So many of you know that I was fired recently because my former HR department found out about me writing fucked up books like DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN and POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS. Something has been working at the back of my brain. Unfortunately I don't know how to proceed because I don't know shit about starting a nonprofit organization.
I live and work in Illinois where you can be fired for any fucking reason in the world unless you 1) are part of a protected group or 2) you have a contract with your employer. That means that if you wear a black shirt and your boss doesn't like black shirts, you can be fired. Or if you think the Cubs are better than the Sox when your boss is a Sox fan, you can be fired. Or . . . well, you get the idea.
There are a lot of states like this. I think it's bullshit, but I guess being the boss is included in being a protected group, so what the fuck do I know? Anyway, I looked into taking legal action. I signed a paper saying that I can't sue the company, and in exchange for that I would get my severance. I had to make a really bad decision, but I needed the money so I signed. I figured that meant I signed it under duress. Turns out, the legal world has a very different definition of the phrase "under duress" than the rest of us. According to them signing something "under duress" means that I would have to have a physical, literal gun to my head while signing the paper. I consulted three lawyers. Two of them didn't know enough, and the third was pretty sure I couldn't do anything, but at least he looked into it. They decided not to take the case.
Here's the thing: I think it's unfair to fire someone because they moonlight as authors of fucked up fiction. Just so long as that other life doesn't interfere with the job life, I should be able to write whatever the fuck I want. If I want to write about Frankenstein creating his own man just so he can have sex with him, then by Christ I will.
Here's what I want to do: I want to create a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping authors who have been fired from their square jobs over the fiction they write. I don't know the first thing about setting this up. All I know is it's got to be nonprofit. It's got to be a charity. I want to help people who are in my position. I want them to have legal recourse. I want them to have at least some kind of stream of income while they're down on their luck. In other words, I don't want people to suffer like I have.
I remember several conversations with other authors of fucked up shit. Over the course of these discussions they have told me that they write under a pseudonym because they don't want to be discovered by their places of employment. I never understood that. I figured it would be fine because the author life very rarely has an impact on the square life. I was wrong. It happened to me. Even though I just got hired at another place I still feel the pain from being fired for something I wrote.
I just want to help authors. Anyone have any suggestions?
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Monday, July 11, 2016
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #173: I'M THE BIGGEST WANKER IN THE ENTIRE WORLD!
I've been unemployed for almost a month. Today I learned that I am once again gainfully employed. That picture is of me having a celebratory glass of Booker's, the most expensive whiskey I've ever bought and probably my new favorite alcoholic beverage.
In that month of not working, though, I learned something horrible about myself. And that's why I'm writing here tonight for the first time since May. It all has to do with PREACHER, so if you haven't read the book or seen the show, there are some spoilers in this piece. You might want to read this another time.
When I was in college I was through with comic books. That might sound funny to those of you in my life today, considering how deep into comics I am now. But when I was a kid Marvel canceled THE TRANSFORMERS, my favorite book then, and I was so pissed that I gave up on the medium. But then I met my buddy, CJ. He put three books into my hand that brought me back. The first was EVIL ERNIE: YOUTH GONE WILD. He also loaned me the first HITMAN story arc. But most importantly he let me borrow PREACHER: UNTIL THE END OF THE WORLD.
That book blew me the fuck away. I was at a low point in my life. I hated everyone and everything. If you knew me back then you wouldn't have wanted to be my friend. In fact I only know four people right now who knew me back then and are still my friends. But PREACHER helped me understand the world a bit more. I learned to love because of PREACHER. It helped me in so many ways I can't mention them all here.
AMC recently adapted the comics to TV, and I love the show. It's not as good, but it's pretty fucking good. Now that I had more time on my hands I decided to reread PREACHER for the thousandth time. It had a much different impact on me.
