Momentum

I’m ashamed to admit that I love the movie “Hot Tub Time Machine”, not for its over the top crude humor as much as it struck a nerve with me. It mostly took place in 1986. That was a very, very, VERY pivotal year in my life.

That was when I decided to join the Air Force.

One of the main character’s young 20-something nephew goes back in time with the group and see’s how wild and crazy his uncle and friends were.

He asked his uncle in one scene, “What happened to you guys?”

(Referring to the current older versions who’s lives are a mess or have dreams unfulfilled)

His uncle replies very sadly: “We had momentum…”

I pulled a simple 12 hour shift today. (We are rotating to ensure no one gets burned out)

I work my regular 8 hour days during the rest of the week. I guess we are “Essential”, which gives me a huge roller coaster of emotions at any given minute. I’m complex that way….and not necessarily a strong trait. More of an exhausting trait.
So I’m proud, humbled, angry (that many others get to “work from home”) honored, jazzed, scared, and mostly just plain tired.

“Time to make the doughnuts…” kind of tired.

Back in my military days, we pulled 12 on, 12 off for months on end. “12/12’s”

Yes I was younger back then, but then I realized there were other factors. I was with my military brothers and sisters in the field. We had each other’s backs. We didn’t cause the stress, and we faced it head-on with our arms locked and overcame all of it.
All.
Of.
It.

Think of the movie “300” without the death and 8-pack abs….

In this new world I am working in, I still have a great team, but the external factors greatly outnumber us. External factors that make this activation harder than it needs to be.

I’m sorry I tell endless “war stories” and how much I pine over the “good old days”…but you had to be there.

The other branches would gawk at us when we arrived onsite, and with little discussion or pre-deployment briefing, we would setup an entire comms site in hours and be on the air with secure communications to the other side of the world. We were on autopilot.

When something crashed or hit the fan, we also bolted into action like a complicated ballet troubleshooting, analyzing, fixing issues as the popped up…effortlessly most times.

Veteran’s experience their own version of Dog Years. We compress so much stress and emotion into a shorter period of time, that it gets into your system. Look at ANY industry where retirees literally drop dead within the first months, years of retirement. That is all they knew. They were wired for the frantic pace, the ongoing trench warfare of the mind.

As I said, you just had to be there, because….

…we had some freaking awesome momentum.

Reflection

There he was again. In the double doors at work, staring back at me. Looking tired, carrying a too much mental baggage, and at least a million miles on the odometer.

My reflection.

I pull off a smirk and a wince at the same time. Then sometimes maybe an honest to goodness smile as if to convey, we made it this far. Grey has overtaken the youthful brown. I fight back against the fading of the beard, otherwise it would be stark white and that will not do at all. I have avoided coloring the beard to an overall dark brown through-out. That way it doesn’t scream too much vanity. Keeping the salt and pepper tones matching the mop on top of my head at the very least.

I have always admired and respected men with grey highlights. I saw it as a badge of honor, portraying a history of “knowing and seeing things” on full display. Also it was seen as a sign of maturity, which I somehow dispel frequently with really bad puns and inappropriate jokes, always at the wrong time and with the wrong crowds. (Bless all of you that are still counting me as friend or part of the family)

My eyes are tired and/or droopy at times from tossing and turning during the great crusade to sleep more than 4 hours, or at least 2 hours in a row uninterrupted. My stride is still a borderline swagger, part imbalance, from whichever knee decides to take the off day. It may also be due to what we use to say when packing trucks and planes: Load Shift.

Some days I smell fresh as a summer shower, and other days like an industrial accident of heating solvents and black coffee. It’s easy to sometimes ignore the popping and creaking sounds from the framework. The constant 3,000 HZ air raid siren in my left ear helps drown it.

I remember when my medicine cabinet held only bandaids and maybe Flintstone chewables….now its a small pharmacy to alleviate, reduce, lessen or just make me not care for awhile.

