Mayday, May Day!

I couldn’t decide which “may day” to use for the post title.  The post is about May (among other things), but in a “mayday” sort of way.  It’s a month of mixed feelings for me.  I got married in May.  Plus there’s Mother’s Day, graduations, my grandmother’s birthday, and (usually) really pretty weather.  It's a great month.  But it also takes a toll on my family, literally.  We have more funerals in May than any other month—three this year.  It’s weird.  My mom passed away on Memorial Day (long ago--but honestly, if you have to go on a holiday, that’s the most appropriate one). 

I’d like to share a story about the May night I thought I might lose a brother and for a moment, myself (we’re both fine).  It was just before my second wedding anniversary.  My wife and I talked about it the night it happened (of course), but I have only shared the story with one other person.  It’s one of those things people don’t talk about, but probably should.

By coincidence, my brother and I were living a block apart at the time.  I was working full-time and going to school at night, so we didn’t see each other.  But my wife spent time with his wife, toddler son and newborn daughter.  She enjoyed that, until my SIL started to suspect my brother was cheating on her.  He was (non-stop, almost since the day they married).  In mid-May the SIL found proof, packed up the kids and moved in with her parents.  My brother was devastated. 

At 3am Sunday morning, my phone rang.  It was my dad.  He quickly told me what had happened and that my brother was at home, planning to shoot himself.  He'd called our parents to say goodbye.  The parents were heading out of their house, but it would take them 30 minutes to get there.  I was two minutes away.  My dad asked me to go stop him.

I pulled on pants, stepped into shoes and ran the block to my brother's townhouse.  The door was locked.  I could see a front window was open, but it was too high to reach from the ground.  I had to climb over the porch railing and jump for the window.  After knocking out the screen, I crawled in.  (Who knew the experience I gained breaking into my parent's house as a teen would ever come in handy???)  Once inside I turned on the lights and unlocked the front door.  I didn't see my brother, but I could hear him.  He was upstairs, wailing.

When I got to the top of the stairs I told him it was me.  He yelled at me to leave, I told him I couldn't.  I reached into his bedroom and turned on the light.  What I saw shocked me.  I'd seen him in primal rages of anger, but that night he looked...different.  The sight brought to mind the image of an animal caught in one of those vicious metal traps, panicked and in terrible pain.  Then I noticed he was pointing a gun at me.  He yelled at me to turn off the light.  I obliged him.  I didn't think he would shoot me, but accidents happen.  I moved back around the corner.

I had no idea what to do next.  Our parents were still 25 minutes away.  I started talking to him.  I asked what happened, why he was doing this.  I told him he didn't have to lose his family, his marriage didn't have to be over if he didn't want it to be.  I told him his kids needed a father, that he could rebuild his marriage.  That didn't work.  He said he was going to shoot himself.  So I told him he couldn't do that to ME.  How could I live with myself if he shot himself while I just sat there.  That made him mad, but in a different way.  I was hoping it would.  He said I couldn't make this about me.  Then I talked about how what we do affects others.  While we argued about that, the front door opened.  I considered the possibility that it was a thief and not my parents, but either way I was glad to have someone else there.  Of course it was the parents.  My dad came upstairs.  Soon my brother handed me his gun and went home with them.

Was he really going to shoot himself?  I don't know.  Maybe that was just his way of calling mayday, sending out an emergency call for help.  We helped him, that night and for months afterwards.  Eventually his wife took him back.  To show his gratitude, he started cheating on her again--repeatedly.  Years (and two more kids) later she threw him out.

PS - I didn't know what to say to my brother that night.  But in the end that didn't really matter.  I think just being there was the important thing.  That was an extreme case, but I believe we can all do a lot of good just by giving a few minutes of our time to others...letting them talk, letting them feel like someone is listening.  You never know if that small thing might be what keeps the person from sinking into a dark, desperate place.  No one should have to go there.

Reunion

My wife and I met at our high school 20 year reunion.  She was still single, but I was married to someone else.  When we bumped into each other, the magic was still there.  I wanted to spend time with her, but she said we couldn't.  It wouldn't be right--since I was married.  She also said the situation was my fault for choosing someone else (a Pom-Pom named Cathy) all those years ago.  I made my choice and was going to have to live with it.  I tried to kiss her, but she pushed away and slapped me.

Then she woke up from her bad dream.

Then she hit me (for real) as I innocently slept.

She’d had a dream and was mad at me.  That's happened several times over the years.  I got lucky the last time it happened--I was already having breakfast when she woke up, so I was out of reach.

Later she told me about her dream.  Then smiled and said, “But I've decided to forgive you!"  I think I mentioned that here on the blog at the time.

