From a medical perspective it was a pretty slow week. Wednesday I had a meeting with Jennifer, my substance abuse therapist. It was our last one, I can go back if I’d like but I told her I wouldn’t be coming back, I enjoyed talking to her and if she’d like to meet me half way we could arrange something. Mostly we talked about my family and kids, it was nice, sure, she’s trained to be empathetic but I think she is especially good at it. If you didn’t know I’m officially listed with UNOS for a liver, so that’s good news and I’m headed to Indiana University in September to go through a battery of tests to see if they’ll consider putting me on their list as well. All good news.
The one hurdle of the week is dealing with the lactulose, apparently, people with liver disease sometimes have bile back up, which creates ammonia, which in turn decides to settle in the head and put pressure on the brain or somehow generally disrupt its function. People who are sick call it Brain Fog, the Meds call it dementia or confusion, either way, if I have it, I don’t have it too badly.
If you don’t like poop stories or are week of stomach you may want to stop reading right about HERE. Lactulose is evil. It puts new meaning into the word shit. Oh my god, 30mg, twice daily to induce stomach cramps, diarrahea, farting and anal seepage. Where do I start, first of all stuff tastes like really bad pancake syrup, nasty, sticky sweetly rancid. It doesn’t go down to badly though, I’m sure I’ve had worse in my mouth. About an hour or so after the dose the grumblings start. Sort of musical, like an interesting wet gurgle, liquid resettling and sloshing around a bit, no so bad. Cramps, okay, I know it is a completely different kind of cramp but I know completely sympathize with every woman on the planet that has suffered from cramps. I can feel my stomach knotting and churning and trying to twist into itself and away from itself. It feels like a cannon ball right below my sternum. In the 80’s there were rumors about gay folks taking a hamster or gerbil and shoving them up there anus. These cramps feel like a whole habitrail full of hamsters and a couple of them giving birth where living in my stomach and large intestine. The farting, well, not so bad, really, long, loud and entertaining if you allow yourself to channel the junior high school boy inside of you. The kicker, you got it, the big D, assquake, colon blow, poop smoothie, the hersey squirts and my personal favorite fireball atomic sludge. As I’m experience this sensation I have to wonder… is it on fire, it feels flammable, keep open flames at a distance please, the cramps come back, I have to clench my teeth and hold on to the nearest solid object so I won’t blow get blown away. Then there are always multiple tips back into the Lou, sometimes six an hour, sometimes less, as time goes by they sort of trail away, until the next dosage, about 12 hours later. Always something to look forward to, by the way, I was just kidding about the anal seepage and I do apologize for the grossness of this post.
They say kids know things even when they don’t know things, that they’re able to pick up on the current vibe. That being said, my wife and I felt it was important for me to have a talk with my boy, my little five year old mischievous angel, sometimes devil. I know he can be a little devil because sometimes when the light hits him just right I see little horn buds beginning to sprout off his forehead. I haven’t been procrastinating, but I wanted to make sure the timing was right and I knew what to say without freaking him out to much, yet sharing the right amount of info with him. So after talking to my wife, a couple of counselors I kind of had it figured out. Due to some coming and going of visitors, work, play time and not wanting to have a heavy conversation close to his bed time I didn’t get the opportunity to talk to him until this morning.
He was up and running around downstairs when I woke and I was determined to do it this morning before I left for work. After morning hugs and kisses I asked him to have a seat in my office and I’d be in shortly. I poked my head in, he was sitting on the floor, quietly knowing something was up, Pokémon sticker book in hand. I suggested he get Dora chair so he could be more comfortable, it’s a purple, plush, mushy children’s arm chair with Dora on the back. Perfect actually. I sat down, turned to my boy, he looked up at me with his big beautiful brown eyes he got from his mother inquisitively.
“Son, have you noticed I sleep a lot? And I’m more tired than normal?” I said.
“Do you want to do the sticker book with me?” he asked.
“Sure, when we’re done talking, this is important, you know how I’m tired a lot”
He nodded.
“Well, I’m sick son.”
“I don’t see a booboo?”
“It’s on the inside of me.”
“Are you going to get a shot?”
“Yeah, probably a lot of shots.”
“How are they going to give you a shot inside you?” he asked?
“They’re going to operate.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, they’ll cut me open and fix me.”
“Where will they cut you?”
I drew an imaginary line down my chest and over my belly. “Here.”
“Will it hurt? He asked and I nodded.
“Are you going to be dead?” he asked?
I shook my head and said no.
“Bene’s dad was sick and he’s dead.”
“I know son, I’ll be okay, I just wanted to share what was going on with me, let you know I love and ask you if you have any question.”
He shook his head no. “What’s that?” he said as he pointed to my face.
“It’s a tear son.” I replied as he touched it and rubbed it in.
He rubbed my belly, looked into my eyes and hugged me and I held him, feeling his tiny wee body and hoping the best for him in this life and hoping I’d be there to see a lot more of it.
“Why is your voice funny daddy?”
“I’m just so proud to have you as my boy son.”
“Do you want to do stickers now?” he said as he held my hand and led me into the living room. I nodded silently.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The Wedding
My dad’s family was rather large. For a set of parents that knocked out only four kids, those four kids spawned a whole army of offspring. A party at my Grandpa’s house was an exercise in crowd management. If couldn’t handle your personal space being violated you were pretty much fucked. There was a lot of shoving, grabbing, multiple lap sitting (this is when an older cousin holds a younger cousin who holds a younger cousin too, great space usage, three bodies in what normally would only sit one), running, marching and the rest of the general mischief and antics that go along when you get the 25 kids and young adults together. Throw in boyfriends, girlfriends, neighborhood hanger owners some Burger beer and Bourbon slush and you’ve got yourself a party. And our family didn’t need an excuse to have a party, it was great; Christmas and Easter, party; Someone’s birthday, party; a dog had a litter of puppies, party, Pete Rose let a fart go around third base, party, of course.