I've lost my way. I knew I had, but I had no idea how far off the path I'd strayed. For most of my adult life I have lived as a Jesse Custer. Rereading PREACHER this time revealed me to be a Cassidy. Don't worry, I'm not full Cassidy. I'm not hitting on your girlfriend behind your back or beating the shit out of women or letting drugs control my life. I drink a lot more than I should, but I'm not that bad. My mom still drank worse than me before she died.
I used to stand for things. Now I just have snarky comments. I loved, but now my heart is cynical. Those of you who read the comics know about Jesse and Cassidy's discussion about Laurel and Hardy fans vs. Charlie Chaplin fans. Here's the thing, though: judging by later issues I think that Cassidy is a style over content guy despite what he says. I love content in my writing life, but in my regular life . . . fucking hell. I think my style has overcome my content.
Rereading PREACHER shocked me. I've never read it like this before, with this interpretation. I have compromised all of my old thoughts about the world.
So that's changing. I'm going back to my roots. I'm welcoming love back into my life. I'm standing for things. I'm trying to be one of the good guys because there are way too many of the bad.
I got fired. What did I do that first day? I chopped up about seven Vicodins and drank a shit-ton of whiskey. I did so many of them because I have a high tolerance for opiods. I underestimated them and for about four hours of dizziness I had to keep reminding myself to breathe. When I came out of it, and I don't mean to compare me to this horrible scene, but I felt like Tulip waking up after being stuffed with so much Valium and vodka by Cassidy. When I reread PREACHER, I knew exactly what she meant by telling Cassidy that she was no longer his drugged up slut; that she was HER.
It took me a while to admit it, and when I did I gave myself the weekend to finish up wallowing in my misery. The end was last night. Today is the new me, better than the old me. I used to be so certain of myself, and then I hit about 10-15 years of fucking up. Doubt crept in. Depression ruled my mind.
No more. I know who I am again. It's good to be back, pardners. Let's see what we can do with this crazy ol' world of ours.
Monday, May 9, 2016
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #172: PLUGGING BACK INTO THE WORLD
Where the fuck have I been for the last few months? Good question. I'm going to answer it here.
It started as a lump in my armpit. It hurt like a bastard, but I assumed it was an abscess. I talked about it to several friends, and they said I should get it checked out because it might by lymph node cancer. So I went to urgent care in Lombard, and they said I was right. It was an abscess. And it popped the instant the doctor looked at it. Here's the problem: while I was in the waiting room, some fucking child ran around coughing and sneezing all over everything. I only get sick once a year. Unfortunately, that was the time of year I tend to get sick. So I caught whatever this asshole kid had, and it put me out of commission for a couple of weeks.
My doctor thought it was pneumonia, but after two x-rays, it turned out not to be true. There's a stomach virus going around, so they assumed I had that. Maybe I did, but whatever it was triggered something else off.
It felt exactly like pancreatitis. See my previous bout with it here. It wasn't, though. They tested me, and my pancreas can murder you to your face, it is that strong.
I had horrible bouts of puking, and when everything was out of my system, I dry heaved for hours, sometimes days, on end. I was in utter agony, and I couldn't sleep because of it. I was crippled for nearly the entire month of March and a lot of April.
Imagine that. Two months where for the most part, you can't take solid food. You're surviving on apple sauce and Tang alone. If you consume anything more solid than that, you're puking and dry heaving and in utter agony for hours. You're not sleeping because it hurts too much, and you haven't had a sexual thought because your body is too ravaged. Horrible. HORRIBLE.
It's been slightly more than a week since I've had a horrible episode. I went in for all sorts of tests, and none of them resulted in a satisfactory answer. I've missed my last two paychecks because my short term disability checks aren't coming through due to my doctor's refusal to sign off on them until he could see me again . . . except he couldn't see me for two weeks because he was booked solid.
It felt wonderful to be disconnected from the world because I don't have to hear about all the horrible shit going on in my country. Primarily Trump. But I miss things like reading. I couldn't watch shows I wanted to watch because some of the heavy drugs I was given meant that I might pass out at any moment.
