….or at least makes them interesting in different ways.
As a parent and generally curious person, when I stumble upon a good example to illustrate a point, I hold fast.
This afternoon, and this is all hypothetical pending police and archeological reports, my buddy who may or may not be a civil engineer called me and told me "they" dug up a body wrapped in plastic in a shallow grave on one of his jobs. My thoughts immediately wandered to the coverage I would be reading in the local news. The corpse was reportedly less than eighteen inches below the soil, so I imagined a macabre chuckle at the murderers soon to be exposed laziness. But no! I then, allegedly, received an update call, and it turns out the corpse was not wrapped in plastic, and may, in fact, be a mummy. Aged several hundred years! What was potentially scandalous and salacious became interesting and fascinating, on a more sophisticated level; moving all the same, but in a different way.
And as my daughter has begun Kindergarten and entered the world of potentially hurtful "friends" and circumstances, I've wondered how to tell her that, "this too shall pass," and not sound like a trite asshole. The undeniable truth though is that, while reality never changes, time just makes us see it differently. I am the proud parent of a girl four weeks into Kindergarten and she already has two on-again off-again boyfriends. I need this stuff!
I don't know what we will find out about this deceased individual. Circumstances of the burial point in interesting directions. But I'll remember my sense of things as I shifted from being concerned about some vindictive meth head murderer (yes I jump to conclusions quickly), to pondering an unearthed piece of our collective history. It's all in how you look at something, the perspective. And a lot of what we call perspective just develops with time passed. And while it's true that you can't change time, you can change your perspective.
So when true adolescent disaster strikes, whatever form it takes, I may not be able to change my child's perspective. But, I will have an interesting story to tell, and if she has the where with all to substitute perspective for time, she might be able to see a way to accept an adolescent set-back, in what looked like disaster in the moment.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
The Ocean is the Only Wilderness I Have to Share
I've been reading David Brooks's book The Road To Character. The book is excellent, and compelling, but one passage sticks with me: "We don't become better because we acquire new information. We become better because we acquire higher loves." My daughter immediately floods my mind, and how my devotion to my daughter informed my love for my wife--and how that transformation is the foundation for Family, as it has developed in my consciousness.
I also constantly reread Myron Arms's collection of essays Cathedral of the World, in which he probes the challenge of finding a way to, "learn the lessons nature has to teach." That is so easily said, but so difficult to do. For one thing, wilderness is hard to find these days, and for another finding any value in it, in my experience requires honed skills. I've spent many a tent night on sweltering summer mountain trails to try and impart something to other people's children about the wonders of the natural world. I confess that in those moments, the discipline portion of character building was on full display, but I struggled to find any transcendence in it. The problem was that though the views were stellar, and the effort significant; any reasonably healthy person could have done it. No honed skill was required. Perseverance is something, but it's something anyone can find most anywhere, if they look hard enough.
In the ocean though, and in rivers, I've been put in my place, and I've put in the time. I've learned to sail a boat, and when that boat fails, manage to carry on. Some of my most intense moments of concentration and transcendence have occurred in swirling surf cresting taller than houses, or, at times, no taller than a man. Surely others have experienced far more in the same medium and been challenged more intensely there. But, I have put in my time, and honed some skills unique to the sea. It has been a higher love. A relationship that I've forsaken the immediate pleasures of my terrestrial life to maintain.
Recently my higher loves have collided, or at least, I've felt the need to meld them. My daughter has a powerful personality, and I struggle to find any compelling way to help her see humbleness as a virtue. I'd been out of the water for most of the last year . . . doing other things. Any interaction had been on only the easiest terms. Last weekend though I went with some friends offshore to spearfish on an abandoned tower about twenty miles out. I'd been before, and harvested reef fish, none more than five pounds probably. And while jumping in the ocean twenty miles from land indicates some entrance into the food chain, until this last visit, I'd played it safe. This time I borrowed a friend's spear gun and went after some big fish.
