Unposted

When "real" writers (ie: the ones who get paid to do it) give advice, it almost always comes down to this: write, and write often; just do it; or (my favorite) don't get it right, get it written. It doesn't necessarily matter what it is you're writing either, just that you are practicing with the written word. It's just simple practice, like lifting weights in order to go out and...uh...open pickle jars or embarrass fat people or whatever else it is people that work out do.

Naturally this results in catalogs of unpublished works, at least for the dedicated writer, which means I have about 10 pages (not counting the plethora of created, but discarded, smartass work emails)

In regard to ye ole blog, I have a few things I've sat on for a while. Blogs that went unfinished, or ideas I started with but never polished. I honestly think of this whole blog as a mid-process window: I don't consider much of anything I post to be "finished", I just write it and post it (a longer process than it sounds, trust me) without much revision. Of course, knowing myself, I would edit out the emotion in favor of (more) lame jokes and sarcastic banter, because that's how I operate.

SO: Here are a few nuggets that I didn't want to post alone, but couldn't find a perfect fit elsewhere. Forgive my "short sentences double-spaced" (or freeverse poetry)



It's a WRISTBAND

Ever so sweetly, a girl in one of my classes asked me, "What does your bracelet say?"

I paused as I was erasing my whiteboard and thought, "Bracelet...?" I looked down at my wrist, at the black band that keeps a nice, constant pressure on me. "Oh, my wristband" (because apparently even in grief gender stereotypes persist)

So I shared, not much, but I shared. It wasn't the first time I had told this new group of students about Joel -- some of them knew from being around last year and, of course, in introducing myself to them on the first day, I wasn't going to mention one son and not the other -- but there was an odd feeling about it. It wasn't so much wanting to avoid being a "downer" to my students, or even to avoid distracting from class with our story; I felt like I was protecting them.



$#!%

What a strange #@$%ing day.

(I censor because it is supposed to be both visually appealing and more comical...although I've always been curious if there was a key for replacing the letters in curse words. I mean, $#!% ( or shit) is pretty easy, but I', just @!$$!*& in the dark when it comes to replacing f-u-c-k. Ah, #@$% it)



All the love of a lifetime poured into one day.

I had felt your kick,

Saw you make your mommy squirm and shout

I listened to your heart a dozen times:

Every time, there is a moment,
time stands still and the world is silent
waiting for you
waiting to hear your only sound
the beat of a heart not yet exposed to the world
Every time there is a moment of excitement and fear
anticipation and dread
The emotional spectrum exposed
while the universe waits to hear your beat.

So many times I heard it; every time, a sigh of relief
But not this day,

This day, the cosmos stay still.



I knew you,
your personality,
rambunctious and lively,
a monkey in mother's belly.

I felt you,
she felt you,
your kick,
your moves,
your life

Our son was real.
His life has consequence.

He's not breathing

I heard the thump and turned in my seat as my wife stood up, "honey..." I dove onto my knees at my son's side as his little body lay there shaking, his eyes distant.

I looked to the baseboard next to where his head lay for signs that he had hit it. I felt his head for a bump, for blood, for something; all the while talking to him and trying to keep my voice calm for him, and just trying to get him to respond.

Having not seen him fall, I didn't know if he had been standing or fell in some other way; if he'd hit his head on anything more than carpet; I didn't know if the seizure made him fall or if the fall made him seize; I was clueless and helpless.

My wife, frantic on the phone with the 911 operator, trying to explain our situation.

I tried my best to keep his position still, to avoid any possible neck injury, but I had to keep him turned a bit to his side to try and avoid choking. It didn't work.

I saw the bit of foam at his lip. I swiped his mouth; nothing there. I saw his lips grow a shade of blue as his eyes... his eyes started to go dim.

