You wouldn’t enthusiastically take advantage of another opportunity to return to your youth. Invariably, when discussion of such a fantasy arises, the older giveaway their intentions by framing it in terms of money. Money gives options. But there are few among us who truly shine in the application of appreciating that time and experiences are what makes life worthwhile. Stop telling the younger generation to take advantage. With your wrinkled brow, we see you. Failing to balance the opportunity of the day or the years ahead of you. No one knows when the shadow might darken their door. Your age and experience should push you to squeeze out both simple pleasures and large. The decades behind you paved an infinite path of choices. Just as the young people in front of you might if they’re lucky. It’s hard to expect yolo or carpe diem from the younger generation because we have the disparate expectations of responsibility and stability. For similar reasons, the older among us can’t let go of the stability tethers that we need. Both groups are in the same boat. Regardless, living by example is the best sermon you can give anyone. Words are easy and change is hard. Most of us can’t even gleefully listen to another genre of music without being dismissive. Much less trying new foods, new words, or mindsets that might serve us better. We reach the point where we decide we’re done. Routine and stability bring comfort. But they also suffocate the opportunity to become renewed.
Prepare yourself for turbulent oversharing. Some wounds get exposed again, revealing dark, unmanageable emotions. These words are supposed to be about addiction, alcoholism, and generational anger. I apologize in advance to anyone who thinks I am saying too much or to inflict pain.
I don’t want “I am so sorry” or any words of encouragement. Instead, I would much prefer that you read these words. And if they ring true for someone in your life, find a way to act before it’s too far down the road to turn back.
People often forget that I became an unwilling expert in abnormal psychology because I lived in an intermittent crucible inhabited by some of the most versed, angry people. For most of my life, I told people I believed my DNA must be infected. Though others couldn’t recognize it, I did. Though I now call it the “Bobby Dean,” the sinister recognition that my family’s maternal and paternal sides gifted me with the lesser side of humanity plagues me.
Like anyone without children, I sometimes mourn the choice to have none. Since life taught me that intelligence has little to do with the odds of giving in to anger and addiction, I remind myself that it’s possible that I would have given in to the lunacy passed down through my family. At fifty-six, if I had treated my children like others, there would have been little choice other than to end myself. I’ve hurt other people callously. But I at least can swallow my ‘what-ifs’ and know that I didn’t hurt my children and continue the generational trauma that populates the world with damaged adults. Ones who carry invisible wounds, anger, self-doubt, and the handicap of attempting to be happy and prosperous, even though they were mentally beaten into submission.
Nothing new happened recently to rip the bandage off. However, I was forced to learn further details of how nasty the effects of this anger and addiction were to people in my family. Because of geography and shared secrecy, it turns out that the imagined and partially confirmed psychopathy passed to the next generation was much worse than I knew.
Alcoholism amplifies monstrous behavior. It might not create it, but it unleashes it. The whisper of the disinhibiting lover in a drunk’s head becomes a shout. The person you once knew gets trapped and silent inside the shell of the alcoholic. As it worsens, the person you once knew becomes a faint echo. The new version will say and do things that increasingly become impossible to live with. You are tethered to the person who once was. As a result, you attempt to deal rationally with the effects of addiction.
Meanwhile, the person possessed by it will do anything to guard their ability to keep drinking. They’ll gaslight you, lash out, and create clusters of people who assume that the version of the truth they are being told is valid. People with no ill feelings toward one another become manipulated pawns, initially acting out of honest concern. But what results is another level of toxic behavior, all hinged on the central person. It is drama and chaos. Because of the secrecy and generated toxicity, people’s relationships get ruined.
One of the most significant pieces of advice I can give people when they are attempting to coexist in an addict’s world is to talk. Talk to everyone. I guarantee that the addict curates everything you do and say to make you a monster because addiction requires secrecy. Intelligent addicts learn the behaviors of narcissists.
People sometimes ask me what makes me so well-versed in narcissism. (Not the generalized version of it prevalent in social media.) Anyone raised or living around addicts inadvertently learns the behaviors. The hallmarks of narcissism always bubble up with addicts and alcoholics. They must deny reality. They become delusional to the effects of their behavior. They enlist everyone and everything to perpetuate their ability to keep drinking.
Recently, I met someone who triggered my “Bobby Dean” response. I knew immediately upon meeting them that they were evil. I hate to use that word. Nothing outwardly about them gave a clue, not directly. The bells went off in my head. I was right about them, of course. And then you’re left with the impossible task of coexisting with them. Such people thrive on chaos and the emotional distress of people around them. Since most people are genuine, they get stuck in a loop of the foolish desire to mitigate the narcissist. It can’t be done.
