Pride

Just because I can't share this enough - this is a video clip of Tom's classmate, (Salutatorian)Dayna's speech.

And while we're at it, here's him getting his HS diploma. 

A Day in the Life...

A tense ride on 93-S to Boston. Why at 10:00 am is there such a backup? Tom alternates between vomiting, moaning, and falling asleep. We try to hold his hand while he vomits. We try to make sure he’s breathing, that it’s genuine dozing, not unconsciousness. Not that he’s ever slipped into unconsciousness on our watch, but you never know.

It all started a couple days ago with a peculiar headache. Localized to above the left eye, this came on out of nowhere. While it was uncomfortable, Tom was able to go to school and also get to a couple of appointments including physical therapy. But by Friday morning, the pain became intense, the intensity brought nausea, and then vomiting. Early morning call to Boston, they say to bring him in to the clinic office (as opposed to the ED, where he’d sit for too long).

High blood pressure was suspect. Now Tom has never had problems with either a headaches or high BP until this week, so this is all new, and frankly, quite scary. One of the first things Tom whispered to me in the early morning was, “do you think I’m having an aneurism?”

Dear God, I flippin’ hope not.

Hours later, Tom is resting in a room on 10 South, his usual floor. And to think that just three days previous, he and I were visiting a friend recovering from surgery on the Northwest wing of this same floor. I know Tom was enjoying being a visitor for a change, instead of a patient. Now he’s the one in the bed. Again.

Oh look, a uniformed officer stands guard at a patient’s doorway in the room across the hall. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a cop or hospital security standing in the doorway of a room, either on a floor or in the ED, you know, big city hospital and all that. (It’s never clear though, exactly who is being guarded, the patient, or everyone else and darn-it, I’m too polite to stare.)

I’ve been in this place many times, to paraphrase Leonard Cohen, “I know these rooms, I’ve walked these floors”. My moods are variable, and yesterday I was more depressed and on edge. I am taking a lunch break in the lobby, and I stare with half-focus at the constant stream of people walking in all directions, to and from elevators, main doors, the CVS, etc. 

I guess they all fall into different categories, but there are certain visitors that cause me to drop my gaze, avoiding eye contact. These are the moms and dads with paper name labels stuck to their shirts. These labels have just a last name, and it means that they have a child undergoing surgery upstairs on the third floor. Sometimes these parents look nervous; actually they almost always look nervous at some level. But there’s another look I sometimes see, something I read as their whole body shuffles along in slow motion. They are shell-shocked. These are the people I can’t bear to watch, because I see myself reflected in their disorientation, in their fear, in their exhaustion. I don’t want to be reminded of my own pain. 

I definitely have no problem reaching out to someone who needs help. I’ve joined in the 60 second elevator commiseration thing with random people. I’ve had long conversations with other parents in the surgical waiting room. I’ve compared notes with a dad in the common kitchen while we were searching for the last grape Popsicle – 

Me: “yeah, my kid has a nasty GI infection”

Him: “my kid has no stomach” (said with no anger, just matter-of-fact grace).

"Watching the Machine" Sculpture by George Rhoads. Manhattan, NY. - Beyond My Ken.

But when I’m really in the tense frame of mind, I have to be selfish and turn inwards. As I side-step the stroller-bound kidlets staring up with mouths agape at the somewhat annoying perpetual motion machine, as it clanks and chimes, clacks and dings, I get weary of the sameness of the routine. As this huge sculpture perpetually entertains new crop of patients and their families – I just want it to be all over with – I want at least a diagnosis, and at most – to not be here at all.

I feel trapped inside that huge 12 x 6 x 14 cage of wires, balls and brightly colored shapes. I’m moving on a path not of my own design, and there’s no natural conclusion, just the same thing, over and over. Or maybe another way to look at it, the path is NOT clearly laid out, the way it is in George Rhoads’ sculptures. Sometimes it feels more like Disney World’s Space Mountain. Huge dips and swirls, but it’s all in the dark. I don’t know that’s ahead.

I don’t know which is worse.

Tears

Tears for the peony flowers, heavy on the stems from too much rain - now muddy and trampled. If my mind was present, I would have cut them and brought them in the house. But my heart is muddy and trampled and so the flowers languished in the rain and no one but God saw the blooms.

Tears for the U.S. mail. I cry when I open a bill, I cry when I open a document that asks me for more documents in order to get the process going where we'll need no more documents. And I cry when I open a card for Tom and feel the love rising from the goofy cartoons and sweet sentiments.

Damn laundry. Enough said.

Tears for the immeasurable kindness of the staff from Lakeview Jr. High. They made difficult things a little bit easier.

Tears for the words not spoken, the thoughts not expressed, and the stories not told.

I ache from the silence, I drown in the tears shed, I choke on the tears inside still.

