heard about the school shooting in Central Florida on Friday. Kid takes gun to middle school, brandishes it, school clears out, cops chase kid into bathroom, corner kid. Kid points gun at cop, cop shoots kid. Kid is on life support as of this writing.
If we hadn't made the decision two years ago this month to uproot our lives and change my career, The Wife and I would have been among the frantic parents in the mob scene outside the school Friday morning. That was the middle school the Old Daughter would have attended.
-----
This spurred a discussion in the house this evening. The Wife was mortified that the SWAT team shot this poor kid, who just had a little pellet gun. "They didn't have to shoot to kill," she said. "They had him cornered in the bathroom, for Pete's said. Why didn't they just shoot him in the leg or something?"
I pointed out that it was a pellet gun made to look just like a 9mm Beretta, and that the cop did exactly the right thing. "A kid takes a gun to my kid's school," I said, "I want him taken out. I want the cops to drop him. I don't care if he's 15." If a SWAT team had been able to get to Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold a little sooner, maybe that's 12 other families who would have been spared the unspeakable grief they've dealt with the last six years.
I'm probably closer to wrong, and she's probably closer to right. A kid dying is a tragedy, and I hope this kid holds on and gets treatment and becomes a productive member of society. But dammit, my first priority is my children's safety.
My kid was safely in her own middle school Friday, 100 miles to the southwest of the horror, and knows nothing of this incident. But we've already had to explain more to her this year than we've wanted to. An eighth-grader at her school committed suicide earlier this year. It was not that long ago that we were having to teach her how to tie her shoes; now we're having to show her some of the world's darkest corners.
I know that's the only way that she's going to grow up with the ability to understand and deal with such things. But it's not right, and it's not something for which I'm prepared as a parent.
I graduated from high school in 1986, which wasn't exactly the Little House on the Prairie era. In the approximately 2,160 days in which I attended public schools, I never once thought for a second that somebody might get shot there. We lost fellow students to car wrecks, childhood diseases and tornadoes, but not suicide.
I try not to believe the world is a worse or crazier place now than it has ever been. Days like today test that belief.
If we hadn't made the decision two years ago this month to uproot our lives and change my career, The Wife and I would have been among the frantic parents in the mob scene outside the school Friday morning. That was the middle school the Old Daughter would have attended.
-----
This spurred a discussion in the house this evening. The Wife was mortified that the SWAT team shot this poor kid, who just had a little pellet gun. "They didn't have to shoot to kill," she said. "They had him cornered in the bathroom, for Pete's said. Why didn't they just shoot him in the leg or something?"
I pointed out that it was a pellet gun made to look just like a 9mm Beretta, and that the cop did exactly the right thing. "A kid takes a gun to my kid's school," I said, "I want him taken out. I want the cops to drop him. I don't care if he's 15." If a SWAT team had been able to get to Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold a little sooner, maybe that's 12 other families who would have been spared the unspeakable grief they've dealt with the last six years.
I'm probably closer to wrong, and she's probably closer to right. A kid dying is a tragedy, and I hope this kid holds on and gets treatment and becomes a productive member of society. But dammit, my first priority is my children's safety.
My kid was safely in her own middle school Friday, 100 miles to the southwest of the horror, and knows nothing of this incident. But we've already had to explain more to her this year than we've wanted to. An eighth-grader at her school committed suicide earlier this year. It was not that long ago that we were having to teach her how to tie her shoes; now we're having to show her some of the world's darkest corners.
I know that's the only way that she's going to grow up with the ability to understand and deal with such things. But it's not right, and it's not something for which I'm prepared as a parent.
I graduated from high school in 1986, which wasn't exactly the Little House on the Prairie era. In the approximately 2,160 days in which I attended public schools, I never once thought for a second that somebody might get shot there. We lost fellow students to car wrecks, childhood diseases and tornadoes, but not suicide.
I try not to believe the world is a worse or crazier place now than it has ever been. Days like today test that belief.
Friday, January 13, 2006
And then God said, "Let there be California"
I was headed home after our Southern California project got off to a rough start. The Co-Worker, who's managing the project, stayed behind another day. She suggested that I relieve my stress by taking the Pacific Coast Highway rather than the customary freeway route, U.S. 101 and I-405, back to Los Angeles International Airport. I asked if she was sure that it was faster. "Oh, yeah," she said. "And beautiful, too."
As I drove through Oxnard, apparently a military and agricultural outpost, I wasn't so sure. Looked like any other surface-street alternative route to me. At this point, it's just California 1 South, Oxnard Boulevard.
Then, my rented Chrysler Sebring convertible made a slight jog to the right, and the truth was revealed.
Oh. My. God.
I just don't have words. Thank God I was wearing sunglasses, because I was literally near tears as absolutely breathtaking scenery led to even more superlative sights. On the left, a mountain rising to the amazingly clear blue sky; in the middle, me and the Sebring; on the right, the Pacific crashing into the rocks stacked at the side of the road.
I see now why people overpay to live in Southern California. I appreciate why people build those houses in Malibu atop those cliffs, despite the very real possibility that they'll slide off into the ocean someday (and ultimately, I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing.) I wonder why anybody who is recruited to attend Pepperdine University, whose campus runs along the east side of the highway south of Malibu, would turn it down.
There are just no words. It was epiphany-level beautiful.