The house itself was pretty small and kind of dark, it had a smell of Swanson's TV Turkey Dinner with the occasion waft of Salsbury steak. One thing was for sure and that was my grandmother’s commitment to vitamin C. She loved the stuff and professed it would work wonders on anything. She would have been happy to be an unpaid spokesperson for the junk. Orange juice, cranberry juice, citrus of all kinds and her personal favorite, those dusty, chewable, fake orange flavored vitamin C tablets. I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth. She shoved them down your throat like they were candy. Her intentions where good. All in all she was a cool old broad whether she was reciting her schpeel and greeting on her days as an Avon lady, doing the Louisville Lou or leading the fam around the house on a March to 76 Trombones. I’m sure it isn’t true, but I can’t ever remember ever seeing her out of a tired house dress
We were over there for some event or another and it was a big one because there was a lot of tripling up on the couch. I’d just come in from doing some porch jumping. You know, when you climb over the railing, shuffle along, pretending there’s sharks or something down below, but the Injuns are coming so you have to jump down and try not to drop your shield or dog. If you’ve never porch jumped I suggest you try it. It’s a blast.
My hair was plastered to my head when with sweat when I went in the house. Everyone was planted around the TV in the living room. There wasn’t a seat to be had; floor space was taken up with kids sitting Indian style, no couch space, nothing. We were celebrating the airing of the Wizard of Oz, a big event, because you couldn’t watch it anytime you wanted, VCR’s and DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet. There was once spot, on my grandmother’s lap and I crawled up with her permission, got comfortable and only got to see the last scene where Dorothy wakes back up in Kansas with all the goofy farmhands. Oh well, porch jumping was much more intense and I’d seen the movie before anyway.
Cousins, aunts and uncles dispersed a little bit as the news came on; I was comfortably planted in my Grandmother’s lap so I wasn’t going anywhere. We sat there, idly talking about her glass menagerie on the mantel that was kind of eerie in a fascinating sort of way. She’d rarely let anyone hold on for fear that you might break off a dolphin tail or butterfly wing. There were a couple of pieces that had appendages broken off and had to be glued together by my grandpa, but mostly the set was in pristine condition.
The television droned away in the background as 60 minutes came on and featured a story of the hippie and yippie movement. I was memorized, of course it in black and white but the crazy sloppy get ups were the coolest. I was more interested in watching the TV than what my grandmother had to say. I remember it sounded like she was talking to me through a card board paper towel tube when I realized she was badgering me about what I wanted to be when I grew up? She was suggesting the typical bull shit, doctor, lawyer, the president? I looked at her, looked at the TV, back at her and said
“Hippie. I want to be a hippie!”
She looked at me with disgust. “Oh… you can’t do that, they don’t bathe… they’re dirty pigs.”
Confused I replied “…yeah… that’s the point.”
She picked me up, moved me off her lap, stood up, rearranged her house dress and shuffled off into the kitchen in disgust throwing me one look of revulsion over her shoulder. I knew I made the right choice and was committed to trying to become a hippie over the next few six to eight years. Or at least until 79 when I discovered the Sex Pistols.
Weddings where big in our family and cause for great celebration. There was always a long drawn out mass in a stone church with no air conditioning with the sound of the priest’s voice humming along in the background about love, commitment and God. I always found it odd that a dude who hadn’t been (supposedly) with a woman talking about love and commitment. Granted he was obviously an expert when it came to God. He was standing at the middle of the stage… err altar after all.
So when I heard the news that I’d be going to Dennis and Barb’s wedding I was ecstatic. I knew it be a real kick ass hippie affair because Dennis and Barb where a real kick ass hippie couple. Barb was a cool, easy, sun-shiny kind of a hippie chick, always nice and happy and ready with a slice of banana bread or carrot cake. But no, you can’t eat the brownies, “they’re burnt.” Right. Dennis was just a cool dude, seemed perfectly comfortable in his own skin, bell bottoms, raggedy army jacket and just enough worn out t’s. Also, always nice and always could make time to make a little shit running under foot feel welcome. The thing that was coolest about Dennis was his mustache, I thought of it as sort of a cowboy or swashbuckler stache, but today one might call it the Pancho Villa or Wilfred Brimley. They were groovy.
I don’t know how they made their way into our group, but they did and as I said, I liked them. They’d come over to the house for parties, my dad and K would go out with them or over there house for dinner, I tag along even though there was nothing really for me to do other than eat, get a contact high, and generally be underfoot. One evening when we were chilling out at their place, the old lady next door knocked feigning the need for salt or sugar or something, Dennis let her in. The room was a bit hazy from smoke and she looked around suspiciously. As Barb got her the sugar or whatever the old broad scanned the room, there were rolling papers and a stash box on the coffee table, incense burned and the remnants of our the crappy barley soup and home made seven grain cardboard bread on the kitchen table. She looked doubtfully at the plants in the corner saying she’d never seen anything like them before…
“What are they? Some sort of spider plants…”
Responding quickly, Dennis said “Err... no, they’re Mexican tomato plants…”
Nodding with approval the old busy body took her sugar, walked toward the door and said “Well, let me know when you get some fruit, I’d love to try one.”
I thought that was the awesomest! Clever, fun, whimsical deceit, no one got in trouble, no one got hurt. After all, people where going to jail for less. It was a life lesson learning moment for me.
Dennis became my dad’s best friend, I don’t know if it was reciprocal or not, but I know my old man got him a job and he must of felt indebted, as well as generally liking him, after all my dad was a pretty likable guy. After a stint of living in sin Dennis and Barb decided to tie the knot and my dad got asked to be the best man, so, I of course in my feeble mind I was the best boy, which I eventually learned didn’t really exist but I still felt lucky to be going to my first hippy wedding.
I knew it was going to be a cool time when Barb dropped off some ponchos for the groomsmen to wear. Bitch’n, I was psyched, even I was contemplating getting a little mini poncho for me, jumping around, throwing streamers, spraying silly string and drawing peace signs on the side of cop cars… until I saw it come out of the box. It was robin egg blue, why? ARG! The disappointment, didn’t they see Clint Eastwood in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?! What about Billy Jack?! Out of all the cool ass, kick ass coolers had to pick something that came out of a kid’s story? Why not army green, dark purple or everyone’s favorite fall back, tie-dyed. I even knew robin egg, baby blue or tiffany blue as it’s called today wasn’t cool. It was gay and not in the cool 70’s porn sort of gay, bawl chic a bow wow. Apparently Barb liked the color robin egg blue but she obviously didn’t have respect for the poncho! Someone should of told her about the poncho‘s long history as a garment for the native speaking populations of the Americas or the poncho protecting service men of the Civil, Spanish American and WWI from the elements. She tried to cool it up by having the wives of the groomsmen needle point zodiac signs but it only succeeded in making those wives bitch and moan about having to needle point. Kind of like giving someone work as a gift, like a vacuum cleaner.