Spear fishing is barbaric, I do not disagree. I will however contend that it is no more barbaric than eating a hamburger. And while I could make a meal from a five pound spade fish, I had to know if I could take a thirty pound amber jack. The siting and selection process is the same for large and small schooling fish. Additionally, the strategy of schooling becomes abundantly clear as you try to single out an individual prey. The shot is placed, and chaos ensues briefly. Then as the line, that you know you will have to retrieve by hand, pays out, you gather your wits. You stop the line and are immediately drawn downward by the fish. You started at twelve feet or so below the surface, inverted. Now you are upright. . .or maybe not . . . but you are being pulled toward darkness. You begin to kick, and stay still. Instantly you decide to pay out more line and head for the surface. You gasp. Then put your head down start to work the line--you are pulled down. At some point, the power of your fins must overcome the propulsion system of a muscle missile designed perfectly for the medium in which you find yourself. As you bring the fish closer the thrashing becomes more violent, but less focused. The fish must be brought close enough to be dispatched with a knife. Then the spear can be removed, and the quarry passed to the boat.
What I want to impart to my daughter, but struggle with, is the sense of that moment when you feel the fish pulling you down. You've gotten yourself here with your skill and ability, but you are not in complete control. This is not the same lack of control you feel when you happen down the wrong street in a city and are held up for your wallet . . .or worse. In that instance you have no control, and you don't expect to. What I'm concentrating on is the moments when you are operating within your skill set, but find yourself pushed to your limits. Those are moments of growth.
As unrelated as it may sound, the conditions that were conducive to the spearfishing trip were also ideal for the evening my daughter and I shared on a paddle board in the ocean tonight. Before the big fish, I might have hedged my bet and practiced a few days before taking her into the ocean. But after the big fish, I was reminded that while I'm only a guest in the sea, I'm a familiar guest. And it's okay to bring a friend now and then. I don't think my daughter learned anything in particular tonight. I only think it was a night to continue her introduction to the wilderness in our backyard. The sea can be a teacher, but only to those who don't see it as a back alley, or the wrong street. You don't learn much form being terrified and unprepared. In my experience though, being prepared and terrified creates room for real growth. And so my task is to continue the introduction to the only wilderness I have to share.
I also constantly reread Myron Arms's collection of essays Cathedral of the World, in which he probes the challenge of finding a way to, "learn the lessons nature has to teach." That is so easily said, but so difficult to do. For one thing, wilderness is hard to find these days, and for another finding any value in it, in my experience requires honed skills. I've spent many a tent night on sweltering summer mountain trails to try and impart something to other people's children about the wonders of the natural world. I confess that in those moments, the discipline portion of character building was on full display, but I struggled to find any transcendence in it. The problem was that though the views were stellar, and the effort significant; any reasonably healthy person could have done it. No honed skill was required. Perseverance is something, but it's something anyone can find most anywhere, if they look hard enough.
In the ocean though, and in rivers, I've been put in my place, and I've put in the time. I've learned to sail a boat, and when that boat fails, manage to carry on. Some of my most intense moments of concentration and transcendence have occurred in swirling surf cresting taller than houses, or, at times, no taller than a man. Surely others have experienced far more in the same medium and been challenged more intensely there. But, I have put in my time, and honed some skills unique to the sea. It has been a higher love. A relationship that I've forsaken the immediate pleasures of my terrestrial life to maintain.
Recently my higher loves have collided, or at least, I've felt the need to meld them. My daughter has a powerful personality, and I struggle to find any compelling way to help her see humbleness as a virtue. I'd been out of the water for most of the last year . . . doing other things. Any interaction had been on only the easiest terms. Last weekend though I went with some friends offshore to spearfish on an abandoned tower about twenty miles out. I'd been before, and harvested reef fish, none more than five pounds probably. And while jumping in the ocean twenty miles from land indicates some entrance into the food chain, until this last visit, I'd played it safe. This time I borrowed a friend's spear gun and went after some big fish.