In a way, Los Angeles might be the true Anytown USA. It was disconcerting to be on a road for the first time and see so many familiar exits: Mulholland Drive, Wilshire Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard ("All I wanna do/is have some fun"). You want diversity? I looked to my right at one red light in Santa Monica, and saw an early-'70s Vega with the old blue California license plates, belching gray smoke from its exhaust pipe directly onto the shiny new Rolls waiting behind the Vega at the light. That's not a sight I'm going to see back in Suburbia; nor, likely, was it a sight I was going to see on the 405.
I live in one of America's versions of Paradise; it takes much more than a 69-degree day in January to impress me. I certainly came away impressed, and then some.
As I drove through Oxnard, apparently a military and agricultural outpost, I wasn't so sure. Looked like any other surface-street alternative route to me. At this point, it's just California 1 South, Oxnard Boulevard.
Then, my rented Chrysler Sebring convertible made a slight jog to the right, and the truth was revealed.
Oh. My. God.
I just don't have words. Thank God I was wearing sunglasses, because I was literally near tears as absolutely breathtaking scenery led to even more superlative sights. On the left, a mountain rising to the amazingly clear blue sky; in the middle, me and the Sebring; on the right, the Pacific crashing into the rocks stacked at the side of the road.
I see now why people overpay to live in Southern California. I appreciate why people build those houses in Malibu atop those cliffs, despite the very real possibility that they'll slide off into the ocean someday (and ultimately, I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing.) I wonder why anybody who is recruited to attend Pepperdine University, whose campus runs along the east side of the highway south of Malibu, would turn it down.
There are just no words. It was epiphany-level beautiful.
In a way, Los Angeles might be the true Anytown USA. It was disconcerting to be on a road for the first time and see so many familiar exits: Mulholland Drive, Wilshire Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard ("All I wanna do/is have some fun"). You want diversity? I looked to my right at one red light in Santa Monica, and saw an early-'70s Vega with the old blue California license plates, belching gray smoke from its exhaust pipe directly onto the shiny new Rolls waiting behind the Vega at the light. That's not a sight I'm going to see back in Suburbia; nor, likely, was it a sight I was going to see on the 405.
I live in one of America's versions of Paradise; it takes much more than a 69-degree day in January to impress me. I certainly came away impressed, and then some.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
My next car
The first car I remember really wanting was a 1970 Dodge Challenger that was for sale on my walk to school when I was a 15-year-old, license-less, car-less high school sophomore. I, of course, had no access to the $1,500 that was going to be necessary to buy it. But, man, it looked sweet: 340 six-pack, big rectangular exhausts, all stock, well preserved.
Now Chrysler goes and shows me this. I would camp out at my local Dodge dealer if that came to fruition.
Now Chrysler goes and shows me this. I would camp out at my local Dodge dealer if that came to fruition.
If only
I deal with buggy software a lot (and not just the stuff I install and support.) The latest buggy piece of software with which I'm dealing is a program that syncs my Blackberry to my Mac. Somehow, rather than syncing, it cleared my calendar.
The more I look at it, the more I like the way my new calendar looks.
The more I look at it, the more I like the way my new calendar looks.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Happy New Life
Just in time to get that all-important '05 tax deduction for our good friends C and L, little Teagan comes along at 8 pounds and 5 ounces Saturday afternoon. She's got three big brothers, which, over the course of the next 20 or so years, is either going to be the best thing that ever happened to her, or the worst. Welcome; it's going to be a fun ride.
After the fireworks, smoke
It's 1 hour and 11 minutes into the first day of the first year of the second half of the first decade of the 21st century. Suddenly, for reasons I don't quite understand, I feel a lot older than I did an hour and 11 minutes ago.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Year-end meme
Everybody's doing it, and I'm still feeling too lazy to come up with my own stuff. So:
FOUR JOBS YOU'VE HAD IN YOUR LIFE
Actually, I've only had three. I was lucky enough to get the one I really wanted rather young:
-- File clerk in a collection agency (the agency was owned by my uncle; my role basically was to be The Boss's Nephew. People were much nicer to me at that job than at any of my subsequent jobs. Go figure.)
-- Journalist
-- Software guy
FOUR MOVIES YOU COULD WATCH REPEATEDLY
I'm not a big movie fan; I've probably seen fewer than 50 movies all the way through in my entire life. Short attention span, or something. Anyway:
-- Stripes ("Someday, one of these men might save your life." "Then again, we might not.")
-- The Lion King (I'm a sucker for triumphant-return stories, I guess)
-- Bull Durham ("Don't think, Meat. You'll hurt the ballclub.")
-- The Incredibles (or, really, any Pixar movie.)
FOUR PLACES YOU'VE LIVED
I spent the first 25 years of my life in my hometown, Anytown, USA. The places I've called home since then:
-- Cincinnati
-- Orlando
-- Dallas
-- Tampa
FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH
This will be a struggle; I watch very little TV. Let's try:
-- Monday Night Football
-- M*A*S*H
-- Law and Order (the original, not SVU or CI or any of the other initialed ones)
-- Sheesh. I can't come up with a fourth.
FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION
Exotic locales such as:
-- Houston
-- Washington, D.C.
-- St. Louis
-- Charleston, S.C.
I didn't get out much.
FOUR WEB SITES YOU VISIT DAILY
-- msnbc.com
-- nytimes.com
-- poynter.org/medianews
-- blogs.silconvalley.com/gmsv, the best tech news site out there.
FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS
-- Ribeye steak, medium
-- Crab legs
-- Anything Mexican
-- A viciously hot stir-fry that The Wife makes, with beef, chicken or shrimp. Bad for the digestive system, good for the soul.
