A Bitter Pill to Swallow (Part 3)

(This post is mostly the means for recording, for my own timeline, what happened to me medically over the last year as a result an allergic reaction to a medication.  It's intended to be in order and part 3 of the story (see the last two posts for events leading up.  It's more to document than entertain)

I've always had a healthy relationship with death.  I don't have a problem talking about it nor am I afraid of it.  Being an Atheist and person deeply rooted in science and the beauty of the earth, it's an inevitable ending we all will undergo eventually.  I guess that's why I don't get religion, which is largely founded in the 'what if' and 'what happens next'.  I believe we'll end up returning into the earth, from which we came.  Some believe there's a magical place they are working towards where they will be reunited with loved ones.  I believe that as well, but back in the ground.  I am comforted by this simple principle just as others are comforted by their hopes of being worthy to reach a promised land.  Having said all that, it doesn't mean I don't value life.  And that's what's so crazy about looking to end my life one minute then fighting for it, so to speak (and literally), the next.  But that's what happened.

It was early August of 2016 when I received my Bipolar II diagnosis and was put on the lowest dosage of Lamictal (after trying several other medications that made me worse).  Almost immediately, I felt the best I ever had, feeling clear-headed, balanced and happy.  I couldn't believe how one tiny pill was capable of changing my life so radically.  Weeks went by and my closest friends and I were fundraising for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention's 'Out of the Darkness Walk'.  Out of some 700+ participants, I was consistently #4 and the team hovered around #5 out of 300+ teams in the amount raised.  I had unbelievable support from my friends, family and Facebook family.  The walk was August 28th and I was so proud of what we had accomplished for the cause.  I was asked to be one of three top fundraisers to release the white doves at the starting ceremony.  The sun beating down, it was ungodly hot and although it was only a 5k walk, we barely made it.  That week, I noticed a rash starting on the back of my neck, but figured, working outdoors, that it was a heat rash.  After it wasn't going away, I consulted my doctor, a dermatologist and my psychiatrist who prescribed the medication.  The rash spread and I started to get  inflammation, 100+ degree fevers, chills and sweats.  With a Black Box Warning on Lamictal, even with a 1 in 10,000 chance of having a severe reaction, we were sure that's what was happening and I was immediately taken off the drug.  On a particularly hot and humid night early September, I admitted myself to St. Clair Hospital, clad in sweat pants and a hoodie, so cold I had the hood up.  I was quickly admitted, telling them what I thought was happening. After being seen by several doctors and put on Tylenol to control my fever, along with about $40k worth of tests, they had no idea what I had, despite me telling them.  In fact, they gave me a dose of the medication which, I'm sure, only made it worse.  After spending a few days in there and only given Tylenol, I decided I could do that at home myself, thinking it would subside.  So I went home and had several days and nights of fevers, etc. before realizing that it was only getting worse.  I had to check myself into another hospital.  A better hospital.

Several days at UPMC Shadyside, I was assigned a PCP that figured out that what I had was D.R.E.S.S. Syndrome.   It's caused by exposure to a certain medication that results in a rash, fever, inflammation and/or failure of internal organs, usually several weeks after taking the drug.  Being a fairly rare situation, there's not a lot of information on it, which made diagnosis so difficult, as well as treatment.  Essentially, the residual chemicals from the medication had my immune system attacking itself.  By this time, my hands were inflamed and covered in rash, as well as most of my body and the concern was that I would get Stevens-Johnson Syndrome, a condition where your layers of your skin literally fall off.  The only known treatment was high doses of steroids, and I was put on 80 mgs of Prednisone.  Several days later, the rashes subsided, as did the fevers and inflammation and I was sent home.  With a 1 in 10,0000 chance of having this reaction, there was also a 1 in 10,000 that the rash situation would repeat itself, and it did just that... I felt so lucky that I actually went out and played the lottery, with odds like that.  Over the next two months, it resurfaced 7 times, each a little different than the previous but no less in intensity, in it's own way.  After the last round, give or take, it started to become incredibly itchy as the layers of protective skin my body threw down shedded.  I remember taking 3-4 oatmeal and oil baths a day, getting little relief and watching my skin float through the air like the dust coming from Pigpen, the Charlie Brown character.  The symptoms weaned and I thought that was it.  I'll point out my previous statement;  'how one tiny pill could change my life so radically'.

