Party of 1.

I celebrated my 50th birthday sitting in the surgical waiting room of Shawnee Mission Medical Center awaiting word from the doctor about amputating my mom’s foot. My sister Sharon and my brother David joined me. We watched television, sanitized our hands with Purell, did yoga, cried a little and prayed. Weird day all around. Here’s how it started.

I planned on going to church and then to the hospital where, for the past week, I’ve spent five minutes of every hour visiting my sedated mom. I hope she remembers the really funny things I’ve said to her, especially the jokes about her Michael Jackson cocktail and that she wouldn’t want to die on the same day as Ted Kennedy. At 7:30, before I got out of bed, I heard my mom say my name twice. Weird, you say, since I was in Leavenworth and she’s in a hospital in Kansas City, but I’ve heard that before and it means to call her. Think what you will. Anyway, I couldn’t call till 8:30, so I showered and coffeed and whatnotted until I could contact her nurse, Milagro, like the bean field war. She informed me, with a “Gee, I’m sorry to have to tell you this” tone, that the heart pump created a blood clot that blocked circulation to mom’s leg, that her foot was purple and mottled and that they needed to operate right away, would I give consent? How do you say no to a concerned nurse and a mottled foot? I gave the okay, called by sister and brother and left for the hospital.

When I arrived I was met in the lobby by mom’s heart doctor, Dr. Henry, the skilled, kind and straight-shooting surgeon that performed mom’s open-heart procedure. He said because of the loss of circulation it would take a heroic effort on the part of the vascular surgeon to save her leg below the knee. Best case scenario – she might just lose her foot, although there was a slim chance of saving the foot as well. David and Sharon arrived soon after and we huddled up in a circle of green tweed and brown naugahyde chairs and waited for news.

Two hours passed. I knew that the church in Scottsdale was praying for my mom, so I texted a friend and gave him some specifics. Jeanette called and I filled her in. Sharon’s husband Phil shared the request at their church in Gardner, Kansas. My home church in Leavenworth prayed for her. Dozens of Facebook friends prayed like they had all week. When I went to get a cup o’ joe and ran in to the surgeon coming out of the operating room. I shook his scrubbed hand and introduced him to my siblings. The operation went better than expected, they were able to save the foot, circulation looked good and it was pink. He said other things, but I don’t really remember what it was.

Mom’s a long way from recovered. Everyday is like a visit to an emotional amusement park. Sharon is exhausted, Dave is running on empty, and I’m trying to figure out how to make the clothes dryer and the air conditioner stay on at the same time in my mom’s poorly wired house. I don’t know what this week will bring and at some point I need to go home and work and see my peeps, who, I might add, were quite concerned that I was spending my 50th birthday in a hospital waiting room. I love my peeps, they treat me too well. And I appreciate their concern. Yes, my birthday was sad and happy and lonely and exhausting and filled with anxiety and fear and trembling. But I had a special guest at my party.

God showed up. He gave me grace and rest. He gave me hope and assurance. He gave me friends and family. He gave me life and a loving mom and a reason for living. He carried me when I deserved to be dropped. He sustained me when I deserved to be banished. He gave me living water when I found myself in the desert. He is good to me, regardless of the circumstances. Thanks for listening to all of those people God, and for stopping by the hospital to say hey. I appreciate it.

Like we need another healthcare discussion.

Anecdotal tales don’t prove much, I get it, but I need help understanding the depth of the healthcare crisis. Let me share a couple of stories.

1. I have a musician friend, a very nice guy who struggles with addiction issues and therefore is homeless. He recently went to the emergency room of one of Scottsdale’s finest hospitals because he has severe heart trouble. He doesn’t have insurance, I mean, come on, he doesn’t even have a house. They ran some tests, discovered he needed a pacemaker, installed it (or whatever you call putting a contraption in your body to tell your heart what to do), and sent him on his merry way. Cost? $0. Unfortunately, the pacemaker doesn’t work well with his heart, so back to the hospital. They put him up on the lift for an oil change and decided he needs a different pacemaker, so they scheduled the installation for a few weeks from now. Still, no cost. Good thing he didn’t have lousy health insurance, it would have cost him a fortune.

