Chris Dikes

When a local funeral home director called and asked if I’d officiate at a funeral, I said “Yes.”  After all, things like this, presiding at funerals for strangers, were the things I was supposed to do as a minister.  At least, that’s what I understood my new role to be.  Even though I was twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, and had never officiated at a funeral by myself, this seemed like a good time to start.  I had to start sometime somewhere.  And it wasn’t as if I was a complete novice.  I’d helped with other funerals, reading the obituary or a few verses of Scripture, offering a prayer at the beginning of the service.  But this would be the first time I’d be responsible for the entire service including the funeral sermon.

After I said “Yes,” the funeral director gave me what information he had about the deceased and the family, which wasn’t much.  The family had chosen to have the funeral in Abilene (where I lived while I was attending graduate school at Hardin-Simmons University) because it was halfway between their home and Huntsville, Texas.

Huntsville?

The funeral director proceeded to inform me that the recently deceased individual had been imprisoned for the last fifteen years in a maximum security prison.  While he’d been in jail, neither his mother, brothers, or even sisters had trekked to Huntsville to visit this imprisoned family member.

Okay.

He informed me that the family planned to arrive about an hour before the service so there’d be little, if any, time to meet them.  As the funeral director described it to me, the service was being held out of obligation, the family believing it to be the proper thing to do and all.

After getting off the phone with the funeral director, I made my first mistake.

Actually, my first mistake was saying “Yes.”

My second mistake was drawing conclusions about the family’s feelings for the deceased.  If they’d chosen not to visit him in prison for the last fifteen years, then they’d probably written him off.  Any positive feelings, any sense of love towards this family member, had been severed long ago.

I arrived at the funeral home thirty minutes before the service was set to begin, expecting to meet with the family, but they’d yet to arrive.  In fact, they didn’t pull into the parking lot until fifteen minutes before the service was scheduled to begin.  While we waited for the family, the funeral director went over the order of service with me- what songs would be played, the obituary I’d read, the Scriptures the family wanted read, and so forth.  He then showed me to a room where I could sit and collect my thoughts.

My hands were shaking.  I don’t know if the funeral director noticed this or not.  This was my first funeral, my first funeral sermon, and despite the circumstances of the deceased, I wanted to do a good job.  In the days since agreeing to do this funeral, I’d struggled to figure out what to say.  I couldn’t exactly say he was a good guy who everybody would miss because nobody had visited him in fifteen years.  I didn’t think it would be smart to say they’d have fond memories to cherish since he’d been in jail for a lengthy period of time.  Still, I’d given my best effort in trying to come up with some words that might give a measure of comfort to the family.  I sat at the desk and reviewed what I’d written one more time.

Have I already mentioned this was my first funeral sermon?  By this point in my life, I’d preached at least a couple of hundred times so there was no fear of standing before a group of people no matter the size of the gathering.  But this was a funeral sermon.  My first one.

The family arrived and I met each of them, shaking their hands and offering my condolences.  I then sat down behind the pulpit and waited for the service to begin.

After the first song ended, I stood up to read the obituary.  Before I even finished reading the deceased’s complete name, the family burst into loud cries.  The mother, who’d been quiet and demur before the service when I met her, whaled the loudest.  A son and a daughter wrapped their arms around her to comfort her, but it was of no use.  Soon, the entire family was crying loudly, which continued throughout the entire funeral service.

In the years since, I’ve spoken at other funerals, including those of my Mom and Dad as well as one of my Grandfathers and I’ve yet to hear anguished cries anywhere near what I heard on that Sunday afternoon in Abilene.

I could lie to you and tell you I delivered a great sermon, that I found the right words to soothe their pain, but it wouldn’t be true.  I can’t even remember what I said, but I knew at the time, while I was speaking, that it wasn’t enough.  Their cries had rattled me.  The entire service was a blur then and remains one today.

I drove home confused.  Why had this family, these people who’d intentionally cut off contact with a blood relative, who wanted nothing to do with him when he was alive, reacted with such violent and painful eruptions of emotions at his funeral?  What had I missed?

Hadn’t the relationship died long ago?

***

One of the reasons I devour so many books, aside from the sheer joy of reading, is learning from the experiences of others.  Some things, such as failure and agony, I would much rather learn vicariously through others than through first hand experience.  Other times, a book or an article or a blog post will challenge me to do and learn new things.

What I’m not able to gather from reading, I seek to pick up through conversations, although others might characterize these “conversations” as more akin to interrogations.  What happened?  What were you feeling?  Why did you do this instead of that?  What was the result?  What would you do differently?  What might you do the same?

Despite my best efforts, some things, some lessons, can only be learned through experience.  You just gotta go through it to learn it.

***

My Dad’s tacos were the best I’ve ever had.  By far.  No one else’s even come close.  I can’t point you to someone else’s and say “They were like that, but better.”  They were worth him filling the house with smoke and setting off the fire alarm.  Mine own tacos are decent, but they’re nothing compared to his.  When I brought home the girl who would be my wife, Dad asked what he should make for Sunday lunch.  There was no question as to what my answer would be.  “Tacos.”  I don’t know what made them the way they were- the mix of spices, his seasoning of the lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, or the way he fried the corn tortillas until they were soft and puffy.  I’ve tried true San Antonio puffy tacos at various restaurants (Jacalas and the Alamo Cafe, for example) and they don’t come close to his.  I can tell you about them all day long, but you had to have one to understand how good they were.

Before I was married, before I met the woman who would become my wife, I quizzed my engaged and married friends about how they found the one.  Where did you meet?  And of course, how did you know?  How were you sure?  ”You’ll know,” they kept telling me.  I hated that answer.  But when I met her, I knew.

I’d read plenty of memoirs dealing with the loss and death of a loved one and I thought I understood.  Then it happened to me.  Those words I’d read took on a whole new meaning.  I now understood.

I can read novels and stories about the disruption of friendship, of the ways in which people can be cruel and controlling to another.  I can read the descriptions of how the poison of bitterness has seeped in and wreaked havoc.  Reading about it is one thing, hearing someone else’s tale is something different, experiencing it first hand opens your eyes in a whole new way.  To have your heart broken by betrayal, your dreams crushed by the cruelty of another, your future plans burned to ashes, and then to teeter on the edge of bitterness is somethng you only know by experience.

At the age of fifteen, I relented to a friend’s request and went to church with him.  Part of me had agreed to go so he’d stop pestering me about it.  I could go a time or two and be done with it.  I thought I knew what the church gig was all about.  I’d met plenty of church people and they weren’t exactly better or nicer or more together than me.  Nothing about them had impressed me and made me wonder what they had going on that I didn’t.  But I went and to my surprise I have kept on going for twenty-eight years.  Some things must be experienced.

