Jaden's Family: A Safe Place to Be #becauseY

Mine is not the only Y story. I want to share some others, too, but to protect their owner's privacy, I will take a few liberties. I have made up names for them. I may also consolidate experiences of several people into a single tale. But rest assured, I will not make anything up. These are true accounts of how the Y has touched the lives of people I know and care for.

Click to learn more about Aspergers.

Jaden is small for his age. At 10, he looks more like 7 or 8. The doctors have told his parents Jaden has Asperger's . He doesn't know his diagnosis, but he does know he's a little weird. He knows because the kids at school won't let him forget. He gets teased because he sometimes wears funny looking outfits to school, and gets distracted a lot. He hardly ever looks right at you when he talks, and sometimes the things he says don't have anything to do with what's going on. In class, he is sometimes so shy that he can't even speak to answer a teacher's questions. At other times. he acts all crazy like he wants to be the center of everybody's attention. Every now and then, even his teachers have trouble concealing their frustration with him. Jaden feels like almost everybody in school has picked on him or made fun of him at one time or another. He tries not to think about it, but it still hurts.

Jaden's parents try hard to help their boy, but their lives aren't perfect either. His mom's health is very poor. She had a stroke a few years ago, and became very depressed and obese. Her heart is weak, and she needs a walker to help her get around. Years of smoking left her with COPD, and she uses an oxygen tank nearly all the time. Sometimes she forgets and lets it run out. When that happens, she gets very sick, and even falls down. A few weeks ago, the doctors discovered a lump in her breast. She wonders how many more things can go wrong. And she is very afraid she is going to die before her boy grows up. Jaden's dad works hard to keep his family together. He drives a school bus, and stocks the shelves at a grocery store in town. He hurt his back at work a few years ago, and it still bothers him, especially when the weather is cold or rainy. Sometimes the pressure of loving a sick wife and raising a strange, frustrating child makes him wonder if he isn't going crazy. Sometimes, he wishes he could just run away. But he never does.

Soon after her diagnosis, Jaden's mom learned about a program at the YMCA for cancer survivors. She and her family could have a free membership, while she worked with a group of people who had also had the disease. The trainers taught her exercises she could do, even with her walker. At every meeting, the group would gather and talk about life with cancer. It made her feel like she wasn't so alone.

Jaden's dad hadn't really exercised for fun since he was in high school. A member of the wellness staff at the Y met with him and they talked a little about his health and things he might do to reduce the pain in his back. As he come to the gym, lifted weights, swam, and chatted with other dads in the lobby, Jaden's dad started to feel like he was finally doing something to take care of himself, not just the people who needed him. It made him feel stronger. He realized that he wasn't going crazy after all.

Jaden's parents signed him up for a group that runs outside three times a week. The coaches know his name, and are always glad to see him. During warm-ups, he clowns around when he feels like it, and nobody tells him he's weird or to sit down and shut up. Jaden is always one of the fastest runners.  His mentor asks him how he's doing, and really listens. Some days, they laugh and talk the whole way. Other days, they are just quiet and the only sound is the pat-pat-pat of their feet on the pavement and their deep, easy breath as they run along for up to five or six miles. They always sprint the last 50 yards, and Jaden almost always wins. When it is Jaden's turn to lead stretches after the last runner finishes he takes the responsibility very seriously. He doesn't feel self conscious at all when he is leading the group. His coaches tell him he is a natural leader. Jaden thinks he might like to try doing a triathalon someday. His mom signed him up for swimming lessons, and she loves to sit on the bleachers and watch as he gets stronger and more confident in the water. One of the staff asked a local bicycle shop to donate a bike, and dad taught him to ride outside on the basketball court.

Click to read a great story about learning to ride

The Y is a safe place for Jaden and his family. They can be alone here. They can also find companions who listen and understand. For the first time in years, each of them feels like they are making friends. Mom and Dad are losing weight. The kids at school are still mean to Jaden, sometimes. But at the Y, he knows there will always be people who care and encourage him. Jaden's parents aren't kidding themselves. They know life is always going to be hard for them. But they also know that the Y is a place where they can do things together that they never thought they had time or energy to do before.

For each of them, in the ways they need it most, the Y is a safe place to be.

#407: 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon

A friend asked me, "How long does it take to train for a marathon?" I didn't hesitate. "51 years." This race report could be a novel, but I'll try to spare you that. Still, there's a lot to say.


ANTICI..... PATION


The 7 days before the marathon were verrrry long. Once the calender said "7 days," my obsession kicked into high gear. I wore shoes all the time so I wouldn't stub my toes. I questioned every bite of food. I saw myself running every time I closed my eyes. I promoted my fundraiser relentlessly. Monday night, I ran with the Run This Town kids from the Y and we did speed work: exactly what I should not have been doing the week before a marathon. That night, I lay in bed fretting over my sore quads. Had I hurt myself? Had I burned up too much energy? Would I recover in time for the race? 

