Repost - The Long Fall

Pin It Originally posted on July 12, 2009

Some people might wonder why I would select this as a favorite repost of my first 500; the reason for this I believe is that I wrote it at a time this summer when things were looking their bleakest; I was literally at a place where life had taken a turn for the worst. Things had not turned out the way I’d planned.

I had no idea where I was going this particular evening, or what it was that I was going to do; I just needed to be alone for a little while. I had to be somewhere that wasn’t around the incessant droning of that oxygen machine.

I wrote this post and shortly after publishing it, removed it from my blog. I had a few friends who’d read it in the short life it had online asked why I’d deleted it; the best I could come up with was that it was such a personal experience I didn’t feel like relating it just then. As I was rereading over my posts tonight I realized that this was a pivotal moment just as much as was this one was in my life. I’m not saying it was easy, but it was a moment.

Tonight I put it back online where it originally was; along with a repost here.

I have nothing more to say.


July 6, 10:47 P.M.

It was a heinous night, one more so than usual; I just had to be not here.

I slipped from the house and soon I found myself walking along the railroad tracks down at Lake Pend Oreille.

The rails stretched across the shadowy waters, glinting in the moonlight and vanishing into the pine trees nearly a mile off on the distant shoreline.

I began to walk the ties of the bridge, the smell of creosote filling my nostrils along with the thick sultriness of humidity in the air.

The angry lake crashed and splayed below me, as the choppy wind buffeted me from time to time.

My head was a flurry of thought, much like that wind as it carried me along with it.

Questions.

There were so many questions.

Overhead the orange harvest moon moved slowly from behind the clouds; we gazed at each other across that vast space which separated us.

The distance seemed like a million miles; maybe more.

To be honest, I’d been feeling that same distance with God, too. He and I seemed to be worlds apart, neither one of us seeming to understand the other.

As I walked, I thought longingly of my headphones back at my car, I wished that I had them; had them to drown out the turbulent sounds which continued to moil through me like that tempestuous blast.

I wanted to play what had unofficially become the soundtrack of my life as of late, their lyrics tumbling about my head even as I traversed footfall after footfall.

“…the long fall back to earth is the hardest part...”

At the quarter mark of the bridge I stopped. Here was a spot to stand and look over the lake. I found myself sitting against the handrail as the waves lapped hungrily at the trestle supports some thirty feet below. Out across the water I watched the distant headlights of cars on the long bridge as they came and went in a flurry of tail lights—each headed to destinations unknown.

In the moment I petitioned the heavens, like I had so many times before.

Questions.

There were so many questions.

The trestle started to vibrate slightly; in looking back at the direction of the city, I saw one bright light hastening toward me.

It was a train.

There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run.

Was I afraid?

I was terrified.

I sat at my perch above the water, four feet from the tracks as the thundering locomotive drew nearer. Moments later it was upon me, screaming as it passed in a flurry of whatever heavy cargo it carried. The sound was deafening. The wind buffeted me. I stood, letting the fear consume—let it fill me to overflowing—terror bristling through every tendon and nerve.

Let it be gone.

As suddenly as the fear had overtaken me, it ebbed away.

For several minutes the boxcars kept coming, sparking and groaning on their silver wheels until there was nothing.

The train had passed, the shaking of the long bridge ceased, and the night took on its usual stillness...the last sounds of the locomotive vanishing into distant obscurity.

The wind blew, the waves lapped, I stood.

The moon was swallowed behind a cloud.

I walked back the way I had come, my head still a storm of questions.

I had no answers.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Repost - As You Sleep

Pin It Originally posted on November 9, 2008

While on this trip to Washington State for my brother's wedding Mom was becoming fairly weak; at this point I did an awful lot of thinking about life...and about my parents. I think this post speaks entirely for itself.

It was quiet in the house this morning.

I wanted to be sure you were okay.

I walked in and watched you sleeping.

I thought of how you used to watch me when I was little.

Time has changed, hasn’t it?

Life is steadily moving onward and the roles will one day reverse.

I will take care of you, as you once took care of me.

Some days it will be hard, others will be easy.

We’ll both be learning to adjust…

Until you’re ready to go to leave my home for your new life.

The long fall

Pin It July 6, 10:47 P.M.

It was a heinous night, one more so than usual; I just had to be not here.

I slipped from the house and soon I found myself walking along the railroad tracks down at Lake Pend Oreille.

The rails stretched across the shadowy waters, glinting in the moonlight and vanishing into the pine trees nearly a mile off on the distant shoreline.

I began to walk the ties of the bridge, the smell of creosote filling my nostrils along with the thick sultriness of humidity in the air.

The angry lake crashed and splayed below me, as the choppy wind buffeted me from time to time.

My head was a flurry of thought, much like that wind as it carried me along with it.

Questions.

There were so many questions.

Overhead the orange harvest moon moved slowly from behind the clouds; we gazed at each other across that vast space which separated us.

The distance seemed like a million miles; maybe more.

To be honest, I’d been feeling that same distance with God, too. He and I seemed to be worlds apart, neither one of us seeming to understand the other.

As I walked, I thought longingly of my headphones back at my car, I wished that I had them; had them to drown out the turbulent sounds which continued to moil through me like that tempestuous blast.

