Fear of the Weather

It was late last August that I wrote a piece detailing my summer vacation, which can be read here. This was a vacation that included my new tradition of attending the LPGA’s annual visit to Portland (or North Plains – which is not very close to Portland, really) for the Safeway Classic. This event has inspired and excited me to no end since my first experience in 2010 and I wanted to share in some small way my enthusiasm and try and spread the word about these amazing golfers. Somehow this eventually turned into an invite from the LPGA itself encouraging me to write about the 2012 edition for their website’s “fan diary” section. When I first read that suggestion via email early in the morning so many months ago, I could be seen skipping through the streets like a cartoon Easter Bunny. “Why, of course, I’d love to write about the tournament,” I calmly stated back through email after waiting a few days as to not seem too freaky and come across as a sane individual (I believe I have presented a differing view if someone actually reads ‘Summerside’). Once the actual mania started to fade, two alternating beliefs have been most prevalent in my mind. The first being that I do not actually believe that this will happen, and secondly, if it were to happen – me being responsible for writing a daily log of the tournament from my perspective on a real website - that I will be completely blocked and only be able to write, at best, the most inane boring factoids about the event. Though the tournament officially kicks off this Friday (August 17th), there are already activities, practice rounds and Pro-Am’s happening out there, I am still lost between both of these worlds. For the last couple of months, my ability and ambition to write has been at a frustratingly low level, as evidenced by the old/recycled writing I’ve posted on this site during that time. And as I type these words right now, I’m not sure I actually believe that when I email whatever junk I conjure up in a few days that I will then see the material appear at LPGA.com. Despite receiving full week tournament passes for the event in an envelope marked with the LPGA logo, none of this feels possible or real.


If one were to actually read the piece I presented on August 23, 2011, they would find that I was pretty excited. I left out little fan-boy squealing details about how the pretty golfing star Paula Creamer lightly touched my shoulder as she approached a slightly wayward drive through the large gallery following her round on the 17th hole at Pumpkin Ridge’s Ghost Creek course. Life was good. I was lucky enough to fly off to Boise the prior weekend for an amazing birthday celebration for Ann and to visit with old friends, I was able to take time off from work, and I was doing what I wanted to do. In fact, the high from that weekend was contagious. I managed to carry it well into the first half of this year. It was that week where I semi-consciously decided that I had to start saying “yes” to life again. It sounds easy, but I had lost sight of that ability and had found myself floundering and living a life that mostly involved only going to work, catching up with too many television shows and rarely venturing anywhere outside of my work space and my meager apartment. I even started (semi) joking with my friends about my desire to become a shut-in. Regaining a desire to engage again filled me with energy. I found myself reconnecting with old friends and family, going out and experiencing things again, re-engaging with my passion for live music (I have seen more live music in 2012 then probably the prior three years combined!) and going to see anyone I want to despite having to work the next morning at 5 am. I have traveled more during this last year, started a regular exercise routine that had me in the best physical condition I’ve been in since the horrific run of surgeries began in 2000, and this summer I even joined a bowling league. Oh, and how can I forget the ongoing love affair with the Portland Timbers in my 11th year as a season ticket holder?  It has been a mini revival for me - an awakening from a slumber of complacency that crept in after the high of receiving a kidney transplant started to wear off a couple of years after the occurrence (and after, maybe not so coincidentally, my steroid regimen had been tapered down to a minimum). Leading up to my planned vacation for this summer, serendipitously other great activities started to line-up like last year. Two weeks ago, the Dum Dum Girls played a one off fundraiser show in Seattle and the weekend leading into my time off from work found another Seattle show featuring two great northwest bands (the Purrs, and Black Nite Crash) and especially, the Nebraska duo Drakes Hotel. These trips would offer me the chance to visit my old friend Wil and his family, and my niece and nephew. This was the type of adventure I was looking forward to.

Unfortunately, shortly after a great run of shows that ended with an amazing Dum Dum Girls set during Memorial Day weekend (story can be found here), I started to notice exhaustion setting in. At first I thought, maybe I was pushing myself too far. This was likely, so I allowed myself to slow down for a few weeks. Besides, there was a break in great shows for a month, so I wouldn’t be able to chide myself for not sticking with my big plans. It was around the 4th of July holiday, when a big gathering of great childhood friends were all to gather down at our old coastal stomping grounds to golf and shoot the shit that I realized that something else was going on. I was still feeling exhausted and fatigued. My limbs felt heavy and my body sore, as if I had recently been in a vicious car wreck. I was finding every day to day simple activity difficult and instead of getting better with extra rest, the symptoms were getting worse. It was time for my regular check-up with my excellent nephrologist, so I brought up my developing condition. She took this very seriously and immediately began running a series of labs and tests that have lasted for several weeks. This scenario has led to an irritating cycle of calling my doctor’s office for her to call me with test results (and the side effect of me developing a massive crush on her new receptionist), which have so far resulted in no diagnosis and no explanation for my decreasing energy level and increased fatigue and frustration.