In the same way, most of us think we can win over an alcoholic with love, words, and compassion. It’s not true. You’re not dealing with a real person until you can slap the bottle out of their hands. They are an angry parody, possessed by a demon demanding nourishment. Replace the word ‘alcohol’ with ‘heroin’ and you’ll realize that until you get rid of the heroin, you can’t move forward. The addict can’t attempt to be themselves and regain their humanity until they eliminate the invisible straightjacket of addiction. Addicts put you in the position of helpless anger. Anger with yourself and anger with them. We each know that a person trapped in addiction isn’t being themselves. But that knowledge does not give us any comfort. We find ourselves screaming. It’s reactionary abuse.
My goal isn’t to tarnish my brother in this post. He was older than me. I loved him and knew early on that he was among the most intelligent people I’d ever known. We survived our parents. He got the worst of it from Dad. Perversely, it turns out he got the worst from Mom, too. As he got older, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Obviously, the anger he’d inherited from our family poisoned him. I thought it must be me, that I was somehow doing or saying things wrong. Toxic people don’t take the time to doubt whether they are wrong. I became the opposite of my brother in so many ways. And he hated being wrong. It was one of his defining behaviors. Because he was so smart, he was seldom wrong. But when he was wrong? He doubled and tripled down on it. From there, he justified saying and doing anything to keep it that way. The alcohol perverted him into someone who could behave and speak in ways that the younger version of himself could not have imagined.
He was particularly vile to me when I changed my name. At that point in his life, he still pretended to carry the torch of family honor. He’d grown up with the Terry side of the family. They were true experts in horrific secrecy. When I changed my name, I wrote them all letters. There was no way to avoid them knowing that I rejected everything my name held within the letters that formed it. They got their revenge when my dad died. Their secret hatred was so intense that they refused even to list me by my legal name in his obituary. That’s the best example of expressed passive-aggressive behavior that I can cite. When I think of self-righteous hypocrisy, I imagine their example. It does not mean I don’t have good memories of them, too! But the older I get, the more I concentrate on knowing they were well aware of what was happening in our violent private lives. They preferred to stay out of it, even though they knew what was happening. Family honor and secrecy held more value than protecting children who were getting damaged right under their noses. It invalidated every religious idea that they allegedly cherished. I can’t imagine doing that. It makes sense that they hid my sister from me for almost fifty years. That she wasn’t white must have been the biggest threat to their false family honor that they could imagine. I would hate myself if I’d become the secret racists that they were. I’d write more about this, but that part of the story isn’t mine to tell.
I made the mistake of attempting to lovingly help my brother a few years before he died. I was all in. It was the worst possible move. He retaliated by lashing at me and everyone around me. He scorched the Earth to keep his addiction. I was rightfully convinced that he might actually kill me. He spent a great deal of time detailing how he would do it. Had he wanted to, he easily could have. Life had geared him up with the tools to do just about anything. Some of the family pretended they couldn’t imagine he was doing and saying those things, even though they could see the emails, listen to the voicemails, and read the texts. Each of them had spent decades enforcing family silence. Why would it be any different with my brother? Had this not happened with my brother, I might not have decided to cut off ties with my Mom not long after. It was just too much. Two of the world’s best alcoholics take a massive toll on a person’s sanity. It struck me how similar they were, each insistent on maintaining their addiction at any cost.
My brother was lucky. Though he left a trail behind him, even professionally, he was forced to retire and avoid the consequences that would have befallen anyone outside law enforcement. I hope anyone he encountered at work didn’t suffer as much as I imagined. People in that stage of alcoholism behave in ways that they never would absent the addiction. It is no secret that law enforcement suffers more from addiction than the general population. (As they do domestic abuse.)
No one was safe. No one ever is around an end-of-run alcoholic.
My brother had the chance to retire and enjoy a full life. To make amends. To admit his transgressions, to replace spiteful words with love and hugs, and to reject the poison of our DNA. He chose otherwise. It’s a story I have witnessed repeated too many times. It is agony for all of us to prefer to tell the good stories and push back the bad ones. Who wouldn’t want to honor the good times? There were many. My brother could have written several of the best books ever written. I would likely have helped him. Anyone and anything can be forgiven if they are open to it. Alcoholism demands everything. It reduces people to their worst common denominator.
A couple of years ago, I scrapped a lot of my shared history and records of my brother. After his death, I thought I could move on and continue to work to remember the good things about him. Some of it was incredible, an irrefutable dissertation on how crazy his addiction made him. He created entire fantasy worlds, each independent of the other, all designed to alienate people and render them unable to interfere with his addiction. Addiction requires secrecy. And as it progresses, it forces the addict to silence those who challenge it. It is exactly like a demon facing exorcism. It will destroy the world in the pursuit of its existence, even if it kills the host.
