Mt. Tam rises from sea level to over 2,200 feet just north of the Golden Gate.
From its peak you can see the entire bay area, the Pacific to the west, the beginnings of the Sacramento River to the east, and far past it to the foothills of the Sierra’s. Far to the south past San Jose. North into Sonoma County beyond Petaluma on the 101. You can follow the fine line of the north coast past Point Reyes and on.
There is a lookout at its peak: a very small building with a 360 view.
There was a time I carried Matt the 20 minutes from the parking lot to the top. Kim had scurried up next to us. I believe my brother Thomas was with us.
The watcher in the lookout at that time was someone I knew from Skywalker and he invited us in. He showed us around and the kids stared out at the vastness in amazement.
Later outside we watched as the last rays of light disappeared over the ocean. We then noticed people turning to the east and so did we. It took a few moments but then our eyes widen as the bright orangeness of a full moon appeared on the horizon. As it rose it seemed we could almost touch it.
We stayed as long as we could, until there was just enough light to see our way down.
It seems beauty can come at times when least expected. The full moon is something that’s not hard to see. But when it casts its shadow over leaves or through trees it sometimes becomes abstract in black and white.
Maybe these are times when the eye looks for something different. Or maybe it is the mind that searches for the abstract, which, it seems, would lead to thought and maybe untold understanding.
From the multitude of stars that can be seen from the tops of mountains to the stars as they disappear over the fine line of the horizon in the Northern Sahara is beauty in its grandeur.
But maybe there is beauty less easily seen. Maybe in daily life eyes become focused on daily living and lose the abstract for a while.
But it would seem to make sense that the mind never does. Maybe our minds are lying dormant as we let our eyes tell us who and what we are.
It seems we live our lives as individuals separate from each other, but maybe the opposite is true. That maybe we are all joined with some sort of invisible cord that makes us all one.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Years ago, somewhere in the southwest, in a desolate restaurant, in an almost ghost town he felt his sanity slipping away. He could feel as it started slowly, but began increasing its speed. It was as if there would be nothing left of his mind, unable to speak or have recognizable thought. It seemed he was unable to stop it and at the threshold of no return, he heard the soundless voice.
It had been many years as he had forgotten of its existence. It had spoke to him as a small boy in the tree house. Without words it told him he would be fine. It was then his heart began to slow. His sweat started to cease and his breathing started to return to normal as calmness drifted through his body.
It was the beginning of listening again. And as the years would come it would lead him to places he never knew. And even more places inside his mind. Maybe he had had to reach a place, a threshold of despair for him to let the voice come again. Maybe he didn’t think he needed it any more. Maybe his ego kept it away.
But even though the soundless voice had never left.
There were to come many nights in empty motel rooms when he would sit within his thoughts. A mirror would catch his eye and he would try to stare into his eyes. But he would look away, as if he was looking into a lie.
The road would lead him to places that lived inside of him. It was only time that kept them away. A predestination from the day he was born waiting until he was made ready. Until he made a choice that seemed so simple to him, but yet to others and some they saw it different.
It wasn't until years later when fear raced through his heart and the thought first entered that he had seen things different from others.
He had sat in the rooms and heard the scattered noises. Had first saw a bundle wrapped. A child whose heart had beat too fast and they tried to slow it, but had given too much, which they did not know. And so the bundle laid upon a child’s bed for all in the room to see. No one talked about it, but it seemed they all saw.
A nurse would catch him staring at the bundle and asked, “as long as it’s not your child”. Before he could stop himself he would say “yes”. He had tried to correct the word, but she was gone.
It had been many years as he had forgotten of its existence. It had spoke to him as a small boy in the tree house. Without words it told him he would be fine. It was then his heart began to slow. His sweat started to cease and his breathing started to return to normal as calmness drifted through his body.
It was the beginning of listening again. And as the years would come it would lead him to places he never knew. And even more places inside his mind. Maybe he had had to reach a place, a threshold of despair for him to let the voice come again. Maybe he didn’t think he needed it any more. Maybe his ego kept it away.
But even though the soundless voice had never left.
There were to come many nights in empty motel rooms when he would sit within his thoughts. A mirror would catch his eye and he would try to stare into his eyes. But he would look away, as if he was looking into a lie.
The road would lead him to places that lived inside of him. It was only time that kept them away. A predestination from the day he was born waiting until he was made ready. Until he made a choice that seemed so simple to him, but yet to others and some they saw it different.
It wasn't until years later when fear raced through his heart and the thought first entered that he had seen things different from others.
He had sat in the rooms and heard the scattered noises. Had first saw a bundle wrapped. A child whose heart had beat too fast and they tried to slow it, but had given too much, which they did not know. And so the bundle laid upon a child’s bed for all in the room to see. No one talked about it, but it seemed they all saw.
A nurse would catch him staring at the bundle and asked, “as long as it’s not your child”. Before he could stop himself he would say “yes”. He had tried to correct the word, but she was gone.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Many wide steps descend from Prague Castle. About of the third way down is a very small structure. It is closed and locked. It’s window boarded shut. But many years ago it was a tavern. A place where three, maybe four, could sit inside. People would come with small cushions, buy a glass of pilsner and sit on the steps. Some conversing, others in silence looking down to the city below. After awhile you could watch as It’s lites would begin to turn on.
There is a church there where it is hard to tell where marble ends and painting begins. I had studied it for quite some time, but there were still places on the ceiling I could not find the transition.
Walking the streets and back streets of Prague is hard to describe, but they seem to lead you to places you need to go.
Behind the castle is a summerhouse. It stands at the end of a large garden. Sitting on one of its benches in silence you can feel the presents of a small child. Someone who is watched after, but let to play inside the walls. He seemed to be alive inside his innocents and his thoughts were that of wonder. He seemed to climb the trees and run and hide among the flowers and hedges.
There were times he would sit and listen to its sounds. Maybe a bird, maybe a breeze as it gently moved his hair. Maybe he could hear the river below. Maybe people talking as they walked on the other side of the wall. Maybe he wondered who they were, or why he couldn’t be with them.
The world was his to discover, it all seemed so new.
The mind has a way of thinking of things and understanding things that don’t seem to be a part of the things our eyes see. I wonder who the small boy was. I wonder who the small boy in the tree house was. Maybe somewhere in the back streets of towns and cities that are rarely visited come forth these things. Or maybe it is traveling in the darkness of night.
And so it was on the train back to Munich I saw the ghost rider again. He was still on his way to Prague. Still scared. It was as if he was caught in some eternal movement that would not let him free. Or maybe was it that whenever we move or think we leave a trace behind. Like tracks in the snow. Only waiting for us to return.
There is a church there where it is hard to tell where marble ends and painting begins. I had studied it for quite some time, but there were still places on the ceiling I could not find the transition.
Walking the streets and back streets of Prague is hard to describe, but they seem to lead you to places you need to go.
Behind the castle is a summerhouse. It stands at the end of a large garden. Sitting on one of its benches in silence you can feel the presents of a small child. Someone who is watched after, but let to play inside the walls. He seemed to be alive inside his innocents and his thoughts were that of wonder. He seemed to climb the trees and run and hide among the flowers and hedges.
There were times he would sit and listen to its sounds. Maybe a bird, maybe a breeze as it gently moved his hair. Maybe he could hear the river below. Maybe people talking as they walked on the other side of the wall. Maybe he wondered who they were, or why he couldn’t be with them.
The world was his to discover, it all seemed so new.
The mind has a way of thinking of things and understanding things that don’t seem to be a part of the things our eyes see. I wonder who the small boy was. I wonder who the small boy in the tree house was. Maybe somewhere in the back streets of towns and cities that are rarely visited come forth these things. Or maybe it is traveling in the darkness of night.
And so it was on the train back to Munich I saw the ghost rider again. He was still on his way to Prague. Still scared. It was as if he was caught in some eternal movement that would not let him free. Or maybe was it that whenever we move or think we leave a trace behind. Like tracks in the snow. Only waiting for us to return.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
On the train to Prague there is a two-lane road that from time to time parallels the tracks. When it did looking out the window I saw the ghost rider. He was scared, as the road had leaded him to a place unexpected.
That first night in the Czech Republic he stop at a restaurant with rooms on the second floor. He did not speak their language and neither did they speak his.
The owner guided him to the back of the building and had him park his motorcycle, off to the side, in the kitchen. He was shown a second floor room and noticed they all were empty. Sitting at a table they brought him food and drink. No words were spoken, but everything understood. Later, he had sat in his room looking out and wondered why the road had changed.
He had been stopped at the border behind a few kilometers of cars. It had only just recently been opened. People were bringing in things they couldn’t get before.
The fear was almost overwhelming, what could be learned there that couldn’t be learned in a safer place. The bike began overheating as it always did if it idled too long.
He had come a long way to be at this place and time. He had heard the soundless voice telling him there was nothing to worry about. Still he did not completely trust it.
It was a country he had heard about, but did not know. He didn’t know the place, the sounds. The Russians had controlled it since WWII. It was part of the Eastern Block. How could it be safe he had wondered.
It was then, he had taken a deep breath and felt the fear that was trying to engulf him. The bike slid into first and started forward. He had slowly driven on the side passing the others and then stopped at the crossing.
The border patrol had been amazed to see someone with US California plates. The passport was carefully studied and stamped. Looking at him, he could see their minds thinking things he could not know. After pausing for a moment or two they sent him on his way. He had then known the road would lead to Prague.
