Category: Ramble

Just writing stuff about things, and things about stuff.

Interlude: Another Goodbye

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The following is part eulogy, part lament, part wondered musing, part rant. I thought about streamlining it, focusing it, giving it a purpose of some sort. But at times like these, the thoughts don’t come out in an orderly, organized fashion. I *am* sad, and I *am* angry, and I think there’s space for all of that, even if it doesn’t make for good reading. Pardon the disclaimers. Read on if you dare.

I’ve got goodbyes on the brain, and there’s good reason for it:

We buried my wife’s father last week.

His passing was not unexpected — in fact it came after an agonizing series of weeks in hospice care, where despite repeated assessments that he might go “any day now”, he simply refused to give up. It was the sort of death that came as a relief, no matter how painful the loss was, because he had been in such a poor state for so dishearteningly long.

But the truth is, the man he was died months ago.

See, he had cancer. (Fuck cancer.) And the cancer had caused a tumor in his brain. (Multiple tumors throughout his body, actually, but the brain tumor was, for obvious reasons, the main worry.) That tumor was causing pressure and loss of function, so he was beginning to forget tiny details and taking a little bit longer to think about things than he was used to. Turns out, when my wife and her siblings got him in to get checked on for those symptoms, that this tumor may have been within days of killing him. A few more days of unchecked growth, and who knows?

But they spotted it, and thus began the end. The options in short were:

  1. Radiation treatment to shrink and manage the tumor. Not a preferred solution in his case because the tumor was already advanced and, of course, radiation has other harmful effects on the body. Further, the tumor wouldn’t “go away” — it would simply be, in my words, checked.
  2. Brain surgery to remove the tumor. Difficult, given the location of the tumor, but a better chance at a stronger recovery.

The family opted for surgery, knowing full well there was a chance he might not survive.

The truth is, he didn’t.

The surgery took longer than intended, and recovery did as well. While they expected him to return home and begin rehabilitation on his road back to normal, or near normal, within a few days, his stay increased to a week, and then beyond, and then beyond that.

Worse, his condition was not improved. In fact, he wasn’t speaking, and seemed confused about everything. “It’s normal after his procedure,” they were assured. “Just give it time.”

But time didn’t fix it. He only got worse. He began speaking again, but the words often came out slurred, slow, confused. He had to think for a *long* time before speaking, and even then, his responses were clipped, short, rote. He recognized everybody — he knew their names — but there was no flicker of recognition, no light in the eyes at seeing their faces. He regularly mistook my wife for her mother. Other times he would ask for his wife (who passed some years prior, also from cancer, which by the way can get entirely fucked). The family would have to tearfully remind him of her passing. At which point he would, understandably, get very upset. Again and again.

He didn’t remember having the surgery. He didn’t remember agreeing to it. He didn’t know why he was in the hospital. And he could barely express himself to ask about it all.

Needless to say, gone was his quick wit, his penchant for dad jokes and puns, his quiet bemusement at the goings-on around him. He couldn’t dream of playing the drums, which he had loved — the impulse wouldn’t even have occurred to him. He couldn’t conceive of going to a ballgame with his daughter, something they had both loved in the past years — he could hardly walk down the hall, or even follow the action of a game on TV.

You often hear the expression “he was a shell of himself” to talk about how disease or injury can diminish a person. But the man was, quite literally, a shell. He was there in body, yes, but the mind — and he had SUCH a mind — was gone. And it never returned.

He had gone in for brain surgery and come back as somebody different.

The intervening weeks were a futile procession of doctor’s visits, consultations with specialists, and eventually, a miserable stay in hospice care. All of it was awful, all of it an insult to the life he lived and the man he was, and I don’t write today to recount it. It’s not my story to tell beyond what I’ve already described.

But I can’t stop thinking about how my wife’s father went to sleep as himself — a slower, slightly less-capable version of himself, yes, but undeniably himself — and woke up as a person we couldn’t recognize.

