Category Archives: Non-Fiction

BIPOC, Non-Fiction

Special Report: Everything you think you know about Thanksgiving is wrong

Most of us envision a romantic portrayal of Thanksgiving. Pilgrims, seeking freedom, come to the new land, and in peaceful cooperation with the Native Americans carve out a hardscrabble life. After a good harvest in their first year, the Pilgrims invite the local Native Americans for a feast, everyone ate turkey, and all were happy — the end.

There is also a revisionist story to Thanksgiving that the creation of the holiday is a blood-soaked nightmare. After the massacre of Native Americans, it was celebrated annually with a big turkey dinner to give thanks for the divine providence to clear the land of heathens.

Neither of these narratives is correct, and the story lies somewhere between.

The Pilgrim’s trip was financed by business interests who would buy cash crops from the Pilgrims upon the establishment of a colony in the new world, somewhere in the vicinity of modern New York City, south of the 42nd parallel, along the New Jersey coast. The story of that hurricane and the Mayflower almost sinking? True.

The sailing of the Pilgrims was supposed to be on two ships, the Mayflower and the Speedwell. The Speedwell was an unseaworthy wreck and waiting to attempt to repair her resulted in the crossing happening at the height of hurricane season. Instead of 65 onboard, there were 130 along with sheep, dogs, chickens, and goats. The settlers would not have been allowed on deck, so would have spent most of their time in the foul, smoke-filled air, smelling of waste and bilge, in a rolling sea. If it sounds awful, you’re right, it was.

The story of the printing press being used to secure a cracked timber in the Mayflower? Sort of true. A tool called a jackscrew, which is similar in appearance, was used to save the ship.

When the Pilgrims finally landed, they had been blown hopelessly off course and landed on what is today Cape Cod, not Plymouth. They sent a shore excursion and found the native population hostile. The real story is that white traders and fishermen had been coming to the northeast coast for decades to trade, trap, fish, and take slaves.

Realizing they had blown off course and were north of the 42 parallel, they created the Mayflower Compact, a bit of a dubious agreement of self-government with loyalty to the King of England. It was the first Democracy in the new world.

The Mayflower sailed around Cape Cod looking for safe harbor, and they arrived off what is modern-day Plymouth. There is no Plymouth rock (sorry) that the Pilgrims stepped out on, and if there were, centuries of weather would have sent it up onto the shore or back out to the sea. A small party scouted the land, and much to their amazement, found it cleared, developed, and abandoned. They found signs that something catastrophic had happened to the local peoples, including dried corn and meats in crumbling longhouses, and some hurriedly dug graves. They saw this as divine providence that God had cleared this land for them.

What had happened was a great plague had swept North America in the late 1500s, killing about 90% of the population on the continent. It is one of the worst human population die-offs in the history of the world. The common belief is that early whites brought smallpox and other diseases to the land, but that doesn’t hold up to native accounts from countless tribes, including those who never made contact with the whites. They all describe a fever, that is more like a severe virus or flu unique to the continent. No one ever reported the telltale boils of smallpox or the red rash of measles.

Fearful of establishing a colony in a lightly scouted area, the Pilgrims elected to stay on the Mayflower. The conditions were in a word, horrific, and that winter was extremely harsh. Shore excursions could find almost no game, and arriving in October, the growing season in New England had long passed. By March of 1621, only 53 passengers and half the crew were alive. Of those, most were very ill, suffering from scurvy, dysentery, and malnutrition. The Mayflower sailed back to England in April of 1621, taking with it water in its drinking casks instead of beer, which was the chosen drink (even for infants and children). The investors were angry when the Mayflower arrived on its return voyage, empty of any riches from the new land.

Weak, sick, and with little success, the colonists started building their village in Plymouth, under the watchful eye of the Wampanoag and Nauset. The great plague had left only 10% of the Wampanoag and a handful of Nauset as survivors. A debate raged on what to do with these visitors. The warriors advised chief Massasoit to kill them. They were weak, the track record of dealing with whites was bleak, and they could easily crush the colonists. Some debated to leave them alone. Let nature takes its path with the ill-prepared whites slowly dying off. They argued that most of the population was women and children and they appeared to have no understanding of the land.

Massasoit had other problems, enemies laid to the west in the Narraganset, and he had no way to defend his people. The settlers had iron tools, and he felt that an alliance could help protect his people, and they could trade for items. He also thought that it was the moral thing to do.

Much to the colonists’ shock on March 16, 1621, an Eastern Abenaki Native American named Samoset (also spelled Somerset) walked right into the Pilgrim settlement. He said in English, “Hello Englishmen!” He stayed for the night, asking for beer, and told the settlers that he would bring others. The next day they arrived seeking to trade with skins, but being a Sunday, the Pilgrims refused. On March 22, 1621, Samoset returned, with four warriors and Squanto, a Wampanoag.

Squanto is a complex character in this story. Captured along with Samoset by white traders, he was taken in as a slave in England, where he learned English and English customs. Listening to his captors, he discovered they were obsessed with a metal – gold. Squanto hatched a plan to get back home and escape, telling them he knew where gold was in the new world, and he could show them with the help of Samoset. An expedition went back to the northeast coast. At the first opportunity, Samoset and Squanto escaped, and no vast treasure was found.

Squanto and Samoset came back to North America to discover their nations were wiped out by disease, and their people viewing them with distrust. They had not suffered during the last decade, in the minds of the survivors of the plague, while the Wampanoag and Abenaki died. Squanto was never fully trusted for the rest of his days.

Enter the other character in this story, Edward Winslow. During that meeting on March 22, the Wampanoag demanded they receive a hostage before holding talks because they did not trust the whites. After some discussion, Edward Winslow was selected, volunteered, or was voluntold – depending on which account you follow. A peace treaty was negotiated. Squanto was left behind under the guise he would provide aid to the settlers. In reality, he was left behind to serve as a spy for Massasoit.

The story of Squanto teaching the Pilgrims to plant Indian Wheat (corn as we call it today), how to fertilize the soil with fish and lobsters, where and how to hunt the native animals, how to fish the native streams, and identify edible plants are all true. Had Squanto not helped the Pilgrims, the colony would have likely failed by the winter of 1621-22.

The exact date of the first Thanksgiving is not known, but it was in the fall or early winter of 1621. The Pilgrims were in a much better state through the help of Squanto, Massasoit, and the Wampanoag/Nauset. However, the story you were taught in school – not remotely true.