I would’ve never imagined accepting a friend’s invitation to church would send me on a path where seven years later I’d be speaking at some stranger’s funeral in West Texas attempting to offer words of comfort and encouragement to his family.

***

I thought a lot about the man in the casket and his anguished family.  I didn’t understand their pain.  I figured the answer wasn’t going to be found in a book and I didn’t know anyone I could talk to who’d done a similar funeral.  It seemed to be a unique experience.  Or at least I think it was.  Still, I was perplexed.  Why had the family reacted with such loud shrieks and cries?

Why?

Because it was over.  When they heard me say his name and his date of death, the finality of his life became a reality. The opportunity for redemption and reconciliation, the hope for a new tomorrow was forever gone.  Yes, the family had chosen to cut themselves off from this family member but as long as he was alive, as long as he was breathing, they could still cling to hope.  There was the hope he’d change, that one day a letter might come in the mail apologizing for his actions and seeking their forgiveness.  Perhaps they were holding out hope that one day he might be released and he’d emerge from prison a different man, a new man.

That day was never coming.

This was the source of their anguished cries.

With this funeral, I experienced, albeit by proxy, the loss of hope and forgiveness and the stranglehold of estrangement and bitterness.  The latter are bitter pills darkening the heart and soul.  I’d like to say I learned my lesson, but I too can be a slow learner.  I can be slow to forgive, quick to lose hope, and I can walk the tightrope of bitterness when hard times and hard feelings last a little too long.  Bitterness is not a pill we take, it is a lozenge we choose to unwrap and put in our mouth, letting it slowly work its way into our hearts and minds.

But, as the memory of this man whose name I’ve long forgotten remains, as the family’s cries echoe in my ears, as long as the sun rises and breath remains, there is hope.  Hope for reconciliation, hope for change, hope for a brighter future, for pains to be eased, wounds to be healed, and for love to find its way.

Some things must be experienced.

Another wide-ranging selection of books…

Last month, I mentioned having read and liked John Green’s An Abundance of Katherines.  I was hesitant to read his latest book, The Fault in Our Stars, because a novel about cancer-stricken teenagers seemed a bit on the depressing side.  One of the main characters expressed similar sentiments, stating, “cancer stories suck.”  Well, this story might revolve around teenagers and cancer, but deeper and funnier than I expected.  Hazel Grace and Augustus Waters are two unforgettable characters.  After I finished The Fault in Our Starts, I read Paper Towns, which I recommend as well, but only after reading The Fault In Our Stars.

Still Points North is the recent memoir of Leigh Newman.  Her parents divorced when she was young and she grew up being shuttled between the Alaskan frontier of her father and the city of Boston with her mother.  Her parents divorce sends her life on an interesting journey all over the world and into a relationship where she confronts her past.  A very good read.

Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You is his first “business” book with the stated goal of dispelling the myth of “finding your passion.”  Through examples and analysis, Newport proposes that trying to “find your passion” and then a corresponding career is a recipe for disaster.  He contends that people are ill-equipped to find their passion until they apply themselves to a particular field of work.  Only by developing what he calls career capital does one find “passion.”  In other words, you have to do things to discover what you like doing.

I’m still plowing through the Parker series by Richard Stark (aka Donald Westlake).  Most people consider these four- Deadly Edge, Slayground, Plunder Squad, and Butcher’s Moon (which is the most violent and bloody of the series so far) to be among the best in the series, particularly as they differ from the previous books.  With these four, the author took the formula he’d created and turned it on its head.  After Butcher’s Moon, Stark/Westlake took a twenty-something year hiatus from the Parker character.

Some other books I read this month:  Looking For Calvin and Hobbes:  The Unconventional Story of Bill Watterson and His Revolutionary Comic Strip by Nevin Martell, Carry On, Warrior:  Thoughts on Life Unarmed by Glennon Melton, and Speaking of Faith:  Why Religion Matters by Krista Tippett (she is the host of the OnBeing podcast)

***

As for the blog this month, I’m still taken aback by the response to my post, You Never Really Know.  The feedback on that post went far beyond anything I expected.

Fear, fear, everywhere there’s fear.  People are fearful of the new and the old, things changing and things staying the same, falling in love or out of love, being around family and being apart from family, near friends and far from friends, getting sick and getting sicker as well as dying and public speaking (somehow statistics show people fear public speaking more than death).  With recent current events, we can even add “large public gatherings” to the list of fears.  Fear can get us twisted up, knocked down, stuck where we are, and sometimes running in the other direction.

We recognize the physical manifestations of fear- the sweaty palms, a swarm of butterflies invading the stomach, clouded thoughts, and a large dose of untimely and unwanted perspiration.  On occasion, there might even be some tears.

Fear.

It’s always hanging around, ready to pounce at the first opportunity.  But what is this thing called fear?  There are a number of definitions, but simply put, fear is “the thought, assumption, projection, or even expectation that the situation before you- be it a conversation to have or an action to take or something you are facing- will end badly.  Horribly so.”

Fear poses the question, tauntingly so, do you want to go through it?  Do you want to have this conversation or take that action or face that thing?  Can you handle living with the horrible, painful, life-altering consequences of what you are about to do or say or face?  Do you really, really, want to go through with it?

Or would you rather not?

In high school, I got a job as a mailroom clerk in a bank which employed two hundred people, of which two were near my age.  One of those two people happened to be a cute girl who worked in Human Resources.  I wanted to ask her out on a date, but fear told me she might say “No.”  Not only could she say “No,” but she might tell her co-workers I’d had the audacity to ask out her on a date.  Having passed by groups of people in the breakrooms and cafeteria, having overheard their conversations, I knew how quickly gossip spread.  In no time at all, even in the days before email, people on one floor knew the intimate details of the lives of people on a another floor.  So if this girl declined my request and then if she told her co-workers, everyone in the bank would know within a day or two.  As an employee who delivered mail to every single office four times a day, there would be no place to hide.  Fear helped me imagine them pointing at me as I walked by, “Oh fool, how could you have not known?  You were not in her league.  Not even close.”  This thought placed in my mind by fear seemed overwhelming at the time.

