Breaking the Silence

It has been over a year since I last posted. I dont know if anybody even has me on their lists anymore.

I felt compelled to exile myself for fear of typing something in haste that would not be in my best interest.
A year ago just before the Labor Day weekend, my boss at the new job (who will be referred to as FFS-Fat fucking Asshole) met with me on our stardard weekly meeting time, but he had the HR person there). I was give a "Sophie's Choice": I could resign my position and it would be considered an 'amicable parting', or I would be put on a 30 day probationary period, during which anytime in those 30 days he was unhappy, it would be immediate termination, no severence, nothing. The objectives I was to achieve were very ambiguous, non-measurable such as "be able to demonstrate the digital products 'to my (his) satisfaction'. After giving me the LD weekend to think about, I took option 1, but first I gave him documentation of the items on my write up, one which lead to him-his error. The HR had the audacity to say, if we re-write this and take out these items, will you reconsider and stay? Are you fucking kidding me?!
2010 has not been great. I was forced into filing bankruptcy, saving my co op. Leaving the courthouse, I felt as though my soul has been extracted.

In June, I started a 1 year program to become a Clinical Massage Therapist, with the assistance of student loans and a grant for 'displaced workers'. I have been enjoying the learning, even anatomy, which was tough but thus far have gotten A's & B's. Just started Kinesiology which is kicking my butt.
My previous boss before (FFA)had retired. His replacement called me and want me to work PT to write their upcoming reaccreditation. I committed to 11 months, the duration of my schooling. After one month he decided he didn't like me, fired me and then contested my unemployment claim. The bank is refusing to work with me on the mortgage, and started forclosure, after assuring me that they would not do that while applying for the assistance progam. They are trying to force a 'short sale'. I don't want to do that, and it's not appropriate. I'm am NOT under water. have equity in the property, which I think they are trying force a short sale because they know that they would come out way ahead.
I feel like I've been in a year long nightmare that I can't wake up from. But it's a nightmare, just a real one that there's no waking up from. My faith in humanity has been eviserated.

Back among the Living

I am finally back among the living. This last bronch infection really beat the shit out of me. Each one seems a bit worse than the last. Coughing up bloody chunks of lung just ain't fun.

And even when I'm sick in bed, life goes on--the good with the bad.

The good: Last week, I became a great uncle for the second time, against my protestations that I'm still too young to be a great uncle. My niece had another beautiful baby girl. Both are healthy.

The bad: When I was at my parents' after Christmas, as always, I went to see my Aunt Alice, Mom's oldest sister, who partially raised my Mom, so she's always been more like a Grandma. Her Alzheimer's is progressing rapidly. It's hard seeing her decline. She knew me, which has been a fear of mine for the past year or so, since I don't get down to see her more than 2 or 3 times a year. She's been in a Seniors assisted living facility. Other residents said of Aunt Alice, "we can tell she WAS a really caring compasionate person." Hearing her referred to in the past tense when she's not dead is strange.

Monday she had to go to a nursing home, after a short hosptial stay last week. This fucking disease is a theif. It has stolen her life. Antithetical to the last sentence of the previous paragraph, She is no longer alive. There's no quality of life. She's a body that is rapidly losing its soul. IF there was a god, 'he' would take her to her glory, as the bible thumpers are wont to say. She worked hard all of her life. This is not how it should end. It should have ended before reaching this point.

My love of cooking, and skills thereof are a legacy of my Mom and Aunt Alice. She could cook for 3 to 300. She ran a restaurant when I was little, and later was the cook at the my grade and high school cafeterias before she finally retired, to care for my uncle, who had Alzheimer's before he finally died, not knowing any of us. Fucking cruel universe.

Ass Whuppin'

I now have 3 (or at least parts of) posts written, that I’ll probably not post. This is primarily because they are too whiney and bitchy, upon re-reading. And, quite frankly, when I see shades of the less pleasant traits (or words) of my mother glaring back at me written in my own hand, it scares the bejesus out of me—the things I vowed I’d never do nor be like ‘when I grew up’.

That being said, I’m not currently feeling bright and cheery—not that these adjectives are frequently attributed to me. I’m in a slump. I’m discouraged. I’m frustrated. I’m pissed. I just finished week # 4 of being on anti-biotics, and just got a ‘script for a new one—for 3more weeks. This fucking sinus infection is still kicking my ass—or kicking the snot out of me to be more literal. I am reminded of one of my favorite books that I read a few summers ago. I bought this book for the title alone, and was NOT disappointed. The title: “Another Bullshit Night In Suck City: A Memoir” by Nick Flynn. I laughed, I cried. It was a good—make that GREAT read. I recommend it. It’d be a good summer beach read.