Spear fishing is barbaric, I do not disagree. I will however contend that it is no more barbaric than eating a hamburger. And while I could make a meal from a five pound spade fish, I had to know if I could take a thirty pound amber jack. The siting and selection process is the same for large and small schooling fish. Additionally, the strategy of schooling becomes abundantly clear as you try to single out an individual prey. The shot is placed, and chaos ensues briefly. Then as the line, that you know you will have to retrieve by hand, pays out, you gather your wits. You stop the line and are immediately drawn downward by the fish. You started at twelve feet or so below the surface, inverted. Now you are upright. . .or maybe not . . . but you are being pulled toward darkness. You begin to kick, and stay still. Instantly you decide to pay out more line and head for the surface. You gasp. Then put your head down start to work the line--you are pulled down. At some point, the power of your fins must overcome the propulsion system of a muscle missile designed perfectly for the medium in which you find yourself. As you bring the fish closer the thrashing becomes more violent, but less focused. The fish must be brought close enough to be dispatched with a knife. Then the spear can be removed, and the quarry passed to the boat.
What I want to impart to my daughter, but struggle with, is the sense of that moment when you feel the fish pulling you down. You've gotten yourself here with your skill and ability, but you are not in complete control. This is not the same lack of control you feel when you happen down the wrong street in a city and are held up for your wallet . . .or worse. In that instance you have no control, and you don't expect to. What I'm concentrating on is the moments when you are operating within your skill set, but find yourself pushed to your limits. Those are moments of growth.
As unrelated as it may sound, the conditions that were conducive to the spearfishing trip were also ideal for the evening my daughter and I shared on a paddle board in the ocean tonight. Before the big fish, I might have hedged my bet and practiced a few days before taking her into the ocean. But after the big fish, I was reminded that while I'm only a guest in the sea, I'm a familiar guest. And it's okay to bring a friend now and then. I don't think my daughter learned anything in particular tonight. I only think it was a night to continue her introduction to the wilderness in our backyard. The sea can be a teacher, but only to those who don't see it as a back alley, or the wrong street. You don't learn much form being terrified and unprepared. In my experience though, being prepared and terrified creates room for real growth. And so my task is to continue the introduction to the only wilderness I have to share.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Children and Healthcare
Or . . . "Shit Happens, or Sometimes It Doesn't, And Then You Have a Real Problem"
These are the facts of the case: Our daughter was severely constipated. She vomited intermittently, was awake nights, and was generally not herself for exactly one week. We spent at least 9 hours in two emergency rooms and three hours in her pediatrician's office to make this determination. Additionally, we drove four hours round trip to go to the second ER. I've not received the bill yet, and we do have insurance. Everything from appendicitis to kinked bowels was entertained as a probable cause. She was X-rayed three times, and a CT Scan was suggested. Blood work was done, IV fluid was administered. We are not crazy, as far as I know.
A chronology of the events might bore, so I will try to limit myself to pondering the following themes: the diagnostic personalities of doctors, humorous commentary by daughter, radiation, boredom, confusion, and more humorous commentary by daughter.
We saw no less than five doctors in the course of our adventure. They ranged from the bad ass expert to the tentative wimp, and they all seemed to be in the wrong places. We are told to have a family doctor for ourselves and a pediatrician for our child is to avoid the perils of the poor masses throwing themselves at the mercy of the ER. Ironically, the ER, responsible for making sure you are not actively dying, resides in a hospital where all of the expensive testing equipment, presumably designed to give a nuanced picture of how you are living-- not dying, happens to be located. Our family physician does not even have the luxury of timely blood work at her disposal. An entire essay could be written on each individual doctor's approach, but suffice it to say, none of it made a profound difference. The fault there was probably ours. Let's be fair, we'd taken our daughter to doctors because we were extremely worried about some mysterious ailment--she was plugged up. Unfortunately, when the billable hour approaches $300.00, "go home and buy a gentle laxative," seems trite, and so it took long time for someone to get to that conclusion.
