If you clicked through to read this, it might be because you:
are in some meaningful relationships you care about
Googled “Avatar” and are on the 847th search page
are looking for points of disagreement with the guy arrogant enough to include ‘Relationships 901′ in the title (hell, that’s what I’d do)
Whatever the reason, I’m glad you made it to the third paragraph. (I win.) But you must know: I don’t care what you know conceptually about relationships. I want to know if you are seeing people. And I want to know if they seeyou.
Granted, Avatar stole some of my thunder here; more on that in a moment. But this post was fueled by a revelation I had to share. Because we’re so laser-focused on Twitter lists, making and keeping friends, networking, and social media that we’ve forgotten what to do once we are actually in a relationship: See each other both literally (being in the same physical place) and figuratively (understanding the context of the person, situation, and relationship).
With all due respect to John Fogerty, the Old Man isn’t Down The Road. He’s actually right here, roasting weenies in my living room.
No. That’s way too cute. Indulge me a writer’s do-over, because I hate this son-of-a-bitch.
"I know this hurts, Jeffrey."
It’s more like Terminator 2 – remember? – when that slick, non-Arnold, non-kid-friendly T-1000 unit showed up. He would just inhabit your entire body in an instant, take you around, steal your motorcycle, puncture your brainstem through your eyeball with a melty steel fingerblade. You know. That guy.
Except my guy’s not leaving. He’s been here since way before my 40th birthday this past October. If you thought Sarah Connor had it bad, think about good old Robert Patrick here setting up shop in your immune system for seven years. Kicking the tires. Ripping out entire systems. Taking his freaking holiday in my skin. Stealing my spirit, joy, and the prime years of my life.
Behold, the T-1000 Squatter Series.
No wonder I’m just now looking around and asking when that whole “40 is the new 25″ thing is going to kick in.
In 1998, I did my first performance of live electronic music in San Francisco, CA. We were “openers for the openers” for a remotely popular industrial band called Attrition; but being in SF there was a considerable crowd gathering. I was nervous.
YOURS TRULY, PERFORMING IN SAN FRANCISCO, 1998
To make matters worse, the guy who was leading the band at the time decided we should NOT rehearse in the days leading up to the show. ”Let’s watch TV and redo our hair” was the decision instead.
Since I was appearing as a guest keyboardist, I didn’t have much say in the matter, so I just went with it. Our set was to be about 30 minutes, and my role was as undefined as it could possibly be: add cool stuff at certain moments.
Despite the lack of a game plan, rehearsal, or clue, my good friend and musician savant Mark Townsend was there and pep-talked me right before the show began.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“No,” I said, drinking my 5th beer in as many minutes.
BOLD PREDICTION: sometime before you find yourself singing Auld Lang Syne on December 31st, you’ll be reflecting about 2009. You’ll think about your joys, your defeats, Tiger Woods’ new infamy, the recession, Twitter, Obamanomics, health care reform, the advent of Voogah.com, and how – amidst it all – your I-Phone can almost make you a corned beef sandwich.
It’s also the time to reflect, set personal goals, business objectives, and to resolve to “never make those mistakes again.” While sipping potent egg-nog, you’ll make wild boasts about what you’re going to do in 2010. You’ll bowl us over with passion, telling us how organized, productive, rich, humble, and Green you’ll be.
Crimony! I’ve got one word for you: March.
Not to crash your party, but most of us have all the perseverance of a flashbulb. There are a number of reasons for this, and I am certainly among the most eligible to claim this failure to start and finish well. If you like, we can discuss these at the pub.
However, this lofty planning lunacy isn’t reserved for the common man; I just read about a popular social media pundit who promises to have . . . wait for it . . . . “laser focus” as his 2010 resolution.
Yawwwwwwwn. I almost dropped my triple Venti non-fat Peppermint Mocha.
OK Witty Writer Guy. What’s your Christmas message?
If fond nostalgia were my strength, you would have probably stopped reading by now. For whatever reason, I’m gifted with a keen observance of life’s bird’s nests; that is, the biggest annoyances often make for the best writing. If it makes me crazy, hurts me, or chews me up and spits me out, you’ll probably enjoy reading about it, identify with it, laugh, whatever.
Which brings us to 2009 – an incredibly trying stretch for your humble writer! There’s always someone who’s got it worse, but ‘09 really brained me.