photo by William Campbell

This is where I stand (or sit uncomfortably) now. Last weekend, my trip to Seattle started off promising, but due to my condition, uneventful. Wil, Carrie, the kids and I lounged around and chatted and had some laughs. Then Wil and I exited for the big show with the three bands. Upon arrival and small surge of genuine energy began to work its way through me. The anticipation for inspiring music and a new venue was growing. I was also hoping that my brother’s kids would show up. Low and behold, Chris Y from Drakes Hotel spotted us outside and came to say ‘hello’ and let us know that we were on the guest list (we met a few times when they were based in Portland a few years ago)! This was quite a surprise and an honor! The Drakes are a husband and wife duo who modestly makes amazing music. I’ve always thought that if I was a musician (and I am most definitely not), I would likely be found in a similarly small home recorded style set up. I appreciate what they’re trying to do and they do it very well. Their three albums dating back to 2007’s Tell Me Everything (there is a long lost older debut that is a greatly kept secret that I am not privy to other than via innuendo) are solid efforts that have routinely landed in my annual top albums list. Their newest offering, Logic Adopts Senses, will most likely fit this bill by year’s end. Their straightforward programmed beats and low end has always been a back drop to tasteful layers of tuneful guitar lines and Amy Drakes’ otherworldly and mysterious vocals. Normally, I would suggest that their style as two-piece would not translate well in a live setting, but they manage to exceed those expectations. As each song began a few more people approached the stage to take in the unique spectacle. Their quiet intensity grew with each song and Amy dazzled as she bounced down to her knees and back up lost in the moment and taking the few of us there with them. It’s a shame that they, as an opener only had the time to play such a short set. There were so many songs that I wanted to hear, especially after the rousing rendition of Tell Me Everything’s tension building “Wreck,” whose chorus offers a release that is oh so satisfying, and the rousing “Kids R Chrome,” which was not an early favorite when listening to the new album. It sure is now. Wow! This is where my dwindling energy took over. I had to stay in the back for most of Black Nite Crash’s set. I had to sit down. They sounded great, especially on their earliest material, but I’m not so sold on the newer material which I’m not familiar with (too derivative of the Doors for my taste). But disconcertingly, I could not hold out for the Purrs and we had to make an early exit.

Now, I am about to face the reality of going into the big golf event – the deal I’ve been building up in my head for a year – knowing that I may not be able to get through it. The week has not started out precipitously either. When I returned home from Seattle on Sunday, I found out that my work place would be extremely short-handed, so I agreed to work during my vacation Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Then, we find out that Portland is about to enter a real 100 degree style heat wave during the tournament. All I can envision is heat stroke and an ambulance ride from the ninth hole to a hospital 20 miles away in Portland, after trying to caddy for one of the golfers during this Thursday’s Pro-Am (yes, I volunteered to caddy!!). What do I do? Do I admit defeat, as my resolve has taken a massive hit, as my fatigue has grown, or do I try my best and hope to get through the adventure? As Thursday nears, and now that I have secured a pair of my official caddy khaki shorts, I am realizing that my growing despondence over my health situation cannot and will not keep me from doing what I want to do. If I do pass out from exhaustion and heat stroke this Thursday on a fairway trailing behind someone like Morgan Pressel, then I would rather pass out there than at home alone in front of the TV watching golf. If I take a tumble off a side slope while following around Leta Lindley’s final round as a professional in Portland and make an embarrassing scene like my huge thudding crash land at bowling league on Monday night, then I will be crash landing doing what I want to do.

One more day of work and then it all begins….

Keep an eye out here for links to the fan diary that I may or may not be writing from the emergency room, which may or may not be posted at LPGA.com.

Just Wait

Here is a piece I wrote years ago in about a 20 minute stretch while away at college. It was a spurred on by a combination of not being able to access an empty washing machine in the dorm's laundry room and from wrestling with an assigned paper about the dangers of dehumanization for a Holocaust course.  It was later published by a website named Unlikely Stories (http://www.unlikelystories.org/old/).

I have always hated muggy days. The kind of day where the humidity enhances the already hot air and creates an incessant and irritating film of sweat that clings to one's body even during complete inactivity. Today is one of those days.


I wandered around campus trying to find something to do besides schoolwork. This term I managed to schedule all of my classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, so I could have four days a week without lecture and boredom. Enjoying the bustling energy of students coming and going and rushing around, I feel relieved not to be in any hurry to get anything done. I should get some homework done, but with this humidity and stuffiness there is no way I can possibly get anything done. Maybe my dorm-mate, Jeff and I, can head downtown this afternoon and check out some record shops, and grab some food other than the greasy grilled cheese that we’ll inevitably order at the cafeteria. He’ll still be in class for another couple of hours however. I should get something done. There is always laundry to do. I haven’t done a load of laundry since getting back to school and I think people may be noticing. Fuck it. I’ll take care of it. I truly need to get something halfway productive done today. I can’t let this stifling heat shut me down completely.

