Waiting Time

I’m back home. It’s May and life is beating a march I call normal. I’m no longer subjected to hospital food and life’s mysteries lie beyond the scope of Gameboy sized monitor-boxes linked to Dad's bedside.

My Mysteries all now waltz around a second topic. One I like to call “Let’s get thee published!” Far as that dance goes, STEAMTOPIA RISING is in the arms of an editor. According to my calendar, my baby's been there for quite a while. I’m turning into an unpublished helicopter parent. Is she having fun? Is she getting along? Do they like her? The imagination that created 90,000 words of Rob-lit, is now inhabited by “what-if” tales of abuse.
“You’re too fat!”
“You’re too weird!”
Oh, my baby…Nobody likes editor bullies—and yet, all I can do is wait outside.
And trust.

Editors are good people, after all, and these ones are looking after my baby. They’ll treat her as the princess she is. This isn’t like summer camp. It is finishing school.
So how do I keep from worrying while I wait?
I weep.
But beyond that, I have a list—like any other author-parent—things that keep me from wearing worry lines into the carpet. It goes a little something like this:

1. Catch up on new video games:

  



It's been a while, but I think I can still maneuver my way around a joystick.

2. Invent things:

A new card game or trumping plot lines? Not sure it matters....

Keep creative juices flowing! Whether it’s exciting worlds or board games, I exercise my mind. Fill my idea notebook stores, before  the next idea drought strikes.

 

 

 

3. Discover a world outside my office:

The world in my head isn’t the only world that exist. Twists of subplot turn right outside that door….

   

 

 4. Reintroduce self to family:

You must sacrifice to rejoin our pack.

My cats and wife barely remember who I am. I try reaching out to one member at a time; too many strangers at once could result in brain bends.

 

 5. Plot the next book:

 

Eventually it's time to move on. When waiting for the world outside my head to turn my way I need to move the world inside forward.



That’s how I deal. While we wait for words from my editors, why not tell me how you do it?

The Talk

One of childhood’s least favorite chores is enduring uncomfortable conversations with parents. Fewer conversations are more awkward than that talk about sex—for both sides. I remember my talk. My dad brought out the birds and bees by fingering flowerbed diagrams while we weeded. His deadpan narration tied biology with a slideshow of horror.

Surprise! It’s not just nail-grit that’s going to make you uncomfortable today!

The horrible thing  I didn’t realize then was that this conversation comes back around full circle. It’s right there on page 46 of Dad’s heart surgery recovery book.

“So, Dad, when you and Mom—“ Nope, can’t do it.

Luckily that’s not a conversation I have to have today; Dad barely has the energy to raise his chair. That’s okay, there are plenty of uncomfortable conversations I’ll need to have with both of my parents. Like this gem today:

“Mom, what if the next emergency is worse, or—God forbid—what if you both are hurt. How do we handle your finances, so you don’t have to worry?”

No, I don’t want this talk any more than I wanted Dad to draw dirt vaginas, but here I am. And thank God I get this chance. Serious as a heart attack: what if the surgery had gone wrong, or we hadn’t had the blessing of surgery at all? Would Mom be able to wallow through the day to day of bills and payments? Isn’t that what family is for? To help? But how can I help if I don’t know what to do with what I have?

So I sat with Mom and Dad and asked the hard questions about where things went and what happened next. In my case, I was pleasantly surprised. My parents had all the answers; systems were in place so I could step in, should I need to. That isn’t always the case. I have one friend whose parents left him in the weeds. None of us want to grieve, but questions and surprises only make things harder than the talk we should have had when there’s time.

Thank you, God, for giving us the opportunity to have the talk. Now, next week I’ll fly home to my Queen. My dad is doing better than I could hope. I can trust that he will be fine in Mom’s capable hands. And maybe I can skip that sex talk all together.

Nothing but the Dead of Night back in my Little Town

The last time I was a five-year-old boy, I was five. Since then, I’ve considered myself a forty-plus-year-old man with decades of experience backing a rugged persona. I’m a rock, a man, an island. At least until today.

It started forty-plus years ago on a sunny Arizona afternoon, with a man, a yard and a plot of weeds. I have always hated weeding, but what I remember most about being a kid was kneeling in the soil with my dad. He’d show me how to pull the root while teaching me about life. Don’t tell him, but I was only pretending to listen—to keep from yanking up too many dandelions. Still, somehow those down in the dirt discussions, they stuck.