By Wednesday, I was stone crazy. After a couple of hours of checking the clock, I got up at 4:30 and wrote out my agenda for the race weekend. Travel time. Sightseeing with Mrs P. Time at the race expo. Rest days. Race day. Then I wrote my packing list. Race clothes. Spare clothes. Street clothes.By the time I went to work, I was packed and ready to go. I ran 4 easy miles on the Legacy Trail to work off some nerves, then did my shift at the desk at the Y. Our LIVESTRONG at the YMCA class was particularly sweet that night. We had a good workout, then during stretch and reflect time, everyone wished me good luck. Rehearsal that night was long, but productive. Our directrix, the Mad Russian told me to win my marathon, and I assured her that I intended to do so.


Thursday was travel day. Mrs P packed and told me when she was finished so I could load the bags into the car. On the way out of town, I stopped to say goodbye to the gang at the Y, and to add my brother PP to our membership. He had driven up from Florida to watch the dogs, and wanted a place to exercise while he was in town. The lunchroom gang all wished me well, and I insisted on a big hug from Coach Melissa. Then we were off. The drive was lovely. Not even the great flat plains of central Ohio could dampen my spirits. We arrived at Mum's house just after dark, only to discover that I had packed everything except our suitcase. I had all my race clothes and spare gear. Nothing else. We added trips to Walmart and Goodwill to our itinerary...

Which way to the wharf?

Ran a marathon and all I got...

Friday morning, Mrs P and I drove the 2 hours to Pittsburgh in about 1:30. I got completely lost trying to find the entrance to the Monongahela parking wharf, and we wound up on the North Side, two rivers away, in the shadow of Heinz Field. A friendly waitress at a street cafe (something unheard of during the sooty days of my childhood in Pittsburgh) gave us directions, and we parked by the river. We explored the streets where my starting corral would be, and traced the route to the starting line. Hiked to the convention center to pick up my bib (number 4952), my race shirt, and my swag bag. The expo was a big trade show with booths representing gear manufacturers, retailers, charities associated with the race, and runner services. I spent as little money as possible, and we headed back home, stopping on Liberty avenue for a slice of the best pizza either of us had tasted since we moved from Brooklyn. That night, we bought some clothes at Goodwill in New Bethlehem, and underwear at the Walmart in Clarion. 

That's a runner's leg?

Love all up and down my arms

The girls over my heart

The Strong Eight

 Saturday, we relaxed on Mum's porch. Mrs P got out the Sharpies and wrote the names of all my sponsors on my arms, legs, and chest. My sister B came down to the house with a $20 bill and said she wanted to write her own name. "I want to write it on your butt," she joked. I was too tired to resist, and dropped trou right there on the porch. "Now I'll be riding your ass the whole way." Then it was time to go to bed. I did my final gear check, then turned out the lights, only to wake up every hour until 3:30 when the alarm sounded. 

One more for the 5

What I won't do for 20 bucks

 

Race day started with a toasted bagel and strawberry jelly. I didn't think my stomach would tolerate coffee, so I drank a couple of bottles of water. Checked the numbers on the fundraiser. Took in the love from my friends on Facebook. Rubbed on Mum's poodle, Cujo for a while. Then it was time to wake Mrs P, collect B, and hit the road. They slept while I drove the dark country roads under a gigantic full moon. It was so bright, it looked like the sun was about to come up. We twisted and turned through the night and I did my best to think about anything but the race. Fat chance. In the city, I took the wrong ramp off the Veterans Bridge, and we somehow wound up on top of Mt Washington, across the river from town and our parking spot. B managed to get me back, and we finally parked on the wharf. We walked along the river for a while, then climbed the old, concrete steps to Stanwix street.


MARATHON

Anybody got a light?

What's it like to line up with 25,000 runners? It isn't like anything at all. We walked up to Gateway Center, where the crowd curved around the bend toward the starting line. B wondered if there had ever been this many non-smokers downtown before. I could tell she was jonesing for one, but suspected she might have been beaten to death if she had tried to light up. Back at corral "E" where I would be starting, we found my pace group. I was shooting for 11:30/mile. I turned back and realized that there were about 40 runners behind me. I didn't bother doing the math. I was at the back of the biggest pack I had ever seen. Mrs P put her hand on my chest and confirmed what I felt: my heart was pounding. Just before the gun, we hugged and kissed and they left me to hop and stretch in the street. At 7:30 there was a great cheer, and the throng started shuffling toward the starting line. The race had begun.