Sometime in the late fall or early winter, a large contingent of the surviving Wampanoag showed up at the Plymouth colony, about 90 to 100 people. The Pilgrims numbered 53 when they made landfall in March of 1621 and had dwindled to 47. So those paintings of lots of Pilgrims and a few Native Americans? Not true.

The Wampanoag brought with them, among other things, five killed deer. For the Pilgrims and English society in 1621, venison was like bring lobster, filet minion, veal chops, and toro sushi all at the same time to someone’s house. The Wampanoag said to paraphrase heavily, “we’re going to have a feast – here.“

The Pilgrims accepted the offer (not that there was much choice), and of course, provided their food to add to the feast. Wild turkey might have been on the menu, but the real food of choice for the first Thanksgiving was – venison. In an ironic twist, the feast went on for three days. The Puritans were against all forms of sin, and a three-day feast of food and alcohol check off the” gluttony” box. In addition, there are reports of gambling, trade, and exchange of stories.

So that is the real story of the first Thanksgiving.

As for celebrations after? They happened sporadically on years of a good harvest. The Wampanoag/Nauset enjoyed an increasingly shaky peace with the settlers until 1674 – just 53 years. By then, all of the surviving original Pilgrims had died. With it, the understanding of the incredible debt owed to the Wampanoag and Chief Massasoit. Boston had grown to the second-largest city in North America, behind New York.

Edward Winslow came to be a trusted friend of Massasoit. In 1623 Massasoit fell gravely ill, possibly from the same illness that killed most of the natives almost two decades earlier. Edward Winslow was sent for by Massasoit, as were other area chiefs, to sit with the sick leader and to be there for his passing. Edward Winslow personally nursed his friend, and Massasoit survived. A bond was formed in the longhouse that would last until Massasoit’s death. Sadly, it would be Massasoit’s son and Winslow’s son that would undo their hard work and lay the foundation for King Phillips War – more on that later.

Ships laden with more settlers arrived almost daily, and Edward Winslow’s son, Josiah, who became governor of the Plymouth Colony, held the native population in contempt. Metacomet, also known as Phillip by his baptized name, was Massasoit’s third son and became the leader of Wampanoag.

In 1671 Josiah humiliated Metacomet forcibly disarming him and his warriors and making them sign a very one-sided treaty. The Wampanoag became subjugated unless they would conscript themselves to “praying towns,” giving up their ways and following both the Christian God and the English ways in all aspects. To meet these requirements, increasing numbers of indigenous peoples moved into “praying towns.”

By 1674 rumors of war swept the land. Fear had grown so large that in December, over 300 Wampanoag and Nauset who were living in praying towns were rounded up. They brought men, women, and children to Deer Island in Boston Harbor. With no food, drinking water, shelter, or way to keep warm, the entire population froze to death.

In 1675, under the orders of Josiah Winslow, three Wampanoag were hung from a tree for the murder of a John Sasamon. No one knows how John died, whether it was murder, an accident, or suicide. Did he fall through the ice of Assawmpset Pond? The trial to this day is considered make-believe, and one of the hanged included a close friend of Metacomet.

In response, Metacomet declared an open guerrilla war on the colonists. Over the next three years, the bloodiest conflict in the continent’s history was fought, with over 10% of the settler population killed and entire towns wiped off the map. There was an open discussion about evacuating the colonies in the early stages of the war due to the ruthless violence of the Wampanoag and supporting tribes.

In the end, Metacoment’s family was murdered, which broke his spirit, and literally, broke him. Despite an offer from the governor of Rhode Island for sanctuary for him and the straggling survivors of his people, he allowed himself to be captured. Metacomet was tried, found guilty of treason, hung, quartered, and beheaded. His head was put on display and left for years. The Wampanoag and their supporters were eradicated. The rest is as they say…history.

Non-Fiction

I went to Ground Zero

This was written in September of 2005. I have made a point to republish this every 9/11.

I arrived in New York City on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The arrival into Newark was anti-climatic after the relatively brief 4-1/2 hour flight from Seattle. I had departed pouring rain and 44 degrees and arrived in pouring rain and 47 degrees. Had I not a sense of space and time I could have easily been convinced I just flew in a big circle and had returned to where I had started. Everything moved quickly for me and in moments I was off the plane, at the taxi stand and on my way to midtown Manhattan. Traffic was light, and a run through the Holland Tunnel got me to my hotel in little more than thirty minutes.

New York City, if you have never been, is overwhelming even for a repeat visitor. You leave the relative quiet of your taxi to be assaulted by sight and sound and a crush of humanity. Even in the pouring rain on a late Saturday afternoon, 42nd Street was awash with people.

That night the temperature plunged, the wind picked up, and the rain turned to stinging sleet and then blinding slow. Reeling from the time zone difference, I found myself wide away at 4:00 AM staring out from the 27th floor into a sea of purple-yellow haze, the lights of the city reflecting off of the swirling curtain of white falling past my window.

On Sunday, I awoke to the blue sky; the first blue sky I had seen in thirty-seven days, with my Seattle home gripped in a miserably wet winter. After completing work at the Jacob Javitz Convention Center, I braved the icy air once again back to my hotel and to make my way to Ground Zero.

I went to the 42nd Street Station and got onto the E Train, which ends at the World Trade Center Station. The subway station was a welcome relief from the chilling wind above with the sounds of soulful Motown blues being sung on the platform by an old man with an alto voice as smooth as warmed brandy worthy of a jazz club.

It is amazing how events like 9/11 crystallize things in your memory. Most Americans can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when they first heard of those awful events. I can remember what I was doing in the days that led up to 9/11.

It was Sunday that I remember vividly. Not an icy Sunday on a New York subway but a warm Sunday in the Cascades along Highway 20 by Lake Ross. I had taken the family out for a weekend camping trip at Diablo Lake. The night before my son and I walked down in the darkness to look up into the night sky and stare at the Milky Way while some owls decided to get into a noisy discussion right over our tent, keeping us up for most of the evening.

We hiked down to Ross Lake and used the phone at the dock to call for a water taxi. Taken across the lake in a spectacular vintage boat we rented a motorboat and headed east and then north up the lake to marvel at the Cascades thrusting up around us. We were the only people we saw that day while on the water, and it was a fantastic weekend trip.

The Subway in New York is an experience in itself. Although much has been made about New York being cleaned up, the smells of humanity hit you from all directions in the dirty cars covered in graffiti. The gentle rocking motion of the subway lulls the passengers to sleep while the homeless curl up in the corners. They pull their jackets over their heads, looking for a shred of privacy from the sea of people around them.

