Razor Thin

One issue stuffed in a crisis envelope. This stressed, mental note has been finding its destination in my voicemail recently. More than three times these past two weeks, my dad has been calling about this one recurring problem.

I am happy to hear his voice. It doesn’t matter to me what the issues are. Most times, one particular problem occupies his mind – and we address it together when I can. This time, however, a challenge has him on edge more than normal.

And we haven’t solved it as of this post.

His electric razor has walked away. Gone the way of bladed glory, as it were. Apparently, it couldn’t be shaved from imminent banishment.

Multiple messages. I feel his pain when he calls. What’s he supposed to do? Limited capacity all-around is his world now. These little inconveniences to us are big deals to him. His life is, quite literally, razor thin. One small detail out of place – for a man who lived his life in control of everything and was extremely organized – is so alarming and frustrating.

I get it. This is why I do everything I can do to meet him where he is in his world. He says, “I can pay for a new razor”, I say, “Sounds good to me. We can go get one when I’m free. It will be soon, dad.”.. “I don’t know what happened to my razor. It’s missing..”. “I know, dad. Thanks for letting me know. We’ll solve this together.”

These are the few times I’ve been able to answer my phone. Most times: rinse and repeat – just without a response.

Did get an hour to go out for lunch yesterday with him. I could tell he was a bit emotionally nicked up due to a blade razor shave earlier in the day. Simply not his comfort zone. A triple-head, electric razor, clean shave has no equal for him. With few pleasantries left in his early morning routine, dad should have an enjoyable four-score+ facade trim. He deserves at least that.

We will, probably, never know to where the elusive Braun ran off. It’s conceivable there was a charger conspiracy in the facility. Probably they needed an outlet for their frustrations and took the razors hostage. We’ll await their demands.

In the meantime, Dad’s on edge, for sure. He and I will fix this. One mental note will be answered with a few kind words, some dad and son time at Best Buy with another lunch to follow, and a less-stressed father returning to a happier state of mind.

For now.

This is dementia. A world most of us don’t understand. If we are in the throws of it ourselves, we won’t understand it then, either. What a freakin’ mess.

It’s a mess I don’t mind cleaning up every time dad needs me. In person, or through a phone call, we mop up the problems one at a time … together.

If this is what what it takes to navigate his razor thin lines, I’ll help him. Every, Single, Triple-Headed crisis at a time.

…We’ll Go With That

A few days since writing about dad. Not bad considering dad’s struggle with dementia. Life, for both of us, has been predictable. His life’s schedule pretty much the same: three squares a day, two daily activities, a nap here-and-there, etc … my hours filled with concession events, music obligations, planning and follow-ups.

This week has offered the two of us three opportunities to go to doctor’s appointments. Fortunately, these give a dad and son minutes to get caught up. Whether it be a PCP, dermatologist, or cardiologist, .. quality time is quality time.

“Quality” defined as simple conversation. It’s dad asking why we are at a particular place – seeing a certain person – for a specific reason … then forgetting why we’re there five minutes later. Additionally, he’s always concerned about my well-being. Am I doing well? Have I been busy? I’m happily conflicted wondering if he is connecting the dots in my life, or just asks because it’s in his fatherly DNA.

Such is the nature of dementia. As I’ve written before, none of us know what’s processing inside the mind of someone who lives with this disease.

I am merrily mindful, however, that he leaves voicemail messages when I can’t answer my phone.

I don’t have enough space to save all his voicemail messages, so keeping only the most recent one is my habit. Always having his “potential” last one will never leave my side. (I still have my mom’s last recorded message from over fourteen years ago). His available lexicon is still unique enough to vary the eleven seconds I hear nearly every day.

This morning was: “Hey, it’s Dad. Just seeing if there’s anything going on that concerns me. Guess we’ll go with that.” … and so began and ended the call.

With a little phone rustle on either end, this is standard. No extra fluff. To the point. I’ll gladly receive these calls every day … and, sometimes, two/three times in the span of twenty-four hours from this phone:

Always around eleven seconds. Always different words.