Only 24,960 runners to beat

I had occasional running partners, curious about the names scrawled all over me, or the "Survivor" tag the folks at the LIVESTRONG booth had given me to wear. There were the people encouraging us through every neighborhood with water, fruit slices, and cowbells. We crossed the Allegheny three times, then went down the North Side to the West End Bridge over the Ohio. I was feeling great as we started up Carson Street, the main drag through the South Side: my family's first home when Gramma Johnson's parents brought her here from Ukraine in 1904. As we approached the Birmingham bridge and the 11 mile mark, I felt strong and confident. I had trained hard and was ready to begin the 5 mile climb to the Frick mansion in Shadyside. 


Wrong.

Uhhh... Keeneland's hills look nothing like this

I thought there were hills in the Bluegrass. I really did. They felt like hills to me. They were not hills. THIS was a hill. My form broke down quickly. My head dipped, my shoulders fell forward, and my upper back started to ache. Walk breaks became longer and more frequent. People on the side of the road would clap and encourage me, then ask if I was OK. Starting around mile 15, every step I took involved a cramp in my upper calves. Over and over I wanted to stop. Over and over I told myself aloud "Just keep moving." I stretched my neck up, trying to run tall. The angle of the climb was torture on my calves and hamstrings. The dreaded sweep bus pulled up beside me the first of many times and a ghoulish Samaritan stuck his head out the front window. "You want a ride?" I would rather have finished on bloody stumps than to get on that bus. I smiled, clenched my fists, and waved him on again and again. My heart and lungs were strong, but my muscles were failing me. I couldn't believe a person could hurt so much in so many places at once. Again and again, I looked down at the sweat smeared names written on my legs and arms. Donors. Lost loved ones. Fellow cancer fighters. They were the ones who got me through. There was no way I could have stayed off that bus on my own.

The dreaded "Sweep Bus"

Marathon: Robert Parks Johnson - FINISH in 6:21:53. Pace: 14:34. At 14:14:03.

In the shadow of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette,
 where my father, uncle and grandfather worked

Mrs P and B had managed to sneak into the VIP grandstands. It wasn't too hard, since the winners had finished over 4 hours earlier. I saw them cheering and snapping pictures just as I passed and their smiles gave me the last boost I needed to run across the finish line. A lady handed me my medal. Two young girls doused me with water. I staggered to a photo area where a man snapped my picture and handed me a business card. I guzzled Gatorade and water and grabbed a banana before wandering to a bench at the entrance of Point Park and prayed that the girls would somehow stumble across me. We embraced. "We did it," I said to Mrs P. "YOU did it," she corrected me. "WE did it," I insisted. "We kicked cancer's ass." My sister looked at the two of us and said, "You sure did." "We did it," I repeated. "F**k cancer."

WE did it

Polly, Marmaduke, and Mrs P

Riding back to Mum's was agony. My legs were seized with little cramps from my ankles to my hips. My seat was tipped all the way back and I slept most of the way, waking up from time to time as one spasm or another stabbed me. Mrs P sat in the back seat petting my head. B drove, singing along to country music on the radio. "When did my sister turn into a redneck?" I wondered sleepily. At Mums, the family greeted us. Hugs and congratulations all around. We ate something, I don't remember what. We opened a case of Iron City Beer and I drank three or four while kids and dogs played in the yard. I had stretched and used my foam roller as soon as we got home, and now I sat on the chaise lounge, my legs punishing me every time I tried to move them. My medal was still hanging around my neck. I looked around and thought to myself, "This just might be the happiest day of my life."

Mrs P and me before the race

My niece and a buddy

Nobody loves you like your little sister

The next morning, I checked my fundraiser page. $3490. I still have a few pledges coming in, so we'll be rounding that up a little. 


WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?

Survivor? Damn right, I am

• The Pittsburgh was a very reckless choice for a first marathon.
• I need to spend a lot more time building up my core and leg strength.
• I want to be several pounds lighter before I take on my next 26.2.
• A four week taper might be just a little too long.
• I missed a lot of early walk breaks, and need a louder alarm so I can hear it in heavy traffic.
• I need a lot more speed and hill work if I'm going to enjoy my next big race.
• I have the best, most supportive, loving friends and family in the universe.
• God is great.
• Cancer is a wussy.
• There really is no place like home.
• I am a by-God marathoner.

My God, what a great day for a run.


Peace,
Pennsy


Oh by the way, Living Strong at the Y will be accepting donations until Sunday, May 13. You know, just in case you were waiting to see if I would actually do it! 

#385: "God Bless You," he said.