But I've been good for slightly more than a week. When I learned I could keep solid food down, I went crazy. I ate every fucking thing I wanted to. Ever watch Lucifer? There's a character named Malcolm who went to Hell but was rescued by Michael to kill Lucifer. The problem: for the few moments Malcolm was dead, he was in Hell for two hundred years. It was so horrible that when he got back to our world, he gorged himself on all the wonderful food we have. That's me right now. Quesalupas, etc. are filling my belly because I was in Hell for a month in a half.
I did not have a sexual thought for a bit more than a month. When I finally started getting hard-ons again, I went down a fucking crazy porn rabbit hole that eventually led me to a guy cutting off his own dick, which finally brought me back from insanity.
Have you ever been confined to your bed for a month or longer? As soon as I found myself capable of getting out of the house, you'd better fucking believe I did. I went to just about every forest preserve in driving distance so I could sit there and read. I couldn't read while sick, but when I could, I did everything in my ability to not read at home. I got horrible sunburns on my forearms and face only because I was outside so much, just to get away from my sick bed.
I know it sounds crazy, but I'm eager to go back to work tomorrow. I've been driving myself insane at home. I deal with a lot of assholes at work, but when I'm sick at home, I have to deal with my own asshole self.
But . . . there's more. I've missed my last two paychecks because my doctor wouldn't sign the short term disability papers before he could send me back to work. I'm fucking broke. Seriously. I lived off my savings for two weeks, and I managed to survive the next month on the puny credit I had. Yesterday I was literally broke. I was going to lose my car and my insurance. I borrowed money from a family member, and that was going to keep me going until I finally got my STD payment next week. But that probably wouldn't have been enough. I lucked out and got my tax refund this afternoon. It's a hefty check, and it saved the shit out of me. I would have saved my car and insurance, but without this check, I would have lost an awesome credit score, and I would have lost just about everything else in about two weeks. This is the closest I've ever come to financial destruction. I grew up poor as shit, but this is the first time I have personally (not familial) come to losing everything.
I'm excited to go back to work. I'm glad to have this illness behind me. I want to go back to helping assholes and fuckfaces (and, occasionally, the honest person who isn't an asshole or fuckface who genuinely needs help; and I love them dearly).
I'm plugging myself back into the world. Fuck Trump. Fuck Clinton. Fuck everyone, except for Sanders, who I honestly feel sorry for. Fuck the people who are fucking us, and fuck the people who would throw us under the bus.
I'm back. Let's kick the shit out of everyone who is trying to take advantage of us.
It started as a lump in my armpit. It hurt like a bastard, but I assumed it was an abscess. I talked about it to several friends, and they said I should get it checked out because it might by lymph node cancer. So I went to urgent care in Lombard, and they said I was right. It was an abscess. And it popped the instant the doctor looked at it. Here's the problem: while I was in the waiting room, some fucking child ran around coughing and sneezing all over everything. I only get sick once a year. Unfortunately, that was the time of year I tend to get sick. So I caught whatever this asshole kid had, and it put me out of commission for a couple of weeks.
My doctor thought it was pneumonia, but after two x-rays, it turned out not to be true. There's a stomach virus going around, so they assumed I had that. Maybe I did, but whatever it was triggered something else off.
It felt exactly like pancreatitis. See my previous bout with it here. It wasn't, though. They tested me, and my pancreas can murder you to your face, it is that strong.
I had horrible bouts of puking, and when everything was out of my system, I dry heaved for hours, sometimes days, on end. I was in utter agony, and I couldn't sleep because of it. I was crippled for nearly the entire month of March and a lot of April.
Imagine that. Two months where for the most part, you can't take solid food. You're surviving on apple sauce and Tang alone. If you consume anything more solid than that, you're puking and dry heaving and in utter agony for hours. You're not sleeping because it hurts too much, and you haven't had a sexual thought because your body is too ravaged. Horrible. HORRIBLE.