“That” means something on this specific phone call. Just what (?), I’m not sure. Could be the current waiting room situation we find ourselves in right now? This is the second of three this week with the last tomorrow morning. He’s had a situation needing addressed we’ve waited for an appointment. Finally, today, it is being followed-up on. Don’t believe he knew, or remembered, this morning when his message arrived during the early dew-laden hours.

At least I don’t believe so? Picking him up an hour ago, the usual smile with anticipation greeted me at his door. “Hey, what’s up?”, softly came across a warm, paternal portal. “You have another appointment, so how about we grab your favorite hat there and, probably, that warm jacket because it’s a fall day out”.

“Ok. Whatever you say”.

After missing the turn-off fifteen minutes later, we arrived here at his destination. “That” has been accomplished. ✔️ As far as I know, he’ll go with it so far.

… and continue to in the future because he trusts my judgement. My decisions with regard to his care are never questioned.

Trust is embedded in his “that”. He’ll, instinctively, go with it. Our relationship is built on trust. It’s a bridge built over (early on) tumultuous waters he and I were able to calm down together over the past decade.

This has been the small miracle embedded in his dementia diagnosis. The “gentile peace” both of us are experiencing continues to grow from the fertile demented ground. A trust blanket keeping our relationship warm month by month, year over year.

I trust – as long as he is able – a community room phone will continue to call out. He trusts enough to say the words, “We’ll go with… ” yes, ” … that”, to me regardless if it’s a scoop of his vanilla ice cream drizzled with hot fudge, or another medical appointment.

To him – at the end of his routine day – it’s quality time with me.

I’ll take “that” anytime, any day of the week.

A Lot of Room with a View

Out past Tyrone, Pa., a few miles from Port Matilda is where I find myself. Beside rt. 55ON if headed toward State College is the Way Fruit Farm.

It’s an overcast, semi-humid car show, food truck, music festival kind-of day. A lot of room for folks to meander about, sample some excellent food (in their café as well) and enjoy a few nice days before fall invites itself in.

There’s kettle corn, craft cold tea, and BBQ within walking distance from beef dawgs/hot sausage/and angus burgers here at my cart. A wonderful jazz duo is creating musical memories for everyone while a few dozen antique cars are re-living their heydays a few yards down to my left.

At 4pm, my time ends, van and cart head out as I must be seated behind Zion’s organ at 6pm for the Saturday evening service. It’s a tight schedule with a nearly hour drive back plus unloading, clean-up, and change of clothes.

Every time I do an event up here, the field across rt. 550 – unbeknownst to it – provides me a respite. I glance across and realize how un-busy it is. Sits there, it does. An hour at southwest “hometown”, there’s not a lot I see, on the regular, providing me moments like this. I am sure one does exist. I am probably too busy to notice.

Do you ever feel a need to take time? Time to just take a moment? Or, does this come naturally? Tell ya what, not with me.

These five hours at the Way Fruit Farm, during breaks in sales, give me time to walk around the back of my van/cart. If only for a couple seconds, I am compelled to make room in my life for a few deep breaths.

Why not do this other times?… other places? Why here? Asked, answered earlier. It doesn’t come naturally. And, it’s not a learned habit.

Here, however, the field has a hypnotic effect. Simply looking across gives me a peace. Maybe because I have no control over it? I can’t work it … or change it. My marginal OCD or control issues cannot do a darn thing to alter it? I have to accept it as it is….

… and, not in any negative way, turn my back to all the busy-ness going on behind.

All this after dad called again this morning with his same issues and September life is as busy as it has ever been.

So, find your field if you don’t have one … as I make efforts to look for more in my life closer to home.

There should be more room in my life to take deep breaths. Being more open to find those opportunities – and a Way forward – will be fruitful in the long run.

For you as well, I hope.

Buckets and Pails

“With age comes wisdom, but sometimes age comes alone.” — [Oscar Wilde]

I hope this never comes to pass with dad. Meaning, he should never, ever, feel left alone – abandoned by his family. Notably, this son.

Dementia has a pail-full of confusing problems. I don’t have a ladle big enough to scoop out enough ounces to have it all make sense to me – let alone empty the humongous bucket dad must carry around 24/7. This is what occupies my time – my thoughts – a few minutes every once in a while. He and I are at an emotional well together.