I write this because the newest revelations force me to confront that he created a world of pain for people. Those people are left with the immense struggle to be good people. It can be done. The first step is to no longer worry about people knowing. Sunlight gives breath. You have to talk about it, acknowledge it, and work to silence the self-doubt that the toxicity of alcoholism demands.
I damn well know that we all have addicts or alcoholics in our lives right now. The cycle is endless. If you think it is manageable, you’re wrong. It will worsen. You’ll look back and understand that if you could return to when it started, you’d do almost anything to stop it.
If you have an addict or alcoholic in your life, whether you think it is true or not, you must start talking to people first. They need to know you are dealing with an addict. You must rob the alcoholic of their secrecy. It is the critical component that precedes every other consequence and behavior.
I can add anger to my reaction recently. Anger can motivate if channeled. If you’re dealing with an addict or alcoholic, I recommend anger as a defense. Let them experience the consequences of what they’ve created. If you do nothing, you’re going to be angry anyway. It might be more effective than compassion.
I’m telling you this as an unwilling expert.
A piece of my heart will always be broken. To discover that people now gone still creates shockwaves in the hearts and minds of those who are still here. It is a recurring wound, and one opened periodically by reminders by those who remind me of myself when I was young.
PS Pictures don’t lie. But they do conceal, just as most of us do as we live our daily lives. Just remember, I had many great moments as a kid. And as an adult with my brother. But behind it all…
I can’t control how such admissions paint me. I rarely memorialize my mom’s death like I do others. She died ten years ago today. I found a picture of her today, one I might have seen decades ago but haven’t since. I inexpertly sharpened it today. My favorite grandmother died on the 6th, while my wife died on the 4th; different years, different circumstances. I spent a year not talking to my mom. I’d spent decades attempting to bridge the gap of anger and alcoholism with her. Like so many children of such parents, I was convinced that I could talk and behave in a way that would earn me normalcy as if I were the one with the deficiency. Drinking didn’t kill her. But it infected so many parts of her life. The infection of it spread to other people. It wasn’t her intention. She learned the skill from others. Like all other close family members of mine who were alcoholics, she died with an insatiable urge to drink until anger consumed her. Recently, suspected truths of another member of my family blossomed. He’s gone now. No second chances, no new learned behavior, no sitting on the porch as the sunset approaches. The familial infection he acquired in his youth overpowered him, once again proving that addiction has nothing to do with intelligence. Addiction and anger stain the people around those who suffer from it. And he unfortunately passed the ball and burden of consequences to other innocents. I don’t have any superpowers which shield me from the tendency to drink or drown myself in a fog. If I did have them? I would hand them to the people who I recently discovered to be needing them.
When I write things such as this, I trigger people. For much of my life, my brother was the vanguard of family honor, demanding silence. It was a habit he absorbed from the paternal side of my family. I discovered very late in life that their cabal hid many secrets, even people, from me. I’ve yet to find an addict who can move freely in the sunlight; their behavior demands secrecy and closed lips. In most of these cases, some of those lips will be bloodied because addiction inevitably exacts the price of violence, one way or another. Either to oneself or to everyone in the bubble nearest them.
That is exactly the power of addiction, the whispering lover that only the addict or alcoholic hears, blossoms.
I shared a quote by Annie Lemott twice last week: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I don’t write to inflict further harm. On the other hand, silence is self-inflicted violence. If we are to judge people, it must include their shining moments, too. I have good memories, and I share some of those, too. It’s fascinating to watch people as they listen to my stories; some only selectively note when I say anything they perceive as an accusation or something best not discussed. None of the people who later suffered from the afflictions of addiction and anger were born with the intention to slide into the abyss while terrorizing their friends and family. The filtered truth I share in no way alters history or changes who they were. They had their moment on stage. As it will for all of us, the curtains will close, and our time will end. Your time to live your story fits narrowly inside that timespan.
Secrecy. Silence.
Time is short. Live your life under your own banner and within your own control.
I stood next to the extravagant nickel-cornered casket. A woman I vaguely recognized was attempting to say words that might reach me. “Everything is temporary. One morning you’ll wake up, and it will be different. You just need some time.” I nodded.
I turned to my left as someone cleared their throat. It was an older distinguished man wearing a dark suit. He was probably in his late sixties. A pair of forgotten reading glasses perched on top of his head. His face seemed familiar to me, but his voice was one I’d never heard before. It was a deep baritone.
“She’s right. Everything is temporary. This pain. The breakfast you ate. The tingle you feel when the right person touches you. Even your life. Temporary is a mindset.”
The woman I was talking to turned to him and asked who he was.
He just shook his head, dismissing her.
He nodded again and held his hand out. I didn’t even hesitate as my fingers reached his. He shook my hand briefly, and then his fingers circled my wrist. It didn’t surprise me. Déjà Vu doesn’t cover it. I was certain he’d done it before. When my eyes met his, I was struck by how much like blue skies they looked.