Mornings are the worse. Gravity during the course of the night makes my face look like a suitcase that fell over and everything just spills out onto the ground in disarray. My hair looks like I was attacked by an electrified pitchfork and I’m getting ready to film my next scene in “One who flew over the cuckoo’s nest”. (The bath robe is a nice touch)

But as I said, I know where most of this wear and tear comes from. I see the younger generation complaining about trivial things and I just smile and look at my vast “Been There, Done That” t-shirt collection.

What was extremely important 40, 10 or even a year ago, isn’t anymore.

Looking down at my hands as I type this, I will NEVER EVER be a hand model. Maybe a spokesman for Bandaid….

It’s definitely a Monday thing. Cheers.

We are never alone

Part of getting older is reflecting on when we were younger and the path to get to this very moment.

We didn’t take that journey alone. There was a cast of thousands guiding you.

Some gave you a nudge, pointed the way, some may have even knocked you down.
(They count too)

Others picked you up, tended to your wounds and set you back onto the path.

Our teachers, mentors, leaders, friends, pets, parents and especially our loved ones.

We are a sum of all those people. The echoes, although faded, still reverb in your soul.

Part of getting older is understanding to make the most of our time here.
Getting older makes you both patient and impatient.

Tolerance for what you can control, and resist fretting over petty things.

I have recently reconnected with those who helped shaped me growing up.

I thank God for these people in my life. (And to have them see that young wild kid…somewhat…matured) 😉

So in the darkest of times, especially this past year, I smile at the thought that I am never alone.

Mr Complex

 

Mr. Complex

 

Max: [to Walter] Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve taken a woman who loves you, one of the great women in the world and thrown her away. I lost her too, but I will get over it because I am shallow and self-centered. 

But you, you won’t, because you are “complex”. You will feel terrible anguish for the rest of your life. This is turning out to be a pretty good day.  

-The Money Pit

 

That one movie line has stuck with me for years.  That and the “Two weeks” estimate on the house being finished.

 

Also me:

• a whole made up of complicated or interrelated parts                      
• a group of culture traits relating to a single activity (such as hunting), process (such as use of flint), or culture unit
• a group of repressed desires and memories that exerts a dominating influence upon the personality
• an exaggerated reaction to or preoccupation with a subject or situation

 

 

                

As the title of my blog states: The Past is a Harsh Mistress

My past…my history.  I know other people have had worse lives.  This is my story, my experience, my perspective.

Maybe I had a different level of torment, challenges and losses.  

 

I know the combination of things may have been more than others have on their ‘resume’.

I would hope they have made me more open-minded, forgiving, self-reflective, etc.

But on the other side, more jaded, angrier, less flexible…complex.

I do know I have an insatiable creative side.  A passion for art and working with my hands and heart.

Maybe my soul knows this is my escape, a beautiful distraction from the now.

Part of me wishes we could see the person we could have been at the end of multiple paths and futures. If we said no, if we said yes, if we stayed, or left.

If someone didn’t die so soon.  If we met a different person at a different stage in our lives.

But I say only a part of me wants that insight.  Because it would destroy the version we currently are. It would toss out years of coping and adjusting.

It would ruin the very person we have tried so hard to accept and live with.

 

I don’t think I could be a happy, simple version of myself.

 

One more quote comes to mind:

                “What counts in sports is not the victory, but the magnificence of the struggle.”

                — Joe Paterno

 

                I swap out “Sports” for life in my head.

                …my beautiful complex head.

 

The Not So Great Race

The Not So Great Race

 

In my head, it’s an easy promise.  On paper it makes total sense.

In practice and in reality almost impossible some days.

The past few days and more frequently than I want to admit, I’ve been total ass at home.

I want to blame burn-out, my medication from wearing off. (The kind that quiets my spastic and OCD mind, filled with anxiety and depression)

I have a “Me Checklist” of fun stuff I want to do when I crawl home, but when the house needs come first, I throw a tantrum. I’m rude and disrespectful to my children

and to the woman I promised to be true to.