He can be sitting with me holding a spoonful of dripping hot fudge over a serving of vanilla ice cream, or miles away tucked into a routine at his facility. Regardless, dementia is constantly filling up pails and buckets with confusing signals, information, and “whys”.

His pail ripples with same-old-same-old to him. What goes in is, possibly, new information, yet old to me and the very kind assistants who are patient with him. What hat should I wear? (That is the same every day if we go somewhere) Is my razor charging / where is it? (Same every day) … Will I be back for my meal? These question, I hope, are not stressful, but I know dad. I know he worries. These are his ripples.

My bucket is a bit different. I don’t worry about him. Not about the care he’s receiving. The guidelines I use are health and safety. Are they being met? Yes, absolutely! Where he is couldn’t be better.

My emotional ripples are bigger than that. Like I mentioned, I need a bigger ladle.

It had been a few days since I was able to get in. Yesterday, finally, in the midst of a few ridiculous rainstorms and high humidity, a nice walk down toward his room was a welcome relief. Usually a knock, or two, is all that’s needed to get a nice welcome smile to greet me. Not this time. Another attempt. Nope. Third time. Silence.

Off to the activity room to check on a possible group event. Maybe he was otherwise engaged? Nope.

I knew not to fear the worst. Dad is in pretty good health, so any idea of an emergency wasn’t warranted. Fortunately, a nice aide was able to help with a spare key.

As I figured, dad was sleeping as soundly as I’ve ever known him to be. This was an odd time for him to rest. No illness or other reason for this came immediately to my mind. We rustled him up, slightly, and I said my usual, “Hey, Dad..”, to see if he wanted to get out a little bit.

“…how about just going back to sleep and I’ll see you later?”, noticing his very different demeanor.

“Huh? … hmmph, ok”. And with that, a creased pillow found his head, once again, nestled into a very warm, comfy spot. I carefully refolded a blanket over his shoulder, said a soft “goodbye”, and gently closed the door behind me less than a minute later.

Walking back down that hallway felt different. Dad was alone, but not really. We were at that stupid well. My bucket was, again, filling up with confusing information. Is his age catching up to him? Is this advancing dementia? Was he simply bored on this particular day? Did he not recognize me, thus, not want to go? Am I looking too much into this?

Was this selfish of me to want his company, yet be unfulfilled? What’s the answer here?

I just don’t think there is one. And this is the problem with dementia. So much information, yet each case / each diagnosis is so different. Not only this, each connection with individual family members is unique. Everyone brings flawed buckets and pails if they care to have real, meaningful, beautiful bonds with a dementia striken loved one.

No matter the age-related situation, no elderly person EVER should be alone. They are the lifeblood of wisdom, unique energy, laughter, generational compassion, and historical preservation.

My dad has his set of problems now. Yesterday, I felt he was alone for just a minute or so. That’s on me. That’s my moment at the well. It’s my bucket to bear. Unfortunately, his pail is dementia – whatever it has to be one any given day, any presented moment.

Like I always say, “The other side of reality is getting a great guy little by little, so for now, I’ll take whatever dementia let’s me have on this side at the moment.”+

This way, he’s never alone. Nor will he ever be.

Enjoying the Fine Line

This is a wonderful arrangement of, “How Great Thou Art”. Mark Hayes has to be one of my favorite writers / composers of piano music. His ability to transfer musical ideas into playable, albeit moderate to advanced, finger-fun keyboard merriment is nearly unmatched. I search out his works. My library is stuffed full of well-creased, loosely stapled, worn arrangements accredited to his exceptional musicianship.

These books are of a religious persuasion, of course. I guess I need to say this. From every season of faith, he extracts melodies, harmonies, and rhythms appropriate for services from traditional to contemporary. Pentecostal to Brethren to Lutheran to Catholic… and beyond. Really, any gathering focused on a sensibility beyond our daily go-get ’em grind, … our yo-yo self schedule of daily ups and downs … is a good suit to fit on his body of music.

Specifically for me as an organist/pianist … any weekend collection of human worshipers inside a sanctuary wears well. I thoroughly enjoy the space I occupy behind any keyboard requiring my presence. Mark Hayes isn’t the only partner with me, of course, but on a most recent occasion … he was.

Thus the “Fine Line” of which I write.