Looking back, in light of all the things to be afraid of, it seems quite silly to be fearful of the negative repercussions of asking out a girl.  If she said “No,” then she said “No.”  And so what if she told her friends?  In hindsight, it wasn’t a big deal, but at the time, it was a potentially life-changing situation.  After all, she might be the one!  (Spoiler alert:  She wasn’t the one.  Not.  Even.  Close.)  Yet in every situation since then, whether it be sitting down with a boss or a co-worker or an employee or making a difficult decision or waiting for a phone call from a doctor, they have been filled with that same dread and fear.  This could go badly.  Very badly.

Well, they might.

And then again, they might not.

These situations beg the question, why do we become afraid?  Not every word and action and experience goes horribly wrong, so then why the fear?  What makes us afraid?

Part of the rise of fear is not knowing the outcome.  And since we don’t know what will happen, we anticipate a negative ending.  Not knowing whether or not the girl in Human Resources would say “Yes” or “No” I tried to gauge her interest level through two of her friends, inquiring as to whether she had a boyfriend or had expressed an interest in anyone in particular.  I wanted to know the answer before I asked the question.

Sometimes, it’s not the unknown that brings about fear, but some prior negative experience.  We either got rejected in the past or we knew somebody who’d been rejected and we’d prefer to avoid a similar painful experience.  Pain is not pleasant.  Potential pain, we tell ourselves, is to be avoided.

There are other factors working to inject fear in us.  Perhaps fear tries to help us by calculating the costs?  If I go through with this, what will it cost me emotionally?  Relationally?  Financially?  Professionally?  Other times, fear tries to help us by imagining how other people will react.  And since we’re on a negative bent, the reactions we imagine are not positive.

But maybe none of those factors have convinced us to avoid the situation.  Fear then plays its final card.  ”If you continue on,” fear whispers, “if you say or do whatever you are considering, when you arrive on the other side, when the negative outcome happens as I’ve told you, not only will you be dealing with the negative consequences, but you will be doing so alone.  All alone.  No one will be coming to your aid.  No one.”

Fear never gives up trying to work its magic on us.

Yet each of these thoughts and feelings are perfectly natural.  It’s normal to wonder about the outcome, to calculate the cost, or to even look at the past as some barometer of what might happen in the future.  Everyone, to some degree or another, experiences these waves of fear, when the cough hangs around a little longer than normal or when that pain is new and different or when it’s time to have that conversation or while waiting for that phone call.

But there’s a difference between feelings of fear and being afraid.  Feelings of fear are natural.  Being afraid is a choice.  In the same way we’ll never fully escape the tempation to do wrong or act selfishly, we’ll never completely escape the feelings of fear.  We can choose to not do wrong or be selfish and we can choose to push through the feelings of fear.  We may do so haltingly and without eloquence, we might be scared while doing so, but continuing on is a choice.  Being afraid is choice to give in to the feelings of fear.

Fear works on the illusion of control.  It tells us we should stop or turn back until we have control of the situation and the outcome.  The truth of the matter is we don’t have control.  I don’t have a say in how long I live or how the other person responds to my conversation or whether someone likes me or not or whether people read my words or buy my books or even the type of man my son becomes.  The outcome is not in my control nor will it ever be.

I do have control over one thing- the person I am.  By being the person I am, I may have some influence over the outcome of events.  And then again, I might not.  Some things, lots of things, are beyond us.  But in being the person I am, I do have control over one thing:  whether or not I will let the feelings of fear cower me into being afraid.

Feelings of fear are natural and fear is never going to give up trying to win.  But being afraid, giving into those feelings of fear, that is a choice we make.

This week I came across this quote from Frederick Buencher (my favorite writer), “Here is the world.  Beautiful and terrible things will happen.  Don’t be afraid.”

***

As for the girl in HR, with butterflies invading my stomach and palms sweating, I asked her out and she said, “Yes.”  She dumped me after a couple of dates.  I’m glad she did.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gotten to the girl who was THE ONE.

***

This post was adapted from a sermon I recently gave at Lakeview Community Church.  The iTunes link is here.  Forgive the audio issues at the beginning and enjoy the other embarrasing stories I tell about my own bouts with fear.

The response to my previous post, You Never Really Know, a post about depression, took me by surprise.  I hoped it would resonate with people, but the reaction went way beyond my expectations.  The number of views, significantly more than I normally get, were staggering, but more than the page hits, the emails and messages from people stunned me the most.  People I know and don’t know contacted me to tell me about their own struggle with depression or about someone they knew- a family member, a friend, a co-worker, or someone else close to them.  So to those of you who read what I wrote and then linked, liked, reposted, emailed, told somebody, or did whatever you did to spread the word about what I’d written, thank you.

I’d wanted to write about depression for some time.  I made several attempts over the past few months, none of which I liked, and all of which I deleted, never to be seen again.  The ideas and thoughts and sketches remained in my blue spiral notebook along with the rest of my half-finished ideas.

Until that Thursday at lunch when I went to a bike shop and ended up talking to the owner.  We’d never spoken before, but something compelled me to tell him about Bill (not his real name) and what a great employee Bill was.  I expected a “thank you.”  Instead, I got something totally different as the owner told me about Bill, his depression, and what had taken place.

For the rest of the day, I kept turning the conversation over in my head, trying to make sense of what I’d been told.  By Friday, I began to compose my thoughts in a post, not sure if this one would end up getting deleted as well.  After the second or third draft, I sent a copy to the wife.  She liked it as is, but Saturday morning, I tinkered with it some more, maybe an hour or so, before I hit the publish button.

By the time I’d changed clothes and gone downstairs to go for a bike ride, to ride on the bike Bill had helped me select, messages, emails, and texts were already coming in.  I was taken aback as I normally don’t get that quick of a response.  And then later in the day Rick Warren’s son committed suicide after a long struggle with depression.

Sometimes, you never really know.

My goal was to show people who experience these symptoms, who struggle with depression, that they weren’t alone.  Other people, unfortunately too many other people, people who look just like they do with families and jobs and friends and other things like them, fight with depression as well.  Most importantly, I wanted people to know help exists, and it’s okay- it’s really okay- to ask for help.  And to keep asking until you the help you need.  Seeing a doctor or a therapist in invaluable.  Sometimes, even a prescription is needed and there’s no shame in that either.

I also wrote it for those who have no firsthand experience with depression, but who have family members or friends fighting this battle.  I hoped to help them understand how a person with depression suffers.  Unless you’ve been through it, depression makes no sense.  It seems incomprehensible.  Can’t you just look at your surroundings, at your life, and see all the good things you have?  Can’t you just determine to have a different outlook?  It’s not that easy.  You don’t get better after a good night’s sleep or a couple of cookies or a night out at the movies with a friend.  Heck, some days you don’t want to get out of bed, and other days if you got near the cookies, you might eat the entire batch and wash it down with a tub of ice cream.  Or you’d really, really want to.  Calories are the least of your concerns.