FOUR PLACES YOU'D RATHER BE
I'll limit this to places that I've never been:
-- Australia
-- Hawaii
-- Italy
-- Somewhere up in the mountains, say, Colorado or Wyoming
OK. I think I'm the last one to have done this, but if you haven't, well, you should.
FOUR JOBS YOU'VE HAD IN YOUR LIFE
Actually, I've only had three. I was lucky enough to get the one I really wanted rather young:
-- File clerk in a collection agency (the agency was owned by my uncle; my role basically was to be The Boss's Nephew. People were much nicer to me at that job than at any of my subsequent jobs. Go figure.)
-- Journalist
-- Software guy
FOUR MOVIES YOU COULD WATCH REPEATEDLY
I'm not a big movie fan; I've probably seen fewer than 50 movies all the way through in my entire life. Short attention span, or something. Anyway:
-- Stripes ("Someday, one of these men might save your life." "Then again, we might not.")
-- The Lion King (I'm a sucker for triumphant-return stories, I guess)
-- Bull Durham ("Don't think, Meat. You'll hurt the ballclub.")
-- The Incredibles (or, really, any Pixar movie.)
FOUR PLACES YOU'VE LIVED
I spent the first 25 years of my life in my hometown, Anytown, USA. The places I've called home since then:
-- Cincinnati
-- Orlando
-- Dallas
-- Tampa
FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH
This will be a struggle; I watch very little TV. Let's try:
-- Monday Night Football
-- M*A*S*H
-- Law and Order (the original, not SVU or CI or any of the other initialed ones)
-- Sheesh. I can't come up with a fourth.
FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON VACATION
Exotic locales such as:
-- Houston
-- Washington, D.C.
-- St. Louis
-- Charleston, S.C.
I didn't get out much.
FOUR WEB SITES YOU VISIT DAILY
-- msnbc.com
-- nytimes.com
-- poynter.org/medianews
-- blogs.silconvalley.com/gmsv, the best tech news site out there.
FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS
-- Ribeye steak, medium
-- Crab legs
-- Anything Mexican
-- A viciously hot stir-fry that The Wife makes, with beef, chicken or shrimp. Bad for the digestive system, good for the soul.
FOUR PLACES YOU'D RATHER BE
I'll limit this to places that I've never been:
-- Australia
-- Hawaii
-- Italy
-- Somewhere up in the mountains, say, Colorado or Wyoming
OK. I think I'm the last one to have done this, but if you haven't, well, you should.
Monday, December 26, 2005
iChristmas
Among the family's Christmas haul: a 12-inch iBook G4 (for The Wife; welcome to the Mac side!), an iPod Nano 4 GB (also for The Wife) and an iPod Shuffle (for the Old Daughter.)
Steve Jobs owes me a Christmas card.
Steve Jobs owes me a Christmas card.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Merry Christmas, from the archives
While I recharge the batteries and get ready for another Christmas Eve, I present to you this forum's first-ever Christmas post, from (unbelievably) four years ago, when life was a lot different. We never got a chance to do that "one last time" gathering; Grandma went on to her much-deserved rest in 2004, and the little house in Anytown is on the market, if not already sold. A reminder that while the holidays are wonderful, they sometimes make me wistful.
All the best to you and yours, and enjoy this blast from the not-so-recent past.
Christmas, Anytown style
Here's how it was: Christmas Eve, any year in the 1970s. Eight adult siblings (including my dad) and their spouses, probably 20 cousins (including me) ranging in age from 10 to just-born, a few ex-wives of the aforementioned siblings, and my grandparents, all packed into their house, which seated maybe six comfortably. Big, thick cloud of smoke hanging over the proceedings (apparently, back in the 1970s, secondhand smoke wasn't bad for kids). Somebody's dressed as Santa; one of my uncles, but I'm not sure who, and I certainly wasn't going to make my way through the crowd to figure it out. Not much food around, and certainly nothing I liked. We're supposed to start opening presents at 5:00, but it's 5:20, and one aunt-uncle-cousins bloc isn't here yet. They're always late. There's a Christmas tree in the corner, but you can hardly see it because it's covered with those shiny silver icicles. Small flashing lights on the tree inside, big flashing lights on the evergreen in the front yard, big flashbulb going off every once in a while on someone's Polaroid. If it's not snowing and it's above 20 degrees, a few of us will venture outside every once in a while to get away from the smoke and the noise. Back inside, the late arrivals have showed up. Wrapping paper is flying, cousins are hollering, and toys are piling up to the ceiling. If you have a cousin of the same gender and in the same basic age group, you got the same gift as he did. Conflict avoidance, of course. You can't play with anything, though; there's no room to play with anything. The family wasn't well-off, by any means; my dad and two of his brothers worked in the same factory, and they were on strike that winter. Or sitting out a temporary layoff. Didn't matter; none of the kids would have ever known the difference.
Here's what it became: Christmas Eve, sometime in the late 1980s. Same family, same gathering, although in the slightly larger house of the Uncle Who Made Good. Some of the cousins, such as myself, are in their late teens or early 20s. We're bringing girlfriends or boyfriends to the gathering, and we're not staying very long. We're getting gifts we really don't have a lot of use for, in complete honesty. And I can only stay until 6, because I have to go to work. There's more food around, but I've already been to one of the few places in Anytown that's open on Christmas Eve, probably the Waffle House. I leave, not particularly filled with Christmas spirit, but more relieved that I've made my appearance.