No elevator. Every time I walk up these flights of stairs to my room, I think about the thousands and thousands of dollars my parents and I are paying for this school. And here I am climbing stairs. Sometimes the building reminds me of summer camp. It’s like they don’t want us to have any modern luxuries. There are no screens on our windows and Jeff and I are attacked nightly by giant mosquitoes thirsty for blood, yet we keep the windows open, because without a fan or air conditioning the room gets so unbearably hot that a little bloodletting seems worth it for a smidgen of fresh air. It’s somewhat surprising that we have running water in the bathrooms, or bathrooms at all. This must be a life lesson they’re trying to teach us - a survival technique. By the time I reach the room, I am covered with a clammy sweat created by the dense air permeating the inside of the mildew-ridden walls of the ancient dormitory. Soon the weather will be changing, but for now the autumn is bringing heat that rivals summer. I cannot wait 'til winter.

Underwear, socks, jeans, and concert t-shirts make up my daily uniform and they are all well worn. I stuff a huge pile of them into my brand new laundry basket, along with a box of unopened laundry detergent. I manage to dig out some quarters from various corners of the room and head back downstairs for the laundry room in the basement of the building. Considering that most people will be in class at the moment, this should be an opportune time to do the wash. I should have my pick of the machines down there.

I hit the laundry room door with a thud from the momentum of running down the stairs. The lightweight door slams into the wall and stops dead against it. The pungent odor of the laundry room strikes me. A smell that can only be described as “classic basement.” A smell comprised of dirt and hot, wet air. I can feel my face cringe. Not being one who likes to make a scene, I do not expect anyone to be in the room. Unfortunately, I am wrong. A giant woman stands looking at my dramatic entry from the center row of washing machines. I have never seen her before. She has dirty hair dangling loosely about her misshapen head. While keeping my cringing expression, I focus in on the woman’s large bumpy nose and what looks like missing teeth. She reminds me of a giant witch, save for the hideous flower print dress dangling over her hulking form. A form which closely resembles the purple mass that is the curious shake sucking oddity of McDonalds’ Grimace. I believe that she has a wad of chewing tobacco stuffed into her cheek as well. The unbearably loud roar of the washing machines puts me in a momentary trance as I stare at this intruder.

The creature shouts at me over the din as I begin my trek around the room looking for an empty washer amongst the lint balls wafting above the cracked charcoal cement floor. The booming, yet hoarse voice pierces my head, making my ears buzz from the concussion.

BOY! WHAT’CHA DOIN’?

I pretend that I didn’t hear anything and rush for the only empty washer placed, unfortunately, next to this monster. I sit the basket down on the front edge of the empty machine, balancing it with my hip. The gargantuan size of this woman makes the maneuver of getting my stuff loaded difficult. Her huge sandbag breasts are sitting atop a shelf-like stomach that seems to be at my eye level and is partially blocking the empty washer. I reach for a handful of my clothes to begin loading the machine.

WAIT BOY! THAT’S MA MACHINE! I THINK THIS ‘UN IS DONE THO, she blurts and spits as she lifts the lid to a machine on her opposite side, only to reveal brown water swishing around. NOPE! I GUESS NOT!

What is going on? This woman doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t live in this dormitory. Why is she doing laundry here? Somehow her sheer size and volume shut me down. I back away slowly with my basket shielding me. She has taken the last available washer from me and I am at a loss about what to do. I retreat confused, sweaty and shaken from what is happening. I pound my feet up the stairs again and head back to my room on the top floor, unwashed laundry in tow.

In the room, I throw on some music and try to reassess the situation. I can head over to a neighboring dorm and throw in my load. It’s too hot out for that long trip. Besides, I have access to a laundry room in my own building. That monstrosity does not belong down there using those machines! All I need is one fucking washer! I shouldn’t have to wait for clean clothes because of this intruder!

With a renewed courage, I storm back down to the boiling laundry room. I kick open the loosely hinged door with even more force than earlier. I shout out to the woman, again looking over at me from the smash of the door against the wall. She stands hunched over a helpless machine, reminding me of that fucked up Muppet thing that used to hang out with Big Bird on Sesame Street.

“I want to wash my clothes now,” I sternly state from the doorway.

I DON’ KNOW WHAT’S STOPPIN’ YA BOY! THEYS ‘UN RIGHT HERE! She roars back with a sinister grin splayed across her patchy toothless face.

Undaunted, I move over to the now vacant machine, whose white surface is dusted with a brown film. I quickly throw all of the clothes packed in my basket into the washer, along with a cup of detergent. I shove a couple of quarters into the slot and feel fortunate that the machine starts to hum and shake and fill with water. Success.

WHAT’S YER NAME BOY?

I stare at the source of this question blankly.

“Cleet,” I reply flatly, with no intention of her getting to know anything about me. I turn to leave, having accomplished part one of my goal. In my periphery, I see her hawk up some gunk and spit it out onto the unsuspecting floor. A string of goo remains on her chin for a moment before swinging itself into the oblivion of her flowery massive front side. I wince and begin heading towards the dangling door of this rotten basement.