I lived and died a thousand times in that moment; in the time it took me to breathe, and for him to not. I screamed to my wife. I cried for my sons and called to Jules, searching deep into those sweet, little eyes for a sign of what I saw slipping away. Holding his head in one hand, and his limp hand in another, I felt the sun dying, and knew how it felt for God to turn his back.



DO SOMETHING.
It blasted through my head like a comet, bringing light back to my world, and I could see, I could assess, I could take care of my son. I began CPR, silencing the panic in my heart when it felt like the air wouldn't go. I felt the air go in and I continued, finally feeling him breathe, and (Thank God) seeing his eyes light back up and give some recognition. Still, he had no control of his body, he couldn't move and for a moment, couldn't even move his eyes.

As the paramedics rushed in, he finally started to grasp my finger with his left hand and my heart lifted a bit more. I let the EMTs take over and just tried not to be in the way.



My wife, who had been on the phone with 911, and kept watch for the EMTs, and took care of getting Jules' information, later explained to me that what I had felt like was an eternity had been but a few moments (only 4 minutes for the EMTs to arrive).

Once we were in the ambulance, I'd never been so happy to hear my son scream and cry, and finally, fight. He had been very slow to regain control of his body, but now, finally, he was at least confirming for me that he wasn't somehow paralyzed. Perhaps an irrational fear, but again, not knowing how he might have hit his head, I was concerned.

We had been eating dinner and Jules didn't eat much, and had been a bit fussy earlier, and instead wanted to watch Elmo (not an unusual occurrence with a 20-month old). My wife and I stayed at the dining room table, less than 5 feet away from where he sat to watch tv. My back was to him, and I would occasionally look over my shoulder at him; my wife sat with Jules in her peripheral. She had seen that he was sitting when he fell over.

Knowing he didn't have a fever earlier, I was shocked when we arrived at the hospital and his temperature measured over 102 degrees. The EMTs had not detected a temperature either (at least it was nothing I ever heard them say).

As it turned out, our son had experienced a febrile seizure (a fever induced seizure), which it turns out is sometimes the first sign a child has a fever. Our fear that we had ignored a fever or illness was put to rest two days later when his fever broke and a rash broke out on his back and chest: roseola. First the child develops a fever, then when the fever breaks, the rash shows up. A simple and non-threatening ailment. Just not for us, but then again, what ever is?

I know losing both my sons would've been more than I could bear. I also know there are parents out there that have had it happen, and they've survived. To them, I give my deepest sympathy, because as much as I've been told, " I can't imagine what it must be like..." I can only begin to imagine what these parents have been through, and I know I could not withstand it.

It is a moment that made me thankful for every experience I've had in my life, especially some of the crazier ones; the ones that in some way prepared me to be of some kind of use during this. Maybe, just maybe, there is some kind of order to all this chaos.



This was two weeks ago this past Thursday. I still get a very weird feeling looking at the doorway to my dining room, where I kneeled in the floor with my son. My son, however, has no such issue. He was right back to running around and keeping us busy with his toddler antics. He's been having a fine time ever since, considering we've spoiled him even more than usual ever since this. It started, however, with popsicles at the ER (which we've already received a bill for...)

Glow in the woods

I've only recently found this multi-authored blog, but I already enjoy it quite a bit. Clearly a more well-written approach than my 'online ramblings'.

I particularly enjoyed the post I am linking to. While I'm not Jewish, it's still pretty relevant. I like to think this is what I was going for here (although gal does a much better job)

Glow in the Woods

Enjoy.

The Quest : scientific interlude

I'd teased a tale of scientific exploration; a tale of a 50$ microscope from Toys 'R Us, a petri dish, a dropper, and me trying to go blind and grow hair on my palms.

Well, my last post, "negative" kinda summed up how that went. We'd read a bit about other couples who in their attempts to conceive had opted to do their own at-home semen analysis. Sure, it ain't completely scientific, but the fact of the matter is that if they're there, you'll see em with as little as 100x magnification.

