Recycling Day: The Reversal

I've been wanting to re-post this blog for a little while now. It probably isn't the best in terms of writing, but I enjoy the pictures and the fuzzy memories.

So here we go:

Eating Through a Vasectomy Reversal

originally posted August 2009

Before all this familial madness I've been documenting here at the ole blog, I had surgery. On my junk.

But you knew that already.

At this point, I am about 90% recovered and 2 weeks post-op ( I'll explain that 10% in a bit). It was actually my wife that reminded me, as I sat in the living room wishing I had something to do, that I had yet to tell the tale of my vasectomy reversal. All this build up and no pay off?? That's no way for a "pleaser" to act!

Last you heard I was packing up and heading to see Dr. Daniel for my reversal and, well, it was fun. Yes, I know the idea of scalpels and sutures on one's genitals isn't the normal definition of fun...well, for most of us...
Don't worry, all you co-workers and relatives (yes, I know you're out there) here to try and figure out "what is wrong with that Culver boy", genital mutilation is not it.

But yes, it was in fact an enjoyable trip. Do I wish it didn't have to happen? Well, of course I do, but like I keep saying, we make the best of it. And since there are no original ideas left, in honor of our good friend, supporter and fellow blogger Liz , I present "Eating through a vasectomy reversal"

I also promise, no more links this post! Just lots of pictures! (my tribute to my wife's picture blogs ... shit, that was another link...)



Why aren't you excited? OH ... no, no, not pictures of that (or should I say those...?) pictures of myself with various food items which were, besides my pre-op cocktail of meds, the highlight of the trip. (where did you think I got the title eating through a vasectomy reversal??)

We dropped Jules off at his grandparents a bit before noon and hit the road for our wonderful pilgrimage to Burlington, NC to see Dr. Daniel. We had reserved a room for the next two nights since it was a 5+ hour drive and my consult was at 9am with surgery following and a night of rest needed after that.

On the trip down, we began our culinary escapades in Beckley, WV. Why Beckley? Well, we were hungry by that point, and when in the southern part of the state, we always try to make a stop at Macado's.

Not familiar with Macado's? Well, with locations mainly in Virginia, around Roanoke and Blacksburg, I'm not surprised. Maybe it's just nostalgia, but I have yet to find a better menu of sandwiches. Although, I personally would suggest making your way to Bluefield because I always thought their Macado's was higher quality. Of course you would never know it is there because anything worth checking out in Bluefield (quit laughing) isn't advertised alongside the interstate!


Then when you take the exit, you find yourself on what is primarily an empty road, except for the old Wisdom Channel studios, but unless you're some kind of whacked-out hippie, that holds no appeal. That road takes a couple miles before you hit what appears to be another empty road, but left or right at that point, you'll hit something... I'd be specific, but at that point you're just glad to find civilzation again. (macado's, and the 3/4 empty mall, are to the right)

Our journey to Burlington was quiet and uneventful, except for my wife cowering like a bunny as we went through East River and Big Walker Mountain tunnels. Oh, well we did get kinda lost when we were right on top of Burlington. I blame Yahoo! maps because, well, they're horrible and have always sent me on crazy routes, but Jess uses Yahoo! like an old man uses the same mechanic that keeps cheating him. ( love you , dear)

Our first order of business, after finding the hotel, which both yahoo and google thought was on a different part of the road than it was, was to hunt down Red Robin. We'd always been interested in going to a Red Robin, but it became a priority after we saw it on Top Chef (new season just started! Wed @ 10 on Bravo..WATCH IT!( ...if I had more readers, I'd start charging for all these plugs... Anyway, gourmet burgers is their specialty, but the fact that they had Guinness on tap made my day. 'Tis a rare gem to enjoy a Guinness from the tap, at least in WV.

Don't worry, I only had one. But of course we went for the burgers (although the bottomless steak fries were spiffy too) and while they may not have been the greatest chunks of meat we'd had, the toppings were good. I had the royal (I believe...) with a fried egg on it. You cringe, but it was tasty!

So after an evening of exploring the area, we settled in and rested up for the big day.

I was a little nervous going into the consultation. Worried they might decide it was a wasted trip for some wild reason. "I'm sorry sir, you're belly button is too low for us to perform this procedure." !?!?!

But it went really well. Dr. Daniel and his staff were all really pleasant. Like, really. I'm a bit standoffish myself, and really don't like overly nice people, but I wanted to hang out with these folks! Dr. Daniel himself was pretty straightforward about everything, as well as being very confident in his skill, but without making me think some high school football star was working on my fellas.

He even joked with us about a few things, including some of the various doctors we'd researched, and even made a few dinner suggestions! But before we get to that, we have the best "meal" of all: the pre-op cocktail. Dr. Daniel explained that 1)to keep costs down [no anesthesiologist] and 2) to avoid any of the complications and weirdness of intravenous drugs, he has his patients take a selection of meds about 1/2 hour before the operation. This only included a couple of painkillers, and mostly items to help avoid infection, keep me sleepy, and deter any side effects of other drugs (like benadryl for itchiness).

So we headed to the local Target, which was AWESOME...made our Target at home look like a Big Lots. (Starting to feel like the Beverly Hillbillies here.) So we picked up my drugs and a converter for the X-box so we'd have something to do while I rest.