That first night in the Czech Republic he stop at a restaurant with rooms on the second floor. He did not speak their language and neither did they speak his.
The owner guided him to the back of the building and had him park his motorcycle, off to the side, in the kitchen. He was shown a second floor room and noticed they all were empty. Sitting at a table they brought him food and drink. No words were spoken, but everything understood. Later, he had sat in his room looking out and wondered why the road had changed.
He had been stopped at the border behind a few kilometers of cars. It had only just recently been opened. People were bringing in things they couldn’t get before.
The fear was almost overwhelming, what could be learned there that couldn’t be learned in a safer place. The bike began overheating as it always did if it idled too long.
He had come a long way to be at this place and time. He had heard the soundless voice telling him there was nothing to worry about. Still he did not completely trust it.
It was a country he had heard about, but did not know. He didn’t know the place, the sounds. The Russians had controlled it since WWII. It was part of the Eastern Block. How could it be safe he had wondered.
It was then, he had taken a deep breath and felt the fear that was trying to engulf him. The bike slid into first and started forward. He had slowly driven on the side passing the others and then stopped at the crossing.
The border patrol had been amazed to see someone with US California plates. The passport was carefully studied and stamped. Looking at him, he could see their minds thinking things he could not know. After pausing for a moment or two they sent him on his way. He had then known the road would lead to Prague.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
There is a room; its walls are covered in fabric. Some has come from the old shops in the middle of Cairo. Some from down the street. From the ceiling hangs cloth, sew together it forms a canopy. During the day small lite filters through the thin material covering the windows. When a breeze gently moves it, it seems as if the room is breathing. The floor is covered with many different rugs, one from the northern Sahara.
There is a writer’s table in the corner. It came from a trade, but you can feel its presents. What words have been written on it are not known, but they are now part of it, just like van Gogh self-portrait. Since inside the room there have been very few words written on it, but it seems that will change.
There is a rocker that Sarah’s grandfather use to sit on and a small table by its side. Coffee and raw cream is sipped mostly on Saturday morning and other mornings when work can wait. And then sometimes in the evening with a glass of wine.
On rare occasions a candle is lite. It is in the darkness that calmness comes. It is always there and waits patiently for new thoughts to come.
There is a writer’s table in the corner. It came from a trade, but you can feel its presents. What words have been written on it are not known, but they are now part of it, just like van Gogh self-portrait. Since inside the room there have been very few words written on it, but it seems that will change.
There is a rocker that Sarah’s grandfather use to sit on and a small table by its side. Coffee and raw cream is sipped mostly on Saturday morning and other mornings when work can wait. And then sometimes in the evening with a glass of wine.
On rare occasions a candle is lite. It is in the darkness that calmness comes. It is always there and waits patiently for new thoughts to come.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Cyprus groves and eucalyptus trees grow easily just north of Bolinas bay. Highway 1 thins as it moves through 13 turns. There is a small church that still has a outhouse. Fog covers the area during much of the summer, but at times gives way to bright blue skies. Matt had come with me when I was working there at the old church and he walked through the very small cemetery behind. There was a rumor of a mass grave of Indians being buried there, small pox to blame. I remember watching him move in and out between the tombstones. He never said much, but his mind was always thinking. It was in this place overlooking the bay and smelling the trees my foot pushed a shovel into the earth.
Redwood sawdust floated through the air. Boards are cut at 45-degree angles then glued and screwed together, forming a small rectangle. The bottom is attached.
More dirt is removed from the earth.
A small bag of ashes is inserted. The top enclosed them in. Screw holes are plugged and sanded.
My son took his last breath in his mothers’ arms. Then holding him, I could feel his warmth fading. It was like a dimmer switch slowly turning out a light. And then I didn’t feel his presents inside his body anymore.
It was at his funeral people, some of which I did not know, would stand up crying and tell their stories of Matt. It amazed me how he had affected so many. This small boy of almost nine had done something I had not realized before, he had touched other people the way he had touched me. A girl in his class said, “he never pulled my hair”. There were few words I could say, only just, “thank you for caring”. I remember staring into a fire that night, the void had come and would never go away.
Slowly the wooded box was laid in the three-foot deep hole. Dirt was dropped back in. Stepping in to compact the soil. The task was repeated over and over until it was done.
So from the first moment of laying eyes Matt, to the last bit of laying dirt over him, came the time when there was nothing left to do.
Redwood sawdust floated through the air. Boards are cut at 45-degree angles then glued and screwed together, forming a small rectangle. The bottom is attached.
More dirt is removed from the earth.
A small bag of ashes is inserted. The top enclosed them in. Screw holes are plugged and sanded.
My son took his last breath in his mothers’ arms. Then holding him, I could feel his warmth fading. It was like a dimmer switch slowly turning out a light. And then I didn’t feel his presents inside his body anymore.
It was at his funeral people, some of which I did not know, would stand up crying and tell their stories of Matt. It amazed me how he had affected so many. This small boy of almost nine had done something I had not realized before, he had touched other people the way he had touched me. A girl in his class said, “he never pulled my hair”. There were few words I could say, only just, “thank you for caring”. I remember staring into a fire that night, the void had come and would never go away.
Slowly the wooded box was laid in the three-foot deep hole. Dirt was dropped back in. Stepping in to compact the soil. The task was repeated over and over until it was done.
So from the first moment of laying eyes Matt, to the last bit of laying dirt over him, came the time when there was nothing left to do.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
There were words spoken that I should never had said to my wife. They started a conflict that would take many years to resolve. And maybe it’s still not completely overcome. My wife and I could raise children and build houses together, but somewhere in there, at the last hours of an evening we would find ourselves in separate rooms.
Looking back it was no one’s fault. But I blamed her for things that I shouldn’t have. And so my words fanned the fire of conflict which born confusion and anger.
There was a time I blamed others for my son’s death, but I was wrong. When a small vial of heparin appeared it shook me from a dream. For Matt was on it during that last night before all things changed.
I wanted things to be different, but they weren’t and so anger engaged and raged inside, and then came forth the words that I should not have said. Other words would follow in the years to come, but now they are no more. There was no one to blame, no one to be angry with. Just because I thought certain thoughts and made judgments I came to believe were true, did not make them so.
There are people I have hurt, for this I am deeply sorry. Maybe there are words that could justify it, but I will not try to find them. Maybe it is to honor the past and learn from it, but to not live in it. But also to remember how I still love the ones I have loved before. It seems because a relationship ends and communication ceases we forget. But I would not be here in this time and place if it wasn’t for them.
Looking back it was no one’s fault. But I blamed her for things that I shouldn’t have. And so my words fanned the fire of conflict which born confusion and anger.
There was a time I blamed others for my son’s death, but I was wrong. When a small vial of heparin appeared it shook me from a dream. For Matt was on it during that last night before all things changed.
I wanted things to be different, but they weren’t and so anger engaged and raged inside, and then came forth the words that I should not have said. Other words would follow in the years to come, but now they are no more. There was no one to blame, no one to be angry with. Just because I thought certain thoughts and made judgments I came to believe were true, did not make them so.
There are people I have hurt, for this I am deeply sorry. Maybe there are words that could justify it, but I will not try to find them. Maybe it is to honor the past and learn from it, but to not live in it. But also to remember how I still love the ones I have loved before. It seems because a relationship ends and communication ceases we forget. But I would not be here in this time and place if it wasn’t for them.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
There is a opera house in Paris. Walking through its’ doors there are steps that lead you into the past. Within its corridors are the voices of long since gone. There are the seats of dignitaries and the aristocrats. How many generations have taken their seats, how many governments have come and gone. How many performers have brought smiles and tears. How many have come before us. How many more will come again.
There are small circular rooms at the end of some corridors. They transition the corridors at ninety-degree angles. Mounted on its’ curved walls are four straight flat mirrors two each opposite the other. When standing in the center the reflection as it almost disappears into infinity seems to distort time and place.
A few days before in Amsterdam I watched in amazement and wonderment when the first violinist become one with his instrument. There were a few around him struggling to keep up. You could see it on their faces, but on his was a smile. The intricate movements of his fingers and hands seemed simple and delicate. His body moved with the violin in a way that it was difficult to see where the two ended and where they begun.
It was staring at van Gogh self-portrait; I could feel my skin tingling. Somehow he had entered into the paint and became one with it. His intensity radiated out and penetrated my being.
All these things and many others I glazed upon wondering how life was so different now. The transition was still taking place and would continue even to the present moment.
It had started when my son stopped breathing. It was then I began to understand the impact it would have. For all the choices and decisions were made for what was best for him and no one else. In those following hours and days I could feel my life dissolving. It was a new feeling, as if watching from a distance of a world changing. Maybe it would have been possible to stop it back then, but I chose not to, unable to lie to myself any longer.
It would take many years to have some sort of normal life again, but even this is mostly seen from the outside. For the transition is ever changing. It quietly shows a continuing different way of looking on and understanding the world. It has taken many steps so far and after awhile you forget some of the ones taken. It is only when something happens and a memory comes back of how you use to respond, do you understand what has been learned.
The feeling that was once new and the discomfort that it brought has seemed to fade away. But I know it has become a part of me now and flows through my veins with every breath.
There are small circular rooms at the end of some corridors. They transition the corridors at ninety-degree angles. Mounted on its’ curved walls are four straight flat mirrors two each opposite the other. When standing in the center the reflection as it almost disappears into infinity seems to distort time and place.
