On Fathers and Father Figures

I never met my grandfathers. They both passed away before I was born. Although I never really felt it as a kid, as a man reflecting on my childhood, I feel like I missed out on something important growing up. Thankfully, I had my dad and many other father figures in my life, including my friends' fathers, who all helped guide me to be a better man and a better person. 

Karl Robertson was my friend Dave’s dad. He was also my senior league baseball coach. We won 2 championships with the CT Hispanic Yellow Pages (CHYPs!) in Hartford. His wife babysat me as a toddler. I went on their family vacations, and Dave came on ours. Mr. Robertson’s Swisher Sweet was the first cigar I ever tried (without his permission of course) and immediately spit out. His porn stash was the first porn I ever saw (without his permission of course). So yeah…he played an important role in my life. 

Mr. Robertson was the best type of coach. He was demanding but fair. He was knowledgeable without being showy. He had a firm moral conscious (yes, moral men can enjoy the beauty of the human form that some might call pornography) but he was never the type to preach, even though he was also a deacon at his church. Instead, he used humor and good-natured ribbing. He was hilarious. He would cut you down sarcastically just to bring you up. He was the type to drop wisdom on you in ways you wouldn't even realize until much later. 

I slept over at the Robertson’s house many times, and vice versa. One night, Dave and I were watching tv with his parents in their living room. I can see the 80s carpet with the red and black swirly design, I can smell the scent of Swisher Sweets permeating the air and the couch cushions. At one point, Mr. Robertson made a comment about something we saw on tv. He explained something, or added context, or just gave an interesting, relevant fact. The details aren't important. What he said afterwards is. His wife asked how he knew that. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "You go through life, and you learn some things." At the time, I didn't think much of it. I thought it was a non-sequitur, a funny response that technically answered the question, without giving any satisfaction. A philosopher’s response. His wife sighed and rolled her eyes, exasperated by his typical reply that ignored the specifics of her question.  

But it stuck with me for some reason. The response did something more important than simply explain how he knew a seemingly random piece of information. It was more than a tongue in cheek, sarcastic response that husbands have been giving wives since the very conception of husband and wife. 

It was a mission statement. It was a blueprint for growth. Maybe he didn't even intend it, but when I think about it now and when I thought about it for years after, that's how I viewed it. You go through life, and you learn some things. Because otherwise, you go through life and you don't learn shit. You believe whatever feels right. You don't question anything. You don't grow. You don't evolve. 

I don't know if he would have even remembered it, or if anyone else does. But it entered my brain and ricocheted around and hasn’t stopped since. I’m not saying that this one moment, this one statement, is the reason I am now a teacher. My parents both being teachers was likely more influential in that regard. But I don’t think it's a coincidence either. I think that every moment of my life pushed me in certain directions. My parents pushed me in a certain direction. All my father and mother figures pushed me in a certain direction. My teachers, my friends, my coworkers. My experiences. They all contributed to who I am and where I am now. They all taught me something.

You go through life, and you learn some things.

I hadn't thought about that phrase in a while. But when Dave told me his dad died it was the first thing that came to mind. Mr. Robertson went through life, and learned some things, and then he taught his children and me some things. And I am forever grateful. 

Joe Coute was another one of my male role models growing up, father to my friend Jeremy. He always loved sports, and even though he was legally blind, he would go to watch his son’s baseball games, and later, his grandchildren’s events. They lived close to Goodwin Park in Hartford. Jeremy and I would play basketball there often, then go back to his place for video games, after getting a Slurpee and a chili cheese dog at 7/11. (Coincidentally, I no longer eat red meat. Go figure.) One day, Mr. Coute went with us to the park and started dribbling around. He wanted to join in the game. I was confused and a little concerned. He was legally blind, after all. The first time someone passed him the ball, he caught it and spotted up behind the 3 point line. He lifted the ball above his head in the best Larry Bird impression, released the ball in a high arc, and hit nothing but net. That’s how I remember it anyways. Point is, he banged that 3. And then he banged half a dozen more. He was on fire. I was flabbergasted. Turns out, legally blind isn’t the same as completely blind. Turns out, you shouldn’t underestimate people based on a disability.

You go through life, and you learn some things.

See, Mr. Coute never let his disability become him, or become an excuse. Unfortunately, it got worse over time, but that didn’t diminish his passion for sports, or his family. And it certainly didn’t diminish his desire to give back and make the world a better place. He was an organ donor (as everyone should be!) and when he died, Jeremy and his family got a surprising call. Despite the fact that his eyes didn’t work properly in life, the hospital wanted to use his corneas of all things for another patient. He was giving someone the gift of sight, despite the fact that he lost his own. The beauty in irony is almost overwhelming at times. 