2. My mom struggles with heart issues. During the last two years she has spent several weeks in the hospital: putting in stents, surviving a major heart attack, hooked up to ventilators and heart pumps and more meds than Michael Jackson. Last year the hospital called and told me to come home, it didn’t look like she was going to make it. She made it, traveled to Scottsdale for my daughter Allyse’s wedding, went on a sleigh ride, drove herself around town and did her own grocery shopping. This year, major surgery, open-heart surgery to fix a plethora of issues. She’s unconscious now, but they removed the heart pump tonight and we wait. Her recovery is tenuous. I pray that over the next few days they will reduce the meds and get her on her feet. She turns 82 in two weeks. Cost to her? $0. She has Medicare and good supplemental insurance from her ex-employer.

I know there are other stories, sad ones, tragic ones like a friend of mine who died from a simple fall because she wasn’t aware that she had severe diabetes and didn’t go to the doctor because she couldn’t afford it. That part we need to fix. So please don’t misunderstand me.

We do have a health care crisis. But it’s different than what we hear from the chattering pundits on both sides of the issue . The indigent and the elderly, at least in my experience, are well taken care of. It’s the young, the lower middle class and the working poor who struggle. We do need a fix, another option, but some of it starts at home. How many people who don’t have healthcare have expensive car payments, overloaded credit card debt, cell phones, cable television, high speed internet, HD TV and a Tivo box so they won’t miss an episode of “So You Think You Can Dance?” Why is it considered a right to have healthcare? When is a person’s fiscal irresponsibility considered? If people can afford expensive luxuries, why can’t they afford some form of healthcare? Catastrophic health insurance for a young person is not unreasonable, probably less per month than their texting service. Our priorities are odd. The healthcare system, the one that produces some of the greatest medications and technologies in the world needs tweaking, not overhauling. The part that needs overhauling is people taking responsibility for themselves.

Losing weight.

I miss me. Parts of me anyway.

Five years ago I weighed in at a svelte 299 pounds. Granted, I’m big-boned, but tipping the scales at nearly 3 Benjamin’s takes the cake. And the cookies. I decided to lose a bunch of blubber so I started bike riding. I did the South Beach Diet. I bought a road bike and signed up to pedal across Kansas. I got down to 250 and couldn’t get past it, so I gave up, although some of my eating habits did change and my lifestyle became healthier. Two fifty was healthy enough until I went to the doctor to get some medicine refilled. Blood tests revealed that my blood sugar was “borderline.” So I started up the weight loss plan again. This time it was different.

I bought a Wii. I limited my calories to 1800 a day. I started working out. Since March I’ve trimmed off 40 pounds. My pant size is in the 30’s for the first time since junior high. I actually run a little bit. I rejoined the gym, started doing squats, and got the road bike off the hook in the garage and started riding again. I’ve bought new pants, shirts and belts and contributed a lot of clothes to charity for obese homeless men.

But there are some problems. People say to me all the time “I bet you feel a lot better.” I don’t. I feel worse. I used to spend most of my days sitting in a chair and acting important, which can cause some butt pain and the need to occasionally visit a chiropractor, but not much more than that. I hurt everyday. My knee, my back, my shoulder, my ego, me elbow, all causing me issues because of the ding-danged working out. And did I mention guilt? The guilt of not working out one day or the guilt of nibbling a cookie or having a brewski. It’s better than giving myself shots, I get that, but I don’t feel better.

Also, and this one is weird, when I tell people I am trying to reach a goal of 180 they look kinda worried. “Oh, that’s a lot. My (fill in the blank here with the name of a young child or an elderly woman) weighs that much. You’ll look emaciated.” That concerned look confuses me, so let me clarify some things. I’m keeping the food I eat in me, I’m not bulemic. I’m eating food every day, I’m not anorexic. I look at myself in the mirror every day, I have a pretty realistic view of what is still there. It’s going to be okay.

One more thing. I’ve always had man-boobs. Developed them as a sixth grader. Every shirt I wore from 6th grade until, oh I don’t know, last week, had a special pinch mark in the center of the chest from pulling the shirt away from my DD’s. It looks like a third nipple. All us chubby guys do it. Just watch. Anyway, because my boobs got fat first, I think they’re leaving last. Bothersome. When all of me was puffy, they seemed to fit in, but now they are approaching a Ripley’s Believe it or Not category. I look like a middle-aged woman from the Discovery Channel’s “We Live With The Tribe.”

I’m healthier, I’m sure. I feel better about most of my body than I did. Sometimes I miss my belly. There’s no where to lean reading material or hold my coffee cup. I’ve lost depth in my belly button, eliminating my dip cup for holding Cheez Whiz while I eat Ritz crackers. I realize that there have to be sacrifices for health reasons, I just wasn’t ready for all of the implications. So long, belly. Would you give my boobies a call and invite them to join you wherever you are?