Finally the day of the wedding arrived, the ceremony and reception were to be held in a woodsy park. It was at the end of a turn around and our party was set up under a cast concrete pavilion decorated with cheap streamers and unfolding paper wedding bells. There was a stereo set up in the corner and card tables lining one side of the open pavilion filled with deviled eggs, paper bowls of chips and pretzels, assorted jello molds, trays of sliced olive and pepper loaf, dried out salami with a crock of mustard drying out and getting crusty on top. It all looked so appetizing as the flies flew from one slowly cooling casserole dish to another, one little fucker seemed to stuck in some sort of mayo or chip dip. I watched him struggle for a couple minutes, trying to free himself of the sticky emulsified, saturated fat of a an onion dip before I took my index finger and forced him down under the surface of the dip for no one to see. After all, a lot of these hippies liked to eat alternatively.
Looking around in disappointment, trying to find a way to distract myself from what clearly wasn’t a hippy wedding I perused the guests. Typical, I’ve been to weddings like this, the only hipster’s were the wedding party with their baby blue ponchos and hippy loose fitting Stevie Nicks hippy dresses. One nit wit, a “special friend of the family” was wondering around wearing swashbuckler boots, a purple velvet cape and a crazy ass wide brimmed hat with feathers in it. Apparently he was the photographer and was complaining about his get up and couldn’t wait to take it off. I thought he looked cool, even though he was sweating everywhere and had to dry his equipment every time he took a picture. I had to wonder though, if he was so unhappy and miserable in his get up, why didn’t he just take it off. Everyone else looked like they walked off the pages of a J.C. Penny catalog. Unstylish, uptight, pouchy middle American sheep. No kids to play with, no skittish uncle back from Viet Nam to torment, no drunken old men, I don’t even think there was beer.
After a disappointing service on a hill side accompanied by some out of key third cousin playing the Wedding Song, an acapella version of Paul William’s “We’ve only just begun” and the photograph taking pirate clicking around it was time to call it a day. If that wasn’t the most disappointing wedding, let alone hippy wedding I’ve ever been too, I don’t know what was. The only blessing about the whole experience was that we we’re only there for an hour and a half before we piled back into my dad’s pick up and drove off. I sulked and pouted in the back seat as we rumbled along thinking about what a waste of time the whole experience was, too think I could of spent my day trying to filch the latest issue of MAD magazine.
Bouncing and veering down our dirt word my dad told to saddle up one of the horses. It was nearly dusk, asking him where he was going, he replied nowhere, I was. Mysterious, I liked that. Getting out my dad dropped the tail gate of the truck revealing about a dozen cases of beer, he started unloading and icing them down as he told me some people from the wedding where coming over and I was to ride to the end of the road and sit there on a horse, waiting for people to drive up and give them directions down our barely visible, sign less road.
Cool, I grabbed Sunfighter, a red roanish and white paint who I wasn’t particularly crazy about, he was skittish, hard to catch and not always the most reliable horse, he’d been beat’n at some point before we got him but he was spirited AND he was the coolest looking horse we had. If I was going to be standing at the end of the road, pointing people in the right direction I had to look good. I got Sun, threw a bridle on him, didn’t feel the need for a saddle so I mounted him bareback and asked my dad how long I had to be down there. Bout an hour he said.
It took about 15 minutes to walk a horse at a fair clip to where our road met the highway, I was in a hurry so we galloped down in a matter of minutes, I crossed the highway, turned the horse around and sat there. A car would come by, I’d wave, it’d honk, Sunfighter would flinch and the car would drive on, then nothing. Being excited I’m sure that time was passing slower than it really was; nearly every car just kept driving by me. I waved at everyone; nearly everyone honked and kept on going. Finally, one of the cars that passed me squealed to a stop, reversed way to fast, pulled up in front of me and jumpy Sunfighter and asked if I knew the way to the reception. Of course I did, it’s at my house, I pointed them in the down our road as they flipped me the bird, flashed peace signs and a blue smoke trailed off behind them. Suddenly it was like Grand Central, every car that drove by was going to my house, I happily pointed them in the right direction and couldn’t wait til my hour was done so I could go down and join the action. It was like a gypsy parade, crazy VW Busses and Bugs, old beat’n up Sedans and Thunderbirds, a splattering of bearded bikers. Barb and Dennis drove by, waved, honked and turned down the road. Sometimes a car would pull up, let some people out and drive off; those folks had to hoof it down the mile or so to the house. My hour had come and gone but cars where still coming so I did my duty and gave them directions.
After a dry spell of about 10 minutes without anyone stopping I crossed the road on Sun and started my quick trek back to the house. Suddenly a car stopped, a hippy chic got out carrying a duffle, is this the way to the party? Sure was, climb up and I’ll give you a ride. I’d never had a lady on the back of my horse and I admit it was a bit of a thrill for me. She was scared, never having been on a horse herself before and she held on really tight. I didn’t mind, I liked it actually. Once I got comfortable I’d gallop and get make sure Sunfighter wasn’t running in a comfortable gate, I could feel that hippy chic boobs bouncing up and down against my back, then once I got really comfortable I’d get a good hard gallop going and suddenly stop, feeling her press her body against me as we slowed down. Dirty little bastard I was, she didn’t seem to mind and I suspect she guessed my motivation.
At the house, she dismounted and disappeared into the crowd; I freed Sun into the coral and started wondering around.
NOW this is what I was talking about! I don’t know how many people where there, it could have been 50 it could have been 200, it was a lot and it seemed everywhere I turned there was something going on, a little story unfolding. A hippy couple sitting in the hanging chair making out; two guys swapping pills in the corner, people dancing on and around the big jim; guys outside playing guitar, folks grilling sausages on the weber. Outside some dudes started a fire pit and they started shooting bottle rockets, evidently they decided that I’d make a good target and started shooting them at me, thankfully I was nimble and managed to evade a direct hit. Later I got my revenge by waiting on the roof over the back door and dumping a five gallon bucket of manure water I’d made over the main culprits head. He was too drunk or stoned to climb the roof but later that night when he got his hands on me he was throttling me good until some long hairs came to my rescue and dragged him down to the river. All in all I’d say it was a pretty good wedding party and I my wish was coming through. It seemed everyone was represented, afroed black militants; flamboyant boa wearing Elton John gay wannabes, your general GI issue Army jacketed hippy, ladies with flowers in their hair, halter tops and bell bottoms. It was heavenly, but also wearisome so I decided to sneak away to my room and hopefully fall asleep through the loud music, whooping up of the party and the general buzz and smokiness.