These were just two of my male role models growing up. Although I had two grandfather sized holes in my life, my life was full of loving adults, and caring men, including my uncles and of course, my father. Now I have a father-in-law as well, so I'm not lacking for father figures. One thing I learned from all these men was the importance of giving back. One uncle gave back by serving his country in the military. One uncle gave back by serving in the local and state government. My father gave back by coaching baseball and opening up his house (and cottage) to his sons’ friends. He also dedicated his life to his kids and his wife. And his pets. And golf, but hey, you gotta have a hobby.

I’ve written plenty about my parents, but I can never capture the entirety of what they’ve taught me and provided for me. I am beyond grateful to still have my dad. With the recent passing of my mom, I appreciate his presence even more. As her condition got progressively worse, and he became more and more dedicated to her well-being, my respect and admiration for him grew beyond what I could have ever imagined. Witnessing his actions, his commitment, taught me more about love and life than anything ever has. You go through life…all its struggles, all the joy and pain and misery and happiness and awkwardness and grossness and horror and beauty…and you learn some things.

Now I just have to keep applying those lessons. I'm trying. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Saint Ken

For his 79^th birthday, my aunt and I took my dad out to his favorite Mexican restaurant, Ocho Café in West Hartford. After we gorged ourselves on delicious tacos and enchiladas, the manager and a group of staff brought out a complimentary dessert and belted out their best heavily accented “happy birthday” rendition. My dad thanked the manager and told him how much he and my mom loved coming here. He then told the manager that my mom passed away a couple months ago. The manager replied, “we know, and we wanted to tell you that all of us here really admired the way you took care of her and brought her out to enjoy herself.”

My first thought, was, “How often did my parents come here?” My second thought was *cries loudly on the inside.*

When the nurse who was looking after my mom in the ICU heard that my mom was still living at home at the age of 78, with advanced Parkinson’s for many years and in a wheelchair for 5 years, she seemed shocked, and exclaimed, “You never see that. Usually, the husband puts them in a home.” Doctors had recommended he do just that several times over the past few years.

But see, my dad is not usual. In his mid and late 70s, before and after his own knee replacement surgery, he was helping my wheelchair-bound mom dress, use the toilet, go out to eat, visit family, and anything else she wanted or needed to do. Never mind the mental and spiritual toll of seeing your spouse in this condition, the physical toll alone is something most people would avoid.

At my mom’s funeral, I heard a lot of people say that my dad is a saint. Saint Ken. 

If people feel that way, I won’t refute it. Maybe it’s just my secular worldview, but I wouldn’t call him a saint. He’s not performing miracles. He’s a good man who is deeply committed to his loved ones, and he made a choice to remain committed until the very end. He wasn’t doing anything that “normal” humans aren’t capable of, even though most would never choose to; he was doing the hard work of loving and caring for someone with an illness into their final years. His wife needed him, and he was going to do everything he could possibly do to support her, and more importantly, give her life value.

My parents saw the value in all life. Recently, as the Covid pandemic raged around the globe, it was obvious that many people did not. When the stats showed that most people who died from Covid were over 65, pundits and politicians told us all we need to get back to work. Grandma and Grandpa dying is a worthy sacrifice if it increases the US GDP by half a percentage point!

I heard so many people just dismiss the elderly entirely. Dismiss life past a certain age. It messed me up because two of the people I care for most were deemed disposable. Then I thought, well shit. I’m 40. I guess I only have 25 meaningful years left.

The pandemic was not a fun time!

Our society prioritizes…idolizes…worships youth. While at the same time, our society hates kids. Duality! We prize beauty and vitality over wisdom and maturity. We pay any amount of money to look and feel young. To most people, “aging gracefully” means looking good by simulating youth. And if it’s not possible to look young, have the decency to never show your face in public. Or at least not during peak hours. Stick to the early bird specials. 

Did that mean that my parents, both in their 70s—one in a wheelchair with a degenerative neurological disease—were simply living ghosts? The Walking Dead, or The Rolling Dead? It was hard not to be angry all the time at a society that kept telling you your loved ones don’t matter.