A few days before in Amsterdam I watched in amazement and wonderment when the first violinist become one with his instrument. There were a few around him struggling to keep up. You could see it on their faces, but on his was a smile. The intricate movements of his fingers and hands seemed simple and delicate. His body moved with the violin in a way that it was difficult to see where the two ended and where they begun.
It was staring at van Gogh self-portrait; I could feel my skin tingling. Somehow he had entered into the paint and became one with it. His intensity radiated out and penetrated my being.
All these things and many others I glazed upon wondering how life was so different now. The transition was still taking place and would continue even to the present moment.
It had started when my son stopped breathing. It was then I began to understand the impact it would have. For all the choices and decisions were made for what was best for him and no one else. In those following hours and days I could feel my life dissolving. It was a new feeling, as if watching from a distance of a world changing. Maybe it would have been possible to stop it back then, but I chose not to, unable to lie to myself any longer.
It would take many years to have some sort of normal life again, but even this is mostly seen from the outside. For the transition is ever changing. It quietly shows a continuing different way of looking on and understanding the world. It has taken many steps so far and after awhile you forget some of the ones taken. It is only when something happens and a memory comes back of how you use to respond, do you understand what has been learned.
The feeling that was once new and the discomfort that it brought has seemed to fade away. But I know it has become a part of me now and flows through my veins with every breath.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Ron was driving his old ford van as we headed south. It was a desolate road on the western end of Wyoming that hugged the Rockies. A few days earlier we stood on the very top of Rainier. It was the climax of five days of learning how to climb and respect mountains. Rainier is the highest elevation in the lower 48 some practice for Everest there.
Our guide started by teaching us how to walk and breath. One step forward, one breath, lock the knee and rest for a second, then the next breath and foot, lock and rest. Slow but with it you could climb great heights in a days’ time. We tied on our crampons and started at 6,000 feet. He told us to look up and all around, to see and witness the beauty of the mountain above tree line. Slowly the climbing turned into a rhythm, as our eyes were bathed in white and wonder. By days end we were at 10,000 feet, Camp Muir.
The following days were filled learning how to stop if falling down the steep grade, building ice caves for survival and climbing vertical ice walls. But most important was learning how to climb in teams of six or seven. Roped together about 15 feet apart the six or seven became one. We learned how to scream “falling” if we were, so the remaining would drop and slam their ice axes deep, into the ice and snow, bringing all to a stop. For if the last one fell and said nothing there was a good chance a domino effect would rapidly begin and they could end up in a crevice. Some of which we saw were 100’s of feet deep.
There were a couple of times at the end of the day; I would sit with the guide. We would face west to the Pacific Ocean down below and talk. One evening the others were in the cabins and the sun was setting. I told him that I didn’t understand why when a small group of people forms there seems to be some sort of jostling for social hierarchy. It seemed he didn’t understand either. But something happen the next day for the jostling faded away. We all seem to became one.
The guide would walk us over distance and crevices. He would poke his ice axe in front of him making sure it was just not a thin covering and we would follow.
The last night before the 4,400’ vertical rise to the top we talked again. He told me how the clouds and skies we had for the past days were most unusual. Rainier has the most snowfall in the lower states, but yet the skies had been crystal clear. He then told me I had what it takes to be a guide. It was a most wonderful thought. We watched the skies begin to darken and then he said; there would come a time when the mountain will drop you to your knees. Then in all the sorrow and sadness it would be up you to rise again, to change and live on with the experience or stay on your knees and dwell in depression.
We rose at 2:30 am. With headlights we started in the darkness. The rhythm followed. Looking up the steep incline my fellow men and women climbing were high above me. We watched the sun rise around 12,000 feet. It came across the ice lighting our faces. And we looked higher.
That day every one made it to the top. Ron and I walked across the crater, to the tiny peak. There was nothing above us but sky. Everything else was below. We saw into Canada, the Pacific Ocean, south to Oregon, and east toward Idaho. Ron & I hugged each other and had our picture taken.
All these things were in our minds traveling south in the old ford van. The evening had turned to night when looking out the windshield a very large brilliant star raced across the dark sky, splitting in two it traveled in different directions, seconds later, gravity landed both on the face of the earth.
We looked at each other and said nothing. There was a wonderful smile on Ron’s face. And then in the silence we looked back to the road again.
Our guide started by teaching us how to walk and breath. One step forward, one breath, lock the knee and rest for a second, then the next breath and foot, lock and rest. Slow but with it you could climb great heights in a days’ time. We tied on our crampons and started at 6,000 feet. He told us to look up and all around, to see and witness the beauty of the mountain above tree line. Slowly the climbing turned into a rhythm, as our eyes were bathed in white and wonder. By days end we were at 10,000 feet, Camp Muir.
The following days were filled learning how to stop if falling down the steep grade, building ice caves for survival and climbing vertical ice walls. But most important was learning how to climb in teams of six or seven. Roped together about 15 feet apart the six or seven became one. We learned how to scream “falling” if we were, so the remaining would drop and slam their ice axes deep, into the ice and snow, bringing all to a stop. For if the last one fell and said nothing there was a good chance a domino effect would rapidly begin and they could end up in a crevice. Some of which we saw were 100’s of feet deep.
There were a couple of times at the end of the day; I would sit with the guide. We would face west to the Pacific Ocean down below and talk. One evening the others were in the cabins and the sun was setting. I told him that I didn’t understand why when a small group of people forms there seems to be some sort of jostling for social hierarchy. It seemed he didn’t understand either. But something happen the next day for the jostling faded away. We all seem to became one.
The guide would walk us over distance and crevices. He would poke his ice axe in front of him making sure it was just not a thin covering and we would follow.
The last night before the 4,400’ vertical rise to the top we talked again. He told me how the clouds and skies we had for the past days were most unusual. Rainier has the most snowfall in the lower states, but yet the skies had been crystal clear. He then told me I had what it takes to be a guide. It was a most wonderful thought. We watched the skies begin to darken and then he said; there would come a time when the mountain will drop you to your knees. Then in all the sorrow and sadness it would be up you to rise again, to change and live on with the experience or stay on your knees and dwell in depression.
We rose at 2:30 am. With headlights we started in the darkness. The rhythm followed. Looking up the steep incline my fellow men and women climbing were high above me. We watched the sun rise around 12,000 feet. It came across the ice lighting our faces. And we looked higher.
That day every one made it to the top. Ron and I walked across the crater, to the tiny peak. There was nothing above us but sky. Everything else was below. We saw into Canada, the Pacific Ocean, south to Oregon, and east toward Idaho. Ron & I hugged each other and had our picture taken.
All these things were in our minds traveling south in the old ford van. The evening had turned to night when looking out the windshield a very large brilliant star raced across the dark sky, splitting in two it traveled in different directions, seconds later, gravity landed both on the face of the earth.
We looked at each other and said nothing. There was a wonderful smile on Ron’s face. And then in the silence we looked back to the road again.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
When the hatched closed the engines fired. The small Lear jet was packed. Two pilots, a doctor, nurse, but the respiratory therapist was the most nervous. I sat in a small chair next to my son lying on a stretcher.
It had been almost a month since the incidence. Paul had helped me through the reality of what had happened. We first knew him as Doctor, but as the years went on, we came to call him Paul. From the beginning he was very clear and recommended giving Matt back. He told us we had no idea what was to come and looking back he was right, for if we did maybe we would have changed our minds. We did not like him then, but that was to change and fade away, for without Paul we would not have been able to give our son the life he had. That first visit at UCSF Paul shocked us and made us cry, he held back nothing. It was only when I asked him what were the chances Matt would live to be 20? When he said 50/50, I found the baseline I could live with.
Maybe I was blind, maybe I was only looking for some sort of an answer I could live with, because I knew deep inside of me, I could never give back my son. There was nothing that could or would stand in my way, there was no comprise in this.
-----------------------
The movement of the bike was calming. It kept me sane.
There was a place when the road was threatening rain, the bike stopped.
Inside was a mom and pop gas station/restaurant, but this time it was a young couple. He worked in the back on car repairs and other things of men. She took the orders, cooked and served the food. He had grease and oil on his hands and arms. She talked to the people coming in and going out, he talked to ones in the back room. She ran the register and collected the money. He would look on her from time to time thinking she did not see him. It was as I was leaving, we talked about the weather, it was then she paused and looked out across the counter through the large plate glass window into the storm that may come, and I can still see her eyes when she said, “but aren’t the clouds beautiful”.
-------------------------
The small door to the cockpit was open as we flew westward. You could see out the front windows into the clouds and sky. My left hand rested on Matt and he was calm. There was something soothing with the vibrations of the engines. The space inside was full, no room for anything else. The thoughts inside my mind were going over what was to come and things that I would do.
We landed at SFO and taxied to a remote place were an ambulance waited. The respiratory therapist hurried the transfer. I asked the doctor to come. Somewhere along the way the RT asked the driver to hit the lights. The elevator took us to the floor and the room in the ICU was waiting.
I stood there watching as they took Matt in, it was then a young doctor came to me and asked something, the words I didn’t hear as tears filled my eyes, there were no words I could have said, for there was nothing left to do, for now.
It had been almost a month since the incidence. Paul had helped me through the reality of what had happened. We first knew him as Doctor, but as the years went on, we came to call him Paul. From the beginning he was very clear and recommended giving Matt back. He told us we had no idea what was to come and looking back he was right, for if we did maybe we would have changed our minds. We did not like him then, but that was to change and fade away, for without Paul we would not have been able to give our son the life he had. That first visit at UCSF Paul shocked us and made us cry, he held back nothing. It was only when I asked him what were the chances Matt would live to be 20? When he said 50/50, I found the baseline I could live with.