The surge of electricity that passed through him to me didn’t cause me to jerk. Instead, it caused paralysis. My eyes closed. For how long, I’m not certain. When I opened my eyes, the man no longer held my wrist. He now stood by the foot of the casket.
His voice resonated. “X, please help me with the viewing by lifting the other end?”
I moved to help without pausing to wonder about who the man was or why he asked me to help. Oddly, I couldn’t remember who lay inside the casket. The woman who had been talking to me no longer stood nearby.
We each lifted both ends of the coffin lid as the man nodded. Unlike most coffins, this one had no separation in the top. The coffin was empty.
The man watched my eyes. “He was cremated. The urn will come in a few minutes. For now, we’ll place his book here in the coffin. He said it was his only achievement. The man reached behind the coffin and retrieved a hardcover book from a small table behind the casket and held it up. “Time Is Short” was emblazoned on the cover as the title.
“Ironic title, don’t you think?” the man asked me, smiling.
“Yes. It sounds like something I’d say.” I laughed.
The man walked to the middle of the casket and placed the book face up inside the casket. I walked a few steps toward him and stood next to him, facing the room. It was a large, open room, filled with rows of pews and comfortable chairs. We were the only occupants.
“Let’s sit down for a moment so you can collect your thoughts.” The man wasn’t asking so I followed him to the front row pew, all the way to the right.
We sat on the cushioned pew. Oddly, my brain was absent of almost all thought.
“Do you have any questions, X? Ask me anything.”
“Whose funeral is this?”
He laughed. “Aren’t they all so similar? I don’t want to spoil it. Go up and turn the book over. The author’s picture is on the back.”
I stood up and walked over to the casket. While I know several writers, I was having difficulty remembering names and faces.
I looked at the picture behind the “Time Is Short” title running across the face of the book. It was a collage of colors, each coalescing across an auburn field and a solitary tree illuminated by a sunset. “Amen Tailor” was the author’s name. The name evoked an odd familiarity for me. Then I remembered that it was an anagram for “I am not real.” I smiled.
I turned the book over. My fingers went numb as I looked at the face on the back. It was me, but not quite a me that I recognized immediately. I realized it was the man seated behind me. I turned with the book held tightly in my hands. The man stood two feet away from me, staring intently at me with his piercing cloudy eyes.
“Interesting, isn’t it, that you, or we rather, had to use a pseudonym to get people to listen to us? It wasn’t enough to already have a new name.” He laughed, and I smiled.
“How much time is left? 10 years? 20?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. This is one possible outcome. Obviously, though, you have enough time to do that.” He pointed to the book in my hands. “When I jolted you, I gave you just enough push to do one thing you’d love to accomplish in life. Now, you get to choose what that might be.”
I extended my left hand to shake his, a habit only left-handers would understand. As his fingers touched mine, I felt a slight shock again.
“You’ll have to leave the book here with me before you go. You can exit out the side door next to the chapel service area behind you.”
I handed him the book, took a long look at the casket, and walked outside. No more than any other day in my life, I didn’t know what the awaiting sunshine might hold.
This isn’t my story to tell. But I’ll trespass because it blankets the lines of odd convergences of the things we all experience. Regard it as fiction and find whatever value that words can convey.
She seemed to melt against the wall, her head down, with a cell phone pressed against her ear. “Margaret died this morning,” she said, her voice flatter then the plains of Iowa. It was the flatness that conveyed an overwhelming emotion behind her words. Numbness, like a whisper, sometimes telegraphs greater information.
He stopped and was about to ask her what she needed. A woman walked up to her and put her hand on her shoulder as she ended the phone call.
“She’s in a better place,” the late arrival told her. Though he looked indirectly at her, he watched her face wrinkle with conflicting emotions. He could read her mind.
They spoke a few sentences back and forth. The woman returned her verbal volleys with diminished enthusiasm and volume.
As the late arrival walked away, he asked her what she needed. “To be about 200 miles from here. None of these people knew my Aunt.”
Because it’s what he does, he hugged her. He wasn’t going to add vacuous words.
When he stepped back and away from her, she told him that she didn’t think she could stand listening to people talk about her aunt.
“Then don’t. The person you loved is gone. Your debt is paid.” He didn’t quite say it in so few words because he was surprisingly caught off guard by nervousness. His entire morning was a bout of unidentifiable anxiety. His arms still quivered with the exertion expended to quell what had saved insurmountable at the time.
“I hate it when people say someone’s in a better place.” The irritation in her voice was evident.
“They mean well. None of us know what to say. I put my foot in my mouth a lot. We’re not thinking about where they are. We’re thinking about going on without them. That’s what grief is.”
She looked at him directly. “That’s a really good way to put it.”
“I learned the hard way. When people are grieving, they say and do almost anything.”