Sixteen years and a day ago, I spoke with my father for the last time. The Steelers were about to play the Cowboys. We usually talked after the game, but this was the first time I was ever going to watch a Super Bowl without him, and I wanted to check in. We talked about how he was feeling: "like hell," he said. It had been about a year since the heart attack, and in those few months, he had grown old and tired. Depression is very common after a heart attack, and it had hit him hard.

Dad had been planning his and Mum's retirement for a long time. He was a newspaper man, a printer, like his father. He spent many years working his way up in a union that taught him the craft that would let him give his kids the opportunities he hadn't had. The joy went out of his work the day they took the linotype out of the composing room and replaced it with the giant computers. He learned to work with them, but he didn't love them the way he had love the hot lead slugs that used to make up the paper. So he put his shoulder to the wheel, learned the new system, and started saving for the time when he wouldn't have to work the night-turn at the Press anymore. He had fought beside his union brothers for decades to save their jobs, to save the union my grampa Johnson helped to build. There were strikes, buy-outs, mergers, frustrations... The bosses did their best to break the unions, and failed. But the battle had taken a lot out of my Dad. He had poured his passion into his family, his church, his Boy Scouts, his neighbors. He took care of everyone but himself. And then, the heart that had pumped so much love into the world betrayed him. Sleep missed. Cigarettes smoked. Too many pounds. Too many worries. They took their toll. We would sit in the living room, and he would talk about moving back to the farm where Mum grew up. He updated me on how much was in the retirement fund. He had the date circled in his mind: the day he could pack up and move to the green hills and hardwood forests of northern Pennsyltucky.

But today, we talked about the Game. The Steelers chances, (they weren't good.) His appointment for more tests in the morning. Other than his dark mood, there wasn't anything especially memorable about the conversation. Except the end. Dad wasn't an "I love you" kind of guy. He was more comfortable living it than he was saying it. We had tried it on a couple of times, but it always fit like a new shoe, handsome, but just a little too stiff and pinchy to be comfortable. I settled for a good bye hug, and a "be careful going home." I knew what he meant. We finished up with "Well, I better get going. Enjoy the game," or something like that, then he said the words I will never forget.

"God bless you," he said.

In the Bible, sons are always asking their dying fathers for their blessing. It's the last gift a Dad can give to his boy. It was the last gift my father gave to me. I treasure that blessing more than my life.

The anniversary always sneaks up on me. His birthday will be in a week or so. I always see that coming. But the night the phone call came, (why do they always come at night?) that one always catches me unawares. I've been feeling really crappy this weekend. Staying in bed. Feeling depressed and tired. Skipping yesterday's long run. I had no idea why. Then this morning, my Mum posted it on Facebook. 16 years. "Do you think that's the reason I've been feeling so bad?" I asked Mrs P. "It happens every year," she answered.

There's so much I wish we could have shared. Two more Super Bowls. All the graduating grandkids. An Eagle scout. A linebacker. A lady Scoutmaster. A daughter who works to keep kids in school. The sons-in-law who held their families together. The daughter-in-law who became a child therapist. The wife who shared his home, his bed, and his heart who became the matriarch of our strange, unruly tribe.  And the son who finally figured out that life is worth fighting for.

We are his legacy. He spoke those words to me, but they were for all of us. All of us. When things get rough, we can keep fighting, just as he fought. We can keep loving, as he loved, even when we feel like hell. We can leave things better than we found them. We can build legacies of our own. We have his blessing.

God bless you too, Dad.

Peace,
Pennsy

#354: Fighters, Survivors, and the Battle That Goes On

 Five of us, a cousin, a brother, an aunt, a friend, and a Pennsyltuckian all diagnosed with cancer within days of one another. Now there is only one left to tell our story.

Mrs P and Elvin

Cousin Elvin died last night. The cancer in his brain had been stealing him from the family bit by bit. He couldn't speak. Couldn't walk. Couldn't remember. His may have been the cruelest death of all. Elvin's life was joy itself. He was always joking, usually at his own expense. He laughed easily and when he wrapped his big arms around you, you knew you were being loved on. The day I met Elvin, he told the story of stopping by a farm to buy a calf. He had already given the man the money when he realized that he wasn't driving his truck, but his little "Datsun Car."  He flipped the passenger seat down and wrestled that calf in beside him while he drove down the red dirt roads with the windows down so the little gal could stick her nose out and give him room to work the stick shift. It sounds like too good a story to be true, but knowing Elvin, it was too good not to be true. Whenever we would stand next to one another, he would joke that Mrs P had to go all the way to New York City to find a husband bigger than he was. Bigger, maybe, but no tougher. Tough enough that he could never button the top button of a suit coat around his enormous chest. He looked like one of those old-time circus strong men who ripped phone books and bend crow bars with their hands. Tough enough that I don't ever remember him hugging me goodbye without whispering, "I love you." in my ear. I never knew anybody named "Elvin" before Mrs P took me to Kentucky for the first time. And I've never met a man like him before or since. May God bless and guide him home.