Quinn seemed to enjoy the parts of the adventure that didn't involve water or lozenges being placed in her colon. Both X-rays sessions were exciting for her. Even the grown up hospital had cartoons in the exam room! Her most memorable quote may have been, between the second and third sepositories, (to the nurse, who was female) "you're not gonna stick anything else in my buns, you're freaking me out man."
On boredom, I find it odd that people who, even with insurance are expected to fork over hundreds, if not thousands of out of pocket dollars are supposed to expect that a three hour wait, followed by hours of waiting in an exam room is normal. I realize that anyone that works in an ER will find this offensive, and me naive. I'm not commenting on how we got here, or why. I'm only pointing out that the frustration is magnified for someone like me who thinks about these things. I fully acknowledge that we probably had no business in an emergency room. However, to our credit, our doctor had told us to go there--TWICE!!. It's none of the individuals involved fault, it's just really stupid. In no other industry are you asked to both pay top dollar, and sit on your hands for hours. Not even airlines are as guilty as doctors.
The confusion is the worst part, particularly for the parents. I don't know where the confusion comes from. Why are we talking about asymptomatic illnesses. Looking back it seems so obviously not the case, but as mentioned earlier, we discussed appendicitis, tangled bowels, serious infections, and I'm not sure what else. Everything we discussed involved a surgical solution. And billing for surgery was not a motivator. No one we spoke to would have performed or benefited from the surgery. That is not to say that no one we spoke to would have not been saved a lot of trouble if a surgical solution worked out. Additionally, if our wee lady had had a serious problem, no matter how improbable, and the doctors has suggested that she was simply plugged up--oh the consequences. Is this the source of confusion? Two reasonably reasonable parents, one healthy child, nine hours in the ER for constipation . . . . It's unreasonable to think that as soon as I touch (ostensibly to repair) a house I didn't build, I'm responsible for all of its defects moving forward. Just the same, I won't hold a doctor accountable for the improbability that takes my childs life. Oh, that's right, I probably would. Or at least think about it, and be offered a settlement. I really like her! I like to think more of myself, but I'm not going to ask a doctor I barely know to rely on the hope that my better self would prevail.
And yet, our dear's quips endure. After the reception of an enema and the resulting expulsion, she stated, "That was not awesome." And perhaps that captures it all. We struggled through it, and it was not awesome.
These are the facts of the case: Our daughter was severely constipated. She vomited intermittently, was awake nights, and was generally not herself for exactly one week. We spent at least 9 hours in two emergency rooms and three hours in her pediatrician's office to make this determination. Additionally, we drove four hours round trip to go to the second ER. I've not received the bill yet, and we do have insurance. Everything from appendicitis to kinked bowels was entertained as a probable cause. She was X-rayed three times, and a CT Scan was suggested. Blood work was done, IV fluid was administered. We are not crazy, as far as I know.
A chronology of the events might bore, so I will try to limit myself to pondering the following themes: the diagnostic personalities of doctors, humorous commentary by daughter, radiation, boredom, confusion, and more humorous commentary by daughter.
We saw no less than five doctors in the course of our adventure. They ranged from the bad ass expert to the tentative wimp, and they all seemed to be in the wrong places. We are told to have a family doctor for ourselves and a pediatrician for our child is to avoid the perils of the poor masses throwing themselves at the mercy of the ER. Ironically, the ER, responsible for making sure you are not actively dying, resides in a hospital where all of the expensive testing equipment, presumably designed to give a nuanced picture of how you are living-- not dying, happens to be located. Our family physician does not even have the luxury of timely blood work at her disposal. An entire essay could be written on each individual doctor's approach, but suffice it to say, none of it made a profound difference. The fault there was probably ours. Let's be fair, we'd taken our daughter to doctors because we were extremely worried about some mysterious ailment--she was plugged up. Unfortunately, when the billable hour approaches $300.00, "go home and buy a gentle laxative," seems trite, and so it took long time for someone to get to that conclusion.