 

For a brief second, I want to pause, and reset, but can’t.  It’s too late, the emotional dam bursts, the words come out and the damage is done.

I feel like I’m back to square one back in 2015. Years of therapy wasted?

 

After it’s too late, I take my pill, then chase it down with a tall pour of bourbon.  I wait to see who kicks in first.

I never paid attention to “who won”….cause I’m numb and mad at myself.

 

I then relieve all my other mistakes and decisions until it’s time to hide in bed again.

I realize how many close friends I have ghosted and put off from meeting up with, because I hate social settings.

I hate crowds. Noise. 

 

Getting older is such a contradiction. We rush to be older, never pausing to live in the moment. Then when we do slow down,

we are too old to do something we use to enjoy.  And now, we are too tired, cranky to try something new.  I get it now.

And I am still trying to pause. To breath.  And keep my mouth shut and foot out of it.

 

Trying. 

 

I just need to stop tripping at the starting line.

 

again.

A Temporary Halo

A Temporary Halo             

 

I’ve made so many promises in my life.  Some kept, some delayed and some never fulfilled.

…oh, some blatantly broken.

There is one I am keeping right now.  To visit the widow of my friend and neighbor who passed away on Monday after a short illness.

I text her at-home nurse to see if she is awake (She sleeps all day now) and if she is, I stop in for a quick chat.

It’s a simple task, some days I look forward to it, but other days, my heart isn’t in it.  But I made a promise to Buck.

I say I don’t like conversation, but it’s my superhero power….when I’m in the mood for it.  Otherwise, I don’t want to

interact with anyone.  Anyone.   I am starting to wonder how I would handle one of those reality shows where I have to survive on my own and outlast others.

Aside from the eating and building a shelter part, I really think I could handle the alone part.

It’s all perspective.  

 

I was visiting and helping Buck in his final months when and where I could.  Late night or early morning calls asking, pleading with me to come down to resolve some

crisis.  (They never were but I still came)   But his second-to-the-last hospital visit, he called me in the early evening, begging me to see him at his hospital room.

I sat there, held his hand, which I think he would never do before the illness became worse, and comforted him.  He confessed to me that he wasn’t ready to die yet.

The fear and panic in his eyes and voice were heartbreaking.  I’ve been treated for anxiety, depression, adjustment issues, maybe some form of OCD, anger management….etc.

All due to my post military life.  And maybe some side-effects of 9/11 and hurricane deployments, and now-banned medication I was issued.  It’s a buffet of possibilities.

 

But for Virginia’s sake, I can’t hide behind it.  That’s one thing I learned from the military, Service before Self.  Sacrifice.  In this case, I’m “sacrificing” my Me Time, or escape routes.

I wish I could go back and do somethings differently or not at all.  Decisions and actions.  But I can’t.  I want to say I’ve learned from the past, but not always.

Right after 9/11, I discovered I was a match for someone needing a bone marrow transplant.  A good friend of mine told me, at least when I do this donation, I could look back and say I did this

one thing right.  For someone else.  Who was a complete stranger back then.

 

I’m not sure how much time Virginia has left now.  At 91 and exiling herself to the bedroom almost 24/7, she may have given up. 

So I will not complain, take my meds and think about someone else for a change.

 

“You wear guilt, like shackles on your feet, like a halo in reverse…”

-Depeche Mode, Halo

The Loop

The Loop

 

I finally caught up my recently deceased neighbor’s wife this week since his passing. She spends most of her days in bed now.

Even before he was sick, she slept a lot.  At 91, I think she more than earned the right to do whatever she wants.

She was awake, but still in bed.  She just wrapped up a phone call with one of her few remaining friends.

The conversation bounced around, we both admitted that we don’t dwell on her husband’s passing and are both in some

sort of denial.  Even just pausing for a moment to let it all sink causes a small panic and sense of dread and extreme sadness.

My counselor’s “delay” or “postponement” technique has really come in handy for this situation.