CLEET, EH? MA BRUTHA IS NAMED CLEET! ME-N-CLEET HAD SOME LAUGHS! She shouts. Her head leans back as if she can see those laughs on the dry-rotted ceiling above amongst the cobwebs.

I begin to cough and choke loudly to interrupt the eminent story about incest and “coon huntin’” that I can sense coming my way.

PLEASED TO MEET ‘CHA! MY NAME IS MYRTLE! HA! HA!

I make no reply and bolt out the door and run up the several flights of stairs to the safety of my room.

I had to forget that horrible woman downstairs. The vision of her is imprinted in my mind’s eye, despite doing all I could to avert my eyes when I was down there. What the hell was she doing there?

At least the clothes were being cleaned.

I lay down on my bed, suddenly feeling overcome by the heavy air and the disorienting activities from the basement. I shut my eyes hoping for sleep. I actively slow down my breathing. I begin to feel almost claustrophobic. My skin starts to itch. Relax. Breathing as deeply as possible, I begin choking on what seems to be dry dirt. The dirt has me surrounded completely. Frantically, I begin to turn and toss and spin digging through loose impediments of gravel and earth, never-ending. It fills my eyes and mouth, suffocating me. Panic sets in.

I jump up off of my bed, shaken by the horror of being buried alive. My eyes now open, trying to regain a sense of my surroundings. What just happened? I set my gaze at the clock. Its familiar red digits tell me that nearly an hour has passed since I had returned to my room. My eyelids feel heavy and my face numb as I pace the small room. All I need to do is head back downstairs, transfer the clothes to a dryer and hope that the crazy woman is gone. An evening trip into town later would be a welcome event after encountering the monster in the basement. I’ve got to relax.

I feel calm as I make my way down the stairs to the laundry room. I carefully open the door and poke my head into the room before fully entering.

WHERE YA BEEN BOY?

She’s still here. Great. Ignoring her foul inquiry, I stay silent as I peruse the room for an empty dryer. Every dryer is full, as I suspected.

“Are there any open dryers,” I ask as politely as possible, hoping for some sort of cooperation.

NO WAY BOY! THEYS ALL FULL! HA! HA! She screams as she slaps some wet things into a dryer.

Was I the only one having to deal with this shit? She has every dryer in use and I have but one load to dry. She is no student. I am not asking for much: just one dryer.

BOY! YOU TALK TOO MUCH! HA! HA! She spews interrupting my thoughts. YOU OUGHTA MEET UP WITH MY DAUGHTERS! THEY'S GETTING PRETTY! MY OLDEST SHOULD BE ABOUT YOUR AGE! WHADDYA SAY, BOY?

I begin to shut her out as best I can. I focus on the dryer that she is currently loading. It isn’t being used yet. My body moves towards that dryer. The woman is leaning down to the dryer door putting in another fistful of the eternally filthy garments, continuing to babble. The girth of her backside blocks my intent focus on the precious machine.

I now stand directly behind her. She leans in further. Her head now just about level with the top of the dryer. My hand grabs at a greasy wad of her stringy mane and slams her head into the metal box. Her head cracks and bounces back into my grip. With a stronger hold, I pound her forehead repeatedly into the machine. Each blow feels firmer than the last. Blood appears on the white box. I can hear some shrieking, but it seems somehow muted. The huge body attached to the head in my hand slumps over pulling my arm with it. I put my knee down to the ground next to the body, my fist still entangled in the strings. The foul body lay in a heap against the cool floor. I can still hear noise. I pound more, this time against the cement surface of the ground. The head turns soft in my hand. Blood rushes toward the drain in the floor nearby. I am now pretty sure that the shrieking has stopped. My hand slips free after a while - pieces of its head still stuck inside my fist. I toss the strings away from me and reach over the carcass to throw the shit in the dryer onto the floor.

I walk to the washer that has my clothes. Quietly and efficiently, I transfer the load into the now free dryer, and stick my last two quarters inside and press the start button.

The room seems very calm now. All sound is now gone, save for the quiet hum of one single dryer. I can feel its warmth on my leg. It’s really hot today, so damn uncomfortable.

Why Why Why

A warm day sometime in 1990



I ran down the patchy grass slope toward the downstairs MPR entrance to the Commons. I started to dance around by swinging my arms around with my elbows held upright in an imaginary slam pit circle. I kicked my knees high in the air and circled back towards the basement double doors. Various misquoted lyrics from the Dead Kennedys “I Kill Children” flew from my mouth as Ian (inexplicably pronounced as ION) charged and tackled me. Julie was standing off to the side with her arms folded across her chest watching the display.