The E Train runs south passing under Tribeca as it makes its way to the Washington Square and ultimately the end of the line at the World Trade Center. As the subway makes successive stops, the number of passengers continues to dwindle until it comes to the Canal Street station. Now there are maybe twenty people on my car and the conversations and laughter suddenly become muted, and as we get closer, the car goes silent. Just the train and dispassionate faces staring out the windows.

I remember the morning of September 11th. I had been working late, and to my wife’s chagrin had ended up sleeping on the downstairs couch. I was up surprisingly early and got online to check my work e-mail. The weather was spectacular in Seattle that day. A warm, cloudless day that felt more like summer than the pending fall that was around the corner. I was finishing reading e-mail and getting ready to wake up my son when the phone rang.

The arrival at the World Trade Center Station is hard to describe. The sign says World Trade Center, but the World Trade Center that was thrust up into the sky has been gone for more than four years now. No one speaks, and everyone shuffles off the train in silence. You immediately notice as you go up the stairs that this area of the subway has been repaired, restored, and then ultimately built anew. A lump forms in your throat, your body gets heavy, and then you are there. It is no longer a clear winter day in New York City; you are suddenly taken back to that moment when you first hear the news, and it is September again.

While the west coast was waking up, the east coast was already reeling from the events unfolding before them. I answer the phone, troubled on who would be calling me at 7:00 AM. There is a madwoman on the phone. She is yelling and crying, telling me the country is under attack. They’ve bombed the World Trade Center, and they’ve attacked New York City. They’ve struck the Pentagon. She is frantic, barely understandable, and it is surreal. “Who are you,” I ask?

“It’s Ruth,” she wails, “turn on your TV.”

“OK, OK, give me a moment,” I tell my mother-in-law still sleepy and in an indifferent tone, my mind not comprehending what she is telling me.

I go into our den and turn on the various components so I can get the TV on. I change the channel to MSNBC just in time to see the first tower come down. I’m stunned. I flip to CNN, and the same surreal scene is playing out there too. I change to Fox News to find the same horror unfolding before my eyes. ABC, NBC, CBS, the local Fox affiliate, and then back to MSNBC, this is on every channel.

“David? David? Are you still there?”

I have no idea how long I’ve stood there in stunned silence with Ruth still on the phone.

“Yes, I’m still here. Who, who is doing this,” I asked her.

“They think its terrorists; they’re saying there may be more planes or other attacks, they just don’t know.”

I just want to get off the phone and tell my wife what is going on. I cannot think of many times in my life where I have ever felt so vulnerable and exposed. I get off of the phone, and I race up the stairs.

As you walk to the fence that stands at the edge of Ground Zero, you look down into an antiseptic hole in the ground. You are filled with profound emotions that before there were two spires of almost a quarter-mile of steel, glass, and concrete reaching up to the sky. You can’t help but notice as you survey the scene in front of you the gaping jagged hole on the opposite side where the old subway station or parking garages use to be. It hits me that people died where I am standing now. Desperate people who woke up to their ordinary day and their bright morning now finding themselves in an extraordinary situation faced with the impossible decision of whether to burn or leap to their death.

As you turn to your right again, you go up a sweeping stairwell and then you are out on the street. Standing at the tip of Manhattan Island, the air suddenly feels ten degrees cooler. A massive American flag waves in the breeze in front of you and ground zero is before you. Saint Paul’s Chapel is across the street, and you are immediately amazed when you realize just how close this chapel is to Ground Zero. The chapel sustained no damage, and only one statue had a single finger broken off. A quarter-mile of manmade pinnacle came down across the street, and no photo and no map does this miracle justice.

I fly across my kitchen and down the hall to our bedroom. My wife is still asleep as I throw the door open, telling her she needs to wake up. I tell her the country is under attack, the World Trade Center has collapsed, and the Pentagon has been hit. Suddenly I’m the madman trying to explain the unexplainable. I turn on the TV in the living room, and now she stands in stunned silence.

I hear a giggle from across the hall. It is my daughter, and she is up, standing at the edge of her crib, waiting for someone to come get her. I open up her door, and she dances with delight and flashes a bright smile. It is too much, and I envy her innocence. I break down and cry, “my God, how bad could this get,” I think to myself and hold my daughter and soak her in.

The overwhelming sights and sounds of New York City are numbed at Ground Zero. You hear only low voices, couples might lightly laugh, but you soon realize the significance is not what you hear, but what you don’t hear. You don’t hear a single car horn, and as you approach the fence that surrounds this hallowed ground, you barely hear a breath, only the sound of the wind, the flag slapping the pole in the breeze and the occasional bus that passes by.

The walls of handmade signs seeking out lost loved ones are long gone. Yet scattered along the walls emblazoned with the words, “Post No Bills,” you find the occasional photo or poem dedicated to a lost loved one or to New York City itself, and your heart aches. As you look from the south side you can see the old E Train tunnel, jutting out of the concrete bulkhead and going nowhere, icy tentacles hang from the end of it reaching down seeking out what is no longer there. The city still feeling the pain of this open wound, like an amputee writhing from the phantom pain of a limb no longer there.

It’s Tuesday again, September 11th in Seattle. My wife and I wrestle with what to do with our son. Should we send him to school? Will he be safe? Will they have school? Should we tell him? We decide that life has to go on, and for me, my personal war on terror begins. I will not live in fear, and I will send my son to school, my daughter to daycare, and I will go to work. It is all moot. At school, the TV is set to the events happening in New York and Washington D.C. as it is at work in our cafeteria. Management closes the office at two in the afternoon, and I go home on the empty highway.

On the south side of Ground Zero on Liberty Street, you will find New York City Fire Department Ten House. It was from here the first men rushed across the plaza and up the North Tower to what at the time they thought was a horrible aircraft accident. As the men of Ten House moved through the lobby, they found horribly burned victims trying to make their way out. The jet fuel from American Airlines flight 11 raining down the elevator shafts and igniting in the lobby. In less than two hours, the men of Ten House would be gone, along with over 300 of their fellow firefighters, and more than 2,200 people trapped in the two towers. The Bankers Trust Tower is still covered in scaffolding and loosely wrapped, fatally damaged from flying debris. I stand on my toes to look into the window and there on the west wall is a small memorial to the heroes of Ten House. New fire trucks fill the bays waiting for another call for help.

My heart is heavy, and I’m drained. I would have thought after four years that I would not have had this profound feeling weighing me down. The shadows have grown long as the sun is setting, blocked by the New York City skyline and it has become colder. Or maybe the temperature hasn’t changed, and the chill I feel is the pain of the city, of a nation, of this author.