This is OK, though, because my mom - who could practically find positive spin on the Holocaust – says, “Jeff, you’re walking writing material!” So here’s your Christmas delivery, full of yuletide snark and constructive negativity! Yes, I checked: Santa & Jesus love critics, too.
We Like Pain Stories
See, you’re still reading. And even though TMZ might be on your television in the background, I’m OK with that. I’m at least in the ring throwing punches at your attention.
The reason you’re watching TMZ is because celebrity pain is intriguing, right? (Like, who knew Brittanny Murphy before yesterday?) OK, maybe that’s NOT you. But stories – whether joyous or tragic – communicate in powerful ways (see Garrison Keillor, Mr. Rogers, Jesus, etc.). Stories tend to plow us over for one reason only: we relate to the PAIN in them, no matter our age or experience. Jesuit monk Richard Rohr says it best (paraphrased):
“Pain and suffering are God’s biggest – and maybe his only – learning tools that get us to really change.”
Which is why you should hear the story about my Christmas Happy Hat. Hey, it’ll make my 2009 all worth it!
David Banner Claus
I’ll spare you details (OK here if you must) of why 2009 was so harrowing, but one major grief was a chronic illness that has forced me to take high-dose steroids this December. If you’ve never taken this joyous medicine, Prednisone brings you into instant identity with the fictional character, David Banner. If you’re semi-ancient like me, you remember the Incredible Hulk TV show, where almost anything could set this guy off: spilled milk, a harsh noogie, a mugging . . . . Well THAT is Prednisone for you: ”Insta-rage” with tiny catalysts . . . like puppy slobber . . . or packing peanuts blowing in the wind in your backyard.
Prednisone also bloats you up like Jabba the Hutt. There are two main reasons for this: first, your body retains a ton of fluid. Second, you can actually OUT-EAT Jabba the Hutt, pounding deep fried Gorks and Klatooine paddy frogs, if you like. Large pizza? A mere hors d’oeuvre!
Now, I’m no Paris Hilton. But I do know that adding 18 pounds in 15 days does not (a) help your self image, (b) lift your mood, (c) improve your ability to fit into Versace shirts, or (d) create yuletide spirit.
So I had to dig deep last week. You see, I had not only been on a whopping 60 mg. of Prednisone for two weeks, but my nephrologist also saw fit to bomb me with a bolus – that’s 1000 mg – of the stuff via I.V. This was in conjunction with a Cytoxan infusion to give a radical jolt to my kidneys in a “healthier direction”.
I got home from the hospital the next day and, well, Hear Me Roar! After some non-event, I just went Incredible Hulk on everyone for absolutely no reason. I sat huffing and puffing, staring at the wall, sitting on my bed. 2009 had come to a crashing end. Christmas sucks. I suck. The world is screwed. My skin is green.
But in that dark moment, I took radical action: I grabbed a giant red and white Christmas hat and placed it upon my head.
It’s now several days later. What a difference! It’s so hard to go Hulk on people . . . I mean, imagine trying to motivate Green Berets wearing a Bozo the Clown suit. Granted, I still sent away a door-to-door salesman with a series of grunts, but overall, I am back to Mr. Relatively Nice Guy.
It’s because the hat is happy. It’s borderline irrational, but I have tricked the Big Mean Guy. I have to wear it! Christmas is fun again and I’m not a howling jerk.
Was There A Lesson In There?
Maybe the most obvious thing people never want to admit is this: “I want change without the pain.”
That’s a deep thought to ponder over Christmas. But just think of tough guys. REAL tough guys – like Rocky, Spiderman, the Apostle Paul, John Wayne, Joan D’Arc, even Ricky Lindemann from My Bodyguard – have all had one experience: getting their arses kicked hard. You’re not tough until you get almost killed. That’s life.
So, what’s Santa bringing you? More hurt? More scars? More beatings? OK. Just think of how tough you’ll be in 2010!
“It comes down to a simple choice: get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’.” – Andy Dufresne, Shawshank Redemption
I had another one of those moments today.
It wasn’t when my kidney doc was explaining my options. It wasn’t when he used the words “dialysis” and “maybe next year” in sequence. It wasn’t when we reviewed my latest bloodwork, which has been trending worse and worse and worse.
It was during the ride home, with all of that happy mental data as a backdrop. Just before I got to the freeway, I looked in the rearview mirror.
We were being tailgated by a hearse.