We also, conveniently, got a preview of what my recovery would be like...



The fact of the matter is that I've never really had reason to be on any kind of major painkillers or prescription drugs, period. Even with the vasectomy I only took a few tylenol w/ codine, and the painkillers I was prescribed for my wisdom teeth removal were apparently for us to make a mortgage payment because I never really needed them. Well, from the time I took this cocktail, with a side of McDonalds, at 12:10, to the time we were at the doc's office at 12:25, I thought I was back in college.

What felt like 10 minutes later, Dr. Daniel was turning off his ipod stereo thing (I can't remember what music it was, but I remember enjoying it) and telling me I could get dressed. With my years of experience maneuvering while intoxicated, and judging from the look on the doctor and my wife's faces, I made my way back to the waiting area much quicker than expected. Apparently things went very well from Dr. Daniel's viewpoint and he was very happy with the procedure...except, of course, for my legendary snoring (probably should've warned him).

After this I was fairly coherent for the ride back to the hotel. I even hooked up the X-Box converter and after a bit tried to play. Instead I just kept waking up with my character facing a corner ala Blair Witch. From there, things are hazy, but I do remember a few things:


Remember Dr. Daniel suggested some fine local eateries? Well, we opted for The Village Grill, which specializes in a 'key lime chicken' that they use in various dishes.

Here's how I remember it:

BEST. FUCKING. CHICKEN. EVER.

Yes, the "fucking" was absolutely necessary. I remember being very thankful that Jess went out and got it, but also having a flash of anger that she didn't buy more. Then I passed out again.

Feeling guilty that I was spending our "romantic getaway" half-passed out and trying to play X-box, I got Jess to make some coffee for me. Little known fact: I love cheap hotel coffee.

See? I told you so. Even better was that on her next trip to the ice machine for me, Jess made another stop:

Where she bought the, you guessed it:

BEST. FUCKING. SNICKERS. EVER.

I'm sorry that this blog is turning into an endorsement for taking percocets before your meals, but honestly, it was like tasting food for the first time!

Alas, we finally gave into sleep and rested for the night. I penguin-walked my way downstairs for breakfast in the morning (I just can't pass up the free continentals) where everyone thought I was the guy that left the Natural Light case out in the hallway. What can I say, I looked the part.

Armed with a couple of instant-cold packs, I bravely took the wheel and started us on the drive home. Here's a tip: instant-cold packs don't stay nearly cold enough long enough for this kind of operation. Those suckers were gone fast. Luckily, we were hungry and stopped at a Hardees for lunch and then Jess took over driving duties while I enjoyed the

BEST. FUCKING. CUP-of-ICE. EVER.

So, that is the story of my vasectomy reversal, of which I mainly remember the food. Lucky for you, the wife and I are tag-teaming this one, so she'll have an whole other take on it which I'm sure you'll enjoy (there's a porn store in her story!)


On a final note, my apologies if you came here looking for serious information about vasectomy reversals. Search through the rest of our 'quest' and it's there, you just have to dig through my bad jokes. But hey, I've never tried to say that I wasn't

Corny.

Fatherhood

Let's just get this straight from the get-go: there is no part of me that is happy about not having my parents in my life. That's right fuckers, let's get emo.

Of course this Sunday is Father's Day, a happy day of me doing exactly what I do every day (being awesome with my kids) except I get a card and, if I'm lucky, get to pick dinner. Unfortunately, it also, like Mother's Day, reminds me that there are people out there who had sex and made me...and did a pretty damn good job raising me and teaching me.... *sigh* and whom I no longer speak to.

The details of what lead to that decision are here in the blog somewhere, and you can feel free to find them. ( I know, a real blogger would link to that stuff. Shame on me, but I have a baby asleep on me and I'm trying to hurry this up.) The simple way of putting it all is that once I decided to enter adulthood ( and when exactly that was could be argued) our relationship started to change. When my wife and I got together, my relationship with my parents really started to change. There was lots of stress but we kept working through it, then Joel came.

They didn't want anything to do with him. I tried to fix it; it didn't work, we didn't talk. Then Joel died. I called them, thought they should know, thought they would be a comfort.
Honestly, I think they tried, but their other feelings and attitudes just couldn't be set aside long enough for us to get through Joel's death peacefully and without issue. So, for the sake of my sanity, my marriage, and my kids, I cut off my parents.

It sucked and still sucks.

I bring this up partly because it weighs only mind and I figure I ought vent it, and of course also as a cautionary tale for any other DB'ers at happen across my blog, but also because I want to make a bit of a point about parents. Particularliy about parents and their adult, or even teenage, children. I've said before that raising a Child, even pertfectly, does not guarantee blind allegiance on the part of that child. That kind of expectation is counter-intuitive to the idea of raising an independent person.

BUT

(and maybe this goes without saying) disagreements or mistakes in the parent/child relationship do not necessarily effect then full spectrum of that relationship. (what??) In other words, despite this other shit, I still appreciate everything my parents did for me,everything they taught me, and I still love them very much.

All that said, I still don't think much of Father's Day. But just for the hell of it, here is a little piece I wrote last August that kind of sums up how I feel about being a Dad.

And for any other DB Dads that stumble across this blog, you count too. Caring for and protecting that memory is what we do to make up for all the things we were never able to do.