Maybe I was blind, maybe I was only looking for some sort of an answer I could live with, because I knew deep inside of me, I could never give back my son. There was nothing that could or would stand in my way, there was no comprise in this.
-----------------------
The movement of the bike was calming. It kept me sane.
There was a place when the road was threatening rain, the bike stopped.
Inside was a mom and pop gas station/restaurant, but this time it was a young couple. He worked in the back on car repairs and other things of men. She took the orders, cooked and served the food. He had grease and oil on his hands and arms. She talked to the people coming in and going out, he talked to ones in the back room. She ran the register and collected the money. He would look on her from time to time thinking she did not see him. It was as I was leaving, we talked about the weather, it was then she paused and looked out across the counter through the large plate glass window into the storm that may come, and I can still see her eyes when she said, “but aren’t the clouds beautiful”.
-------------------------
The small door to the cockpit was open as we flew westward. You could see out the front windows into the clouds and sky. My left hand rested on Matt and he was calm. There was something soothing with the vibrations of the engines. The space inside was full, no room for anything else. The thoughts inside my mind were going over what was to come and things that I would do.
We landed at SFO and taxied to a remote place were an ambulance waited. The respiratory therapist hurried the transfer. I asked the doctor to come. Somewhere along the way the RT asked the driver to hit the lights. The elevator took us to the floor and the room in the ICU was waiting.
I stood there watching as they took Matt in, it was then a young doctor came to me and asked something, the words I didn’t hear as tears filled my eyes, there were no words I could have said, for there was nothing left to do, for now.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Many years ago one of my brothers once asked, "what happened in the room". The room of Matt's last days he was talking about. For a change had occurred, but it wasn’t until years later I realized what it was. It seems it began a month before the last days. Two months earlier, just after Christmas of 1990, Matt was admitted with a lung infection. That night I watched as the situation deteriorated and the next day he was put on a vent. (A tube down his throat that breathed for him.) A few days later he was making headway on the infection, when he came very close to coding, something, with the all surgeries and months of hospital stays, he had never done before. His kidneys started shutting down and we would have to wait it out, until they started up again.
There is a room down the hall from the ICU where parents sleep. Sometimes in the middle of the night a nurse would come in searching for someone who’s child had taken a turn not expected. I would always hear the handle turn and the door open and then wait and hope they weren’t looking for us.
Two months had past, his infection had been gone for a while and the kidneys were working fine now. There was joy late that night; the vent will be pulled tomorrow and so we went to bed.
Later that night the knob slowly turned and the door open, she came to us.
Tests confirmed the greatest of fears; a massive bleed, a stroke, it didn’t matter what it was called. Looking at the MRI there was much more black and very little brain left. It had destroyed his ability to move, talk or see, maybe he was able to hear we did not know. The only reason he was alive was the vent. But he was still there; I could feel him, inside his useless body. The monitor would show from time to time his blood pressure rising. I would hold and talk to him and the pressure would come down. This boy of almost nine trusted me with his life. The thought had never occurred to me---- we had spent, since the first time our eyes laid on him, giving him the best life he could have.
It would have been easier to keep him in his room playing with his toys. But we bought him a bike. I wanted him to feel the air flowing through his hair as I did many years before. I would carry him on my back down to the beach. For Halloween we would transport him from house to house in the wheelbarrow. He would get upset coming home from school and finding the clues that Kim had played in his closet with his toys. There was a time he was angry with Kim because she didn’t have a heart like his. With the four of us there, I told him it wasn’t Kim fault, nor his fault or his mothers’ or mine. But we were all a part of it and we would all get through it together.
In the middle of the night, he would sometime crawl into bed with us. I remember lying there with my arm around him. At the end of each day I would recite The Night Before Christmas. Kim would be on my left Matt on the right as we lay in bed. There was once a time in the wee hours of a morning I was feeding Kim her bottle, the wood stove dimly lite the room, there was a peaceful feeling. Matt came from his room and climbed upon my lap and slept. And so I rocked and rocked the two of them, I would like to be there now.
The thought and realization of my son being trapped inside a worn out body and the fear he would have, was unbearable. Then came the thought never before thought of. In the mist of it all I found myself in a place and time sitting in silence, as all things seemed to moving around me without the feeling of time or understanding. Looking, staring at my son’s body lying on a bed, as a machine breathed for him, tears came from my eyes in the hidden darken spaces I had found, in the hallways of hospitals and ICU’s.
It seems now that it was a physical change that took place inside the molecular makeup of my being when my purpose changed from that of giving Matt the highest and greatest quality of life to that of ending it.
There is a room down the hall from the ICU where parents sleep. Sometimes in the middle of the night a nurse would come in searching for someone who’s child had taken a turn not expected. I would always hear the handle turn and the door open and then wait and hope they weren’t looking for us.
Two months had past, his infection had been gone for a while and the kidneys were working fine now. There was joy late that night; the vent will be pulled tomorrow and so we went to bed.
Later that night the knob slowly turned and the door open, she came to us.
Tests confirmed the greatest of fears; a massive bleed, a stroke, it didn’t matter what it was called. Looking at the MRI there was much more black and very little brain left. It had destroyed his ability to move, talk or see, maybe he was able to hear we did not know. The only reason he was alive was the vent. But he was still there; I could feel him, inside his useless body. The monitor would show from time to time his blood pressure rising. I would hold and talk to him and the pressure would come down. This boy of almost nine trusted me with his life. The thought had never occurred to me---- we had spent, since the first time our eyes laid on him, giving him the best life he could have.
It would have been easier to keep him in his room playing with his toys. But we bought him a bike. I wanted him to feel the air flowing through his hair as I did many years before. I would carry him on my back down to the beach. For Halloween we would transport him from house to house in the wheelbarrow. He would get upset coming home from school and finding the clues that Kim had played in his closet with his toys. There was a time he was angry with Kim because she didn’t have a heart like his. With the four of us there, I told him it wasn’t Kim fault, nor his fault or his mothers’ or mine. But we were all a part of it and we would all get through it together.
In the middle of the night, he would sometime crawl into bed with us. I remember lying there with my arm around him. At the end of each day I would recite The Night Before Christmas. Kim would be on my left Matt on the right as we lay in bed. There was once a time in the wee hours of a morning I was feeding Kim her bottle, the wood stove dimly lite the room, there was a peaceful feeling. Matt came from his room and climbed upon my lap and slept. And so I rocked and rocked the two of them, I would like to be there now.
The thought and realization of my son being trapped inside a worn out body and the fear he would have, was unbearable. Then came the thought never before thought of. In the mist of it all I found myself in a place and time sitting in silence, as all things seemed to moving around me without the feeling of time or understanding. Looking, staring at my son’s body lying on a bed, as a machine breathed for him, tears came from my eyes in the hidden darken spaces I had found, in the hallways of hospitals and ICU’s.
It seems now that it was a physical change that took place inside the molecular makeup of my being when my purpose changed from that of giving Matt the highest and greatest quality of life to that of ending it.
Friday, May 28, 2010
During the time of disappearance there was movement. The powerful engine of the bike would travel many, many miles. With the movement came intense isolation. And so came fear, never thought of before thoughts, deep desire to understand the things that were happening, self-doubt, anger, no maps or time, little sleep, and in the end bitter cold.
Before it started there had been the unbelievable realization that the life I had built, in all the past years, with the foundation and beliefs under it, the things in the deepest part of my mind that had given me the ability to judge the world and all things in it, was no longer there.
It had slowly melted away as the days turned into weeks and then into the last eight months before. The last and only anchor was my six-year-old daughter, for there was nothing else. Emptiness and confusion consumed me.
The bike stopped where US-395 meets I-40. It was mid-November. To the west was a road back home, to a life I did not know any longer. To the east was into the unknown. I began to cry. Who would ever understand my actions when I didn’t understand them, myself? Would anyone forgive me? I did not know.
With tears slowly streaming down my face I turned into the unknown.
For it seemed that Matt was a small stone thrown high into the air above a clear smooth lake. A majestic splash jettisons into the air and the ripples follow and flow in wonderful movement and dance and then disappear into the shore.
Before it started there had been the unbelievable realization that the life I had built, in all the past years, with the foundation and beliefs under it, the things in the deepest part of my mind that had given me the ability to judge the world and all things in it, was no longer there.
It had slowly melted away as the days turned into weeks and then into the last eight months before. The last and only anchor was my six-year-old daughter, for there was nothing else. Emptiness and confusion consumed me.
The bike stopped where US-395 meets I-40. It was mid-November. To the west was a road back home, to a life I did not know any longer. To the east was into the unknown. I began to cry. Who would ever understand my actions when I didn’t understand them, myself? Would anyone forgive me? I did not know.
With tears slowly streaming down my face I turned into the unknown.
For it seemed that Matt was a small stone thrown high into the air above a clear smooth lake. A majestic splash jettisons into the air and the ripples follow and flow in wonderful movement and dance and then disappear into the shore.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
5/25 10:09 am
Late July of 85 things had calmed down.
The nights and weekend house, the first house, had been finished eight months before. That first morning after, lying in bed not wanting to open my eyes, for the fear it was only a dream. It had been a marathon and now finally the hours were paid back to Frankie for helping me.
Still working at Skywalker; now on the punch list of the main house. None of the other carpenters’ had wanted the manuscript.