It's been slightly more than a week since I've had a horrible episode. I went in for all sorts of tests, and none of them resulted in a satisfactory answer. I've missed my last two paychecks because my short term disability checks aren't coming through due to my doctor's refusal to sign off on them until he could see me again . . . except he couldn't see me for two weeks because he was booked solid.
It felt wonderful to be disconnected from the world because I don't have to hear about all the horrible shit going on in my country. Primarily Trump. But I miss things like reading. I couldn't watch shows I wanted to watch because some of the heavy drugs I was given meant that I might pass out at any moment.
But I've been good for slightly more than a week. When I learned I could keep solid food down, I went crazy. I ate every fucking thing I wanted to. Ever watch Lucifer? There's a character named Malcolm who went to Hell but was rescued by Michael to kill Lucifer. The problem: for the few moments Malcolm was dead, he was in Hell for two hundred years. It was so horrible that when he got back to our world, he gorged himself on all the wonderful food we have. That's me right now. Quesalupas, etc. are filling my belly because I was in Hell for a month in a half.
I did not have a sexual thought for a bit more than a month. When I finally started getting hard-ons again, I went down a fucking crazy porn rabbit hole that eventually led me to a guy cutting off his own dick, which finally brought me back from insanity.
Have you ever been confined to your bed for a month or longer? As soon as I found myself capable of getting out of the house, you'd better fucking believe I did. I went to just about every forest preserve in driving distance so I could sit there and read. I couldn't read while sick, but when I could, I did everything in my ability to not read at home. I got horrible sunburns on my forearms and face only because I was outside so much, just to get away from my sick bed.
I know it sounds crazy, but I'm eager to go back to work tomorrow. I've been driving myself insane at home. I deal with a lot of assholes at work, but when I'm sick at home, I have to deal with my own asshole self.
But . . . there's more. I've missed my last two paychecks because my doctor wouldn't sign the short term disability papers before he could send me back to work. I'm fucking broke. Seriously. I lived off my savings for two weeks, and I managed to survive the next month on the puny credit I had. Yesterday I was literally broke. I was going to lose my car and my insurance. I borrowed money from a family member, and that was going to keep me going until I finally got my STD payment next week. But that probably wouldn't have been enough. I lucked out and got my tax refund this afternoon. It's a hefty check, and it saved the shit out of me. I would have saved my car and insurance, but without this check, I would have lost an awesome credit score, and I would have lost just about everything else in about two weeks. This is the closest I've ever come to financial destruction. I grew up poor as shit, but this is the first time I have personally (not familial) come to losing everything.
I'm excited to go back to work. I'm glad to have this illness behind me. I want to go back to helping assholes and fuckfaces (and, occasionally, the honest person who isn't an asshole or fuckface who genuinely needs help; and I love them dearly).
I'm plugging myself back into the world. Fuck Trump. Fuck Clinton. Fuck everyone, except for Sanders, who I honestly feel sorry for. Fuck the people who are fucking us, and fuck the people who would throw us under the bus.
I'm back. Let's kick the shit out of everyone who is trying to take advantage of us.
Friday, April 22, 2016
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #171: INVISIBLE FRIEND
I was a very lonely kid. I had very few friends. As a result I spent a lot of time alone. To my own devices. That worked out pretty well for a budding writer, but as far as social interaction goes? It fucking blew.
I've been watching a lot of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION lately. I just came upon an episode where a young girl has an invisible friend, and it brought back a few memories of my childhood. Since I was so lonely, I tried to create an invisible friend. I'd come across the concept in fiction, and I tried to apply it to my real life.
My invisible friend's name was Mack. He knew a lot about books, and he was a tough guy. He could kick anyone's ass, which was important to me because I was severely bullied as a child. I didn't have the strength to fight back, but he could. He even knew how to put authority figures in their place because once the kids at school were done fucking with me, I had to go home to an abusive step-father and a neglecting mother.