I was a few weeks into my new job at Sheetz with only remnants of the rashes I had endured.  I was still on the 80 mgs of Prednisone because every time we tried to wean me down in dose, I got another rash.  I had Moon Fascia, a condition where high doses of steroids alter the Cortisol in your body, a hormone that is released from the adrenal gland to increase blood sugar and affects the metabolism of fat, so my face was fat and twice the normal size.  Bloated and having to shave my beard off for the job, I felt worse about myself... something I didn't think was possible coming off of the rashes and shedding.  It was around Veteran's Day and I was at work and, being a physical job, I was having trouble walking and getting up after stooping down.  My legs felt weak and partially numb, as did my arms.  After trying to ignore/work through it, I had to leave work and again returned to the hospital.  I was admitted immediately and the numbness progressed quickly up my extremities.  In a matter of days, I couldn't feel my feet, legs, hands or arms, and I had feelings of numbness in my chest and random areas of my body.  I couldn't walk.  After enduring every test under the sun, being poked and prodded and seen by over 10 specialists, I was diagnosed with Guillain-Barre Syndrome, an auto-immune disease where your body literally attacks itself, seeing your own organs as the enemy.  The residual chemicals from the medication had my body eating the myelin from around my nerves in my extremities, exposing them, resulting in unbearable pain and numbness.  I was fortunate to have gotten the peripheral type instead of the internal type that shuts down your internal organs and you are bedridden for a year or more, intubated because you can't breathe on your own and are paralyzed.  They upped the Prednisone, thinking that it would help, but it didn't. They decided to try plasmapheresis, a process where by they intravenously filter out the antibodies that attack the immune system and replace it with good plasma, similar to kidney dialysis.  After 5 treatments, I began to regain enough feeling that I was able to walk with a walker, but was very unstable.  After several weeks in the hospital, I was sent to rehab in another hospital, learning to adjust to the numbness in my legs and having to learn to walk again (using a walker), along with regaining some of the motor-skills in my hands.  After a week or so, I checked myself out and took on my own rehab at home.  Concerned about taking care of my dog, Cooper, and the basic daily essentials of taking care of yourself, I remember climbing up and down the stairs on my hands and knees like an animal.  Doing the most simple things were so difficult, but I was very fortunate to have my friends doing things for me as well as my landlord, who had been taking care of Cooper when I was in the hospital as well as when I got out.  Unbalanced, dizzy and trying to manage on my sea-legs, things seemed to be looking up as I got used to my 'new normal'.  I'll, again, point out my previous statement;  'how one tiny pill could change my life so radically'.

It was a few weeks out of the hospital, mid-December.  As I said, doing the most basic task was really difficult and tiring and I was always dizzy.  I was sleeping so much, exhausted.  I would get up long enough to make it down the stairs on my butt to feed and take Cooper out before I had to turn right around and go back to sleep.  This went on for several days.  I was feeling chills, sweats and a high fever for several days and began experiencing brief periods of blacking out, one after another.  I was making my way downstairs to let Cooper out and blacked out, falling back onto the couch.  I got up and made it outside and was watching Cooper go to the bathroom and a minute later, I had fallen face-down in the yard, unconscious.  An undetermined time later, I awoke to Cooper licking my face.  I was able to drag myself onto the pavement, not knowing where my glasses were.  I called my landlord (who lives on-property) and told her that something was wrong and that I needed her to take me to the hospital.  She came to the driveway and helped me up and I made it into the house and up the stairs.  I was taking care of a few things on my desk and pulling things together to take to the hospital when I collapsed on the bed on my back and proceeded to black out again.  I woke, realizing that I had lost control of my faculties and urinated on myself.  Fortunately, it didn't go through my bed and I managed to strip the bed, pack my bag, take care of the dog and take a quick shower before heading back downstairs to meet my landlord who then drove me to the hospital (December 19th).

I went back to UPMC Shadyside, to the emergency room.  As I sat in the waiting room, my condition got worse rapidly.  I was having a hard time breathing and became delirious.  I was admitted immediately.  On my first night, they tried to put a PAP machine on me to help me breathe, which only made me more anxious (along with my nurse, whom I referred to as Nurse Rachet).  My friend, Dennis, came in after I texted him to "bring the police and please get me out of here".  What happened after this, I'm not sure, as I was in and out of consciousness, don't remember and experienced what is known as ICU psychosis (which I will go into in the next post).  At some point, they put an external pace-maker on me to try to control my heart but my condition worsened.  I guess they realized that I was going to die, and as a last ditch effort, they transferred me to UPMC Presby, where they quickly hooked me up to an ECMO (ExtraCorporeal Membrane Oxygenation) machine.  The machine drains the blood from the vein, adds the oxygen and removes the carbon dioxide, warms the blood and then returns the blood to the artery and “pumps” the blood through the body. This method allows the blood to “bypass” the heart and lungs, allowing them to rest and get better.  My friends were informed that I wasn't going to make it through the night and they all gathered expecting the worse.  Most people put on ECMO are unconscious, intubated and fed through a tube, but I was an anomaly in that I was awake, breathing on my own and lived for meal time, of which I would sit up and feed myself.  This is unheard of and, in fact, I was the only one in the ICU that was awake and eating... making me the only one that dietary would bring a tray up to (resulting in nurses and doctors walking by my room so surprised.  I had several ports on my body, including a cannula, which is an apparatus that was attached to my leg in my groin that allowed access directly into my vein to manage my blood. Unfortunately, I had to lay on my back for weeks while they kept this thing in place, but it still leaked and had to be changed several times, a painful process of tearing off bandages to get at the openings.  