Getting over depression isn’t just a matter of cheering up or waiting for things, whatever those things might be, to turn around.  It’s a battle with your own mind.

If you know someone with depression, know this:  Getting better takes time.  Sometimes, better is learning to cope, figuring out how to live with depression, to steer through the black clouds when they come, to navigate the ups and downs, the good days and the bad days.

But also know this:  a person with depression needs a friend- a real, true, bonafide friend.  Someone who will be there no matter what.

What you should understand is that depression lies and leads you to believe you don’t matter and hope doesn’t exist.  Life is futile, worthless, meaningless.  It’s like the writer of Ecclesiastes- “all of life is meaningless”- intensifed by a hundred.  Depression falsifies the way you see reality and the people around you and it tries to isolate you from those who can really help by telling you, “If they really knew…” or “They really don’t care…”

But a person with depression, like all of us, needs someone who will listen and not judge, who will be near and not try to fix you because not everything can be fixed.  At least right away.  The role of the friend is to be there.  To be present.  To encourage.  To listen.  To sit with.  Maybe to get you out of the house.  To change the subject from something other than depression and why you are depressed because, well, you live with your depression 24 hours a day and from time to time you’d prefer the mental break of talking about something else like a movie or a show or a book or someone else’s crazy relatives or out of control kids.  Occassionally, occassionally, they might need you to get in their face and drag them out of bed or to tell them to go see a doctor.  Your phone calls and texts and emails are invaluable (although every hour on the hour might be overdoing it).  They need you to understand as best you can even though their depression might not make any sense at all to you.  Depression doesn’t make sense.

Here’s what you really need to know about a person who struggles with depression- On good days and bad days, in light and dark, amidst struggles and successes, remember this, always remember this:

They.

Need.

YOU.

Again, thank you to everyone for passing along my previous post, You Never Really Know.

When I couldn’t reach my wife by phone, I texted her a message, “You’ll never believe what someone just told me.”  My mind was spinning and I needed to talk to someone, to tell someone what I’d just heard, as if talking about it might help me understand, and I figured the guy making my sandwich at Jersey Mike’s probably wasn’t interested.

I was stunned by what I’d been told.

I’d just left a bike shop (I know, big surprise, I was in a bike shop).  The owner happened to be the person assisting me and when I was done with my purchase, we stood at the front door talking.  He thanked me for being a good customer.  “Your bike purchases are helping fund my retirement.”

“Thanks, I think.”  Since I had the attention of the owner, I figured this would be a good opportunity to let him know how helpful one of his employees had been.  I told him how much I’d appreciated Bill’s assistance.  (Note:  Bill is not the employee’s real name.)

As soon as Bill’s name came out of my mouth, I noticed a sadness come across the owner’s face.  “He passed,” he said.

I was shocked.  Bill?  He was a few years younger than me.  How could he have died?  Was it the result of an accident of some sort?  A car crash?  A biking accident?  A sudden illness?  It couldn’t be.  I realize death happens every minute of every day, but when it happens to people you know it’s still a shock.

Before I could form the question “What happened?” and get it out of my mouth, the owner, anticipating my words, said, “Bill suffered from a severe form of depression.  In the seven or eight years he worked for me, he was in and out of hospitals.  I tried…”

My mind went from shocked to reeling.  Bill suffered from depression?  Depression didn’t fit with the image I had of Bill.  We’d talked on the phone two or three times and exchanged nine or ten emails.  We’d spent a total of four hours together, maybe, over five or six occasions in the store.  Granted, over the course of a lifetime that wasn’t enough time to get to know another person, but in those exchanges I came away with the impression of Bill as a person who was happy, friendly, considerate, and eager to help.  I never once picked up on a single hint of depression.  I’m not a professional counselor or anywhere near to it, but I’ve worked with enough people, have had them confide in me as a pastor about their struggles with depression that I thought- I thought- I could pick up on the clues of depression in a person.  I was wrong.

I drove away, shocked, reeling, and stunned.

You never know.

***

Unless someone tells you, you never really know what’s going on inside of them.  You never know what’s hiding behind their smiles or frowns, what drives their ambitions or fears, if they’re different at home and at work, or what makes them happy or afraid or joyful or even depressed.

I remember reading an article in Rolling Stone magazine about David Foster Wallace’s lifelong struggle with depression.  Aside from his family and close friends, few people knew about it.  The public knew him as one of his generation’s greatest writers (and one of my favorites).  The world wouldn’t know about his battle with depression until this article came out.  The article was written to lift the veil on Wallace’s depression, to help explain why David Foster Wallace had hung himself in his garage a few months before.

For a period of time last fall, it seemed as though every time I clicked on a blog post, another writer was opening up about their fight with depression.  Two of the best were “Jesus or Zoloft?”  by Jamie The Very Worst Missionary and “Jesus or Zoloft? Yes, Please” by Robin O’Bryant.  And then of course, there was “Depression Lies” by Will Wheaton.

***

Depression is likened to a mysterious, dark cloud that settles over you with an almost unbearable, suffocating weight.  It cripples and crushes your spirit, confusing the mind, lying to you as it tries to convince you that nothing is possible and there is no hope.  At least for you.  When you’re under that dark cloud, everything depression says feels like the truth.

Some people fall prey to this illness because of their genetics.  To use an oft-worn phrase, they’re just born that way.  Some get the DNA for asthma, others get it for depression.  The chemicals in the brain are altered for whatever reason and for some, medicine can rebalance those chemicals.

For others, the depression comes as a result of circumstances and environment and life in general.  Even though the human spirit is undeniably strong and resilient, everyone’s emotional bucket has their limits.  Some have learned how to periodically empty the toxic and difficult emotions from the bucket while others hold it in and hold it in and hold it in until they can’t hold it in anymore and they find themselves fighting depression.

Some are hit early in life, while others struggle later.  For others its a lifelong struggle, whereas others get respites from time to time, and a few lucky souls only deal with depression for a period in their life.

You never really know.

In a world where we talk about everything, some people still don’t want to talk about depression.  They’re afraid of what people might think.  Of course, that’s part of the lie depression feeds you, “If people knew…”  But as more people open up and talk about how they manage and cope, whether it’s through a pill or therapy or both, perhaps fewer people will feel stigmatized.  Perhaps more people will find help.

