Author: ICRTD

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The Fight For What’s Right

I had been thinking for the last few days I should put up a post here, kind of a scattered thought semi-mess of some of the events from the last several days plus the pending visit of a couple guys from the firehouse.

That all changed this morning when I read this post from my daughter-in-law, PhojoMama. In truth, I had read a draft of it last night, she asked my opinion on a couple things and I offered my input, fwiw. But when I saw it was posted, I sat down and read it again. And, like with my son’s earlier post, this time I read it as a Dad. Now, I know many of you know us IRL, so you may have aready seen her post. And if you have we appreciate you. But if you haven’t seen it yet, please take a couple minutes to read it. It’s an incredibly powerful, intensely personal look into the spouses perspective of PTSD and touches on a few of the hurdles she/they had and are having to overcome. I will tell you this though. If you’re not in a location where you can let emotion flow, wait until you are before you read it. As I looked at the laughing face of my son in the photo she chose to use on the post, I thought, again, about how close we came to losing him. She makes several key points too, not the least of which is that spouses, significant others, or really, any loved one, needs access to the information to get the help their first responder needs when they need it.

Yesterday marked the start of National Suicide Prevention Week. A couple quick statistics for you from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention website- Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S. In 2017 there were 1.4 MILLION suicide attempts. 47,173 Americans died by suicide that same year. So to say I’m grateful to the powers that be for my son choosing to seek help rather than an end, it’s possibly the largest understatement of my life.

A couple other points I’d like to make. First, for those who brush, either suicide or an attempt at suicide, off as a sign of weakness, I’d like to ask you to perform an act that’s anatomically impossible. If you need clarification, it rhymes with “Go truck yourself”. I’d also like to ask you how it is that you can so deeply understand the history, the psyche, the trauma, the scars, the fears, the, well, the everything of a person that truly feels they have no alternative other than to end the pain? Really. What makes you an authority? And maybe more importantly, what happened in your past that sucked the compassion from you?

Ok, that’s starting to take a turn on me and I’d rather stay a little more focused. Because here’s the other point I’d like to make. I don’t claim to know a lot about politics or politicians. But here’s what I do know. When constituents call, write, or stop in for a chat, they tend to listen. And when whatever you present to them is compelling, they tend to act on it. And they should be shocked to learn that we lose roughly the same number of first responders each year to suicide as we do to on-the-job line-of-duty deaths. That’s pretty compelling. So here’s my larger point behind writing this today. Especially for my friends and family still in Illinois. Contact your elected state officials; State Representatives, State Senators and let them know this. Currently, in Illinois, there are minimal protections in place for psychological injuries sustained on-the-job. That needs to change. Blow out your knee on a call and you’re covered until you are ready to return to work. But blow out the synapses that keep you mentally in tune and you’re shit out of luck. Now, I’ll tell you this up front, firefighters are generally loved and respected right up until the point they ask for something. So if you talk to Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. political person and they seem all bright and happy until you explain what you’re looking for and then their mood changes, well, that’s why. On the good side, legislation to help protect first responders shouldn’t be cost-prohibitive from a tax standpoint. On the bad side, I feel it likely would add expense to a municipality to provide this higher level of coverage. Also, I feel confident in saying the insurance industry will probably fight passage of a bill of this sort. So our work is cut out for us. Maybe you’ll find out the value your politicians place on their first responders. As a resource, Kentucky recently passed legislation to this effect. And you can share that information with the politicians as a way to get the ball rolling. As I move towards the end of this, I’ve got one last link, at least for my Illinois friends. If you don’t know your elected officials, by clicking here you can enter your address and find out how to contact them. Now, I’m not going to put a link like that for all 50 states, but I would like to say that it really is easy to find out who represents you in your statehouse so fire up your Google machine, you non-Illinoisans and get some help for the people that have your backs 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, whether you realize it or not. And if any of my non-Illinoisan friends would like to share this and put up state-specific info for wherever they are, I would be truly grateful.