Throughout the 8 days on ECMO at Presby, I was severely hallucinating situations that weren't happening in my room and wasn't getting any better.  After a visit from the hospital liaison person who informed me, without any prior notification from my doctors, that I was going to need a heart transplant and probably would need an LVAD (left ventricular assist device (that pumps blood when your heart isn't strong enough to do it any more) hooked to my hip... and a situation where they heated my blood too much, I had an anxiety attack that persisted through the night.  Finally, they had to intubate me and I don't remember much after that.  I had a severe paranoid hallucination when I was passed out, so when I woke the next day, I was confused, disoriented and couldn't wait for someone to get the tube out of my throat.  After trying to communicate with the nurses (while they had me restrained), they finally undid the tube and I cried, I was so happy.  After that, and still not improving, an odd but lucky thing happened... my insurance was to expire in a few days and I had to go on another insurance plan that required me to be transferred out of that hospital to Allegheny General Hospital, into another healthcare system.  In hindsight, this saved my life, although I had my doubts as to whether I was going to live through the ambulance ride over, especially after the paramedics, while hooking up my lines, injected too much of something in me that almost gave me a heart attack.  On top of that, when I got to the hospital, the ICU nurse, Ashley, that was checking me in and hooking me up talked a bit like a valley girl, and I thought to myself... this is it, I'm done.  Three minutes later, I learned a valuable lesson... don't judge a book by it's cover.  She turned out to be amazing, as I laid there dumbfounded at that difference between the care that I received in the first 10 minutes at AGH as compared to Presby, where I had just been.  Within days, they started weaning me off the ECMO and my heart rebounded from around 5% ejection fraction to around 45% (a normal range is around 55-70%).  After I was put on dialysis for a few days to kick-start my kidneys, I was finally released on January 9th.  It was decided that home healthcare and rehab was the best course of action.  I had a nurse come several times a week to check my vitals and did self-rehab, trying to walk after weeks of laying in a bed, muscles weak and still dealing with some numbness from the Guillain Barre from months prior.

For fear of losing my job, I pushed  to get back to work at Sheets after being off work for months, returning February 24th.  I was still wobbly and had some mobility issues and was on a ton of medications.  A week or so later, I had a bout of Pityriasis Rosea, another rash, as I feared the rashes were going to start again.  Harmless, it remedied itself and went away, just in time for a bout of the Shingles, another auto-immune disease.  Fortunately, it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be and it quickly went away.  Now, I am left with some shortness of breath sometimes, some residual numbness in my feet that will most likely be irreversible and Rheumatoid Arthritis, yet another auto-immune disease.  Throughout the process, it was found that I have Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy, a condition where a portion of the heart become thickened and makes it more difficult for the heart to pump blood.  It makes me at risk for heart failure in the future.  I am also prone to other auto-immune diseases going forward since my immune system was compromised.  

All-in-all, considering the ride that I have been on for the last year, I am considered a miracle, since it could have been much worse. In total, I had at least 15 doctors working on my throughout this and umpteen nurses and medical professionals.  An Atheist, I'd like to say that someone upstairs was looking out for me but I am resolved to thanking science, medicine, an incredible medical team and the well-wishes, energy and help of so many friends, family and acquaintances.  Still, who am I to question the forces that surround us?  

I wasn't supposed to make it, but I did, which gives you a different perspective on life.  I wish I could say that it woke me up and I am pursuing the career of my dreams or living life to the fullest, but I'm not.  I am, however trying to be more kinder to my body, having recently started working out again and getting back into shape to be healthier... I am trying to choose a career path that isn't so physical... and I am trying to spend more time with my friends and family, without whom I would not be here.  I'm reminded of the line from Poltergeist.... "come towards the light, Carol Anne"... not today, Satan... not today.

How one tiny pill was capable of changing my life so radically...  

Snapped (Part Two)

In the iconic 80's movie Moonstruck, no sooner does Cher's character, Loretta Castorini, accept a marriage proposal from Johnny Cammarari, than she finds herself falling for Johnny's younger brother, Ronny Cammarari.  When the Italian-Catholic guilt sets in, she knows that she must marry Johnny as she promised and get over Ronny.  It's the next morning at Ronny's apartment after a whirlwind night on the town and ending up in his bed that she comes to this realization and, after he professes his undying love for her, that she hauls off and slaps him (twice), telling him to 'snap out of it'.  When it comes to love, if it were only that simple. 

"Thank you for saying 'cheer up', because it made me cheer up immediately" said no one ever.  For me, it only seems to make it worse when you are the depressed one because it's like the 'thoughts and prayers' of depression.  People only say it when they either don't know what to say or do or don't want to actually hear your problems or get involved.  It's the hands-off approach to caring and, maybe, it helps them move on with their day.  No one just 'snaps out of it".  Conversely, mulling over it with the afflicted rarely works either, which is why depression is something that is ignored or hidden in this country.  There's a stigma attached and you're made to feel like you're broken or not normal, whatever that is.

Like the bough of a tree laden with snow, we can only take so much weight upon us before we snap, like the branch.  From my previous post, I was fortunate to have 'snapped out of it', which saved me from suicide.  Now, I know you're thinking... 'wait a minute, but you just said' ... I know what I said.  To understand this, you have to have an understanding of the difference between what I call situational and chemical depression.  In a situational depression, maybe your boyfriend left you and you eventually come to grips with the fact that he was an ass anyway.  Or you didn't get a job you wanted, but got a better one a month later.  In chemical depression, you have little control because it's an imbalance in your system and you have to wait until your body replenishes whatever it is that it's lacking.  Or, you can medicate and hope that works.  In my case, my body took care of it just in time.  That's why I was fortunate.  It doesn't always happen that way.