The arrangement above is, well, so much fun to play. I’ve had it “under my fingers” a long time. As solo piano hymn music goes, it probably qualifies as “advanced” with some tricky octave passages, “showy” broken chord cadenza-type measures, and nice flowery arpeggios. To the non-music people, let’s just say, “a lot of fluff”. If a hymnal was opened to, “How Great Thou Art”, singing along with Mr. Hayes’ version wouldn’t be possible without a little imagination …

I played this as a Prelude. Here’s the “Fine Line”. It was an emotional dance played mentally in my head – even as notes began their arc into the sanctuary space. (By the way, not just with this piece, but with others as well). “Is this appropriate? Should a wonderful piece like this be played as a vessel to help congregants focus? Or, are they really listening, anyway? Is this about me, or their needs? Am I doing this just for my enjoyment as an artist? Why am I even concerned … Just play it and move on to the rest of the service”.

These, and other similar second-guessing, time consuming, energy draining, brain drain thoughts circle around and around … before, during, and after.

Problem is … I simply enjoy playing. Period.

All the arrangements I have … and there’s a generational ton going back through my grandmother and mother … are literally at my fingertips. Classical, romantic, baroque, modern, Christian. Over the decades, I’ve used them all. Funerals, weddings, solo recitals, special music events, a lot of specific services, accompanying soloists, and on… it’s almost always a question, for me, of appropriateness. What music fits the occasion, … the audience.

And the congregation as well.

They are not an audience; however, when I play a piece like “How Great”, an unimagical, unfantastical transformation happens before my very imagination. This wonderful “fluff” becomes a show piece I never intended it to be … converting a congregation of worshipers into an audience.

I know. I know. It’s what happens in my gray matter. Nobody, I repeat, nobody has ever mentioned a thing. I, alone, have created this hurricane of hazy hymnody.

It’s the fine line of what is, and is not, appropriate.

Even after decades of doing the dance, enjoying this line is a challenge. Play what’s not exciting or an arrangement I don’t find particulary engaging – to appease a prelude space? Or, fill that time with something intriguing to hear, play, and engage everyone’s aural senses, but risk tilting that imaginary spotlight in my direction?

There’s no real answer here. I suppose if I wore my black speckled rhinestone jacket, then someone “may” say a word, or two, to our Pastor. An 1970’s electronic color wheel on the organ could work, probably? For a minute – at least, or until an usher unplugged it. Small, dancing scarfs? A tall piano hat? Elton John glasses? These would be, clearly, an issue. Cause for a ministerial meeting, a personal pastoral interventional inquest.

The beauty in all of this? Music speaks so many languages to so many people. I’ve learned these tiny dots on a manuscript, regardless of what I play, do mean something to someone. On balance, my selections are varied. It’s my own personality creeping in when arrangements of this level present themselves on my music rack.

Heck, I’m just one piano player who worries more than I should. Ten fingers, eighty-eight keys and endless combinations of melodious merriment should be enough for me.

If only my fingers weren’t connected to a brain over-thinking too much instead of just enjoying the “Fine Line” I’ve created for myself.

It’s being human. It’s being a musician, maybe. It’s being alive at the same time as Mark Hayes and being massaged with his genius every time I open one of his books. He’d probably tell me to let the music speak for itself and don’t worry about anything else.

I’ll try to do better with all of it, Mark. My words … and my personal prelude piano problem.

Promise.

Calling It a Nice Day

Today was a really nice day. Compared to most days recently, the outdoor human experience sunned itself favorably. A mere 55+ degrees fell happily upon most of us who delighted in a walking a few steps around town.

During my walk time this afternoon, a mid-day thought dawned on me. I haven’t written any kind considerations lately.

Lately? Heck, it’s been well over 5 months.

I miss this. Pointing out the obvious busy darts landing on my life’s dart board calendar doesn’t make for a good excuse here. I’ve been busier in the past and managed to land a few textual missiles. Idleness? Nope. Laziness is a noun I do not understand.

So, somewhere lurking around being too busy and never sitting still, I neglected doing something enjoyable – writing entries in a small blog.