Like this morning, when I arrive at his hospital bed and he was getting run down a checklist by a horde of anesthesiologists and nurses. “Hi, Dad.” I grinned and reached out with a firm handshake—just like he taught me.

Mom and my sister are there too. I make sure he knows I’m looking out for them. I’ve already talked things over with my Pirate Queen back home: I’m here as long as he needs. “Relax, Dad. I’ve got this.” Because this is all about him, not me. Everyone who walks down the hall is all smiles with something positive to say; He is the man of the hour; it’s not everyday you get a triple bypass and even his prodigal son has returned to see that. It’s what Dad would have done.

“Let me look, did they already shave you?” No, that’s not me, it’s the head nurse.
It doesn’t stop me from quipping “Let’s get a pic for Facebook,” though. Dad would have said  that too, if he weren’t the one in the bed. Well, he wouldn’t have used the word “Facebook.” He’d have said something archaic like, “for posterity.” That’s my dad. He’s like Zeus. He’s immortal and he was here when really old words were invented.

“I think we should call this a rock.” Yeah, he’d think that was funny.

The surgeon ushers us out and we laugh our goodbyes. A nurse tells us this is going to be a six hour operation, so we go have breakfast. Who wants to sit around the waiting room with a bunch of worrying people? That’s depressing. My mom doesn’t need that. She hides it well, but she’s worried sick. So’s my sister. The only reason I recognize this is because I know them well, almost as well as I know my dad.

Over plates of eggs and pancakes we laugh over how Dad is missing out on his favorite foods. “I’ll bet he’d much rather be here!” We laugh. We recant tales of silly Dad pranks, and how he worries over the stupidest things. For my part, I keep the conversation light as I order more coffee and check my watch. I’ll check it again in another five minutes. Why is it moving so slow?

“You sure you want more coffee?”
“Fill ‘er up! Hahaha.”

While mom goes to the bathroom my sister says, “His heart stopped for six-seconds yesterday, Don’t tell mom I told you.”

Well that’s not light and funny. “Thanks for letting me know.” I smile. This is what we do. My job is to hold everything together. Hers is to be empathetic.
After breakfast we return to the hospital and several slow laps of the minute hand sweeping the clock on the wall later, a nurse arrives. “Everything went well, would you like to see him?”
“Yes!” we’re all on our feet.
“It actually turned into a quadruple bypass, so he’s going to be a little groggy, try to let him wake up slowly.”

“Oh good. At least we caught it now.” That’s me, always the optimist.

Mom’s in the room first; my sister’s right behind her. I usher up the rear. The room  is huge! At it’s center is a pale old man, partially covered by a sheet. On his exposed chest, from breast to belly, runs a strap of surgical tape. It barely adheres, like, it too, is appalled by the gash it hides. There are hoses and wires and needles and tape. A myriad of inputs and outputs tethered to an orchestra of surrounding monitor instruments, ready to sound at the slightest discord.

At first I’m confused. Where’s my dad? Then I get it. The frail man, in the bed, that’s him. This is not the immortal Zeus! At that realization, I’m five again. Outside the view of my mom and sister I almost lose it, but choke it down. Those days, knee deep in garden loam, my dad never taught me about this. All I can think is, “You broke my daddy!”

Return to Sender

My bus weaves through the Arizona dark unknown. Muzak "Sounds of Silence," is my soundtrack. Where I go, where I've been, both invisible, but both I know; I've done this trip before, ages ago--going the other way. Back when I was hurtling from, not sloughing toward.

What's changed? Well, I'm older and somewhat educated in the facts and acts of life and mortality. And I got the call from my mom.

 "It's your father...."

Thirty years ago, almost to the day, my dad sat across a diner table from me. "I think you have something you need to ask me."
"I do?" I'm concentrating on making my coffee the color of California sand. I don't need to ask him about that. I still hadn't acquired a taste for bitter black--the way I take it now. In this memory I'm almost 18, young on experience. That's why, even though I know, I don't ask Dad the question he needs to hear. "I dunno what you mean?" Slurp.
Dad gives me a glare that says, liar while also accusing me of being smarter. We've grown up perfecting our wordless language. It's no small part of why I've outgrown this town. I'm moving.
I tap another sugar packet in my coffee.
"How are you getting to the airport?"
There it is. "I'm going to have a friend give me a ride."
"Which one?"
Whichever ride they want to give me. I know better than to say that. "I dunno yet." But I don't need you second guessing my every decision. I'm an adult. I can do this myself.
You're not capable. "I'll drive you." End of story.
"Ok." But when I'm gone, I'll make my own decisions. "Thank you, very much."
You're welcome.