Here's how it is: Christmas Eve, 2001. The siblings are getting older; all the cousins are grown and many have kids of their own. Some are in Texas, some in Colorado, some in South Carolina, one in medical school. A few are still bumming around Anytown, doing the best they can with what they have. The Christmas gathering is a much smaller affair in a much bigger place, at the palatial estate of the Uncle Who Made Good. It'll probably be the only time my grandparents get out of their house all year. Phone rings a few times; it's the cousin from Texas or Colorado or South Carolina calling to wish the gathering a merry Christmas. The same aunt-uncle-cousins bloc, minus the cousins, will be late. Or they won't show up at all, which'll make Grandma sad, but probably nobody else will miss them. My own kids wouldn't have a clue how to conduct themselves in a large, loud group like the one I grew up with. It would just freak them out. We'll have our own gathering here in Texas; wrapping paper will fly, toys will pile to the ceiling; it'll have everything but the cloud of smoke.
Maybe soon we'll get that whole group together one last time. Maybe we'll do it at my grandparents' little house in Anytown. Until then, I'll count the memory as one of my best gifts of this or any year.
All the best to you and yours, and enjoy this blast from the not-so-recent past.
Christmas, Anytown style
Here's how it was: Christmas Eve, any year in the 1970s. Eight adult siblings (including my dad) and their spouses, probably 20 cousins (including me) ranging in age from 10 to just-born, a few ex-wives of the aforementioned siblings, and my grandparents, all packed into their house, which seated maybe six comfortably. Big, thick cloud of smoke hanging over the proceedings (apparently, back in the 1970s, secondhand smoke wasn't bad for kids). Somebody's dressed as Santa; one of my uncles, but I'm not sure who, and I certainly wasn't going to make my way through the crowd to figure it out. Not much food around, and certainly nothing I liked. We're supposed to start opening presents at 5:00, but it's 5:20, and one aunt-uncle-cousins bloc isn't here yet. They're always late. There's a Christmas tree in the corner, but you can hardly see it because it's covered with those shiny silver icicles. Small flashing lights on the tree inside, big flashing lights on the evergreen in the front yard, big flashbulb going off every once in a while on someone's Polaroid. If it's not snowing and it's above 20 degrees, a few of us will venture outside every once in a while to get away from the smoke and the noise. Back inside, the late arrivals have showed up. Wrapping paper is flying, cousins are hollering, and toys are piling up to the ceiling. If you have a cousin of the same gender and in the same basic age group, you got the same gift as he did. Conflict avoidance, of course. You can't play with anything, though; there's no room to play with anything. The family wasn't well-off, by any means; my dad and two of his brothers worked in the same factory, and they were on strike that winter. Or sitting out a temporary layoff. Didn't matter; none of the kids would have ever known the difference.
Here's what it became: Christmas Eve, sometime in the late 1980s. Same family, same gathering, although in the slightly larger house of the Uncle Who Made Good. Some of the cousins, such as myself, are in their late teens or early 20s. We're bringing girlfriends or boyfriends to the gathering, and we're not staying very long. We're getting gifts we really don't have a lot of use for, in complete honesty. And I can only stay until 6, because I have to go to work. There's more food around, but I've already been to one of the few places in Anytown that's open on Christmas Eve, probably the Waffle House. I leave, not particularly filled with Christmas spirit, but more relieved that I've made my appearance.
Here's how it is: Christmas Eve, 2001. The siblings are getting older; all the cousins are grown and many have kids of their own. Some are in Texas, some in Colorado, some in South Carolina, one in medical school. A few are still bumming around Anytown, doing the best they can with what they have. The Christmas gathering is a much smaller affair in a much bigger place, at the palatial estate of the Uncle Who Made Good. It'll probably be the only time my grandparents get out of their house all year. Phone rings a few times; it's the cousin from Texas or Colorado or South Carolina calling to wish the gathering a merry Christmas. The same aunt-uncle-cousins bloc, minus the cousins, will be late. Or they won't show up at all, which'll make Grandma sad, but probably nobody else will miss them. My own kids wouldn't have a clue how to conduct themselves in a large, loud group like the one I grew up with. It would just freak them out. We'll have our own gathering here in Texas; wrapping paper will fly, toys will pile to the ceiling; it'll have everything but the cloud of smoke.
Maybe soon we'll get that whole group together one last time. Maybe we'll do it at my grandparents' little house in Anytown. Until then, I'll count the memory as one of my best gifts of this or any year.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Cheap space-filler
A meme, via largelypro.com, basically just so I can say that I have a December post.
A is for Age: 37. The same age my Dad was when one second of inattention behind the wheel changed our lives forever.
B is for Booze: Macallan, 12 year. Disposable income is fun.
C is for Career: Software guy. Install it, teach it, document it. But I still think of myself as a journalist.
D is for Dad?s name: Same as mine, which explains how my credit report once showed a Sears account that "I" opened in 1978, when I was 10.
E is for Essential items to bring to a party: A four-pack of Grolsch swing-tops. Great conversation starters.
F is for Favorite song or music: I have a different favorite song every day, but one sticks in my head more than most. On June 1, 1986, the day I graduated from high school, I had the house to myself for a few minutes before I had to leave for the ceremony. I turned on the stereo and Boston's "Don't Look Back" was on. I closed my eyes and listened to it ... then, during the bridge, for reasons, I still can't understand, I jumped as high as I possibly could and let out a yell, because finally, my life was going to go forward. It's not even that band's best song, but whenever I hear it, I always remember that moment.