Expecting the other shoe to drop, so to speak, I was waiting to revert back to my depressed self after I felt better, but it never happened and I remained at an elevated mood.  This wasn't the first time in my life where I was suicidal in the same exact situation and, like this time, I rode it out to my non-demise and was able to rebuild.  Last time, I was reduced to almost childlike behavior so as not to, in my mind, spark a quick relapse by adding stress or anxiety.  The rebuilding is a process that takes months, if not years and, sometimes, you can't fix the destructive wake you left behind or the bridges you burned in the process.  Still, I was hesitant that I wasn't going to relapse.  After about six months, I decided to get my dog, Cooper, as part of my therapy, giving me something to love while giving me a purpose and reason to get out of bed.  I also decided to enter therapy, something I had done in the past with little success.  I was fortunate to have made contact with an amazing therapist and, through a lot of hard, raw work, we were able to get me stabilized.  After several months of analyzation, it became apparent that I had been misdiagnosed previously as highly-functioning depressed and we came to a new diagnosis of Bipolar II.  Given the ups and downs of my life, the patterns revealed that, although mostly depressive, I had also displayed many of the manic stages throughout my life.  I had never really gone through textbook manic behavior of promiscuous sex or excessive spending or overly-erratic behaviors, but having moved 40+ times in my life and having gone through many career changes and jobs and several relationships, some of it made sense.  All my decisions were rational at the time, I thought, but, looking back, I can see how my Bipolar may have played a part, good and bad.  Everything became clear to me and made more sense.  It was both a relief (for everything that happened in the past) and a concern (for everything I do going forward). 

Last week, I got a tattoo that I've been putting off for some time.  It represents not only my Gemini horoscope of the conflicted twins, but for the struggling  sides of my Bipolar as well.  I've coined the phrases "own your crazy' and 'a man with no baggage hasn't been anywhere'.  We are who we are, whatever went into or continues to go into the concoction of your personal mix of crazy.  I think it's what makes us interesting and, for me, is probably at the root of all my creativity.  I acknowledge and celebrate it, although it's not made my life easy, by no means.  Having to reinvent yourself through different careers or going from relationship to relationship or home to home... you will always be there, wherever you go, so you might as well embrace it and yourself.  There's nowhere to run.  It will most likely have a hold on you forever.  Do all the work you can to always be the best version of yourself and hopefully that makes it better for you.  I'd like to think I've come out on the other side, but we're on an endless journey throughout our life and none of us knows what's to come.  As quickly as you snapped out of it, you can snap again.

Night and Day (Part One)

The conversation with my 89 year old Aunt Delores always goes the same;

AUNT:  "Hi Dave, how are you feeling?"

ME:  'I'm ok... my arthritis is tough'
AUNT:  "Yea, mine is acting up too"
ME:  'My back is aching'
AUNT:  "Yea, mine aches too"
ME:  'My wiener hurts'
AUNT:  "Yea, my wiener hurts too"

Disclaimer:  My Aunt doesn't have a wiener, but won't be outdone when it comes to health issues.  It never fails that no matter what's going on with me, she has it worse or takes much more medication than I.  Old people seem to embody their whole medical situation as their identity and it becomes a contest of who has it worse.  It's the first thing they bring up and everything revolves around it.  Thing is, it's hard not to let this become your identity, and I learned became this over the last couple of years through my ordeal.

International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day is November 18th.  I suppose the purpose is to lend support to those left behind by a loved one who took their own life, but it can also be for the person who was conflicted and either attempted to commit suicide and failed or decided not to go through with it.  "Loss" is in the eye of the beholder, because no one involved is not without losing something.  As harsh as it sounds, the only winner in the scenario is the person who is successful at taking their life because it ends all the turmoil and pain they are enduring.  That's hard for most people to understand or handle.  In fact, mental health, being such a prevalent thing in the world isn't such a prevalent thing in our society.  It's a taboo subject that most people deal with but don't want to talk about nor want to hear.

It was April of 2015 when I started my downward spiral towards suicide.  A combination, I think, of not having love for so long and career dissatisfaction, my situational depression gave way to the chemical depression that I have dealt with my whole life.  I went through a cycle of general unhappiness to losing all hope for a future in a matter of months.  I didn't care about anything, became sullen and withdrawn and introverted and basically barricaded myself in my house.  I made excuses to my friends and tried avoiding everyone which put severe strains on those friendships.  The question 'how are you?' became the most painful thing, not because it was a segue to talking about my pain, but because of the energy that I'd expend trying to hide it, or lie about it and try to smile through it to make everyone else happy.  The pain was overwhelming and managing it becomes your whole existence and job.  Everything falls by the wayside and your whole life collapses around you.  You see it all happen, but don't care.  It's a hole that is extremely difficult to dig yourself out of and it's a motion that can't be stopped, no matter how many hugs you get or how much your friends and family are supportive and helpful.  In fact, that only makes it worse for you, making it more aware that you are a failure, that you can't fix the problem and probably no one can.