I didn’t bother to say good night to anyone and I’m sure no one cared as I made my way to the back room. I opened up the door, took a couple of steps in and stopped dead in my tracks. Oh my. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw; it was a multi-limbed, multi-genitaliaed mess of a flesh writhing together as a constantly moving and changing sweaty, hairy, pinkish colored monster. It took a few seconds to see what I was witnessing, these were people, doing together what I thought only two people did, obviously that wasn’t the case here, I couldn’t tell how many people where there, where there equal parts men to women? I didn’t know. I just stood there, mouth agape, dumbfounded, trying to digest a what I was seeing. Yikes, after a couple of minutes or seconds one of the men saw me, picked up a pillow and threw it at me, I took a step back, still staring as one of the girls looked at me, smiled and gestured to me with her index finger in a come hither sort of way. Panicked I turned and ran not even bothering to shut the door behind me. I hurriedly found a sleeping bag, climbed up to the roof, got myself comfortable, starred up at the stars and felt if I never went to another hippy wedding it’d be too soon.
The house itself was pretty small and kind of dark, it had a smell of Swanson's TV Turkey Dinner with the occasion waft of Salsbury steak. One thing was for sure and that was my grandmother’s commitment to vitamin C. She loved the stuff and professed it would work wonders on anything. She would have been happy to be an unpaid spokesperson for the junk. Orange juice, cranberry juice, citrus of all kinds and her personal favorite, those dusty, chewable, fake orange flavored vitamin C tablets. I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth. She shoved them down your throat like they were candy. Her intentions where good. All in all she was a cool old broad whether she was reciting her schpeel and greeting on her days as an Avon lady, doing the Louisville Lou or leading the fam around the house on a March to 76 Trombones. I’m sure it isn’t true, but I can’t ever remember ever seeing her out of a tired house dress
We were over there for some event or another and it was a big one because there was a lot of tripling up on the couch. I’d just come in from doing some porch jumping. You know, when you climb over the railing, shuffle along, pretending there’s sharks or something down below, but the Injuns are coming so you have to jump down and try not to drop your shield or dog. If you’ve never porch jumped I suggest you try it. It’s a blast.
My hair was plastered to my head when with sweat when I went in the house. Everyone was planted around the TV in the living room. There wasn’t a seat to be had; floor space was taken up with kids sitting Indian style, no couch space, nothing. We were celebrating the airing of the Wizard of Oz, a big event, because you couldn’t watch it anytime you wanted, VCR’s and DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet. There was once spot, on my grandmother’s lap and I crawled up with her permission, got comfortable and only got to see the last scene where Dorothy wakes back up in Kansas with all the goofy farmhands. Oh well, porch jumping was much more intense and I’d seen the movie before anyway.
Cousins, aunts and uncles dispersed a little bit as the news came on; I was comfortably planted in my Grandmother’s lap so I wasn’t going anywhere. We sat there, idly talking about her glass menagerie on the mantel that was kind of eerie in a fascinating sort of way. She’d rarely let anyone hold on for fear that you might break off a dolphin tail or butterfly wing. There were a couple of pieces that had appendages broken off and had to be glued together by my grandpa, but mostly the set was in pristine condition.
The television droned away in the background as 60 minutes came on and featured a story of the hippie and yippie movement. I was memorized, of course it in black and white but the crazy sloppy get ups were the coolest. I was more interested in watching the TV than what my grandmother had to say. I remember it sounded like she was talking to me through a card board paper towel tube when I realized she was badgering me about what I wanted to be when I grew up? She was suggesting the typical bull shit, doctor, lawyer, the president? I looked at her, looked at the TV, back at her and said
“Hippie. I want to be a hippie!”
She looked at me with disgust. “Oh… you can’t do that, they don’t bathe… they’re dirty pigs.”
Confused I replied “…yeah… that’s the point.”
She picked me up, moved me off her lap, stood up, rearranged her house dress and shuffled off into the kitchen in disgust throwing me one look of revulsion over her shoulder. I knew I made the right choice and was committed to trying to become a hippie over the next few six to eight years. Or at least until 79 when I discovered the Sex Pistols.
Weddings where big in our family and cause for great celebration. There was always a long drawn out mass in a stone church with no air conditioning with the sound of the priest’s voice humming along in the background about love, commitment and God. I always found it odd that a dude who hadn’t been (supposedly) with a woman talking about love and commitment. Granted he was obviously an expert when it came to God. He was standing at the middle of the stage… err altar after all.
So when I heard the news that I’d be going to Dennis and Barb’s wedding I was ecstatic. I knew it be a real kick ass hippie affair because Dennis and Barb where a real kick ass hippie couple. Barb was a cool, easy, sun-shiny kind of a hippie chick, always nice and happy and ready with a slice of banana bread or carrot cake. But no, you can’t eat the brownies, “they’re burnt.” Right. Dennis was just a cool dude, seemed perfectly comfortable in his own skin, bell bottoms, raggedy army jacket and just enough worn out t’s. Also, always nice and always could make time to make a little shit running under foot feel welcome. The thing that was coolest about Dennis was his mustache, I thought of it as sort of a cowboy or swashbuckler stache, but today one might call it the Pancho Villa or Wilfred Brimley. They were groovy.
I don’t know how they made their way into our group, but they did and as I said, I liked them. They’d come over to the house for parties, my dad and K would go out with them or over there house for dinner, I tag along even though there was nothing really for me to do other than eat, get a contact high, and generally be underfoot. One evening when we were chilling out at their place, the old lady next door knocked feigning the need for salt or sugar or something, Dennis let her in. The room was a bit hazy from smoke and she looked around suspiciously. As Barb got her the sugar or whatever the old broad scanned the room, there were rolling papers and a stash box on the coffee table, incense burned and the remnants of our the crappy barley soup and home made seven grain cardboard bread on the kitchen table. She looked doubtfully at the plants in the corner saying she’d never seen anything like them before…
“What are they? Some sort of spider plants…”
Responding quickly, Dennis said “Err... no, they’re Mexican tomato plants…”
Nodding with approval the old busy body took her sugar, walked toward the door and said “Well, let me know when you get some fruit, I’d love to try one.”
