Carol wants to go bye-bye

So why are you leaving us, Carol?

Is this place too, too weird sounding?

The Audacity of Dopes is no longer relevant?

you are kidding, Carol?

Love,

Greg

malcom middleton

the perfect song queued in while i was driving around orange county aimlessly.

thank you, malcom

I walk with a cane.

Sure. That's what I have been doing for a while now.

People stare. They usually don't move aside to give my gimpy ass some room.

I am beginning to wonder how this would affect me if my cane-walking condition were an everyday thing. I imagine what it would be like to be a disabled citizen in our country.

There is a certain uncomfortableness that I detect when I enter a room. It can be a bummer.

So, for those able-bodies people out there, please be kind to people on crutches, walking with a cane, wheelchairs of all flavors -- all of them.

All of us.

G

You are still my son, even at the Hospital

Dear Son,

I am writing you to let you know that you are still my son. My handwriting is legible, my ideas concise, and the blood that courses through your veins is also my blood. Isn't it ironic, my son, that I first met you in a hospital yet while here -- at work -- you and I hardly speak?

I am sure that it must pain you sometimes that our eyes meet when I pass you in the corridors, that I am pushing along a cart of cleaning supplies, a mop, or linen, while you carry in your hands important paperwork, files, or the orders that might save someone's life. You avert your eyes when you are with your staff (I am not part of your staff), a patient, or another doctor. When you are alone and we pass each other, you give me a secret smile that no one else knows about. And while that should make me smile, too, it does not. So as a custom I look downwards towards the shiny, smooth hospital floors. S-H-I-N-Y.

Not long ago my gaze towards the sterilized floors included you. Perfectly clean tiles and my son, sitting there. I made them both what they were. Clean, happy to be attended by me, and part of my job. It was during those times you would wait for me to finish my shift that your curiosity and the allure of being a doctor lead you to become one.

In those days, you wanted to know everything about each patient whose open door allowed that spark of questions to travel all around your head -- like a small fire running along a track -- between and among the folds of your magnificent and clean brain. I could only tell you so much. "She has trouble breathing, so she has to stay here so we can help them live," or "He has a disease in his blood, so he needs our help"

And you would declare, "And how do you help them? What do you do for them?"

Your personality began to show signs of arrogance, self-righteousness, and ambition. Even then. Did not my gentle ways show you how to be? Was not my love a model for you to follow? Did you reserve all of that compassion for your patients? It is an awful, luckless feeling to have scorn towards one's child, but you are my only child, and I love you even when you hide behind your white coat, your glasses, your title. Doctor.

Today I feel tired and weary. I miss something. Is it back home? Am I nostalgic for your father, who long ago passed? Do I wish I had more to give you? Answers to your questions? I cannot breathe.

Here I go again: I am looking downwards because I hear your voice around the corner. I get happy and sad all at the same time.

Do you love me?

Friday

Carol,

Thinking of you.

Greg

Bury My Heart...

I was in 7th grade, and my sister was in her junior year of high school when she asked me to fetch a book out of her high school locker one late afternoon. I had never been given a task by her of this magnitude. She trusted me, spoke openly with me about herself, confided in me when there was a problem.

This afternoon, she had a problem: she needed a book from her locker, and for some reason she did not want to do it herself. She's never been lazy or complacent. She got straight A's, took French for four years (something I did as well because of her), and was independent, but this time she needed me to do this for her.

She handed me a slip of paper with her locker combination, the general whereabouts of her locker (to the left of the school library on the second row, about three from the end) but not the title of the book:

"...just look for the book with a picture of an Indian on the front...and look for the title of 'bury my heart' and you'll know"

I rode my bicycle to our high school with no backpack, and I remember this because I felt like a chump riding back with a book in one hand and the other on the right handlebar grip. BMX bikes are meant to be ridden with both hands. There are curbs to jump, objects to bunny-hop over, riding stances that require you to sit far back on the seat, making a "U" with your torso and both arms stretched out on the bars -- the way Harley riders do -- when you're waiting for the light to turn green. But there I was riding home with a book in my hand, awkward transitions into intersections, balance was off, and the cool factor diminished.

Her locker was hard to find. I was sweating. "I can't find it!" I tried the same combination on the whole second row of lockers, when finally the metal door popped open. There was her book. Only one with an Indian on the front, and the strange title, "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee"

Recently, a friend kidded me about an injury I had about a week ago. He called it the "Battle of Wounded Knee," and my mind shot towards this memory of the locker and my sister's book. I have not yet told her about my injury because she would tell everyone in my family, and everyone would panic for me. We still confide in each other about many things. She sent me a camera-phone photo of a cake she made for me for my birthday that she shared with her boyfriend and her daughter. She holding it, smiling at me 400 miles away.

I still don't know why she did not get the book herself. I have an idea why, but it doesn't matter anymore. It seems almost trivial now, me getting her book for her, except the memory is crisp, it invokes something in me about her love for me, how she turned to me to help solve her problem, and how I without any regard for my self I came through for her. We are still this way with each other. Each small contribution to our history has made us closer. We've been there for each other (break-ups, divorce, money) I am lucky. I am connected. I have a sister.

Today I'll tell her about my "wounded knee"

it's that time of year again

When Carol dusts off her dating skills and takes the plunge. Yes, I went on a date Thursday night. And I can actually say that this date was great. There was chemistry, flirty eyes, hefeweizen (carol's favorite), fried food, we even clinked our glasses "Here's to us getting together."

Earlier that day, I googled The Top 10 Things To Know For A First Date. Number one was don't talk about dating in a negative way. Number two was don't talk about your exes. I forgot what three through nine are now, but at number ten, be yourself. Be yourself. Okay, I did that. And I think he did too.

I have so many people pulling for me, all my friends are good soulful humans, and they want to see me with a nice guy. I almost cancelled the date at the last minute, I'm so very glad I didn't do that because this guy was nice, really nice.