And on that day of liberation, my dad drove me to the airport. My grandmother rode with us. Not for me, but because of a lesson taught to her by experience. Something the language between my father and I couldn't express. My dad lacked the words and I was still too young understand: after 18 years, mine wasn't the only life changing that day. All that interpreted gruff disappointment? That was my dad saying he would miss me and he was proud. I'd gotten our shorthand all wrong. He needed to drive me. He didn't want to say goodbye, but knew it was time.

Thirty years later I've learned this lesson for myself and I'm riding a bus back home, praying it isn't the same message I need share with him right now.

 "It's your father."

Yesterday my mom called. Dad's in the hospital because a routine blood test showed something requiring another doctor to stab a scope from Dad's groin to Dad's heart. That doctor saw something that has the vital protector of my youth fast-track strapped in a rolling bed and scheduled for triple bypass.

After a three-hour Google-fest of surgery research, it takes less than three minutes to hop on Google Flights and grab tickets. Now I'm on a bus home from Sky Harbor Airport. I understand the statistics; ninety-five percent of open heart surgeries are successful, but these "experts" are cracking out the sternum of the man who made me. They want to stop the heart that taught me it's okay to love, so they can sew in veins from my dad's legs. All while a machine shaped like a dorm refrigerator pumps his life's blood.

 Then there's the other five percent....

I told Mom I'm on my way. I said when dad pulls through, I'll help her with his rehabilitation. What I don't tell her is that, like Dad, I have a need to not feel left out, but most of all--God, please no--I need to stop him from leaving without me saying goodbye.

Donations

I'm a charitable guy. I don't always give, or give voluntarily, but my heart lives in a charitable house; the doors are always open. For me, giving is private. I rarely mention that I give at all. Charity is to serve others, not broadcast what a great guy I am.

I have blogs that do that.

In this blog I'll be talking about my great of charity and how wonderfully giving I am.

Last Weekend I gave of Rob twice:

On Saturday, Enchanted Makeovers enjoyed the benefits of my service. If you're unfamiliar with Enchanted Makeovers, let me start by saying they have nothing to do with beauty tips for the home-bound writer. Lord know we writers need such a group, but Enchanted Makeovers is not that charity: these givers heed a different call.

Enchanted Makeovers is a volunteer organization led by Terry Grahl, a focus and force dedicated to enriching lives. Terry's mission is to transform the world, one shelter at a time. She takes the industrial sparse space of a women's shelter and turns it into a welcome environment.

Terry organizes the day

 

A home, where battered and abused women, and their children, can feel safe and nurtured within a network of care. A place to rebuild and restart with skills and training, often offered by Enchanted Makeovers volunteers.

It's not just a paint-job band-aid with a handshake photo op. Terry elevates every aspect of their living conditions: whether it's home made bed covers,

Every donation a message of hope.

 hand built cribs for children, or tables assembled for classrooms.

A space to learn

Every item is personal and donated.

This desk was collected from an old office building.

 If you spend any time with Terry, she'll entertain you the story behind every gift with pride—not in herself, but in the giving spirit of those who gather to her.

Two volunteers at the end of the day.

Thank you Enchanted Makeovers for blessing me with an opportunity to serve.


My second act of giving took place a day later in my own neighborhood. Someone aquired my bank card number and used it for groceries and a nice hotel in Pennsylvania.

Yup, that Rob. He is a giver.

Stars

It's 4/20 everybody. You know what that means!

Yup, that's right! It's the day you all celebrate my anniversary!

WOOT! WOOT!

Three years ago today, The Pirate Queen walked the aisle with a mere mortal punk. My life has not been the same since.  And that's a good thing.

How has it changed?

Well I lost 5 pounds in my diet. Thanks for asking.