Ok, I lied. Here’s one more link, in case you or someone you love needs it. It goes to Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support.

Let’s make a difference.

Peace.

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Where It Began. Or Maybe, When.

So, I alluded to this several times over the last little bit, but ten years ago today I hit the “Post” button for the first time. This was the result, such as it is. It was viewed by a whopping 26 hearty souls. But I didn’t really care about quantity (some would argue I wasn’t concerned with quality either) so much as I wanted to get something out there. In the years between then and now, I’ve written on a few different topics, some intensely personal, some random observations, and some, well, some place in the middle of those two poles. It’s really been a lot of fun, I must say.

And, at times, a little painful.

For today, I’d rather avoid the painful part.

I know, let’s get a little old business out of the way. My unpaid research assistant (a.k.a. the Oldest One) did a little GTSing for me and found out there are no less than fifteen towns named Acme in these here United States and that one is, in fact, in North Carolina. Named (according to Wikipedia fwiw) after a local manufacturing company where I believe they made earthquake pills, rockets, anvils, time machines, portable holes, and other anti-roadrunner devices. So there’s that.

Also, there may or may not be a hurricane bearing down on my part of the country again. At this point it’s too soon to know with any real certainty where this one will go, but as of this morning the track seems to keep it off shore and we’ll only get an inch or two of rain. If a hurricane is going to hit, I think we can all agree one that comes at you like a Girl Scout desperate to sell one last box of Thin Mints is far better than one that comes at you like you owe it money after a string of unsuccessful wagers, if you get my drift.

I know, let’s do a travelogue! I haven’t done one of those in a really long time.

Yesterday, I took a short (two hours or so) road trip to Boone, NC. Located in the Blue Ridge Mountains in the western part of the state, it’s nothing like the region I chose. While I am quite fond of where I landed here, let me just say, that part of NC is just stunningly beautiful. This picture was taken at one of the scenic overlooks along the Blue Ridge Parkway, and this really doesn’t do it justice. Standing there, looking out towards the horizon was one of the most peaceful moments I’ve had in a really long time, and I didn’t want to get back in the car. The town of Boone itself was pretty cool, a nice little college town. I enjoyed a wonderful shrimp po boy (Labor Day weekend shout out), walked around the downtown area for a bit and then found… a coffeehouse, where I enjoyed a lovely vanilla latte. Due to it’s elevation (a little over 3,000 ft above sea level) the temperature was in the mid 70’s which was about 10º cooler than here by me. Walked around a small lake at Moses Cone Park, checked out Blowing Rock, NC (that’s got to be high on the last of all-time great municipal names btw) and spent part of the drive home on the aforementioned Blue Ridge Parkway. It seems like that would be a pretty cool way to spend a weekend, it’s about 400 miles long running from Asheville to Rockfish Gap, VA and the maximum speed limit is 45 mph, something that would be particularly helpful to anyone that has, say, a tendency towards a heavy right foot *raises hand* and often needs reminding it’s about the journey and not the destination *keeps hand in the air*

Well, as often happens around here, I got side-tracked and ran completely off from where I intended this thing to go when I started. But the weekend really was amazing, so…

I know many of you have stuck around here from very early on and for that I am grateful. I also know many of you have just recently discovered this literary hot mess so, welcome! But to each and every one of you that’s ever read what I have to say here, I truly appreciate it. I’m thankful for every single like, heart, share, comment, basically any and all interactions you have with my humble, little, blog. I’ll do my best to keep us all entertained for another ten years.

Peace.

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The End Of August

If you come by here, really even semi-regularly, you know how I feel about August.