--------------------------------------------------

Originally post: AUGUST 5, 2010

Restless Spirit

I'll just be honest here: I've spent what I feel like is a whole helluva lot of time helping Jules sleep. He is a restless kid, always has been.

In the hospital, just hours into the light and the pollution, his eyes held focus on everything. It was the general comment from all his onlookers: "he's so...aware." Aware. Always noticing things going on, even when all he could do was wake up or squirm in response. Noise he never seemed to mind (except our voices or the animals), but light, commotion; these things stirred him.

He never slept in the car; he was either content or cried. And by cried I mean wailed; torturous cries that made you think something horrible was happening back there. He was persistent in these cries. Unrelenting and inconsolable; no pacifiers, no bottles, no songs or rubs: just get me the fuck out. It was this way until past his fist birthday, really.

A sleep schedule? Only in the past few months have we established something resembling a sleep schedule. On average he takes an hour to bed down without being held and rocked. He tends to just keep going: tapping fingers, rubbing legs, fiddling with his hair (many a late, late night I've wanted to shave that pretty little head) or, my favorite, just sitting straight up as I do my best Splinter Cell out of the room, even after he fails to respond after I raise his arm the third time, and THEN slowly count to 60 to make sure he is out cold.

Before he was a person -- you know, back when he was just a squirming mass of cute and chub, sucking in as much formula and information as possible -- getting him to sleep required this ridiculous amount of stimulation: patting, rubbing, walking, bouncing. I developed what I came to call my Rastafarian dance; this long-strided bounce paired with deep toned humming of song while patting and rubbing my easily bored offspring. It was the only thing that ever would get him to sleep in less than 20 minutes. Seriously, he could be dead tired, and still to this day, when the lights go out for bed, he's awake.

On average -- even now, with his willingness to go to bed, and a two storybook a night habit -- he takes about an hour to get to sleep. I don't mind it. It has certainly become easier. And he's sweet about it all.

He still hates the state of being asleep though -- or maybe its the state of grogginess that he hates: if he moves towards conciousness at all, he becomes pretty upset (something else we've slowly worked on). He'll cry out, or lumber into the hall, "Daddy hol' me". Yeah, it's pretty damned heart melting.


Thing is, this is all preface. This is not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about tonight's storm. One of those classic, summer night, thunder and lightning extravaganzas. Rumbles as if Great Cthulhu were rising and flashes so bright you can't help but to get the feeling stepping into their light would reveal some truth of the soul. Yes, the kind of storm that makes you get all crazy on adjective porn.

Whatever it is in me that wants to stand in the rain felt especially strong tonight. Like there were layers of filth that needed not only to be washed off, but burned away in the blinding spark of that summer lightning. I guess you could say there's something a bit wild to it; something primal.


"Daddy hol' me"

and like that, I don't need the lightning, or the thunder, or that swell of ancient Viking spirit to reveal any truth to me. The dirts still there, perhaps somethings buried inside, but for now, I'm good. Very good.

Guess that's what 'Daddy' is all about.

Two Years

I never distract myself from thinking about Joel, but on certain days I realize how much time I spend distracting myself from, as we've coined it, being fucking sad. I let myself be "focused" at least a couple times here lately.

As always, we love you, Joel, and we wish we'd been able to meet you.


Now begins Year Three...

Return of the Blog

My kids are pretty fucking amazing.

I mean, I know your kids are pretty cool too, but seriously, my kids? Total rockstars.

Now sure, I realize that feeling is probably some kind of genetic response to insure I actually take care of my kids, and that every sane parent feels that way (and certainly even some of the insane ones). This of course is not uncommon knowledge. The fact that parents loooOOOooove their kids is pretty well documented throughout the course of history. Excluding that Abraham guy. Man, what a douchebag. (and if that story didn't make you scratch your head a bit when you first heard it, well, God wants you buy some magic beans. Fortunately, I have some! leave your banking information in the comments section)

So yeah, everyone knows parents love their kids, but the issue is how many non-parents understand it? It pains me to ask that question, because there is nothing that screams "asshole" to me more than a parent who avoids a conversation about their parenting with some variation of "you couldn't understand unless you have kids". The one that really gets me is "you'll understand when your kids are older". Recently, however, I've been starting to see the nugget of legitimacy in the middle of that steaming pile of avoidance.

For instance, we recently had CPS called on us. Yes, really. It was total B.S. and was ruled to be an unfounded claim. Get the story in all its hilarity at the link above. When I told my boss I needed to go home to deal with this and meet with the CPS worker, it was pretty clear I was only getting to leave because he knew he couldn't not let me go. Sure, I know its a hassle, but CPS is serious shit man!

A more pertinent example involves my wife, Jess. More specifically, my wife's psychologist. In diagnosing her with post-traumatic stress, he stated in fairly direct terms, that it was completely abnormal to still be thinking of Joel on a daily basis close to two years after his death. (Again, you can get the full details at her blog) Now sure, my wife was there for a reason, but am I crazy for thinking that it's ridiculous to suggest we shouldn't still be thinking of Joel?

Yeah, we realize days of intense sadness shouldn't be the norm, and they aren't by any means, but NOT think of him? We do kinda have two walking, talking reminders running around this place. It should be no surprise that every milestone we celebrate for Jules and Blair is accompanied by the reality that we will never celebrate these things for Joel.