Owen stepped out from the doorway and shouted for us to all gather inside. Owen was the boss for one of my work study jobs. One was as a “manager” of the campus radio station and one was being part of the set-up crew. The set-up crew consisted of me, Brian, Ian and Owen. We were charged with transporting and setting up equipment for events all over campus. If there was to be a speech given by the University President in Marsh Hall, then we’d wheel the special fancy presidential podium over there along with the sound equipment. Whoever was the one actually wheeling the podium around would have no choice but to give an impromptu mobile lecture to all the unwilling audience members who were passing by. Since there was rarely any kind of actual event happening on campus, we spent most of our work time screwing screws into broken chairs that littered the MPR storage closet or checking on the raw meat sacrifice laid out on the floor of the boiler room for the giant beast that allegedly lived there and not in my mind. This day, however, was a different story. The Dharma Bums, a Portland band that was getting some national underground notice, were performing in the Commons on a Friday night and we had to set up staging and move all of the tables and chairs out of the cafeteria. This was a big score for this little college out in the middle of nowhere. This also meant that Owen was all business. He had asked us to recruit as many people as possible to help us out with this major project. We were only able to gather a few. Julie, who I had recently been spending time with, agreed to help out. As did “Dula” Dave, the dreadlocked mellow man I had befriended the prior year through the radio station. Unfortunately, he had already disappeared (we had also coined him “Dead Air” Dave because of his penchant for leaving during the middle of his radio show). Brian had recruited the mostly deaf Dungeons and Dragons playing Nate, and Ian had brought along Cynthia, who was a freshman who I always assumed Ian was seeing, but was never sure, and who always reminded me of The Pixies’ Kim Deal. Instead she was a fan of Paula Abdul and her plastic sounds.

As we all noisily gathered in the MPR scattered around Owen, who was inside waiting for us, I spotted the piano in the corner and raced toward it. Immediately, I began pounding the keys with authority and allowing the ringing discordance to linger in the low-ceilinged, wide open, sterile basement room. Ian followed me over and we began to bark out the sinister words to Swans’ early stand against fascism “I Crawled.” At that moment, I had a flash of déjà vu, because I had once before hammered out this, one of my greatest hits, on the piano at the church for Baccalaureate a year or so earlier with a different Ian from high school. That time we were shouted at for disrupting the proceedings. This time, Owen simply watched silent until we petered out, gave up our performance, and wandered over to join the rest of the group. This method of dealing with disruption was much more effective. His lack of intervention somehow sucked all the fun out of it.

Owen spoke to us about our game plan for the evening. I thought back to that weird Baccalaureate evening. I remember unwittingly sitting down when we were supposed to stand. I remember Andy, sitting next to me in the pews, dropping his freshly emptied can of Coke onto the floor, interrupting the proceedings and causing everyone to stop what they were doing, and focus their attention in our direction, until the rolling can finally came to rest all the way down near the front. I remembered Watson’s dad’s strange sermon about how we should all be praying for specific things in life. It sounded different than what I’d always heard, but whatever, right? Who needs to make a wish for world peace? If I want more of those short little extra crunchy French Fries in my large sized order, when I make my way through the drive-thru, then I had to go ahead and pray for such a thing. Then I found my thoughts drifting to the Dharma Bums. How many times had we all seen them open for some band at the Pine Street Theater? It had become so ridiculous that when they entered the MPR to meet with all of us in the set-up crew at that moment, they recognized me as the floppy haired guy who always stands stage left at shows. I asked the drummer who they were opening for that night. He did not respond.

Owen had stopped his huge list of instructions and the entire hubbub of meeting the band died down. We had been instructed about what our goals were and how much time we had to complete them in with far too few people, so we were dispersed back outside. I had missed everything having been lost in thought. I grabbed Ian as we headed out and asked him what we were supposed to do. He seemed annoyed. I figured it was because Nate was shouting to Brian something that should only have been shared between them, if at all, but Nate was never very good about keeping his voice down. Julie was standing away from the rest of us, though she was supposedly here with me and was good friends with Cynthia. I kept looking around for her attention and she kept avoiding me.

Earlier that day, I had told her that I loved her. Now, I had to track her down to join in on this group job. She looked at me with sympathy. She continued to watch from a distance and lit a cigarette. This surprised the hell out of me, because I didn’t know she smoked. I approached her and asked her what was wrong. She said that she didn’t want to talk with me. She was only there because she had already agreed to be there and because she needed the money – however minimal. She told me that I would never understand her. She told me that we would never work. She told me that she was sorry for me. She felt bad for me, because of what I had said to her. She said that because of it, she couldn’t believe a word I would ever say.

I was devastated, as she told me all of these things in front of everyone else. She continued on. She said that I did not treat her with respect - instead I was only in love with the idea of her. She pointed out that I rarely spent time with her and that I did not know her. Looking into her eyes, maybe for the first time, I could see the words: “Why did you have to say it” scroll across them over and over like a mantra. She clearly had lost all of that initial attraction and respect for me. She could only manage a mothering look of sympathy, hoping that I would learn from this lesson. I felt like a child in that moment that had just touched the hot burner on the stove despite warnings to not do so. I was that child and I knew she was right.





Story inspired by the 1995 song by Containe

Lush and Green

A new start. Isn’t that what we all are always asking for? I’m always screwing up all of my grand plans. Time to begin again. Too often the reminder comes from another’s end. It’s that reminder of mortality that shocks my mind into realizing that I waste all of my time and achieve none of my goals.