Matt had grown into the band on his pulmonary artery. His breathing had slowed and was gaining weight.
It was a Saturday night, Matt was sleeping, we had just started watching a movie, when the phone rang. The doctor on the other end asked if we wanted a baby girl less than 24 hours old. One of the letters had just kicked in.
So we loaded the four door civic and headed to southern California, on the 101, in the darkness of the night. Matt sleeping in the back. Somewhere my eyes would not stay open. We slept on the side of the road until the sun appeared. Stopping at a gas station we washed our faces and changed our clothes. With the facade of confidence we walked into the hospital just north of Santa Barbara.
The baby’s mother had kept it a secret, even from the parents she was living with. How, I still do not know to this day. No one knew until the time had come. They went to a hospital that didn’t give birth anymore. Scrabbling they hurriedly went into the closets that had been closed and pulled out the discarded things that were now needed.
Another couple had been called first, but it was not to be. And so we walked into the room and met her mother, the one who had given her life, the one that from the beginning knew she would give up her daughter she so deeply loved, to a couple she did not know, that could give her baby the care she could not. And so I went silent again.
It was years later I could again tell her of the praise I felt for her.
The three of us were tired and now there were four. Placing Kim on the motel bed my wife and I watched, as our daughter breathing was barely noticeable. There was not the slightest hint of blueness around her nose. She drank from the bottle in the easiest sort of way.
My wife and I put away our differences, looked at each other smiling and agreed we could take care of five or six like Kim.
Late July of 85 things had calmed down.
The nights and weekend house, the first house, had been finished eight months before. That first morning after, lying in bed not wanting to open my eyes, for the fear it was only a dream. It had been a marathon and now finally the hours were paid back to Frankie for helping me.
Still working at Skywalker; now on the punch list of the main house. None of the other carpenters’ had wanted the manuscript.
Matt had grown into the band on his pulmonary artery. His breathing had slowed and was gaining weight.
It was a Saturday night, Matt was sleeping, we had just started watching a movie, when the phone rang. The doctor on the other end asked if we wanted a baby girl less than 24 hours old. One of the letters had just kicked in.
So we loaded the four door civic and headed to southern California, on the 101, in the darkness of the night. Matt sleeping in the back. Somewhere my eyes would not stay open. We slept on the side of the road until the sun appeared. Stopping at a gas station we washed our faces and changed our clothes. With the facade of confidence we walked into the hospital just north of Santa Barbara.
The baby’s mother had kept it a secret, even from the parents she was living with. How, I still do not know to this day. No one knew until the time had come. They went to a hospital that didn’t give birth anymore. Scrabbling they hurriedly went into the closets that had been closed and pulled out the discarded things that were now needed.
Another couple had been called first, but it was not to be. And so we walked into the room and met her mother, the one who had given her life, the one that from the beginning knew she would give up her daughter she so deeply loved, to a couple she did not know, that could give her baby the care she could not. And so I went silent again.
It was years later I could again tell her of the praise I felt for her.
The three of us were tired and now there were four. Placing Kim on the motel bed my wife and I watched, as our daughter breathing was barely noticeable. There was not the slightest hint of blueness around her nose. She drank from the bottle in the easiest sort of way.
My wife and I put away our differences, looked at each other smiling and agreed we could take care of five or six like Kim.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
5/24 10:29 pm
Just past the Y on the miracle mile west of San Rafael, was a small burger shop. A mom and pop with a few booths and a couple of new arcade machines. My wife and I would sometimes take our son there. They had great burgers and fries. Matt and I would play the space invaders. He would have one control and I the other. It is rather difficult, but great fun.
One of the times we were there and on the invaders waiting for burgers, turning around to look at Gina, I saw Lucas and Ronstadt. He and I had seen each other before. He was building his complex just north of San Rafael and I was working with other carpenters trimming out the main house. Linda wore no make-up and very few knew his face. There were no entourages, no chauffeurs or fancy clothes.
Their eyes watched as my son and I played together. It had been the same with my youngest brother. The pinball machines in Broad Ripple lite up his eyes as he played one button and I the other.
They stared as Matt and I played. He seemed to be a man of few words. Their privacy was respected, there were no words spoken. It seemed they wanted to be a part of the world that had lead them on their journey, but somehow the world wanted to change them. He was just a man and she was just a woman. Maybe they wanted to play space invaders with each other.
He told his stories through movies and she told hers’ through songs. The things they had thought of in the middle of the wee hours of the night, I do not know. But it seemed to me, at that moment and point in time and place, in that little restaurant they just wanted to be like us, again.
Just past the Y on the miracle mile west of San Rafael, was a small burger shop. A mom and pop with a few booths and a couple of new arcade machines. My wife and I would sometimes take our son there. They had great burgers and fries. Matt and I would play the space invaders. He would have one control and I the other. It is rather difficult, but great fun.
One of the times we were there and on the invaders waiting for burgers, turning around to look at Gina, I saw Lucas and Ronstadt. He and I had seen each other before. He was building his complex just north of San Rafael and I was working with other carpenters trimming out the main house. Linda wore no make-up and very few knew his face. There were no entourages, no chauffeurs or fancy clothes.
Their eyes watched as my son and I played together. It had been the same with my youngest brother. The pinball machines in Broad Ripple lite up his eyes as he played one button and I the other.
They stared as Matt and I played. He seemed to be a man of few words. Their privacy was respected, there were no words spoken. It seemed they wanted to be a part of the world that had lead them on their journey, but somehow the world wanted to change them. He was just a man and she was just a woman. Maybe they wanted to play space invaders with each other.
He told his stories through movies and she told hers’ through songs. The things they had thought of in the middle of the wee hours of the night, I do not know. But it seemed to me, at that moment and point in time and place, in that little restaurant they just wanted to be like us, again.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
5/23 9:05 pm
Ron, Dave and myself were standing on the roof of Briscoe. An eleven-story dorm on the far north end of Indiana University. Our self-made waist harnesses strapped on. Ron threw the rope throw over as he usually did. We had attached it to a cast iron vent pipe and made sure it touched the ground. With carabiner in hand we prepare to clip on.
Ron first introduced rappelling to us on a long wooded train trestle with two lookouts in southern Indiana. It was high above a valley, at least 120 feet. Dave and I watched in amazement as Ron tied the rope off on one of the lookouts, threw it over and locked on. He climbed over the railing, planting his feet firmly on the edge and stretching his backside way out, he looked at us, smiled and said, “bye, bye”. He simultaneous kicked off and released the rope. Instantly he dropped from sight. Quickly we looked over and saw he was having the time of his life.
Dave climbed over the railing and away he when. Locked on I slowly climbed under the railing. And very gingerly slid off. Free of the bridge, dangling and swaying side to side, gently lowering the rope, slowly I descended. Gaining confidence, I dropped faster and faster. There was nothing but exhilaration touching the earth.
Preparing for the second descent we all stopped dead at the same moment, the sound of a distant train. Ron ordered us to tie ourselves to the railing as the sound amplified by the second. Quickly we move away from the tracks and did what he told us. The entire trestle started vibrating the moment the train hit the crossing and continue escalating. Five feet from the tracks we sat gripping the rope as displaced air and momentum hit us before the train crossed at 80mph. Gear blew off to the valley below as the rope held us in place. Breathing was hard as steel and tornado wind roared by. Holding on the sound was deafening. Vibration continued until the train was on dirt again. We sat in silence catching our breath.
So we would practice from time to time on trestles and southern cliffs of Indiana. Ron would always go first, but now standing on the roof, I asked to flip for it.
We had spent the 72 -73-school year on the same 4th floor in Briscoe. Ron left after the first semester, it seemed Vietnam was calling him, but it wasn’t to be. He entered into the local union electrician apprenticeship in Evansville. Dave and I dropped out at the end of the year. That fall we traveled into New England with great plans of riding our bikes from Miami to Key West. But in Boston our car was stolen and our plans changed.
Dave was back in school.
When the union carpenter apprenticeship entered my world, in early 74, it was intoxicating. From the world of words to the world of hands on material that produced the things we need to live, to survive. For if there is no roof over our heads, to keep out the rain, how far have we come as a civilization.
And so Ron, as he had showed me things I had never seen before or thought of, said “yes”. The coin fell in my favor. Locking on, standing on the ledge, jabbing my heals onto the edge, my backside eleven stories high, I looked at Ron smiling and said, bye, bye. Kicking off and dropping from sight I heard, “ass hole”.
There were no better words; I could have ever hope for.
Ron, Dave and myself were standing on the roof of Briscoe. An eleven-story dorm on the far north end of Indiana University. Our self-made waist harnesses strapped on. Ron threw the rope throw over as he usually did. We had attached it to a cast iron vent pipe and made sure it touched the ground. With carabiner in hand we prepare to clip on.
Ron first introduced rappelling to us on a long wooded train trestle with two lookouts in southern Indiana. It was high above a valley, at least 120 feet. Dave and I watched in amazement as Ron tied the rope off on one of the lookouts, threw it over and locked on. He climbed over the railing, planting his feet firmly on the edge and stretching his backside way out, he looked at us, smiled and said, “bye, bye”. He simultaneous kicked off and released the rope. Instantly he dropped from sight. Quickly we looked over and saw he was having the time of his life.
Dave climbed over the railing and away he when. Locked on I slowly climbed under the railing. And very gingerly slid off. Free of the bridge, dangling and swaying side to side, gently lowering the rope, slowly I descended. Gaining confidence, I dropped faster and faster. There was nothing but exhilaration touching the earth.