I DO try to be mindful that it could be worse. There are people in much more dire straits than I. I remind myself of that. It’s sometimes hard to keep that in focus when the back of my right eyeball feels like a punching bag. Chronically feeling like shit just sucks. It sucks poorly. I just turned down an invitation from my friend Mark, to a cookout, because his out of town guest is HIV positive, and I don’t want to risk exposing this sinus infection from hell on to someone else who is immune compromised. Mentally, being in a social setting would, I’m sure do me good. But feeling like the carrier of the black plague at the cookout would not. So, to try to be less like the me in the first paragraph, I’m listing things I’m looking forward to:
The new season of Project Runway
Massage scheduled for Saturday (legit-not the ‘happy ending’ variety, from my friend Louie, who is an exceptional MT—he’s like a PT/MT
I’m seriously thinking about another tattoo—I just have to figure out what I want this one to be—I know I want another Latin quote, to follow suit with the first one. I have to decide which one from my list—maybe I’ll post the options here for vote and/or comment.
Of course there’s more, but it’s a start.

Travel Logue in Reverse, Part 2-Redacted

I've written the next installment of my Travel Logue in reverse, and have read and re-read it. I've had to redact much of my own writing. In it I write about getting confirmation of my fears that my sister-in-law is a homophobe. Even though my relatives do not read this, I don't think I want those thoughts in a public forum until/unless I can tone it down. Because, I'm extremely pissed and not sure how I want to handle it. Perhaps I'll continue editting and post the re-write.

Travel Logue, in Reverse Part 1

Travel log in Reverse, Part 1
I’m way behind. I’ve been back a week now from MD, and still don’t have my travels from Vancouver and MD done. I’m going to write my travel tales in reverse since I have almost two weeks worth to report, and since my blog posts the most recent item first, when all is said and done, it will read chronologically. I started this first entry when, well start reading…

I’m on the train home from downstate (Bumblefuck), back to Chicago. Just after we got in the SUV to go the train station-- (and I use that term loosely, as the depot has no staffed station any longer. It now houses a tanning spa {again, using THAT term loosely}, there is a makeshift ‘shelter’ to apparently protect one from the elements, when waiting for your delayed train, there’s no building or station in which to wait—I had to walk out into the street, and cross the tracks, to enter the car I was to board—the freaking engineer apparently cannot bring the designated car to the actual boarding area—but I digress. We were in the car to the train ‘station’, and my phone rings. It’s an 800 number, and I hesitate answering, but I do. It’s AMTRAK,
“Mr. gayCMEguy, I’m glad I got you, this is Barbara from Amtrak, have you received an update on your 11:27 train from town near BF to Chicago?”
ME: With a hint of reservation in my voice--NO, I’m on my way to the station now.
AMTRAK: There are technical difficulties with your train, it’s still running, but there is no air conditioning on the train. The train is only running a few minutes late. We are also providing bus service and are offering you the option of train or bus w/ A/C. The bus will be running on time. You don’t have to tell me or decide now. Since there’s no station with personnel, you just board whichever. you decide.
I immediately regret, changing out of my shorts and into my jeans.
ME: What’s the arrival time difference?
AMTRAK: They’re on the same schedule, making all the same stops.
I decide that I’ll take whichever arrives first, presuming it will be the bus. At about 11:25, the lights flash and the gates go down on the street crossing. Wow, the train is on time! The train does NOT slow down, does NOT stop, and zooms by. When I arrived, there was what appeared to be a bum sitting/slumping in the shelter. I avoided him. When the train zoomed by, he got on his cell phone, had it on speaker. He was contacting AMTRAK about his train. He was southbound while I’m northbound. He makes small conversation about AMTRAK with me and my Dad. He has one front top snaggle-tooth, with the others appearing to be gnawed down to the gums. It was very distracting.
The Maryland trip:
I ran the gamut of emotions and realizations on this trip. Each time I’ve seen my Dad this year (3 x since Christmas), he is appearing more feeble. This year, for the first time, my parents seem old—seemed to have aged greatly. That’s a hard reality to witness. Now, I realize that I’m fortunate in still having my parents here in which to witness such events. But, it’s still hard. Another realization was that my parents have no business driving long distances. I don’t even want them driving to Chicago to see me. My Dad has always driven like an old man farmer. But his driving scared me. I ended up driving the majority of the trip (15 hours one way). The two short stints that Mom drove, was disconcerting in different ways.
Another emotion that ran high was anger. Since I learned to drive, has always been a terrible back seat driver. The last big driving trip I took with them was when I was college age. We went east to DC, and Gettysburg. This was 25 +/- years ago. I vowed then, I’d never take a trip with my parents again. I had thought that years and time might have mellowed Dad in this aspect. I was mistaken in this thought. I wanted to slap the shit out of him. At one point, gritting my teeth, I literally bit my tongue. I have the ulcered reminder still.