 

I didn’t know he was the youngest of six children.  I didn’t know his mother wanted him to be a preacher and NOT a pilot.

She laughed and said could I imagine Buck as a preacher?  I laughed along with her, but also noted his Paul Harvey mid-western drawl would make

him a great preacher.  But at the same time, his brutal honesty would throw some people off.

She told me about one of his best pilot friends who left his wife, with whom he had five children with, to live with a flight attendant.

Buck and his wife would go to many Jazz festivals with his friend and new live-in girl.  

 

But before the conversation got off the ground (Bad pilot pun), I told her I wanted to 

start the cars to keep the batteries charged.  Even though she won’t be driving the cars ever again, I want to keep them operational 

for when it’s time to sell them or give them away to the heirs.

 

I also changed the AC filter as Buck use to ask me to do monthly. (Some things will continue on)

 

At one point she asked me, what do I think caused his death.  I quoted the doctor from his last and most recent hospital stay, he was 87, had heart issues,

his cancer spread to his lymph nodes, lungs and probably all the organs, he pretty much quit eating at one point and finally, he caught COVID at the other hospital.

A not-so-Perfect Storm.

 

She said he made her life interesting.  One time he came home and told her and his son, they are taking a trip to Japan….

We also both agreed he was a great and generous man.  He would have also approved of my love for John Coltrane.

 

During our talk, I realized all the unanswered questions I never got to ask of him.  

I paused our talk to go turn the cars off in the garage (yes….the doors were opened)

When I came back, she repeated the story of the pilot friend and new live-in girlfriend and 

attending the Jazz Festivals.  I forgot to mention, she has stage 3 Alzheimer’s.  

 

Out of respect for her, and the fact any other reaction would be pointless, I asked new questions about it.

I will try to visit her as I did Buck in his final months.

If I’m the highlight of someone’s day, I should treat that as honor and gift.

 

The Loop will start again.

Perpetual Denial

Perpetual Denial

 

My friend and neighbor has been gone for over 24 hours.  I’ve tried my best to avoid dwelling on it.  Sometimes with a little success.

I’m not sure why I am trying to hide from the loss.  I’ve experienced a lot of it over my lifetime.  Maybe the reason I’m doing it this

Time is because I was heavily involved with him and his needs the last few weeks. Frantic calls for minor crisis, for major ones…for comfort, for

Promises I would try to help him “escape” his house arrest. (He was too weak towards the end to even lift the TV remote) 

He would call out of panic, terror, mistrust of his nurses and doctors…of his only son.

 

I was his safety net. I was his lightning rod.  His trusted agent. (Which is what my best friend calls me)  I hope I still am that to her.

Towards what I didn’t know at the time was his final week…I made promises to get him out of the house.  We kept waiting for a patient lift

To help him out of bed safely.  He wanted to sleep in the bedroom with his wife before it was too late.  His medical bed wouldn’t fit through the doorway.  

Now I appreciate some of the houses that have double doors into the Master Bedroom. 

 

His mood would flip on a dime towards the end.  I’ve never seen that side of him, but I also realize he wasn’t in his normal frame of mind.

The cancer was running rampant throughout his body.  I had a special ringtone set for him on the phone.

One morning around 4 am, he pulled his catheter out.  Blood was very visible.  He didn’t have a DNR order yet, and his blood pressure started to crash.

I called 911 and he bounced back.  But while at the hospital, about an hour before they closed visiting hours, he called and begged me to come visit.

(He forgot I was there at lunch time and promised to come the next day..) I dropped what I was doing and rushed to the hospital.

 

I held his hand, and we talked about anything and everything.  At one point he confided in me, almost breaking down that he wasn’t ready to die yet.

He was a fierce fighter at 87.  His will to live was so strong.  I comforted him the best I could.  I only made promises that I could deliver on, or explained

Why we couldn’t do certain things for specific reasons.  Which he would accept for the time being.

 

Writing this down, writing anything down over the years has helped me process it.  Reading it in black and white helps me deal with it in some small way.