But instead of getting angry…or, rather, in addition to getting angry…I realized that the most radical act in an uncaring society is to care, to value all life. I didn’t make that realization on my own. As the infamous DARE commercial once said, “I learned it from watching you, Dad.” (Ironically, I did not learn about drugs from my dad. Thanks, UConn! Go Huskies!)

My dad taught me, through his actions, to dare to find value in all life; dare to love people (and animals) that are sick, or even close to death, those deemed worthless.

In 2021, a few months after defeating cancer, my parents’ beloved good boy Cody died after a long, happy life. Long in dog years. It's never long enough. My parents always had a dog, and my dad always had a very strong bond with his dogs. He was especially close with Cody for many reasons. One reason was that Cody was there for him as my mom’s health deteriorated and she had to go in a wheelchair and she spent more and more time in the hospital. So it was a huge loss when Cody died. But as usual, he didn’t linger on the death and sadness; he started looking for another companion. There are no replacements for a lost pet, but you can begin a new relationship that can help you cope with the loss and that can grow into something just as meaningful.

So there was no doubt my parents would get another dog, and that it would be a rescue. I figured a puppy would be too much of a handful, but I didn't expect a shaggy, half blind, 8 year old dog named Hobbs. 

The more I think about it, the more it made sense. It wasn’t just about getting a new companion. He wanted to give another dog, neglected for most of its life, discarded by his owners, a chance at a good life.

I know a lot of people never consider adopting an older pet. For most people, the point is to have a pet for as long as possible. And for a bigger dog like Hobbs, 8 is not too far from his life expectancy. And he was mostly blind. So why go through all the trouble? What’s the point if the dog is going to die soon?

This mentality is common, but that doesn’t make it any less problematic. For one thing, it means that a lot of deserving older animals never get adopted and never have a chance for a decent life.  But I've also been thinking about what it means on a philosophical level. This refusal to adopt older animals reflects a lot about our feelings towards older people, and how we feel about the relation between time and life. 

When people think of age and life, most people value quantity over quality. They want to live a long life. Living longer means you won! But at the same time, as a society, we don’t value those people who live longer. We put them away in nursing homes or other facilities, which wouldn’t actually be too bad, if we properly funded those facilities. But once we place them there, if the healthcare services aren’t adequate, hey, that’s not our problem. We are young and full of life! Not like those old people. We’ll never be like those old people! Then when an old person dies, our fascination and respect for higher numbers comes back, and we say “oh they lived such a long life! 95 years…can’t ask for much more than that!” As a society, we have issues with age, is what I’m saying.

But my dad, and my mom, always valued quality over quantity. They cherished life, and they gave value to each other’s life and everyone they met. Every animal they met, too. Hobbs could have spent his last days or months in a kennel, waiting to die or be put down by strangers. Instead, he had a great last 9 months with my parents and their cat, Max.

Max, another rescue, another pet with an eye problem. My dad got Max about two years after my parents’ sweet cat Kay  passed away. It was soon after my mom had The Incident that kept her in the hospital and nursing home for a while. When she was in there, taking all types of new drugs—and often missing her regular Parkinson’s drugs because the nurses were not trained for that because of the lack of proper funding for the facilities that I mentioned earlier—she kept hallucinating and seeing cats in the room. She told everyone she was trying to save these cats and she even tried to recruit people who visited her to help her save the cats.

So, when she finally came home, guess who was waiting to meet her? Literally the cat of her dreams. Well, one of the cats from her dreams.

Then, Max almost immediately clawed her arm to shreds. But it was out of love! And they became inseparable friends. And my dad loves cats, too, so it wasn’t an entirely selfless act, but it was just another example of the thoughtfulness behind his actions.

After Hobbs died, the search for another companion began, and shortly after, Archie arrived from Louisiana. Now, outside of New Orleans, Louisiana is as backwoods as you can get, and their views on animals are a little different than in New England. The story goes, his owner kept him outside and at some point even the minimal effort to keep a dog alive was too much, so she decided she would shoot him and open up her schedule for more Dr. Phil reruns and Miller Lite. Thankfully he was rescued and eventually paired with my father. Another disregarded life my dad would take care of.

Archie arrived thin and scared, with fur falling off and his tail between his legs. He would slink away from most people and barely eat.

That lasted a few weeks. With the love and care of my dad, he was soon flourishing, greedily eating the crumbs off my mom’s lap, prancing over to meet me at the door when I visited. No surprise at all, really. Another soul saved by Saint Ken. 