I wanted to play what had unofficially become the soundtrack of my life as of late, their lyrics tumbling about my head even as I traversed footfall after footfall.

“…the long fall back to earth is the hardest part...”

At the quarter mark of the bridge I stopped. Here was a spot to stand and look over the lake. I found myself sitting against the handrail as the waves lapped hungrily at the trestle supports some thirty feet below. Out across the water I watched the distant headlights of cars on the long bridge as they came and went in a flurry of tail lights—each headed to destinations unknown.

In the moment I petitioned the heavens, like I had so many times before.

Questions.

There were so many questions.

The trestle started to vibrate slightly; in looking back at the direction of the city, I saw one bright light hastening toward me.

It was a train.

There was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to run.

Was I afraid?

I was terrified.

I sat at my perch above the water, four feet from the tracks as the thundering locomotive drew nearer. Moments later it was upon me, screaming as it passed in a flurry of whatever heavy cargo it carried. The sound was deafening. The wind buffeted me. I stood, letting the fear consume—let it fill me to overflowing—terror bristling through every tendon and nerve.

Let it be gone.

As suddenly as the fear had overtaken me, it ebbed away.

For several minutes the boxcars kept coming, sparking and groaning on their silver wheels until there was nothing.

The train had passed, the shaking of the long bridge ceased, and the night took on its usual stillness...the last sounds of the locomotive vanishing into distant obscurity.

The wind blew, the waves lapped, I stood.

The moon was swallowed behind a cloud.

I walked back the way I had come, my head still a storm of questions.

I had no answers.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Hide and Seek

Pin It I had a dream last night.

I was playing hide-and-seek; odd that I’d dream about childhood games, isn’t it?

I was playing with a large group of people from various periods and places in my life—we all dashed and hid when it came time for the game to be set into motion. Sometimes there were those of us who chose to hide together—sometimes apart.

As I looked at the other players, I realized that there were all ages represented; I even spotted a student who was to be in my class this next school year. As the game went on, new players joined in from time to time, and the activity just got better and better.

It wasn’t long before I noticed players leaving the game—not to return. These players were called away by parents because of the lateness of the hour. These players had varied reactions to being taken from the activity; some of them would laugh and run to greet their parents to be taken home, while others would be upset that it was time to go and beg for a few more minutes.

However, when the remaining players were accounted for, the game would continue on as if there had been no interruption.

I awoke from my dream sometime this morning, not certain if I’d really been dreaming or not. It had all been so vivid, so real. I lay there silently as the early morning light danced on the other side of my eyelids, tempted to remain in the moment but then arose from my bed.

For some of us, the game goes on.

100 years

Pin It I’ve had moments where it seems I’ve not been awake—my life of these past days has had many moments where it seems more I’m watching a movie about it instead of living. I watch the scenes play out before me—more or less reruns of the same part—time and again. The music rises and falls, plays its melancholy strains intertwined into the flickering images.

It never changes.

I got a phone call from my mom in Washington, Kathy. She told me about the Summit Valley School Centennial. It was Summit Valley was where I’d attended first through sixth grades a score of years ago; they were celebrating the building’s 100 years of existence. I found myself reluctant; I said I probably wouldn’t be in attendance. It was too short of notice, plus the fact that I was needed here made it all the more difficult to allow myself to go.

I hung up the phone.

The next morning I awoke to morning sunlight dancing in patterns through my window as well as to the welcoming aroma of sausages and eggs. I stumbled from my makeshift room to find my dad making breakfast, the role I’d been fulfilling many of the days I’d been here. I sat at the kitchen table to a plate of steaming fare, my dad and I ate. As we did, I told him about the phone call from the night before, and the celebration in Summit Valley—which had actually begun about an hour previous to our breakfasting.

Dad laid his fork aside and looked intently at me across the kitchen table. “Go,” he insisted. “The school only has a centennial celebration once every 100 years. You’re not going to be around for the next one.”

“It’ll probably be lame,” I protested, smearing my toast around my plate to gather up the remnants of egg yolk.

Dad was adamant. “So, it’ll be lame around here, too. At least it’ll be a change of scenery—go. In fact, I don’t want you around here today.”

With this aphoristic ‘kicking out’ I found myself driving the distance through the pined Selkirk Mountains. As I drove, a sparklingly fresh wind seemed to catch in my lungs and remind me of a passage from the book, “The Watsons go to Birmingham—1963,” by Christopher Paul Curtis; In the story, Kenny’s father talks about the freshness in the air that the family is unaccustomed to, and talks about how they’ve become ‘tangled up in God’s beard.’

As the road wound up higher and higher, the air became more brisk and bracing, drenched with the aroma of pine. I thought a lot about that passage and wriggled my fingers through the crispness.

It.was.wondrous; Like breathing the air of heaven itself.

Soon I reached the pinnacle of the ridges and mountains, and spilled over them, taking that long fall down the other side; down into a land and a time far distant. Miles passed before me like vacant mailboxes on the roadside of life.

All too soon the rooftops of a little town I’d once known came into view over the trees. I found myself slipping back into another existence, a different place, another person I’d long-since left behind…decades ago where the ghosts of my past came back to haunt me –or rather, I’d come to let them. I could only blame myself.