Now, I never got bad grades in my science classes, but I can tell you that I've never done well with microscopes. I mean, I know how they are supposed to work, and I know how to use the knobs, but I've always had trouble focusing. Really its because of the things teachers don't really tell you (or at least mine didn't). Exactly how far do you jam your eye against the eyepiece? Should the circle encompass your entire sight, or just a bit of it? What the hell are all those other dots? and Where the hell did that hair come from and why can't I seem to get rid of it?

So naturally I'm spending the entire time thinking of Bob, my co-worker, a long-time Science teacher who just-so-happens to continually complain about how students just don't know how to use a microscope. I love Bob, I really do...but not a time I'm wanting to think of him.

Sparing you the details, I spent the majority of that Sunday rubbing my eyes, moving slides, making slides, and relentlessly searching for something that just wasn't there. It was simultaneously awkward, comical, and tragic. (Hmmm...maybe that'd be a good tagline for this blog )

Thinking that maybe I really was just that bad with a microscope, I cashed in the legit analysis I had leftover from the original vasectomy. Turns out, I do just fine with a microscope. Damn proud of that, I am.

Meanwhile, a friend and co-worker was finding out that he would be a father soon. For a far longer period of time than myself, he has had to cope with the prospect of not having a child of his own, so naturally I am overjoyed for him and his spouse. Not that we are the closest, but of what I know and have seen, I think they'll be great parents.

I know I love being a parent, and clearly I love the idea of doing it again. Yet there is a duality to my happiness for others; it's just hard to separate my "baby happiness" from thoughts of Joel. That feeling of, despite all evidence to the contrary, being a failed parent. It's even more interesting when the new baby in question is due around Joel's 1st birthday.

So the world keeps spinning, and new life keeps being created, and thank goodness for it.

I just hope theres some goodness in there the next time I look in the microscope.

negative

6 weeks out from my vasectomy reversal, I cashed in one of my left over semen-analysis from my vasectomy.

When they called me to say it was negative (no sperm), my first feeling (and I say feeling instead of thought, because I wouldn't truly think this, but nonetheless it is how I felt) was, " I can't bring him back."



I know that isn't what we are trying to do. I was the one to first say that we should never allow it to be looked at that way. I will raise my third child to know that she or he is a very special someone that fate brought to us. (aww, isn't my defiant optimism cute?) But I guess somewhere deep inside there is that hope that a piece of him would enter this world through his younger brother or sister. Letting my heart place its focus there allowed it to quit screaming for someone to tell me my baby isn't dead.


We are just shy of four months of this shaded reality we now live in. As so many others have accurately depicted it: this shadow-world, where you live the same life as before, but it is all washed in black, stained and just a little out of focus (Thank you Pearl Jam, you can bet that song takes on new meaning these days) Every day I shuffle to work and interact with classrooms full of reminders of what my son will never be. Every day I muffle my screaming heart as I look at kids whose parents look at them like 18 year prison sentences; they're beaten and neglected; taught at the dawn of puberty to flaunt their perceived-to-be only valuable asset; and my pain rages at these parents, ungrateful for the gift they've received.



Getting past that, there are still a dozen little reminders, every day, that make that lump rise in my throat. Thankfully most work days go by fast enough that I can't stop to feel bad, but it is still a daily struggle, and I imagine it will continue to be for quite some time.

For my wife and I both, we've got through life by trying to laugh through the tough times. As you can imagine, we now try to laugh perhaps more than ever before. We try to bring as much light to this shadow-world as we can. Maybe we're just trying to distract ourselves, or maybe we're just trying to find whatever foothold we can to get up, out and back into the sun.

I don't think the shadows could ever go away, and I don't know that I'd want them to; but if we can help spread a little more light, and help others shoulder the pain and confusion, that might be nice. Not to make something special out of ourselves, but to just let people know that this is where we live, and there are a lot of us, living here silently among the world, looking for peace.