  

Technically, anyone can do what he does. It’s a choice, followed by determination and commitment. Many people choose not to. They choose not to rescue animals when they are looking for pets, opting for the popular, specialized, expensive breeds. They choose not to take the older dogs, the disabled dogs, the difficult dogs. They choose not to stand by their wife as her body fails and her mind slowly deteriorates. They choose not to help their spouse eat and dress and wash, day in and day out. They choose not to sit by their spouse's hospital bed until the very moment that cherished life leaves her body in gasps and then whispers. They choose not to confront the most difficult aspects of life head on with kindness and humility.

And it’s not that he never lost patience. He just never let a bad or weak moment extend into a habit. It’s not that he never made a mistake. He just never gave up. He was inspired by my mother’s resilience and determination, but she was just as inspired by his. Her life was literally extended by his resilience and determination and support. 

Not only was it extended, it was enhanced. Even when she was confined to the wheelchair, her life was enriched because my parents chose to give value to life. I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I know it is not to simply live a long time. We, as individuals, as family and community members, give it meaning. For my dad, giving to others, helping others, gives meaning to his life. Whether it’s in his role as a husband, brother, father or grandfather, he is a provider, someone who can always be relied on. He was a coach and a father figure to countless kids, including all my friends and my brother’s friends. 

I’ve learned so much from my father throughout my entire life. He’s taught me some things directly, but mostly he teaches by example. For the last few years, he’s taught me one of the most important lessons of all: how to age gracefully. Although I don’t look forward to the golden years of knee replacement surgeries and arthritis, I can only hope to always emulate his approach to life. I hope to be able to provide my wife with the love and support and quality of life that he provided my mom. I hope to be a person that my family and friends can always rely on. I hope to always find value in life, despite any disability or illness or the proximity of death.

I often doubt my ability to do what he did for my mom. I hope I never have to prove myself. Maybe I am capable. Maybe we all are, and when we are faced with those situations, it really does come down to choice. Or maybe most people are simply incapable and he really is a saint. Regardless, I hope to live my life the way he has. I hope to give value to the lives of those I love. He didn’t pass on his good hair genes to either of his sons, but maybe he passed on the dedication and commitment and thoughtfulness genes. 

And since I still need the lessons, hopefully he can continue to teach me by example for many more years. At least until he's 95. That's a good, long life. Can't ask for much more than that! 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Cody, The Golden Boy, A Perfect Companion

The other day I walked into my parents' house, and for the first time in 13 years, I was not greeted by a playful bark, a wagging tail, and a joyful mass of golden fur pressing against my legs. That’s when it really hit me. Cody is gone.

Cody was my parents’ dog, a Golden Retriever/Chow Chow mix, and he was beautiful. Long, soft golden hair, with curls around the ears, and a purple spotted tongue usually hanging out of his smiling mouth. He was exactly the type of dog you imagine when you want to get a dog. Loyal, loving, playful, chill, obedient, handsome, sweet, friendly, fluffy. A perfect companion.  

He was the first dog my parents got after I moved out, so I never lived with him, but he always made their house feel like it was still home. Soon after they got him, it was like he had always been a part of our family. He would get so excited when I visited, rushing to the door and positioning himself between my legs so I would rub his head and butt at the same time.

Last year, he was diagnosed with cancer. I was sure he was going to die, because it was 2020 and nothing good could possibly happen. I was preparing for the heartbreak, but I was really more concerned about my parents, especially my Dad. With the pandemic, my mom in a wheelchair and suffering from Parkinson’s, and a cold winter setting in, this was the last thing he needed. It was too cruel. But my dad didn’t give up, and neither did Cody. He underwent treatment for the cancer, and although it wasn’t easy—he lost some weight, he coughed stuff up—he made it.

It took a lot out of him, though, and he was almost 14 years old. His hind legs had been bothering him for a while, and by mid-May, they had completely given out. He couldn’t walk. He deserved comfort and peace. It was time to let him go. So my Dad, merciful as always, brought him to the vet and let him transition.

My family always had great dogs. Ramses, a Golden Retriever, died a couple years after I was born. All I remember is that he was a good boy. Tuffy, another Golden, was there for my entire childhood and helped shape who I am almost as much as my parents did. He was anything but “tuff”, by the way. A sweet, fluffy boy. A real good dog. We got Dakota soon after we moved to West Hartford, when I was living at home, going to high school, and my brother was away at college. I was in a new town, in a new school, by myself. And I was a teenager. It was a time of great change, and Dakota helped me through it. He was a giant white horse of a pooch who would chase deer all over the golf course. A handsome, independently minded, but needy and loving pooch. Another good boy. He was too much for his previous owners’ to handle, but perfect for us. 