I mean, he is our son. We have pictures. His ashes, clothes and blanket sit in our bedroom. We keep a lock of his hair (seriously, dude had some thick, curly hair). We do not deny or ignore him; we accept and celebrate our lost son. Our loss is a fact of our lives. His death and the experiences surrounding it quite literally changed our lives. To not think of him, I believe, would be insane. I think most people could "understand" that. Not like we expect you to completely empathize, or that we should never have to explain or explore how we're feeling. But yeah, I think its understandable.

So here we are, heading into his second birthday. Tomorrow marks two years he since we were told Joel had died. It would be two more days before he was born. I've probably said it a million times at this point (but hey, its a blog reboot, so I can repeat some things), I know how difficult those days were for me, and though I was right there the whole time, I couldn't begin to imagine what it must've been like for Jess.

So if we're little off, here at the end of May, you'll have to forgive us. Maybe let us know you "understand", or give a smile (or a bottle of booze).

----------------------------------------

N ow, lets talk about YOU. If you're new here, go play in the archives. There's plenty more about the wonders of being a DB Daddy. And some funny too! (honestly, if you want the funny, start with The Quest, cause my balls are hilarious) With any luck I'll get back in the habit of updating more often. Probably with shorter entries and varied subject matter. As for now, my lil rockstars are demanding an audience.

Long time no see...but this ain't for you.

I thought maybe this was classier than posting it on her Facebook page...

Happy Mother's Day Honey!

I feel like patchwork.

Spare parts and duct tape, a machine moving and functioning even though perhaps it should not. Climbing hills that should be impassable by such a broken down bucket of bolts. Occasionally stalling, but generally moving headlong into labors and endeavors.

Inside, the joints strain as belts and gears threaten to fly apart causing irreparable damage to this fragile colossus.

Image by Ro

But deeper inside, protected by a web of snaking cables and hoses, lies a chamber that powers this wreck. Within is an energy the machine does not understand; the warm glow of life that should have been.
The image of a child, forever sleeping, surrounded by light and warmth, radiating a glow that feeds life,
creates life,
is life.

The machine should collapse. Should implode upon the chamber, encasing it, surrounding it, protecting it forever.
But the glow pours through the cogs and wheels, keeping them at their work. And the glow makes the machine take notice.
Take notice of the other lights around him, the two other machines, small and perfect, treading along in it's path. Examining and collecting the debris it leaves in its wake, learning and cataloging from the work of the great patchwork machine.

And so it carries on, inexplicably, for them, because of them.

Don't need any wipes...

Cause I ain't done shit. (Somehow that seemed clever in my head, but if its enough to get me rolling, I'll take it) But really,Ive been abnormally lazy these last few weeks. Jules 3rd birthday and Christmas or Krismas or Yule or Mega-Mega-Present Day (we'e having a bit of an identity crisis) went great, then we all got sick...and were dumped on by old man winter. It was the perfect storm to create a wave of lazy that I am just now fighting my way out of.

Of course I have a ton of things to be doing (as if that ever changes), but Blair is conked out on me right now, so why not blog?

First, the kiddos: Jules and Blair are both huge. Blair at 6 months is roughly the size of a 1o month old, and Jules is measuring at the height of a nearly 4 year old! Plus they are pretty great together.

I'm still trudging through grad school for... some reason. It certainly has led me to decide that while I do enjoy my job (what I do every day in the classroom)
but I cannot stand my career (all this extra shit). I've rally got to strt pushing to be a stay at home dad.

Doing more stand-up this week. Basically the same set, just going to try and rework it a bit, strengthen the delivery, not suck, etc. This too is a source of some anxiety but also some "oomph" to get me off my ass and start producing.

To assist with said production of, well, anything and everything really, I'm going to blow Jess' savings on a smartphone...and a replacement wedding band. Yep, I'm "that guy" in yet another way. I have no clue where it went or how I lost it, but it is gone. Sadness and shame abound (mostly shame).

So if you follow me here or on twitter or facebook (all 5 of you) then you can look forward to me pummeling you with useless crap more often once I gets me into the new millennia with one of them phones. And hopefully that will also lead to some quality work as well, which is my real hope.

Snow Angels

It's a custom among we dead baby parents to share mementos in honor of one another's children. So my wife went out into our untouched snow and wrote the names of Joel and other children we have come to know of through our DB-family.
After posting pics, she noted if any were missing, to please let her know.
Her friend, with two living children, asked to have her kids added.

We immediately called the police.


That, ladies and gentlemen, is a joke. Well, the snow pictures aren't. She really made them and they are really sweet.



As for the joke, it may be the only one I've written yet with a clear punchline. This concerns me since my "light" I spoke of in the last blog entry so long ago was that I have finally taken the plunge and started trying to work open mic nights at the local comedy club. So far I have only performed once, and I wasn't boo'ed off stage, so I guess thats a good sign.

Don't worry though, I'm not taking the dead baby stuff to the stage. Don't think I'm quite funny enough to bring 'em back from such a serious topic. But who knows, maybe one day?

This little light of mine

Shakespeare told us that conscience makes cowards of us all -- fear of what comes after death makes us stay and suffer those oft-mentioned slings and arrows of life.