A simplistic but hard concept to grasp, all hope was removed from my brain.  Without serotonin, your body's natural mood elevator, it affects the part of your brain that controls your sense of hope.  Without hope, there's no purpose or reason to endure the day-to-day pain and the only logical progression is to end your life and it all makes sense to you.  Another hard concept to grasp is that it's as if you're not in control of your own mind... and the 'voices' in your head are driving you.  It's a constant struggle with yourself.  Once you relent, a suicidal person experiences a period of relief right before they carry it out which, to outsiders, seems like they 'snapped out of it'.  Unfortunately, it's just a release of all the struggle and pain and, without it, it all becomes clear what needs to be done.  You don't think about what you are doing to those around you and, in fact, you think you are doing them a favor.  Honestly, you really don't care because you just want the pain to stop at all or any cost.

And so, after three months of analyzing it every which way and dealing with it, I got all my affairs in order.  After researching different ways to end my life, I decided on carbon monoxide poisoning and purchased a long hose to hook up to the back of my truck exhaust.  I had made notes around my house and had everything laid out on the kitchen island.  Because I was managing my Dad's finances, I had to separate some things out and I was waiting for the paperwork to come in the mail.  It was only a matter of a day or two and it would all end... and then just like that... I woke up the next morning and, assuming my chemical make-up changed overnight, I had completely 'snapped out of it'.  I went from a three month, 24/7 no-hope struggle to not even being able to even force myself to think about suicide for even a few seconds.  I'm guessing that either my synapses found new pathways or my serotonin levels replenished, but it was the difference between night (lights out) and day (new hope).  I am still here.

This blog has always provided a chronology for me, having written about almost everything throughout my life on these pages.  I regret not keeping it up, especially throughout this dark period in my life, which is why I'm trying to go back through and include it.  It would have been amazing to have captured my every thought through this whole process, as it's become (or always has been) who I am.  I'm not ashamed of it and sometimes I even miss the cocoon-like feeling I had in the middle of it all.  Some of my most creative poems stemmed from my darkness and I believe many people have related to my opening up.  There's no way I couldn't include it in my blog and, being only part one of things that happened in the last couple of years (subsequent post entries in the story's progression to follow), it is definitely a part of me and has affected how I move forward in life... in daylight.

24601

Stealing bread to feed his family, Jean Valjean, from the Victor Hugo novel 'Les Miserables', is imprisoned.  After his stint in jail, he makes an effort to right his wrongs, but still struggles with his identity... is he and will he always now be that thief (prisoner 24601) that he became in his moment of need, or is he the better person that he now strives to be?  For the rest of his life, he asks himself 'who am I?', but never really comes to any conclusion. 

Many times, things that happen in our lives that we have to endure change us, maybe forever.  It might be because of a relationship, friendship, an experience or an event like a medical situation, change of career or losing someone close.  Everything that we come in contact with throughout our life changes us in some way, some positively and some adversely.  We are constantly evolving, hopefully into a better version of ourselves, but probably as more of a coping mechanism to adapt.  We are constantly evaluating our beliefs and morals as we come across things that challenge us.  Who we are is a moving target that we'll never be able to define. 

It's been a while since I've written other than a few attempts here and there.  My blog has been a recording of my ruminations over the situations that I came across in my lifetime.  I did the work...  I analyzed...  I processed and made changes in my behaviors and, at the time, thought I understood myself.  And while I'd like to think that I reached a point in the process where I came to grips with who I am, I find myself at the beginning again, having to scrap all that I worked through because so much has changed.  I thumb through my entries and, most times, have no idea who that person is or was.  And the same for who I currently am. 

Hitting middle agedness was difficult for me.  Once I hit my upper forties, I had still seen myself and felt like I was still in my thirties.  It wasn't until an almost life-ending suicidal depression followed by a year of life-threatening medical problems that I went from being at my peak at 49 feeling 32 to being 50, feeling 65.  Invincible, ageing never even crossed my mind before, whereas now, it's all I think of in the shadow of some stark realizations, residual health problems and career changes.  It was a direct blow to my self-worth, ego, physical stamina and a wake-up call as to my own mortality... and how it relates to the likelihood of having another life-ending health situation at any given moment, being prone to a repeat occurrence.  Suddenly, I feel the clock ticking and the pressure of figuring it all out. 

Having said all that, I am back to the drawing board to be able to move forward with my life.  Currently, I am in limbo, not having direction or a center from which to stand.  My foundation has been ripped out from beneath me.  And now, stripping away the bullshit, understanding my contribution to this world and seeking happiness in the time that I have left is in the forefront.  And so, I am going to try to commit to writing again, as a way to sort through it.  Who am I?... indeed.