I drove these strangely-familiar streets I’d once strolled with middle-school friends in a car registered in another state—a whole other life; it felt peculiar.

I picked up my mom and we moved along the memory roads I’d passed over so long ago—and still knew all too well. The familiar curves of the highways, the well-known landmarks, the homes of friends long-since gone.

As we came closer to the school where I’d spent my formative years, I felt a twinge of ‘homesickness’ for lack of a better word. I would not want to return to those days, but a visit for a few hours to a simpler time would have been a welcome reprieve.

I suddenly didn’t want to be here, yet wanted to at the same time. It felt strange.

There were more people there than I thought would be, and most of them I did not recognize.

But a few I did.

There were a few I had not seen since third or fourth grade; but they all still remembered my name.

I looked through the dog-eared photos; listening to the reminiscences of the veteran homesteaders, gathered in small bunches here and there—talking about the ‘good old days’ and times which were long before those which were mine.

As I wandered amongst the strangers gathered—all sharing a common bonding experience—the school, I felt somewhat at home.

It was at this point I noticed that nobody was taking pictures. Well, haphazard shots taken with disposable cameras and point and shoots taking place in random forms.

This would not do.

I remember something my grandfather had said many years ago, something he subscribed to…a motto of sorts. He had the firm belief that if you had a nice camera and walked around a place—just about any place—acting like you owned it and acting as if you were supposed to be there, nobody would challenge you.

He was right.

I took out my camera and let the shutter fly in a burst of rapid-succession clicks. People found this intimidating and moved aside, putting down their cameras when I would do so.

It made me smile.

I took photos of the room I’d spent 3 years of my childhood in; I took photos of complete strangers, listening as my childhood friend’s father was honored by having the new ball field named after him for his commitment to sports, and helping so many youth to achieve throughout the years. I took photos of childhood friends now grown.

Quite simply—I captured moments.

Nobody stopped me.

Nobody questioned.

I gave the photos—all of them—to the technology guru at the school so as to have them shared with whoever would like them.



The pinnacle event was the ringing voices of those present singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the old schoolhouse, and then the balloons being launched to the heavens; the resounding voices of those present floated on the winds and carried through the valley, rising and with just as much buoyancy as the colorful helium orbs to the clouds.

However, the moment which was most moving of all to me was when they rang the old schoolbell, the bell that had called me in for recess—the one which had hung in the belfry year after year. I remembered ringing that bell myself, too; the force of the backswing able to yank some of the kids off the ground as they clutched to the well-worn rope.

It.was.magical.

Words cannot describe what it felt like. A whole lifetime of memories rushed into me. Secret rendezvous with friends, early-morning snowball fights, knapweed forts and games of childhood all rushed into me like a gust of fresh air after being submerged.

I reconnected with a few old friends, I was…home.


My mom and I drove the familiar road to the Columbia River to Cloverleaf Beach where we had traveled to so many times and swam summer after summer. As I drove, I fumbled with my iPod, and soon the sounds of Kenny Loggins flooded through the speakers and out the open windows, just like he had so many years ago. The road had not changed, only I had. I was a little bit older, that was all.

I stood at the water’s edge and listened. The years seemed to compress and stretch until this moment and the moment I’d been here as a child seemed to meld together. Echoes seemed to play in the recesses of my mind—laughter which was faded and worn like a much-loved pair of shoes.

We drove to the ferry and rode across to Inchelium, passing through the Indian graveyard there and riding the long stretches of highway where the crystalline blue waters sparkled iridescently in the sunlight.

It.was.breathtaking.

We stopped and had a late lunch at Barney’s Junction up near Kettle Falls, and saw the small performing theatre where I’d starred in a number of smalltown plays a lifetime ago. Ice creams were in order, so we stopped off at Sandy’s where I immediately noted a few spelling mistakes on the menu sign—my class would most certainly have fun finding the errors in that come this August.


As we drove nearer to Colville, a marquee rose up on the right hand side of the road I’d long since forgotten about—the old drive-in theatre. At this point, I turned the car around. I had to see the place again. I remember going here with my family and seeing movies. I’d gone here with my friends.

It was just as old and nasty as I remembered.

It.was.awesome.

The ground was littered with gopher holes and the screen was peeled and dilapidated—in pitiable need of repair.

I had to get out and walk around.

It wasn’t much to look at, but nestled amongst the rolling hills of the Great Northwest, it was more than enough.


As we drove into Colville, we passed the fabric store—oh, an entire blog post could be written on this hellacious place of child torture—and one day will; therefore, I will forbear at this time to write anything further of it. Just know…

It.was.awful.

However, next door the business had burned down. I don’t remember what used to be there. This remains unimportant. Nevertheless, the building was gone.

An alley had been created with its absence, and there was a cracked mural on one of the brick walls.

It.was.amazing.

However, without a model—something to draw your eye—it wasn’t nearly as impressive as it could be for a photograph. Nevertheless, while taking a few shots, I noticed a local Hispanic boy from the Mexican restaurant next door; he was milling about and soon approached me, wanting to know what I was doing. Why was I taking pictures of a wall?