I’m afraid of sitting still right now, with an idle mind.  Maybe I will do that tonight and let the loss sink in finally.  

 

And grieve.

 

 

 

We all fall down

We all fall down.

 

My neighbor is nearing the end of his life.  His brain is still in Fight or Flight mode, but his

Body is betraying him more and more each hour, each day.

Now instead of clear, sharp and concise words, he moans and mumbles silently.

He is sure we can hear him and his pleas to get out of bed.

I made so many promises to him this week, to help him get more freedom, to get out of bed, to go

For a spin in his wheelchair.  Anything to placate him and give him a brief pause from his “imprisonment”.

Our last conversation didn’t go well, he wanted to sue someone, anyone for malpractice, for keeping him restrained in bed. (He can barely lift 

His hands or grasp a napkin).

As I tried my best to take his dictation and type the email (that I wouldn’t send) he would drift off.  Then when I get him semi-awake, he got mad at me and denied 

He did indeed drift off.

I think as a retired airline pilot, he can’t handle any sense of losing control, of relying on others.

…of being helpless.

 

My own parents seemed to be the opposite in their final years.  Knowing they couldn’t be who they were, five, ten years ago.  They silently accepted their 

New normal.  To be placed in the 24/7 care of a professional institution.    I tired to ease my Father’s transition.  I moved him closer in a small trailer.  I should have moved him in with us.

But we were both working, and had a young child to take care of.  I couldn’t expect my wife to drop everything to care for my father.  

 

He seemed happy at the new place, he had a private room , away from the main house.  So he still had his space, and could take walks whenever he wanted to.

My mother couldn’t walk anymore, so she got a bed next to the window. 

 

Dad made it for two more years, my mother, maybe another 3-4 years if memory serves me correctly.  They all blur together and fade each year.

 

My in-laws have ignored the signs and the advice of their own children and now it’s too late to find a better alternative.  Drastic measures need to happen.  Purging so many items, and the large house they should have never, ever built.

Denial is a cruel drug.  

 

I just hope I have some semblance of reality when my time comes.  I must accept my new norm as it changes each decade.  I just hope I live into my 80’s as my parents did. To see new inventions and wonders.

To see my grandchildren flourish.

 

I fear growing old, but I know it has to happen, how I face it, how I accept it will determine how I live my life moving forward.

 

 

 

 

Visiting Hours

Buck, my neighbor under hospice care was checked into the hospital a few days ago.

He didn’t have a DNR, so he got saved and bounced back the best that they could do for him.

I saw him at lunchtime today, and he forgot I wasn’t stopping by after work tonight.

Around 7pm, he called me with panic and urgency, pleading for me to come visit.

I raced to the hospital in case I couldn’t stay past visiting hours ending at 8pm. They let me stay past 9.

His cough has worsened, and he grows weaker each day. Early into our talk, he said he wasn’t ready to die yet. Part panic, remorse, regret and unfinished things to yet do.

I held and squeezed his hand and comforted him. Anything that bothered him that was trivial, I helped him delay and postpone that worry as my own psychologist helped me do a couple years before. I hope I have that much fight left in me at 87.

We talked about anything and everything. I got him to laugh and reminisce about his life. I heard new stories about his various careers he had at one time or another.

He feared he wouldn’t make it til morning and I tried to ease his fears without making empty promises.

I am humbled and overwhelmed that he calls me over his own son who has been absent and stand-offish in the last decade.

I continuously remind him that I am no saint or perfect in anyway.

But he gives me an opportunity to think and help someone other than myself for a change. To put someone’s time and needs over my own.

As 9pm arrived I told him to “behave” which is an inside joke. Cause he is stubborn.

As always, I don’t know how many days he has left here. I kept my promise to see him everyday when I can if even for a little visit as my usual life still has demands and deadlines.

Such an exhaustive balance I try to keep. But worth it if it brings him some sense of peace and hope.

Sleep well and sleep deep Buck, I will see you tomorrow.