"Pa" with his pride and joy

Doug was Mrs P's oldest brother, but he loved me like his own blood. The cancer was so far along when they found it in his colon that they gave him just a few months to live. With courage, stubbornness, and faith in God, he outlasted that grim estimate by almost a year. He knew dying was going to be hard, but he knew he would not face death alone. The last time I saw him, lying on his death bed, surrounded by the people he loved, he raised his tear filled eyes to heaven and said, "It's all gonna be worth it." He knew that God would make good come out of this, even this awful loss. "It's nothing compared to what he suffered on the cross."

"Aint Cathr'n"

Aunt Catherine was a smoker, like so many in our family, and like so many of them, cancer took her lungs. It stole her breath, eventually even her laughter, but it could not take her joy, her love for her family, or her faith in God. Yes, she was happy, but Catherine was not a woman you wanted to cross. Once she accidentally cut a fellow off in traffic, and the boy was so mad that he tailgated her all the way to the Wal-Mart parking lot. Now she was sorry for cutting him off, but he finally got on her last nerve. She screeched to a halt, jumped out of her little sedan, marched back to the big pick up and rapped on the window. "Son, you just ain't had no raisin' at all, have you?" By the time she was done chewing on him, that good old boy was probably glad she didn't send him out back to cut him a switch. Catherine was always the one who showed up when anyone was sick or hurt. She could fill a room with her smile. She used to make fried pies for Mrs P and me when we visited her trailer house for breakfast. Catherine didn't own much, but she was one of the richest women I ever knew. Her treasury was so filled with love that she couldn't help but give it away. She always called you "Honey," and she always said goodbye with, "I love you, Hon." When I was sick, she prayed harder for me than she did for herself.

Bloody Alan

Alan was our friend and our vet. We used  to joke that our cats hated him so much that they called him "Bloody Alan." It was funny because it was so far from the truth. Alan loved animals with an almost missionary fervor. Healing them was his vocation, his sacred calling. He held our first cat in his arms, breathing into her mouth and nose, giving her CPR long after she had drawn her own last breath. He held our Kitten, Mo in his hands as he nursed the little guy back from the brink of death and sent him home with us for the next 15 years. Alan wasn't so lucky. He knew the cancer they found in his pancreas was terminal, right from the start. I was afraid I might die. Alan knew he would. But he never let cancer break his heart. He once wrote to thank me for my blog. He stayed a strong and faithful friend, right to the end.

Fat Man dying... 2008

Pennsy. So that leaves me. By 2008, the fat man in this picture had done everything he could to invite cancer into his life. Two hundred pounds overweight. Twenty years of cigarettes. Never slept right. Never ate right. Ignored his high blood pressure and the pains in his legs until his blood clotted from inactivity. Embracing his own shame and depression until his wife took him to a mental hospital to keep him from killing himself. Any rational captain would look at this crew and say, "throw that one out of the lifeboat. He's the one who will die of cancer." But I didn't. I'm the one who lived. You ever read about "survivor guilt?" I don't have to read about it any more. At one point in the play I'm rehearsing, my character describes the way he was saved from the 9/11 attacks. "If I hadn't run into that guy in the stairwell. Some guy with a flashlight. I don't know who that guy was. I'll never know... I'd be gone too. I should be gone, too."

Sure, I'm grateful to be alive. But it's hard to see much justice in it.

My nephew the Preacher says that God saved me for a reason. I hope he's right. I ask myself every day what that reason might be. Maybe I can give people hope. I can make my life an example, a witness to the fact that even the least deserving Fat Man can keep fighting. You don't have to give up. You don't have to be a slave to food or tobacco or work or your own guilt and sadness. Not even to cancer. You can find help. You can find love. You are not beyond hope.You can get up and run. I hope that's what people see when they see me running or acting or holding hands with my wife, or cutting up in the back row. I hope they find it here on FMR. I hope they see it, when I give them hell for smoking or invite them to join me for a walk or sit silently with them as they wrestle with their own fear of dying. I hope they see that they can fight for their own life, like the five of us did. We fought the bastard to the end. Today, our cancers are dead, but we are still alive. I'm still running, and Alan and Doug and Catherine and Elvin are "dancing around the throne of Jesus," like the Preacher says. None of us were perfect. I was the least perfect of all. I still am. But God saved me to tell our story. Maybe to be a small part of your story.

Cancer killed four of us. But it didn't beat any of us. It couldn't. We refused to give up. We were hundreds of miles apart, but we five still gave one another the strength to keep fighting. And God gave us the strength to help each other. I am here because of them. I can keep running because of them.