Edges and Ways, a Poem

Edges and Ways
A poem by David Pezzula
(see comment section for narration)
 

The forest path

with winding twisting turns, ups and downs,
edging the dank thicket, calling you in
outstretched briars, grabbing and slicing
patched with jagged pricks, passages blocked,
forever weeping trees slowly dancing
to a deafening but silent, sad song,
glimmering, random light beckoning a deceptive out,
eyes staring, alone or not, still no clear view
on what seems to be an infinite journey...
settling panic, pushing the unknown
~ persevere
 

The deep blue

over rocky shores to water's edge,
gazing upon an unfathomable abyss,
cold, burning salt with sharp breeze cutting,
pulling you under, directionless and endless motion
begging your surrender, floating or sinking
thrashing, head above tossing waves, drowning...
with land in sight, clouds so close to your outstretched grasp
far from reach
~ wade
 

The deceptive fields

full with wilting flower, unpredictable crags and bogs,
landmines suddenly making way to cliff's ledge,
immeasurable, steep depth of unsure fate,
internal angst and leaping urge
as mindful tricks and gravity tugs willpower's stance
on a once firm and strong foothold,
beneath an unreturnable and shaken center...
flailing akimbo against the windward blow
~ retreat

Stopping In a Snowy Woods

America... for the Taking

In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue...  It sounds like a Carnival cruise when you sing it like we used to in elementary school, commemorating the year that he discovered America.  But our history has a way of romanticizing things to further the 'America is great!' propaganda, and Christopher Columbus might as well be the poster child for how yarns (ironically, born the son of a weaver) are spun and how truly horrible people tend to be idolized.

In school, we were taught that he set out to find a better trade route to India and debunk the myth that the world was flat, which had already been disproven.  A bit of a poser and idealist, after several attempts to propose his exploration to the Portuguese, French, English and Italians to get funding, the king and queen of Spain finally agree (to not be outdone by the Portuguese, who had already set out) and he leaves with 3 ships and about 80 men, most derelicts and released prisoners.  With all of his maritime experience and knowledge, he miscalculates and ends up in the Caribbean (5000 miles off his mark), thinking that he landed in India.  One of his crew was actually the first to spot land, but with a lifetime pension promised by the Spanish royals, he claimed that he saw it the night before and stole the credit (and the pension) from the crewmember.

Columbus landed on what is now known as the Dominican Republic, claiming it for Spain (regardless of it being occupied for thousands of years by it's tribes).  Realizing that they were a very hospitable, docile group (several million of them), they had no weapons, knew not of killing and weren't religious... he overtook them to help him find more of the gold they wore, enslaved thousands and, upon return to Spain, took many back with him for slaves (throwing those overboard who did not live through the voyage), before returning back for more.  When he returned, he brought African slaves for the new world (being the first to start the slave trade).  By the ruling of the Pope, he forced the natives to convert to Catholicism before being enslaved and, because it was illegal to enslave Christians, he simply wouldn't baptize them so that didn't interfere with his plans.  Over the next decade, Columbus' treatment of the natives was probably the largest genocide and atrocity of mankind.  He forced them to work in his gold mines until they died of exhaustion, cutting off their hands if the didn't make their daily quota, wearing their hands around his neck to 'send a message'... he sold 10 year old girls into sexual slavery (being the pioneer of sexual slavery... he brought back attack dogs from Spain and if the people misbehaved, he would cut off an ear or their nose or have the dogs attack them or burned their bodies alive if they tried to escape, feeding their babies to the dogs as dog food.  They would slice people's arms or legs off or cut them in half in a game to test the sharpness of their swords, killing thousands of them a day, parading their bodies through the streets.  Several diseases spread.  The natives starting committing suicide instead of enduring the horrible treatment and, eventually, word of the atrocities got back to Spain and Columbus was brought back and jailed (only to be pardoned later because of the riches that he brought to the monarchy and allowed to go back).  By this time, there were only a small handful (approximately 500 out of millions) of natives left.  Before the invasion of the Europeans, it was estimated that there were 80-100 natives occupying the Americas and, currently, only about 6 million identify as native decedents, are forced to live on reservations set forth by treaties that the U.S. has repeatedly gone broken.

Heralded as a testament to loyalty and patriotism to country and progression of society and citizenship, the anniversary of Columbus' 'discovery' has been long celebrated.  The first statewide holiday was in Colorado in 1907 by a first-generation Italian and, in 1934 with the lobbying of the Knights of Columbus (in an effort to elevate Italian-Americans in status since they were considered less than white (and to find a Catholic hero for their children to look up to)), it was made a federal holiday, later officially a legal holiday in 1972.  In 2002, George W. Bush issued a proclamation, declaring Columbus' great expedition and pioneering accomplishments and directed that the U.S. flag be flown on government buildings in celebration.  In truth, the only thing, perhaps, that we should be celebrating, is his contribution to bringing native species of crops back and forth to and from Europe in his travels (along with chocolate and syphilis).