Joel does not know that fear. He has dreamt in the warmth of the womb and moved on to dream the dreams that we can never share.


I found this, today, in a notebook I tried to keep all sorts of thoughts in, particularly those occurring in the days and weeks immediately following Joel's death.

Originally, it was the notebook I used to try and brainstorm jokes and bits for that pipe dream day where I try and do stand-up. Honestly, the material was pretty crappy.

But I made a promise to... the air, I made a promise that I would try and be more productive in my life; that I would do stuff. And that is what lead me back to that notebook tonight, and to my own words -- well, my theft of and blending with Shakespeare's words (but what does his dead ass care?)-- my words that gave me some level of comfort. I went back to look at those unfortunately useless jokes because I'm going to do something.

I will fail. This is practically guaranteed. But I've got promises to keep.


On October 15th, I'll be shining a light for Joel and all the other babies that never got a chance to dodge those slings and arrows. I hope you will join us, and if you have a baby you had to say goodbye to too soon, I will be thinking of you, whether we know each other or not.



A few days later, I'll try this thing I'm talking about. I'll let you know how it goes.

I.B.F.D.

This is not the post I started with this morning, but comparing apples and oranges must wait for another time.


It is International Babylost Father's Day.



Sorry, but I do prefer Dead Baby Daddy Day. It is a bit more on the nose, and sounds less like I'm supposed to find Joel alongside my lost set of keys. (although I too am guilty of having said "when we lost Joel")

Plus, lets be honest, it sounds like the Baby-Daddy is dead, and if I had to choose...



So for all the other dads and families that struggle with the terminology of their child's short life: I hope it was at least a peaceful day.

Remember them well.

Pride before the Fall / The Sound of Silence

Bill Maher's "Religulous" points out all the bad that has come of religion: the wars, the abuse, the enslavements, and the crazy extremists of all sides. He points this out as an argument for the dissolution of religion. Get rid of religion, get rid of the problem.

I agree that religion has brought about a lot of pain, but I think if we dropped it, the crazies would replace it with something else. Pride is a powerful thing and people are always going to try and find a way to say their group is better than another. Some of us find "healthy outlets" for this, like sports or other hobbies (certainly not absent of crazies).

The wild thing is that all these major world religions teach the same basic moral principles: be good to one another -- no matter who it is; don't fuck things up.

Simple.

But then like a game of Monopoly where someone lost the rules sheet, everyone gets caught up arguing the fine details, eventually demonizing anyone who disagrees on what the hell happens when you land on Free Parking.

People who argue over the rules like this are missing the point. See, they're trying to win the game, but the point is not to win the game, but to enjoy it. Nine years ago we here in the United States were reminded just what can happen when people get too caught up in winning the game.

This is my 9/11 story, which I share with my students each year. I do share with them for several reasons: to show I write too, to talk about description, and because each year fewer and fewer of them have any memory of that day.

Now I don't have a "where were you when..." story. Truth is, I was in bed trying to decide if I wanted to go to my college speech class that morning. I told my mom, "that stuff happens all the time" when she said a plane had crashed into the first tower. I figured it was just a small commuter plane. She had me up and out of bed in time to see the second plane live as it happened. But we all had some form of that experience.

My story happens about 6 weeks later in mid-November of 2001. I was on a Model U.N. trip up to Montreal, Quebec, Canada (in case you were thinking of the other Montreal) and we stopped for 3 days in New York City; my first time to New York.

New York had been the backdrop for everything I ever thought was cool, so being there was mind-blowing for me and I followed our little group through the city only halfway paying attention to what we were doing or where we were going; I was too busy takingeverything in. Not just the sights, but the overwhelming sounds. The constant hum of bustling people talking away as they rush down city streets; street vendors calling out,

"hot dogs!" "You lookin' for a good time
"We've got the lowest.." "Need a watch?"
"Live nudes!" "check out my improv group!"

Not to mention the cabs honking and rushing and screeching to a halt; folks whistling for cabs and the cabbies cursing one another in seven different languages. The construction and the machinery, the music pouring form stores and Times Square advertisements; crosswalks and policemen...

The city was alive with sound and while I'd heard about it before, it was nothing I'd ever experienced. So there I was, lost in amazement, and following along toward the back of my group. I know I was talking with someone during all of this, but I honestly can't remember who; I'm sure it varied. But I remember as we rode the subway to our next destination, I noticed our car getting more and more roomy, which seemed especially odd on a New York afternoon.

When we stepped off onto the platform, it was nearly empty and there was a noticeable lack of chatter. As we climbed the stairs into the sunlight, everyone in our group fell silent and something felt off.

We turned right coming out of the subway, heading out to the next street, and I remember seeing a cab drive by, slowly, without making a sound.

As we approached the intersection, I observed the usual throngs of people making their way down the opposing sidewalk, along with the cabs and the bicycle messengers, but without all the sound. Standing there amongst the office buildings, the taxis and the business men, New York was silent.

I turned to my right, and I realized where this deafening silence originated from as I found myself standing at one end of a city block of makeshift memorials. I understand now that there was still dust in the air, even six weeks later, and maybe that explains it, but I know I've since breathed air so thick; it was as if the silence itself held weight, and I suppose it did.


