For Zak's Doctors: What to do When You Don't Know

My Alma mater for my BA and MA is not exactly football powerhouse when it comes to collegiate sports. California State University, Sacramento  (Sac State) joined the Big Sky Conference in 1997 and while its website trumpets, “20 intercollegiate teams that compete at the NCAA Division I level,” football subdivisions are different from other sports and Sac State plays in what was formerly known as Division I-AA (now Division I FCS) while the more prominent teams play in Division I FBS (formerly Division I-A). There are exceptions and variations, but let’s just say that Sac State is not exactly a “football school.” My current school (where I am working on my PhD), Louisiana State University (LSU), competes at the upper levels and places in the national top 10 most every year – and it has won it all more than once. Our arch-rival, Alabama, has an even better record. We don’t like them and they don’t like us. It’s a football thing, nothing personal.

Which is why I can tell a non-football story about Alabama’s star quarterback, A.J. McCarron. Do I like him? On the football field, no, although I certainly respect his talent. As a person? I don’t know him; I have no opinion outside of what I’ve read. And there is one story that, while inspirational in and of itself, would not necessarily inspire me to cite it or write about it. However, just before last Christmas that all changed. Just before Christmas, a dear friend’s eight-year old son was involved in a serious accident that has been an overriding concern for many (myself included) for more than three weeks. His mother, my friend, has been on an emotional rollercoaster no one should have to endure and her strength throughout has been nothing short of amazing. Her continued strength is the reason that A.J. McCarron’s story should be told. But first, a little background…

The boy, Zak, was a passenger in a single vehicle rollover accident. He sustained significant head trauma that has had him in a medically induced coma since the accident. His prognosis is… unknown. And that is the point of all of these words. The seemingly irrelevant first paragraph (it’s designed to get my readers’ attention, but that’s not important right now), to the McCarron story set-up, to where we are right now and though the words that follow, they are designed to paint a picture of hope - hope despite some doctors’ penchant to “prepare families” for the worst. The point is that they simply do not know and, more importantly, that they should be stressing that they just don’t know. Telling a family what “might” happen in a worst-case scenario is not helpful. It does absolutely no good. I cannot imagine how losing a child might be easier in the slightest if a parent was informed that it could happen. They don’t know and there are literally thousands of examples that prove they don’t know. I am living proof of one of them. So is A.J. McCarron.

In October of 2000, I was involved in a serious accident that put me in the hospital for a long time. At first, they did not know if I would live or die. The doctors “prepared” my family for the worst. All but one, that is. The trauma surgeon on duty that day was not so sure. He never gave up and even when it was clear I would not die, he continued to make medical decisions based on the best-case scenario – that I would make a full recovery. He fought my insurance company to give me the sort of care such that when (not if) I made a full recovery, I would still have the same quality of life. I was out for most of all that, but I got the distinct impression that this doctor’s optimism was infectious. It gave my family hope. There were many others who did just the opposite. One of them felt it necessary to tell my young boys that when I “woke up” I might not remember them. The word “might” is indication enough that this “professional” did not know – and therefore should have kept his or her fucking mouth shut. It caused my sons more anxiety, trauma, grief, sorrow, etc., it did not help them in any way.

A.J. McCarron was in a serious jet-ski accident when he was a five-years old. He, like Zak, sustained serious head trauma. It might not have been as serious as Zak’s, but at the time the medical professionals “prepared” his family for death, cognitive and behavioral problems, seizure issues and blindness. All of those things could have happened. You know what else could have happened? He could have recovered, gone on to play football at Alabama, won two BCS National Championship rings (once beating LSU) and go on to what will be one of the top picks in the NFL draft. But the doctors didn’t tell his family that, they only felt compelled to tell them the worst that could happen. And they were wrong. They didn’t know. And Zak’s doctors don’t either. A.J. McCarron, myself, and thousands of other examples are all the reason in the world to have hope that Zak will make a full recovery. He might even win a Super Bowl. That could happen, too.

For anyone compelled to help Zak and his family, there is a Facebook page set up for him:

Support for Zak and his family

Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out...

I usually look forward to this annual reflection. This year is different. On December 31^st, for the past several years, I have been able to look back on the year and assess it as one of the best years of my life. While there have been many really good events that have occurred in most any given year of my 51 years on the planet, one, or even several great events does not necessarily make for a good year. The years in which my children were born, for example, are forever memorable, but for a year to be a good year, there must be a consistency about it; it should be marked by steady forward momentum that carries into the next year. While forward momentum certainly exists today, and 2014 holds much promise, that promise exists despite a dismal 2013. It has not been a good year.

Exactly 365 days ago, the signs were already there. Still a “newly wed,” that marriage was already experiencing trouble, but I had no idea that it would disintegrate into the divorce that is in process right now. By the time New Years Eve night rolled around, my wife and I were at odds about what the plans for the evening should be. She wanted to go to the casino – a place that recent experience had shown to be a bad idea – I didn’t, because of the problems gambling had already caused. She got pissed. Happy New Year. But the gambling was only the tip of a very large iceberg, one that slowly revealed itself as the year progressed. Before we got to our one-year anniversary, I could no longer trust my wife in any capacity. Any capacity. As much as commitment means to me – and marriage is a commitment of solemn proportions – I could no longer carry the burden myself. My commitment was not enough to overcome her lack of it. It also meant breaking a commitment I made to her kids, but again, it was one that I could not follow through on by myself.