I wish I’d known about Bill, but you never really know unless someone lets you in.  I don’t know that I could’ve done anything more than what the owner and his friends were already doing.  From what the owner told me, Bill was surrounded by people who were doing everything they could.  I don’t think I could’ve done anything different or better than be another person to encourage him to get the help he needed, to offer a listening and understanding ear.  But you never know what someone is facing or struggling or dealing with unless the other person feels free to tell you.

You never really know.

Depression is hell.  And until you’ve been through it, you can’t imagine what a beast it is to fight, a beast that doesn’t fight fair because it seeks control of your mind and emotions.  It’s like fighting yourself.  If that dark beast of depression is lurking in your corner, talk to somebody.  Get some help.  Remember, whatever the beast of depression tells you, it’s always lying.

***

Note:  If you read my book, The Accident, then you read about Bill.  He’s in the book under a different name, but he was the guy who helped me select my first bike after the accident.

This past month’s standouts were a couple of very different yet very similar novels as  well as a thought-provoking book on the idea of God and figuring out how to live one’s life.

1Q84 by Huraki Murakami.  This book took me two months to finish (that ought to be an indicator of how long it is) and I’m not sure how to even describe it.  It’s about vigilantes, cult religion, devotion, publishing, authenticity, justice, a strained relationship between a father and a son, abuse, alternate realities (hint:  that’s where the Q in 1Q84 comes from), the search for meaning, perceivers and receivers (you have to read the book), and probably a whole lot more.  Of course, it’s all done the typical Murakami mind-bending postmodern way.  Yet, at its core, 1Q84 is the story of two people searching for one another, but told in a very unique way.

I’ve heard many people rave about John Green, so I decided to try An Abundance of Katherines.  If you like Nick Hornby, you’ll probably like John Green.  Green’s writing reminds me a great deal of Hornby (High Fidelity being my favorite).  The book follows a teenage genius who has been dumped by his nineteenth girlfriend, all who have been named Katherine.  The book is a journey to discovery- authenticity, friendship, and even love.

Rob Bell released his latest book, What We Talk About When We Talk About God.  Like most of Bell’s books, some will love it and some will hate it.  If you’re looking for a book to reaffirm what you already believe, then you’ll want to avoid this book.   If you’re looking for something to challenge your thoughts of God (particularly the way most people tend to think of God) and if you want to have it done in a unique way, then you’ll probably like this book.  I fall in that latter camp.

Last month I was raving about Brene Brown’s latest book, Daring Greatly, and this month I read an earlier one, The Gifts of Imperfection, which was quite good as well.  In this book, you’ll find she touches on a number of the same themes that she does in Daring Greatly (which is one of the best books you’ll ever read).

How Will You Measure Your Life? by Clayton Christensen provides some interesting thoughts and challenges as to how people get where they are.  The idea, according to the author, is to balance of intentionality (choosing who or what you will give your attention to) along with giving oneself the freedom to follow different paths that may seem to divert you from your stated objective.  In other words, I’m headed towards Door A, but somebody opens another door to the side that appears to lead me away from Door A, yet it could eventually lead to something better than Door A.  That idea alone was worth me reading this month and has been beneficial to me.

The Richard Stark Parker series read continued as this month I finished: The Rare Coin Score, The Green Eagle Score, The Black Ice Score, and The Sour Lemon Score.

Some other books I read this month:  Crime Beat: A Decade of Covering Cops and Killers by Michael Connelly, It’s Not About the Tights by Chris Brogan, Being Jesus in Nashville by Jim Palmer, and Blood Horses:  Notes of Sportwriter’s Son by John Jeremiah Sullivan.

***

If you find yourself a fan of Southern Goth (like Flannery O’Connor, you might like the FX show Justified.  A couple of people recommended the show to me and I’ve been watching the first three seasons on Amazon Prime.  Season One moves slowly at times and seems to find its grove in the last three or four episodes.  Season Two was great and Season Three looks to be quite good as well.

I consider myself to be a former runner.  Running as a form of exercise was something I’d previously engaged in when, well, when I couldn’t find anything else better to do.  Running was the post-basketball, pre-cycling mode of maintaining physical fitness.  When I last gave up on running, I vowed only to run when necessary- in order to be the first in line for dessert.  But that ex-runner status recently changed.

My first running phase took place in college as my basketball days were winding down and I was searching for a way to stay in shape.  Other people talked about how much they loved running so I figured I’d give it a try.  It wasn’t all that bad and I even grew to enjoy the solitary pounding of my feet on the pavement.  Besides, between college classes and working and attempting to have a social life, running was the one thing I could do at any time of day or night.  I gave thought to maybe running a marathon one day, but after a year I’d grown weary of the workout and put my running shoes away.

Sometime around my thirtieth birthday, I fell back in with running again.  Playing softball once a week, as fun as it was, didn’t provide the neccessary exercise for the amount of calories I was consuming.  With a Christmas bonus, I bought a treadmill and ran on nights and weekends.  Unlike most people, I actually liked the treadmill.  There was no headwind or rain and the room temperature could be controlled.  Come Sunday afternoons, I’d turn on a football game and run the afternoon away.  Despite a few bouts of shin splints, which magically disappeared when I stopped playing softball, I managed to stick with running for a couple of years.

Until I re-discovered cycling.

After going for a spin on my first road bike, I once more put away those running shoes, never planning to get them out again.

But then my eight year old son turned on me.

He’s a swimmer and a biker so I thought he might enjoy a kid’s triathlon.  All he needed was a little work on the running.  The wife said she’d been thinking about giving running a try and she’d run if he’d run.  It sounded like a great plan, one that didn’t involve me running.

She downloaded the “couch to 5k app” and off they went on their first workout.  He made it to the end- barely.  He’d stopped halfway through, sat on the grass, and refused to run another step.  The only thing he was interested in doing was walking- walking home.  She somehow managed to convince him to finish the first workout.  Over dinner I surmised there was no way he could be cajoled, convinced, or even bribed into running with her a second time.

“I’ll run with you,” I heard myself saying.

Whoa, what words were coming out of my mouth?  I’d broken up with running and gone off to greener pastures.

But the wife wanted to run and she’d prefer if someone ran with her.  So the former runner who never wanted to run again is running with the wife.  Most times, I think she likes it, the running that is, and hopefully my company as well, except for the time when I included a rather steep hill as part of the route.  I thought it would fun and challenging.  I’m not sure what she thought, but to be on the safe side, I took her out to dinner that night.

Just in case.

At Schlotzsky’s.  (I know, big spender.)

The hill wasn’t that steep.