A wall of blue stretched almost as far as I could see, blocking any direct view of Ground Zero. But on that blue lay flowers, posters, notes and pleas: "If you find my husband...", "If you find my daughter...", "..my child..." A small, dusty and damaged bicycle set leaning against a lamp-post, the story of a young boy who delivered food from his parents' restaurant attached to it...

We looked at those memorials for what seemed like hours, but above all what I remember is the silence. The power of that event to, still six weeks later, bring silence to the city that never sleeps.


May all those who died that day find peace in the Universe. May all of us.

still kickin

Sharing some quasi-random thoughts...

I am taking a class about teaching writing; in such classes they make you do a lot of writing from all these brainstorming activities that you can then transfer to your own classroom. This is kinda cool, and I've done such things before (which I'd previously looked to post here, but realized I've lost the digital copies in the course of my various computers/accounts) On top of that, I'm already working with a new group of students on writing activities, and I'm realizing one thing: every brainstorming activity that I participate in, I'm having to edit myself heavily. I don't just mean skipping my drinking days, or any other nefarious endeavors, but not talking about Joel. Not that discussing my personal life with 14 year olds is a priority in my life, but it is a bit difficult when trying to model these activities, and "think aloud" when the eye of every storm is a topic that would, amongst other things, steal everyone else's thunder.

As for my class, I already put it out there in my introductory bio, so they can just deal with it if I keep heading to that same well all semester long. Not going to that well for the purpose of this blog is just an issue of motivation and time. When I say motivation it is more along the lines of motivation to silently push myself through those experiences again when I'm doing so well at immersing myself in pop-culture and work to the point of total distraction and lack of introspection. (okay...I'm kinda lying when I say I'm immersed in work...)

but hey, maybe I'll have some fresh material soon.

I should change the "would be alcoholic" part of my bio...

Restless Spirit

I'll just be honest here: I've spent what I feel like is a whole helluva lot of time helping Jules sleep. He is a restless kid, always has been.

In the hospital, just hours into the light and the pollution, his eyes held focus on everything. It was the general comment from all his onlookers: "he's so...aware." Aware. Always noticing things going on, even when all he could do was wake up or squirm in response. Noise he never seemed to mind (except our voices or the animals), but light, commotion; these things stirred him.

He never slept in the car; he was either content or cried. And by cried I mean wailed; torturous cries that made you think something horrible was happening back there. He was persistent in these cries. Unrelenting and inconsolable; no pacifiers, no bottles, no songs or rubs: just get me the fuck out. It was this way until past his fist birthday, really.

A sleep schedule? Only in the past few months have we established something resembling a sleep schedule. On average he takes an hour to bed down without being held and rocked. He tends to just keep going: tapping fingers, rubbing legs, fiddling with his hair (many a late, late night I've wanted to shave that pretty little head) or, my favorite, just sitting straight up as I do my best Splinter Cell out of the room, even after he fails to respond after I raise his arm the third time, and THEN slowly count to 60 to make sure he is out cold.

Before he was a person -- you know, back when he was just a squirming mass of cute and chub, sucking in as much formula and information as possible -- getting him to sleep required this ridiculous amount of stimulation: patting, rubbing, walking, bouncing. I developed what I came to call my Rastafarian dance; this long-strided bounce paired with deep toned humming of song while patting and rubbing my easily bored offspring. It was the only thing that ever would get him to sleep in less than 20 minutes. Seriously, he could be dead tired, and still to this day, when the lights go out for bed, he's awake.

On average -- even now, with his willingness to go to bed, and a two storybook a night habit -- he takes about an hour to get to sleep. I don't mind it. It has certainly become easier. And he's sweet about it all.

He still hates the state of being asleep though -- or maybe its the state of grogginess that he hates: if he moves towards conciousness at all, he becomes pretty upset (something else we've slowly worked on). He'll cry out, or lumber into the hall, "Daddy hol' me". Yeah, its pretty damned heart melting.

Thing is, this is all preface. This is not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write about tonight's storm. One of those classic, summer night, thunder and lightning extravaganzas. Rumbles as if Great Cthulhu were rising and flashes so bright you can't help but to get the feeling stepping into their light would reveal some truth of the soul. Yes, the kind of storm that makes you get all crazy on adjective porn.

Whatever it is in me that wants to stand in the rain felt especially strong tonight. Like there were layers of filth that needed not only to be washed off, but burned away in the blinding spark of that summer lightning. I guess you could say there's something a bit wild to it; something primal.

"Daddy hol' me"

and like that, I don't need the lightning, or the thunder, or that swell of ancient Viking spirit to reveal any truth to me. The dirts still there, perhaps somethings buried inside, but for now, I'm good. Very good.

Guess that's what 'Daddy' is all about.

cripes

It's an interesting phenomenon of my brain that when I am required to write something (read: grad school, lesson plans, etc.) I become greatly in-tune with the great truths of the world. More specifically, the great truths that have absolutely nothing to do with what I am supposed to be doing.

As such, I have plenty of bloggy thoughts right now, but I have to be somewhere else, typing for even fewer people than I do here (if you can believe that).

For one thing, I've found the urge to finally do the most obvious thing for this blog that I have somehow failed to do up to this point: recall the days and moments surrounding Joel's death. No promise on when that will be posted, but it is coming. Definitely over the course of a few entries.