I explained that I was a photographer and I asked if he’d like to be in a few photos. I’d then be willing to give these photos to his parents—for free. He readily agreed and the following images were born.




Mom and I had a wonderful conversation throughout our little adventure of which I’ll not expound as this post as already reached epic proportions. In fact, while typing this I see that I have now reached page 5 in Microsoft Word. This tells me that it is time to close.

With the sun beginning to dip beyond the distant westerly hills it was time for me to be returning to Sandpoint. I began the ascending climb back to the home of my dad and my ‘other mother’ for the remainder of the day; I made my way yet again through God’s beard. This time, when I reached the breath of heaven summit, the Great Northwest smiled at me—and I smiled back.

Diving in

Pin It

12:57 a.m.

It was a hardish day.

I use the term ‘ish’ rather loosely because there have been others that have been far worse over the past week or two; today was not the chart-topper, but would most certainly rate amongst the top ten.

Have you ever felt like you could literally eat your way through the walls which surround you? Have you ever before felt that terrible sensation...a kind of horribleness which seems to grow, spreading like the tendrils of a noxious, wild plant—threatening to strangle you? Have you ever been in a store and wanted to start grabbing objects off of the shelves and start hurtling them across the room?

That’s exactly how I was starting to feel today. It was relentless and eating away at my insides, like that scene in “Alien” when the creature is lodged in the man’s chest and rips its way out…

I know. Gross.

Mom and I sat alone in the deafening silence of the hushed-up house for a couple of hours today. After a while, I finally had to have some type of background noise—it was far too silent: a movie, music, something.

I’d been very selective with my dad lately when it came to movies, and knew I had to be careful.

“Put in a movie,” he’d say. As I’d thumb through the collection I’d brought, I’d discard options immediately.

Mr. Deeds…No, cancer references.

Sleepless in Seattle…No, death.

Moulin Rouge?…No, death.

Pay it Forward?...No, death.

The Bucket List? Most definitely not.

So instead of a movie playing in the background, I opted for some music; instrumental strains to lift and fill. I adjusted my iPod to Jon Schmidt and then began the arduous task of being.

I was fine, until this song began to play.

I won’t go into detail of what I felt as the music played, but I felt it; I could have switched it off…I probably should have, but I didn’t. I allowed it to overpower me, to consume me, to envelop me in a vesicle of anguish.

It.was.horrible.

It was later that my dad arrived back home and around 8:00 this evening I found myself down on the elevated railroad tracks which traverse over Lake Pend Oreille. I stared at the swirling rivulets of water—trillions of droplets combined together creating this massive lake.

I sat there for a long time as the sun set over the mountains, and eventually sat down on the rocks at the water’s edge, staring.

I felt the urge to jump.

But no, I’d brought no swimming trunks, and wasn’t prepared to swim.

Suddenly, I didn’t care. Giving way to impulse, I stripped away my shoes and leapt into the placid waters. I soared through the air for a moment and then was enveloped in a saturated deluge. As the water closed over me, I felt something come away, like a layer of gloom

It was like I’d been revitalized, refilled, reanimated yet again. A smile came to my face as I felt the coolness of the water flowing about me and I clambered onto the shoreline rocks.

The summer wind blew my hair as the water dripped from my clothes.

I jumped in again.

Yes, I had finally found the great and powerful Wizard of Oz, I’d found what I’d been looking for all along.

At least for today.

Let it Be

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The June wind stirred the chimes out on the front porch, its six notes sounding randomly in that sorrowful soundtrack life seems to have been writing this past week. For some of us, this is not the fairy-tale story or that one with the happy ending.

I stumbled into the bathroom this morning and saw the image of a young old man staring back at me from the mirror hanging above the sink. The few grey hairs I’d been noticing lately seem to have multiplied tenfold, and the lines which previously had been weakly etched across my face now seemed to line it like that of a well-used roadmap.

Life was a highway—I was a municipality.

My mother lie in bed, her breaths coming in labored gasps. She took hold of my hand and gazed at me through her one good eye. Every breath she took I was sure was to be her last.

“Bummer,” she croaked from somewhere deep in her throat, attempting a smile in one of her lucid moments—which were rapidly becoming more and more infrequent.

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Really, it was.

The grip of her hand tightened around mine. How many hours had I sat here? I’d lost count. The only way I’ve been able to even track the days was by reminding her every time she woke what day it was, what time it is, where she was. She doesn’t ask, but I tell her all the same. If it were me, I’d want to know.

The worst part is that emotion—that dreadful little feeling of helplessness, that deep understanding that there is nothing I can do—I can only be. Doing is the easy part; it’s the being that is the hard thing.

It’s so much easier to run someplace, to buy something, to go on an errand; but to simply be there…that is the hard part. To be there when her eyes open, to see her when she smiles or grimaces, murmurs disembodied thought, and falls back asleep; and through it all, to not have the ability to stay the inevitable.

She asked today, “Am I going to die?”

“We all are,” I responded a few moments later, choking on my sullen reply. “All of us will one day die.”

There have been days now, days when the bitter fount of tears has been emptied and dried. Tears become no longer an option; they become something more of a luxury, like a well run dry in summer’s oppressive heat.