She nodded. He walked away, hoping that time would warp for her. Time is one of the few things that helps. But sometimes, it remained fresh forever.
He wondered how the universe sometimes finds a way to overlap lessons that superficially have nothing in common.
This is a long post. It’s not funny. A few people might read it and take offense or exception to it. Such a defensive response only happens when someone is speaking the truth, usually one that isn’t favorable. I have hundreds of stories.
Last December, a woman was basically decapitated while cleaning pizza-making machinery. She was doing so without being able to lock out the machinery. It seems preposterous to most of us. But not to me. She had less protection than most because she was working as a temporary employee. Many of these facilities are operated and cleaned by employees who don’t have a lot of options, much less training. Even with both things being true, the financial pressure exerted to be efficient tends to overwhelm even common safety measures. This happens all across the United States every single day of the year. People are expected or required to work faster and to cut corners. Companies tend to say the right things when it comes to safety, but so many employees go to work every day knowing that they will have to cut corners to get the job done with the staffing and time allotted. It’s no secret that most companies cut labor costs. Fewer people are expected to do more while maintaining the quality of whatever they’re producing while simultaneously building a house of cards in regard to safety.
When I was very young, I was involved in an absolutely astounding case involving food safety that also dovetailed with personal safety. It had such a huge impact on my attitude. Working in a dairy removed any doubt as to the process of what goes into milk.
Later, although years ago, when I worked at a food manufacturing facility, I watched a lot of this happen. I had several near misses, a couple of which I still sometimes dream about. One of them could have easily ripped my head off, and only luck kept it from happening. The machine was a huge rapid cooling machine with interconnected mobile shelves connected to a dual elevator. It was -40° and 40 plus feet tall. A huge bank of powerful motors constantly roared to feed the gigantic cooling coils.
Prior to my introduction to the machinery, a maintenance person had almost been cut in half by the moving elevator portion of the apparatus. It was interesting hearing management’s perspective on this. The maintenance person survived but was severely impacted by the injuries for the rest of his life. It wasn’t until I became responsible for the machine on my shift that I realized just how pernicious the demands of efficiency were and how they constantly violated safety protocols.
I had subcutaneous frostbite on both knees from working on the incredibly cold surfaces. Getting shots behind one’s kneecaps is not something I recommend. When I’m about to do push-ups, I go through long periods where I have to use one knee to kneel. Otherwise, there’s a strange pain that has lingered through the years. I’m sure some of my hearing loss is attributable to those roaring fan systems.
Working in negative 40° environments required very specific and expensive protective footwear. Many employees, especially those from staffing agencies, were not given proper footwear and often had to work in this environment with rubber boots. I know it sounds like I’m exaggerating. There was more than one occasion when I took the employee and bought him boots, using my own money, that would protect him. And even those weren’t up to the expected standard demanded of the machine. On one occasion, my middle manager threatened to write me up or fire me if I bought boots for another employee again. He was angry that it made him look bad. Shame would have been a better response. Had Jesus been in the room, someone would have been smitten.
When management would decide it was time to defrost the system, the engineers who developed it indicated it needed at least 3 days without use simply to defrost it to the correct temperature. Of course, management allotted less than a day. Even though it cost millions of dollars to construct the immense machine on an insulated pad, It was no surprise that huge cracks formed in the foundation constantly. The powerful drive shafts constantly failed as the junction boxes warped. Metal shelves weighing hundreds of pounds fell or got hung constantly.
At one point, I fell about 20 ft from the elevator platform. My padded freezer suit helped lessen the fall. I didn’t break anything but was impossibly sore for several weeks. A co-worker was on the platform with me at the time. He later said he was certain that he was witnessing a death. In some ways, I was a much different person back then. Had the wrong thing been said to me about this incident or ignorant questions about safety protocols implemented at the time, I would have handed them a list of several hundred contributing factors that had not been addressed. Everyone knew we were running the operation under the “wink” system. Just remember the Manhattan Project and the first nuclear bomb if you’re not sure what the “wink” system is. While the scientists were certain that the first nuclear bomb would not ignite the entire planet, the people authorizing the project would have proceeded anyway. They wanted a bomb and a test to prove its viability. The infinitesimally small risk of setting the entire planet ablaze wasn’t much of a concern.
Despite the fact that there were very rigid protocols on paper for correcting mechanical issues, the truth is that there was enormous pressure from management to do whatever had to be done to keep the machine operating. Half of the plant’s food production required the use of the machine for chilling or freezing. Some of this is also why I shake my head at our alleged USDA inspection system. The truth is that companies producing food are given too much leeway to monitor their processes. Time and time again, food-borne illnesses prove that processes can’t be trusted. Trust God but keep your powder dry.