I'm also going to finally post something I mentioned a long-ass time ago. It's a little thing that rattles around in the back of my head; the synopsis for a comic (or something) that my wife and I came up with. "Action 8" Imagine your quirky ass local news team. Now imagine they have to cover shit like zombies and alien invasions. I dunno, we just wanted to make up passive-aggressive conversations between Tony Cavalier and Tim Irr.

Yes, we're odd.

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...who the hell lives in Tazewell, Va?

Happy Birthday!

With my birthday coming up, I had been thinking quite a bit about my family. Not just my wife and boys, but my parents and extended family. As usually seems to be the case when I feel bad about things with my family, someone stepped up to make me feel a little better...well, at least justified.

This is a facebook exchange I had on my birthday.

Some required backstory: "Auntie P", a childhood favorite, has sent me a few messages on holidays, but I hadn't responded for reasons ranging from: "I'm too sad for this" to "how are you nice to me and shitty to my wife?" to "...just waiting for you to talk about what I want to talk about..."

I haven't edited anything but names.

and ooooooh, a link to my facebook. Screw it, I'll leave it.

Auntie P July 5 at 12:43pm Report

Happy Birthday to you!! Even tho you no love me no more....I still love you!!! Hope you have a great day...what are you now...like 50?

Me July 5 at 1:40pm

Thank you, and I do still love you. The thing is that there are things that have never been said that maybe should have been. And I don't like that I get sent nice, happy messages, when at the same time my wife receives not-very-nice messages, or anonymous messages about me not replying to Christmas greetings, as if it had anything to do with her. It's two-faced, and I don't like it.

and if anyone really gave a damn about how I actually feel, they would've sent a message on May 28th AND they would've apologized for enabling their bastard brother being such a worthless piece of garbage for so many years (Steve laughing at my wife at Joel's funeral and mocking his death in a subsequent email)

I read over your Christmas message several times because it gave me joy to know B and R are doing so well, but the fact is I was really too sad to respond on what should've been my second son's first Christmas.

So yeah, I have a lot of hurt feelings and confounding thoughts in regard to family right now and really, until my son gets some acknowledgement, or I at least get a "yes, steve really is a piece of shit and theres no excuse for it" I really don't have much to say to anyone, despite how much they may try to make themselves feel better by sending me messages.

I love you, I truly do, and I wish you and your boys, and the rest of our family, only the best because you have been nothing but wonderful to me my whole life, but none of that excuses the past year.

Auntie P July 5 at 3:43pm Report

what happened on May 28th? I have my own "BEEF" with members of the fam. but have learned to live and let live...guess it's easier that way for me. I understand alot of your frustrations but I exiled myself from my mom for over a year and in the end it just hurts more looking back. I pray for you all...including baby Joel. I can't even imagine your pain at his loss and I want you to know that he is a part of ME too!! Please tell Kyle Julian about me and his cousins. I love that little fella even though I have never seen him.

Me July 5 at 5:17pm

Joel was born on May 28th, and clearly if you think ignoring the existence of a child, and mocking his death is something to "live and let live" well then you are correct, you cannot imagine our pain. I think we are done here.

What happend on May 28th? Really?? You couldn't GUESS? Ah well, let's just keep on not talking about it.

Sorry, but I'm just not going to soil his memory by forgiving anything without a little show of remorse. And damn, now that I've said that in a public forum, it suddenly becomes more difficult for me to acknowledge an apology. Oh the games we play...

but seriously, it's been a good birthday.

ah, dammit! Cut that out!

No one ever told me that being in the DB club makes you an asshole to your next kid.

Every time he is sleeping quietly for more than five minutes, I poke him.

"Hey. pssst, hey. You alive?"

"bluurgle *squeeak* aaahh"

"YAY!"

(yes, babies sound like tires deflating in mud.)

Ask a DB Dad: Why does God have big, clumsy feet?

**Note: I've been dancing around getting this written for what seems like an eternity, my apologies to any of you who may have been waiting for it.

Sometimes the "grace of God" ain't so graceful...

off topic observation: usage of the word ain't to create a playful tone. Is that indirectly mocking those that use ain't in normal speech?

which reminds me that I need to re-teach some students that in (or just n) is not the correct spelling of and.

moving on...

Being in the unfortunate position of having a dead child, one quickly discovers that most people have no idea what to say to you. In that case, they turn to religion. Okay, so perhaps that is a gross generalization, but living in the upper portion of the Bible b elt it is a pretty good one. So let's keep in mind that I know a lot of what I am saying is based on generalization because otherwise I'm going to be here all day covering a gazillion bases.

It was what should have been Joel's first holiday season; obviously, we were a little down. You'll find holidays are just another part of the year where you spend extra time remembering your child, which just makes everyone else not remembering sting so much more. (for more on this subject, read every DB blog out there)

I was actually a little hopeful when we received a package, a gift for our first son, from a family member.

I'll save the family issues for now, but its worth noting that this family member has suffered a loss as well; a miscarriage. Of course, at the time, the family directive I received was to not speak of it. When news of Joel's death hit the wire, this person was one of the first to call and she offered to talk since she'd been through something similar. We really appreciated that, even though we never took her up on the offer; we just weren't ready to talk to someone just yet.