Preparing for the second descent we all stopped dead at the same moment, the sound of a distant train. Ron ordered us to tie ourselves to the railing as the sound amplified by the second. Quickly we move away from the tracks and did what he told us. The entire trestle started vibrating the moment the train hit the crossing and continue escalating. Five feet from the tracks we sat gripping the rope as displaced air and momentum hit us before the train crossed at 80mph. Gear blew off to the valley below as the rope held us in place. Breathing was hard as steel and tornado wind roared by. Holding on the sound was deafening. Vibration continued until the train was on dirt again. We sat in silence catching our breath.
So we would practice from time to time on trestles and southern cliffs of Indiana. Ron would always go first, but now standing on the roof, I asked to flip for it.
We had spent the 72 -73-school year on the same 4th floor in Briscoe. Ron left after the first semester, it seemed Vietnam was calling him, but it wasn’t to be. He entered into the local union electrician apprenticeship in Evansville. Dave and I dropped out at the end of the year. That fall we traveled into New England with great plans of riding our bikes from Miami to Key West. But in Boston our car was stolen and our plans changed.
Dave was back in school.
When the union carpenter apprenticeship entered my world, in early 74, it was intoxicating. From the world of words to the world of hands on material that produced the things we need to live, to survive. For if there is no roof over our heads, to keep out the rain, how far have we come as a civilization.
And so Ron, as he had showed me things I had never seen before or thought of, said “yes”. The coin fell in my favor. Locking on, standing on the ledge, jabbing my heals onto the edge, my backside eleven stories high, I looked at Ron smiling and said, bye, bye. Kicking off and dropping from sight I heard, “ass hole”.
There were no better words; I could have ever hope for.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
5/23 11:20 am
The voice on the other end of the line was silent. The young woman had given birth to a boy three days before. A few hours later he started turning blue. He was transported to the medical facility at UC Davis. It was there, they discovered the wall separating the ventricles of his heart was missing.
My wife and I went to see him there. It had been many years since walking into such a place. Entering into the room lying in a tall crib was the boy. His head was covered with, what seemed like, a clear plastic cake dome. There was a large U-shape mouse hole cut out, which slipped around his neck. Oxygen was pumped inside.
Once they removed it and sat him up, there was no going back. The bond was instant and the feeling to protect and care for this child was overwhelming.
We had given the young woman financial assistance the last months of her pregnancy. I spoke first and her silence began to fade.
It seems that a woman who has the presents of understanding, they are unable to care for the child they love so dearly and makes the choice for the child and not themselves is something I have great admiration and honor for. It makes me go silent with deep appreciation. If I was in their place, would I be able to make the same choice. I do not know.
We met her at Davis with a few of her relatives. Watching her look at her baby, you could see how she loved her child, her baby boy. She asked what we would name him. My wife had picked out Matthew and told her so. The woman smile, so too was the name she would have given him.
And so the child became our son.
The voice on the other end of the line was silent. The young woman had given birth to a boy three days before. A few hours later he started turning blue. He was transported to the medical facility at UC Davis. It was there, they discovered the wall separating the ventricles of his heart was missing.
My wife and I went to see him there. It had been many years since walking into such a place. Entering into the room lying in a tall crib was the boy. His head was covered with, what seemed like, a clear plastic cake dome. There was a large U-shape mouse hole cut out, which slipped around his neck. Oxygen was pumped inside.
Once they removed it and sat him up, there was no going back. The bond was instant and the feeling to protect and care for this child was overwhelming.
We had given the young woman financial assistance the last months of her pregnancy. I spoke first and her silence began to fade.
It seems that a woman who has the presents of understanding, they are unable to care for the child they love so dearly and makes the choice for the child and not themselves is something I have great admiration and honor for. It makes me go silent with deep appreciation. If I was in their place, would I be able to make the same choice. I do not know.
We met her at Davis with a few of her relatives. Watching her look at her baby, you could see how she loved her child, her baby boy. She asked what we would name him. My wife had picked out Matthew and told her so. The woman smile, so too was the name she would have given him.
And so the child became our son.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
May 20th 6:26 pm
Removing the mass was a relatively minor operation. The next week was preparing for the next phase much different from the first. Spreading, it would enter into the lymph glands and nodes that were on the front side of the spine.
A twelve-hour operation with two teams and an incision starting just below the heart traveling down, five inches past the navel.
Waking up there was white light, desert mouth and intense pain. There was no liquid they would give. Morphine slowly cascaded from shoulders to arms. ed Unable to raise my head, a hand investigated the incision, there seemed to be a harden cast covering the entire abdomen.
There was a stomach pump, it seems the intestines do not like to be touched by human hands and so they cease to function. It was expected, nothing to worry about. Until the days had passed longer than they wished.
Patience worn off. They pulled the tube and started feeding me. My parents had stayed in the two-bed room. Other patients would come and go on the other side of the drawn curtain. At night dad slept in a chair by the bed and mom down the hall in a waiting room. It was a time they could go home and get some sleep.
There was pain I told the nurses, only gas they said. Eat and you will feel better. When it was vomited up, they came in with a narcotic cocktail that I have no words to describe. The cascade came as it usually did, but with much more intensity. It had been maybe three weeks and I looked like death warmed over, with the cocktail there was total peace and calm.
My mother had told me, when she was bleeding profusely during one of her miscarriages and had lost so much blood she was unable to move. “If the building was to burn there was nothing I could do”, she said. Completely helpless. And so it was.
In the days to come, there was muffled talk in the hallway. They may have to go back in.
But yet it was not to be.
Just short of a month I was driven home. Before my weight was 140, leaving it was 115, arms blue and black from blood draws and the steel IV needles they don’t use today.
The cancer was not to show it’s face again, but as the years began to blend into one another it became self evident that I would never have a child of my own.
Removing the mass was a relatively minor operation. The next week was preparing for the next phase much different from the first. Spreading, it would enter into the lymph glands and nodes that were on the front side of the spine.
A twelve-hour operation with two teams and an incision starting just below the heart traveling down, five inches past the navel.
Waking up there was white light, desert mouth and intense pain. There was no liquid they would give. Morphine slowly cascaded from shoulders to arms. ed Unable to raise my head, a hand investigated the incision, there seemed to be a harden cast covering the entire abdomen.
There was a stomach pump, it seems the intestines do not like to be touched by human hands and so they cease to function. It was expected, nothing to worry about. Until the days had passed longer than they wished.
Patience worn off. They pulled the tube and started feeding me. My parents had stayed in the two-bed room. Other patients would come and go on the other side of the drawn curtain. At night dad slept in a chair by the bed and mom down the hall in a waiting room. It was a time they could go home and get some sleep.
There was pain I told the nurses, only gas they said. Eat and you will feel better. When it was vomited up, they came in with a narcotic cocktail that I have no words to describe. The cascade came as it usually did, but with much more intensity. It had been maybe three weeks and I looked like death warmed over, with the cocktail there was total peace and calm.
My mother had told me, when she was bleeding profusely during one of her miscarriages and had lost so much blood she was unable to move. “If the building was to burn there was nothing I could do”, she said. Completely helpless. And so it was.
In the days to come, there was muffled talk in the hallway. They may have to go back in.
But yet it was not to be.
Just short of a month I was driven home. Before my weight was 140, leaving it was 115, arms blue and black from blood draws and the steel IV needles they don’t use today.
The cancer was not to show it’s face again, but as the years began to blend into one another it became self evident that I would never have a child of my own.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The last few days I have been struggling. It seems that in order to continue I must face a deep fear of mine. Last night a story that I have always kept hidden and seem to never tell, except to lovers, I begin writing. It is the story of a time when I was 17. It altered the many years not yet come. It was a physical change that came over me, through surgery. And it has taken me to places and given me relationships that I never would have had. Through the physical came the thoughts that never would have come. Looking back I can see why it all needed to happen. But as I was experiencing them, there were times of great happiness and then there were times of eminence sadness. In the times of sadness there would sometimes come confusion within a void of understanding. And in some ways maybe it was always the Plan.
Now in the last few weeks, with sitting again in the sounds, the smells, the sights, but most importantly, the deep interior of my being, the fear has seem to fade. So I will tell the story of how my life was alter and how it’s direction was changed for the first time.
9:14 pm 5/18/10
My father was sitting next to me. There were two maybe three days left of my junior year of high school. The last days of the preceding January my grandmother who had been living with us passed away. Looking back all these years from now, I see that her death was the beginning of a chain of events that would be invisible to the eye, but yet the years would reveal.
My father was silent and so was I. We were just north of 16th street at a “urology” office. A word I had not heard of until a few days before.
Just after my grandmother died I noticed one of my testicles was beginning to grow larger than the other. No one I told, there was no pain. It was months later when its’ size could not be denied, I told my father.
The doctor called me in, it didn’t take long, a flashlight in a darken room. He sent me out and called in my father. I heard them talking in muffled sound. My father came out slowly. He was looking at the floor when he told me, that the following Monday I would be expected and they would be waiting to admit me to begin the process of removing the cancer.
Now in the last few weeks, with sitting again in the sounds, the smells, the sights, but most importantly, the deep interior of my being, the fear has seem to fade. So I will tell the story of how my life was alter and how it’s direction was changed for the first time.
9:14 pm 5/18/10
My father was sitting next to me. There were two maybe three days left of my junior year of high school. The last days of the preceding January my grandmother who had been living with us passed away. Looking back all these years from now, I see that her death was the beginning of a chain of events that would be invisible to the eye, but yet the years would reveal.