In the quiet of the back room I held her hand, the hot tears stinging my cheeks yet again from sources unknown. She continually faded in and then out of consciousness, her requests slogged and pieced together in a mismatch of jumbled words.

I simply held on to her hand; I could only be…there was no to do.

I found myself becoming angry at God in watching this suffering go on without recourse; I found myself questioning that which I knew—that which I’d always believed. If God really were merciful, he should either heal her, or let her die.

God—I unpremeditatedly decided—was cataclysmically cruel.

I felt a nettling anger surge within me, bitterness directed at heaven itself, at the God who allowed such suffering.

“What is your faith made from?”

I was taken aback at the thought which pervaded my mind—a whispered rivulet.

What? I thought in return.

“This is but a moment of time; if you remember, My son suffered for a moment, too.”

But that’s different, I countered. You’re God.

“Not while he was on the cross…she has you, but My son was left alone—if you remember. Now you have the smallest idea of what it was like for Me when he was helpless, and I could only watch when he was crying out in anguish.”

Then let it be finished. I thought. Let it be finished.

“When it’s time.”

The oxygen machine continued to drone in its rhythmic pattern as I held onto Mom’s hand.

For now, I can only be.

Laughter

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Mom made me laugh, which is a good thing, considering the circumstances and the things I really want to write…perhaps in a day or two I shall.

I moved close to hug her today. I just wanted to be near her. The well of tears has been precariously short in supply as of late. I held on for a little while and asked her if there were anything she needed. Her weakened voice was arduous to formulate, she murmured: “Yes.”

“What do you need?” I asked, drawing back.

“Air.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” I asked her.

The weakest flicker of a smile echoed across her face as she whispered, “Yes.”

And so she was.

Come what May

Pin It I have not responded to your individual comments; I don’t know as how to respond to be completely honest; just know that I am thankful for them.

I am also grateful for the phone calls which I have not answered, the emails which I have not replied to. For the Facebook messages which I have not ignored and for the text messages which you know that I usually never read. For each of these, I offer up a hearty “Thank you…I’m so glad that I can count you as friends.”

To save time I will reply to the one incessant question which has been universal through most of these forms of correspondence: “Teachinfourth, what happened?”

Please be patient and indulge me just a bit as I answer as I can. I find myself doing what writers do when they are faced with a dilemma…they write about it. It is with this in mind that I put tremulous hand to page—

The steady beat of the windshield wipers scraped away the waves of water as the miles of highway fell away beneath the tires of my Honda CR-V. I hadn’t made this trip in years. The clouds overhead were gray and ominous; they were a good mirror for my thoughts—reflecting back the mood of what I had been feeling.

Wait, let me go back.

It was Saturday. I’d been in St. George when the phone call came

No, I need to go still farther.

18 years.

My parents got divorced.

Yes, that was hard. But that is a whole story in itself which could fill volumes. The life that I’d once known had become fractured into two. I at times wonder about the life that would be now had that dreadful event not come to pass, however I’ll never be privy to that information; what I do know is the life which ensued because it did.

That’s the one I am currently living.

To surmise: both my parents eventually remarried.

My dad married a woman named Arlene. To sum up nearly two decades in just a few sentences: she helped my dad and me to finally have a positive relationship. She always made it a point to make sure that we were all included as family. She cared about my father’s children just as much as if she had given birth to each and every one of them herself.

Is it any surprise that we call her, ‘Mother’?

I have two Moms. Two women I credit with varied parts of my life.

Fast forward sixteen years into the future—July 2007; Arlene was diagnosed with cancer. She was given between one and eight weeks to live.

This was the time I received a ticket for the emotional rollercoaster known as life, which would offer up its myriad of twists and turns over the next several months. I ended up flying home in October, thinking that one of my Moms was going to die.

She surprised everyone.

She began to get better.

She began to respond to treatments.

The cancer spread.

Saturday, June 20, 2009—1:34 P.M: The call came from Sandpoint, Idaho. My dad phoned to let me know that Arlene’s condition had rapidly deteriorated and it was not looking good. She had been admitted to the hospital just a few days before because of various complications which inevitably led back to the cancer. She had requested to come home—she told my dad that this is where she wanted to die.

There were to be no miracles this time; no saving graces where she would baffle the doctors and glean extra years to her lifespan as she had done so many times before.

This time, it was for real.

I was on my way. I bid farewell to the friends I’d been visiting and began the arduous trek to the panhandle of northern Idaho—a seventeen hour drive from my current location.

I ran the gambit of emotion as I drove in the rain nearly the entire distance to Tremonton, arriving at 9:00 P.M. and staying with an old friend so as to get an early start out the next day.

I was up before the sun, fumbling with contact lenses and car keys—slipping out into the early morning light, inking over the distant hills like warm butter. I drove along in silence. My jumbled thoughts were mismatched as town after tiny town nestled securely in and amongst the bosom of rolling hills passed in my wake, their inhabitants still aslumber.

As I drove, I passed from sunny skies to those of rainstorm. I traveled through storm after storm. Like the tempests in my own life, I traveled through he sun, rain and back again as the miles still fell away. From time to time I was in the sunlight, but I could see the dark clouds out on the horizon, and I was moving right toward them.

Bring it on.