I've also lost half my body weight in ego. I am not my sun, I am a circling satellite. Accepting light can come from others is a pretty big thing. Especially for me. I used to be my North Star striving to burn every other world with my radiance.  When I was in school I quit theatre after the epiphany that I was not chiseled from Hollywood lead steel. If I were to continue acting, I would only ever fill the roles labeled "character," not "star."

"The winner for this years best supporting actor is Ro—"
"Screw that, give it to someone who thinks lesser of themselves!"

My ego was brilliant, but the Queen changed that. Yes, you all owe her a great debt.

It's not that I feel smaller or less amazing, it's just that I've found someone who shines brighter, who is more deserving. Someone who makes me want to be accountable.

So today, do what
you do to celebrate us. Party in our honor, and when you do, remember that in her light I'm reflected as a better person. And that's something we can all be thankful for.

Nuts!

Nuts! I screwed up.

I know! I know! I said I'd write every week. I also said I'd prioritize and last week, self pity took the front seat to self-indulgence. Sorry: at least I'm honest.

What ruffled my pity feathers? I blame the Pirate Queen.

The previous Friday she said, "We should diet." When the Queen uses the word "we" it's never figurative and it's results are always expected as immediate. What else is there to say?

"Sure!" Nuts!

I'd like to say I diet strictly to support my wife, but the scale tells a different story. My Queen thinks I should stop cursing when I stomp on the thing and listen to what it's telling me:

GET OFF YOU FAT BASTARD!

I get it. Writers aren't know for their athletic prowess. FINE!

So, last Monday we started our diet. The South Beach Diet to be exact.  Why South Beach? Primarily because I hate diets. I don't believe in them. Diets don't fix the problem, they just attack the symptoms. They're a quick fix that sets you up to fail. The South Beach Diet agrees with me. I find that refreshing.

South Beach approaches weight loss as a lifestyle change. I'm not just changing my now, I'm making choices for the rest of my life.

Alright...

So Monday began stage one of the diet: eliminate sugars. Stage one lasts two weeks allowing for an eventual return of my sweet friends in the distant future. This is just a system cleanse. I get it. I wave goodbye. I know it's not forever. Life was happy and great. That is until Wednesday when I discover a harsh truth: sugar and I have a complex relationship. It's hold is actually pretty strong and it's not going anywhere. I'm not hungry, but...Let's just say, if my sugar addiction and I made a movie, it would be "The Exorcist."

I'll rip the head off of any man who stands between me and a donut.

"The power of South Beach compels you!"

I'm not speaking figuratively either. I really would, if all my carb energy hadn't been depleted by this stupid diet. Oh, I'm not hungry; I can eat all I want—as long as it's the right things.

Nuts.

The power of South Beach depletes you.

 My Queen says, "You're just not eating enough."

Let me tell you something; I'm eating plenty: celery, lettuce, non-fat cheese,  cauliflower. I am one veggie stuffed pepper from sprouting greens. What I'm not getting is my Rob Daily Allowance of  saturated calories slathered in sugary goodness.

And fat.  I miss fat too.

Saturday a commercial for Carl's Jr. came on TV. You know the ones: multiple nearly naked models devouring the burger de jour for 60 seconds of advertising proof that sex sells.

"Really Rob?" My Queen airs her disappointment. "You're going to drool at the girls on TV when I'm sitting right here?"

I blink. "Girls?" All I saw was a jalapeno popper burger. Two fists of burning burger love screaming my name with pleasure. Girls? Sure, I suppose that could have been what Carls used as a pedestal.

Oh jalapeno burger, you will be mine...

My Queen doesn't listen. She's irritated because she'is dieting her own demons. She doesn't crave sugar, but she's missing something and it  makes her snappy. Yes, our house is a house of joy. Come visit, we're a pleasure to be around while we sit across the couch from each other, trying to avoid each others trap-triggers.

"How's this dress look on me?"
"Take that off! You're stretching my clothes again, fat-boy!"

she's getting mean.

So far the only thing I've found  the only joy in my diet day are the nuts. I get one serving daily as a snack. It's great energy before working out. What's more, Trader Joes packages these great individually wrapped servings. It's perfect.  Come mid afternoon, when I feel a little twitchy, I grab the nuts. They calm me down. And this is my life for two weeks.

I'm dieting. I'm nuts. Welcome to my world.