It’s not like there hasn’t been anything to write. Time is early in the Lenten season for local Christian churches. To go completely 180-degrees, binging the Jack Reacher t.v. series, both seasons 1 & 2, was explosively exceptional. Personal triumph and another close friendship lost to cancer- interwoven among daily ups and downs – all of us could attach words to. There’s always words.

Making, i.e. finding, time to share these marvelous expressions more frequently than once a year should be a priority.

The sun today bleached out a small confession today. I had a moment to think. Sometimes we need to admit to ourselves we have neglected something enjoyable. Whatever the reason(s), that one hobby/activity dart headed for the diversion bullseye on our secondary “entertainment” dartboard never got picked up … let alone thrown. This happens a little at a time – and then months pass by. Ugh.

I’m calling this a nice day. Busy darts be damned. The sun shone while I walked. Maybe it’s Lent, the fear of a very large wandering ex-military behemoth, or a simple self-confession that got me back to this space?

My guess would be the latter. Mainly because Jack Reacher would be way out of place in downtown Hollidaysburg and I’ve got plenty of Lent to go yet behind the organ.

Do your happy place now. Don’t neglect it.

Look Up

It was steak tips and fries – for the second time in three days. Yes, they are delicious. The salad bar and Pepsi Zero adding to their sizzle, these platter meat and starch necessities have been a Wednesday and occasional Saturday staple. Friends meeting for casual conversation … and the same, predictable waitress we ask for each time. Expected.

Looking down as usual. Meat and a potato variety. Salad bar. Never more than a horizontal stare across the very familiar round table. I, the youngest of six sitting around, was engaged in conversations stretching from the Pittsburgh Pirates to “how it was” prior to my open-eyed arrival in the early 60’s. Easy to understand as one of my friends is a nonagenarian farmer – contrasted with this piano-playing hotdog salesman.

As they say, an eclectic group of people folk. The other four … along for the dinner ride almost every week at this steak house. Crab cakes for one, meatloaf for two and three, a burger on the plate for number four, call up shrimp or chicken fingers for five, and for me? … some part of a cow is always up for grabs.

Routine. A Wednesday staple – sometimes Saturday. A routine where -and when – we find ourselves never looking up. So habitual, in fact, that before even starting the 12 minutes drive I hear an exhausted, ” … again?” gracing my right ear in the car. Frankly, I can’t argue the point. Responding with a half-hearted, sighing, “yeah …” we pull away anticipating the same rights, lefts, signal lights, and – yes – parking spaces at Hoss’s Steak House at the other end of town.

It’s not a “rut”. That’s a negative version of routine. You can’t get ANY pleasure out of a rut. This is why Scooby’s favorite saying is what it is. We have no expectation of pulling a mask off our favorite waitress to divulge a sinister plot. Yes, my steak was not the best two weeks ago, however, I don’t feel she concocted a plan to “rut-roh” my evening. Shaggy and fatty as it was, I still go back. Mistakes were made.

It was routine. Look ahead routine. So many times. Week after week.

One more time this past Saturday – routine … and then I walked out.

Framed between two light poles was magnificent deep orange and brilliant yellow. Purples, blues, and blacks hugged the sky as well. My sight line was … up. Not down. Not horizontal. Up. What I saw was in front of me. Not behind or beside.

“Perspective” is what jumped out of the clouds immediately into my mind.

Definitely not a routine sighting, right? I don’t understand atmospheric conditions despite earning an “A” in my college intro to meteorology class. (Memory rinse and repeat gets one to earn such a grade … before you reach a conclusion that I can do much more than identify the difference between stratus, cumulous, and cirrus clouds).

Reflect, refract? Prism crystals, or light bending through water vapor? You tell me. Frankly, I don’t care to know. Surely our stately sun was involved as it went to its evening rest around a global tilt. This would be the extent of my knowledge.

I stood for a few seconds as I am sure some in the local area did. Looking up. It was a beautiful sky. Certainly put perspective in my life … for a little time, anyway.

Routine disappeared … as this artistry was certainly out of routine. As if to say, “I got this …”, these colors radiated down a sense of calm – an overarching, blanketing feeling over the community. A reminder – as it were – to look up out of our routines and take a breath.

The “I” to which I refer has no identity. No assignment given here. It is open to all colors, shapes and sizes of beliefs.