As the end of this particular month approached I thought about, well, a couple things actually. I thought about a potential post to mark my tenth anniversary as a blogger and I thought about how the 31st day of this month is the anniversary of Dad’s passing. And I thought about how I’ve never written about him. I put out three pieces after Mom passed away, but never did anything on him. It’s been twenty four years. It’s time.  It was my first real experience with losing a loved one. I still have some vivid recollections of his final weeks. One in particular. He was in the hospital, I think it was after his first stroke. He had started to regain some motility but nowhere near enough to do much of anything for himself. So Mom asked me if I would shave him, since it had been several days. I took his electric razor and cleared the stubble off his face and neck. He smiled when I was done. I have many, many fond memories of Dad, but that one may be the most meaningful for me and I’m not sure I know why.  Maybe because it was so near the end, maybe because it was just some small thing I could do for him to make him feel better albeit briefly.  Yes I had acted as “his” paramedic until I realized I needed to be his son and I was incapable of being both simultaneously.  But for this man, that had done so much for me; this small, simple act, one that gets replayed in my head every time I look in the mirror if I’ve gone several days without shaving myself, is probably the closest I’d ever felt to him.

I don’t mean that as a negative either. I never, for even an instant, doubted my parents loved me. And I’m sure my siblings all feel the same way. I don’t remember hearing Dad say the words “I love you” to me. I always kind of took that as a byproduct of his own upbringing. My grandparents died when my Dad was 9 years old. He, his three surviving sisters (his oldest sister died at the same time as my grandparents) and his brother all grew up in an orphanage in Dundee, IL. So I kind of assumed that had everything to do with it. This picture, courtesy of my sister the Cheesehead, is Dad and his sisters June, Margaret, and Pearl, waiting for the train to take them from their home in California to the orphanage in Dundee. His brother was too young (about 18 months old) for admission when this all went down, so he stayed with a family friend out west (or relative, I forget) until he was old enough. His childhood was not something he and I ever really talked about. I mean, not like it was some deep, dark, secret or taboo, more that, I knew the story, but I never really sat down and made a point of asking him about it, the emotions about it, the touchy-feely kind of stuff I tend to write about vs Dad’s generation which was far more stoic. I know he had a pretty good childhood, all things considered. They all had chores to do, not like child-labor, sweat-shop stuff, but chores they were responsible for. And he and his siblings spent a lot of time together during their years there.

Like so many of his generation, when World War 2 came along, he did his patriotic duty and enlisted in the Army Air Corps, the precursor to the Air Force. Get a load of this handsome guy-

Whenever I look at this picture, I see just how much the Heir To The Throne looks like him. The hairstyle may be a little (or, significantly) different, but geez he looks like Dad.

Throughout most of my life, especially when I was younger, people always said how I was just like Dad, same easy-going demeanor. But the more I thought about it, I’m far more like Mom was personality-wise anyway. Mom was quick to anger, but equally quick to get over it and move on.

Dad was always unruffled. I think I was 12 years old before I ever heard him swear. A vocabulary skillset my own kids learned from me at a much younger age. My brother had gone to a high school basketball game and I remember he got a flat tire. Dad went to help him change it. In a snowstorm as I recall. I’m not sure why I was there, since I know I was pretty much useless at that point (hold your comments please) but Dad, while digging through the pile of tools in the trunk said “Where’s the damn jack?!?!” I was petrified. I later learned Dad could cuss with the best of them, but I rarely heard it. I think the worst I ever heard from him was an occassional “shit”, certainly never an eff bomb. My brother would work with him sometimes and confirmed that yes, on job sites, Dad could sling those around freely too. But I digress. Kinda.

I was always sorry Diane never really got to know him. We had only been dating for a couple months when Dad died. I think they would’ve have gotten along famously. I can almost hear him making one of his Dad-joke puns and her rolling her eyes, laughing along with him. I may have gotten more of mom’s personality, but I definitely have his sense of humor. Dad loved to laugh. Whether at some terrible joke he told or at some tv show he watched. He laughed freely and often. And it’s a wonderful characteristic. Sometimes it’s the only response worth having. Trying to find humor in some of the hurdles life puts in the way has helped me inumerable times over the course of my life, and I have him to thank for that.