My Boys and My Boys: In the House

I wrote a blurb for tonight's My Boys season three opener here. But now I can talk about what I really thought. I can release how it was gratifying and sweet to see PJ come out of left field and open up to Bobby. And then the kiss! Here's the thing though, I'm no body language expert, but there was too much distance between them. They sounded convincing if you just saw their faces, heard their words, looked into their eyes...it was a nice moment. But panning out, they lost me a little. Over all it was a great episode. Stephanie still regrets her fling with Kenny. The boys and the mustaches were funny, and King Baby Jim Gaffigan's Andy and wife Meredith just had their second baby, little Oliver. So it's off to a good start.

And then there's my boys. They've been going through stuff, draining and all that. I've been seeing way more of the inside of doctor's offices than I'd like. But what are ya gonna do. And on a side note, watching House last night with Tom was pretty interesting, Kutner (I think?) was trying to follow the clues from a paralyzed Mos Def. Figured out that the patient's foot was itchy. And then House says (paraphrasing), "itchy feet is a sign of liver failure". Tom and I stared at each other. Weird that we actually understood what they were talking about 'sclerosing cholangitis' and the like.

The Random Tuesday in July

The following is I came across it this evening, totally looking for something else - but thought it was interesting.

The Haves and the Have-Nots

Now, I'm not espousing one party or government over another. But this - well you certainly can't call it a 'newsflash' - piece has merit because we can't forget that the extreme economic disparity that exists in the U.S., it's...what - shameful? Unnecessary? Just throwing in a little conscience.


And, the Wants and the Needs-

But all that lovely Socialist chat aside - let's talk about me.

I want to:

Take Sir Brewster's advice and go rent The Seven Samurai (or Shichinin no samurai) by that Kurosawa gent they always rave about.

Justify the coolest shite I bought at Marine Specialties in Provincetown, by finding a home for it. I tell you, I had to have that Czech medicine bottle, and that pillow, and those couple of cobalt pieces - Don't you Just Love a Bargain? (Ha, wrong store!).

Write.
Write about my vacation. (Well, you know where I shopped at least), write about the upcoming television season, write about the environment, about the most sublime oatmeal-walnut-raisin cookie, share the experience that is guitarist Dan Byrnes...delve deep into the lake of love, the subtle currents, the cold shocks, and all the sunny goodness that make up that emotion.

Set more time aside to play Lego Indiana Jones on the XBox with the boys. They love watching me f*ck up. I always jump too far and land in the water with the crocs or in the mine shaft or I accidentally whack Indy with my saber/wrench/shovel. (and then he whips me). Good times.

I need to:

Get the Young Prince motivated for summer reading/book reports

Buy new pillows for the trailer. Some of them have been around since the Carter Administration. Ok, maybe just one. And maybe it's only since the Sr. Bush's time -- but man...it's old!

Ditto the pillowcases

Sort out those damn pesky hospital bills

Call Bryan for some network help

Write those reviews.
Write those emails
Write anything.

My Boys will Return for Season Two

Previously Posted on Blogcritics.org

On September 10th, TBS broadcast the hour-long season finale for the superb comedy My Boys, and on the 11th Variety reported that the show will return for a Season Two. Excellent news, this. We didn’t realize that Season One had been divided into two parts; the pilot and subsequent 13 episodes aired in November and December of 2006, and the remaining nine episodes aired in from July to September 2007.

The Boys’ appeal comes’ from the best places – the writing, directing and acting all combine to produce a witty, yet unassuming show. The finale was a perfect example; while listening to P.J. and Stephanie discuss last minute Italy trip details, Andy suggested that they all spend a special day right at home in Chicago seeing the sights, “like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”

With that mentality in mind, the day included a stop at the Art Institute of Chicago. Interestingly, instead of stopping to ponder Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, the gang checks out a different impressionist’s work, Paris Street, Rainy Day by Gustave Caillebotte. It was a nice reference to the John Hughes film without trying too hard. Of course, when Andy later manages to commandeer a tour bus in order to sing Danke Schoen to Brendan – there’s not a lot of subtlety there – but it’s still great comedy.

Also, in a genius bit of un-credited casting, the episode “D-Bag in the City” had the fantastic Ryan Reynolds (Amityville Horror, Van Wilder, Blade: Trinity) playing the part of “Hams”, Brendan’s new friend that brings out all his nasty “douchey-ness”. The “D-Bag” episode also went for an obvious gag; a subplot parody of Sex and the City. P.J.’s old college friend arrived from New York with a mini entourage of women folk who all seemed like Quantum Leap-alternative dimension versions of Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte and Carrie. (Read – quite scary)

The only problem fans now have is the “who shot J.R.?” type conundrum as Season One ended with the “who did P.J. bring to Italy?” cliffhanger. Fan forums and message boards are filling up with guesses and conjecture. I’m picking Thorn, he probably had the money for the first class upgrade, and he and P.J. have the strongest emotional history, with the exception of Brendan – but ‘Brando’ lacks the funds and the emotional wherewithal to handle it. So, I and many, many fans will be awaiting the answer come Season Two. See you at Crowley’s!