As an artist of the music kind, looking up I saw a pallete of dancing colors that could easily be transcribed into little dots on a musical staff. Gustav Holst imagined The Planets in his fantastic work of the same title. Looking up has created musical magic and I can only imagine continues to inspire composers.

All this to say “look up” once in a while. Yeah, it’s an over-used, well-cooked into life’s pie cliché. Take a well-earned breath. Please keep all things in perspective. Your job and issues that can stress your essence have a shelf life. Give them attention, however, no more than they deserve. Continue to live a healthy routine, of course …but stay out of a rut. Every once in a while, there may be stunning colors you NEED to see. Reminder: life’s moments are worth having around even if your steak isn’t the best sometimes.

Peace In The Wind

This remarkable image is courtesy of Kimberly Calderwood … and Lancaster County in Southern Pennsylvania near the Susquehanna River. The former is a dear friend who captured this gorgeous picture. The latter a beautiful part of our state I don’t travel through ever … shame on me.

Shame on me for not taking the time to get out of western PA more often to experience life on a different plane. I’m not going to head down my local expressway during a sunset and witness the escape of a hot air balloon off dusty horse-laden lands. Most likely, a local McDonald’s and pharmacy would confine my vision and I’d be assaulted by unjustified horn-beeping from nearby lanes. There’d be no peace in the wind.

A different world down east from here -Pennsylvania Dutch Country – where tranquil Amish don’t beep and blather their way around those encountering daily life one moment at a time.

Kim hugged peace in the wind through her lense. This very calm breeze lifted that balloon into stillness, stayed the mighty beasts of the field, and held a majestic sun over all its domain. As all wanted to move forward within the orange hue, a setting glow set aspirations aside and paused life … for a moment. Reflected back memories it did. Directed time to the immediate. Any future, as of this moment, did not exist.

This was the now. Kim took me there.

When I saw her picture, a quote often attributed to Shakespeare came to mind: “There are three people in yourself: Who people think you are, who you think you are, and who you really are.”

I have a past, present, and future. None of those time frames mattered at that moment. Also, what others may (or, may not) think of me melted away. I saw my 6-foot frame, initially, standing in that tiny balloon without a brooding bother in my brain. Transfixed by the warmth surrounding my soul, I became enraptured by the peace in the wind I could feel simply by holding a phone held in my hand.

Remarkable how art – yes, this picture is art in raw, beautiful form – moves us into places we don’t expect. Places we NEED to arrive when we are unaware this must be our destination.

See, this Peace in the Wind dropped into my life during a tornado of stress. Did it end the path of torn up relational earth life handed me over the previous days? No. Normal stuff happens. You and I know this. High levels of anxiety happen. Life is, well, life. Can’t avoid situational stress as life ticks forward.

It did remove, distract, and relocate me.

… so nice to unexpectedly arrive at a field in Southern Pennsylvania.

Sit with me a few minutes. Enjoy this moment. Stand with those majestic horses .. talk to them. Take a walk, gently, along a dusty rut where generations of Amish workers have lovingly blazed a trail for you. Glance upward at a motionless balloon to consider where you’d go with an evening off – totally free from any obligations.

Best of all, close your eyes and be thankful for the warm, peaceful breeze you can feel only in your imagination… this time, but not the last time.

Kim’s remarkable image gives us permission to always be aware – always be on the lookout for wonderful snapshots like this. Moments to stop. Stop worrying. Stop being anxious about the troubles of the day. Stop looking ahead at what may – or may not – be guaranteed.

I am still in that balloon. For now, it’s a great view. Like I said, sit with me a while.

Row 12 and June

I’m sitting behind a hot grill. The sun’s heat – on this 90-degree day – makes the still air surrounding me feel like I’m slow-cooking. Perhaps an invisible large crock envelops this hot dawg cart outside WalMart as busy shoppers scoot by toward their sun-baked automobiles.

The sign by me, “Row 12”, guides my thoughts. No customers guide my sales today. It’s been, well, slow.

I begin to realize almost 12 months have gone by since my last post here on Doug Hugs. Geesh. Priorities switch lanes.

I don’t write here for fame and/or fortune … obviously. I have neither in my life and am quite content working every day at endeavors inviting both joy and income on my life’s doorstep.