I went to Ground Zero, not knowing what I would find. What I left with was a realization that 9/11 is the defining event of my generation and that this hole on the New York skyline may be filled, but the pain will always be there. Like the memories will always be there for the rest of my days. The memory of blue skies, checking e-mail, a frantic phone call, stunned silence before absolute horror and melting in my daughter’s arms.

Health and Lifestyle, Non-Fiction

It is a long way to the top

Three-hundred-and-seventy days ago, I started a journey. No, let me back up, 370 days ago I restarted a journey I began in 2016. In 2016 I had reached a point with my weight where I felt I needed to do, something. Work, off and on struggles with depression, and chronic sleep apnea caused by my anatomy was taking a toll. In January of 2016, I weighed in at 264 pounds, 119.5 kilograms. Because I’m pigeon chested my frame helped hide the heft to a degree.

By the summer of 2016, I had dropped 25 pounds and then came Pokemon Go. Yes, I play and yes I still play, but in the summer of 2016, it was an addiction. I started to walk everywhere and perfected catching and spinning while on the move. I dropped down to 220 pounds, felt great, and was wearing clothes that hadn’t fit since 2008.

Then came Amazon and AWS. By the time I got to Amazon, I was deeply committed to one hour of exercise a day and five mini-meals. That survived for about a month. Twelve-hour workdays, a two-hour commute, followed by two to four more hours of work in the evening killed any sense of maintaining a fitness program. I would go the entire day without eating because that was the expectation of my management team. I would come home and binge on 4,000, 5,000 even 6,000 calories. Saturday would be a 10 to 12-hour workday, and Sunday evening would be more. The expectation bar of working 24/7 and immediate access was so high that I was written up for not checking e-mail while on vacation in August of 2017. The reason? This did not show Amazon values of, “ownership.” Enough of that. I had reached my breaking point, and so had my body.

So 370 days ago, I got on the scale and weighed 254 pounds. “Fuck this,” I thought. I had worked so hard to get down to 220, and there were tangible benefits, I’m not going back to 264, or higher. So I started my journey.

August 29, 2018, Denali National Park with Mrs. Doctor Malcontent. I had lost 5 or 10 pounds when this picture was taken – little did I know something inside me would change the next day.

On August 29, 2018, a person took this picture of my wife and I while visiting Denali National Park. The reason I’m wearing gaiters is we had hiking plans for the day. We made it to the crest of the ridge over the Eielson Visitor Center on one of the only days in the summer of 2018 where Denali wasn’t shrouded in clouds. It wasn’t an easy climb, but we made it and even climbed a series of false summits in search of solitude.

The next day was cloudy, cold, and gray. We picked a front country trail that ended up being almost double the distance the sign indicated with more elevation gain. As we hit the summit, sleet pelted us in a howling wind of 35 to 40 MPH. We loved every minute of it and didn’t realize how far we went until we got back to the trailhead.

If you’ve read this far you’re probably going, “where is the punchline? Get to the point!” Alaska is really important to this story and I will never be able to explain why. A common question about my journey is if there was an event, or a scare, or a medical reason I did this. The answer is always no, but it does come back to Alaska. It wasn’t because I was incapable of doing the things I wanted to do due to weight, it wasn’t because an airplane seatbelt would barely fit me, or the eye rolls when someone sat next to me on the plane. Just something changed, and I was motivated to change.

September 11, 2018 – 244 pounds.

October 10, 2018 – 234 pounds.

November 10, 2018 – 220 pounds.

By November I reached a point nothing fit me anymore, and I was having to literally hold up my sweat pants with one hand when I exercised. This picture was taken before a morning jog to breakfast while visiting family in California.

December 11, 2018 – 209 pounds.

January 12, 2019 – 194 pounds.

February 12, 2019 – 189 pounds.

March 11, 2019 – 177 pounds.

Mother’s Day 2019 after a 5K run. Completed in 28:34. Is this the same guy from August 29, 2018? Yes, yes it is.

July 18, 2019 – 177 pounds.

My weight now moves in a range of 173 to 180 pounds since March 3, 2019.

Eighty pounds lost since August 15, 2019, 90 pounds lost total.

One year of data collected from meticulous logging of my weight and activity – thank you, Fitbit!

So the next question that comes up is, “how did you do it?”

I did it alone. I didn’t join a group or get a coach. I didn’t follow any fad diet or diet du jour. I didn’t do Atkins, keto, paleo, gluten-free, elimination, intermittent fasting, cleanses or detox. I also never approached this as a diet.

A key thing I realized in this journey is the minute you say, “I’m going on a diet,” you have already failed. Sorry, that’s my view. A diet is temporary. A diet is right for 5 or 10 pounds that suddenly crept up. The problem with going on a diet is a diet does not address the underlying negative relationship you have with food. If you have an unhealthy relationship with food when your diet ends, you go back to your unhealthy relationship.

The next thing is I established a mantra in Alaska. Just keep moving. The minute I feel tired, the minute the couch calls me, the minute I feel like I want to take a 30-minute nap, that is the exact time I need to get up and do – something. Something might be doing the dishes in the sink, or work in the garden, but I treated the couch, computers, and TV as the enemy. Just keep moving turned into walking turned into jogging turned into – well look.

Just keep moving means burning an average of 3,000 calories a day. My basal calorie burn is around 2,100 calories a day – under maintenance for weight 2,100 calories doesn’t keep me satiated so ironically, I need to burn more, so I can eat more. #justkeepmoving

The next question I’m usually asked is, “well, what did you do.” The thing is when I look back over the last year I come to this simple answer, I ate right, and I exercised. I have to give credit to Fitbit for keeping me honest and providing me with thermodynamic data. Thermodynamics? What the Hell does thermodynamics have to do with weight loss? A lot! It is a straightforward formula; to lose weight, you must burn more calories than you consume. Put a period on that sentence. There is no such thing as targeted weight loss, miracle pills, or magical eight-minute workouts.

I can’t say I eliminated anything from my diet. I almost eliminated all refined sugar, processed white flour, white rice, and pasta. It took me almost six months to wean myself off diet soft drinks, but I cut all diet soda and with it, artificial sweeteners. The only thing I can say I eliminated was fried food, but even then I had the occasional French fry. I never put food into buckets of good food versus bad food. What I did do was consider the calories of my choices, and would then choose something with more caloric bang for the buck.