G is for Goof off thing to do: Not much time for that, but when I do, it usually involves idly surfing the Web.
H is for Hometown: Springfield, Mo., aka Anytown USA. Haven't been there since my grandmother's funeral in 2004.
I is for Instrument you play: For the last 25 years, it's been guitar. At times in my life, I have also publicly played violin, viola, cello and bass.
J is for Jam or Jelly you like: Welch's grape jelly. Accept no substitutes.
K is for Kids: Three, 11, 6 and 5, girl, boy, girl, respectively.
L is for Living arrangement: Plastic white suburbia, wife, her four dogs, the kids, and a cat who we can't persuade to leave.
M is for Mom?s name: Stephanie. Named for her father's political hero, Stephen Douglas. Explains a lot about her father.
N is for Name of best friend: Natalie. Thankfully, I'm also married to her.
Overnight Stay in a Hospital: Three days after getting smacked down with the flu last February in New Hampshire.
P is for Phobias: I'm afraid of water, and dogs, which explains why I have a house with a large swimming pool and four golden retrievers.
Q is for Quote you like: "Two elephants for a quarter is only a good deal if you need two elephants and you have a quarter."
R is for Relationship that lasted longest: The Wife and I began Year 16 in October.
S is for Siblings: A younger sister.
T is for Texas, ever been? Lived there for three years. Many things to love about that place. Many things to hate. It's a land of extremes.
U is for Unique trait: What makes me unique? Hell, I don't have a clue. I'm a pretty average guy.
V if for vegetable you love: Will eat just about any vegetable cold, or steamed. Once they lose their crunch, though, they lose me.
W is for Worst traits: Procrastination, and a tendency to shut down when I get frustrated.
X- is for X-rays you?ve had: I have a fuzzy memory of that hospital stay mentioned earlier involving X-rays, but I'm not sure. The source for this meme points out that this is a rather desperate attempt to come up with something for X. I agree.
Y is for Yummy food you make: I'm not much of a cook, but I can grill a steak as well as anybody and better than most.
Z is for Zodiac sign: Cancer.
A is for Age: 37. The same age my Dad was when one second of inattention behind the wheel changed our lives forever.
B is for Booze: Macallan, 12 year. Disposable income is fun.
C is for Career: Software guy. Install it, teach it, document it. But I still think of myself as a journalist.
D is for Dad?s name: Same as mine, which explains how my credit report once showed a Sears account that "I" opened in 1978, when I was 10.
E is for Essential items to bring to a party: A four-pack of Grolsch swing-tops. Great conversation starters.
F is for Favorite song or music: I have a different favorite song every day, but one sticks in my head more than most. On June 1, 1986, the day I graduated from high school, I had the house to myself for a few minutes before I had to leave for the ceremony. I turned on the stereo and Boston's "Don't Look Back" was on. I closed my eyes and listened to it ... then, during the bridge, for reasons, I still can't understand, I jumped as high as I possibly could and let out a yell, because finally, my life was going to go forward. It's not even that band's best song, but whenever I hear it, I always remember that moment.
G is for Goof off thing to do: Not much time for that, but when I do, it usually involves idly surfing the Web.
H is for Hometown: Springfield, Mo., aka Anytown USA. Haven't been there since my grandmother's funeral in 2004.
I is for Instrument you play: For the last 25 years, it's been guitar. At times in my life, I have also publicly played violin, viola, cello and bass.
J is for Jam or Jelly you like: Welch's grape jelly. Accept no substitutes.
K is for Kids: Three, 11, 6 and 5, girl, boy, girl, respectively.
L is for Living arrangement: Plastic white suburbia, wife, her four dogs, the kids, and a cat who we can't persuade to leave.
M is for Mom?s name: Stephanie. Named for her father's political hero, Stephen Douglas. Explains a lot about her father.
N is for Name of best friend: Natalie. Thankfully, I'm also married to her.
Overnight Stay in a Hospital: Three days after getting smacked down with the flu last February in New Hampshire.
P is for Phobias: I'm afraid of water, and dogs, which explains why I have a house with a large swimming pool and four golden retrievers.
Q is for Quote you like: "Two elephants for a quarter is only a good deal if you need two elephants and you have a quarter."
R is for Relationship that lasted longest: The Wife and I began Year 16 in October.
S is for Siblings: A younger sister.
T is for Texas, ever been? Lived there for three years. Many things to love about that place. Many things to hate. It's a land of extremes.
U is for Unique trait: What makes me unique? Hell, I don't have a clue. I'm a pretty average guy.
V if for vegetable you love: Will eat just about any vegetable cold, or steamed. Once they lose their crunch, though, they lose me.
W is for Worst traits: Procrastination, and a tendency to shut down when I get frustrated.
X- is for X-rays you?ve had: I have a fuzzy memory of that hospital stay mentioned earlier involving X-rays, but I'm not sure. The source for this meme points out that this is a rather desperate attempt to come up with something for X. I agree.
Y is for Yummy food you make: I'm not much of a cook, but I can grill a steak as well as anybody and better than most.
Z is for Zodiac sign: Cancer.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
It's just a number
It just occurred to me that people who went to high school with me are turning 40 this year.
And Madonna is 47.
And Madonna is 47.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Random stray thought
I find myself at 1:48 a.m. suddenly needing to know the Danish word for "fortuitous."