Best said by Irwin Ozborne in his contributing piece to Wake Up World... "Christopher Columbus — a liar, thief, rapist, pedophile, savage, torturer, genocidal murder, brutal conqueror, and pioneer of slavery and sex trades — did not discover anything besides a beautiful, peaceful group of people who had lived sustainably on their land for millennia; who rescued him and welcomed him into their home. Implementing what can only be described as sociopathic imperialism, his thirst for wealth, greed and power wiped out generations of people within a decade. And for his “bravery”, we celebrate the day he invaded the land of the people that rescued him."   And further comparing it to that of Hitler's (who wrote of his admiration for America's genocide)... "Thousand-mile death marches, concentration camps, forced assimilation, mass killings by starvation and the deliberate introduction of disease, the forced adoption of culture and ‘beliefs’…".  This was yet another mass slaying in the name of religion and greed.

Sadly, history is full of it's 'heroes' like Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Caesar that overshadow genuine heroes that go less celebrated, who have truly made contributions to mankind.  Society tends to idolize those that have taken in the name of 'discovering' when it should have been called 'conquering'.  Our political system is full of people who lie and cheat to further accumulate what they have and get what they want, often times in the name of religion.  And they are admired (as evidenced by the current Republican polls).  Your Trumps and Romneys only rise to the top the more fraud they commit.  Ayn Rand, who said "I do not think (Native Americans) have any right to live in a country merely because they were born here... and acted and lived like savages".  This is someone to idolize.

We vote these people into office and it has become the plague in our country today... the taking at the expense of others is a national pastime... a national holiday... and a show of strength and celebration.

All in a Days Work

Set aside how long the whole thing takes from start to finish, the most frustrating part of the hiring process is trying to figure out what they want from you.  From your resume to the interview to all those annoying personality tests they make you take, you never know what they're looking for in you. 

Having many years of management experience and a habitual job-hopper in my youth, I have interviewed hundreds of people and have been interviewed, so I know both sides of game.  I immediately look around the room and size up the interviewer to find some common ground and figure out who they want me to be.  If interviewing, I try to trick people into telling me things about themselves that they normally wouldn't have brought up to find out what they are about as a person.  One time, my ex and I were up for the same job... he got it because he had wing-tip shoes on that reminded the interviewer of his Dad.  It's a crap shoot... it doesn't matter what your skills or experience is, it all comes down to their connectivity with you, and if it's positive or negative.

Recently, I went on an interview for a job with a 'progressive' company (which basically means they hire people with facial hair and tattoos).  Little of the 45 minute interview was about my 25 years of business experience or skill set or whether I could do the job.  We talked about what I did outside of work, etc. to the point that it felt like I was being interviewed to be his best friend and how easily I could obtain a keg, rather than someone he was going to hand the keys to the million-dollar business.  The second interview, had I not told them to forget it, would have been me being interviewed by the 18 year old kid who takes the garbage out at the end of the night, because 'everyone's opinion counts'.  Now I have to have a skateboard to get a job? 

Green INFJ-A Activator Guardian.  Those are some of the results from the many personality tests I've taken;  The Color Test, Meyers-Briggs, Gallup, Keirsey... and you might as well throw in Gemini and Goat... to round it out with my astrology signs.  As silly as they all are, they are eerily accurate.  I'm not sure if they are vague enough that they fit a whole bunch of different kinds of people or if there really is some science to it, but suddenly, it all seems like an interview I once had at a restaurant where they made me get up on the stage in the middle of a packed room and do the worm dance while singing "I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener" to see how extroverted I was.  As an introvert, I obviously didn't get the job (although I did as I was told, and well, I might add).. but I thought it was pushing the limit of trying to be different than every other applicant.  Hell, it was cutting edge back in the day to print your resume on colored paper or with rounded edges.  In a stack of hundreds, it was supposed to make you stand out. 

Nowadays, you need a Vaudeville act and a nose piercing before you're going to get anywhere.  My ability to entertain shouldn't be the criteria for how well I would run a company, although dealing with millennials, I would surely need a lot of Bayer children's aspirin, some Highlights magazines and some gold stars to hand out. At the risk of sounding like an old fuddy-duddy (ok, well that became a self-fulfilling prophecy, just using that term), what's this world coming to? 

Boxes in The Basement

Several years ago, I had the daunting task of going through my Uncle's house when his wife passed away.  He had health problems of his own and he couldn't stay in the house by himself.  He wasn't particularly close to me when we were growing up, and it's only been in the last couple of years that he moved in with my Aunt that I have gotten to know him more, as I look after them both.  The task was just that; going through the house and either selling things, keeping things or throwing things out with the end goal of getting the house ready for sale.  It was a difficult position for me to be in... to come into his home and take two months determining, essentially, which parts of his life was worth marking, saving, selling or forgetting.

It's amazing the things that we accumulate in our lives that mean something to us with a value derived mostly from our experience or memory, but mean nothing to someone else.  A cocktail napkin with a number scribbled on it from the guy that you wound up marrying can be more valuable than the expensive painting hanging on the wall.  Which one tells more of a story?  The decision to make that call to the number on the napkin made all the difference in your life.  Once the pictures and memories fade, those valuables in our lives fade away also, like they never happened.  In the end, those things mean little to anyone.  They say if you haven't touched it in 6 months, get rid of it.  I used to keep everything, scrapbooking it or keeping in a Tupperware container, dragging it from place to place, never really looking at them.  I've always been a person to pack away things in the boxes in my mind, much like I did with my Uncle's belongings.  Fears, hopes, goals, dreams, pain, grief, experiences... we shelve all of these until we are just an empty box ourselves, walking around, still searching for something to make us feel alive and have value.