When I read restaurant inspections, all of the swirls in my head. The people who own restaurants have a complete list of requirements. They are a part of doing business. Yet, when inspected, a wild variety of problems get noted. And most of these have been going on for a while when they are caught. Again, some of it is due to improper behavior by employees. Noting that, however, never negates the obligation of the people in charge of the restaurant to ensure that things are done correctly. It is their job to hire, train, and keep people functioning safely. The blame always falls on the people whose job is to ensure standards adherence.
When I worked at the food facility, I wasn’t proud that I ducked participating in the alleged defrosting and cleaning of the system. There were a lot of accidents during these shenanigans. I’m not sure how to characterize what we were supposed to be doing versus the objective. There was no correlation in reality. I can say that most of the motivation for doing it was to satisfy the perception that we were cleaning and maintaining the machine properly. A couple of times, I probably should have been fired for not participating. I expected to come back to the immense department to a vertical crack in the machine platform, similar to after an earthquake.
Everything about it was handled improperly. Both from a food safety perspective and its mechanical operation. People who had no knowledge of the apparatus were constantly making outrageous decisions about every facet of its operation. Were the department and machine mine, I would have required lengthy training for everyone associated with the machine. But we were constantly tasked with doing whatever we had to to keep it running, with people walking in off the street or from staffing agencies. The language barrier wasn’t a problem for me because I speak Spanish. But none of the operational or safety literature was provided in other languages. Even if it were, we were never going to be allotted sufficient personnel or time to train people. Most days, we felt exactly like Lucy as she attempted to eat all the chocolates as they went past her.
There were a couple of other operators whom I trusted with my life with that machine. (Because I was trusting them with my life.) We were often in the machine while it was operational. It was during one of those occasions when I was inside, and one of the operators I trusted was attempting to keep the machine operational in order to keep the plant moving. The sweep arm moving product was behind me as I observed the mechanical arms in conjunction with the photo sensors. It hung up and dropped just as I stepped away. It caught me across the back of the neck and shoulders and began pulling me. I realized immediately that I had to act fast. So I fell to the floor a couple feet ahead of the horizontal shelving. Had I not done so, I would have lost my head.
One afternoon, I was lying on the conveyor system, attempting to keep the output window functional. I’d been in there several minutes, and my nose was running freely. It’s important to remember that the huge banks of fans were blowing hundreds of horsepower of wind through the machine while I was in it. You learn to ignore a runny nose or wait until it freezes on your face. Once it freezes, you forget about it. My face mask had hardened too much, so I pulled it up to be able to breathe. Since the system was running, I rolled over to avoid getting pushed out of the narrow output window. On each side was a stainless steel gear case encompassing the conveyor system gears. As I rolled over, my face made contact with the stainless steel that was around -40°. My face stuck instantly to the metal. Because the product was coming out at my feet, I rolled again, and as I did so, the mucus from my nose that had instantly froze stuck to the metal gearbox. It took me several minutes to realize I lost the skin across the side of my nose and above my lip. That’s what that kind of extreme cold will do.
I don’t dream about that machine much anymore. I tend to have them if I have a fever. Most involve injury or metal platforms falling off the elevator system from 40 feet in the air.
When I see news stories, especially ones that have marked similarities to what I experienced, I get irritated again. Because I know that more people will get injured or die. It’s true that some of these cases are a result of the employee being negligent through their own fault. Is it a secret that we can be stupid? It’s equally true that another portion of these are the consequence of employees being required to do things unsafely or too quickly in order to get the job done. People who are not familiar with such industries or jobs object and say that the solution is for the employees to simply refuse. The work world does not work that way for most of us. Most of the things you enjoy, from your chicken sandwich to your phone, get produced through the efforts of countless people who are risking their safety constantly.
If you’ve never stood on a production line needing to go to the bathroom but can’t, or you’ve realized that the only reason your job exists is because that machine can’t do it, you’re lucky. You can say that a particular person can get another job. That’s true. But our production machinery requires someone to do these jobs. If it’s not you, it must be someone. A lot of ‘someones.’ Not that it’s related to this post, but in part, this is why I get so annoyed at those who object to the idea of a living wage. If we expect people to be in those jobs, those jobs exist because we expect the result to be available to us. Whether it’s a hamburger or our car washed. Anyone performing a job that we require through our choices should be able to pay their bills based on that exchange of time for money. As for whether someone who unclogs a toilet deserves to make as much as someone providing healthcare, the answer is that it’s complicated. I certainly expect my sewage to disappear and don’t need to wonder too long about what happens if it doesn’t. That result is valuable. We need brain surgeons. But go a week without a working toilet and see how quickly you dream of working pipes.
