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.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
No Country for Old Men
It easy to expect I would enjoy the book behind such an incredible film, but the experience of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men as a whole was different then anything I expected. As a warning now, do not continue reading this post unless you have seen the film or read the book. There are spoilers aplenty, and I implore you not to do anything to ruin this movie for yourself. Yes, it is that good.
Right off the bat, it is clear that the author is well familiarized with the West. Like the movie spawned from it, the book captures the sound, the feel, the essence of the open desert. This is not as easy as it sounds, for it goes far beyond the colloquialisms and dialects of the people, but has more to do with the pace. No, not the salsa. McCarthy’s words fall in a steady tempo. The speech patters are simple but rarely simplistic. In the same manner, No Country comes up short on big words but not at all on big meanings, and it is all far too masterfully executed to be on accident.
McCarthy is also very detail oriented, for good and for ill. Someone doesn’t just get “shot in the face” as the author captures every facet of every scene, leaving nothing to the imagination. You’ll know the entry and exit points of the bullet. You’ll read how the blood drips down the wall, or how the brain matter covered the pillow. The Cohen Brothers also left little to the mind’s eye.
The titular theme of the novel is further carried in the book. More conversations describe the changes in our nation, and more of those changes are associated with drugs. More introspection by Sheriff Bell both delves into his reaction to those changes and cements his status as the main focus of the story. Bell, representing Justice, finds himself more and more outdated. His pursuit of Llewelyn Moss, symbolizing Greed, tells the old tale: a criminal commits a crime, and the law eventually catches up.
Or does it? Can the law ever keep up? When the law isn’t justice any more, it is only the law, a collection of words and practices, ill-matched for the escalation to come.
Sheriff Bell has a bigger problem than the changing nature of the American legal system and that is the change of the American society; namely, it’s gravitation to Violence, epitomized by Anton Chigur. Chigur is a killer, but not a normal one. It is not the drive to due damage or cause pain that fuels him, but rather an inability to conceive of the world in a manner different than the one he sees. Violence is something to be accepted. It isn’t his choice; it just is.
So much is captured between the lines in this novel; it could never be shared in some hastily written post, jotted down by a fan. Screw it; here goes.
Our parents’ grandparents could never imagine the world as it is today, or even as it was for our parents. Beyond the changes in technology, it is the graphic nature of our very lives. Movie war heroes in the 50’s would shoot, and a Nazi would fall to the ground, clutching his chest. They didn’t blow people’s legs off or split their skulls open. Our heroes do.
Because our villains do. Escalation. When two losers shoot up a school, we blame violence in the media. Art reflects societies’ values, not the other way around. Steven Spielberg didn't make war more violent, he just took off the filter. We shouldn’t condemn Michael Bay for selling us explosions; we should condemn ourselves for buying them.
But buying is what we do best. We guzzle fuel, and food, and get all we can, experience all we can. Bigger TV’s, faster cars, trips to theme parks, tripping on drugs.
Drugs, defended by half the country, condemned by the rest. I remember when that commercial came out relating marijuana use to helping terrorism, and all these hippies decried it. I wish the hippies had been right, but a trip to Youtube will show you otherwise. Over the past couple of years, Mexican drug lords have used the site as a forum and scorecard. Torture a rival? Post it on Youtube. Decapitate a cop? Put it online. Then leave the head outside a barracks for the Mexican army. Tough not to call it terrorism.
Drugs epitomize the attitude of consumption. So what if it's illegal, immoral, and wrecks your body? It's a way to spend money on a one time rush. Sign us all up.
I don't know if we can keep up, with the economy or the violence. In the long run, of course we can't. Everything ends eventually, and our society may be too rich, too violent, too much. When you put that much energy in a box, something has to give. Senior citizens always see these changes coming first, with the strength of experience and the weakness of the lens of human mortality, which always warps further towards the end.
Or does it finally get it right? Our society views youth as a virtue, but there's something to be said for those cultures on the other side, such as China, where age is resource of value, the more the better. In all of human history, this is the best time to be alive, and arguably the best place to be living. That said, this is no country for old men.