I got my love of sports from him. Dad was a pretty good halfback during his high school football days. Our favorite story was when he ran the wrong way one game. This was, of course, long before anyone knew anything about concussions or their long-term effects. I don’t recall if he scored for the other team or not, but he always laughed about that incident. When my turn to play came around, Mom and Dad were always there. Every football game and every home track meet. Those were a little tougher to get to, since they were both working back then. And they both loved going to the high school basketball games. Especially if Dad’s friend Wally was one of the referees. If Wally made a call Dad disagreed with, he made sure Wally knew about it in no uncertain terms. Reasonably good natured, but Wally knew it if Dad thought he’d blown a call. One Friday night my senior year, we had an indoor track meet a half hour or so away. I didn’t expect much that night, so Mom and Dad went to the basketball game. As it turned out, I’d had a pretty good night. After we got back to school they announced our results during the game. I was in the locker room so I had no clue that happened, didn’t learn about it until years later. But they said he just beamed as people came up to congratulate him.

Dad is, as much as anything, the reason I became a firefighter/paramedic. He had a heart attack back in the mid 1980’s and, as I watched the ambulance head towards the hospital, with him in the back, I never felt more helpless in my entire life. So, a couple years later when I had the opportunity to go to EMT school and then paramedic school, I was all over it.

And it was due in large part to being unable to help Dad in his time of need.

There were many things Dad was not. He was after all, human, and he had his share of foibles, as we all do. But one thing he always was, was proud of who the four of us, and all of our assorted children, had become.

Oh and pay no mind to the 90’s porn star mustaches my brother and I are sporting. It was, after all, the 90’s so…

This was taken at the folks 50th wedding anniversary. I took three swings at it and couldn’t even hit 25 years cumulatively. Obviously I didn’t pay close enough attention to the model Mom and Dad set.

Dad, I miss you each and every day. There are so many times I wish I could meet up with you over a cup of coffee and ask one of the million or so questions I now have for you. It doesn’t seem possible you’ve been gone for 24 years.

On to September.

Peace.

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High Times

So, as I was driving up to the coffeehouse today, I passed an exit (as I do every time I drive up here) and the names of the two towns at said exit gave me (not literally) pause, as they often do, making me wonder how people choose to name places. In this instance the two towns are Climax and High Point. Now, as far as I’m concerned, climax IS the high point, amirite? But, in addition to these two towns, there are also towns named Apex and Pinnacle out here. I haven’t bothered to look for an Acme, NC or a Zenith, NC or an… well you can probably guess where I’m going with that one. But it wouldn’t surprise me if either existed. Except that last one. I’m pretty sure there’s no town out here named that.

Speaking of altitude (I crack myself up sometimes) I spent a recent weekend in suburban Denver, CO. The youngest son of The Great Vincenzo, my long-time partner at the firehouse, got married out there and they asked me to perform the ceremony. Long time readers may recall from this post that I got myself an online ordination a while back so that I could be the officiant for my niece/goddaughter’s wedding. Which, of course, sounds better than saying I officiated the wedding since I don’t wear Zebra stripes and a whistle as part of my ensemble. Although that might be something to consider moving forward…

I followed up the wedding weekend five days later with a trip to Lexington, KY where I attended the first ever Railbird Festival. Thirty bands over two days headlined by the Raconteurs, Brandi Carlile, Gary Clark Jr. and St. Paul and the Broken Bones, the weekend did not disappoint musically. I also got the chance to listen to a handful of bands I’d never heard of (or hadn’t paid much attention to) before and decided as they come to my area I’ll definitely check out Ona, Futurebirds, and Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors. I had pretty decent food too, including something called Burgoo which is a kind of stew. I must say it was pretty tasty even though the weather wasn’t exactly what I’d call stew weather. 90º and humid both days is typically not weather I’d eat something like that, as it feels more like a cool weather meal. However, as I think I pointed out here, the fact that I am becoming more repulsed by the thought of waiting in line as I get older, when I saw the Burgoo line was basically nonexistent I stepped right up. And was rewarded with a lovely, reasonably priced meal I might add. As an added bonus I found not one, but two wonderful little locally owned doughnut shops very close to my hotel. I also picked up some sunblock since my newly-shorn dome would be more susceptible to burning. Yes, you read that right, I went back to shaving my head. The novelty had pretty much worn off after letting it go for as long as I have. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized the time was right. I didn’t want Drew and Ang to be showing someone their wedding pictures ten years from now and have that person ask them how in the world they got Doc Brown to marry them. So, yeah, it was time.