Was this to be a metaphor of the events coming to pass in my own life? Leaving blue skies behind and trading them for heavens of ashen gray?

Makeshift crosses on the roadside served as sordid reminders of what was to inevitably come to pass. I winced every time I saw one, and quickly averted my eyes, as if having seen something repulsive.

I drove into the downpour.

Down it came, harder…threatening to dislodge my little vehicle from the road, but still I drove, unimpeded.

On the other side of the storm was a sky which was bluer than the one I’d left behind. It made the storm feel worth it, just to see what lay on the other side.

Joni Mitchell once talked about having seen clouds from both sides. I think I understood—finally—what she was trying to say….a road trip of this nature was the best thing for me at this time. It was just me—me and an iPod full of music and a head jammed full of thoughts and a heart full of emotions needing to be worked through. Like the trash strewn along the highways of my life, someone needed to pick it all up and sort through it.

Me.

So I kept traveling the road, with new sights waiting to be seen with the billboards of my life spelling back their messages in the broad moments of quietness.

This second day’s drive took 11 ½ hours, it was nearly 5:00 P.M. when I pulled into my parent’s suburban neighborhood. As I climbed out of my car I realized that had I flown, so many things would have been missed.

It was with a heavy heart that I cut across the evenly cut grass of the lawn and entered through the back door, silent as a wisp of smoke. The problems of the world were still gathering around me, pushing and shoving; they were mine to be conquered, mine to be vanquished.

But for now, let come what may; after all, there is nothing I can do to stop them.

Absence

Pin It A family emergency has arisen and I will be absent from the blogging scene for an indefinite period of time as I am driving up to Washington. I'll see you all again upon a return to a steady wireless connection or moment of nonchaosness.

Until then.

Gastro esophageal chest burning

Pin It It was 1:40 AM when I walked into the ER at the hospital.

The pain which seemed to tighten and burn in my chest was one I’d never experienced before; however, I get ahead of myself...

Set the clock back to 11:10 PM.

I was writing a blog; for some reason I just couldn’t sleep. That’s when I first felt the sharp pain in my chest. It was a tightening, like somebody had hold of my heart and was squeezing it. It wouldn’t go away. At first I tried to brush it off as nothing and decided that I was just tired, I tried to go to sleep.

12:40 PM

I’d now tossed and turned for over an hour; the pain kept coming in small spurts about every fifteen to twenty minutes. It felt like my breathing was coming with labored difficulty. I was now starting to worry; I grabbed my laptop and did a quick search: What does a heart attack feel like? I was greeted with the following:

Some heart attacks are sudden and intense — the “movie heart attack,” where no one doubts what’s happening. But most heart attacks start slowly, with mild pain or discomfort. Often people affected aren’t sure what’s wrong and wait too long before getting help. Here are signs that can mean a heart attack is happening:

Uncomfortable pressure, fullness, squeezing or pain in the center of the chest lasting more than a few minutes.

• Pain spreading to the shoulders, neck or arms. The pain may be mild to intense. It may feel like pressure, tightness, burning, or heavy weight. It may be located in the chest, upper abdomen, neck, jaw, or inside the arms or shoulders.
• Chest discomfort with lightheadedness, fainting, sweating, nausea or shortness of breath.
• Anxiety, nervousness and/or cold, sweaty skin.
• Paleness or pallor.
• Increased or irregular heart rate.
• Feeling of impending doom.

Not all of these signs occur in every attack. Sometimes they go away and return. If some occur, get help fast. IF YOU NOTICE ONE OR MORE OF THESE SIGNS IN YOURSELF OR OTHERS, DON'T WAIT. CALL EMERGENCY MEDICAL SERVICES (9-1-1) RIGHT AWAY! In the event of cardiopulmonary arrest (no breathing or pulse), call 9-1-1 and begin cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) immediately.

It was at this point that I began to panic.

1:20 AM

Did my arm feel tingly? I couldn’t be sure…maybe it was just because I’d been leaning on it. It probably wasn’t tingly at all; but I was doubtful.

Did I feel a sense of impending doom?

Heck. Yes.

I wanted to call someone…but it was much too early to be calling my friends for something which could very well be a false alarm. I punched 911 into my cell phone so it was ready to connect, dressed quickly, and drove myself to the hospital—all the while feeling this intense, burning pain which came in waves; it would be there, and then it would be gone.

1:40 AM

I felt relief wash over me as I walked through the sliding doors of Intermountain Health Care. If I were at the hospital, chances are I wouldn’t die. After all, the doctors on duty had taken Hippocratic Oath…they had sworn to save lives.

My life would be saved.

The ER was not how I’d envisioned it would be; it wasn’t how I’d always seen it on television. I fully expected to find a room full of people bleeding, ambulances pulling in, with brilliantly flashing lights—gurneys being rushed everywhere, and alert doctors and nurses barking orders.

Life is not like on television and in the movies.

The receptionist was slouched over, obviously bored with being on the late shift. People sat around the room in groups of up to four. Some were trying to sleep, others were not.

Not sure if I were really having a heart attack or stroke, I merely took a seat and looked around the room.