I thought that was the awesomest! Clever, fun, whimsical deceit, no one got in trouble, no one got hurt. After all, people where going to jail for less. It was a life lesson learning moment for me.
Dennis became my dad’s best friend, I don’t know if it was reciprocal or not, but I know my old man got him a job and he must of felt indebted, as well as generally liking him, after all my dad was a pretty likable guy. After a stint of living in sin Dennis and Barb decided to tie the knot and my dad got asked to be the best man, so, I of course in my feeble mind I was the best boy, which I eventually learned didn’t really exist but I still felt lucky to be going to my first hippy wedding.
I knew it was going to be a cool time when Barb dropped off some ponchos for the groomsmen to wear. Bitch’n, I was psyched, even I was contemplating getting a little mini poncho for me, jumping around, throwing streamers, spraying silly string and drawing peace signs on the side of cop cars… until I saw it come out of the box. It was robin egg blue, why? ARG! The disappointment, didn’t they see Clint Eastwood in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?! What about Billy Jack?! Out of all the cool ass, kick ass coolers had to pick something that came out of a kid’s story? Why not army green, dark purple or everyone’s favorite fall back, tie-dyed. I even knew robin egg, baby blue or tiffany blue as it’s called today wasn’t cool. It was gay and not in the cool 70’s porn sort of gay, bawl chic a bow wow. Apparently Barb liked the color robin egg blue but she obviously didn’t have respect for the poncho! Someone should of told her about the poncho‘s long history as a garment for the native speaking populations of the Americas or the poncho protecting service men of the Civil, Spanish American and WWI from the elements. She tried to cool it up by having the wives of the groomsmen needle point zodiac signs but it only succeeded in making those wives bitch and moan about having to needle point. Kind of like giving someone work as a gift, like a vacuum cleaner.
Finally the day of the wedding arrived, the ceremony and reception were to be held in a woodsy park. It was at the end of a turn around and our party was set up under a cast concrete pavilion decorated with cheap streamers and unfolding paper wedding bells. There was a stereo set up in the corner and card tables lining one side of the open pavilion filled with deviled eggs, paper bowls of chips and pretzels, assorted jello molds, trays of sliced olive and pepper loaf, dried out salami with a crock of mustard drying out and getting crusty on top. It all looked so appetizing as the flies flew from one slowly cooling casserole dish to another, one little fucker seemed to stuck in some sort of mayo or chip dip. I watched him struggle for a couple minutes, trying to free himself of the sticky emulsified, saturated fat of a an onion dip before I took my index finger and forced him down under the surface of the dip for no one to see. After all, a lot of these hippies liked to eat alternatively.
Looking around in disappointment, trying to find a way to distract myself from what clearly wasn’t a hippy wedding I perused the guests. Typical, I’ve been to weddings like this, the only hipster’s were the wedding party with their baby blue ponchos and hippy loose fitting Stevie Nicks hippy dresses. One nit wit, a “special friend of the family” was wondering around wearing swashbuckler boots, a purple velvet cape and a crazy ass wide brimmed hat with feathers in it. Apparently he was the photographer and was complaining about his get up and couldn’t wait to take it off. I thought he looked cool, even though he was sweating everywhere and had to dry his equipment every time he took a picture. I had to wonder though, if he was so unhappy and miserable in his get up, why didn’t he just take it off. Everyone else looked like they walked off the pages of a J.C. Penny catalog. Unstylish, uptight, pouchy middle American sheep. No kids to play with, no skittish uncle back from Viet Nam to torment, no drunken old men, I don’t even think there was beer.
After a disappointing service on a hill side accompanied by some out of key third cousin playing the Wedding Song, an acapella version of Paul William’s “We’ve only just begun” and the photograph taking pirate clicking around it was time to call it a day. If that wasn’t the most disappointing wedding, let alone hippy wedding I’ve ever been too, I don’t know what was. The only blessing about the whole experience was that we we’re only there for an hour and a half before we piled back into my dad’s pick up and drove off. I sulked and pouted in the back seat as we rumbled along thinking about what a waste of time the whole experience was, too think I could of spent my day trying to filch the latest issue of MAD magazine.
Bouncing and veering down our dirt word my dad told to saddle up one of the horses. It was nearly dusk, asking him where he was going, he replied nowhere, I was. Mysterious, I liked that. Getting out my dad dropped the tail gate of the truck revealing about a dozen cases of beer, he started unloading and icing them down as he told me some people from the wedding where coming over and I was to ride to the end of the road and sit there on a horse, waiting for people to drive up and give them directions down our barely visible, sign less road.
Cool, I grabbed Sunfighter, a red roanish and white paint who I wasn’t particularly crazy about, he was skittish, hard to catch and not always the most reliable horse, he’d been beat’n at some point before we got him but he was spirited AND he was the coolest looking horse we had. If I was going to be standing at the end of the road, pointing people in the right direction I had to look good. I got Sun, threw a bridle on him, didn’t feel the need for a saddle so I mounted him bareback and asked my dad how long I had to be down there. Bout an hour he said.
It took about 15 minutes to walk a horse at a fair clip to where our road met the highway, I was in a hurry so we galloped down in a matter of minutes, I crossed the highway, turned the horse around and sat there. A car would come by, I’d wave, it’d honk, Sunfighter would flinch and the car would drive on, then nothing. Being excited I’m sure that time was passing slower than it really was; nearly every car just kept driving by me. I waved at everyone; nearly everyone honked and kept on going. Finally, one of the cars that passed me squealed to a stop, reversed way to fast, pulled up in front of me and jumpy Sunfighter and asked if I knew the way to the reception. Of course I did, it’s at my house, I pointed them in the down our road as they flipped me the bird, flashed peace signs and a blue smoke trailed off behind them. Suddenly it was like Grand Central, every car that drove by was going to my house, I happily pointed them in the right direction and couldn’t wait til my hour was done so I could go down and join the action. It was like a gypsy parade, crazy VW Busses and Bugs, old beat’n up Sedans and Thunderbirds, a splattering of bearded bikers. Barb and Dennis drove by, waved, honked and turned down the road. Sometimes a car would pull up, let some people out and drive off; those folks had to hoof it down the mile or so to the house. My hour had come and gone but cars where still coming so I did my duty and gave them directions.