While we had Dakota, my parents raised a Fidelco guide dog for a year. Rachel was a good dog. It was an interesting experience because we had to (try to) maintain an emotional distance since she wasn’t staying long. That didn’t stop us from loving her. When she was done with training, she provided her services to an elderly woman with bad sight. After many years, Rachel retired, and she actually came back to live with my parents. Sadly, she passed away soon after. That entire experience taught me a lot about the process of fostering and doing something for the greater good. And it really made me admire my parents. Not many people are willing to sacrifice their time and efforts for others. Although, they did get all the benefits of a kind, loving dog for a year, so they made out pretty well, too.

Dakota and Rachel, before she started working.

Cody and Rachel, after her retirement, with Sophie, my brother's dog. She was a good girl, too.

Then there was Cody. The sweetest dog. He did more in his life than most people. Literally. My dad brought him to nursing homes to volunteer as a comfort dog. And of course, he worked as an unofficial comfort pet at home, helping to get my parents through some tough years. He was a constant presence, always by my Dad’s side.

Even on vacation in Florida.

At the beginning of this year, as the fear of Cody dying from cancer started to subside, we were blindsided by the sudden sickness and death of our kitty, Nola. It was devastating. She was only 11 months old, but the impact she made on our lives was immeasurable. Not having any other pets to comfort us only made it worse. Thankfully, Cody was there whenever I visited my parents, or when they visited us. It was almost as if he stayed around to get my parents though the winter and to help me through Nola’s death. Even in the short moments I saw him, he brought such great comfort.

We also took some comfort in remembering the two encounters between Cody and Nola. He was the one dog she ever met, and no surprise, Cody was great with her. He let her get close and sniff, and he didn’t even mind when she stalked the floor by my mom, looking for scraps of food. Nola had never met any other animals, and very few people, but she met Cody, the best the world had to offer. 

One of my favorite pics. Their first meeting, during our Christmas celebration at our new house. 

It’s hard to believe that Cody and Nola are both gone. I don’t believe in an afterlife so I won't say, “they’re playing together in Heaven now,” or something like that. I have nothing against people who say or believe that. I wish I could believe it! It’s just not how I view the world, or how I envision death. But Cody and Nola will always be connected in my memories, and even though it is heartbreaking that they are only memories now, I’m happy they are together in my mind and in my heart. 

Cody also met our new kitties, Zoli and Bijoux. I'd like to think there was some kind of transference of energy from Nola to Cody to them. Like, she met him, then he met them, and there was a connection established through Cody, as if he was a conduit of life that let her spirit continue on in them. I'd like to think that. That's my vision of the afterlife.

Cody also met our dragon, Puff! And guess what? He was great with him, and the kitties, too. Because Cody was great with everybody, and everything. Old people, kids, other animals. He was just a real good boy.

Miss you buddy.

What a beautiful boy. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

Fifty Years, One Reason

When my mom came home from the hospital earlier this year, she was frustrated with her slow recovery. One night when I visited, she was in the den, looking at the computer and crying. My mother has always exuded strength, so the few times I've seen her cry have been devastating.

I asked her what was wrong and she told me she couldn't remember how the computer or any of the other technology worked. She felt dumb. Thankfully I was sitting because a sense of sadness and fear nearly knocked me over. Deep in my soul, I felt her frustration at realizing that her cognitive skills were impaired. It is literally my biggest fear (recognizing your own loss of cognizance with no power to stop it) and my mom was experiencing it in front of me. It still haunts me. It was one of the most heartbreaking things anyone has ever said to me. I always knew losing a parent would be hard, and I dread the moment it happens, but I never realized how difficult it would be just to see them getting old. Even though she had expressed to me many times in the hospital how much she loved and appreciated my Dad for being there (along with other family members and friends) in that moment, she seemed so alone. It really hit me that although the whole family was going through a tough time, she was the only one physically going through it.

So I did my best to let her know that she's not alone and that she's not dumb, she's just still recovering. Overcoming my own desire to curl up in a fetal position and cry, I told her she had come so far in a short time, and that considering how much she had been through, it was amazing she was even here.

She thanked me and then said something else that truly melted me. She said that when she was in the hospital, thinking of me and my brother gave her the will to live and was the only thing that got her through it all.