Right off the bat, it is clear that the author is well familiarized with the West. Like the movie spawned from it, the book captures the sound, the feel, the essence of the open desert. This is not as easy as it sounds, for it goes far beyond the colloquialisms and dialects of the people, but has more to do with the pace. No, not the salsa. McCarthy’s words fall in a steady tempo. The speech patters are simple but rarely simplistic. In the same manner, No Country comes up short on big words but not at all on big meanings, and it is all far too masterfully executed to be on accident.
McCarthy is also very detail oriented, for good and for ill. Someone doesn’t just get “shot in the face” as the author captures every facet of every scene, leaving nothing to the imagination. You’ll know the entry and exit points of the bullet. You’ll read how the blood drips down the wall, or how the brain matter covered the pillow. The Cohen Brothers also left little to the mind’s eye.
The titular theme of the novel is further carried in the book. More conversations describe the changes in our nation, and more of those changes are associated with drugs. More introspection by Sheriff Bell both delves into his reaction to those changes and cements his status as the main focus of the story. Bell, representing Justice, finds himself more and more outdated. His pursuit of Llewelyn Moss, symbolizing Greed, tells the old tale: a criminal commits a crime, and the law eventually catches up.
Or does it? Can the law ever keep up? When the law isn’t justice any more, it is only the law, a collection of words and practices, ill-matched for the escalation to come.
Sheriff Bell has a bigger problem than the changing nature of the American legal system and that is the change of the American society; namely, it’s gravitation to Violence, epitomized by Anton Chigur. Chigur is a killer, but not a normal one. It is not the drive to due damage or cause pain that fuels him, but rather an inability to conceive of the world in a manner different than the one he sees. Violence is something to be accepted. It isn’t his choice; it just is.
So much is captured between the lines in this novel; it could never be shared in some hastily written post, jotted down by a fan. Screw it; here goes.
Our parents’ grandparents could never imagine the world as it is today, or even as it was for our parents. Beyond the changes in technology, it is the graphic nature of our very lives. Movie war heroes in the 50’s would shoot, and a Nazi would fall to the ground, clutching his chest. They didn’t blow people’s legs off or split their skulls open. Our heroes do.
Because our villains do. Escalation. When two losers shoot up a school, we blame violence in the media. Art reflects societies’ values, not the other way around. Steven Spielberg didn't make war more violent, he just took off the filter. We shouldn’t condemn Michael Bay for selling us explosions; we should condemn ourselves for buying them.
But buying is what we do best. We guzzle fuel, and food, and get all we can, experience all we can. Bigger TV’s, faster cars, trips to theme parks, tripping on drugs.
Drugs, defended by half the country, condemned by the rest. I remember when that commercial came out relating marijuana use to helping terrorism, and all these hippies decried it. I wish the hippies had been right, but a trip to Youtube will show you otherwise. Over the past couple of years, Mexican drug lords have used the site as a forum and scorecard. Torture a rival? Post it on Youtube. Decapitate a cop? Put it online. Then leave the head outside a barracks for the Mexican army. Tough not to call it terrorism.
Drugs epitomize the attitude of consumption. So what if it's illegal, immoral, and wrecks your body? It's a way to spend money on a one time rush. Sign us all up.
I don't know if we can keep up, with the economy or the violence. In the long run, of course we can't. Everything ends eventually, and our society may be too rich, too violent, too much. When you put that much energy in a box, something has to give. Senior citizens always see these changes coming first, with the strength of experience and the weakness of the lens of human mortality, which always warps further towards the end.
Or does it finally get it right? Our society views youth as a virtue, but there's something to be said for those cultures on the other side, such as China, where age is resource of value, the more the better. In all of human history, this is the best time to be alive, and arguably the best place to be living. That said, this is no country for old men.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Blue Remains
(Please note, this is the full version of the story I wrote for my local "alternative newspaper." They were kind enough to allow me to edit my own piece down to column length)
Nevada sports fans have been a little spoiled in recent years. Members of the Reno/Sparks community have looked forward to the end of winter every year as the spring equinox brought with it an invitation to the NCAA Tournament.
But the success of our men’s basketball team became about more than a game of hoops. For the few hours spent watching our team take the court, there were countless more treasuring the sense of community they brought us. Pride in their accomplishments, and hoping for just one more win, gave each and every one of us something in common with all our neighbors.