So yes, I'm the father of a dead baby, and I still whine and cry about it, and my loss has absolutely turned my world upside down: revealing truths, severing ties -- admittedly making me a bit more of a loon than I was before. If that should warrant my being some sort of a spectacle to be whispered about, then so be it, because I doubt I'm thinking/feeling/doing much different than anyone else.



Coming soon: The Quest - hope is not lost

unfinished

Every 10-12 days is a bad record for blog updating, isn't it? Well, it isn't for lack of trying, and it certainly isn't due to a lack of subject matter. Maybe its just because of my own requirement of over-exposition that I can't get a blog banged out in a timely manner? Too much inner dialogue just doesn't play out well in this kind of situation...

There has been plenty going on in the 10 days since the last update, and I'll get to them soon, but first, a collection of the thoughts I started, but didn't finish


should I be hiding?

Partook (is that a word?) in an interesting discussion at work today about that old issue of 'what do you let people see online?' I know for myself, one of the initial joys of the internet was the anonymity of it all; just a voice with no face being able to freely say whatever you like. Myspace and Facebook changed that a bit, but now at least we have 'lists' to be able to separate who sees your dirty undies and who only looks at your church robe. And hey, thats the way it oughta be.

trust me, I know from experience.

All of our relationships are on different tiers; different levels of security clearance. You can joke about strangling a hooker before work with some people, while others might put in a call to the police if they hear something like that. Some people don't mind reading your more emo status updates, while others just get a little wierded out that you sit around dressed like that guy from The Cure.

But in thinking about this, and in my recent reintegration into the world at large by way of work and grad classes, I've noticed just how disassembled my life really is, at least socially. Now the core is strong: my wife and my son; no issue there. And I still have my extended network of close friends. I say extended because they are all long-distance relationships at this point, but still strong and supportive relationships. With these people, it is full disclosure (well, not my son, but you know what I mean). But do new relationships start at a low level of disclosure? hrmmm


Katrina, Katrina

I was thinking recently of a woman I used to "care for" in a group home setting. For those that knew me back then, well, you remember the stories. For those that weren't around, well, when I actually get some sun, you can still see all of the fingernail scratch scars. In fact, I have a very noticeable one in our wedding photos. I saw some rough times in that house, and that is putting it mildly.


I've been thinking about those days a lot lately, and I don't know why. (or at least I didn't at the time, I do now -- future blog) For what reason did I go through that mental trauma? The physically and emotionally draining days of trying to reason with insanity and fight through obsessions that were not my own; the biting, the kicking, the clawing, the blood and the fecal matter and the urine. Why? I've seen Katrina since I left that place; nothing has changed, at least not for the better from what I've been told. She doesn't seem to remember me, although she never seems to remember many of her long-term caregivers once they are gone. So I guess my time didn't necessarily make a huge impact on her life, so how does it all fit into where I'm at right now?


Little did I know at the time I thought about these things that the answers were right around the corner, in a form I know I will never forget.


Coming Soon:
He's not breating!

and

The Quest, part 7: fun with science!

The Sound of Silence

Forgive me if this comes off as a bit rushed, but if I don't knock it out today, the relevance will be lost for a whole year and, well, I needs a blog entry to stay fresh. How else will I get my "5 - 12 hits per day" up to being competitive with my wife's thousands per week. I'm not even going to bother linking to it since you probably already came from there...and the fact that if you're smart enough to realize that her blog is worth reading (which it is and I'm not just saying that so she won't cut my balls off... we've put too much money into my balls for her to do that) you'll check out my sidebar and find the link yourself.

So I have this little story that I tell in my class to commemorate September 11th. Despite the subject matter, I enjoy telling it and it even grabs the attention of my "bad" kids. So, I thought I would try and share it here.

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 speech class that morning. I told my mom, "that stuff happens all the time" when she said a plane crashed into the first tower. I figured it was just a commuter plane. She had me up 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 in the 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.