My father was silent and so was I. We were just north of 16th street at a “urology” office. A word I had not heard of until a few days before.
Just after my grandmother died I noticed one of my testicles was beginning to grow larger than the other. No one I told, there was no pain. It was months later when its’ size could not be denied, I told my father.
The doctor called me in, it didn’t take long, a flashlight in a darken room. He sent me out and called in my father. I heard them talking in muffled sound. My father came out slowly. He was looking at the floor when he told me, that the following Monday I would be expected and they would be waiting to admit me to begin the process of removing the cancer.
Monday, May 17, 2010
May 15th 9:07pm
Between the late 1950’s through the mid 60’s periodically my parents on a Friday night would load us into the Ford wagon and make the four-hour drive to Evansville. My mother was born there, as were all but one of us. We lived there until I was three.
As a small boy at night I would sometimes lie on my parents’ bed and follow the lights as they moved across the walls and ceiling, from the cars that drove by on Riverside drive. There was a fireplace in their second floor bedroom and a closet you could walk through to another bedroom in which I slept with some of my brothers and sisters.
In the middle of the night I would walk through this opening and climb in bed with my parents. This would happen on most nights until it was time for my younger sister to have her turn.
My father had found work in central Indiana and would leave on Sunday night and returned late the following Friday night. My mother told me many years later I would run in circles when he would leave. I do remember the chocolates with caramel wrapped in silver he would bring back.
It was in the late 50’s we moved to his work. And so we would return from time to time to visit our only Grandmother and my mothers’ two brothers Joe and Louis and their families.
There were times I would study the pair of pocket doors that were between the living and dining rooms. The doors had a full wall on each side. I would wonder what kind of magical things were hidden as I tried to peek inside the walls. I was intrigued by the button when pushed would slide out a handle on the edge of the doors. How the curved astragals from each door would come together inside each other so you couldn’t see light in between when closed.
There were steam radiators under the low windows on the south side of the dining room. When we would sit at the table it always seemed like one of us would fall back in our chair and hit our head against them. Crying would be involved.
But it was the dining room table that seemed to draw us all together. It had come from my Great Great Grandfathers’ furniture shop. He had been a 49er. It took him six years to find enough gold to start the shop and business in Evansville.
The table is round when closed. Then pulls apart. When adding the five leaves it creates a place of gathering and sharing. On some Saturday nights we would all be together, my uncles, aunts and cousins.
Lilly was my grandmothers’ helper and had been with her for decades. Someone told me she was the first black lady in Evansville to own her own home. She would bring us wonderful meals she had prepared from scratch. She didn’t talk much as I remember, but you would never cross her. We were taught to obey our elders, which Lilly was certainly one.
As we enjoyed our food we would listen to our parents’ and grandmother’s conversations.
When the meal was over we would play and explore throughout the large house. But there were times I would slip way from my cousins, brothers and sisters, as we traversed the stairwells of the basement, second floor and sometimes the attic of 1119 Riverside Drive.
I would sneak into a darkened kitchen and peak through it’s door into the lighted dining room and watch my grandmother, my parents, aunts, uncles and maybe my oldest sister and brothers sitting around the table speaking. Sometimes they would laugh; sometimes they would speak of their parents, sometimes of the things that were happening in the world. Most things they talked about I did not understand, but I did know that a day would come when I would sit at the table, of the 49er with my uncles Louis and Joe, my parents and their parents and the ones I have never met.
Between the late 1950’s through the mid 60’s periodically my parents on a Friday night would load us into the Ford wagon and make the four-hour drive to Evansville. My mother was born there, as were all but one of us. We lived there until I was three.
As a small boy at night I would sometimes lie on my parents’ bed and follow the lights as they moved across the walls and ceiling, from the cars that drove by on Riverside drive. There was a fireplace in their second floor bedroom and a closet you could walk through to another bedroom in which I slept with some of my brothers and sisters.
In the middle of the night I would walk through this opening and climb in bed with my parents. This would happen on most nights until it was time for my younger sister to have her turn.
My father had found work in central Indiana and would leave on Sunday night and returned late the following Friday night. My mother told me many years later I would run in circles when he would leave. I do remember the chocolates with caramel wrapped in silver he would bring back.
It was in the late 50’s we moved to his work. And so we would return from time to time to visit our only Grandmother and my mothers’ two brothers Joe and Louis and their families.
There were times I would study the pair of pocket doors that were between the living and dining rooms. The doors had a full wall on each side. I would wonder what kind of magical things were hidden as I tried to peek inside the walls. I was intrigued by the button when pushed would slide out a handle on the edge of the doors. How the curved astragals from each door would come together inside each other so you couldn’t see light in between when closed.
There were steam radiators under the low windows on the south side of the dining room. When we would sit at the table it always seemed like one of us would fall back in our chair and hit our head against them. Crying would be involved.
But it was the dining room table that seemed to draw us all together. It had come from my Great Great Grandfathers’ furniture shop. He had been a 49er. It took him six years to find enough gold to start the shop and business in Evansville.
The table is round when closed. Then pulls apart. When adding the five leaves it creates a place of gathering and sharing. On some Saturday nights we would all be together, my uncles, aunts and cousins.
Lilly was my grandmothers’ helper and had been with her for decades. Someone told me she was the first black lady in Evansville to own her own home. She would bring us wonderful meals she had prepared from scratch. She didn’t talk much as I remember, but you would never cross her. We were taught to obey our elders, which Lilly was certainly one.
As we enjoyed our food we would listen to our parents’ and grandmother’s conversations.
When the meal was over we would play and explore throughout the large house. But there were times I would slip way from my cousins, brothers and sisters, as we traversed the stairwells of the basement, second floor and sometimes the attic of 1119 Riverside Drive.
I would sneak into a darkened kitchen and peak through it’s door into the lighted dining room and watch my grandmother, my parents, aunts, uncles and maybe my oldest sister and brothers sitting around the table speaking. Sometimes they would laugh; sometimes they would speak of their parents, sometimes of the things that were happening in the world. Most things they talked about I did not understand, but I did know that a day would come when I would sit at the table, of the 49er with my uncles Louis and Joe, my parents and their parents and the ones I have never met.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
May 14th, 2010 10:47 am
Late summer of 1960 I entered the first grade.
The road was gravel that took us to our three-bedroom one bath home on about three acres. Woods were to the west with an old horse barn at its end. A basketball hoop was raised on its outside. We learned to play on dirt and grass surrounded by corn and soybean fields.
As the seasons went by and the corn grew tall, we wouldn’t be able to see the very few farms across the fields, until the harvest came. Sometimes the farmers would lift me up onto their large tractors and combines and I would ride with them for a while. It made my mother nervous, but it was a wonderful world. To watch from plowing to harvest was intoxicating.
The full basement was a Godsend. There were ten of us kids then; the eleventh would arrive spring of ‘66. Privacy was hard to find.
My older brothers and dad had built a tree house adjacent to the barn. The eighteen-foot rope ladder was hard to climb, but it led to a magical world. A place of innocence and thoughts of the things the future might bring. I would sit up there for hours by myself and cast out over the fields and trees in the distance. Rising above them all was the wooden water tower in the small town three miles away.
You would hear a train in the distance from time to time. I imagined walking down its wooden tracks and iron rails with a girl my age, someone I did not know, but someone who lived inside of me. Walking hand in hand without saying a word, for there were no words to say. It was an innocent relationship for the world did not have a part in it. So we would just walk with no destination in mind, for just being together and holding hands was more than enough.
The tree house is gone now. I drove by many years ago and saw it was slowing falling, slowly returning to the soil from where it had come. But it does not matter for I still climb the rope ladder. Still sit on the wooden boards high above the ground and gaze into the distance and hear a train from time to time.
Late summer of 1960 I entered the first grade.
The road was gravel that took us to our three-bedroom one bath home on about three acres. Woods were to the west with an old horse barn at its end. A basketball hoop was raised on its outside. We learned to play on dirt and grass surrounded by corn and soybean fields.
As the seasons went by and the corn grew tall, we wouldn’t be able to see the very few farms across the fields, until the harvest came. Sometimes the farmers would lift me up onto their large tractors and combines and I would ride with them for a while. It made my mother nervous, but it was a wonderful world. To watch from plowing to harvest was intoxicating.
The full basement was a Godsend. There were ten of us kids then; the eleventh would arrive spring of ‘66. Privacy was hard to find.
My older brothers and dad had built a tree house adjacent to the barn. The eighteen-foot rope ladder was hard to climb, but it led to a magical world. A place of innocence and thoughts of the things the future might bring. I would sit up there for hours by myself and cast out over the fields and trees in the distance. Rising above them all was the wooden water tower in the small town three miles away.
You would hear a train in the distance from time to time. I imagined walking down its wooden tracks and iron rails with a girl my age, someone I did not know, but someone who lived inside of me. Walking hand in hand without saying a word, for there were no words to say. It was an innocent relationship for the world did not have a part in it. So we would just walk with no destination in mind, for just being together and holding hands was more than enough.
The tree house is gone now. I drove by many years ago and saw it was slowing falling, slowly returning to the soil from where it had come. But it does not matter for I still climb the rope ladder. Still sit on the wooden boards high above the ground and gaze into the distance and hear a train from time to time.