As an example, if you make fried rice, sesame oil and all, by the book, but make it was cauliflower rice, you cut 80% of the calories. A cup of cauliflower rice is 20 to 25 calories, a cup of cooked white rice is about 210 calories. This is a great example of making a change to create a calorie deficit without suffering. Cauliflower rice on its own is woe and suffering, used in a stirfry or to replace rice in dishes where it is a compliment and not the feature, it is near indistinguishable.

I ate Halloween candy. I ate mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. I had significant surgery at the end of 2018 and was back to just keep moving four days later. The day before my surgery I went on a midnight jog to make sure I took up my last chance to get active minutes and exercise in – eight hours later I was under the knife. Twelve hours after surgery I logged 15 minutes of exercise per Fitbit walking laps around the hospital ward under the supervision of the nursing staff.

On the day after surgery, I asked for a double cheeseburger with the bread and inhaled it. I never suffered, and I never deprived myself. If I found myself wanting ice cream, I would have ice cream, and I would adjust what ate through the day so I would still feel full. I never let myself go over 50 grams of added sugar in a day (which is still a lot) and went many days eating no processed sugar.

Food porn picture from Christmas dinner 2018. Green beans, roasted Brussel sprouts, asparagus, grilled shrimp, seared scallops, halibut, sliced sirloin steak with mushrooms and onions. Does this look like suffering and woe?

I weighed in and still do every day, but I don’t chase a weight. I’ve learned that I can get on the scale in the morning and weigh five more pounds than yesterday, and that means nothing. What is the weekly trend? What is my body telling me?

I approached this as a lifestyle change. I eat significantly more fresh fruits and vegetables; I eat lean protein and good fats. I still count the calories on everything I eat – thermodynamics.

I frequently get asked if I feel like a new person, and can I now do the things that I couldn’t do before. The answer to that is yes, and no. My sleep apnea is related to the anatomy of the airway, which has been described as “horrific” by medical professionals. I will always have to wear a mask, and I will still have to use very high pressure. I climbed the ridges and peaks of Denali – I can now do it faster with less stopping.

One year of data of elevation gain/stairs climbed. Although the rate increases (and the impact from my surgery is very clear in the middle) the weight didn’t keep me from doing things I wanted to do, it just took me a lot longer and a lot more effort.

The most significant changes are invisible. My resting pulse went from 72 to 54. My blood pressure dropped along with my blood sugar (I was never pre-diabetic), and cholesterol level. I can run a 5K in 28:30 give or take, and I’m told that is a good time. One thing is for sure, I will never go back. This has been a total lifestyle change and my entire relationship dynamic with food has changed. I crushed cravings, which are very real, and have a true understanding of some simple principles:

Sleep, stress, and diet all impact your resting pulse. The spike to 59 was a day I ate out and had some Chinese food. My cardio fitness score is 48, starting from 35 a year ago.

You have to burn more than you eat.

You can’t deprive yourself or approach it as a diet – diets are temporary.

You have to just keep moving – exercise is an integral part of changing your lifestyle because there is a cruel joke during weight loss. As you lose weight your body burns fewer calories because you are carrying less mass. If you don’t increase exercise you lose the muscle you developed to help move that mass and burn even fewer calories. That leads to the plateau, or worse, why am I gaining weight even though I’m eating less. You have to #justkeepmoving and you have to increase exertion.

So that’s my story and that is my journey. I’m told constantly I should write a book about this, but I’m convinced that the mantra of just keep moving, log weight, log what you eat, don’t say you’re going on a diet, eat right not less, exercise as it is critical to keeping the weight off, just won’t sell. We like quick fixes – but I would argue that an 80-pound transformation in seven months is a pretty darn quick fix.

Malcontent, out.

Non-Fiction

Green grass, red houses, blue cars, little buddies

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My parents were both previously married and had families of their own before they met. The tale is rather sordid. My mother was divorced, leaving by all reports a lousy excuse of a husband. My father was still married at the time and left his wife and three kids behind. To add to the scandal of all of it, I was born out of wedlock, a bastard child born in the same year as the Summer of Love. To amplify the tale of woe, my father’s ex-wife died of cancer shortly after his departure, and the three children were left to fend for themselves.

Through a happier filter, I like to explain that I come from a family similar to Eight is Enough. The 1970s sitcom featured a blended family of seven children from prior marriages, and an eighth child, Nicolas, born from the new union and much younger than his half-brothers and sisters. As a child, I had three half-brothers old enough to be my father without raising any eyebrows.

EIGHT IS ENOUGH, Laurie Walters, Susan Richardson, Willie Aames, Dick Van Patten, Grant Goodeve, Adam Rich, Betty Buckley, Dianne Kay, Lani O’Grady, Connie Newton, 1977-1981

I don’t remember much about Jay, which is likely a good thing. When I was 4 or 5 years old, he came and visited us with a mission, apparently, of trying to destroy my father’s new family. Jay has remained bitter about dad leaving (rightly so) but his actions during that time remain unforgivable, and through a 2019 filter, criminal. My half-brother Phillip doesn’t have issues but instead has a lifetime subscription. I will leave it at that, but I do wish he would find his happiness. Finally, there is my half-brother Danny, the oldest of the three.

When I was born, Danny was in Vietnam with the Marine Corps in Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD). He was a volunteer, not a draftee, and spent seven months in-country. He was in Da Nang during the Tet Offensive, a lousy time and place to be in Vietnam, unless your happiest with people throwing hand grenades at you daily. He was sent home with medals, including a purple heart, PTSD, and a lifetime of seizures from his injuries.

I don’t remember much about Danny but what I do remember are very vivid little clips or snapshots in my mind. The most striking thing I remember is he had red hair and a lot of it. Learning more about genealogy and genetics through the years, I suspect the red hair came from the Jewish genes on my mother’s side. I have this crisp memory of me asking Danny why his hair was red, and him telling me it was because his hair caught on fire, and it turned it red when it grew back in.

Another memory I have is we had a painting on a piece of wood, with the bark of the tree acting as the frame. The oval piece of art was of Jesus, a lamb in one hand, and appearing to be making the sign of the cross with the other. I look back now at my very non-religious family, and I am puzzled on why we had it in the first place. As I type these words, I also find myself asking, “whatever happened to it?”  In the classic European vision of the Messiah, Jesus was, tall, lean, very white, with a mane of reddish blonde hair. As a child, I can remember asking why was Danny in that picture and why was he holding a sheep. In my little mind, he looked like Jesus.