I waffled between, sadness for acknowledging the aging processes, to being extremely pissed off at him. My parents wake up before the ass-crack of dawn. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not a morning person. Dad took the opening shift of driving. I’d take over when we stopped for breakfast. Sunday evening, after an extremely long and arduous day, filled with ample amounts of backseat driving, we were in Ohio. I was one raw nerve, and my eyes were starting to go batty, so I turned the keys over to Mom. We got through Columbus. I figure were going to stop soon, and I wanted to be able to search for hotels on the GPS (btw Garmin is a piece of shit—it was only good for locating hotels and restaurants, for directions, it sucks, I’m glad I did Mapquest, otherwise we’d still be circling Indianapolis). WE stop again at a rest area and Dad takes the keys from Mom. FUCK. We’re about 15 miles away from Springfield, roughly 60 from Dayton. Dad says, ‘we’ll just go on to Dayton.” I snapped. I said, “NO, we’re not! I’m done for the day. We are stopping in Springfield. I begin searching on Garmin. Because of my job, I discounted rates off the rack rate for lodging at all the major chains. So, I plan to call different ones to see who will give me the best government rate. I see a Marriott Courtyard. I think good, if the rate’s decent, it will be better than the fleabags we’ve been in the past 3 nights. I call. They have availability, and the state rate is $80. , cheaper than the MD Econolodge, and the same as the divey Red Roof Inn we were in the first night. Dad screeching to me, “HOW MUCH is it?! WHAT’s the AARP rate? I ask. My discount is better. I book the room, get directions, as I don’t trust Garmin to get us there. I hang up. Dad, asking me what hotel it is. I tell him it Courtyard, a Marriott discount franchise. “Well no wonder it’s so expensive!”
OH, NO HE DIDN’T JUST SAY THAT. This may have been when I actually bit my tongue. I simply said in a firm, but not angry voice, “This is NOT an expensive rate. It’s less than we’ve paid anywhere else.” I’ve never told my Dad to fuck off, but I came pretty damn close at that moment. My Dad was insistent that he was paying the expenses for the trip. Because of this, we all slept in one room, w/ 2 double beds. When I went up to the desk to check in, I took out my wallet and gave the man cash. Dad kept trying to put his credit card out. I told him I was taking care of it. (If you’re going to bitch about the choice, I’m not holding you responsible.) For the record, it was the nicest, and cleanest of any of the places we stayed. We check in, go to eat (at Bob Evans for the 5th time in 4 days, and 2nd time that day.) Fortunately, the Courtyard had a small gym and a pool. I definitely needed to work out some aggression, as well as needed some serious down time alone. Even though I was exhausted, and really could have gone to sleep, I knew I could not go back and stay in the room with them and keep that last raw nerve from unraveling. I hit the treadmill, did a few reps on the weight machine, and then went and sat in the whirlpool for a while until I got too shrivel. At this point I went back to the room, showered, grabbed the laptop and went down to the lobby bar to have a beer and check email, blogs, etc. The bar was closed, but I stayed down there for over an hour until my eyes could no longer focus, and I knew they’d be asleep.
I was pissed at him. I was pissed at myself for letting him get to me. I’m pissed that we so quickly fell back into the old patterns. I thought all these years later it would not be history repeating itself. FUCK! It was like I was 17 years old all over again. He pushed the buttons. Hell, he installed a good deal of them. The more he needled, the more obstinate I became in my resistance. As if this in and of itself wasn’t a living version of hell, six meals in 4 days were at Bob Evans. This was the payback for my refusing to eat at Cracker Barrel for their homophobic anti-gay hiring policies. OK, end of rant.