Enjoying now for now.

I’m trying to stop anticipating what’s next and enjoy the moment that is now. Lemme tell ya something. That’s not easy. There’s no pill to take, no quick fix how-to books, no late night infomercials. I’m not even sure people know what I’m talking about. But while I was away that was a decision I made. Now I have to make it stick.

Here’s the problem. As long as I’ve known me, and some would question whether I really know me yet, most of what I think about is what is coming up next in my life, or what could be done next to improve on what is being done now. Professionally, that’s a good way to be, trying to stay one step ahead so you’re current when everyone else is behind. It worked well when I ran a band and I think it works well in church work, although there are certainly those who would heartily disagree. I sit in a worship service and wonder, what if we did this or that? I look at the structure of church government and think, there has to be a better way to do that. I think about expanding ministry and doing stuff other churches wouldn’t dare do and try to be creative in serving other people. And for the most part, all of that is fine and good.

But in my personal life, living for the next robs me, holds me captive, makes me empty my wallet of any content (this isn’t CONtent its conTENT. I thought it was cute. It’s mostly confusing) I can muster and leaves me with a pocket full of washed out receipts for things I barely remember doing. When I’m reading a book, I can’t wait to get done so I can read the next book. When I’m listening to a song, I rarely let it finish till I move on to the next song. When I’m sitting with friends I want to be in my office writing and when I am writing I want to be on the patio smoking a cigar. When I’m on vacation all I think about is getting back to work, while I’m at work . . . I think you get the general picture. It’s joyless and empty. Sure, I get a lot of stuff done. But so frickin’ what. (I stopped cussing, ‘nother story) When I’m dead and gone people aren’t going to ooh and aah because I got a lot done. They’re going to say, “ I think he was a nice guy, but he was too busy for me.” And speaking about death, it’s the ultimate next, so as an nextite, I’m always thinking about when I’m going to die and what I need to accomplish before I die and what people are going to say about me after I die. Like at that point I care.

So I’m making myself slow down. I’m working to enjoy the moment and let the next take care of itself. Not easy. I know I can’t do that all day, been a nextite for too long, so I’ve limited the hours I get to think about the future and  started taking  time to sit and listen to people and enjoy their company. Funny thing, they all become more likable and I care about them more when they’re just people and not part of my next plan or next event or next activity.

Later tonight, during my future thinking hour, I’m going to figure out what to write about next.

I found something chunky and cute.

Five years ago I decided to be a poet. That’s something you have to decide to be, because no one really cares if you’re a poet and even less people want to know why you call yourself a poet, and a subset of that group, if it remains a group and not just individual humans, want to hear or read your poetry. So when you decide to be a poet, not just externally like it’s a hobby, but internally, like it’s a calling, you seclude yourself. It feels like you are supposed to, so you do, and because people are afraid you might read to them or ask their opinion, it happens whether you like it or not.

Then you read “how-to” books and you get this feeling that poets are reclusive navel gazers that don’t have time for people or interruptions, instead they need quiet, alone time to contemplate the hows and whys of the universe. You build an office but you call it a studio. You lock your things away so you feel free to mine the depths of your soul without fear of having to explain yourself to someone who loves you and reads your stuff and is convinced you need therapy. Then they lock away the sharp objects in the house, making it difficult to slice cheese when your other poet friends come over for a nice gouda on some expensive cracker and a bottle of the finest cabernet. Like I have other poet friends. Work pressure encroached on my writing time, my time to compose verse that would change the minds and attitudes of the non-poetic little people and express my romantic, reminiscent side. I snapped at work, I mean really snapped, scary snapped, and decided that my alone time had been put off too long and I needed a quiet retreat far, far away in order to find myself and rejuvenate my creative juices. So I came to Oregon. It’s beautiful. I’ve seen beautiful things. And I made a beautiful discovery.

I AM A PEOPLE PERSON.

There is nothing wrong with a little alone time, but for crying out loud, all this time with just me is making me crazy. How do you people that have to spend time with me stand it? I like people. I want to be with people. And like an old friend told me, investing in people is the most important thing I can do. So I’m coming home restored (in some ways) to who I used to be, a person who wants to be around people, wants to care about people, wants to encourage and lead people, who wants friendships that are meaningful and who wants to stop thinking about himself all the damned time. And I want to quit cussing. I still want to write poetry and there will be times when people are driving me crazy and I’m going to need a break. I want to go to grad school and get an MFA and get better at this poetry thing. I’m going to write a “how-to” book debunking all that mysterioso poet bs. (told you I was going to stop cussing) But I’m also going to see myself in a different light and feed the part of me that’s been shoved in the closet shadows for five years. Say hello when you see me and this time I’ll see you back.