There’s a whole hidden world of production and service around us. If you’ve never seen it, you might see the story I mentioned at the beginning of this post and easily shake your head at the stupidity of the person who was injured or killed. I have the opposite perspective. I know that in most cases, that employee was put into a position most of the time where reality imposed a different set of rules. She came to a job with minimal training, a language barrier and quickly saw how other employees got the job done. She did not have a lot of options regarding work. I am certain she was glad to be employed in order to live and provide for her family.
We need our world of workers. It’s easy to fall into the trap of failing to respect that they are assuming a risk each day they work. The very people who need our support the most often get scorn for the jobs they’re doing.
There’s much more I could say, even though you might look at the length of this post and wonder how that’s possible. I’m pragmatic about work. Most of us are. Even when I’m loving my job, I often think of the hundreds of thousands of people doing more with less for less money. I might not be at risk of literally losing my head while doing my job, but somewhere, someone is. X
In my apartment above the hallway junction, I have a metal piece of artwork spelling out the word onism. I had it made a few years ago. The word definitely came to me, walking the beautiful streets of houses in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. I walked mile after mile of the surrounding area, seeing the neighborhoods in a way that even the inhabitants have forgotten to experience. It bemuses me that we visit other places to find newness and beauty and others come to our little corners to do the same. The word onism is supposed to describe the unknowable about the world and our own internal realization that we can’t really know the world. I’ll put a link in the comments to demonstrate the mood the word is supposed to evoke. Most people who watch the video find themselves a little untethered by the realization that there are 197 million square miles to explore and almost 8 billion people living around them.
Because I can’t evoke a word like ‘onism’ without mentioning another, I’ll also put in a link for ‘avenoir.’ It’s impossible to absorb the words without understanding that we seem to live with so many of our priorities backward.
I went to Valley Green (Wissahickon Park) during my trip to Pennsylvania, a nature-filled historical spot. It’s one of Ruth’s favorite spots, anchored by both beautiful and bittersweet memory. Another place I’ve never been to and one I’ll likely not see again. A pop-up thunderstorm cut the visit short. But even the rain brought its own message. We were supposed to go with one purpose in mind, but the mercurial way people are morphed the visit into something else. You have to be okay with that. Because so many things in life are exactly like that. You can plan and set out a blueprint only to find that the happy accidents; hell, even the unhappy ones, sometimes filter glimpses into surprising slices of both people and the world. Though we went with a pre-planned objective, it was one which went unrealized. Admiring history, I found introspection.
I have a couple of pictures of us at the beautiful spot in the valley, canopied by immense trees. The sunlight quickly yielded to darkness and impending rain. We walked along the creek, bemused by the ducks and careful of the cyclists enjoying the incredible nature-wrapped trails cutting through the park. I could spend days there, lost in the old trees and history. Within fifteen minutes of taking the picture of the sky, the storm had rolled in, darkening the valley and rendering the canopy of trees as a noir version of a different place. As we drove away, the storm swayed the trees and dropped little limbs onto us.
I didn’t see the Liberty Bell, the Rocky Statue, or Independence Hall. But I did stand in a history-filled valley, looking up at the trees and the sun which overlook it. Though the person whose life was cut short by squandering his last chances wasn’t there, I was. His absence was supposed to be the catalyst for our visit. He lost track of the essential beauty of being alive and instead focused on the tragedy of life and let it swallow him. Anyone who can’t relish the smallest of moments and appreciate being alive is missing the treasure of present-moment life.
Later in the trip, I had the pleasure of having Rita’s water ice for the first time, thanks to my de facto mother-in-law Ruth. Though the name derives from the creator’s wife and is a nickname for Italian ice, it’s something that we don’t have anywhere. That’s a loss for everyone because it both soothes and stimulates the taste buds. Also, if you’re in Philly, you have to pronounce the word ‘water’ like you’ve bit your tongue: w-u-d-d-e-r. I devoured my allegedly large serving like a zoological gorilla. Yes, I literally drooled at one point, much to the delight of both Ruth and Erika.
It was odd to see that the sun rises earlier on the east coast. I was awake for each sunrise, having already wandered the quiet, dark streets. Twice I was in the heated pool as the sun found its way out, even through the wildfire-fueled haze. Though I’m back to normal life again, I feel a slight sense of irreality, an unused synonym for dreaminess or untethered awareness. I’ve tucked the moments away already, hoping they’ll fail to dissipate as life intrudes further.
I sat in a pew, surrounded by a throng of people, listening to someone talk about their loved one. I was there in part to repay a debt incurred sixteen years ago.
“Who among us thought that a week ago we would be here? Or a month? Or a year?” Everyone listening to him would feel the urgency of an indistinct carpe diem tug at their heart. As the day would go on, though, most would let distractions and the to-do’s push the essential reminder out of their head. That’s just life.
Later, someone said to me, “Tomorrow.”
And I still can’t find the words to explain to people why the procrastination of tomorrow rings like a stick of dynamite in my ears.