Running affords us more opportunities to talk, to do more things together and as a family.  Our son didn’t escape so easily.  He gets dragged along with us, except instead of running he’s ahead of us on his bike or off playing on the playground.

We’re six or weeks into this “couch to 5k” program and in a few weeks she’ll be ready for her first 5k.  The other night, as Samuel and I were leaving to go ride bikes, I found her scouring websites in search of her first 5k.

I thought about reminding her of my first cycling event.  It didn’t help that I’d gotten sick the week of or that I’d intentionally avoided training on any hills or that the event was so poorly organized I ended riding a few extra miles after missing a few unmarked turns.   At the time, I found there to be a significant difference in riding 55 miles when you’d planned on 48.  She might remember the picture of me laying on the floor next to Samuel, the muscles in my calves, thighs, back, and forearms taking turns cramping.

But if she doesn’t I won’t remind her.  It might not be the most helpful thing I could do.

I doubt she’ll have the same experience with a 5k.  Maybe if she did a 10k or a half-marathon.

But no matter what distance she chooses or how fast or slow she goes, finishing is the goal.  Maybe even learning to push yourself beyond what you thought you were capable of or accomplishing something you once considered out of reach.  Those are the prizes worthy of attaining.

And if you can do those things with someone else- even better.

I remember wishing I’d gotten a different flavor of ice cream- Chocolate Peanut Butter Chip instead of the Red Velvet.  The Red Velvet just wasn’t doing it for me.  The semi-frozen, sugary mix with chunks of red cake and cream cheese icing within a freshly made waffle cone ought to have been helping me, but it wasn’t.

My phone rang.  It was Mom.  Again.

“I’m ready to talk,” she said.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said.  I wasn’t sure if I was ready to talk.  What was I supposed to say or do?  She’d called me with the news after she left the doctor.  Terminal.  One to three months.  Cancer.  Stage Four.  No treatment.  Those were the words that rung in my ears, those were the words she’d given me to pass on to the rest of the family.  Those were the words we were left to live with.

I didn’t know what to expect when I saw her or what the next month or two or three would be like.  I wasn’t prepared to deal with her dying (as if I ever might be), but I’d lost my Dad the previous May and now, not even ten months later, according to the doctor, we’d be losing her as well.

What do you say?

What do you do?

I started by taking the car out of park, putting it in drive, and heading towards her house despite every desire to drive in the opposite direction.

***

She didn’t get two months or even three.  She got four weeks and a day.  Twenty-nine days.  The next four weeks were the hardest four weeks I’ve ever been through.  They drained and exhausted and taxed my mental, emotional, and physical faculties.  How many times did I cry?  How many times did I stay up most of the night?  Too many to remember.

And yet I wouldn’t trade those four weeks for anything.  Yes, they were hauntingly difficult, but in another sense, they were holy moments.  This was the end and it was my chance to give back to her- to care for her, to help her face the end with dignity and grace and peace.  To face it- death- with her.

***

It has been one year since those twenty-nine holy, haunted days and there are things that come to mind.

Driving her to the doctor.

Listening to her talk.  And talk.  And talk and talk and talk and talk.  To me.  To you.  To anyone who called or stopped by or was even within earshot of her.  To nurses and receptionists and doctors and friends and healthcare workers and anyone else she could.  To people who wanted to listen and to those who didn’t.

“Sleeping” on the recliner in her living room so I could hear her.  Later, getting smart and setting up the baby monitor in her room so I could “sleep” on an actual bed in the guest bedroom.

Stepping in dog crap while mowing her yard.

Watching TV with her and Samuel at her house, wondering why we hadn’t done more of this before the diagnosis, biting my tongue when she gave Samuel, one, then two, then three popsicles.  Did I think there’d always be time to come see her?

Driving back and forth and back and forth to the aiport to pick up my youngest brother.  Breathing a sigh of relief at the few moments I had to myself in the car while I waited for his flight to arrive.

Making phone call after phone call after phone call to my brothers to keep them updated.

The ER doctor who looked at her medical records I carried with me everywhere and said, “Oh, shit.”

The constant ringing of the telephone.

Waiting and waiting and waiting.  Sitting on the floor of examination rooms.  Sitting in the waiting room of doctor’s offices.  Sitting in the ICU.  Sitting in her hospital room.

Fear of the unknown.

Eating bad hospital food.  Sending my other brother to Rudy’s for some barbecue sandwiches.

Learning I was born six weeks early.  Hearing for the first time that I was a breach baby.  The chord wrapped around my neck had caused such great pain in her back that it sent her to the hospital.  Hearing her say- with a laugh- “And you’ve never stopped being a pain in my…”

Listening to the oncologist deliver the news again and wondering how she could hear his words with a smile on her face.  Thankful for this oncologist who didn’t sugar coat the bad news, who showed up on Wednesday night at six and stayed and talked to her- to us- for over an hour and a half and never sent a bill for his time.

Planning and organizing and orchestrating.  Calling hospice facilities, learning what they did and didn’t do, when they did and didn’t do what they did.

Overwhelmed.

Riding in the hospital elevators.  Getting lost in the hospital.  Walking and walking and walking.

Seeing her sit up and smile at the sight of her grandson.

Listening to her laugh as she talked with her friends.

Wondering, just wondering, if they’d really gotten the diagnosis right.  Sure, the tumors had metastasized and sure the doctor said her labwork was off the chart and the cancer was highly aggressive, but she didn’t seem like someone so close to…

Frustration.  For her, with her, at the doctors, at the situation, at everything.

Patience.  Knowing nature was taking its course.

Cursing her dogs for barking at every little creak, for waking her up after she’d just fallen asleep.

Admiration for her friends, who drove to see her at the hospital and her home, who called her and then me (when I took the cellphone out of her room so she could rest).

Appreciation for my brothers and aunt and uncle who did everything they could.

Disbelief at the tornado, the actual tornado, that had the gall to come and strike my street and home when I already had enough to deal with.

Sitting in her bedroom on that stiff wicker chair, watching her sleep, watching her breathe, counting her breaths per minute, and talking with the hospice nurses about their jobs and families and children and books and TV shows and favorite foods and religion and all the other things you talk about at three in the morning.

Staying up all night.

Standing at the edge of her bed and watching her sleep.

Debating whether or not to finish reading the book I’d started, the book I’d hoped would take my mind off the situation, the book, Wild by Cheryl Strayed, which opened with her own mother dying of cancer and that death being the catalyst for her hike along the Pacific Coast Trail.