I've always felt loved by my parents. They have gone out of their way to support me my entire life. But until that moment, I don't think I ever realized how much my brother and I really mean to them. When she talked in the hospital, it was usually a mix of hallucinations and memories. The constant was that she talked about me and my brother. There was confusion some times (she often talked about me on the swim team, but that was Mike) but it was clear we were on her mind. She didn't simply love us, she lived for us.

When she came home, she improved a bit, only to relapse and go back into the hospital and nursing home for a couple weeks. There were a few days where she was almost completely unresponsive. I was sure that it was the end. And yet, her condition improved again, and she came home again. Since she came home that second time, she has continually gotten better and stronger. She is incredible. Her strength is unbelievable.

And yet, I don't know if she would've made it without my Dad. Thinking of me and my brother may have helped her get through emotionally, but my Dad has been the physical embodiment of love and support. I don't want to romanticize a very difficult time, because there were moments when they were both extremely frustrated and tired and upset, but I've learned more about love and family in this past year than my entire life.

My parents have been through a lot since they got married in 1968, and this past year, their 50th together, may have been the toughest. Many people say "I'd do anything for you," but how many really mean it. Will they go to the hospital or nursing home for hours every day, week after week? Will they help their partner go to the bathroom and eat and get dressed every day?

Through my parents, I have witnessed and felt real, deep, enduring love. Sometimes it's intimidating because I don't know if I'm capable of it; at the same time, it is illuminating and inspiring. I'm lucky to have an amazing partner in my life and I can only aspire to give her as much love and support as my parents have given to me and to each other. 

Last year around this time my mom was getting surgery on her spine. She was still walking then. At the time, I couldn't help but focus on the unpleasant possibilities. I was scared and knew it would be a tough recovery. I had no idea how rough it would get. She hasn't walked since. 

6 months later, when I wrote A Coma for Christmas, I was even deeper into negative thoughts. However, seeing my mom fighting to recover forced me to overcome that negativity. I tried to end the poem on somewhat of a positive note; I thought if I put it out in the public, maybe it would sink in privately. I honestly didn't share the subdued optimism that I expressed in the poem. In fact, I was hesitant to publish it because I thought it was too hopeful and I was sure something horrible was going to happen once I pressed the "Publish" button. And then a few weeks later she was back in the hospital and I took it as proof that I should never have any optimism whatsoever.

But she's still here. She's still her. And for half a century, my Dad has been the rock beside her.  

One of my tattoos states "The struggle is the blessing." It's not always easy to remember that, but it's a vital truth. Life is struggle. It's amazing anybody gets through the day. But this life is all we have, and we need to find a reason to keep fighting, to keep struggling. 

My parents have shown me that love is the most powerful reason.

Happy 50th Anniversary Mom and Dad. Your love is one for the ages. Thank you. I love you.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

A Coma for Christmas

A coma for Christmas
No hope for the New Year
A mom in the hospital
A son's greatest fear

Time comes for us all
That's no surprise
But that knowledge means nothing
When she can't open her eyes

Machines give her breath
When her body can not
Doctors, nurses, robots
The only chance that she's got

They say she can hear me
I don't know if it's true
Besides, don't they know
I just want to hear you?

Just talking or singing
Or laughing with cheer
I'll take you yelling at me
Just as long as you're here

Two long days later
No tube for your breath
Your eyes start to open
You will not take her, Death.

A few days later
You're awake, you're talking!
You've seen the other side
And told Death to keep walking

Yet death is just one
Of many possibilities
What is life without cognizance
Without control
With senility?

It could be the meds
Or it could be confusion
A temporary adjustment
Or permanent delusion

Sometimes you're right here
Sometimes you're in the past
Sometimes you're in your own land
How long will this last?

I want to be happy
That you are alive
I want to smile and be strong
To see you survive

But the problem is,
The fact of the matter,
Is that my heart is ripped out
Stomped on
Shattered

I'm barely holding it together
Because this is my worst fear
To see you living
But not really here

But each day there's progress
Not much, but its true
Because nobody on this planet
Is tougher than you

Except maybe Dad
I've never seen such love
He's got me believing
In angels from above

A tender kiss on the hand
A whisper in her ear
A gentle rub on the shoulder
To let her know that he's near

He's been through so much
But damned if he'll show it
Yet it takes a huge toll
And we all surely know it

Because we all feel it, too.