I smiled the driest of smiles and just shook my head.
“Hilarious.”
YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDNEY
Actually, it was sort of funny. If anyone would appreciate sarcastic harbingers of doom, it’s me. (Friends I see you nodding.)
As I said, there have been many “moments” – most of them not funny. Like in 2002, when clumps of hair were falling from my head. Like 2003, when severe arthritis prevented me from being able to get out of bed. Like 2004, when I ran around my house at midnight screaming – scraping my scalp to ribbons – because of a rash from an allergic reaction. Like 2005, when during a 3-day vomit-a-thon in the hospital I asked my wife, straight-faced, “Am I dying?” Like 2009, when a respected cardiologist frowned at the screen and said, “Mr. Timpanaro, you need open heart surgery.”
OK, so why this litany of pain? Everyone’s got a challenge, right?
CRASH & BURN
On one level, I’m writing this because this is what writers do. In order to deal with ‘moments’, some people huddle up with their spouse, some call friends, some people go to the bar, some people watch TV. I’ve actually done all of those to cope. But writing is a healthy ingredient for me. Maybe even cathartic. I’ve got a lot to think about – a lot to figure out here. So even if this tale of woe wears you out, just know it helped the writer!
The other thing? My docs are worried, and I have to say I’m a bit concerned about my longevity – maybe for the first time – really. My condition (Lupus & Lupus Nephritis) is sneaky because I rarely “look” sick. I’ve had decent stretches of time, living a relatively normal life. But other times – like recently – I feel like a wayward USS Enterprise that hasn’t docked in awhile; it’s low on supplies, low on fuel, and low on morale. Suddenly we traipse into enemy territory, where an ambitious Ferengi cruiser goes bonkers with photon torpedoes, and my ship is a speeding ball of flames crashing toward some uninhabited planet. I need someone to beam me out of here! Wake me up from this shitty dream where I may actually die! GO TO COMMERCIAL!!!
But this is real. And there’s a hearse tailgating me.
What this really means? I’m being forced to choose.
WHAT’S THE QUESTION?
After 8 years of chronic illness, you think through a lot of things: the physical, the mental, the spiritual, the solical, the metaphysical, the impossible, the miraculous. But thinking through doesn’t make you wiser, necessarily. The only way I feel wiser is that now I’m less dogmatic, and I’ve got better questions!
Here’s THE question for me:
“Are you going to choose to live, or are you going to choose to die?”
It reminds me of what I once heard about vets or trauma victims; that there are only two types. The first decides to make himself a complete success and overcomes ridiculous odds. He chooses to live, and wins. The second type sees the potential to be the first type, but fades into a victim-mentality, achieving little. He chooses to die, and loses.
I can’t possibly introduce every possible angle here, but the crux of the decision is lifestyle. It’s nutrition. It’s a dedication to mental health – by not crucifying myself for falling short. To change. To eliminate garbage and to give myself the best possible chance to live well for myself, my wife, my kids, my friends, and the world.
It seems like a simple choice.
But if you’ll pardon the continuation of the Star Trek theme, I’m low on fuel. I’m low on morale. I’ve got a great crew, but I’m even wearing them out. I need to be zapped right now by Dr. Beverly Crusher’s anti-nephritis doo-hickey!
Oh, well. You get the point. I need to choose to win. It sounds so simple yet it involves a lot. By reading this, you’ve probably done enough . . . unless you feel like doing laundry or juicing 50 pounds of celery!
To whomever is reading this, I appreciate YOU and I want you to be thankful for your health. Also, if you’re reading this through, you’ve likely done more for me than I’ve ever done for you (I checked – my stats are so lopsided on the “take!”) – so thank you.
And, no matter your trial, go get busy . . . doing you know what.
BOLD PREDICTION: sometime before you find yourself singing Auld Lang Syne on December 31st, you’ll be reflecting about 2009. You’ll think about your joys, your defeats, Tiger Woods’ new infamy, the recession, Twitter, Obamanomics, health care reform, the advent of 
I’ll spare you details (OK 
So I had to dig deep last week. You see, I had not only been on a whopping 60 mg. of Prednisone for two weeks, but my nephrologist also saw fit to bomb me with a bolus – that’s 1000 mg – of the stuff via I.V. This was in conjunction with a Cytoxan infusion to give a radical jolt to my kidneys in a “healthier direction”.