After a dry spell of about 10 minutes without anyone stopping I crossed the road on Sun and started my quick trek back to the house. Suddenly a car stopped, a hippy chic got out carrying a duffle, is this the way to the party? Sure was, climb up and I’ll give you a ride. I’d never had a lady on the back of my horse and I admit it was a bit of a thrill for me. She was scared, never having been on a horse herself before and she held on really tight. I didn’t mind, I liked it actually. Once I got comfortable I’d gallop and get make sure Sunfighter wasn’t running in a comfortable gate, I could feel that hippy chic boobs bouncing up and down against my back, then once I got really comfortable I’d get a good hard gallop going and suddenly stop, feeling her press her body against me as we slowed down. Dirty little bastard I was, she didn’t seem to mind and I suspect she guessed my motivation.
At the house, she dismounted and disappeared into the crowd; I freed Sun into the coral and started wondering around.
NOW this is what I was talking about! I don’t know how many people where there, it could have been 50 it could have been 200, it was a lot and it seemed everywhere I turned there was something going on, a little story unfolding. A hippy couple sitting in the hanging chair making out; two guys swapping pills in the corner, people dancing on and around the big jim; guys outside playing guitar, folks grilling sausages on the weber. Outside some dudes started a fire pit and they started shooting bottle rockets, evidently they decided that I’d make a good target and started shooting them at me, thankfully I was nimble and managed to evade a direct hit. Later I got my revenge by waiting on the roof over the back door and dumping a five gallon bucket of manure water I’d made over the main culprits head. He was too drunk or stoned to climb the roof but later that night when he got his hands on me he was throttling me good until some long hairs came to my rescue and dragged him down to the river. All in all I’d say it was a pretty good wedding party and I my wish was coming through. It seemed everyone was represented, afroed black militants; flamboyant boa wearing Elton John gay wannabes, your general GI issue Army jacketed hippy, ladies with flowers in their hair, halter tops and bell bottoms. It was heavenly, but also wearisome so I decided to sneak away to my room and hopefully fall asleep through the loud music, whooping up of the party and the general buzz and smokiness.
I didn’t bother to say good night to anyone and I’m sure no one cared as I made my way to the back room. I opened up the door, took a couple of steps in and stopped dead in my tracks. Oh my. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw; it was a multi-limbed, multi-genitaliaed mess of a flesh writhing together as a constantly moving and changing sweaty, hairy, pinkish colored monster. It took a few seconds to see what I was witnessing, these were people, doing together what I thought only two people did, obviously that wasn’t the case here, I couldn’t tell how many people where there, where there equal parts men to women? I didn’t know. I just stood there, mouth agape, dumbfounded, trying to digest a what I was seeing. Yikes, after a couple of minutes or seconds one of the men saw me, picked up a pillow and threw it at me, I took a step back, still staring as one of the girls looked at me, smiled and gestured to me with her index finger in a come hither sort of way. Panicked I turned and ran not even bothering to shut the door behind me. I hurriedly found a sleeping bag, climbed up to the roof, got myself comfortable, starred up at the stars and felt if I never went to another hippy wedding it’d be too soon.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
It is officially official.
I just got the call. I'm listed along with 72,381 other people waiting for a liver. My region, officially called region 1 is New England. Wait times are longer here than the national average because of our concentrated demographics. I'm also trying to get listed in region 10, Ohio, Indiana and Michigan. The waitlist is usually shorter there, I have family there the medical center I'm looking at has a great rep for survival rates.
Here is the rub; my Hepatologist doesn't want me to get a liver until I've started Interferon treatment. Apparently studies suggest that survival rate is remarkably better on a transplant patient that doesn't have Hep C. I have a 14% chance of a cure until I hit the 4 week stage of the protocol, if my viral load has changed, meaning subsided my cure percentage jumps to 59%. Not bad odds if that happens. The dilemma is what do I do if I get offered a liver two weeks into my interferon treatment? Do I turn it down and hope to get a liver later? Do I take it, hope for the best and hope the cure will take after the transplant? What would you do? What would you suggest?
On another note, I'll be in Indie the week of the 12th and I'll need a chaperone while I'm the hospital just in case something happens and to show the staff that I have the proper support during recovery. If you could spare a day, sitting around a hospital waiting room, possibly going to a couple of seminars holding my hand while I have my prostate examined... Oh, wait. Wrong tests. Anyway, if you can help, you know how to get a hold of me.
Best,
Liver Serum
Here is the rub; my Hepatologist doesn't want me to get a liver until I've started Interferon treatment. Apparently studies suggest that survival rate is remarkably better on a transplant patient that doesn't have Hep C. I have a 14% chance of a cure until I hit the 4 week stage of the protocol, if my viral load has changed, meaning subsided my cure percentage jumps to 59%. Not bad odds if that happens. The dilemma is what do I do if I get offered a liver two weeks into my interferon treatment? Do I turn it down and hope to get a liver later? Do I take it, hope for the best and hope the cure will take after the transplant? What would you do? What would you suggest?
On another note, I'll be in Indie the week of the 12th and I'll need a chaperone while I'm the hospital just in case something happens and to show the staff that I have the proper support during recovery. If you could spare a day, sitting around a hospital waiting room, possibly going to a couple of seminars holding my hand while I have my prostate examined... Oh, wait. Wrong tests. Anyway, if you can help, you know how to get a hold of me.
Best,
Liver Serum
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Miamiville Tavern
As soon as I moved in Dad decided to move us out to Indiana, I don’t know why, I think possibly the township was buying up the land, I know they wanted to live a homesteading life style, maybe that was it. We had about eight weeks til we moved, so I had the days at river house to myself, everyone was gone to work and I didn’t really need a baby sitter, I don’t think we could find one close enough anyway. There was lots to do, reading, I was big into reading, there wasn’t a library around so I read the same books over and over again. Of course there was Jonathon Livingston Seagull, or JLS as it was known in our circles, then there was “The Day of the Jackall, “Open Marriage” “the French Lieutenants Woman” and of course the Sears and Roebuck catalog that I’d peruse on the roof of the house for hours. Once I was done with our small steak of chewed up paperbacks, I’d start all over. I built a raft out of some oil drums with my cousin that was always fun for an hour, floating down the river haphazardly. Unfortunately dragging it back up river really sucked, getting stuck on rocks and sand banks, I could ride horses, my motorcycle, hike in the woods, play with the dogs or listen to music. Sometimes I’d ride over to the gravel pits and just sit on a hill watching the trucks come and go, conveyors convey and machinery do whatever it was designed to do.