Wondering what I would do when this was all over, how was it going to change me.  Wishing I was off on a hike, even though I don’t like to hike.  Maybe a bike ride or a trip.

Lots and lots of tears.

And finally peace.

Making the phone calls and setting the arrangements.

So appreciative of my in-laws who brought dinner and stayed with Angela and Samuel.

Sitting at Pappasitos with my youngest brother, not knowing how to process the end of those four weeks and a day, having some understanding they’d be with me forever, unaware of how those twenty-nine days would change me.

***

I was fortunate.  My mother and I had the conversations we needed to have.  And we’d had them before she was diagnosed.  The past hadn’t been pretty, we’d each made our own mistakes, but we’d gotten through it, perhaps with a few scars of the heart, but we’d made it.  Wiser and smarter and better for enduring, for striving to reconcile, for not settling for the way things were.  We’d come back to the place of being mother and son, hostilities and grudges long put aside.  We still frustrated one another, but she was my mother and I was her son.

Those twenty-nine days were hauntingly hard.  By no means was it easy or clean or anywhere near fun, but it was an honor.  Perhaps even a holy one.

Drip, drip, drip.  Where was the noise of that water dripping coming from?  Had someone forgotten to turn off a faucet?

***

I came home to an empty house.  Angela and Samuel had already left for a mother-son school event at Dave and Buster’s.  With a rare free night to myself, I wasn’t sure what to do.  Read?  Work on my next book?  Watch a movie?  Eat a pizza?  Since we were headed to Austin the coming weekend to see my youngest brother, the one training for an Ironman in May, and since he’d asked me to go bike riding with him, I’d decided to log an an extra long workout on the bike.  I couldn’t let my Ironman brother embarrass me or leave me behind on the bike.

That older brother younger brother competitive thing never goes away.

Upstairs, I changed clothes and walked by the bathroom.  I noticed my socks felt different…damp, then wet, then squishy wet.  My socks shouldn’t feel squishy wet.  I looked at the floor, saw water, and discovered the toilet had overflowed.  I unclogged the toilet with the plunger and dried the floor with towels.

Crisis averted.

At least, unclogging toilets fell within the domain of my handyman skills.  Anything else and I might have been in trouble.

I changed into a dry pair of socks and went downstairs  to begin my workout.  I checked the iPod to make sure it was fully charged and just before I got on the stationary bike, I remembered to get a water bottle.

I walked into the kitchen, past the refrigerator, into the pantry, and grabbed a water bottle which I filled up at the sink.  Leaving the kitchen, I felt a grumble in my stomach.  Food.  I needed a light snack before working out.

And then I heard a dripping noise.  Drip, drip, drip.

Had I not turned off the water at the sink?

I walked into the kitchen towards the refrigerator to get something to eat, the very spot I’d walked past a few minutes before, and saw a pool of water on the floor next to the fridge.  It looked as if someone had poured water on the floor.  Who would do such a thing?

That drip, drip, drip was getting louder.

I looked up and noticed water running down the side of the fridge.  What would cause water to run down the side of the fridge?

My eyes followed the flow of water to the top of the refrigerator where I saw water covering the entire top of the fridge.  How did that happen?

DRIP, DRIP, DRIP.

I looked up at the ceiling.  Oh, water was covering the top of the fridge, running down its side, and onto the floor because there was water dripping from the ceiling, from the very spot where the toilet had previously been overflowing.

OH (and then you can insert whatever word you might use followed by an exclamation point)!!!!!!!!!

I cleared off the top of the fridge- a book, some Clif Bars, and a jar of peanuts- and tossed them in the trash.  They were soaked, soaked with water from an overflowing toilet.  I dried off the top of the fridge, the side of the fridge, and the floor.  I tried drying the ceiling with a towel, but the water  continued dripping through the ceiling.  When I couldn’t find a bucket, I left a towel on top of the refrigerator to catch the water and then I directed a fan at the ceiling.

There wasn’t much else I could think to do at the moment so I washed my hands and sat down at the kitchen table.  The night before I’d commented to Angela, “Financially, we’re doing okay, as long as nothing unexpected happens.”

I was thinking cars breaking down and visits to the doctor, not home repairs.

My mind imagined everything that might require fixing- a broken toilet, damaged flooring, soaked sheet rock, mold (please don’t let there be any mold), and probably ten other things I couldn’t think of.  Not only could this be a financial drain, but a home repair headache, an inconvenience and an irritation.  I was getting a headache just thinking about it.  Jeez, we’d dealt with tornado damage to our home less than a year ago, didn’t we get some sort of cosmic grace period on damages to our house?

Over time, I’ve slowly grown to understand stuff breaks.  You probably- probably- won’t see me kicking the tires of a car when it breaks down (although if you’d owned my 1969 Mustang, the one that broke down every other week, you might’ve kicked its tires too).  But knowing- even expecting things to break- doesn’t mean I like it anymore.  At best, I’ve learned to tolerate the natural order of stuff breaking.

I’ve just about given up on trying to fix the items in need of repair.  Call it mental peace, knowing your limts, or maintaining marital bliss.  I might consider the idea for a moment, but then I remember the agreement I’ve made with Angela.  “I will not try to fix things that break.”

When I’ve attempted home repairs before, the process usually led to me further damaging the already broken item, thereby creating bigger messes and costing us more money.  (And there might have been some anger and frustration thrown in as well.  Like I said, it’s been a slow process.)

So I sat at the kitchen table staring at the water stains all along the kitchen ceiling.  And out of nowhere, I thought about my Dad.  I’m not sure why.  In the first year after he passed, I thought of him often, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not (those punched in the gut moments I wrote about in my book about him, One Last Word).  But as time progressed, the purposeful as well as unexpected thoughts about him became less and less.  It wasn’t as though I’d forgotten about him.  We have a picture of him on the wall along our staircase and I see his bearded face every time I go up or down the stairs.  From time to time, Samuel will ask about him and I’ll tell him a story or two about my Dad.  But I didn’t stop and think about him as much.

In the past I would’ve called him for advice about the water damage.  What do I do?  What’s the worst case scenario?  What’s the best case scenario?  I would never ask him who to call because he’d get upset with me for not fixing it myself, but I’d ask him enough questions so that I could sound halfway intelligent when the professionals showed up.

I think he knew I wasn’t going to try to fix this stuff myself.  He would tell me how this stuff wasn’t that hard.  Apparently, he’d forgotten what my handiwork looked like.  Old age must’ve erased his memories of me “helping” him with one of the cars or building a bookshelf or hanging a ceiling fan.  (And by helping, I mean he worked while I watched.)