So yeah, the package. Included was a card; a religious card. Now I never received any Muslim words of comfort, or Jewish or Hindi (at least I don't think so...) so I can't say what kind of stuff they might say, but I know Christianity is always good for throwing out some quotes without a whole lot of thought for how they'll be read (how did it take me this long to get to my thesis??).

Of the card in question, it is long gone at the time I'm finally writing this, so an exact quote I cannot give. The basic idea, however, was letting the Lord take our earthly sorrows, although I occasionally remember it as "small, earthly troubles". Thing is, we only had one earthly sorrow, which we didn't find to be small at all, we certainly didn't consider it merely 'earthly', and, to be perfectly honest, we already had a bit of a bone to pick with the guy that was supposed to make it better!

I know what the sentiment was, but the words, they just weren't right. Kind of like, "you're child is in the arms of Jesus" Well thanks Jesus, but I'd prefer to be holding him; I'm not keen on strangers holding my baby, and no offense, but they didn't have a lot of Purell in Nazareth, so if you would be so kind...

"God works in mysterious ways" What? like Batman? Sorry, even Batman wouldn't kill my baby.

Now it isn't that I'm some angry Atheist or just mad at God or something. In fact, I understand and believe that religion can be quite a comfort. The thing is, religion is just like the rest of the world: it can be good or bad, depending on how you use it.

I certainly like to believe that everyone who misspoke or did something to add salt to our wound had the best of intentions. However, it is undeniable, and probably unavoidable, that there are a great and many things that occur once you enter the DB-parent club that send the message, "hurry up and get the fuck over it." Or there are the dismissive items, like the card in the gift. My apologies to Anonymous, but sometimes the thought just doesn't count; sometimes shitty gifts/words are just plain shitty.

Some of the people who comforted us most did not throw scripture at us, they simply "walked the walk" and acted like good Christians, which, believe it or not, is the same way a good Muslim, Jew, Hindi (...I think), or any other religion (Pastafarians included) would behave: they were nice to us. The real 'grace' came from the kindness of the people we were around. Those that found ways to comfort us and show their care sometimes by doing nothing more than acknowledging our pain and offering to be there, or just being respectful.

One may choose to believe that scripture is the absolute Word of God, and they have that right, but words are still words, with multiple definitions, connotations, interpretations and other -ations. So if you find yourself in the unenviable position of needing to comfort a grieving parent, maybe, just maybe, it is better to follow the instructions instead of trying to hand them out.

The Quest: epilogue

A little something a friend did for us.

A bright and lively reminder of our boy.

For those of you that haven't been around forever (I'm actually amazed I can say that and be referring to actual people [all two of you]) a big part of this blog has been The Quest. (see sidebar for a bit more info...or, you know, click the friggin link)

Chronicling our efforts to get back in the baby-making game both emotionally and physically (read: vasectomy reversal tag) after Joel's death. It is an odd and difficult thing processing this completely unplanned path. I've read plenty of personal accounts from other DB parents who have taken that step. No one ever regrets it (no shit. really, Sherlock?) but everyone has their own way of coming to terms with that quirky reality of "this is the child I'm having because my other child died".

I've covered all that before and I feel like I summed myself up pretty well in The Road. Personally, I felt like that post was the perfect end to The Quest, but I felt like it needed a couple more notes before we 'move on'(hence "epilogue").

First of all, as lame and superficial as it is, you've probably noticed a new layout and color scheme. Fact is, the old layout was, well, bringing me down. I felt obligated to write something quasi-deep and solemn. Okay, so maybe the blog layout wasn't really behind how I had twisted the purpose of the blog in my head, but it certainly reflected and encouraged it!

Joel certainly has some powerfully difficult memories attached to him, but pretty early on I decided that was not how I would remember him. He would be celebrated, and I would do my best to extend the joy and excitement he brought us, while, you know, still being fucking sad.

Somewhere along the way I got turned around, feeling a bit like the joy of ending our Quest was counter-intuitive to what this blog "should be": a shrine to Joel. But the gnashing of teeth, tearing of clothes and wallowing in ash Old Testament style was in no way honoring him. Life honors Joel. Love honors Joel. And in the end, I started the blog on a promise to him that I'd be productive, that I'd keep writing, for better or worse (yeah, yeah, I've already acknowledged that a blog is a real lame-ass way to "be productive", but Michaelangelo I ain't).

So, a new layout, and a little less focus on "am I accurately reflecting the shit storm that is my soul in the wake of my son's death", and, more importantly, a new baby.

Prepare for the cute.

A little hairy...and a little like Kevin Spacey (not a bad thing).

Thanks to Valarie for the pics.

Happy Father's Day

I like to think I always took the time to let my father (and my mother) know how much I appreciated all he did for me growing up. He really was a good dad.

So now, when I don't call or write, I hope he knows it isn't because I don't appreciate how I wast raised and who raised me, or that I've forgotten all those things. It is just that those things don't buy you a free pass.

I try to keep that in mind as I raise my boys. I am not infallible. I am not the wisest. I can apologize.

To all the men out there who inspire the young fellas to try and grow up to be decent human beings, you deserve a nod today.

To the fathers of my life: thank you for everything.

And to my fellows who hold a candle for the children that left us too soon: you know what fatherhood is, you live it every day; this is your day too. You are not forgotten and neither are your children.

Now let's all go eat some meat, have a beer and do lots of other stereotypical guy stuff in honor of ourselves.