Thanksgiving and Motorcycle Accidents

In the split second that the deer impacted the side of the motorcycle, I found myself indifferent about the outcome. I flew over the handlebars thinking 'wow, so this is how I go.' I was okay with dying in that instant.
I don't mean to say that I wouldn't be sad for my family, but it would almost seem fitting to follow Ali out.
I felt content in that moment, content with every event in my life leading up to flying through the air in a suit and helmet.
I remember thinking 'what the hell...' and that scared me afterwards.

But it's about contentment, not depression. It's more about thankfulness for what I've had, not about being ready to hang it up.

I'm glad I didn't go just yet. It was a chance to continue, to live with passion and continue to enjoy the blessings that come to me. And today, I have new blessings, and old ones, and big things to be thankful for, and small things to appreciate.

Tomorrow's another day. If another deer has a vendetta tomorrow, I will fly just as willingly. But until that time, I'm enjoying every minute.

6 Things That Give Me Joy

This week I was tagged by Jocelyn to reveal 6 things in which I find joy. It took some time, because joy doesn't play like electricity, or like water; you can't turn it on or off.

So the source identification was difficult for me.

Here's what I came up with: Joy finds me instead.

It finds me through small things sometimes, and it clobbers me with big things in some others, and it doesn't always find me in the same place.

But it finds me all the same. So choosing six is easy. I chose a video format for my six:

Comedy.


Subtlety.


Therapy.


Indulgences.


Expanses.


Contentment.

Grocery Stores Are The Enemy

I have a new nemesis: grocery shopping.

My senses have returned to me. My situational awareness and skill in observation are keen again, and what I've sensed is that shopping for one bites the big donkey. I've been avoiding the grocery store for some time, but I couldn't hold out any longer.

As soon as I removed only two bananas I caught a glance from a lady that said, "shouldn't you be at the licquor store, bucco?" And then HOLY COW you should have seen the appraisal this lady with her son gave me in the Organic section. Her wrinkly eyes screamed "Shouldn't you just stick to Chef Boyardee?"

Even the cheese says "Kraft Singles" and then comes in two dozen. I prefer block cheese anyways, discriminators! Buns? Family size. Bread? Simply proof that 'just enough' is a foreign concept in America.

And there is a bit of sadness in all the hustle. My cart ends up costing 40 bones, and will last for a week. Everyone assumes that I am 1, a party-boy, or 2, dumped or kicked out by some girl or wife that is deservedly pissed at me.

So I implore all you shoppers out there, reserve judgment from dudes in leather jackets at the grocery store. You never really do know their story.

The Scent That Winter Brings

This morning as I left the house the familiar scent of Fall was gone.  The emptiness in the air hailed the smell of winter, a solitary lack of scents that distinguishes by freezing each of the little hairs inside your nose on its way to your lungs.  And as the air goes deep it wages a battle against the comfortable air inside, hesitant to evacuate.  

I almost forgot the smell of winter.

I find my nose controls my mind.  A scent is like the key code to a machine that overcomes time and space.  Just a small amount can take you back to a place, or put you beside a person.   It can carry you away to things you'd forgotten.  Or another can change your mind.  Change your perspective about the day.

I am frigg'n Tucan Sam,  soaking in the winter.

A Round Reflection of My Wishes

I get why the Greeks began by invoking the muse. Why they asked for help, and grace, and for their words to flow. I've been thinking about the following for a long time, but every time I begin to write it, the words and sounds get garbled, and I cannot write them in a cohesive string of letters and sentences. So here goes:

When Alison was in such pain, even before being diagnosed with cancer, I wished with every part of me to be able to be the sick one. I wanted to absorb her pain and relieve her. I wanted to endure chemotherapy for her. I wanted to be the one strapped in a chair getting blood for hours. I wanted to wear the mask in the machine. I wanted to bear the burden for her, and bring her peace.

Now... I am glad that I am the one left grieving.
It's a tough road.

I know in my heart that hers is better now, and that she is enjoying health and happiness, pain-free.

Her struggle is over.

Now I'm in my own.

But see, if I said that wrong, it would come out as 'I am glad she's the one that passed away.' And that's not true.

I wish she were pain-free here, and if we had to choose, I'd have chosen to be the one that died.

But I wouldn't want her to feel the loss of me. I wouldn't have her shed those tears.

So at the end of this story, I would choose to be the one with the pain, the one dealing with long hours and needles, I would die in place of her, and then grieve over myself on Alison's behalf.

I just want her to be the happy one. The care-free one.

She deserved to be the one with no worries.

Bright Spots Within the Impending Winter

Some of my friends look forward to Octoberfest Beer from Sam Adams,
others find pleasure in breaking out warm sweaters, but I have this to
admit as cheering up my season:

Specialty Coffee Creamers.

So my eyes lit up this morning, walking into the grocery store. There,
displayed so brightly, was a tall display of "Peppermint Mocha,"
"Pumpkin Spice," and "Gingerbread."

Ah, the little blessings.

Advice, Sound and Timely

I heard something this week that is profound and timely in my life. It
was the perfect thing for my ears, and I hope that it'll be the perfect
thing for someone else as I relay it. Here goes:

The Dalai Lama was being interviewed by an eastern psychologist for a
book, and the interviewer was trying to probe the Dalai Lama's feelings,
trying to paint him as a human. He asked if the Dalai Lama had any
regrets.

The Dalai Lama replied, "Yes."

The interviewer said, "For instance?"

The Dalai Lama said something close to this: "A monk came to me and
asked if he, the monk, could take on a particularly arduous practice as
he was certain that it would lead to enlightenment. I told him not to,
judging that he was too old for such a practice. The monk seemed to take
it well, bowed and left. I later learned that he committed suicide,
certain that he would be reborn and would be younger and able to do the
practice."