I’ve always envied those who believe in an afterlife. I never have. Not as a young toddler. Not now as a jaded and tired adult. It sure would make things easier to handle - believing that this is just a stopover before some sort of paradise. Of course, since I have not been blessed with an all consuming faith, I will instead apparently be headed towards a torturous eternity. Or so I’ve been warned. I don’t care. I don’t pay any attention anymore.

How does one ‘move on’ from a loved one’s passing? I sure haven’t figured it out. Are we supposed to? Why is it that I can feel guilty when I’m not completely absorbed in sorrow for those who are not here anymore?

I contemplate these thoughts as I stop on a small dusty platform that has formed alongside the steep pathway that has been forged over years of hikers passing quietly through this forest. A partially exposed tree root the size of my leg keeps the crackled hard pan level. I can feel my heart pound and my accelerated breathing dries my throat. Sweat drips from my temples and coats my exposed arms. I never remember the ground getting so dry when I grew up near here. Now, that I’m a tourist, it’s always sunny and warm. I take a deep breath as I try to restart my stiffening legs and return to the uphill trek. Not much farther to the top. Dust rises as I shuffle my feet to regain momentum and get back to stepping up the pathway.

Once I reach mostly level ground along the pathway, the trail widens and the surroundings become greener.  I can see the sky and some clouds have partially obscured the bright sun.  A sign post marks the name of the trail I walk along.  It portrays a sketchy map of the remainder of the trail that ends in grasslands high over the ocean, but I only know that from experience.  The lines on the map don’t really tell me anything.  A crinkly pile of paper snagged together by a dangling clipboard waves in the freshening breeze displaying guest sign in sheets.  I glance through the handful of names written down in varying styles of handwriting.  There have been visitors on this very day from as far away as Germany, Japan and Australia.  I wonder how they knew about this place.  I lived less than 10 miles from here as a kid and didn’t know about it until I hung out with a school chum whose family lived nearby.  Most of the people who have signed are from the northwest.  If I were to visit Australia, I wouldn’t know about anything there.  My only accumulated knowledge is from Men at Work and Midnight Oil lyrics in the 80s and some of those local flavor pieces on the NBC Sydney Olympics coverage in 2000.  The ones I would generally avoid by flipping to other channels.  Oh and how could I forget those Australian Toaster Biscuit ads?  I grab the carved wooden pencil that is attached to the clipboard with a white string.  I scratch out: “OZZY” and “HELL” on the lines next to “NAME” and “FROM.”  This is what I have always done when visiting this place, ever since my 5^th grade class wandered through here with my hippie teacher in search of deer scat.  The humor long ago wore off, but I remain intent on keeping up traditions.

I kiss the wind and make the rain

Jealous enough to fall for days

I fall on you when I hear thunder

I kiss the ground you lie under

Moving on ahead, I notice that the firs are starting to become taller again, and the shadows grow into a severe darkness. The horizon in front of me disappears as the trail begins another upward trajectory. I am completely exhausted. It’s difficult to believe that this trail used to be so easy to traverse. Only one more steep stretch and then the ocean will become audible, the towering trees will end abruptly, and daylight will be regained.

To my left I see the small river widen far below as it merges with the oncoming ocean. Just past it is the inviting beach. That beach will always signify the last time I truly understood the innocence of childhood play. It was there where a few of my friends and I were on the precipice of adulthood and the push to do adult things and become responsible, but shrugged off the pressure and played like 8 year old boys. That beach is perfectly framed between two trees poking up from below me. This is the place. I carefully step off the narrow pathway created by countless footfalls smashing down the long grasses that would otherwise be blowing in synchronized dances with the wind. I continue off the trail and slightly downhill until I feel like it’s no longer safe. I sit down on a piece of what looks like driftwood, but cannot imagine that it drifted all the way up here. Sitting below the level of the grasses and small shrubs mutes the roaring of the violence of the sea crashes into the rocks several hundred feet straight down. From here, I know only the most keenly aware passersby will be able to detect my presence. I am, after all, not supposed to stray from the trail.

Now I only sleep when spoken to

So I'll lay here still in morning dew

Drink up with the flowers and trees

Above you all is lush and green

I contemplate what this place means to me. It does not evoke memories of my mom. It is supposed to. This is where she wanted her remains to be placed. I never realized how much this place meant to her. To me, it will always evoke thoughts of running around at dusk with 25 grade school classmates playing what seemed like the most majestic and grand game of Capture the Flag in history. It reminds me of eating beef jerky for the first time. It reminds me of my experiences with my childhood friends. I don’t associate this place with her at all. Guilt wells up inside me. This has always been the problem. When she got sick, I was away at college. When I returned home, I was never fully there. I had spent most of my teenage years dreaming of escaping and finding my feet in a new life – a life built around my passions somewhere else. My small taste of freedom was still fresh and I wanted to go back. I had started to build a new group of friends. I thought that I had finally found love. I thought that I was finally building a foundation for my future. Then I found myself back at home, stuck there recovering from surgery, while trying to handle watching my mom wither away. I was selfishly strongly aware that what she was going through was likely what I would have to deal with sooner or later. It felt sooner as I struggled to recover from a disastrous month long hospital stay. The biggest difference is that despite my battle, I did eventually start to feel my strength return, while she continued to decline. As I felt better, I began to pull away again toward the pull of life. I will never forgive myself for this. I was at home to help, but I wasn’t there at all.