"Yesterday is history and tomorrow's a mystery", my Uncle said to me the other day, "so you have to live for today".  Somewhere along the way we got the idea that life has to be so fucking amazing and there's a higher purpose we should seek out.  In the scheme of things, we are a microscopic speck in the universe.  Very few of us are going to make some earth-shattering discovery or go down in history, and chasing that idea is a fool's errand.  Life is about a series of small moments and happiness has to be sought in those moments or your life will be for not.  If you never find the joy in something or someone, always thinking there is something better coming, before you know it... you will have nothing or no one.  You may have spent your life miserable climbing some corporate ladder, only getting to the top and jumping off when you realize you've wasted your life making someone else's dreams come true.  Alone when you think someone better was coming;  they're not.  Frugally going through life saving for something and being plucked from the universe before you attain it.  Life is unexpected... you have to seize the day.  You have much less time than you think.

Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

Eyes Wide Shut

The purpose of your eyelids is to shield and protect your eyes but, whether open or closed, you're only going to 'see' what you want to.  They can be wide open, looking at something, and you 'turn a blind eye' to it, not acknowledging or accepting it, and not reacting.  Conversely, you can have your eyes closed and still see everything, maybe relying on your other senses or beliefs or your imagination gets the best of you.  When I was a child and I was scared, I would close my eyes, thinking that if I didn't see it, the boogeyman wouldn't be able to get me.  Same with looking in the closet or under the bed... I knew they were there, but if I didn't see the monsters with my own two eyes, I was safe.  Obviously, that is a fallacy.  Even in pitch black with your eyes opened wide, you are still seeing something, even if you're not aware of it.  Eigengrau is the shade of black seen by the human eye in complete darkness.  It is also called Eigenlicht, meaning 'intrinsic light';  that which is natural or inherit, rather than learned.

Your brain is at work all day long, not only receiving from your eyes, but from other senses.  It only takes 13 milliseconds for your brain to process an image and then it is on to the next image, constantly calibrating itself, figuring out what to look at next. Because it all happens so rapidly, the eye-to-brain connection sends these 'concepts'.  The eye has to see something and the brain has to figure out what it is to be able to look at the next thing to be able to put the concept together, and make sense of it, to be able to react. This happens three times a second.  It's a wonder it can correctly interpret what it's seeing, but it does, somehow.  Mind over matter... it's a very powerful thing.

There are many things that help or block your vision.  Obviously, glasses can magnify the clarity in the objects you see, while beer goggles... well, we all know how that turns out.  X-rays, fog, telescopes, as well as other things, all cloud or help how we see things, but the most distorting are those that interfere most with what we think.  Quick judgements... not letting the brain truly process fully, coming to a quick decision... stubborn beliefs... religious traditions that don't let us see the present or future, only the past... racism... only seeing what's on the surface... and the things we block out, mostly about ourselves, that don't allow us to see ourselves as we truly are because we don't want to take the time to change them or we don't want to take responsibility and face the things that are bad.  In contrast, maybe we see ourselves in a bad light and not how others see us at all or what's not true, but in our own head.  Our own self-impression, as if the eyes could see inward, are just as destructive as the things we don't want to come to terms with.  Nothing can harm us as easily as we can ourselves.  Sometimes, we are our own boogeyman.

There's something to be said for the candid picture... catching you off-guard so you can see the real you.  Today's selfie is just a façade.  In the natural, intrinsic light... maybe it's time to take a good, long look.

L'Oiseau Bleu (Bird Blue) - An Original Poem

L'oiseau Bleu (Bird Blue)

 

Out-stretched wings in effortless flight
rising to meet the sunrise, Native alarm clock
blue-hued plumage, sheens and shadows in the tuft
wind-lifted soaring and whistled-singing happiness

Once fancy-free, turned blue, from

clear as aqua to deep as ocean...
light as powder to dark as midnight...
warm as electric to cold as steel...
brightly-regal as royal to tarnished as verdigris...

Resting on a vane, in vain,

...directionless, wind-blown
Out on a wire
...a balancing act, over-extended
On the fence
...mind split, discomfited angst
Out on a limb
...snapping twig, foothold lost
 

Cluttered, empty-nested, broodless brooding...

songless, stifled, and ruffle-feathered...
aimless, hapless, lost harbinger of happiness...
tossed and swirling, up and down in swells...
abruptly grounded



(Notes:  I wrote this as an homage to the bluebird of happiness with a play on the word 'blue' also meaning 'down in the dumps', or depressed.  A juxtaposition of happy and sad, it's also personification of the qualities of the different shades of blue, comparing them to their associated qualities... and comparing some of the places the bird might land to phrases that would suggest why it's so angst-ridden.  Ultimately, it's about the bluebird starting out so happy but then turning sad, and after a tough go at it, giving up.)