The invisible friend didn't last long. I tried. I really did. My mind is too suited to reality. It refused to believe in Mack. I remember trying to talk to Mack about my shitty day when I was seven years old, and in that moment, I felt like an idiot. My imagination worked pretty well for working with toys and such, but when I tried to pretend I had a friend? Nope. I couldn't trick myself into believing. I just felt like a dumb ass talking to air, pretending it was real.
My invisible friend lasted a week. I couldn't even succeed at faking social interaction. As a result, I spent a lot of my life shunning everyone and everything. It took me a long time to recover from that. In all likelihood, I wouldn't have done it without the help of my friend, Robert Tannahill.
I still can't believe that I'm surrounded by awesome people today. People I'm proud to call friends. People I'm proud to call family. If I could go back in time to tell that young version of me . . .
I've been watching a lot of STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION lately. I just came upon an episode where a young girl has an invisible friend, and it brought back a few memories of my childhood. Since I was so lonely, I tried to create an invisible friend. I'd come across the concept in fiction, and I tried to apply it to my real life.
My invisible friend's name was Mack. He knew a lot about books, and he was a tough guy. He could kick anyone's ass, which was important to me because I was severely bullied as a child. I didn't have the strength to fight back, but he could. He even knew how to put authority figures in their place because once the kids at school were done fucking with me, I had to go home to an abusive step-father and a neglecting mother.
The invisible friend didn't last long. I tried. I really did. My mind is too suited to reality. It refused to believe in Mack. I remember trying to talk to Mack about my shitty day when I was seven years old, and in that moment, I felt like an idiot. My imagination worked pretty well for working with toys and such, but when I tried to pretend I had a friend? Nope. I couldn't trick myself into believing. I just felt like a dumb ass talking to air, pretending it was real.
My invisible friend lasted a week. I couldn't even succeed at faking social interaction. As a result, I spent a lot of my life shunning everyone and everything. It took me a long time to recover from that. In all likelihood, I wouldn't have done it without the help of my friend, Robert Tannahill.
I still can't believe that I'm surrounded by awesome people today. People I'm proud to call friends. People I'm proud to call family. If I could go back in time to tell that young version of me . . .
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #170: TALKING ABOUT BOOKS I LOVE
You know what you can't get when you buy books from Amazon? I'd forgotten it myself, to be honest. I shouldn't have. It's something so important that I'm ashamed of not recalling this.
When you go to a physical bookstore, you gather together the books you want to purchase. Then you go to the counter to pay for them. The clerk starts zapping your bar codes with the laser reader. And then he or she comes upon one of your selections, and he or she says, "Oh! You love this author's work?!" Or, "I love this book! Let me know what you think of it!" Or something along those lines.
Yesterday I went to Anderson's in Naperville because it's been a while since I've gone to an indie bookstore. Longtime readers might recall that I routinely give this advice: go to an indie bookstore once a month. I fucked up. I'm sorry. But I went yesterday for the first time in a while. I selected books by Bonnie McFarlane, Larry Wilmore, Patton Oswalt and a collection of John Wayne's personal letters. I took them to the desk, and the clerk started zapping the bar codes.
Then she came to Larry Wilmore's book of essays, and she said, "Oh! I love this show! Do you watch this show?" And we spent the next five minutes talking about how awesome Larry Wilmore and The Nightly Show is. This conversation charged me up. I'd completely forgotten about how fucking cool these conversations are.
The last time I went to Anderson's (this one in Downers Grove), I purchased Harper Lee's GO SET A WATCHMAN, and when I went to the counter, I had a wonderful discussion of the controversy about Atticus Finch in this book.
Rewind about ten or fifteen years. I used to work at my local library. Most of my employment there was spent as a page, but the last few years were as a desk clerk. Whenever someone checked out a book I thoroughly enjoyed or a new book by a writer I respect, I always struck up a conversation with them.
I miss that. I really do.
Amazon is pretty cool. They always have what I want. But the indie bookstores are the best. I will never have a book conversation with someone from Amazon as I make my purchase. Once again I advise you all to go to an indie bookstore at least once a month. I hope you do better at that than I usually do.