I also remember his car. My father was an engineer, a tool and die draftsman who eventually ascended to vice president aligned with the automotive industry, so the love of automobiles is in my blood. Danny had a 1968 Mercury Cougar, blue, with the Ford 289 V8. There is a crystal clear memory of him at our house on Bailey Road. A little, walk out basement ranch on the edge of the forest, across from horse pastures. The long driveway had an offshoot to the left about midway up, and it was a bright, perfect, summer day. Danny was working on his Cougar, music playing, and the colors, in particular, are a strong part of the memory. The red house, the deep green grass, the dark blue car, and his red hair.

A 1968 Mercury Cougar, not my brother’s, but you get the idea

Danny was letting me, ehem, help, and he would always call me, “little buddy.” The scope of my assistance was passing tools, almost certainly the wrong tools, and being under the car with him. I was so happy to have this time with my big brother, and I know I looked forward to his visits from Philadelphia or our visits to the city of my parent’s origin.

I was seven years old when the news came. Danny had been in a motor vehicle accident. Hit by a drunk driver that had run a stop sign, Danny was on his motorcycle riding tandem with a friend. The driver dragged his body almost a quarter-mile is what I seem to remember hearing in the talks and whispers. Danny had been wearing a helmet and head-to-toe leather, so although externally he showed almost no injuries, internally he was, “a dropped watermelon.” The person riding with Danny suffered a broken leg.

We deal with death and children differently today. During this time, death was something to be obscured from young eyes. I didn’t see Danny at the hospital, didn’t go to the wake or the funeral. I barely understood anything going on beyond my mother was inconsolable, my father was focused, and the rest of the family was tense.

Danny and his brother Phillip got into a huge argument just hours before his death, and the last words Phillip said were, “I wish you were dead.” If there is ever a parable to watch what you say, I can think of no better example.

The echoes of his death carried far and wide. Danny was in a motorcycle gang called the Dirty Neckers. I guess he found the camaraderie he must have missed from his military days. As I write these words, I giggle to myself, taking the child to wake bad, exposing the child to a motorcycle gang, acceptable. I remember one gang member in particular; his name was moose. Moose used to play football for the Philadelphia Eagles and was a linebacker. What I remember about Moose is he was a giant. Forget being a giant to a young child; Moose would be a giant for anyone. I remember him filling up an entire door frame, height, and width when he would walk into a room. I also remember he was gentle, at least in my presence.

Family lore says that the motorcycle gang came as a whole to call upon my parents, they jammed a wad of money into my mother’s hand, asking that Danny be buried in something nice. The funeral was being prepared in a hurry, and my family didn’t have a lot of money, so the gift was accepted.

My brother Danny’s high school graduation picture, taken when times were simpler

The friend riding with Danny on that day suffered a broken leg. Twenty years later, to the day, he died at the same intersection.

In this era, there was no Mother’s Against Drunk Driving or social outrage for being impaired behind the wheel of the car. The man that killed my brother faced no real consequences legally. On the other hand, he was a target of the wrath of the Dirty Neckers, and family lore says he left Philadelphia out of fear for his safety.

My mother has never been the same since. The natural order of things dictates that a parent should never bury a child, and she has had to bury two. I will never know, but I speculate that Phillip still carries regret for the angry words said the day of Danny’s death. Still, my mind drifts to a warm summer day, fresh cut green grass, a red house, a blue car, and helping my brother.

Non-Fiction

Dad has a broken heart

Non-fiction Friday

A lot was going through my mind. As a former EMT and someone who had planned a medical career just five years prior, I understood the implications of an aortic aneurysm rupturing. My father was incredibly lucky to have this medical emergency while in the hospital, and at a VA hospital that specialized in cardiac care. The grim reality was he had an 80% chance of dying before leaving the operating room, even under the ideal conditions.

One of my favorite movie lines is, “work the problem,” and I like to add, “don’t let the problem work you.” When I’ve gotten into crisis mode, I have found this mantra has an immediate calming effect. Work the problem, no need to drive like an idiot and put me in the hospital. Houston traffic was a ball of suck back then, and a worse ball of suck today. I had a cellphone, but it was impossible to work a manual transmission and an old school Motorola Startac at the same time. Calls to the family would have to wait.

I arrive at the hospital and find my way to the ICU. I sign in and identify myself as a relation to my father. They page the attending. It could be a shock when I see my father, I am told; I tell them I understand. Work the problem, don’t let the problem work me.

Dad survived the surgery. It turns out that when I talked to dad the night before, and he sounded tired, the bleed was already starting. The pain got worse, and when they couldn’t identify why the VA ordered a CAT scan. While in the scanner I was told, dad’s aneurysm ruptured. In another complete stroke of good luck, an entire cardiac surgical team had just finished a major procedure and was still in the hospital. Not only did the rupture happen while in imaging, but the resources to do immediate surgery were in place.

Dad may have survived, but his prognosis was grim. He was in a coma and likely had a hypoxic injury due to the length of time his aorta was clamped off to repair. He was on a respirator, and I stopped counting at 18 tubes entering or exiting his body. The list of complications that could follow was extensive; brain injury, loss of toes, fingers, or limbs, lethal blood clots, infection, pneumonia from being on the vent longterm. There was a good chance dad would never wake up, the attending put dad’s odds at ever leaving the hospital at 100,000:1. I had a lot of phone calls and decisions to make.

In another stroke of good luck, however, I still had power of attorney on dad’s affairs from doing the closing on his home. At least for this aspect, the basic issues of maintaining his house and paying related basic bills would not be a problem. My sister in California would be able to come out within a day. Another sister in Pennsylvania would not be able to get out.

Hours turned to days, and dad continued to hold his ground. His toes swelled and turned black. A surgeon was called in for a consult with growing concerns of gangrene. A decision was made to make a wait and see approach, but the doctors felt it was likely dad would lose at least his right foot. His coma continued, and he wasn’t doing much fighting of the vent. Medications flowed, and days turned into weeks.

Dad did start to improve gradually. The skin fell off of his toes, but the black turned to the blues of deep bruises, and the swelling went down. By day 37 he was starting to stir, kept under heavy sedation for the respirator.  On day 38, he started to communicate, although he was very confused. Using a pencil, he scribbled on a pad of paper held up for him to ask basic questions.  Already suffering from Parkinson’s, his handwriting was shaky. The good sign was the hypoxic injury was mild to moderate. On day 39, dad was taken off of the respirator and spoke his first creaky words. His road to recovery was just beginning, and he was still fighting 100,000:1 odds he would ever leave the hospital.