Saturday, November 05, 2005
The new "normal"
The Young Daughter came home from the hospital Friday afternoon, none the worse for wear. After a few hours to get re-oriented, she was back up to full speed. She was in rare form at dinner, making up for lost time by applying a week's worth of torture on her big brother. (He's an easy target.) In short, all is well.
What they didn't come home with Friday afternoon was answers. These "episodes" she has are not common with her malady. We've rung up a doctor back in Texas, who originally diagnosed the Young Daughter back in 2001. This doctor is now in possession of all the records and is presenting the case to her colleagues next week. We expect to have an answer then, and we expect the answer to be low-dose chemotherapy to attack a couple of small lesions on her cerebellum. In the process, hopefully, it might zap a couple of optic gliomas, too.
This is not at all the worst-case scenario. Chemotherapy is no walk in the park, but I'm assured it's not near as bad as it used to be. The problem here is, though, as I write this, nobody's sure it's going to work. It might be a situation where we're "trying" chemo, the same way you'd "try taking a Motrin" if you had a headache.
But sometimes, all you can do is try. We're trying now to take this one step at a time. Right now, everybody's home. The Wife is two hours away at a dog show, her first time out of the Young Daughter's sight in a week. This is a good thing, for all involved. At 10:16 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 5, we're having a "normal" day. That's all that matters right now.
What they didn't come home with Friday afternoon was answers. These "episodes" she has are not common with her malady. We've rung up a doctor back in Texas, who originally diagnosed the Young Daughter back in 2001. This doctor is now in possession of all the records and is presenting the case to her colleagues next week. We expect to have an answer then, and we expect the answer to be low-dose chemotherapy to attack a couple of small lesions on her cerebellum. In the process, hopefully, it might zap a couple of optic gliomas, too.
This is not at all the worst-case scenario. Chemotherapy is no walk in the park, but I'm assured it's not near as bad as it used to be. The problem here is, though, as I write this, nobody's sure it's going to work. It might be a situation where we're "trying" chemo, the same way you'd "try taking a Motrin" if you had a headache.
But sometimes, all you can do is try. We're trying now to take this one step at a time. Right now, everybody's home. The Wife is two hours away at a dog show, her first time out of the Young Daughter's sight in a week. This is a good thing, for all involved. At 10:16 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 5, we're having a "normal" day. That's all that matters right now.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Hey you! The one with the black cloud over your head
I haven't been happy the last few days, and I'm perfectly justified. You don't like it? Screw you. My kid has been in the hospital all week tethered to some machine that's measuring her brain waves, testing for a condition nobody thinks she has. My wife is sleeping on a "bed" that a homeless person would turn down, with a blue light shining on her all night so they can film my daughter not having seizures. Neither of them signed up for that duty. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
So yeah. I've been a little testy.
Driving to work today, my grim countenance firmly installed, I find myself stopped at a light behind a little Toyota truck.
Its license plate: MO FAITH.
Deep breath. Awright. I'll give that a try.
Thanks for the message, whoever you are. And thanks for making me muster a smile.
So yeah. I've been a little testy.
Driving to work today, my grim countenance firmly installed, I find myself stopped at a light behind a little Toyota truck.
Its license plate: MO FAITH.
Deep breath. Awright. I'll give that a try.
Thanks for the message, whoever you are. And thanks for making me muster a smile.
When you learn that, can you teach me?
Direct quote:
"Well, if I want to do computer animation, which I do, I'm going to need to learn Flash. So I'm going to put the Adobe project on hold for a while and concetrate on Flash."
I did not hear this at the software company at which I work.
I heard it from the back seat of my car, from the Old Daughter. She's in sixth grade. She has a dual-processor Mac G4 (and is the only kid on the block who not only has a dual-processor G4, but knows she has a dual-processor G4 and thinks it's cool that she has a dual-processor G4.) She was teaching herself Illustrator and Photoshop, but apparently something else has grabbed her attention. It's nice to see some sign that she's actually 11.
That little woman fascinates me.
"Well, if I want to do computer animation, which I do, I'm going to need to learn Flash. So I'm going to put the Adobe project on hold for a while and concetrate on Flash."
I did not hear this at the software company at which I work.
I heard it from the back seat of my car, from the Old Daughter. She's in sixth grade. She has a dual-processor Mac G4 (and is the only kid on the block who not only has a dual-processor G4, but knows she has a dual-processor G4 and thinks it's cool that she has a dual-processor G4.) She was teaching herself Illustrator and Photoshop, but apparently something else has grabbed her attention. It's nice to see some sign that she's actually 11.
That little woman fascinates me.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Pepto. Bismol.
It's early, early in the morning on Nov. 1, and somebody in my house is rushing to the commode after gorging on too much junk food.
Not the Old Daughter. Not The Boy. They have the advantage of having a parent around who tells them "no" to the second piece of candy.
Nope, the one chugging indigestion medicine in the pre-dawn hours of Nov. 1 was me. Junk food is not a cure for anxiety and depression, but it sure as hell is a good treatment, at least right until it wakes you up in the middle of the night.
In our next episode, all my teeth fall out and I can't find them because my gut obscures my view of the ground. Stay tuned.
Not the Old Daughter. Not The Boy. They have the advantage of having a parent around who tells them "no" to the second piece of candy.
Nope, the one chugging indigestion medicine in the pre-dawn hours of Nov. 1 was me. Junk food is not a cure for anxiety and depression, but it sure as hell is a good treatment, at least right until it wakes you up in the middle of the night.