When you go to a physical bookstore, you gather together the books you want to purchase. Then you go to the counter to pay for them. The clerk starts zapping your bar codes with the laser reader. And then he or she comes upon one of your selections, and he or she says, "Oh! You love this author's work?!" Or, "I love this book! Let me know what you think of it!" Or something along those lines.
Yesterday I went to Anderson's in Naperville because it's been a while since I've gone to an indie bookstore. Longtime readers might recall that I routinely give this advice: go to an indie bookstore once a month. I fucked up. I'm sorry. But I went yesterday for the first time in a while. I selected books by Bonnie McFarlane, Larry Wilmore, Patton Oswalt and a collection of John Wayne's personal letters. I took them to the desk, and the clerk started zapping the bar codes.
Then she came to Larry Wilmore's book of essays, and she said, "Oh! I love this show! Do you watch this show?" And we spent the next five minutes talking about how awesome Larry Wilmore and The Nightly Show is. This conversation charged me up. I'd completely forgotten about how fucking cool these conversations are.
The last time I went to Anderson's (this one in Downers Grove), I purchased Harper Lee's GO SET A WATCHMAN, and when I went to the counter, I had a wonderful discussion of the controversy about Atticus Finch in this book.
Rewind about ten or fifteen years. I used to work at my local library. Most of my employment there was spent as a page, but the last few years were as a desk clerk. Whenever someone checked out a book I thoroughly enjoyed or a new book by a writer I respect, I always struck up a conversation with them.
I miss that. I really do.
Amazon is pretty cool. They always have what I want. But the indie bookstores are the best. I will never have a book conversation with someone from Amazon as I make my purchase. Once again I advise you all to go to an indie bookstore at least once a month. I hope you do better at that than I usually do.
Monday, April 18, 2016
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I GIVE YOU . . . THE 'BEETUS BLAST!
Take a chocolate and peanut butter Pop Tart. Spread a layer of peanut butter on top of that. Then put two Reese's peanut butter cups on top of that. Take two Hostess cupcakes and put one on each peanut butter cup. Spread some more peanut butter on top of those cupcakes. Place a second chocolate and peanut butter Pop Tart on top of that. Spread some chocolate cake frosting on top of that. For extra flavor, sprinkle some chocolate chips on top. This is my addition to the Foodie Culture: the 'Beetus Blast! Enjoy!
Saturday, April 2, 2016
A SPECIAL THANK YOU TO YOU ALL
I wanted to take the time to thank you all for your kindness and your support and friendship and love. March was a pretty rough month for me. I've been sick almost the entire time with an illness that sent me to the doctor many times and the ER three times. It started off as the flu and turned into pneumonia and settled in as a stomach virus that mimicked pancreatitis so closely that I didn't believe it when the tests came back and said my organs were all fine. There were entire days I spent puking my guts out and then dry-heaving when I didn't have anything else to offer the toilet. I had a deep pain in my guts, and the constant nausea prevented me from sleeping. It was an absolute nightmare, and I'm 99% certain I can trace it all back to that snot-nosed kid who coughed and sneezed over everything at the Urgent Care facility I went to for that lump in my armpit.
But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. When I was at my lowest, just as I was getting ready to go to the ER a second time, I got a call from my stepmother telling me that my father had just had a heart attack. From what I understand, he didn't know it was a heart attack, and he was feeling odd for a couple of days. They brought him to the ER, found out what happened and instantly went to work on him. I was confident he would pull through. He always does. He was in the air on 9/11, and he's a two-time cancer survivor. This heart attack would probably just be a bump in the road. My brother kept me appraised of the situation, and it seemed like he would get better for a while, and something else would happen, but then he'd get better again.
When my mom passed away, we all knew it was coming. She'd been sick for a long time, and her organs were failing her. She was in hospice, and she was in a coma. We had plenty of time to prepare. Even when the inevitable happened, we all lost it. No matter how prepared you are, you're never prepared enough.