And now, so can you.

God, please bless Elvin and Catherine and Alan and Doug. You chose each for a special ministry in this world, and they did their best to serve you. They are with you now, and we are left behind to try to make some sense of the way they lived and the way they died. We are left to remember them with laughter and tears, and to honor them with lives that are better because we knew them. Lord, help us to keep their love alive as we share it with one another. Help us to fight against cancer and all the things that would rob us of the life you created in us. And Lord, if you have the time, please let them know that we love them. We miss them. That we can't wait to see them again. And especially, that we are so very, very grateful for all that they gave us during our too short time together. And please ask that calf to forgive old Elvin for stuffing her into his little Datsun car. He didn't mean no harm by it.


Amen

Peace,
Pennsy

#343: A Reason to Run



Doug and Bobbie Parks

Brother ended his battle yesterday. He fought to his last breath. Death delivered his body, but cancer never defeated his spirit.

Rest eternal grant to him, O Lord:
And let light perpetual shine upon him.
May his soul, and the souls of all the departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

My parents couldn't give me a brother, so God did. I love you, Brother Doug.

Pennsy

#327: Strangers in the House

This turned out to be a little more mopey than I intended. Feel free to pass it over and I'll write about my long run tomorrow.

Winter in Martha Park

Mrs P is writing a report and I am under strict instructions not to disturb her, so I'm just going to meditate with you for a while.

I've mentioned before that we are losing our house. In order to avoid foreclosure, we are pursuing what is called a "short sale" where you sell the house for whatever you can get, then the bank decides whether or not to forgive the rest of your loan. At least that's how I understand it. Mrs P initiated the process while I was still very sick, so I'm a little foggy on the details. What I know for sure is that strangers are spending a lot of time in my house.

 OK, look. We are lousy housekeepers. Always have been. Mrs P an I both come from families of pack-rats. We've even inherited a lot of their stuff to supplement the junk we have collected over the past 24 years. Are we hoarders? I don't think so, but I can't watch that show on TV. It hits just a little too close to home.

Molly teaching Jake where to pee
in the dining room

Point is, it's embarrassing to have friends wander through our house. Having strangers do it... it's agony. I drive the realtor crazy. She calls to say she has someone to come see the house, and I hem and haw and mumble. I finally just asked her to talk to Mrs P. It's less stressful for me for some reason.

Baby Jake (rug cleaner in the background)

We've had some lovely people come through. Young couples looking for a "starter home," whatever the heck that is. Professional house flippers looking to make a quick profit, (good luck, fellas.) Families looking for an inexpensive place to live.

Yeah. Inexpensive. In 1998, we paid $71,000 for our home. We're trying to sell it for $56K. Less than half the balance on the mortgage. The Great Recession can get a little depressing, sometimes.

Usually, when they come, I take the dogs and go out back on the porch until they leave. That way I can imagine them judging us without having to actually see them turning up their noses at all the retriever hair and cat litter. And books. And tools. And shoes. And... you get the point. Today, I had chores to do, laundry to wash, socks to sort. I was not inclined to go hide while the house shoppers prowled around wondering why there were running shorts and brassieres hanging from half of our doorknobs. So we got a chance to chat.

The garage has some
structural issues

"What's the neighborhood like?" Great. Great neighbors. Generous people. A mix of ages, races, national origins. A diverse neighborhood,  Kind of a rarity in our city. "What are the problems with the house?" Well, there's that big hole in the wall where I passed out while peeing in the middle of the night last summer. There's the siding that blew off in a windstorm. There's the garage that should have been demolished when we bought the house, and is now a clear and present danger to the cats, coons, and possums who have taken up residence in there. "Why are you selling?" That's my favorite. I always want to tell them that it's haunted. You know, by the guy who hanged himself in the basement. But I don't have the courage. So I give them the thumbnail version. Laid off, savings gone, cancer, can't pay the loan, bank won't help, blah, blah, blah. All I need is violin music. I was folding Mrs P's underwear during both of these visits, so the pathos was just that much thicker.

NO! Not the
Get Well  Troll!

I noticed that the salesmen didn't seem to appreciate my contribution all that much. They were all "You could add this," and "all it needs is a little what have you." What it needs is a family who loves it as much as we did. That's what it needs.