It's the saddest thing
That I've ever been through
A step forward one day,
The next?
Step back two

The one saving grace,
For which I'm so thankful
The strength of my family
And the friends in my circle

I can't imagine my life
Without those around me
The sadness and pain
Would honestly drown me

Her friends are there, too
It's amazing to see
The love that's been shown
Is overwhelming to me

One moment I'm inspired
The next crippled by fear
The one thing I know
I'm glad she's still here

Some days she's her self
Funny, caring and smart
Some days she's...not
And it just breaks my heart

But she's coming home soon
We're thankful for that
She'll be in her element
With Dad, the dog, the new cat

For 20 plus years
She's battled a disease
That eats at her brain
And there's only one release

But she's not going down
Without fighting like crazy
I hope I have the courage
When the time comes for me

I love you Mom
I love you Dad
I love you friends
I love you family
These are not just words
It's the truth that defines me.


I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The Parents

The year was 1968...

North Vietnam launches the Tet offensive, the beginning of the end for the US in Vietnam. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy are assassinated. Apollo 8 becomes the first manned spacecraft to orbit the moon.

And possibly the most important event of all: the union of Ken Elterich and Marie Farr. 

Although this event went largely unnoticed by the general public, it set off a chain of events that would change world history, most notably, 12 years later when their youngest son was born.

Hello.

I grew up extremely privileged. I don’t necessarily mean economically, although my family was firmly in the middle class and I never really wanted for anything. The biggest privilege in my life, beyond a financial safety net that I can still rely on if necessary, is that I never had to look far for role models. I didn’t have to figure out how to treat others or respect myself, I didn’t have to be told by frustrated employers how to work hard, and I didn’t have to learn how to take pleasure in the joys of life; I was shown all of that from day one. Even before I knew what a role model was, I was provided with two incredible models of virtue.

Growing up I always considered my mom and dad as one unit: “The Parents.” That was the entirety of their identity to me. That is probably typical for kids, but it also reflected their relationship. They had their own interests and participated in separate activities (golf for my dad, ceramics for my mom, etc.) yet they acted as one when it came to everything else. They were a unified force, which didn’t exactly help me whenever I messed up. I knew I was dealing with the tag team. There was no playing one against the other. My only hope was to try to put some of the blame on my brother.

As I got older, I appreciated them more as individuals. My mom the teacher, my dad the…well, whatever he did for work (Joking. Kinda.) Beyond being a good employee/boss, he was also a coach and a good friend. Both of my parents were good friends, not just to each other, but to many people. That is one of the things I’m most grateful for: learning how to treat people.

When I was a senior in high school, I agreed to go to my friend’s prom with his girlfriend’s best friend. A week later, I started dating someone. I wanted out of my friend’s prom. My mom, without forcing a decision on me, told me that it would not be right to back out of a promise I made just because “something better came along.” She didn’t lecture me, she just said how it would make the other girl feel (I knew she was onto something when my girlfriend actually understood as I explained why I was going to prom with someone else). My mom was good at instilling guilt. In fact, both of my parents were. When I got in trouble, they always said they weren't mad, just disappointed. Ugh. How could I express righteous indignation at their treatment of me if they didn’t get mad? If they yelled and screamed, I could’ve just raged against them and felt better about myself because obviously I didn’t deserve their anger. But disappointment? There’s no response to that, except to do better.

Obviously, as a teen, there were times when I wasn’t too fond of my parent’s decisions, like moving to West Hartford, but ultimately I recognized that every decision was made in the best interest of me, my brother, and/or the whole family. I clearly got a better education in West Hartford than I would have in Hartford.

Besides the typical teen angst, though, I always saw my parents as infallible. I may have acted as if I didn't want to hear what they had to say, but that's because I knew they were right about whatever they were telling me and I would have to change my behavior.

They always did the right thing. They always seemed to be on the right side of any social issues. They traveled and worked and spent quality time with family and friends. They lived life, and continue to live it, how it is supposed to be lived.

When my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. I couldn’t accept that my mom was going to be affected by this horrible disease. Not her. Not the woman who spent her life teaching special education in the inner city in the 90s. She didn't deserve this, and she was too strong for this. My grandmother had a friend who had Parkinson’s and I just couldn’t imagine her as frail as he was. I was scared, and I think I’ve been scared ever since.

But not her. At least, not on the surface. It's like nothing changed. She’s been on more vacations this year than I’ve been on this decade. She is too strong for this.

And my dad has been right there with her. I don’t know how he does it. I don’t think I could do it. I can barely handle it as is. I am overwhelmed by their strength.