This will most likely never stop.

The joy comes from serving. Music, especially. Music is to be shared – from the performer to the listener. Yes, there will always be emotional connections between the composer and performer; however, a performer is simply the bridge between. This is my “happy space”.

I am at peace on that bridge.

Sharing a connection at my cart is also a nice, enjoyable off ramp from occasional pesky potholes along this life. Good food and a smile can help folks get through a tough day, week, or situation.

Row 12 happens to represent my happy place – the 12 black and white keys spanning an octave on the piano from C to B .. all in a row.

… and a pleasant reminder to all of us we need to use our gifts to be a bridge for others.

Smile when you can. Serve when called upon. Look for teachable moments and don’t ever put off writing down your thoughts.

Especially if this means being reminded of such while sitting on a metal chair, behind a grill, in the middle of a scorcher, picking melted skin off your forehead.

Why This and Not That?

Over the course of a normal life, what happened last night was insignificant. At the moment, however, the difference between bowls of Italian wedding soup and chili was noteworthy. I ordered chili and then immediately regretted my decision once a bowl of wedding soup sat deliciously next to me … to be supped up by another. My immediate comment, while staring down into a tapestry of kidney beans, ground beef, and tomatoes? “Why this and not that?”

The previous 48 hours were unhealthfully challenging. A long twelve hours ER stay after a personal health challenge made decision making foggy. This restaurant visit was a first after being poked and picked over like a fresh berry bush. Sleep had been spotty, of course, with food and fluid intake starting and stopping as if in a nutritional traffic jam. Nothing normal.

My side still hurts from something … not sure what. The mysteries of our dark, inner spaces remain. This was of secondary concern, as it sat marginally away from what was primarily messing with my malfunctioning vascular-goober system. I don’t understand any of this. Melodic tunes make more sense to me than medical tubes. I know more how music beats, less about the electrical impulses of a heart.

In the time it would have taken to play a few Bach Inventions, I was erased out of awareness the other morning. Preferably, the former would have been my choice. Life had other plans.

Why this … and not that?

I had a choice between chili and wedding soup; however, there was no choice between consciousness and blanklessness at 7:15 a.m. on a beautiful Thursday morning in early November.

In addition, there was no option when a doctor you’ve trusted for years says, “Off to the ER you go. I am your doctor first … and friend second. You look horrible, your blood pressure is way too low, and I don’t have the facilities here to treat what may be wrong with you, …” (When I finally got in to see him five hours after getting off the floor…)”… let’s call and ambulance for you.”

In the ambulance, a paramedic gave me no choices. Sticker shock, diabetic checks, blood draws, wires, straps, beeps and blips. Oh, and rather pleasant conversation during the 15 minute bumpy ride to a local hospital.

We don’t have choices sometimes – especially when our health is involved. Last Thursday was a downright surprise. No warning, no “head’s up” …

I have some idea the cause … maybe. It might be easier to reverse engineer Mahler’s 3rd symphony, however. At least those notes are – if you’ll allow me some leeway here – black and white, stagnant, immovable, and predictable. Our bodies are living, breathing, aging, interlocking cellular game pieces constantly changing the rules as they move around the board.

According to medical notes, doctors I met in the ER made their best guess and discharged me after 12 hours. They made a choice. I had to agree. Hoping all my “numbers” met their approval, a tired, weary, hungry self of mine headed home…

And so, after a full day’s respite, I was faced with this: a bowl of chili … and not that: a better looking bowl of Italian wedding soup – realizing we make choices and end up with a result that is second best; Or, don’t have a choice what happens to us and do the best we can.

Best summed up as: I wanted life to be this, but got that instead, or why this and not that?

There are worse situations than what I went through … I’ve witnessed them in person. These wake-ups tweak a different part of my brain – that part where two bowls of soup take on a different meaning. I am reminded our choices in life are important. Acceptance of what happens to our health is also paramount to a healthy outlook.

Ok, maybe not soup, but some this and that’s circling about do make a difference. Choose wisely when you can, stay hydrated, and eat healthy foods.

That’s the best I’ve got for you on this day. At least until I get that bowl of Italian wedding soup.