Losing Dad surprised the shit out of all of us. It came out of nowhere. He was a few years shy of his sixties. He was in fairly good shape after several bad medical run-ins. Full head of hair. Strong as an ox. And bam. One minute my brother is telling me they're getting ready to take him out of ICU, and the next he's calling me to tell me that Dad is gone.
It happens just like that.
I cried a long time. Dad wouldn't have wanted that, but I couldn't help it. From what I've experienced with my mom's passing, I know it will go like this: it will hurt less and less everyday, but every once in a while, maybe in intervals of six months or a year, it will come back and hit me hard out of the blue.
There will be no funeral for Dad. He didn't want anything like that. He was a circle-of-life kind of guy. So am I. I always wondered where I got that from. When I go, I want a green burial. Put me back into nature. Recycle me. Dad donated his body to science so people could pop his hood and check out what happened to him, so they'll know what to do for the next person this happens to. That's the kind of guy he was.
There will be a celebration of Dad's life, though. One last get-together, where everyone can raise a pint to his memory. I wish I could be there and see my family, but Dad wouldn't have wanted me to go to all the trouble. He didn't want to make life difficult for anyone. He was a man of convenience, which is probably why he made such a good salesman. This is my way of sending him off.
Which finally brings me to that "thank you" I promised in the title of this thing. I don't know how it happened, but I've somehow surrounded myself with the most caring, loving, wonderful people anyone could hope to have in their lives. So many of you rushed to offer help, assistance, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on--you name it, you all offered. Thank you. I'm grateful to have you all in my life, and I can't thank you enough. I love you all.
But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. When I was at my lowest, just as I was getting ready to go to the ER a second time, I got a call from my stepmother telling me that my father had just had a heart attack. From what I understand, he didn't know it was a heart attack, and he was feeling odd for a couple of days. They brought him to the ER, found out what happened and instantly went to work on him. I was confident he would pull through. He always does. He was in the air on 9/11, and he's a two-time cancer survivor. This heart attack would probably just be a bump in the road. My brother kept me appraised of the situation, and it seemed like he would get better for a while, and something else would happen, but then he'd get better again.
When my mom passed away, we all knew it was coming. She'd been sick for a long time, and her organs were failing her. She was in hospice, and she was in a coma. We had plenty of time to prepare. Even when the inevitable happened, we all lost it. No matter how prepared you are, you're never prepared enough.
Losing Dad surprised the shit out of all of us. It came out of nowhere. He was a few years shy of his sixties. He was in fairly good shape after several bad medical run-ins. Full head of hair. Strong as an ox. And bam. One minute my brother is telling me they're getting ready to take him out of ICU, and the next he's calling me to tell me that Dad is gone.
It happens just like that.
I cried a long time. Dad wouldn't have wanted that, but I couldn't help it. From what I've experienced with my mom's passing, I know it will go like this: it will hurt less and less everyday, but every once in a while, maybe in intervals of six months or a year, it will come back and hit me hard out of the blue.
There will be no funeral for Dad. He didn't want anything like that. He was a circle-of-life kind of guy. So am I. I always wondered where I got that from. When I go, I want a green burial. Put me back into nature. Recycle me. Dad donated his body to science so people could pop his hood and check out what happened to him, so they'll know what to do for the next person this happens to. That's the kind of guy he was.
There will be a celebration of Dad's life, though. One last get-together, where everyone can raise a pint to his memory. I wish I could be there and see my family, but Dad wouldn't have wanted me to go to all the trouble. He didn't want to make life difficult for anyone. He was a man of convenience, which is probably why he made such a good salesman. This is my way of sending him off.
Which finally brings me to that "thank you" I promised in the title of this thing. I don't know how it happened, but I've somehow surrounded myself with the most caring, loving, wonderful people anyone could hope to have in their lives. So many of you rushed to offer help, assistance, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on--you name it, you all offered. Thank you. I'm grateful to have you all in my life, and I can't thank you enough. I love you all.
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