The Reception
The reception itself was a lot of fun. Meagan and Adam live out in the country in BF Maryland, by his parents’ on a plot of their land. They are not farmers, but it was farmland country. It was outdoors. They had a covered building, (as many farms do). The weather was unbearably hot and humid—pushing 100 degrees F. Adam (who trained to be a chef) did pretty much all of the cooking, prepping of the food. Meagan had it decorated in a very simple understated elegant manner for an outdoor reception. In what will go down as one of my favorite memories of my life, toward the end of the evening, the DJ puts on Dancing Queen by ABBA. Meagan had been up dancing with various people throughout the night. I hadn’t. When this came on, I looked at her, she at me. I gave her the “do you want to dance” signal. “Uncle Randy, YOU are my dancing queen!” We cut quite a rug (or slab of cement floor). Some of her girlfriends all came up and joined in with us. (Side note, WHY is it that I can attract a bevy of hot girls/women, but not the hot gay men?) This reminded me of another wedding reception years ago, for my friend Janet. She is the last woman I dated before finally coming out of the closet. At her reception, the DJ started playing “Someday My Prince Will Come”. Janet was clear across the room talking to other guests, and came running to me, and said, “There’s only one person I can dance with to this song!” And, we danced, creating a great life memory. This dance with Meagan takes a special place in the memory bank as well.
Adam knows that Tommy (my brother, Meagan’s Dad) like single malt scotch, so he order a bottle of Glenlivet for us. The two of us polished it off by the end of the night. I was pacing myself with the drinking, as I didn’t want to be driving all day hungover. I started with beer, and as hot and humid as it was, I was sweating it out almost as fast as I was drinking. Dustin (my nephew, Meagan’s older brother) was there with one of his best friends. They verbally arm twisted me into doing shots with them a couple of times.
An additional bonus was that I got to see Lisa, their Mom, my former sister-in-law, whom I adore. I hadn’t seen her for over 15 years. When I first came out, she was the one member of the family who was completely nonplussed by it, and accepted it (and me) without question. It was great fun seeing her (and members of her family) again.
…to be continued.

Sometimes the Universe...

…is a fucking bitch, with a twisted sense of humor.


Author note: If you've not read the previous post, this one will make less sense. Hell, it may make no sense if you've read the previous post. Just so you know, intrepid reader, I am going to be processing my grief (or some of it) by writing here on this blog.

I am NOT a morning person. I used to have no problems getting up when I needed to do so. But these days, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. I relish weekends so I can sleep in. I would take Euckie out before going to bed to empty her bladder, so she would not need to go out at 7:00 am. She usually let me sleep until around 9:00, before putting her paws up on my bed to get me up. This morning (Sunday). I wake up at 7:30. Wide awake. I lay back down. I’m not nodding off. FUCK YOU universe! Funny joke. Ha Ha. I’m not laughing.

So, I get out of bed. I don’t walk Euckie. I don’t fill her water and food bowls. I don’t fix us our Sunday morning eggs. What I do, after I have my coffee and breakfast, is re-bag almost 40 LBS of dog food, that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago. I took it to Anti-Cruelty to donate in Euckie’s name.

The thing I hate most about grief is how it hits you at strange times, triggered by completely unrelated, innocuous events. Yesterday was in the 60’s—the first time we’ve hit those digits this year. My parents drove up for the day. That was a genuine surprise. Well, it was a surprise Friday night when Mom called and asked if I was going to be around on Saturday. If so, they were going to come up for the day. My relatives are not necessarily known for their overt displays of affection or compassion. So, this was pretty monumental. I even got nice notes from my brothers. Sometimes my family surprises me in good ways.

When they left to go back home, I walked them outside to their car. As it was our first great Spring day, I decided to take a walk—I decided to take ‘our usual Euckie walk.” I didn’t expect a stupid walk to make me tear up. I take the repackaged dog food to Anti-Cruelty. I’m driving home. I’m on LSD (Lake Shore Drive, NOT the hallucinogenic), heading north. Radio is playing-Oldies station. “To Sir With Love”, the song from the TV movie in the early 70’s with Sidney Poitier. I know it. I’m singing along. “…who taught me right from wrong, weak from strong, that’s a lot to learn…” I fucking lose it. I’m driving and sobbing. It’s not even a goddamn song about a dog. WTF is wrong with me?!? I felt so fucking stupid, and embarrassed. The only good thing is that I was alone in the car. The mind and heart of grief plays tricks on the soul of grief.