Quinn seemed to enjoy the parts of the adventure that didn't involve water or lozenges being placed in her colon. Both X-rays sessions were exciting for her. Even the grown up hospital had cartoons in the exam room! Her most memorable quote may have been, between the second and third sepositories, (to the nurse, who was female) "you're not gonna stick anything else in my buns, you're freaking me out man."
On boredom, I find it odd that people who, even with insurance are expected to fork over hundreds, if not thousands of out of pocket dollars are supposed to expect that a three hour wait, followed by hours of waiting in an exam room is normal. I realize that anyone that works in an ER will find this offensive, and me naive. I'm not commenting on how we got here, or why. I'm only pointing out that the frustration is magnified for someone like me who thinks about these things. I fully acknowledge that we probably had no business in an emergency room. However, to our credit, our doctor had told us to go there--TWICE!!. It's none of the individuals involved fault, it's just really stupid. In no other industry are you asked to both pay top dollar, and sit on your hands for hours. Not even airlines are as guilty as doctors.
The confusion is the worst part, particularly for the parents. I don't know where the confusion comes from. Why are we talking about asymptomatic illnesses. Looking back it seems so obviously not the case, but as mentioned earlier, we discussed appendicitis, tangled bowels, serious infections, and I'm not sure what else. Everything we discussed involved a surgical solution. And billing for surgery was not a motivator. No one we spoke to would have performed or benefited from the surgery. That is not to say that no one we spoke to would have not been saved a lot of trouble if a surgical solution worked out. Additionally, if our wee lady had had a serious problem, no matter how improbable, and the doctors has suggested that she was simply plugged up--oh the consequences. Is this the source of confusion? Two reasonably reasonable parents, one healthy child, nine hours in the ER for constipation . . . . It's unreasonable to think that as soon as I touch (ostensibly to repair) a house I didn't build, I'm responsible for all of its defects moving forward. Just the same, I won't hold a doctor accountable for the improbability that takes my childs life. Oh, that's right, I probably would. Or at least think about it, and be offered a settlement. I really like her! I like to think more of myself, but I'm not going to ask a doctor I barely know to rely on the hope that my better self would prevail.
And yet, our dear's quips endure. After the reception of an enema and the resulting expulsion, she stated, "That was not awesome." And perhaps that captures it all. We struggled through it, and it was not awesome.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Through The Lense of A Daughter
I thought when we put the finishing touches on the family compound, I would enjoy more free time to write. It may be that I have a little more free time, but it doesn't feel like it--life just seems to expand. What's more, when I do get a minute, I'm finding real difficulty holding any thought in my mind at a suitable distance to comment on it. It always seemed terribly rude to write something intended for the eyes of others, if I knew it wasn't at all compelling. How presumptuous of me to assume that I would always be able to observe the interesting, think compelling thoughts and concisely illuminate them in words. My mind has been altered by fatherhood (or at least that seems the likely suspect) in such a way that, my experience of life is so compelling to me, that I'm having trouble stepping back and writing anything coherent about it.
Case in point: On the way to pick up my daughter this afternoon, I heard two back to back stories on the radio. The first was about the latest grisly murder of a hostage, at the hands of terrorists. This pilot was burned to death, in a cage. That brutality and evil is enough to give anyone pause. For me the added shame is that, the world, seems to be getting more dangerous, not less. And of course--my thoughts immediately jump to my daughter. I was afforded the opportunity to travel in my youth, and I figure it shaped my perception of the world in a positive way. I hope for this for my daughter, but in the best case she will be in greater danger than I was in my youth, or worse, she won't go. Just as I began to quietly succumb to my despair, the next story came on.