Getting back to the weather, I know there are some (you know who you are) that might feel the urge to make a comment about the weather I experienced in Kentucky. I will just say this about that. If I have to lose my derriere, I’d rather sweat it off than freeze it off.

Random side note; as I was leaving Lexington the morning after the festival I noticed a sign in front of a law firm- Somebody, Somebody, Somebody, Mains and I thought, well that’s not something you see every day. Between my self, my siblings, and my cousins, there’s not a lawyer in the lot of us. Just sayin’.

Ok, I started this several days ago, but the 21st being what it is, I decided to push this back a bit so I could pay attention to that particular day and produced this one. As it turns out the titles are similar-ish but thanks, of course, to Colorado, have totally different meanings, if you smell what I’m burnin…

Hey if you can’t make yourself laugh then what the heck good are you, ya know?

So to take this thing to its conclusion, last night I went to (cue the Andy Griffith voiceover) Raleigh to see Judah and The Lion. I’d never heard of them before last year’s road trip to the Moon River Festival in Chattanooga and I really enjoyed their set. They recently went back out on tour to support a new album and yeah, if they’re coming by you, check them out. So, last night’s tour was in an outdoor amphitheater in downtown Raleigh. Nice place. The openers had recurring technical issues, but whatevs. Judah and The Lion came out and just. lit. it. up. for the first five or so songs. And then Mother Nature did the same and the show got cancelled.

Sigh.

Like I said the last time I had an epic fail concert experience– ya pays your money and ya takes your chances. Especially at an outdoor venue. At least this time there was no hotel expense and only a one hour vs a four hour drive each way. My fails are getting less fail-y maybe. Here’s hoping.

Peace

PS. etc, etc. In the time between wrapping up this post and making time to actually, ya know, post it, I got an email from the promoter regarding the above-mentioned concert. It’s been rescheduled to September 4th, so yay me!

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Time

As I looked back through some of my posts over the last couple years, and thinking about some that I put up on the old site, I realized that so many have titles relating to the passing of time. This is, of course, a recognition on my part of the course my family’s lives have taken over the last 16+ years. As I was chatting with the Oldest One on our daily phone call as she makes her way home from work, we talked about today (since we talked yesterday, it was actually tomorrow then…) and, as I’ve written before, today is unalterably the most bittersweet of days. We celebrate the birthday of the youngest grandchild while acknowledging another year since Diane died.

To be honest, when I sat down yesterday to work on this, my first thought was to just do some cursory introduction-type thing and then put in an excerpt from what I’ve previously written about Diane and Caitlin. After I ruled that out I thought maybe I’d just re-post a piece I’d written on an earlier August 21st.

Neither of those things felt right as I looked at them (the posts) more closely, and the more I considered it, the more I knew the day deserved its own post.

So here goes.