Drip, drip, drip came the water through the ceiling.

This was going to be a mess and there wasn’t anything I could do to reverse it.  But if there were an upside, if there were a good thing to come from these drips of toilet water through the ceiling, other than me finally being forced to paint the kitchen ceiling, then it was those few minutes when I sat at the kitchen table and thought about my Dad- like the time I helped him hang a ceiling fan and it crashed to the floor and smashed in half.

“Why didn’t you catch it?” he asked.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”  And my eyes had been focused on the television, but I didn’t mention that part.

He looked at me and shook his head.

There were other moments and other stories that came to mind, but this time they came with a smile instead of tears.

Drip, drip, drip.

****

In case you’re wondering about the damages.  The plumber said the toilets were fine, the floors didn’t buckle, the tiles weren’t ruined (much to Angela’s dismay), and I was able to do the one other home repair I can- I painted the ceiling.

Before Samuel was born, Angela and I discussed the type of parents we wanted to be.  Aside from deciding how we wanted to raise our child, we talked through how we would react to things we’d seen other parents face.  We were certain of one thing, we wouldn’t be those parents.  You know the type, the ones who rushed little Johnny to the doctor or the ER every time he had a sniffle, the parents who researched sniffles on webmd and self-diagnosed little Johnny with a rare bacterial infection (even though little Johnny hadn’t been to the one island in the world where this bacteria can be found), and of course, the reason for rushing to the doctor or the ER was that the treatment window for this rare bacterial infection was only six hours. We would not be like them.  We weren’t going to be those parents.  We would not check our child’s symptoms on webmd.  We would not go rushing off to the doctor or the ER.  We wouldn’t freak out when our child ate dirt  (actually we would).

But all that changed (except the declaration against dirt-eating, we held fast to that one).

On an August morning in 2008, Samuel, three years old at the time, complained of an upset stomach.  Part of being a kid is getting an upset stomach, we reasoned.  After all, he’d been with Grandma recently and Grandma was known to allow Samuel to induldge in whatever sweets and junk food he wanted.  And, we further reasoned, he’d been swimming in a public pool the day before as well and we’d heard from friends about other kids getting stomach bugs from public pools.  (If you’re not familiar with this, think about kiddie pools and dirty diapers.  It’s a bacterial gestation pool.)  Samuel laid on the couch not doing much.  We, the good parents, felt better Friday evening when he finally vomited.

“He’ll feel better now that he’s vomited,” we assured one another.

Instead of being better on Saturday, he appeared worse.  He refused to eat or talk and wasn’t interested in playing.  He just wanted to lay on the couch or the bed.  Every time I picked him up to move him, he complained about the pain.  He even asked me to turn off the TV, which was a clear sign he was in pain.  (This is, after all, the same kid who wondered if he would get the flu so he could stay home and watch TV all day.)  Whenever we asked him where he hurt, he pointed directly at his stomach.

“Well, it’s a bad stomach bug.  Maybe he’ll throw up again and feel better.”

Although we weren’t exactly sure what had caused his illness, we weren’t going to overreact.  He would be fine.  We kept telling ourselves this until he started running a fever.

We packed him the car and headed to the ER.  “He’s probably just dehydrated, but let’s be safe.”

“Does your son still have his appendix?”

“Of course he does, he’s only three.”

They have to ask the question, they have to consider every conceivable possibility, we told one another.  We wondered how long before they gave him an IV or maybe some antibiotics and sent us on our way.

After a series of X-rays and a sonogram, we waited for the doctor in the examination room.  We flipped through the channels on the TV, looking for something age-appropiate, which wasn’t easy to do on a Saturday at midnight.  We settled on the Olympic games, but they don’t save the best Olympic events to be broadcast at that time.

The doctor finally returned.  “It looks like the appendix.  We need to operate.”

The activity in the room increased.  Papers were signed, nurses did nurse stuff, and we stood there holding onto Samuel’s hand.  Surgery?  Appendix removal?  A member of the surgical team arrived and escorted the three of us to the surgical department.  We were allowed to wait with Samuel until the last possible moment.

“Don’t worry,” the surgeon told us, “We do this seven to ten times a day and even if we find the problem isn’t the appendix, we’ll be taking it out anyway so you never had to deal with this again.”

If that was meant to be reassuring, it wasn’t.  What if it wasn’t the appendix, then what?

A nurse gave us directions to the surgical waiting room and told us to expect a phone call within forty-five to fifty minutes.  “When the phone rings, pick it up.  There’s no one manning the desk at this hour.”  It was close to two in the morning.

We stood at the end of the hall and watched a team of medical strangers wheel our son away.  There was no time to google their names, check their references, interview other surgeons, or even get a second opinion.  We had to trust these strangers, these professionals who we’d never even met before.

Angela and I were too stunned to talk.  On our way to the surgical waiting room, I passed a vending machine.  I stopped, found a dollar bill in my wallet, and bought a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

“Have you ever seen Pop-Tarts in a vending machine?” I commented.

I didn’t know what else to say.

The TV was tuned to the Olympics so we stared at the women’s marathon race.  Even though we saw the finish, I can’t remember a single thing about the race.  I don’t know if the race was close or not or even who won.  I was trying not to think about the what ifs, but I wasn’t succeeding.  The what ifs are my default mental position.  What if we’d waited?  What if it wasn’t his appendix?  What if this?  What if that?  To take my mind off my worries, or at least to attempt to do so, I walked over to the vending machine and bought another package of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

The chemically concocted strawberry flavor failed to remove my worries.

Fifty minutes later, the phone rang and the voice on the other end told us Samuel was out of surgery.  The surgeon arrived a few minutes later with the details.  “His appendix had burst.  We’ll need to keep him in the hospital for five days for antibiotic treatment and observation.”

On the elevator ride to Samuel’s hospital room, we traded in our tickets and became those parents.  Sometimes, we’ve been proven right.  Would it be possible to get the flu twice in one month?  Yes, it would and it was.

But other times, we look like those parents.  We’ve taken him for an ear ache that turned out to be nothing more than a pimple on the inside of his ear and we’ve made another midnight trek to the ER for an upset stomach which turned out to be constipation.  Seven hundred dollars for an X-ray and an enema.  Seven hundred dollars!

But for every gripe and complaint I might want to utter about a seven hundred dollar visit to the ER for constipation, for every time we hesitate about calling the doctor or going to the ER, we only have to look at the surgical scar just to the right of his belly button.  And we when see that scar, we’ll gladly be those parents.