It was not the only commitment I have made in the recent past. I also committed to complete an education that was once beyond what I ever thought myself capable. That commitment is ongoing, but it was nearly derailed by the turmoil that was present in my personal life. My wife and I were separated by considerable distance for weeks at a time, a hardship for any couple, but not an insurmountable one. Many couples – especially when one partner (or both) is in the military – experience much longer and more difficult separations. At least we were able to be together every four to six weeks, for five weeks over the holidays and for the entire summer. Not the best situation, but better than many – and temporary. In addition to that, she lived in my house in California (with the utilities paid by my parents), had the use of my car and did not have to pay for insurance or many other monthly expenses. Meanwhile, I lived in a shit-hole apartment in Baton Rouge. I guess we all have sacrifices in life to make…

As a result of lie after lie, financial mismanagement, infidelity and other “issues,” my head was never really in Baton Rouge, at LSU, where it needed to be. It nearly killed my career, but thankfully I had a lot of support and the wherewithal to pull through. My work was not stellar by any stretch of the imagination, but by whatever grace I was granted, it got me through. I would say it is remarkable how this relationship could turn my whole world upside-down the way that it did, but in a way I am glad it did; I’m glad it meant that much. There was nothing superficial about it to me. I was in it because I was in love and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I was committed to helping her raise her boys even though my own kids are grown. I wanted to make this new, “blended” family work. But there were too many obstacles – and the external influences of so-called “friends” – that prevented it from even getting a start. And the signs were there even before we got married. I am not a victim, I volunteered.

The end result is a shitty 2013. I am glad to see it go. The good news is that 2014 is poised to be another record-breaking good year. While not 100% entirely “past” it, I am close. I am far enough past the bullshit that I can now focus on what is in front of me rather than what has happened. The reality is that if I want to go there, it only takes a few seconds before I get pissed off, sad, wistful, emotional… whatever, all over again. In have shed enough tears, and it helps knowing that the feeling isn’t and likely never was mutual. I am free; free to pursue whatever my heart desires. It looks as though it will be a happy new year after all.

Home for the Holidays

For a brief moment it was surrealistic. I was up relatively early, grabbed a cup of coffee and went out front to smoke. In the quiet solitude I could hear the echoes of the past, see the shadows of my childhood. This is where I learned how to ride a bicycle, where the Fourth of July block parties were, where the kids would gather on school mornings and walk the two long sub-rural blocks to school. We did not live here when I was born, but by the time I formed my earliest childhood memories, this house has been home and this town, my hometown. That surrealism has now left me, the world around me has caught up. This is no longer the house I grew up in; this town is not the same as it was in the 60s and 70s. For one brief instance, however, I was home again.

Everything changes. This town, this house, indeed the entire world has changed in ways great and small. My parents bought this house almost 50 years ago. At the time most of the houses in this quiet neighborhood bore a striking similarity to one another. No longer. Virtually every home has been remodeled many times – the resemblance these 25 or so homes have to one another is scant. This town, once populated by more apricot trees than people, is now known as one of the premier locations for Silicon Valley millionaires – and today it would take a million dollars to even think about purchasing a home here. It still has the humble character it once had, but probably only to those who can see its shadows from the past.

In that quiet moment I could hear the voices of my childhood friends laughing. We played tag here. We raced our bicycles up and down the street. Some of our favorite hiding places for hide-and-go-seek are still here. But those kids are all gone now. They now have their own children. Some still live in this town, one still lives in this neighborhood in his parents’ old house, but most have moved on. This house looks almost nothing like the house I grew up in, but vestiges remain. My old bedroom is still there. The fireplace mantle is also among the lone holdouts. Many of the remodels occurred while I was still living here, others much after. Old photos, framed and hung on the wall or placed on accent tables, are the thread that holds this 50-year tapestry together.

I have lived in many houses and a few towns since moving away from this town many years ago. In fact, I have not been back here in many months and I have not spent a night here in at least a year, maybe more. But coming back here is always coming home no matter where my home at the time happens to be. I spent more years in this house than anywhere else. And I have likely spent more Christmas mornings here than everywhere else combined. Even my own sons, who did not enjoy the same stability I did growing up, have this home to claim as theirs, for many of my memories were repeated for them right here. This past year has seen more profound, bitter, trying and, at the same time, beneficial change for me than any other in recent memory. But one thing remains constant; this home has been an anchor. Once again, I am home for the holidays.

The Hamster Wheel

I am floundering. I have stuff that needs to be done. I know how to do it. I am more than capable of producing the work I need to produce. But I can’t seem to get into it no matter how hard I try. I opened this word document to make something happen. Anything. At least I am writing. Am I burnt out? Depressed? Decompressed? I haven’t a clue. This entire semester – this one and last… actually, my entire time at LSU has been a rollercoaster ride. No, it has been the entire carnival that came with the rollercoaster. And it has absolutely nothing to do with school. Despite the external bullshit I have had to deal with - bullshit I voluntarily walked into - I have been able to progress and succeed. That, in and of itself, is a minor miracle.