The Dalai Lama admitted his feelings of responsibility for the monk's
death. The psychologist asked him how he ever got over that. The Dalai
Lama looked puzzled and then said, "I didn't", with a certain amazed
surprise at the question. Then he went on to say, "I didn't. But I
don't caught up in it."

And I think that's a key to going through things, events like my wife's
death, or whatever has a very deep impact on you. Not to repress it,
but to be present with the pain. Examine it, but not be consumed by it.
Sounds as hard as it is, but I think I can do that. I think I can feel
the loss but rebuild a life. I can lose her but not lose the the color
of life. I can still live with passion and quality, zest and happiness.
Even if serious loss and sadness is there as well.

American Sycamore Leaf

The Weight of Carrying Secrets

The weight of secrets is cumbersome. I've never been a heavy lifter in that regard. As a young boy, I'd find something out and instantly tell. It was unbearable for me to hold onto. So I dropped each one. I let them fall to the floor, relieved to be out from under them. So there is an ironic quality to the following story:

In order to fulfill my love, I carried the biggest weight. I held the biggest secret with my untrained muscles. I carried it for miles and miles. For weeks.

I sat beside her. I knew full-well she was dying. In my heart I knew it for years. I was able to fool myself for some time, barely enough time to build up for the next carry of the secret. The doctor wouldn't give Ali a time frame when she was diagnosed. The signs would point in no single direction, and Ali didn't want to know.

But shortly after diagnosis and treatment, he pulled me aside and gave me the weight.

"She's got a year. Year and a half, maybe."

And it was a secret I wanted to have, but wanted to drop quickly. I wanted to tell her so badly. But she gave every sign that knowing would lessen her will to fight.

And so when a year and a half was over, in the course of our communication, addressing her concerns, I relented the secret. I gave back the weight.

She said, "I am so glad I didn't know about that."

And it felt good to let go. But I was given a bigger one shortly after that. And now I knew she didn't want to know. So I went to carrying.

And I watched her dying. I held her hand, I drove her around. I used kid-gloves with her. I watched her lose weight. I watched her change shape. I watched her smile change, but said nothing.

And on a Saturday after I returned from Washington, I enjoyed my time with her. We took our time getting ready for the emergency room. We showered. I washed her hair. We went to the store to get another pillowcase to delineate what was the hospital's and what was Ali's. We packed smartly, prepared-ly. We picked up some sandwiches and went to a park. I was bearing the weight of a new secret. She was bearing the weight of her pain. We admired a white gazebo, and thought about what it would be like to have a wedding ceremony there in the fall.

And we waited for news that night. And when it came, she denied it. Unable to bear the news and the pain. And it weighted me. It added to my secret. But I carried it. I carried it upstairs to the room. I sat with it next to me. I wheeled it around.

Those weeks in the hospital were glorious. Glorious and tragic. She loved going to an outdoor garden on the second floor of the building, sitting amongst the Christmas lights strung around the potted trees. She loved fresh sandwiches and sweet tea. She loved giggling and visiting with her family.

There was a night when I couldn't carry the secret anymore, and I told her that I had doubts. She knew what I was saying and exploded! "If you don't believe, how can I do any of this!" And she was all tears.

I picked up the secret and put it on my back.

She, by then, was sedated. Heavy drugs from the anxiety she had when putting on her mask. She was diminishing, and I was watching. I was petting her. Talking to her. Feeding her. Loving her.

Lying to her.

I watched her wrists get thinner. I watched her eyes change shape. I smelled her sweat change the scent that I knew so well.

When I placed her in hospice, I couldn't tell her. She thought she was taking a break from treatment. And I guess that's not an un-truth. She was bearing what she could. When she could bear no more, she got up. She disrobed.

We sedated her.

And then we watched her go.







And that's how heavy the weight of a secret can be. But it was my fair share. She had the pain. I had the secret. No reason. No regret.

I'd do it all over again. I'd do it better the next time.

So it was driving across some fields some weeks ago, revisiting some songs, when I heard Death Cab For Cutie's "What Sarah Said." When I first heard the song, it rang true for how it was to spend your life in an ICU. When I heard it that night, only 5 words rang true:

Love is watching someone die.






These words are me laying down the weight. I can carry it no more.

Three Months: Mind Projects

It's been three months, and three hours, and 12 minutes.

I am currently re-keying my mind. Trying to get out of it. Change it. Evolve.

Coming To Terms

Tonight was the night I'd mentioned earlier. Where each family hired sitters, got rooms at the Omni, dressed up in evening gowns, and hit the town.
I've been dreading tonight.
Before I went, I stopped over at my Sister-In-Law's, and she asked if it was hard without Alison. I said, "it's not that bad, really."
But what I meant was that I miss smelling her perfume. And that I can almost touch the back of her neck, with her blond hair pulled up. I can nearly see and feel her dress' fabric, and I miss admiring the shape of her legs under it as she sat with them crossed.
What saying what I said meant was that my game face was on already, and there was no way to allow those thoughts while I still had to attend and talk with the boys and such. 2 Marines asked where my wife was (having observed my ring). The problem is that it's almost worse to have everyone know. But 2's not bad right? 5 more asked how old I was. I guess the uni makes me look too young for such a rank.

The counselor I am seeing said that the only thing that can make me feel better is to have her back, and that since that is simply not possible, neither is feeling better.

Now I believe her.

What's worse is that I feel like telling someone. Namely Ali, though. I want to tell her how lonely I am without her.

If I die tonight, it will be because my heart can go no further.