49 years later, they are stronger than ever, as a couple and as individuals.

It's inspiring. And a little upsetting, too, because seriously? How can I live up to that? Come on.

My mom just got surgery on her spine. For the first time possibly ever, she admitted to being in a lot of pain. And for the first time definitely ever, she seemed scared. Maybe I’m projecting. Probably.

Despite any reservations, she went ahead with the surgery. A friend told her she was courageous, and she just replied, “It’s not courage, I just want the pain to go away.” She’d never acknowledge that she is extraordinary, because to her, her actions are ordinary. There’s a problem, it needs to be solved. That’s how she, and my father, have always been. There’s nothing else to do but deal with it.

What's the other option? Be crippled by pain? Curl up and die? No. Handle it. Get the surgery to fix the back. Take the experimental Parkinson's medicine that may not even help you but might make a breakthrough that could help thousands of others. Fear is just another emotion like happiness. It’s okay to be afraid, just don't let it stop you from moving forward.

I write this knowing full well that I’m afraid and not dealing with it very well. But sometimes faking it till you make it is the best thing you can do. Worrying doesn't accomplish anything. Things will happen or they won't. Move forward.

49 years together. More than a decade longer than I've been alive. The Parents. Mr. and Mrs. Incredible, except their only superpower is love. 

UPDATE 6/27/17, 5:55pm: My mom is in Recovery and doing well.

I Love You All, Especially "The Parents"...Class Dismissed.

On Lizards and Love and Pea Soup

I took my bearded dragon to the vet today.

There she is!

She hadnt been in a while. She also hasn't been eating too much lately and she's got gunk in her eyes and she's 5 and a half years old which is kinda old for bearded dragons, so I figured she could use a check-up.

First off, the vets at Kensington Bird and Animal Hospital are great. Plus, they usually have a duck chilling behind the front desk, recuperating. A duck I tell you!

Anyways, the first thing they did is put her in a bowl and weigh her. She lost half a pound since the last visit, and at 5.4 pounds, that's like a quarter of her total body weight. I think. Not a math guy.

Next they checked the inside of her mouth. Ducey, my lizard, keeps her mouth shut like a female should (kidding!) so they used a rubber spatula to pry it open. She didn't like that too much but I guess they saw something because they wanted to do some blood work, which involved sticking a giant needle in her tail and taking a larger amount of blood than I thought would come out of a lizard tail.

When I woke up and got off the floor, they had the blood work analyzed. Her kidneys were fine! Also, lizards have kidneys!

But she was dehydrated. The indicators were her weight loss, sluggishness, lack of eating, sunken and crusty eyes, and the lack of elasticity in her skin. When you pull her skin, much like with a human, it should snap back to regular shape when you let go. Hers stayed bunched up.

So they got another giant needle filled with H20 and jammed it in her side. As they injected her, a bubble formed on her right side. You can see it in the picture. They said that it should disperse over the next hour.

Lastly, they gave me a powdered formula. I needed to mix it with warm water and use a plastic syringe to feed her. The vet said I should mix the formula until it becomes the consistency of pea soup.

Pea soup? Of all the things in the world, why would she reference pea soup? I don't know the damn consistency of pea soup. All I know about pea soup is that my mom used to cook it for my father when I was young and it stunk up the house for days. It was brutal. I can seriously smell it right now because the smell is so intense it travels through time.

The craziest part is that nobody else in the house ate pea soup. Not even my mom.

My dad loved it though, so she suffered through it. It was quite the sacrifice. Looking back on it, I see that it was the perfect metaphor for love. You have to be able to do things for your partner that you may not want to do and that, in some cases, might even assault your senses in ways you could never imagine and often don't believe as they are happening.

Of course, my brother and I had to suffer through these malodorous expressions of true love as well, so I didn't really see it as a beautiful representation of a lifelong commitment. I saw it as cruel and unusual punishment.

I don't disagree with that assessment today, but I also see it for what it really was. Without even realizing it, I was learning one of the most important lessons about love: real love is cooking your partner's favorite food even though you despise it. I don't know the consistency of pea soup, but I know my mom must really love my dad to cook him something that smelled like a dumpster rat's diarrhea.

I'm grateful to have learned that lesson, and to have two parents who loved each other in a way that taught me that lesson. I don't think it's a coincidence that my girlfriend cooks fish for me despite the fact that it disgusts her. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Anyways, the vet bill was ridiculously high and my lizard is doing fine.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.