Did the tumor, or the surgery, erase that part of him who we knew and loved?

Did the tumor and treatment somehow create a new, different person out of his damaged brain?

Or was he still in there? Trapped in a body that could no longer operate, or feel anything other than confusion and pain?

He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but his funeral was. The officiant, who didn’t know him particularly well, talked at length about god’s love and the glory of heaven and the peace we and he can feel that he is with god now.

It was offensive.

A loving god would not inflict suffering like this on good people while literal villains live to obscene old age (some of them even running entire countries). She wouldn’t inflict suffering on their families like this.

There’s no glory in what happened to him, and there’s no evidence that he goes now to anything like glory.

And the only peace anybody feels now is that his final, awful chapter is now finished. There’s no epilogue for him. And if there were, why should he want to spend even a moment of it with such a monster?

My wife’s father was a good man, who made the world a better place.

He deserved better.

She deserved better.

My kids – his grandkids – deserved better.

To reiterate, Fuck Cancer.

Endings, and then…

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The house is empty.

It’s been a long time coming, and we certainly had time to work our way up to it, but as is the way with so much in life, things move really slow, until they don’t. Since about this time last year we’ve been slowly packing and prepping for the move, but in the last month things really became urgent, and we found ourselves in the last week frantically packing, organizing, making calls, and just generally scrambling to make it happen. So we’re out — but it feels like by the skin of our teeth.

It feels like I should be awash in emotions, but strangely enough, I’m not. At least, I don’t think so. (The wife has of late suggested a few times that I could use some therapy. I’m not so sure. Feeling things is for chumps.) I’m pretty sure most of us can remember that moment from the end of the Fresh Prince where Will stands in the empty family room, blank-faced, reminiscing deeply about all the memories. I tried doing that, but it felt hackneyed. (It might have had something to do with the fact that, by the time I could slow down enough to properly reminisce, I was bone-tired and just wanted to lie down.) Fact is, there have been a few long goodbyes in our lives this year, and the thing about a long goodbye is: you get to go through all the emotions long before the goodbye actually arrives. Of course, when the goodbye DOES finally arrive, you get to do it ALL OVER AGAIN, but on fast-forward. What I’m saying is, we got a two-for-one special, and two is always better than one, with absolutely no exceptions, ever.

This year has had a lot of endings, a lot of goodbyes. Some were expected, and some were a surprise. Some were sudden, and some were painfully drawn out. Between saying goodbye to friends and family, saying goodbye to a house — even one where our kids did most of their growing up — barely registers for me at this point.

It’s weird, man. I don’t know that we *consciously* thought of it this way when we moved in, but the thought was probably there, deep below the surface: this is it. This is where we are going to live, at least until the kids are off to college. We certainly thought it in the meantime. Now that we’re moving *again*, we are definitely, explicitly thinking it — no more moves until the kids are out of here. But I guess, unless you know for a fact you won’t be staying long, you probably don’t go into buying a house thinking about when you’ll be leaving it. Still, for every beginning, there must be an ending. If you’re lucky, an ending gets to become a new beginning. (Feels like there was a song about that way back in the previous century.)

Which is where we find ourselves: hoping for a good beginning in the wake of all these endings.

You Can Always Start Again

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How many times can I do this?

Abandon this site, forget it even exists, come back to it, think “gosh, I should really write something,” write a few sentences, hate it, hate myself, abandon it, abandon any hope of writing, abandon all hope, dissociate, hate myself for THAT, at some point feel the tickle in the back of the brain that signifies an idea wanting to be written, rinse, repeat.

I’ve even written, and abandoned, THIS VERY POST more than once over the years. Hell, I may have actually posted this post before, but if I did it’s far away enough in memory that it might as well have been written by somebody else. A different guy, hating himself, feeling something like inspiration again, feeling guilt over neglecting his practice for so long, vowing to come back to it, or at least not to forget about it for a while, only to forget about it again.