Peaks and Valleys

I heard an advertisement on the radio today for a book that promises “more peaks and less valleys” for your business if you just follow the principles outlined within it’s crisp pages. It bothered me. How can you have more peaks and less valleys? I mean, you can have one more peak than valleys, but aren’t peaks defined by having a valley between them? A peak without a valley is just a continuation of the peak, therefore, not an additional peak,  just a taller one before the eventual valley. It can’t be a peak if it doesn’t stop going up, the peak is the crest right before the downward movement. When the downward movement heads back up – that’s a valley. If it doesn’t move up or down, it’s a plateau, a mesa if you will. If it just keeps going down for infinity, that’s hell.  If this topographic information is incorrect, one of you nerds let me know. Otherwise, just go with me on this one.

I’m sure that Scott Johnson, the author of “Peaks and Valleys” will say the same thing I’m going to say next, I mean, he is the author of “Who Moved My Stinky Cheese Man” or something like that, you know the book that revolutionized the marketplace? You know, the marketplace that took a great big tumble and fall? Nothing against him, really, seems to be a nice guy with some common sense ideas. But the ad for his book does him a disservice.

I used to ride a bike, well, for awhile I tried my hand at riding a road bike and I am here to tell you, that if riding is only peaks then riding a bike SUCKS. Peaks and wind – blechh. But the challenge of the peak means the joy of the downhill. I understand that in business you don’t really want any downhills, but without them, peaks are indefinable.

I’m in a valley now. It’s restful here. I’ve been climbing the peak for too long. And when I got to the top, there wasn’t a smooth road to ride down, just some craggly rocks and pointed sticks. So I jumped. Whew. Glad it didn’t kill me. Landed in some soft meadowy grass. I’m going to stay here for a while. I can see the next peak from here, but I’m in no hurry to tackle it. I’m going to just lay here. Pretty soon I will get back up with determination and desire to conquer the next peak, but it’s not today. Probably won’t be tomorrow. But it will be soon. The chiggers in this meadowy grass are starting to iritate me.

Friendship, Facebook, and turning 50.

These are difficult days for an old man, at least this old man. For the last thirty years I’ve been busy being a dad, a husband, a pastor, a son and a know it all. It seemed that people always needed me, wanted some of my time or my attention, and there wasn’t enough of me to go around. I blew people off, didn’t return phone calls, or send birthday cards, or remember special events. Why bother when I didn’t have time for the people close to me and my attention was in such high demand? I mean, really, us popular people have to picky about who is privileged to spend time with us. Then things started to change.

My dad died. My kids grew up. Started moving out of the house. Didn’t need old dad anymore, at least not in the same way; driving them places, giving sage advice, attending marathon school concerts. My role at work changed, became a lot more administrative and a lot less interactive and abundantly more lonely. The construction work took so much time and energy that I gave up playing sax in some ensembles, quit playing softball, and stopped attending a writer’s class I enjoyed. My mom needed extra attention this last year, so I went home quite a few times and that gave me a lot of time to think about the brevity of life and what an ass I’ve been to other people. And it was lonely. There didn’t seem to be time to cultivate friendships, life seemed to be moving too fast to make significant changes, and days were filled with conversations. It was lonely.

Then I started using Facebook, mostly to keep up with my kids. I hooked up with people I knew from the church and found myself having meaningful online conversations. Old youth group members found me and told me stories of how their lives have progressed – or digressed. High school buddies, other church contacts, people from camps I directed, dozens of connections I thought I’d lost were renewed, restored. And it invigorated me in some odd way. I feel part of a community. I am a facebook junkie. It curbs my loneliness and allows me to relive fond memories. It let’s me see that my life has mattered and that some connections are forever. It’s taught me that I’m not the lone wolf I thought, but I’m in need of friendships and conversations and people.

I turn 50 this year and I want the rest of my life be filled with a neighborhood of contacts and friendships that will enrich my life. Even if it is an online neighborhood, because I’ve realized that it takes a village to raise an old man.

Black History Month

Who chose February for Black History Month?  Did we (meaning whoever makes these decisions. I assume it’s whitey),  think that there wasn’t enough qualified black people to honor in one of the longer months? How come the “committee” picked the ONLY month of the year with less than 30 days?  We’re even prejudice when we are trying to be nice.  For crying out loud, after all the trouble we have with race issues, is this the best we can do?