Editorial, LGBTQIA, Non-Fiction

Coffee, makeup, and dirty looks

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Yesterday I was at a major chain coffee shop located in a grocery store. There was a striking human being that served me as the cashier and barista. I write human being as I’m not exactly sure how to refer to them without potentially providing an insult, so it is no way meant as a slur.

The individual appeared genetically as a male (or, could be intersex), and if they were on a trans journey, it was only at the very beginning (no hormones, no surgery). Their body and face are decidedly masculine. This individual had the most amazing makeup! I mean, girlfriend, you need to take lessons from this person because, WOW. It was striking. It was amazing. As an avid photographer one of my first thoughts was, “I would love 60 to 90 minutes in the studio with you,” and my next thought was, “I wonder if they could teach me to put on makeup for my livecasts,” and my third thought was, “wow that must take a lot of time.”

People that know me know that I am 100% comfortable in my sexuality. I freely admit I’ve been hit on my two men in my life, and both times I was flattered. I made it politely clear that I was hopelessly heterosexual, but I was flattered. It has never been an issue, and I believe that for people where it is a serious issue, criminology and science indicates a lot of people who do take issue have repressed feelings (not all, but the science is pretty darn solid). I go back to the point of the individual and human being as my typical thank you for great service, and I got great service is something on the lines of, “thank you sir/ma’am, and have a great rest of your day!”

Ahhh, but do I say sir, or ma’am, or cis, or gender fluid, or individual. Has this been a slight in the past to sir or ma’am – as I was raised to do? So instead I modified my thank you to, “thank you, thank you and have a great rest of your day,” with a broad smile.

Now to part two of this story. From a genealogy standpoint, I’m an Italian-Jew and Hungarian. Italians and Jews have a lot in common. We both love deli meats, we both have hair growing everywhere, we both are into big families with some degree of dysfunction, we are both religious, we both love food and will insist you continue to eat even after you cannot eat anymore, and we are both loud. I admit it; I’m loud. Now to the punch line.

The other thing about myself (sorry this is a lot about me today) is my radar for threats and danger around me is pretty weak. Not so weak as I’ve gotten myself in serious trouble, but weak enough that I’m aware, when my radar goes off, be very alert. As I say these words, my radar goes, “dude, yellow alert!”

I see two people; both are of my generation; they are not together. One is an Asian woman, she is looking at me disapprovingly, and I watch to see she is avoiding any eye contact with me or the barista. The other is a man sitting at a table; he is glaring at me. I am suddenly in a spot of wait, is what I think is going on going on? I’m not drunk or rowdy loud, but someone would hear my thanks and well wishes. Was I not supposed to show some common courtesy to this individual who makes my coffee quickly and with a smile?

I could feel the eyes of this man burning into my back, which is what set my radar off. I turn and look, and I’m glared at. We’re talking if looks could kill, people would be a pile of Drogon created ash on the floor. I would be found clutching the charred remains of my white Starbucks cup.

Why is this an issue? What does it matter? If a person is happy not living with gender assignment how does that hurt – anyone? If I show respect to someone who has the bravery to paint outside the lines for good service, why should that be an issue? I don’t think I was that loud as I needed the coffee as a pick me up at that moment. Why is this such an issue? What exactly am I missing? If the argument is, “this just isn’t right,” it just isn’t right in what way? In a way that it makes someone feel – uncomfortable? Does it matter to me what this person does in the privacy of a bedroom with one or more consenting adults? I could care less! Bring out the gimp suit, the power tools, a peanut butter and Vaseline sandwiches, and let your freak flag fly while you swing from the shower curtain rod. If that’s you’re thing – you go.  You want to wear makeup that would make Taylor Swift say, “teach me all  you know,” and it makes you happy – then do it. If you have a problem with that, keep it to your feckin’ self.

Anyway, think about it.

Non-Fiction

Memories of the Blue Plate Lounge and dad

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I grew up during a different time, a time of transition. My earliest memories are from the 1970s, although I am a product of the 80s to the core. My earliest memory of the news is Richard Nixon saying, “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow,” and my father cheering upon hearing those words. I had no idea what resign meant, or why my father was so happy, but by Nixon’s solemn appearance on our TV I knew to resign wasn’t good, and from my father’s reaction I knew that in his view, resign was joyous.

To put things in perspective, I grew up in an era without car seats or mandated seatbelts. As a child, you begged to sit up front in the middle spot between mom and dad, and you ate a whole lot of dashboard. I was on the receiving end of more than one fat lip or bloody nose from flying forward in an unexpected hard stop or two different car accidents. Vinyl bench seats were not known for providing grip, although they were perfect for roasting the flesh off of your body on a hot summer day.

Dad’s code word for going out to drink my problems away was, “I’m going out for cigarettes.” Occasionally I would get to go with dad for one of his cigarette runs. I have one vivid memory of one of these trips, but I can’t in my brain figure out if it was in 1975 or 1977. I know dad had a station wagon, and I want to say this was 1975, right before dad bought a 1975 Chrysler Newport, apparently, so says mom, drunk as a skunk when he did it. He also bought my sister a 1975 Plymouth Gold Duster in dark brown, with a tan interior and a Slant 6. My sister got a vastly better car.

Sidebar. I hated the Chrysler Newport. Even as a small child I hated that car with every fiber of my being. I have never owned a Chrysler product in my life, and I can’t say that any Chrysler product has held any appeal to me. The memories of that horror of a car burned in my brain. It was a hideous green on the exterior, with an even more hideous green interior, six-passenger seating with vinyl that would likely survive a nuclear war. The Newport had one of the worst electronic ignition systems ever created by man, and the car would be dead if it rained, snowed, was foggy, or sometimes even post carwash.

Growing up in an era where children were allowed in a bar (as is the case still in several states) I always felt special when dad would go to the Blue Plate Lounge and take me. I’m with the men. Manly men who sit quietly, grumble about the world, chain smoke, glance up at the TV to watch the Red Sox, or the Celtics, or the Bruins, or the Patriots, and drink.

At the time the bar was owned by a man named Paul Stacy. Paul was known as Tiny, and you already know the name is ironic. Tiny was 6’4” tall and weighed 300 pounds, and he was beloved. At my age, Tiny was like facing The Mountain in the Game of Thrones, but I remember him being very much like Hagrid of the Harry Potter novels. Affable, approachable, wise, and kind-hearted. I would sit at the bar with dad, my legs dangling from the stool, a candy cigarette in one hand and a rootbeer in the other. I am a man, a manly man pondering worldly problems. As dad would start to go numb and I would start to get bored, Tiny, ever welcoming, would entertain me or give me a snack so there I would sit, kicking my legs and swiveling the bar stool. I remember the smells, the sweetness of the root beer, the chalky gum flavor of the candy cigarettes, and that it was a cloudy day.