It really wasn’t a bad little life style at all except for the fact that I was alone until about five o’clock every day. Typically I’d meet my dad over at the Miamiville Tavern. Probably a mile and a half down our old dirt road, over the car bridge and into the sleepy little town. I’d ride a horse if I knew there might be people over there I wanted to show off in front of, but that always meant I had to ride back. If I walked, I could drive back with my dad, but it made me feel especially cool sitting on top of a huge mare clippity clopping down Center Street. There wasn’t much to that town, a post office, deli-grocery store, a few auto repair shops, junkers all cluttering their yards and a clinical research lab that tested products on animals, back in the 70’s no one seemed to mind the occasional screeching of the chimps. Odd place to hear primates in the night, south western Ohio.
We spent most of our time in at the Tavern, it was actually an old federalist colonial revival style house built sometime in the 19th century. A beaten up Hudephol sign hung off the front of the building. The only illumination in town at night, it seemed sort of
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| WTF?! |
The bartenders didn’t mind when I hung out inside if I got there before my dad. No one really cared about a kid spinning on a bar stool, trying to figure out the dirty jokes printed on cheesy cocktail napkins while drinking pops and eating Vienna sausages. Other seats where taken up by tired old men spending their social security checks, nursing their watered down drinks or warm beer, mumbling about their glory days or telling the same worn-out jokes they told yesterday. There would be a couple of bikers out for a ride and a couple of hippie hipsters “gett’n out of the city man”, all of 35 minutes away. The hippies pitched tents where they could, smoked their pot, played out of tune guitars then spend those sticky Miami Valley afternoons in the stale air conditioning air of the Miamiville Tavern. Every once in a while my dad would befriend one or six of them and they’d end up at our place for beers and food.
As soon as my dad arrived, he’d order a gimlet and we’d head into the back room where the worn out pool table sat. Another characterless room with over flowing plastic ash trays, last night’s cocktail glasses with half smoked cigarette butts and chewed up straws all floating together in a liquidy discolored mess. The dirty window panes lined with nearly empty beer bottles a half-eaten sandwich, empty chip bags and overall just a general mess. The reminders of last nights, or the night before, or who knows when partying.
If there was a game going on my dad would line up his quarters for his turn and wander around the Tavern chatting it up, telling jokes and doing card tricks for drinks. Once he got on the table he pretty much owned it, unless he ended up playing doubles with someone that really sucked. Money would change hands, I’d run for scratched cue balls and rack them for the boys for cokes and pickled eggs. We knew everyone that came into that dark little pool room. Assorted carpenters, mechanics, quarrymen and the occasional suit from the research lab, if a stranger came in my dad and the locals would generally try to pull a hustle on them, at least I think they did. I can remember several altercations but nothing ever came to blows.
One super-hot July day the house phone rang, it was my dad and he was planning on cutting out of work early… did I want to meet him in at the Tavern? Of course I did! Anything was better than scanning though the latest issue of Mother Earth News, reading about the newest composting technology, how to make a worm bin or how solar power is going to take the country by storm over the next 5 years. I hurried my little ass over there, bought a coke and some Grippos and planted myself in the pool room watching my dad sink ball after ball with three other guys. Shortly some long haired, goateed, Jesus looking dude darted into the room. I’d seen him before, didn’t know his name so I always thought of him as the Gypsy in my head. He made an impression because he wore an ear ring. I didn’t know many men with ear rings. I thought they were either pirates, gypsies or sissies. This guy didn’t look like a sissy though; he looked pretty tough, short and stout. He was always covered in grey dust from working in one of the quarries. A pack of Viceroys 
folded back into the sleeve of his t-shirt exposing the head of a man smoking a cigarette. I liked this guy and thought he was cool. He wasn’t today though, he seemed really nervous and jittery, looking around, pacing, going into the main bar and poking his head out the door. The other men in the room gave him a greeting in the form of a nod and that was about it.
folded back into the sleeve of his t-shirt exposing the head of a man smoking a cigarette. I liked this guy and thought he was cool. He wasn’t today though, he seemed really nervous and jittery, looking around, pacing, going into the main bar and poking his head out the door. The other men in the room gave him a greeting in the form of a nod and that was about it. He started to calm down after about 20 minutes, sitting on a stool, sipping a beer. That’s when it happened. A man came in the room with a determined stride wearing a leather jacket, gloves and a full face motorcycle helmet. Gypsy dude looked panicked and lunged for the door, leather jacket man tripped him up, grabbed a pool stick and cracked him on the left side of his head with the thick end, and dragging him back in the room by his t he flipped him over and gave him one hard smart crack right in the middle of face. Blood spurted out of the gypsy’s nose and it looked like his front teeth were bent up and bleeding too. It happened all so fast, my dad and the boys dropped their pool game and started to come to the gypsy’s defense when motorcycle dude pulled off his helmet throwing it at gypsy as he laid there whining and whimpering “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me…. I’m sorry man…” Motorcycle man was Cody from Camp Denison; he’d been to the river house a lot. I liked Cody; he had an ear ring bigger and golder than gypsy dude. He was always super nice to me, loaning me records and bringing me candy.
“This mother fucker just drove by our place and yelled “What’s going on niggers!!??” flipped us the bird when we were sitting on the porch!” Cody had his boot on the dude’s leg, hurting him and holding him down at the same time. “My cousin’s kids where sitting on that porch, they don’t need to hear that shit!!” Cody gestured with the pool stick which had now been broken on the gypsy man’s face. He flinched and whimpered as he pressed his foot into him harder.
“Don’t hurt me man, don’t hurt me I’m sorry, I’m fucked up, I fucked up, I’ve been drinking all day I’m stoned…” he sniveled though his hands as he gingerly clutched and cupped his mouth. He was pathetic and scared, it was pitiful to watch but I was mesmerized.