It’s happened enough that I’ve thought more than once about discontinuing the site. Feels like a monument to another life, a guy I can’t be anymore. I think back to the early days of this place, about a guy who was somehow teaching full time, and writing something like 2000 words every day — 1000 words or so in a novel and just about that much again on this site about any damned old thing. Good or not, insightful or not, tortured and faux-poetic as it may have been, it came out.

A dusty, rusted typewriter on a desk, also derelict.
Actual photo of my writing habit.

And every re-attempt to get back to that, or something like it, has only made me feel bad. I feel like I’m living in that guy’s shadow. I was feeling it then, I knew what I was doing, or even if I didn’t know what I was doing, I could fake it.

I read a book recently. (I know, I know. Foolish to think I’m getting my life — my writing life or any other kind of life — back on track just from reading a book.) (Also, second sidebar — I guess I haven’t lost THAT particular peccadillo — I didn’t technically READ it so much as I LISTENED to it over a couple of my regular 3-hour sojourns to visit with my wife and daughter in this crazy, de-tuned and de-synced year I’m living. But that counts, and I think my experience with the book may have been better for it. More on this in a moment.) The book was “Big Magic,” by Elizabeth Gilbert. She, the author of “Eat, Pray, Love.” (I know, ok? I KNOW.) In it, Gilbert talks a lot about the artistic life — yes, often the writer’s life, but the artistic life in all its forms: dancers and figure skaters and painters and screenwriters and travelers and teachers and creators of all stripes — and advocates a frankly wholesome view on the act of making art. And it’s like…

Ok, so I don’t have the greatest memory, yeah? Put that down to the long years drinking or, y’know, experiments with other things, or (god it hurts to say it but I can’t pretend otherwise) old age, but also bear in mind the fact that I have never in my life been particularly good at remembering things that are actually important (yet my head remains rife with useless movie quotes, fantasy novel trivia, and knowledge of my favorite old video games). So a thing I’ve started doing in the last couple years is taking notes. Digitally. I use Obsidian for this, and I might write about it sometime, but the point is, when I come across something I think might be important, and when I, y’know, REMEMBER TO DO SO, I make a note so I can find the important information again. I particularly take notes on books, because 1) I love reading, 2) I never remember what I read except in broad strokes, and 3) reading is time-consuming, so I would rather not spend my time re-reading books over and over just because I vaguely remembered they were good. So: when I read a book, I do it with pen, highlighter, or dog-eared-pages in hand, and when I get to the end, I note my thoughts on the book, pull out my favorite quotes, and catalog it. There’s a satisfaction to this process that’s hard to quantify, but needless to say, this method is best with a book I can mark up. Audiobooks, I can’t highlight or underline a passage. I can bookmark a moment, if I can be bothered to futz with the phone at the moment, which usually I can’t, because I was listening to the audiobook in the first place so that I could be focusing my hands on DRIVING or washing dishes or swing while I’m on a run or whatever else.

Ok, that was a long way to walk to tell you that Big Magic was a book that, had I been properly reading it, would have gotten a hell of a lot of markups and dog-eared pages, but because I listened to it, I had to sort of let it wash over me. Like lying on the beach as the tide comes in. Little by little, broken up by stretches where I would space out or get distracted, Gilbert’s observations just sort of lapped at my edges in her calm, reassuring tone, and after about six hours of driving, I realized something weird.

I wasn’t hating myself about the abandonment of my art.

This was a wholly unique feeling. I’d gotten so used to the low-simmering disappointment with myself over drifting away from this craft that to not feel it was a little like the first time I shaved my head and stepped outside on a windy day. What a refreshing absence.