Buddy enjoying Christmas
dinner while the humans
ate in the living room

Fifteen years isn't all that long, not really. Neither is 24, in the great river of time. But for Mrs P and me, it's a lifetime. I always used to marvel when people had to pack up their houses after decades, only to move into a room in a retirement home. We aren't that bad off, but we are having to let go of a lot of memories. Some are silly, like old show tee-shirts. Some are very hard like the vanity Mrs P's mother refinished for her, or the journals I have kept for every role I've played since college. Even the old, unused litter boxes are reminders of the many cats we have loved and lost over the years. There is no reason to keep them, in fact, it's kind of gross, but seeing them stacked in the corner reminds us of them and putting them on the curb feels like throwing away memories.

Kizzie trying to set
her bed on fire

In college, I read a short story by Stanley Elkin called I Look Out for Ed Wolfe. It's about a collections agent who gets fired for bullying people. He loses himself. He decides to sell or pawn everything he owns in order to find out just what his life is worth. It turns out to be about $1400 dollars. The realization causes a kind of psychotic break or break down or something. I don't remember the details. It's been a long time. All I know is that he winds up in a bar in Harlem screaming racial epithets and throwing all that cash up in the air for the patrons to have.I got the impression that he was committing suicide.

The ramp our brother-in-law built
 for Molly when she couldn't
climb the steps anymore.

If Mrs P and I tried to sell or pawn all of our stuff, it wouldn't be worth much. The books are musty. The records are ancient. The clothes are worn. The furniture is scratched or chewed or broken. The strangers who come through these rooms must think we live in a dump.

Mum quilting in the bedroom

But this is our home. These are our memories. This is the place where we learned to be husband and wife instead of married room mates. Where Mum came when I was diagnosed and stayed till my treatments were over. This is where we taught dogs to poop outside and nursed sick animals and played Scrabble with friends and spit in death's eye. I want them to know all that, these strangers. There is love in this house. Love that will haunt it like a ghost, long after we are gone. At least, I hope so. Look past the dust and the animal hair and stacks of boxes, and that's what you will find. This dumpy little shack is a house of love. But I don't think the realtor wants me to tell them all that, either. They just want us to pack up and get out so their clients won't have to listen to my sad stories any more.

Just pack it all up and go. It sound easy. But it's not.

Peace,
Pennsy

#174: Lessons From the Theatre

With the exception of my wedding and a few special New Year's Eve celebrations with Mrs P, I have spent the best parts of my life on stage. Acting is the only job I've ever really loved. It is often painful, always rewarding, and on rare occasions, positively mystical.

It occurred to me today that I've spent so many years playing characters who endured trials, I might turn to them to learn how to conduct myself during my own survival journey.

The first time I played Tevye I knew that I wanted to spend my life performing. On opening night, as I stood high atop my little milk wagon taking in the applause after If I Were a Rich Man I was positively drunk with the audience's approval. It was many years later - around thirty I think - that I was able to play the role again, and learned about the heart of this big, beautiful man. For him, family is everything. No matter how hard the world is on him, no matter how far away his children travel, he and Golde remain bound with cords of love that no Tzar or Cossack can sever. The dairyman from Anatevka taught me that love is the source of our strength and our life.

The Tempest is Shakespeare's story of a wronged Duke, Prospero and his revenge on the brother who unjustly banished him and his daughter on a deserted island. He has every right to be angry, and using magic powers he conjurs a storm that maroons the cruel brother and his fellow travellers from Naples. Prospero and the fairies who serve him devise more and more powerful ways to torment the party, but just at the moment when his final vengance is complete, the old magicial changes his mind. He himself is tormented, not by guilt, but by the innocence of his daughter and his sprite, Ariel. Prospero chooses mercy over justice, and because of that choice, he is redeemed.

I also have a lot to be angry about. I've been mistreated by the insurance company, old employers, friends who disappeared when things got tough. I could spend - and to be honest, I have spent - lots of time blaming and fantasizing my own vengence on the people who may not have caused my cancer, but have certainly made it more difficult for me and the people I love. Such thoughts are tempting, and perversely gratifying, I must admit. But they will not help me to redeem my life back from the disease that is trying to lay claim to it. Like Prospero, I have not choice but to forgive the people who torment my nights.

Nick Bottom is a complete jackass. So much so, that he is given a donkey's head in which to woo Titania, the queen of the fairies in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Bottom has little talent and less craft, but by golly he loves his friends and he loves the theatre. The chance to play makes his heart soar and his enthusiasm lifts his fellow mechanicals to heights beyond their wildest dreams. Bottom loves unconditionally. It's as simple as that. He finds wonder everywhere and ecstasy in the crazy poetry of life. He gives himself away completely, and in doing so, he is glorified.

I lack Bottom's purity of heart, but I know what it means to love what you do. In that, I am a lucky man. I know what it is to love the people around you without reservation. In that, I am a rich man. No matter how much depression and cancer may try to convince me otherwise, I know I have a reason to live. I need to live, because I am not finished loving yet.