My thoughts are interrupted from the sound of muffled voices coming from the trail above. I stay completely still, as if they might’ve heard the thoughts swirling around in my giant head. I think that I hear Australian accents. I smile to myself, because I’ve always enjoyed many of the Australian accents I’ve heard over the years. Australians always sound enthusiastic. They get me fired up. This may have everything to do with most of those voices coming from television, where people are trained to sound excited about everything they do. I wonder what my life would be like if I never went back to my home, but instead headed to some warm white beaches along a coast of Australia somewhere.

The voices fall out of earshot. I return my gaze towards the wildflowers and the waterway they look down upon. I don’t know when I’ll be back here. At the rate I’m going I may not be able to make this trek without aid. Why is it that I only decided to return here when the sickness returned?

 

Now I kissed the wind and made the rain

Jealous and it'll fall for days

And I drink up with these flowers and trees

And I still love you

All is lush and green

Above you all is lush and green

*Lyrics and Title provided by Grandpaboy, or Winthrope Marion Purcival V, or Paul Westerberg, 1997



Close to Me

This is the last of the entries I made during the period of time from when I first learned that I had become eligible to be placed onto the kidney transplant list to receiving the actual transplant on October 18, 2004.  I do not know why I stopped adding to the journal what turned out to be well over a year before the waiting ended.  It could've been that nothing was progressing and the waiting continued unabated.  It could be because I worked with my transplant doctor to aggressively pursue any effort to change my body in order to be a better fit for a donor kidney match.  This means that I was placed on immune suppressants and given bi-weekly treatments of IVIG to cleanse my blood of antibodies that could prevent matches.  The net result was that my health deteriorated quickly as did my level of hope.  In the end, I will never know if this attempt to push the matching process along was a factor for the kidney I did finally receive, but I wouldn't change a thing.

Monday, August 25, 2003.


Over the last weekend, I had a dream. I was in Forest Grove (or the Frosty Grave) with my friends Jeff and Steph. Jeff and I went to college at Pacific University (or P-U) in the Grave years and years ago. We were roommates at one time. Now, somehow we are still friends and he has since married Stephanie and the three of us found ourselves in a bar that in the dream was apparently located in FG. My beeper started to go off. I began to hyperventilate. It was finally my chance! The beeper meant that a kidney was waiting for me and all I had to do was go claim it. I ran out of the dark bar into the daylight on the sidewalk. There was a phone booth handy, but it was missing the phone. I looked at the number to call on the beeper’s tiny display. I kept looking at it. The people at the transplant clinic have told me that I would have about an hour to respond to the page, or else lose the kidney to the next person on the list. Steph ran after me outside. She was nearly as excited and bewildered as I was. I began to sweat bullets trying to figure out what to do next. My mind was a complete scramble. Steph was trying to help me calm down. She explained to me that she had a cell phone I could use. I looked into the open front door of the bar, where Jeff was standing. He was at the bar trying to pay our tab. He kept pulling losing lottery scratch-its out of his needlessly overstuffed wallet instead of money and the bartender was looking perturbed. I glanced back to the cell phone that Steph had handed me. I attempted to dial the number, but couldn’t punch it in properly. If the number was 2-9-3, I would tap in 2-4-3, and have to begin again. Serious panic set in and I began screaming my frustration as I fucked up the numbers again and again. I could hear Jeff getting lectured about ordering food and beer knowing full well that scratch-its aren’t currency. Jeff’s voice sounded confused and despondent as he tried to explain that his wallet did have money before, but is now filled with used losing tickets. Steph snatched the phone from my hand and punched in the correct number. The beeper began to beep anew. This was it!

I awoke to my alarm. That beeper in the dream was my alarm, and presumably my alarm again, after hitting the snooze bar in my sleep.

Today I purchased a cell phone. I hate cell phones. I have never wanted a cell phone – until now. My paranoia led me to it. The beeper is not enough. I need to be able to be able to speak directly with whoever may wind up calling for me, when (or if) a matching kidney becomes available. The notion of calling a number that appears on my pager, never knowing who they will be, bothers me, especially since my experience has always traced its way to a wrong number. At least wrong numbers or prank calls can be dealt with immediately. I will still have dreams of missing this most important call. I was even startled during dialysis today with a startling ring shortly after giving the transplant coordinator my new cell number. As I should’ve expected it was some chick looking for a Ted, or some such dude that I am not. I wonder how many wrong number calls people normally receive on their phones, because this feels ridiculous.

I wonder how I will actually feel if I actually do receive a call for a kidney. It will mean that someone has just died. The reality of this strikes me often and it fills me with guilt and sadness. Somehow I have placed myself in a position to hope for some stranger’s death. It makes me feel sick to my stomach, or maybe that’s the stomach ache I’ve had for the last two years. Either way, I don’t like what I’m facing.