Suffice to say, much of the book resonated with me, and maybe I can find more to say about it sometime. For now it’s enough to say that I wanted to return to the site here, not out of a sense that I *had* to, or that I needed to try to *recapture* what it once was, or to do so with any sort of goal in mind at all. I could’ve started a new one, but I figure, for better or worse, that this, too — even this sporadic period of barely anything over the past several years — is a part of the journey that this website is all about. And maybe I’ll turn it into a regular practice, and maybe I won’t. Tonight, at least, it feels nice to let my fingers dance on the keys, to spray these words onto the void of the blank page, to not worry about WHAT IT MEANS or whether it’s THE START OF SOMETHING NEW or whether it MEASURES UP TO WHAT I USED TO DO. Comparison is the thief of joy, etc, etc.

Tonight, at least, it feels good to open the spigot on my brain and let the thoughts drip out.

Tonight, at least, I’m here.

But…

There’s something else, too.

In “Big Magic,” one of the things that clicked with me was when Gilbert said you should treat your art like a new relationship. You spend your time thinking about it. You keep it secret from people, because you’re not sure about it yet. You sneak away to send it a quick message — to get a few more words down.

I may have (perhaps foolishly) started on a new project. I’ve written two and a half scenes so far, and y’know, it’s fun. I don’t know if it works yet, or if I’ll like it even if it grows up into a full-fledged thing, but I can fall off that bridge when I get to it.

But that’s not the thing. The thing is: I told my wife about it. Sheepishly. Ashamedly. Too early, to be sure. The concept is barely formed, the clay still damp and lumpy. “It’s probably dumb,” I think I said. “I dunno if I can do it,” I KNOW I said. “But I’m gonna try it.”

“Really?” She said, with something like a smile.

“Yeah, but who knows if I’ll finish it.”

She thought for a second. “I like it when you write.”

At least, I think that’s what she might have said. As I mentioned above, I don’t remember things so well. (My hearing isn’t great either, while we’re on the subject.) It’s possible she said “I like you when you write.” Or maybe it was just “I like when you write.”

Thing is: I also like when I write.

I forget that too often and too easily. If nothing else, I’m going to try to remember THAT.

Solo: Not a Star Wars Story

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For the first time in ages, I’m alone.

This was expected, but that doesn’t make it easy.

I’m sitting in a recliner, some mindless nonsense on the TV and a bit of music in the background, and I’m the only sign of life.

My wife and kids are over a hundred miles away in the house that’s been home for the last seven years while I’m here in the city that will be our *new* home in a year or so, starting my new job, meeting new coworkers and (soon) my new students, and I’m alone.

(Well, the dog is here, too, but she’s so lazy and so quiet it almost makes no difference.)

It’s hard to appreciate just how noisy a house with four people living in it is, even when it’s quiet. There’s always the sound of a video game from the kids’ rooms, or of my wife’s clicking away on a laptop as she works from home (even though she should leave more of her work at work), or of the cats calamitizing the house.

I’ve spent the odd night or two away from home here and there — a stay in a hotel for some work function usually — but a hotel room is temporary by its nature. It’s designed as an empty, transient vessel: a place you stay while doing something else, to which you will form no attachments and from which you will very soon move on. This is not that.

I can’t help feeling like I’m doing this wrong — I should be living some kind of bachelor’s dream. But it’s impossible to do that when all I can think about is how much I miss my kids, my wife, and yeah, even the cats. And, sure, it’s temporary. Sure, in a week my son will be joining me, and we’ll be in the thick of work, and school, and there won’t be time (or, probably, energy) to focus on the empty spaces where the sounds of the rest of the fam are, at least not until I’m in bed feeling that empty spot next to me.

I thought I loved the times when the wife would take the kids to the store and leave me a quiet hour. But I don’t know how single people do this day in and day out. I’ve got less than a week ahead and I’m already going out of my mind.

Time to take the dog for a walk. She may not be much of a conversationalist, but it’ll give me something to think about besides the clicking of these keys.

The Last Drops (A Meditation on Letting Go)

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I have this soap that my wife got me. It’s good-smelling soap, clean but also smelling distinctly *of* a thing (vanilla, for one, which I’m a sucker for), not that vague “clean” scent that goes with a lot of soaps. I like this soap.