“You’re lucky my cousin wasn’t there or you’d be looking down the end of a shotgun right now Motherfucker!” Cody gestured for him to be quiet, my dad said “Do what you got to do; I won’t try to stop you.” Then my dad drug a stool in front of the open door and sat there, twirling his pool cue from hand to hand sort of absentminded like.
Cody pulled the man to his feet and held him against the wall with his forearm, he grabbed the cue ball, gypsy whimpered as Cody pressed it into his mouth bending his teeth back further into his head, and I could hear his teeth squeak or I imagine I could. I winced as Cody backed off a little as gypsy man clutched his teeth, begging Cody not to hurt him, apologizing for being such an ass hole.
Cody let the dude slide down the wall to floor and started walking around the pool room gathering glasses and beer bottles, emptying their contents into a tall pint glass, butts, beer and cocktails from who knows when. He stirred it up with a straw as he started to hack and wheeze until he coughed up a slimy greasy loogie. Cody looked wildly at the gypsy who was slouched over and crying a bit. Cody passed the glass around, every one spit into except my dad, Cody gestured at me, and my dad shook his head signaling that that might be inappropriate. Gypsy dude was dragged to his feet and Cody forced the glass to his lips. “You got two choices boy, either drink this or we go outside and you getting whopped to an inch of your life.” Gypsy begged to be let go, promised never to do use the word again, Cody just stood there stoically, motioning the glass closer to his lips. “Your choice boy.” Gypsy was trapped and he resigned, all fight went out of him as he took a sip, gagged and spit. Cody held the white cue ball up to his mouth, threatening, smiling, and looking wild eyed and a bit crazy. I really liked Cody, he took no shit. “Drink it!” Gypsy opened up his mouth wide, though back the “cocktail” all in one swoop, gagging and spitting and hacking. Like a trapped animal, he looked around the room; he gagged, clutched his mouth, choked and threw up all over the pool table as my Dad dragged me out of the bar and into his truck.
I was scared for gypsy dude and was afraid to see him get hurt more, but I didn’t like him anymore either. I didn’t like him at all. Everything I thought was cool about him faded away with a blink. I didn’t care if he got hurt, I just didn’t want to see it and I was happy we were on our way home. I felt he was probably getting what he deserved. My dad didn’t look very phased so I calmed down a bit. I didn’t like that word he used either. I had experience with it; I heard it a lot at school, in the neighborhood and heard it inside my grandfather’s house. We’d be watching the news, footage would come on about some civil rights march, or riots somewhere around the country and I’d hear my grandfather say nigger this or nigger that, I knew it was a bad word, a word used to make people mad or hurt their feelings so I was surprised when I heard my Irish Granddad use it. I asked my dad about it, if it was right to call those folks nigger? He told me it wasn’t right and the people that used that word where afraid, weak and untrusting. “What should I call those people then dad?” “Negro” he said. I shrugged and walked away more confused than ever. The next day at school I went up to some black kid in the yard and said “What do you want me to call you… nigger or negro?” He just sort of looked at me kind of puzzled and said “Why don’t you just call me Johnny.” And I did.
That’s pretty much who I thought about on that ride down the dirt road. The lesson I learned that day in the school yard with Johnny and the lesson I learned in the bar room with Cody.
Liver Transplant List
Ellen my transplant advocate called and the eval board reviewed my case today. Tomorrow, I'll be offically on the transplant list. The wait to start waiting has begun. Still processing.
Best,
LSD
Best,
LSD
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Indiana want me...
Just got word that I can go to Indie the week of September 12 to get evaled for a new liver. Yippee!
Monday, August 1, 2011
A poke near the prick.
The Pulmonologist and his team were able to get me scheduled today to have a cardiac catheter procedure which was super awesome because it was the last step (hopefully) in getting listed. If it wasn't today, it might have been weeks before they could have gotten me in or there was a cancelation.
So I arrived at two 0'clock and was briefed with everything that could go wrong and signed consent. I had the option of left or right groin or possibly the neck. The plan was to put an IV in me and run a thin tube up the artery to the right chamber of my heart at which point they'd blow up a small balloon and test for oxygen levels. Sounds easy enough, hell, isn't there an APP for that? Doc didn't like doing the neck because apparently there is a higher risk for bleeding. I get called into the back fairly quickly; change into my Johnnie, wrong, back to rechange. Didn’t realize one could commit a Johnny Faux Pas. I imagined all the nurses and techies laughing at my expense as I sashayed though the room. I'm probably the only person that could put a Johnny on incorrectly.
I was led to a gurney, got an IV, some more talking to and wheeled into the procedure room where there are about 6 or 8 people in scrubs milling about waiting to help pretending to prep equipment.
Of course why allow me to leave with any shred of dignity so they decide to go into the right groin with the wiring. They begin to unwrap all the sterilized tools of their trade and special sheets and coverings and what not and then everyone gathers around for the ritual "unveiling". And by unveiling me mean exposing of the penis, the unit, the baby maker, the gristle missile... and let the shaving begin. Of course the left side has to be cleaned up too, just in case things don't work out on the right. Admittedly it was an odd sensation having a young man perform the task of shaving me below the belt but all in the name of getting a new liver.
Sedative of some sort went into the IV and the rest was a bit blurry, nothing like the experience the previous week with the 8" needle. It all went quickly and without a hitch. Apparently Doctor C had had the skill of a journeyman electrician in running that wire though my body up to my heart. Hardly felt a thing and was told afterward that I mindlessly sang Brittney Spears tunes. They patched me up, covered me up and sent me into recovery.
After my wife arrive Doctor C came out and told us I didn't have Pulmonary Hypertension and that he'd be letting the board know ASAP and if everything went right I could get listed for a new liver on Wednesday. Relief. I called Ellen, my transplant coordinator, asked her to put my paperwork in front of the board on Wednesday then had the best sleep I had for months.
Roller coaster off the tracks.
I have pulmonary hypertension, so I saw a lung doc this morning. Up early and out of the house at seven, spoke to three pulmonologist before they told me i was so borderline that they want to do a more precise test. No storyland today with the kids, maybe we can see the skirt movie Instead. This afternoon they're going to shove a catheter in my neck or groin and shove a wire into the right chamber of my heart to measure the oxygen levels. The good news is the will know the results right away. Result one, no hypertension, move forward get listed; result two, hypertension 8 to 12 weeks before I can possibly get listed. Arggggg!!!
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