Mitch Albom is a punk

Okay, so I admire him as a writer. And his books are touching in a personal, meaningful way, without being overly preachy. So there are life lessons aplenty to be learned from his books, ones that could really help provide clarity and priority to those of us who are a little lost.

I accept and freely admit all these things.

Time to vent. I finished "For One More Day," his life-after-death view of a man's goal of suicide and how he was saved. Mitch, if I see ever see you in public I'm gonna throw you a beating. Frickin rip my heart out, why don't you? You bum.

If you ever want to be more appreciative for your parent(s), read this book. You'll regret every injustice you've ever done your mom and/or think of your dad as Superman.

Unless, of course, you're parental relationships were actually worse than his, in which case, God bless you.

8 long months...

Since I've last posted...
Cinder's put on 30 pounds and has become a truly good dog. I know he's lucky to have left the pound, but we're just as luck to have him.
My wife became pregnant, and 3 months later no longer was. I've been boycotting this subject. I don't feel ready now either. I suppose the good news is that I'm not officially Cronus, as was looking like the case for a while there. So I got that going for me.
I have a Godson. He's a happy, healthy, huge baby. Just a blessing on us, and we're so lucky to get to share him. I'm chalking him and Cin up as the two good things from 09. There are others (other friends had kids as well), but those are the two I see a lot.
I now have a beard. Chinstrap and goatee. Surprisingly decent since it's my first foray into facial hair.
Life continues to treat me better than I have any right to expect or even hope for.

The easy job

My job is awesome. Sure the petroleum scene can be high-stress, the hours can be long, and working till seven every night can be limiting, but I’m grateful for it. It’s interesting, virtually never dull, and, most importantly, where I work, no babies die.

My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.

Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.

That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.

Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.

I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.

But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.

There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.

An empty wishing well

Come Thursday night, Parker will be all better. No more pain, no more aches, no more bleeding.

It’s time. The chemotherapy bought us eight more months to love him. He spent that time as happy as possible. He got an extra summer of playing hose. He picked up an autumn of trotting in leaves and chasing small woodland creatures. When both Manda and I worked he spent days at my parents, pursuing Bounder in the hills, splashing in the creek running through the canyon. He ate treats and was petted and hugged and kissed countless times, by me, by Manda, by family and friends.

But the time has come to let go. Parker doesn’t chase bunnies any more; he can only jog across the house. He doesn’t fly over or through sagebrush these days; I lift him into the car. His claws have grown longer, no longer worn down by the asphalt and dirt passing beneath his paws. His fur is more sparse, thinned by drugs and his system responding to those prescriptions. In the last two years, Parker lived a perfect dog life. In the last eight months he squeezed every drop of life from his time and body. But those wells have run dry. There’s only so much to give, and only so much for which to live.

“I love you” means being willing to say good bye. “I love you” is keeping him alive in happiness and health, not in agony and defeat. It's tough to do the right thing, but his happiness is fading. It's about 9:30, and I'd guess his time at 44 hours from now. He'll be loved every second of it, and he won't go alone. Our vet, wonderfully, is coming to our house to let him go to sleep at home. Don't worry, we'll hold him until all the pain is gone.