Once dad had medicated himself enough we climbed into the station wagon, dad driving home drunk with me in the car sans car seat or seatbelt, and we would always get home. I can even remember where my dad parked to this day and that he drove straight home. Come to think of it; I don’t know if he bought any cigarettes. I still can’t remember as much as I strain if dad had the 1972 Chevrolet or the 1977 Chevrolet station wagon, which would give me a better idea of the when. Dad somehow never got pulled over, never got in an accident while hammered as best as I know, and was always patient during these trips. I told you, this was a different time. These days I wouldn’t be allowed in the bar, dad would be locked up for child endangerment and drunk driving, mom would be under investigation for even letting me be with dad, and I would likely be in foster care while the mess was cleaned up. For that matter dad wouldn’t be able to get a couple of hours off the grid without a cell phone blowing up with, “where are you,” and, “on your way home can you stop at the Sentry Super and pick up a gallon of milk.”

I returned to the Blue Plate Lounge a couple of times through the years and found it almost completely unchanged. The last time I was there was almost five years ago with my wife, as I took her through my hometown to show her bits of my childhood. The same stools, the same bar, the same shelves, the same stage for bands. The TVs had become more numerous and were now flat panels; there was Keno run by the state of Massachusetts and more promotional materials from various beers and liquor brands. The drinks were still cheap, rootbeer was no longer my choice, and of course, smoking inside is no longer permitted. It enabled me to feel a remaining connection to dad to sit in those same stools, staring up in the same direction, and pondering life.

Photo Credit: Debby Osipov from Facebook. The Blue Plate Lounge is torn down on May 1, 2019

The Blue Plate Lounge was sold to new owners about a year ago, and last week the building, built in 1933, was torn down. The new owners will be building a new restaurant and bar in the same location, but it won’t be the same. Another physical piece of my past gone. A place where I will stand and say, “I remember when,” and almost no one will understand. I need to get back to my hometown and have one more tuna fish grinder from Orbit Pizza before that place too disappears into the past. However, that is another story.

Non-Fiction

Dad, Oreos, and emergency rooms

Six weeks. Due to logistics and closing requirements, dad would close on his house in Houston in six weeks. There was already tension in the house between him and my wife at the time, but we would try to make the best of it. My son was happy to have “Papa Joe” there, and like most grandparents, dad was far more patient with his grandson than he ever was with me.

The days went by surprisingly quick during the hottest months of summer. I always called August in Houston “reverse winter.” Instead of running from heating source to heating source, you ran from air conditioning to air conditioning. On a summer Friday afternoon, the movers confirmed they would arrive on Tuesday, the same day my father was closing on the house. Having made peace with who he was just a few weeks earlier, I was looking forward to having my dad close enough to visit but far enough away to take him in carefully measured doses.

I have terrible eyesight, was born that way, and as I type these words my middle-aged eyes betray me more with each passing year. Without my glasses or contact lenses, I’m blind, in the legal sense of the word. Work had been intense, and I was at one of several high points in my career. Business travel had continued during those weeks, and I was home for a quiet weekend and a lull in travel.

Sunday morning, it happened. The bedroom door flew open with tremendous force. My wife at the time could sleep through the explosion of a nuclear weapon, and if she did wake up, you were better off being repeatedly raped by a rabid polar bear than deal with her wrath. The door opened with such force I thought for sure it was my dad, and I was instantly awake – flashes of my dysfunctional childhood running through my head. I strained to see who was in the door while grasping for my glasses. Then I heard a small voice.

“Daddy. Papa Joe is very sick, and you need to come – right NOW.”

I then heard the sound of running footsteps back to the other side of the house. My four-year-old son was direct and forceful in his words. I got out of bed and crossed the living room to find my father splayed out on the tile floor of the hallway. He was in shock and ashen; he looked at me and said, “I think I’m dying.” Dad may have put the fun in dysfunctional, but he was not one for dramatics – not when he was sick.

I immediately called 911.

Within just a couple of minutes, an advanced unit arrived. All I could do was go through ABC protocol as a former EMT. His pulse was thready and fast, his breathing shallow. The immediate suspicion was my father had a heart attack. They started monitoring and stabilization and requested a paramedic unit. My father was transported to the VA Hospital in Houston because he was a veteran. We hurriedly got ready and drove to the medical district.

We waited for hours as they ran tests while my son slowly went stir crazy in the waiting area. The hospital decided to admit him. His blood sugar was 378, and he had gone into diabetic shock. They weren’t sure why and they wanted to observe him overnight and do some more testing in the morning. His hospitalization caused a wave of legal panic as his house closing was less than two days away now. We would need to get him stabilized so he could sign a power of attorney. I would need access to escrow and close as his proxy and deal with the movers.

The hospital had a notary, and the social worker deemed him of sound mind. In the morning, we worked out escrow, and I was prepared to do the closing. All went well, except I couldn’t tell the movers where to put my father’s belongings. He had paid for them to unpack, but that would have to be a wash. I talked to him that night over the phone, too exhausted to visit the hospital. I let him know the utilities were turned on or transferred, insurance on the house, and completed the closing. My father sounded off. “You sound tired,” I said. He waved it off, saying he was poked and prodded all day and didn’t get much sleep. The plan was he would be released the next day.

At 2 PM on Wednesday, my cell phone rang from a random Houston number. It was a doctor from the VA. He wanted to know if anyone had talked to me about my father’s condition. I told him, “yes,” and I knew about his diabetes and explained how we hid a package of Oreo cookies in the freezer wrapped in foil and how we discovered he found it, ate a pound of cookies in a binge, and drank two quarts of milk. I started to apologize for the oversight and how we would make sure this would never happen again…

“Has anyone talked to you – today,” he asked.

His tone was methodical and serious.

“No, is there something wrong.”

“I think you need to come to the hospital. Can someone drive you?”

As someone who had spent eight years on a search and rescue team and was a former EMT, no good comes from, “can someone drive you to the hospital?” I caught my breath.

“Are you telling me my father is dead,” I asked in a steady voice.

“I think you need to get to the hospital so we can talk, does your father have other family, wife or kids,” the doctor asked.

“Yes, but they are across the country.”

“You should tell them to get here as soon as they can. Your father had an aortic aneurysm rupture this morning.”

I sat in stunned silence, and then I asked again, “are you telling me my father is dead?”

“No. But he is in a very serious condition and I don’t think he has 48 hours.”