And in the shower yesterday, I reached past it to use another soap, one I didn’t like as much. Why? Because the “good soap” was down to its last couple of uses, and I didn’t feel like burning them up.

On a certain level, this makes sense. Certain things are for special occasions, not for everyday use. That wasn’t how I felt about this soap for 90% of its lifespan, mind you. Up until it was almost gone, whether to use this soap or not was a decision to which I gave as much thought as which pencil I’ll use to jot this note. (The one closest to hand, please and thank you.) But toward the end, something changed and the soap became SPECIAL, it became Not To Be Wasted.

The problem, of course — and if you’re a weirdo, probably-carrying-undiagnosed-ADHD-but-coping forty-something like me, maybe you’ve already anticipated it — is that *I then fail to use it up*.

The problem becomes worse when I try not to buy boring soaps, but rather try different kinds in hopes of finding one I’ll like (and usually succeeding) — then another soap becomes The Soap Not To Be Wasted, and oh snap — now I have TWO bottles of almost-spent soap in the shower, and I *can’t* use either one TODAY, let me reach for this other one instead and SAVE THE GOOD ONES …

In other words, the bathroom is a disaster of nearly-spent bottles of soap. As it turns out, a problem like this doesn’t present in a vacuum. I do this in the kitchen too (how old is YOUR oldest jar of spices? Hmmm? Mine still has a 19 in the year, and I don’t mean 2019). And with pens. (Yeah, it’s almost out, but it’s got a LITTLE juice left.) And clothes. (Yeah, this shirt has a hole in it and I can only wear it for sleeping, but what, like THAT’S a reason to throw it out?) And …. I’ll stop there, but you can use your imagination.

Which, on a certain level, makes me a hoarder. But it’s not that I have an aversion to throwing things away generally. I LOVE throwing things away. Saying goodbye to a silly piece of junk is one among a dwindling set of Things Which Bring Joy To My Life. I SHOULD be bursting to throw these things away.

Yet I want to save them.

Upon reflection, it’s an issue of comfort, and attachment. That almost-spent thing is a tiny source of comfort. “Hey, this thing was nice, let’s keep it around just a little bit longer,” it seems to say. And after all, why not? Why not hold onto it for a little bit longer? Savor it. Keep it. For that special moment.

Then I realized I’ve done this with books I was reading, and writing projects, as well. I’ve raced through 350 pages of a 400-page novel only to slow to a crawl for the last few pages, wanting to prolong the experience even though I desperately want to know what happens. Because I don’t want to leave these characters, this story, this *experience* behind. I’ve drafted a story, done editing passes, then faltered on finishing final edits because, well, when I finish those, it’s *done*, and I can’t justify dinking around with this story anymore, I have to move on to the next thing.

In a bigger, scarier-to-think-about way, it’s a tiny way to live in the past, rather than moving on toward the future. Which is probably not a great way to live. (It’s certainly no way to keep your shower.)

In Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Kylo Ren had something to say about this. (Yes, I’m quoting TLJ on purpose because it infuriates a certain type of Star Wars fan. If this upsets you, please tell me all about it.) Rey was consumed with trying to find her parents, she had no sense of self because she had been abandoned and been waiting on them to return for so long. But Ren says, “Let the past die. Kill it, if you have to.”

Nobody’s going to use that soap up for me, and my wife won’t trash it on my behalf, either. (It’s man-soap. She’s scared to touch it, lest she immediately sprout a very gruff beard, develop an interest in smoking meats, and start daydreaming about Ancient Rome.) It will sit there, on the soapy shower ledge, staring at me, judging me, as long as I let it. The only way it’s going away is if I put it out of its misery.

So will that book I’m putting off reading.

So will that story I don’t want to finish writing.

So will that (thing) I don’t want to move on from.

When we look too much backward, we cannot move forward.

I used the last of the soap this morning.

It was no big deal.