An odd coincidence that I realized is that it was this same week, 13 years ago, that Ficus (the dog, not the plant) was put to sleep. WTF is it about the beginning of Spring and my dogs? Another thing that I’m pissed at the universe with is: It’s finally Spring. You make my poor dog suffer walking on ice in 20 below Chicago winter, you can’t give her at least some days of good Spring weather to enjoy before you start mis-firing her synapses?!
I’m re-reading “Dog Years”. I’m telling you people, buy this book! But I don’t think I’ll read this one on the train for the work commute. I want to try and keep my composure at least in public settings.

I wish you’d known me BCP* (Before Chronic Pain) © wtf/rle

I find myself making this statement to friends that I’ve met after 2001. I feel the need to put qualifiers on ‘me’, who I am now, who I’ve become. Because I’m a very different person than I was in 2000—and not just in the growth that hopefully we all go through as we mature and the years roll by.

Whenever I tell this to someone, I follow up with, “I used to be a really fun and funny person.” I have a very distinctive laugh aparently. I've been identified in dark movie theatres and even once on the radio when I was in the audience of a program that was recorded and later aired by my laugh. More days than I care to count, I’m less fun and less funny. It really sucks (poorly). [Side note: A friend once gave me the dubious honor of naming the “Randy Suck ‘O’ meter”. It gages the degree of suckiness, as I always use a modifier in identifying such things, because sometimes sucking well can be a good thing. Vacuum cleaners you gutter minds!]

I went through the 4 week intensive outpatient program at the Chronic Pain Center of the Rehab Institute of Chicago. It was M-F, 8:00 – 5:00 for 4 consecutive weeks. Those four weeks rate as among the hardest in my life. I’ll talk more about that in some future FLASHBACK post. [Now there’s an oxymoron – Future Flashback] The program takes a behavioral mod approach to teaching pain patients [I loathe the word ‘sufferer’. It’s so damned victimizing and condescending.] coping mechanisms to deal with and learn how to live with chronic pain, as it’s now with you and a part of you that ain’t gonna go away. Let me reiterate: IT SUCKS POORLY!

During one of the group therapy sessions, we were talking about loss, and the things that chronic pain has and/or will cost each of us. I lamented that I used to go on canoeing/camping trips to the Boundary Water (BWCWA) with friends. I would no longer be able to do this because of the chronic pain, and it really pissed me off. The shrink, comes back with {paraphrased with allowance for memory and time passed), “OK, so you can’t canoe and camp anymore. But you can do day trips and stay in cabins.”
Now, before I proceed, let me state for the record, cognitively I understand where she was going with this, trying to get me to see different options and alternatives. It’s behavior mod, I get that. But at that moment in time, I wanted to scream, ‘Fuck you, You Bitch! My life is changing in many and mostly bad ways, over which I have little to no control. How dare you toss out some platitude, thinking it’s somehow going to placate me and suddenly make me feel all better!”

Chronic pain is a thief. Sometimes it’s a silent and stealth thief. Because it’s constant, and in my case, usually not excruciating, it slowly and steadily sucks away my energy (and sometimes it feels, my soul as well). BCP, I used to be able go and do without forethought. I could be tired and ‘running on empty’. But since CP, I have no empty to run on. Before I learned how to manage it, and to know what my particular warning signs are, I could be out with friends, and suddenly hit that wall, and I was spent. One time that is etched in my memory was one August, when I was out with my then boyfriend. We were at a street festival which is my favorite weekend of the year in Chicago. I planned my summers to make sure I was in town this weekend every year. We’d been walking along, had been out for probably 3 hours. All of a sudden, I hit the wall. He knew. He looked at me with an uneasy look on his face and said, “You’re not OK, are you?!” We had to stop. I had to sit and rest. I had to sit and rest to have enough energy to walk to the EL station to take the train home. The day/weekend was blown.

It’s also hard to make plans. I can’t know when I’m going to have a ‘bad pain day’. I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve cancelled plans because it was a bad pain day. Friends get frustrated because I’m canceling once again. It doesn’t frustrate me. It angers me. It really pisses me off. Anger is a very private thing for me. I don’t let others see me angry. I wait until I’m home and I can punch walls or woodwork or door jams (the latter two are hell on the knuckles, but save on plaster and drywall). The odd thing is that it’s the little things that push me over the edge. Crisis?! Hell, I can handle that. I’m used to them. Knock over my coffee cup, or drop something, and I snap like a dead twig in January.

I had to resign from one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. CP robbed me of that. I don’t like the person that chronic pain has created. I want back the person who didn’t have to think about whether spending the afternoon at a street fair would be too taxing. I want back the man who could meet friends for a vacation and not worry about crapping out on the trip. I wish you’d known me BCP. ©wtf/rle