I don’t want a promissory note, one serving as a promise of a hug, a laugh, or of a moment that might not ever come due.
Tomorrow.
If we’re lucky.
And if we’re not, what’s put off until tomorrow is gone forever.
There’s something about this that defines me.
Maybe it’s experience or age, perhaps it’s loss. The window to enjoy life and people shuts incrementally.
Tomorrow is here and it’s all you have. It’s camouflaged as today. If you wake up groggy, take a moment to taste the coffee. If you have someone, touch them lightly as a way to remind them.
By a series of coincidences, I’m officiating a wedding today. The niece of my wife, who died in 2007, asked me to perform her wedding. I put off getting ordained until shortly before my cousin Jimmy died ten years ago. Though I didn’t do his wedding, I was beyond grateful that he married Alissa before cancer got him. To see him suffering but also making such a loving gesture before he died made my heart swell with peace and love. As for today, I’m not the least bit nervous about it. No matter what unexpected things might happen (and they always do), the truth of weddings is that they only require five seconds of activity to be legal. That people jump and take the risk of marriage is an awesome thing. It is just a piece of paper that doesn’t amplify the commitment between them. But it is still the fundamental way to tell the world that you intend to be with your forever person, whether it’s like my cousin Jimmy who died a month afterward. Or my wife, who died a month short of eleven years with me. It’s impossible to know how much time lies ahead of us. We all get embroiled in the million things that occupy and fill our days. Behind it all, if we are lucky, is the one person who loves us and looks at us like the last french fry in the bottom of the bag. If you are lucky enough to have that one person who is always in your corner, even while they roll their eyes at you, almost nothing in life can derail you. Planes fall out of the sky, tornadoes rip through our homes, and people leave us unexpectedly. Don’t forget to look at the person you’re with and silently say thanks. Even if you’re listening to them slurp coffee from the cup or watching them leave their darned cup on the sink. We do all the things that fill our lives and sometimes forget that invisible things like love are by far the only ‘things’ that matter.
I’ve noticed that most of the people around me don’t have one. An advanced directive isn’t the same thing as a healthcare proxy. If you’re going to do one or the other, I recommend a proxy because it entrusts your decisions to someone you designate to make decisions for you. You can do an Advanced Directive if you’d like to stipulate exactly what medical care you prefer. Otherwise, you can trust your named person to do it for you. Just don’t entrust this sort of thing with your brother-in-law Bob.
Because I’m not into privacy, Erika is my primary, and my favorite cousin is the alternate. I like to joke and imagine the doctors huddled in my ICU room. “So, what does X want to be done?” Either Lynette or Erika will look them in the eye and say, “He was adamant that he wanted no life-sustaining artifices, but he insisted on a coffee colonic each morning at 4 a.m. Oh! And to be defibrillated in the nether regions twice a day. Set the phaser on maximum, please.”
I imagine everyone knows my general wishes: I don’t mind CPR once or twice if it results in a positive life afterward. I never want to be airlifted; whatever happens, I want it to happen near my home and life. I don’t want to be sustained for any period other than briefly. And if I need to be defibrillated in the nether regions just for amusement, please go for it. It’s exactly what I’d want you all to tell the doctors if only to see their reaction.
It’s been quite a while since my emergency surgery. I’ll never forget that Monday afternoon after work. And I often think about the calm day when the plane crashed at my residence. I don’t think I imagined such a calamity when I skipped work that day and drank my cup of morning coffee. Days like that can and will happen to everyone. Unless you’re certain immortality is at your disposal, it’s wise to make sure you have someone designated. And if you’re married? Name someone for you both, just in the unlikely case that you’re both incapacitated.
Just to give you a little push, most people don’t know that millions of us have inactive aneurysms. Most never cause problems. They can rupture or cause symptoms at any time. I’m not telling you that to make you cringe. I’m giving that example to demonstrate that the universe has a quiver of surprises for us. We are biological machines filled with opportunities to tap on our shoulders.
If anyone reading this doesn’t have a healthcare proxy, they aren’t complicated and only require the signature of two witnesses. I can direct you to where to make one – or I can email you a blank form you can fill out.
I hope all of you add this to your list of “musts.” Otherwise, when the unimaginable happens, your friends and loved ones will scramble to figure out a way to make these decisions for you.
Not related, this morning just before 7 a.m., as I watched a visitor valiantly attempt to rouse a friend at a nearby apartment, I looked up above the horizon to the west to see a long, streaking shooting star blaze into the atmosphere. It was singular and probably high into the sky. But it streaked for a couple of seconds as it obliquely burned into visibility. That meteorite is us. I hope your time here is long and joyful. Don’t forget to take a few moments and add my recommendation to your to-do list. It’ll help your circle in the event you need it.
Love, X
(PS I didn’t mention a Living Will, which is also a great resource.)
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 