Even those who aren’t sports fans found themselves swept up in the tide. Posters in windows, banners streaming from cars, even the Reno skyline bathing the city in the reflections of the casinos’ Wolf Pack spotlights. Everywhere you looked, you saw blue. It was so much bigger than basketball, bigger than players, coaches or fans. It was about us, a group greater and happier as a sum of our parts than we could ever be alone. It taught us to celebrate and rejoice as one.
This year, however, there is no light. With no invitation to the Big Dance, the banners will remain in closets. With no trip to the NIT, no blue-and-gray flags will unfurl. And after the heartbreaking loss to Houston, our little strip shined its customary neon rainbow, leaving the blue glow in storage and memory until bowl season.
Yet, wherever you go in our community, the blue remains. As you drive across town, flashes of it catch your eye. Anywhere you walk, pieces of sky snap in the wind. Perhaps it is fitting, in this year we have no triumph to unify us, that we have ribbons to remind us of the ties of community.
This winter we learned how to hurt and to mourn as one. A community daughter was taken, by a coward in the night, and we all felt the hollow carved by her absence. If any silver lining can be found on the dark cloud of our tragedy, it is a reminder of how tight we really are, or really can be. Thousands volunteered time. Hundred of thousands of dollars were raised. The entire community reached forth with a unified effort to find the missing simply because she was one of our own. We failed, and we wept as one.
The weight of this tragedy sits upon all of us. Our hearts were collectively broken and our hopes universally crushed. While we can’t forget what makes us so, perhaps Brianna Denison’s sad fate will make us all a little more careful with our lives and a little less careful with our love, a small memorial, certainly, but perhaps one fitting for who we lost.
Having had our community hurt in such a way, it’s all too easy to forget how we celebrated together every March for the last four years, but it’s vital that we remember. Not because of a few games, but because of how we felt and how we responded. Whether the devastating shock of a murder or the comparatively small joys of a game, we responded together, and that is worth something.
Under the eclipse of this tragedy it is clear; there is no light. But at least the blue remains.
Nevada sports fans have been a little spoiled in recent years. Members of the Reno/Sparks community have looked forward to the end of winter every year as the spring equinox brought with it an invitation to the NCAA Tournament.
But the success of our men’s basketball team became about more than a game of hoops. For the few hours spent watching our team take the court, there were countless more treasuring the sense of community they brought us. Pride in their accomplishments, and hoping for just one more win, gave each and every one of us something in common with all our neighbors.
Even those who aren’t sports fans found themselves swept up in the tide. Posters in windows, banners streaming from cars, even the Reno skyline bathing the city in the reflections of the casinos’ Wolf Pack spotlights. Everywhere you looked, you saw blue. It was so much bigger than basketball, bigger than players, coaches or fans. It was about us, a group greater and happier as a sum of our parts than we could ever be alone. It taught us to celebrate and rejoice as one.
This year, however, there is no light. With no invitation to the Big Dance, the banners will remain in closets. With no trip to the NIT, no blue-and-gray flags will unfurl. And after the heartbreaking loss to Houston, our little strip shined its customary neon rainbow, leaving the blue glow in storage and memory until bowl season.
Yet, wherever you go in our community, the blue remains. As you drive across town, flashes of it catch your eye. Anywhere you walk, pieces of sky snap in the wind. Perhaps it is fitting, in this year we have no triumph to unify us, that we have ribbons to remind us of the ties of community.
This winter we learned how to hurt and to mourn as one. A community daughter was taken, by a coward in the night, and we all felt the hollow carved by her absence. If any silver lining can be found on the dark cloud of our tragedy, it is a reminder of how tight we really are, or really can be. Thousands volunteered time. Hundred of thousands of dollars were raised. The entire community reached forth with a unified effort to find the missing simply because she was one of our own. We failed, and we wept as one.
The weight of this tragedy sits upon all of us. Our hearts were collectively broken and our hopes universally crushed. While we can’t forget what makes us so, perhaps Brianna Denison’s sad fate will make us all a little more careful with our lives and a little less careful with our love, a small memorial, certainly, but perhaps one fitting for who we lost.
Having had our community hurt in such a way, it’s all too easy to forget how we celebrated together every March for the last four years, but it’s vital that we remember. Not because of a few games, but because of how we felt and how we responded. Whether the devastating shock of a murder or the comparatively small joys of a game, we responded together, and that is worth something.
Under the eclipse of this tragedy it is clear; there is no light. But at least the blue remains.
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