Sinking or 'Grease' is the Word

This is the second to last 'kidney journal' entry, before I gave it up for good.  What amazes me most about reading through these again after so many years, is how far technolgy has come in 9 short years.  So many things I reference in here were outdated long ago.  Forgotten relics.  Some things never change though, and that is my dislike of that guy in "Grease."

Friday, August 15, 2003.



Ever since beginning dialysis, I started watching a lot more television. Not that I already wasn’t glued to the set for more hours a day than I would ever want to admit throughout my life, but now, it’s not comparable. It started with the addition of two new Law and Order spinoffs. Throughout the 90s, I only had one show that I felt compelled to tune into each week and that was the original Law and Order. I got hooked on it when my Mom and I watched a few episodes of the first season together before she passed away. Now there are three of them to keep tabs on! Since I am now tired, weak, and sedentary from being sick, and slowly working my way to stuffed animal status, I see lots of TV at home every evening in addition to the four or so hours of barely interrupted time during dialysis. Currently, at dialysis I have figured out how to watch four straight episodes of Perry Mason on three different channels during my stint. If I tire of the courtroom drama, I can always watch the eight episodes of M.A.S.H. that are spanned across two different channels. During the evenings, I have started watching the two CSI: shows and I love the new show Boomtown and especially the new version of Dragnet with the Married with Children guy. I actually get frustrated when they schedule “my” shows against each other. It really is disgusting. But now that it’s been summer re-runs for some time, I have been left with nothing, because I have seen all of the episodes already. Life becomes empty when it’s based on a TV schedule. That’s how I wind up watching Debbie Travis’ home improvement show Facelift late at night, when I could care less about that shit.

The other evening, I was tuning in to watch TNT’s nightly run of old Law and Order episodes hoping to see one where I don’t remember the outcome. This night, however, TNT decided to show the old musical Grease. I have seen Grease many times, but found myself excited to see it again anyway. The thing that I noticed about the movie that I had never noticed before, and I’m sure that it had everything to do with these new (to me) surround sound TVs and the weird sound separation that they seem to create - every time a song scene came on during the storyline of the movie, the vocals sounded as though they were being piped in from a giant hangar or spacious old train station. The vocals echoed at me as if Olivia was singing into a toilet paper tube from behind me. The reverb was downright silly. Unfortunately, every time I’ve watched Grease, I am reminded of my dislike for one of the extras. It’s a guy that’s in most of the song and dance sequences and he bugs the living shit out of me. He’s the one near the end of the movie, during that closing song (wompa lamma lamma ding dong?), who is wearing a light green short sleeve shirt and tan pants. He does a Groucho Marx inspired dance for a moment. Next time you run across it, and that’s really the only way anyone watches this movie, you’ll see who I’m talking about. At first, you’ll say to yourself, “that’s funny that Chris doesn’t like this guy.” Then, the next time you run across the movie, and you will, you will begin to see this guy running about throughout the entire movie, like during the “Grease Lightning” scene, and during the entire dance contest stretch, and even during the “Summer Lovin’” extravaganza near the beginning. I do not know why his presence irritates me so much, but even as an eight or nine year old watching that film for the first time, he made me angry. Every time I see him, I want to turn away. I threaten to hunt him down and torture him the way he has tortured me for years. Yes, I talk to the TV. And, no, I wouldn’t want to hunt him down.

After watching Grease, and running the gamut of practicing my “hickey from Kenickie” impersonation, my terrible Travolta singing, and trying to avert my eyes from the evil extra, later that night I came across the pilot movie for Hawaii Five-O. This is the first episode of one of the best shows ever and I had never seen it before! The pilot has a different Danno. This Danno chain smokes and doesn’t have that weird hair or the childlike run, and the dialog is more free and intriguing. Plus the pilot introduces us to the dreaded Red China agent Wo Fat, and of course, Steve McGarrett – the Lord, Jack Lord. We get to see the blue suit, his freakish skeletal face, and that hair. We get to hear him tell Danno to “BOOK ‘EM” for the first time as he arrests CIA agents just for being a nuisance to him. McGarrett commands and coerces people who are supposed to hold more power than him, though we all know better. There is nothing else quite like this show. There is nothing quite like wasting one’s life away by watching television all hours of the day and night. It’s no wonder I can’t sleep anymore.

The Baby Screams

This is an odd post.  The next entry in the 'waiting for the tranplant' journal of 2003 found me delving into more details of the reality that is being a dialysis patient.  One might think it would be a great time to reflect.  And for someone who finds writing therapeutic and conscious clearing, it would be a great time to write.  How many people get 4-5 hours of blank time 3 days a week?  Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to do anything.  In reality, it is a time to tune out.  For the most part, I kept this world to myself.  I rarely shared stories and discouraged visitors after the first few months as a patient.  However, I did write a few bits and pieces about dialysis and I have already swiped this particular entry for this very blog a few years ago. 

This actually works out well considering that this is the eve of a National holiday.  It's a re-run!

The Tuesday, August 12, 2003 journal entry can be found here.