Friday, May 14, 2010
May 14th, 4:49am
During the spring of 87 Matt was in school and my daughter was not yet two. I was in the process of building the big house. It was the second, but this time it wasn’t nights and weekends. My brother Joel had come and help me pour the foundation on Christmas Eve. In California you build for earthquakes so it’s 1/2” steel and concrete. It was a long day, but we finished by the time the sun was down. Then my wife came and got me. The kids were sleeping and it was time to wrap presents.
The floor joist had been rolled and blocked. Sub-floor glued and nailed down. My wife helped me stand up the walls with jacks. Frankie came back and helped me with the roof framing. 1/2” plywood had been nail on and now it was the time for the squares and squares of roof shingles. One shingle at a time. It seems to take the longest, but it is one of the most important, when you are building a house.
We were living in a 28’ trailer next to the house in process. A steel container held our household belongings. I had built a small shed for the icebox and washer and dryer.
There was a small closet inside the trailer, turned into a caged bed for Kim, but she seemed to escape from time to time.
So I was trying to fight the boredom of shingles on the top of this roof and concentrate on the importance of this part of construction when I heard a voice. It was a small voice, but one that I knew well.
Looking over the roof hip to the ladder laid against the gutter, there was my daughter on the top run looking at me. Her bottle in one hand as she held on with the other.
As my heart raced, I slowly stood and begin talking to her gently. She was 12 feet high as I was 40 feet from her. So we talked a little as what seemed like eternity as I casually moved toward her. She put the bottle to her mouth and held it by her teeth.
Finally reaching her, I picked her up and held her in my arms. She did not know the relief I felt, but it was not important. After a few moments I took her to the ridge, to the top of the roof and we sat down. We looked out over trees and land. We talked about being in a place where few people sit. Tomales bay was to the south and the Inverness hills climbed on the other side.
The time was quiet. It was peaceful. A time to show my daughter things she had not seen before. Later we talked about be careful, that maybe next time just call and I will come get her. But with wonder, and wanting to be with each other you end up looking on things you did not see before.
During the spring of 87 Matt was in school and my daughter was not yet two. I was in the process of building the big house. It was the second, but this time it wasn’t nights and weekends. My brother Joel had come and help me pour the foundation on Christmas Eve. In California you build for earthquakes so it’s 1/2” steel and concrete. It was a long day, but we finished by the time the sun was down. Then my wife came and got me. The kids were sleeping and it was time to wrap presents.
The floor joist had been rolled and blocked. Sub-floor glued and nailed down. My wife helped me stand up the walls with jacks. Frankie came back and helped me with the roof framing. 1/2” plywood had been nail on and now it was the time for the squares and squares of roof shingles. One shingle at a time. It seems to take the longest, but it is one of the most important, when you are building a house.
We were living in a 28’ trailer next to the house in process. A steel container held our household belongings. I had built a small shed for the icebox and washer and dryer.
There was a small closet inside the trailer, turned into a caged bed for Kim, but she seemed to escape from time to time.
So I was trying to fight the boredom of shingles on the top of this roof and concentrate on the importance of this part of construction when I heard a voice. It was a small voice, but one that I knew well.
Looking over the roof hip to the ladder laid against the gutter, there was my daughter on the top run looking at me. Her bottle in one hand as she held on with the other.
As my heart raced, I slowly stood and begin talking to her gently. She was 12 feet high as I was 40 feet from her. So we talked a little as what seemed like eternity as I casually moved toward her. She put the bottle to her mouth and held it by her teeth.
Finally reaching her, I picked her up and held her in my arms. She did not know the relief I felt, but it was not important. After a few moments I took her to the ridge, to the top of the roof and we sat down. We looked out over trees and land. We talked about being in a place where few people sit. Tomales bay was to the south and the Inverness hills climbed on the other side.
The time was quiet. It was peaceful. A time to show my daughter things she had not seen before. Later we talked about be careful, that maybe next time just call and I will come get her. But with wonder, and wanting to be with each other you end up looking on things you did not see before.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
May 9th, 2010
Looking through the large glass window at the far end of the ICU (intensive care unit) there was a door. It had no locks, no handles. It opened when someone pushed a metal square button located on the wall. After someone passed through the opening, it would stay opened for a while and I would be able to see into a room. It did not have access from hallways and main corridors. Only from the ICU and the nurse’s station could you enter.
It made me think about how things change when I enter an ICU. It’s second nature now. My mind goes on high alert and my eyes scan the walls and windows that see through to the beds and people that rest upon them. I can feel my mind feel things that are happening around me, without my eyes seeing them. How the feeling and understanding becomes dormant when I leave after the event is over. Only to reemerge when I enter again.
The open door letting me see into the unseen room closes and waits until the button is pushed. Maybe it is like a part of my mind that lives inside the ICU, for it is during these times the world stops, time alters and most things are turned to thought.
And as with the door closing, as with me exiting, the feeling waits until it is needed again.
But this time I do not wish to let the door close. I want to disconnect the power supply so it cannot close. Maybe it is time to let the feelings and understanding and new ideas and thoughts to live with me outside the ICU.
So maybe this is a new beginning to a life that has seen many things, experienced birth and death and many things in between. I have been afraid to write about many of them, but now the fear has seemed to fade away. Maybe by writing I might understand them more clearly, for there is much confusion in my mind.
To write about the things that have made me laugh and made me cry could lead me to places I do not know, but maybe we will find them together.
Brian
Looking through the large glass window at the far end of the ICU (intensive care unit) there was a door. It had no locks, no handles. It opened when someone pushed a metal square button located on the wall. After someone passed through the opening, it would stay opened for a while and I would be able to see into a room. It did not have access from hallways and main corridors. Only from the ICU and the nurse’s station could you enter.
It made me think about how things change when I enter an ICU. It’s second nature now. My mind goes on high alert and my eyes scan the walls and windows that see through to the beds and people that rest upon them. I can feel my mind feel things that are happening around me, without my eyes seeing them. How the feeling and understanding becomes dormant when I leave after the event is over. Only to reemerge when I enter again.
The open door letting me see into the unseen room closes and waits until the button is pushed. Maybe it is like a part of my mind that lives inside the ICU, for it is during these times the world stops, time alters and most things are turned to thought.
And as with the door closing, as with me exiting, the feeling waits until it is needed again.
But this time I do not wish to let the door close. I want to disconnect the power supply so it cannot close. Maybe it is time to let the feelings and understanding and new ideas and thoughts to live with me outside the ICU.
So maybe this is a new beginning to a life that has seen many things, experienced birth and death and many things in between. I have been afraid to write about many of them, but now the fear has seemed to fade away. Maybe by writing I might understand them more clearly, for there is much confusion in my mind.
To write about the things that have made me laugh and made me cry could lead me to places I do not know, but maybe we will find them together.
Brian
May 12th, 5:57 am
Heading south on the Point Reyes – Petaluma road just past the reservoir there is a three way stop. Straight leads to Olema or San Rafael depending which way you turn at the T. To the right is a curvy, winding, two lane road that has little traffic. It follows a small stream that rages after a winters’ storm. It flows into Tomales Bay and then into the Pacific. The road ends on California highway 1, just north of Point Reyes Station.
It was the late summer of 1990. I was sitting in a brand new 3/4 ton pick-up. Under its’ hood was an engine almost as powerful as god. The sun was shining, no fog today. It was late afternoon. I turned to the right.
Looking at my eight-year-old son, I told him to put on his seat belt. He paused for a second wondering what was to come. His belt clicked in, as did mine.
Sliding in Billy Joel, I turned up the volume until it was blasting. We looked at each other and then straight-ahead. Grabbing the wheel tightly, I floored it!!!!. The acceleration jammed us back into our seats. Our adenine and hearts raced. The turns I had come to know quickly jerked us from side to side. Holding onto the wheel the truck held the curves at speeds I had not taken before. Half way through I caught a glimpse of my son. His eyes wide open staring straight to the road with a smile and wonderment that I can still see to this day.
It was over, what seemed like, before it had begun. I turned down the volume. We both took deep breaths and begin to relax. Looking at each other, “maybe we shouldn’t tell your mom about this”.
He nodded.
I believe I took his hand as we drove slowly the last half-mile home.
Heading south on the Point Reyes – Petaluma road just past the reservoir there is a three way stop. Straight leads to Olema or San Rafael depending which way you turn at the T. To the right is a curvy, winding, two lane road that has little traffic. It follows a small stream that rages after a winters’ storm. It flows into Tomales Bay and then into the Pacific. The road ends on California highway 1, just north of Point Reyes Station.
It was the late summer of 1990. I was sitting in a brand new 3/4 ton pick-up. Under its’ hood was an engine almost as powerful as god. The sun was shining, no fog today. It was late afternoon. I turned to the right.
Looking at my eight-year-old son, I told him to put on his seat belt. He paused for a second wondering what was to come. His belt clicked in, as did mine.
Sliding in Billy Joel, I turned up the volume until it was blasting. We looked at each other and then straight-ahead. Grabbing the wheel tightly, I floored it!!!!. The acceleration jammed us back into our seats. Our adenine and hearts raced. The turns I had come to know quickly jerked us from side to side. Holding onto the wheel the truck held the curves at speeds I had not taken before. Half way through I caught a glimpse of my son. His eyes wide open staring straight to the road with a smile and wonderment that I can still see to this day.
It was over, what seemed like, before it had begun. I turned down the volume. We both took deep breaths and begin to relax. Looking at each other, “maybe we shouldn’t tell your mom about this”.
He nodded.
I believe I took his hand as we drove slowly the last half-mile home.
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