There must have been about twenty people altogether; I found myself wondering about their stories: the woman with the sleeping toddler, the three teens sitting one chair away—the only group talking, the Latino couple by the oversized aquarium, the three men standing together by the door, one of them wearing a dust mask.

The receptionist began to eat Red Vines and seemed to be playing a game on her computer. This was definitely not at all like the show, E.R.

The pain had stopped—so I merely slipped into an empty chair—and sat. I wasn’t about to leave just because the pain had stopped; I wanted to be here in the event that this was really real. If it were, I figured that somebody could probably get to me before I actually died.

Nobody else was talking—all maintained radio silence—they were probably all wondering just what the others were doing here. It was at this moment that the burning sensation returned. I made a decision; I’d talk to the receptionist.

1:56 AM

The receptionist directed me to the nurse practitioner on call that evening, a lady by the name of Debbie. I talked with her in triage room #2. I told her about the chest pain I’d been experiencing, how breathing seemed laborious, and how my grandfather had died of a heart attack before he was fifty.

Debbie started to explain several things it could be, but she couldn’t be sure unless they ran some tests. If it felt bad enough, she recommended staying, checking in, and hooking me up to some monitors, “I wouldn’t want to take a chance on having you leave and then die in the parking lot.” She said.

Being the bargain shopper that I am, I asked, “What does a trip to the emergency room run a person if it’s not during ‘regular business hours’?”

Debbie smiled. “The cost of an ER visit is the same no matter when you come…we don’t take coupons either.”

I smiled back. I liked this lady. “I think I’m just going to…wait, if that’s okay, after all, that’s what that room is really for, right?” I gestured to the adjacent room where several patrons still lingered.

“You got it.” She winked.

I turned to go sit back down, but then paused. “Debbie, if it starts to hurt really badly, I’m going to scream your name. I’m just asking one thing…come save my life, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Teachinfourth, I won’t let you die.”

I smiled and walked back to the waiting room.

I waited.

2:05 AM

I saw the sign behind the receptionist; it talked about how patients were seen by the severity of their condition, not by the order in which they arrived. I grinned…there were an awful lot of capitalization errors on that sign. I thought of how much my class of fifth graders would enjoy finding the mistakes during our session once a week when we’d look at photos of ‘errors in advertising’ and talk about the importance of doing things right.

Yes, my class would definitely have a heyday with that one.

2:12 AM

Another brief pain flashed through my chest—it only lasted a few moments and then was gone. I opened my notebook and thought about writing out a will…probably not the best idea as most of my stuff would just be divided amongst my family members. I didn’t have a whole lot of heirlooms which people would be fighting over.

2:45 AM

A woman came in with two plates of frosted heart-shaped sugar cookies. She gave one to the receptionist and the nurse on duty. The pain hadn’t come back in all that time; I started to think about how good those cookies looked.

3:00 AM

A man by the name of Mr. Holly was brought in on a gurney with a wad of cotton in his mouth. I was thinking that he’d perhaps had a seizure—I found myself feeling gratitude that it wasn’t me. There were only six people left in the waiting room with me at this point…most had been taken back to see a doctor or nurse. Many of them had also left after their consultation. Most appeared to be in good spirits; I could only assume that that means they were going to be alright.

3:04 AM

A Mapleton ambulance pulled up without sporting its lights; no true emergency then. The pain had not returned in awhile so I made the decision to leave—despite the Nicholas Cage / Sean Connery movie which I’d been listening to offhandedly for the past hour.

I drove home.

The pain did happen a few more times.

I arrived home and went up to my room, feeling more tired than ever. I dropped onto my bed and was soon asleep—hoping to still be alive when I awakened.

It wasn’t until afternoon the next day that I figured out what had ailed me: gastro esophageal chest pain.

In a word: heartburn.

The remedy: A large, soft-serve cone from Macey's and two Omeprazole.

Prognosis: I am going to live.

I couldn’t handle it

Pin It The pain stormed through my head like a cyclonic shock wave.

I switched off the light and cradled my head in my hands. The pain was more than I wanted right then…or ever, to be honest.

I wanted to find someplace cool to sit, maybe like the walk-in freezer I’d often used so many times before at my old school. I’d go in and sit in there with my head up against one of the frosty shelves…anything to ease the tormenting pain.

The door opened and the doctor walked in. Out came a file as he began to question me. How long had it been like this? How often did they happen? He swam in and out of my consciousness as my stomach churned violently.

“Since I was five,” I responded, making a dive for the wastebasket and beginning to vomit spectacularly.

I think he was impressed; it was clear that I was not acting.

He paused his questioning until I’d finished.

“Have you ever had an MRI for this? Any type of blood work done? Have you ever seen a specialist?”

I wiped remnants of stomachness from my mouth and responded; the answer made me realize how stupid I’d been for a score of years…there was that simple fact that I’d had migraines for years and had never once consulted a doctor about it.

“No, no, and no.”

He made a note on his clipboard.

I was reminded of the episode of Seinfeld when Elaine went to see a doctor and happened to look at her chart; she noticed that a previous doctor had written, “Difficult” in her file. She then tries to steal the chart so that future doctors won't know about this little entry.

I was an idiot. I hadn’t sought out medical help from something which had been an affliction in my life for decades? Here is the beginnings of my own 'Elaine' file.