In the dark days ahead, I will remember the lessons these teachers have given me. I gave my all to do right by them, and I know they will not abandon me in my hour of need. And when the Dark Angel has passed me over at last, I am determined to return to them. I am not finished learning yet, either.

#168: This is Happening to Us

The days between the PET scan and our next meeting with Dr. Colin were distracted. The nights were filled with unblinking stares at the blackness above our bed. Long fearful silences. "Denial" is as good a word as any.

Kammy was the first to notice at work. She is a young woman at work (nearly everyone is young at work) who pretends to be a silly girl to hide her intuitive compassion.

"You aren't as cheerful as usual today," she observed in that musical Congolese dialect of hers. "What's wrong?"

My candor took me by surprise. "I've been having some tests. The Doctor thinks I might have Cancer." It was the first time I'd said it out loud. Her response was honest and startling.

"I hope you don't. I don't want you to die."

And there it was, out in the air. Together, we had given my silent fear a voice. It was the first of many times I would realize how much I share my condition with the people who know and love me.

The day the Doctor gave us his opinion, Mrs P took it harder than I.

"I can't say for certain that it's Cancer, but if it walks like a duck... There is no time to lose with this. If you delay..."

I finished his thought, bad habit. "It will just keep growing."

The Doc corrected me sternly, "It will take your life." This was not a joke.

He described the surgery and the risks. Nerve Damage. Muscle removed. Loss of taste. Loss of hearing. We thanked him and moved across the hall to schedule the surgery, three days later. The treatment coordinator had strange news for us. My insurance was a strange, bare bones plan. Great for physician visits and prescriptions, but it did not cover inpatient procedures. Blue Cross would not be paying for my surgery.

It was a lot to take in. We rode the elevator down to the lobby and left. In the car, Mrs P started to cry. I was angry about the insurance. She was frightened about the diagnosis.

"I just don't understand why God is letting all this happen to you.."

I would deal with God later. "This isn't happening to me. This is happening to us."

What Kammy had taught me, what I wanted Mrs P to know was that I knew this was a burden we would share. I would not have the luxury of playing the victim. This was going to hurt everyone who cared about me, starting with her. We stopped by work. I picked up a prescription and told my supervisor that I probably had Cancer and would be missing a couple of weeks work after my surgery. I noticed his Livestrong bracelet.

"I may need to get myself one of these." I reached out and touched it, and he smiled sadly. I wondered why he wore one.

Mrs P and I walked out into the sunshine. It was a beautiful April Kentucky afternoon.

I wondered why God was letting this happen to my family.

Pride

I talk a lot about how proud I am of myself.

Today, I'm proud of you.

You stepped up and contributed to support the fight against Diabetes with a kind word, a phone call, a financial pledge. You're the bomb.

I'm proud of my nephew.

Cody James is going to put on the robe and mortarboard and receive his High School diploma this evening up in Pennsylvania. He hasn't had the easiest life, but he reached the goal. I'm proud of him and of all the folks on Team Cody who helped him get there. We don't know each other as well as I wish we did. I'm the uncle who lives far away. But if I lived closer, I couldn't love him any more. You've grown into a fine man, Cody. Congratulations.

I'm proud of Mrs P.

Six years ago she decided to leave a career she loved, helping to heal animals. She went to school, earned a Master's Degree with a 4.0 GPA, and now she works in another career she loves, helping to heal children. She works and waits and weeps for them and tries to make a difference in young lives that a lot of people have already given up on. That's her vocation and special gift. I know because she honed it on me.

And I'm proud to be a Pennsyltuckian.

For the longest time, I thought my Brother-in-law (born in the mountains of central PA and married to a KY girl in Lexington) invented the word. Since then I've found out that a lot of people use it as an insult to the state where I was born - as if connecting a place to Kentucky were derogatory. Well, folks who think there's anything wrong with being a Pennsyltuckian don't know jack about either place. Pennsyltuckians work hard, play hard, love hard, and know where we're from. Even when we leave home, we stay connected to deep roots - steel cables through seams of coal. It doesn't matter if we're from Hazard County, KY or the Hill District in Pittsburgh -- many of us love the 'Cats or the Cards or the Pens or the Phillies with pseudo religious fervor, most of us talk funny, and all of us are tied to the rivers and mountains, mines and factories, farms and forests that make our home what it is. Two things you'll never meet: an ex-Steeler fan and a Pennsyltuckian who wants to live anywhere else. I'm proud to come from a place and a people who haven't lost their identity and don't particularly care what anybody else thinks about that.

I'm a proud man today. Proud of my friends. Proud of my family. Proud of my home. I live life trying to be fit to be numbered among them. I wish you such pride and rich blessings today.

Peace,
Pennsy