While I’m on the topic,  when is Whitey History Month? I used to ask my mom “when is Childrens Day?” , you know, right around Mother’s Day when I thought kids were being slighted. She responded “everyday is Childrens Day.” Is that how it is with White History? Every month is white history month? Except February. The short one.

Here are the top ten black people that have influenced my life.

10. Alex Haley. Not for Roots, which was too long for me, but for the Autobiography of Malcolm X.

9. Louis Armstrong. No Louis, no jazz. Know Louis, know jazz.

8. Jesus. Well, maybe. Here’s why.  “His hair was like wool, as white as snow,  . . . His feet were like bronze . . .” Rev. 1

7. Muhammed Ali. My first hero, and I knew I picked a good one ’cause my dad hated him.

6. Shirley Chilsolm. The first black person to run for president. The first women to run for president. The first black woman to run for president. However, not hot.

5. Venus & Serena Williams. Hot. I hear they play tennis. It would be a bad idea for me to talk about it further.

4. Justin Timberlake. He’s black, isn’t he. He sounds black. What . . .? Oh, never mind.

Real #4. Dizzy Gillespie. Great musician. Great personality. Great ambassador. Great mentor. Great cheeks.

3. Barack Obama. He’s number 3 today cause he deserves it, overcoming diversity and all that. However, stay tuned. He could drop out of the top ten by early June.

2. Charlie Parker. Jazz god. Kansas City guy. Changed the face of music for people of all color.

1. Martin Luther King, Jr. My childhood idol and one of the reasons I got into ministry. His dedication to justice and equality combined with his strength and eloquence intrigued me as a white kid in the early 60’s. His legacy came to fruition in 2008.

If the Whitey Committee would be kind enough to rethink their decision, maybe we could make October Black History Month. It’s one of the long ones and it has a built-in party at the end where guys can wear costumes. When I was a kid, we used to make ghost costumes out of white sheets. I think you fellas on the committee know how to make costumes out of white sheets, now don’t ya.

Baseball ABC’s.

A-Rod. B.Bonds. Clemons. Dissapointing. Enhancement (performance, not enlargement) drugs. Fricking liars. Gee whiz fellas. Help me understand. I thought you respected the game. J. Giambi. K.Griffey Jr., tell me you didn’t. L. Gonzalez, you too. M. McGwire, shame on you. No HOF for you. Or any of you. Puhleeze. Quit using. Records matter, like Hank Aaron’s, don’t steal it from him. Selig sucks. Totally sucks. Unions are a sham. Verbose politicians can’t fix the problem. We can. Xercise your right to xpress yourself to baseball and it’s leadership. You can write them, email them, yell at them at ballgames or better yet, boycott and catch up on your Z’s.

Judging a book.

I read a post called “Piercings and Gauges” that a friend of mine posted on Facebook. There were pictures of several people who have poked holes in their noggins and inserted   lots of hardware; spikes, rings, hoops, rivets and soda cans, and honestly, some of it can be a little, how do you say, unusual. Throughout the posting were the words “I will never complain about my kids again.” As I looked at the pics I thought the second guy looked familiar, really familiar, like a kid I knew in Hiawatha that wears similar hardware. I emailed and asked him if it was him. It isn’t. But it could be. The picture looks just like him. So here is the issue.

Let me say that some of the details of this story might be less than accurate, it’s been a while and my memory for detail is subject to my need to exaggerate.

The guy I know is responsible, trustworthy, loyal, talented, and willing to help anyone. He is an Eagle scout. His father had a stroke when he was in the eighth grade and, as the oldest child, he felt the need to help support his family. His father survived the stroke, although the local minister told my friend he should give up hope. A few years later, his dad met a woman on the internet and left the family, who had seen him through the stroke recovery, to live with her in Florida, leaving my friend to help raise his brother and sister. He is a fantastic musician, but set aside his career as a musician to take care of the needs of his family. His brother and sister are older, moved out of the house, but now his mom is ill and he remains in a rural Kansas town to take care of her. He has stayed in my home, befriended my children, played drums for my worship band and been my friend. I’m not sure why he has so many piercings or gauges or tattoos. And I don’t care. He is good people. Not perfect people. But good people. I would be honored to have him as my son.

I judge people, no question. It is an issue I must continually address. And guys that look like this are easy to pass judgement on, so many things about them that we assume to be true. This picture reminded me that you can’t judge a book . . .