I started here a little more than two years ago in a relationship that turned into a long-distance romance; it became a long-distance engagement; and, last year, turned into a long distance marriage. Now it is an almost finished long-distance divorce. The long-distance part was mitigated as much as possible – more than possible, truth be told – but it didn’t solve the underlying trust issues. And I should have known, right from the start. The cheating began almost immediately, the lying, stealing, gambling, etc. that went with it continued non-stop and no matter what I did or did not do, it wasn’t enough. It could never have been enough. Now that all that shit has evaporated, I have slowly rolled to a near standstill. It is making me question everything. Is this all that is left? Is this all there ever was? What the fuck am I doing here?

I know the answers. No, no and I am chasing what I once thought was unattainable. I don’t miss Sacramento as much as I miss the fellowship of some very close friends I have there. However, I like Baton Rouge and have some great friends here now, too. I miss my home in Sacramento, but I have an awesome and equally nice home in Baton Rouge. I am a third-year PhD student and an instructor at a highly regarded R1 university. Everything looks great on paper. I am out of and past the most toxic, sick relationship I have ever been in. I am able to look at my own stupidity and own it. I don’t hate myself for entering into what turned out to be a fool’s errand – my heart was in the right place and my intentions were pure – but all the same I feel like something huge is missing. And no, it isn’t “her.” Could it be that I had grown so accustomed to the madness that I miss it? God, I hope not.

I spent a couple of hours earlier doing some editing and rereading of past posts in my blog. I’ve been meaning to fix some of the hyperlinks so that they are visible (I changed the background from black to white a while ago and the yellow hyperlinks were impossible to see). Up until early 2011, my posts had an underlying energy to them, a contentedness that I could feel coming from between the lines. I was happy. I didn’t have nor did I need a “her,” and I certainly was not seeking what I found. Yet, slowly, the maintenance that relationship required eventually became all-consuming. But I managed to get through my schoolwork despite it. Now that energy and mental space has been freed. I knew I would get here eventually and figured that my productivity would greatly increase as a result. It seems as though exactly the opposite is happening. I just don’t get it.

Bad Medicine

It seems like it’s been a long time. I used to do this much more frequently - even regularly - way back when. It could have taken place just about anywhere, but it was always best at a coffee shop, at a park, in my backyard, anywhere but the more “official” writing places at the more “official” writing times when I wrote because that is my job. This writing, in these places, has nothing to do with anything remotely resembling any of my various and sundry writing requirements. Today I am just a short distance from my desk with all my required work piled upon it. I am at once at home, but also a long way from home. Right now I am in my backyard, a park-like setting in its own right, laptop open and actually on my lap, and thousands of miles away from the place I last wrote from my backyard. It seems like it’s been a long time. Such a long time.

The first semester of the third year of my doctoral education is now half over. I am not sure how that happened, but when placed in context with the entirety of my Ph.D. work here at LSU, it is just another piece of an excruciatingly long two-plus years. So much has happened. So much has gone wrong. So much has gone right. I wouldn’t know where to begin or how to finish the saga of what this period of my life has seen. At 50 years old, shouldn’t I be looking forward to the twilight of a long and illustrious career, enjoying the fruits of my extended labors? Instead, I am once again just beginning anew. It is not the first time. The number of sacrifices I have made, the things and people I have given up and/or been forced to leave behind is staggering. To say this is the path less traveled is putting it mildly. But this time, these past two years, has made all those past sacrifices seem so far away. It seems like it’s been such a very, very long time.

Almost 13 years ago, on October 17^th, 2000, my life came to an abrupt halt. It very nearly came to an end. Five weeks had passed before I regained anything better than occasional semi-consciousness, and even then it took several more days to fully comprehend where I was and how I got there. The following two months of took me through four holidays and my 38^th birthday – about three months in total – in a hospital bed. I was a mess. My injuries nearly killed… and there were times that I wished they had. Combined with rehabilitation, short hospital stays for follow-up operations and learning to walk again, it was more than a year before I could even think about doing much of anything. That two-year span also seemed like a very, very long time.

The difference this time has to do with the nature of the injuries. While not physically incapacitated, the emotional damage is just as real. It could be said that the injuries are in my heart or to my soul, but they are articulated in my head. As an “academic,” as a writer, as a researcher, as a teacher, it is my head that now does the vocational production that my body used to do. This two-year rollercoaster has seen very, very high highs and exceeding low lows. Each peak and valley is counterproductive to what I must do keep my career alive. And “cutting my losses,” as it were, is kind of like going in for another surgery – the recovery from that can be extended as well. All of it adds up to a very, very long time.

There are moments, however, when events dictate a certain response and that response, while not what I necessarily want, is like that awful medicine we used to have to take when we were kids. It tastes like shit, we don’t want to take it, but it will make us better. Sooner or later. But it often takes time to get to that point. Sometimes it takes a long time. And it has indeed been a long time. And now, finally, it is time to go.