In our next episode, all my teeth fall out and I can't find them because my gut obscures my view of the ground. Stay tuned.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Today
She passed out at her party.
This would be reasonably acceptable behavior, of course, for a college sophomore who had one Red-Bull-and-Vodka too many while celebrating her birthday. However, it's much less so for somebody who's turning 5 at Gymboree.
The Young Daughter's having "episodes," as we call them. They look kind of like seizures, but we're pretty sure they're not. The usual progression: Young Daughter is playing at full speed, then she starts to look kind of out of it, then she goes all pale, then she wants to go to sleep right there, wherever "right there" is. Then, usually, she throws up.
Mercifully, that last part didn't happen Sunday. But the rest of it did, right up to falling asleep on her mom's shoulder while 20 screaming kids ran around jumping on things and throwing balls and dancing and stuff.
It's hard, really, to pin down what she does during these "episodes." The simplest way to put it would be that she's just not herself. Pretty much all of the behavior related to these incidents is 180 degrees out of character for her.
The hospital trip to diagnose these things was scheduled last week, before yesterday's occurrence. She'll stay until they can figure out what it is. So far, they've set aside five days. That's a long damn time, when you're 5 years old.
--------
This forum is almost exactly one year younger than the Young Daughter. The first post is dated Oct. 21, 2001, two days before her first birthday. It was at a "well-baby checkup" two days later that we found out that she might be somewhat less than well.
Up until the last few months, the impact of what I used to somewhat lightly call the dread disease was pretty minimal. She had some spots on her skin. She had to go to elongated doctor's appointments every few months. She had to undergo MRIs under general anesthesia. Turns out one of those, back in 2003, almost killed her. In the course of trying to track the neurofibromatosis, we discovered that she also has a condition known as malignant hyperthermia, where general anesthesia causes her to run fevers well into triple digits.
Even after that scare, we slipped back into something resembling a routine. In the back of my mind, though, ever since I learned how to spell neurofibromatosis, I thought that 2005 was going to be a rough ride. The disease flares up in tandem with hormonal activity -- it usually starts to get really bad around puberty, but you also start seeing effects around age 4.
My original fear was that she'd regress developmentally. That hasn't seemed to happen, at least not in the cognitive sense. She ALSO has a hormonal deficiency which has put her in the single-digiteth percentile on height and weight for her age. She's not a dwarf; she looks like a perfectly proportioned 3-year-old.
After the brain tumors (which sounds a whole lot more direct than "optic gliomas") were discovered, things changed a bit. We needed to do more tracking, because if those tumors -- which are otherwise benign -- start to grow in her head, there's a chance they'll get in the way of stuff that actually needs the room more. So, more MRIs. More eye exams.
Then, the "episodes." Rare at first, then more frequent, then noticeable to even the casual observer.
-------
Normalcy, now, is not an option. The Wife and the Young Daughter will spend the next several days in the hospital while people who spent lots and lots and lots of money on their educations rub their chins and squint a lot and say, in Doctor Voice, "Well, we don't know what's going on." The treatment could be chemotherapy; 18 months of hell punctuated by the occasional really bad day. The treatment could be surgery, where somebody opens the hood on my kid's head and rearranges some wires, which might or might not fix the problem. The treatment could be, "Well, these things are going to happen every once in a while; they're not causing any permanent damage and they're not really a sign of anything; you just have to keep a close eye, keep her comfortable and accept this as your new "normal."
All of those choices pretty much suck.
Meanwhile, the palms of my hands are scorched from the friction caused by my attempt to stop the world from turning for a few days. Everything's on hold right now. It's all on hold. The other two kids have to have Halloween tonight; you can't begin to guess the depths of my lack of enthusiasm for taking them around the neighborhood begging for candy while everyone asks "Where's your other one?" or, for those who know, "How's your other one?"
The Wife spent almost 40 minutes this morning rattling off the list of responsibilities for which I need to be responsible over the course of the coming week, while she sits in the incredibly uncomfortable accommodations offered by our local children's hospital. Her job is damn hard, much harder than mine, and requires greater organizational skill than I posess (and my organizational skills, frankly, are quite good.)
And oh, yeah, I need to figure out a way to hold down my job, too, to pretend to care that somebody's database is down or that the software is behaving funny or that they really wish their problem would move to the front of my line. I've been doing a pretty good job of feigning interest for the last month. One major project was completed last week, and another is starting to build steam. Several minor projects also are calling for my attention. For today, anyway, they're just hearing it ring, or hearing "please leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you after I find out whether they're going to drill holes in my daughter's head."
For today, anyway. At some point, I pull my hands back and let it all start spinning again.
---------
I have no desire for anyone's sympathy. Neither does The Wife, nor the Young Daughter. Yeah, it's a crappy way to spend the day, in the hospital, but sympathy isn't going to help anything. Many are in far, far, far worse situations than we are.
I do care that you care. I appreciate the well wishes and the kind thoughts and all the people who are interrupting their lives to help us while ours are being interrupted. I appreciate it more than my facility with the language will allow me to express.
It's time now to spin the globe. Gotta jump back on.
This would be reasonably acceptable behavior, of course, for a college sophomore who had one Red-Bull-and-Vodka too many while celebrating her birthday. However, it's much less so for somebody who's turning 5 at Gymboree.