Harper Lee will publish a new novel! Perhaps she will illuminate some of the curiosities to which Scout has introduced my daughter. Quinn is not of an age where she will sit through To Kill A Mockingbird in nightly installments. That does not mean I haven't tried. She's heard enough to know that she relates to Scout, who seemingly can't mind her P's and Q's. And I know no one can enjoy failing measuring up to Atticus' patience and honor more than a man with his daughter squirming in the crook of his arm as he tries to read To Kill A Mockingbird to her.
Those two news stories took me through almost every spectrum of human emotion in less than five minutes. In my previous existence, the same thing could have happened, but lately I've found that life's volume knob seems to be stuck--at eleven. I have a dim sense of why this might be. My daughter is almost five, but she is small. She is also, in my opinion, on the ball. So you have this tiny person giving pretty concise running commentary on her life. This is mostly communicated in one liners that sound like she is channeling Mark Twain. But I maintain a memory of just four years ago, when this child was a helpless lump. The addition of a child has made each of my days pass like a second, and the whole of my years feel geologic in scale. This is pretty powerful as it is presented in my mind in an instant.
The Jordanian pilot who was burned alive, must have been an infant, and then a five year old boy, and those parents must feel devastation that I can at least imagine now. And the men who brutally took that life, they were children once, and now their evil reverberates around the globe. I feel that in a way that a man with no children might not. Harper Lee must have been a precocious five year old, and the goodness and insight that she has contributed to humanity; I can see how valuable that is, through the lense of a daughter. The value, understanding and empathy Lee captured in her story have reverberated around around the globe for over fifty years. And that is the only hope for the father of any child: Goodness has a longer shelf life than evil.
Case in point: On the way to pick up my daughter this afternoon, I heard two back to back stories on the radio. The first was about the latest grisly murder of a hostage, at the hands of terrorists. This pilot was burned to death, in a cage. That brutality and evil is enough to give anyone pause. For me the added shame is that, the world, seems to be getting more dangerous, not less. And of course--my thoughts immediately jump to my daughter. I was afforded the opportunity to travel in my youth, and I figure it shaped my perception of the world in a positive way. I hope for this for my daughter, but in the best case she will be in greater danger than I was in my youth, or worse, she won't go. Just as I began to quietly succumb to my despair, the next story came on.
Harper Lee will publish a new novel! Perhaps she will illuminate some of the curiosities to which Scout has introduced my daughter. Quinn is not of an age where she will sit through To Kill A Mockingbird in nightly installments. That does not mean I haven't tried. She's heard enough to know that she relates to Scout, who seemingly can't mind her P's and Q's. And I know no one can enjoy failing measuring up to Atticus' patience and honor more than a man with his daughter squirming in the crook of his arm as he tries to read To Kill A Mockingbird to her.
Those two news stories took me through almost every spectrum of human emotion in less than five minutes. In my previous existence, the same thing could have happened, but lately I've found that life's volume knob seems to be stuck--at eleven. I have a dim sense of why this might be. My daughter is almost five, but she is small. She is also, in my opinion, on the ball. So you have this tiny person giving pretty concise running commentary on her life. This is mostly communicated in one liners that sound like she is channeling Mark Twain. But I maintain a memory of just four years ago, when this child was a helpless lump. The addition of a child has made each of my days pass like a second, and the whole of my years feel geologic in scale. This is pretty powerful as it is presented in my mind in an instant.
The Jordanian pilot who was burned alive, must have been an infant, and then a five year old boy, and those parents must feel devastation that I can at least imagine now. And the men who brutally took that life, they were children once, and now their evil reverberates around the globe. I feel that in a way that a man with no children might not. Harper Lee must have been a precocious five year old, and the goodness and insight that she has contributed to humanity; I can see how valuable that is, through the lense of a daughter. The value, understanding and empathy Lee captured in her story have reverberated around around the globe for over fifty years. And that is the only hope for the father of any child: Goodness has a longer shelf life than evil.
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