I had no answer, however, at this time I really didn’t care, it hurt too much to even think.

After another series of questions, and an additional vomiting episode, the doctor gave me some Rizatriptan Benzoate. What is it? Not sure, but it is supposed to work wonders. I am to give it a ‘test run’ the next time a migraine threatens to take over.

I came home and fell into bed, waking up some four to five hours later. Which brings me to my present ‘awakeness’ at nearly 1:00 in the morning. I’ll probably be up for a few more hours as sleep won’t come to me now.

So, final prognosis? As of right now there is none. I will have to get an MRI done…the doctor said he’d like to get a good look at my brain.

Hope he’s not too impressed…

I thought I was going to throw up…

Pin It It is a beautiful Saturday and I was finishing my standard reports. I also was having some difficulty with my laptop. I decided to format the hard drive, and reinstall the operating system.

I hooked up my external hard drive and began to back up files. You know, my professional photos, all of the sixth grade photos for the graduation video, and all the video files for not only graduation, but for my classroom DVD as well. I also had a treasure trove of files on this external drive including my trip whitewater rafting last summer with my friend, Ron Firmage, and my classroom website.

In a few words, there was a HUGE amount of data stored on this drive

When I restarted my computer and made ready to format, I noticed a second “hard drive.” Now, why would I have that? When it was formatted before, was an extra partition created to simulate an additional hard drive? Well, that might possibly help explain just why my laptop was running rather slowly, and a few items wouldn’t install properly.


I decided to delete the partition, format the drive completely, and then reinstall Windows. As I deleted the partition for the “D” drive, my eyes suddenly fell on my external hard drive near my computer. That is when the horrible realization hit me…I had deleted the partition on my external hard drive!

Now, you may be unsure what a partition is…in an easy word, a hard drive is like a large, dark warehouse. All of the files you store are kept here. The partition is like an index, or database, where a map is kept which tells your computer where to find the files on the hard drive. Without the partition and index, the computer wanders into the “storeroom” and finds nothing there.

I had deleted the map.

I felt horribly sick. I dropped to my knees as the realization of what I’d done washed through me like a tidal wave of dread. I had just destroyed hundreds—possibly even thousands—hours of work.

I just stared at the screen.

I had completely destroyed the final copies of over five hundred “professional” photographs I’d taken, about five hours of raw video footage, and files I need for graduation this week.

Not knowing what else I could do, I did a search online and downloaded a program which claims that it can restore data which has been lost….the program has now been running for over five hours and has only analyzed about 17 percent of the drive.

I am hopeful though…

I hope I don’t throw up.

When you’re sick

Pin It I used to take great pride in the fact that I had only had one sick day in my teaching career—and that is when I had a kidney infection about four years ago. Yesterday at school I started feeling ill and by the time evening rolled around I felt horrible. This is when I thought to myself, “You don’t need to be a superman…if you don’t feel good, stay at home.”

Hence, I decided to stay home and just be sick.

I do have to admit that I have thought of my class quite a bit today and wondering just how they are doing with the sub. Hopefully, they aren’t eating her alive…after all, you know sixth graders.

Another Eventful Weekend

Pin It

This has been an eventful weekend. I say “eventful” in regards to not a lot of physical actions going on the outside of me, however, on the microscopic levels I was literally teeming with hordes of activity…in other words, I was sick.

It all started out on Friday morning with a migraine…migraines in the morning are not what I recommend to anyone, as it starts off the day terribly! With the help of a little Excedrin and a hot shower I was able to get it to leave, but that was nothing compared to what was coming up. As the day wore to evening I started to feel—in the words of Matchbox 20—Unwell.

Not knowing what lay in store for when I woke up on Saturday morning I went to bed that night with plans to go to Park City with a friend of mine. Well, when I arose at 6:30 I started to get ready but knew, knew mind you, that there was no way that I would be going anywhere. Though my will said yes, my body more wisely said, “There ain’t no way you’re going anyplace!” I am glad that I listed to my body because it turned out that I had some type of flu that was complete with everything that goes along with it—I will spare the graphic details (as most everyone has experienced this horrific event in their life at some time or another, and details are probably not entirely necessary).

All of Saturday was spent indoors, in bed, under blankets, and being exceeding bored. I did manage to watch about 5 episodes of “The X Files” my sister had lent me so it made it somewhat more bearable, though even television gets old after a few hours and one just wants to be up and out. I have had friends tell me before that they actually enjoy the downtime they get when they are sick…just being able to lie there for hours on end and sleep. Not me…I was ready to be up and out, however, my body once-again more wisely warned against going out in public. I was grateful for night to come and for sleep to overtake me—still feeling terrible.

This morning I was up and looking out at the gray, cloudy, dreary Sunday and I felt a little bit better. Still had stomach pains, but it was better than Saturday. I managed to get up and as I did I was listening to a CD, a song by Peter Breinolt came on, “Say I Will.” As I listened to this song I started to think about my brother, Yancy, who is in New York. I just started to miss him. How we don’t appreciate those around us until they are gone…I just have to add to this post that I really do miss my brother. It is strange to think that he’s been gone for three months. Time moves steadily onward, doesn’t it?