The Young Daughter's having "episodes," as we call them. They look kind of like seizures, but we're pretty sure they're not. The usual progression: Young Daughter is playing at full speed, then she starts to look kind of out of it, then she goes all pale, then she wants to go to sleep right there, wherever "right there" is. Then, usually, she throws up.
Mercifully, that last part didn't happen Sunday. But the rest of it did, right up to falling asleep on her mom's shoulder while 20 screaming kids ran around jumping on things and throwing balls and dancing and stuff.
It's hard, really, to pin down what she does during these "episodes." The simplest way to put it would be that she's just not herself. Pretty much all of the behavior related to these incidents is 180 degrees out of character for her.
The hospital trip to diagnose these things was scheduled last week, before yesterday's occurrence. She'll stay until they can figure out what it is. So far, they've set aside five days. That's a long damn time, when you're 5 years old.
--------
This forum is almost exactly one year younger than the Young Daughter. The first post is dated Oct. 21, 2001, two days before her first birthday. It was at a "well-baby checkup" two days later that we found out that she might be somewhat less than well.
Up until the last few months, the impact of what I used to somewhat lightly call the dread disease was pretty minimal. She had some spots on her skin. She had to go to elongated doctor's appointments every few months. She had to undergo MRIs under general anesthesia. Turns out one of those, back in 2003, almost killed her. In the course of trying to track the neurofibromatosis, we discovered that she also has a condition known as malignant hyperthermia, where general anesthesia causes her to run fevers well into triple digits.
Even after that scare, we slipped back into something resembling a routine. In the back of my mind, though, ever since I learned how to spell neurofibromatosis, I thought that 2005 was going to be a rough ride. The disease flares up in tandem with hormonal activity -- it usually starts to get really bad around puberty, but you also start seeing effects around age 4.
My original fear was that she'd regress developmentally. That hasn't seemed to happen, at least not in the cognitive sense. She ALSO has a hormonal deficiency which has put her in the single-digiteth percentile on height and weight for her age. She's not a dwarf; she looks like a perfectly proportioned 3-year-old.
After the brain tumors (which sounds a whole lot more direct than "optic gliomas") were discovered, things changed a bit. We needed to do more tracking, because if those tumors -- which are otherwise benign -- start to grow in her head, there's a chance they'll get in the way of stuff that actually needs the room more. So, more MRIs. More eye exams.
Then, the "episodes." Rare at first, then more frequent, then noticeable to even the casual observer.
-------
Normalcy, now, is not an option. The Wife and the Young Daughter will spend the next several days in the hospital while people who spent lots and lots and lots of money on their educations rub their chins and squint a lot and say, in Doctor Voice, "Well, we don't know what's going on." The treatment could be chemotherapy; 18 months of hell punctuated by the occasional really bad day. The treatment could be surgery, where somebody opens the hood on my kid's head and rearranges some wires, which might or might not fix the problem. The treatment could be, "Well, these things are going to happen every once in a while; they're not causing any permanent damage and they're not really a sign of anything; you just have to keep a close eye, keep her comfortable and accept this as your new "normal."
All of those choices pretty much suck.
Meanwhile, the palms of my hands are scorched from the friction caused by my attempt to stop the world from turning for a few days. Everything's on hold right now. It's all on hold. The other two kids have to have Halloween tonight; you can't begin to guess the depths of my lack of enthusiasm for taking them around the neighborhood begging for candy while everyone asks "Where's your other one?" or, for those who know, "How's your other one?"
The Wife spent almost 40 minutes this morning rattling off the list of responsibilities for which I need to be responsible over the course of the coming week, while she sits in the incredibly uncomfortable accommodations offered by our local children's hospital. Her job is damn hard, much harder than mine, and requires greater organizational skill than I posess (and my organizational skills, frankly, are quite good.)
And oh, yeah, I need to figure out a way to hold down my job, too, to pretend to care that somebody's database is down or that the software is behaving funny or that they really wish their problem would move to the front of my line. I've been doing a pretty good job of feigning interest for the last month. One major project was completed last week, and another is starting to build steam. Several minor projects also are calling for my attention. For today, anyway, they're just hearing it ring, or hearing "please leave a message after the tone and I'll get back to you after I find out whether they're going to drill holes in my daughter's head."
For today, anyway. At some point, I pull my hands back and let it all start spinning again.
---------
I have no desire for anyone's sympathy. Neither does The Wife, nor the Young Daughter. Yeah, it's a crappy way to spend the day, in the hospital, but sympathy isn't going to help anything. Many are in far, far, far worse situations than we are.
I do care that you care. I appreciate the well wishes and the kind thoughts and all the people who are interrupting their lives to help us while ours are being interrupted. I appreciate it more than my facility with the language will allow me to express.
It's time now to spin the globe. Gotta jump back on.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Where the path leads next
The Young Daughter has taken a turn. It hasn't been a good turn. A bunch of doctors tell us what they think it is. Nobody is willing to commit. Nobody is willing to offer a course of treatment.
The Young Daughter goes into the hospital on Monday, length of stay undetermined. The mission: Find out what it is that is going on, and get some answers.
The disease is neurofibromatosis type 1, for those of you just joining us. The Wife is recording events and news here. Just send up some good wishes. Right now, those help more than anything.
The Young Daughter goes into the hospital on Monday, length of stay undetermined. The mission: Find out what it is that is going on, and get some answers.
The disease is neurofibromatosis type 1, for those of you just joining us. The Wife is recording events and news here. Just send up some good wishes. Right now, those help more than anything.