Today is our wedding anniversary.  I had flowers delivered to her office yesterday and I'm taking her to her favorite places (shopping and eating) on Saturday.  But the next time she has a bad dream, none of that will matter.  I'll be in trouble.  She'll probably smack me--again.  :)

Have a great weekend folks, go do something fun.  I'm hoping to! 

Periscope (Up? Down???)

I had to do something I always assumed I would not do.  It's a particular medical examination.  My plan was to never do it and then, at a ripe old age, die quietly in my sleep.

 

Or maybe get hit by a meteor.  That would have been okay too.

 

But after my bout of diverticulitis, I had to do it.  I scheduled a colonoscopy.  My doctor made sure I would by telling me I had to stay on a bland, mushy diet (rice, tofu, cottage cheese, yogurt, overly cooked fruit and veggies) until we knew exactly what was going on down there.  Nothing crunchy and no sriracha!!!

 

I had the colonoscopy yesterday.  I was warned the preparation would be the worst part of it.  But I had some fun with it.  The instructions called for me to drink 32 ounces of what tasted like lemon Pledge at 6pm Monday night and again at 9am Tuesday morning.  As I drank the first batch, I joked with my family that I wanted to be the first person to ever drink that stuff and NOT go to the bathroom.  At first I worried that might come true.  I drank it (in stages, as directed), but nothing happened.  Thirty minutes later, still nothing. 

 

To amuse the family, I held my stomach (as if pressure was building), grimaced, and told them, "I.can.con.tain.it!"  We all laughed.  But before long all heck broke loose.  The fun was over.

 

Skipping ahead to the next day (after going through the second batch of Pledge), after changing into a little gown for the examination, I asked the nurse if I could weigh myself.  When would I ever weigh less than I did at that moment???  She showed me to the scale and sure enough, I was considerably lighter (time to update my driver's license).  Anyway, when I got back to the little prep room my wife was smiling.  She said, "You forgot to hold the back of the gown closed when you walked to the scale.  You mooned everyone!"

 

I wasn't embarrassed a bit.  I told her that was important for girls, but boys only need to make sure their fronts are covered.  :)   I was in a silly mood. 

 

Actually, I was joking more than usual because I was a little worried.  Family members decided to remind me about two colonoscopy horror stories (which I won't pass on).  I knew the odds were overwhelmingly good, but I worried some anyway.

Thankfully the results were positive--and I never have to go through it again.  At least that's what I heard the doc say.  My wife thinks he said I'll need to do it again in 10 years or if I get another diverticulitis attack, whichever comes first.  Or the meteor...whatever.  :)


PS - I joke, but the examination was a breeze.  When your doctor tells you it's time for one, don't worry.  It's over before you know it.  After going through it, I can say it's not a big deal.  Before I knew that, I was lucky to receive anti-freak-out encouragement from a good friend.  Thanks Rooth!

Sit-com Life

Our cable company recently added a new channel that carries old TV shows (really old).  On it I stumbled across a sit-com conversation very similar to many that used to take place in our house (I've learned to avoid them). 

The husband and wife were on the verge of having an argument. 

Husband:  Wait, how did this even get started? 
Wife:  You attacked me. 
Husband:  All I did was compliment her cooking.  (The "her" was a neighbor.) 
Wife:  That's what I said, you attacked me. 

I nearly choked when I heard that.  I hit the record button so I could share it with my wife.  She laughed when she saw it, but also sided with the TV wife 100% ("He shouldn't have been talking about another woman's cooking!").  I KNEW she would (as I mentioned, we've had similar conversations), that's why it was so funny to me. 

I almost don't want to ask, but do you agree with her??? 

Patience

I had fun on my commute home last night.  It started with an annoyance, but turned around quickly.

The escalator leading down into the subway station was packed, a combination of tourists and office workers.  Standard practice is to stand on the right side of the escalator to allow people to walk past you on the left—remember that if you ever take the subway in DC.  If you forget, well...please read on.

Anyway, as I said, the escalator was packed, on the right and left.  With encouragement from a woman one step down, the young man next to me started yelling at people to “move to the right”.  That wasn’t going to happen, there were too many people and many of them were tourists.  The second time he yelled I told him to stop, that the older gentleman (20 steps ahead—with at least 20 people behind him) wasn’t going to move.  He complained about people being rude, not doing what they’re supposed to. 

Right about that time the older gentleman stepped off the escalator at the bottom and we could see more than just the back of his head.  We could see he was carrying a wheelchair for his extremely frail wife. 

I turned to my new friend and said, “Wow, you must feel like a huge jerk right now!” and laughed (and laughed).

He didn’t see the humor and stomped off into the subway in a huff.  Hopefully he learned a lesson.  I’m all for speaking up and encouraging people to “do what they’re supposed to” (it was my dad’s best trait), but that doesn’t include yelling at someone because you have to wait 30 seconds.  

Patience and courtesy should never go out of style.