As the Little Diamond gets older, I want to make sure she knows the Grandma she never got the chance to know. I mean, obviously, I want all of the grandkids to know her; the Reigning Princess shares some of her personality traits after all. The Heir To the Throne and the Boy Genius, while maybe not remembering her, at least had moments with her. Moments saved on film (or, you know, digitally) that the three younger ones never will have. So, while I don’t want to gloss over the other littles, because of the connection inherent in their “shared” date, it’s important to me that LD knows her Grandma. I know they would’ve been fast friends, LD has some of Ellie’s personality and she and Diane had a pretty solid relationship, after a time. I think, Diane would’ve been in on the Jojo Siwa phenomenon too. Maybe not to the point of wearing bows and/or unicorn headbands herself but, yeah, she would’ve loved taking LD shopping for Jojo-wear at the drop of a hat. I know her heart would have been so full watching the first dance recital last spring too, just for one example.

Quick side story, one of my favorite Diane/Grandma Ellie stories at that. When the Boy Child was in the Army he bought his first new car; a Jeep Wrangler. He really enjoyed driving it with the doors off and the top down. As you might imagine, this made for a pretty windy trip wherever you were going. Diane was pretty particular about her hair. I don’t mean to say she was obsessive about it or anything, but she always looked pretty dialed in before she left the house. One day, while I was at the firehouse, the two of them got in his Jeep and went for a ride. Someone else was with them, but I’m drawing a blank on who it was. And since that part isn’t germane to the story, I’ll leave it at that. Since it was a forty-five-ish minute drive from the house in Wondertucky (not the town’s real name) to the Greater Burlington Metropolitan (all 500 citizens) area to say they were a little windblown is an understatement of epic proportions. To further set the scene, Mom’s eyesight wasn’t stellar by this point in her life. As I wrote about on the old site after her passing, it wasn’t so bad that she wouldn’t point out (real or imagined) road hazards; other cars, dogs, deer, tractors, you get the idea, but it was bad enough that she wouldn’t always see faces clearly unless they got really close. So, when they stopped in for a visit, and the Boy Child greeted her with a typical “Hi Gram!” her response was an enthusiastic “Hi Ryan! Who’s your friend?”

We all had a good laugh about that one, and reminded Ellie about it from time to time. And it’s actually memories like that one that have helped soften the loss as the years have passed. It also feels a lot healthier mentally to laugh about our past than it does to weep over it. Kind of a celebrate what you had versus mourning what you lost perspective. I’ll always be able to connect with the last days. But I try really hard not to tap into that. Especially since I’m no longer doing VIP’s. I felt like ripping open that particular vein and bleeding on the stage helped get my point across. Now that I’m done with that part of my life, my grief can finally mellow. It will never go away completely but it allows me to live a normal-ish life.

Well this is starting to take a turn on me, so let me try and get back to where I was originally headed with this thing. I FaceTimed with the Little Diamond and her Daddy this morning, and she told me they were going to the coffeehouse and then the play place. I’m fairly certain there are (were) bunny cookies and a cupcake in her future. As there should be on a birthday, amirite?

Sweetie, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. But one day I’ll sit you down and show you pictures of an amazing woman. I’ll explain to you how she was the life of every party she attended. I’ll explain to you how much she meant to, not just our family, but through her advocacy work, to people she barely knew. I’ll explain to you how much she would have loved spoiling you, and your big brother, and your cousins if she’d had the chance. And maybe one day you’ll understand why sometimes, on your birthday, I get a little tear in my eye.

Happy birthday sweetie, I love you!

Peace

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Keep Moving Forward

So, for this post, I’m doing very little of the writing. Allow me to explain. A couple hours ago, I got a text from my son, asking me to proofread something before he posted it to his social media accounts. I did, and after making a couple minor suggestions, asked him if I could put it up here. He graciously agreed. I’m not gonna lie, once I took off the proofreader hat and put on the Dad hat, I cried as I read it. It’s very powerful and in addition to illuminating the ongoing struggles he and his immediate family face down, it’s a sobering reminder of how close we came to losing him.

And not even knowing he was in pain.

That’s it for me, for now. I’ll probably put a little bit at the end. But the rest of what you read will be his words…

This is going to be a bit of a long and personal post. I pre-apologize for that. I don’t usually read them myself so I can understand if you keep scrolling. But if you’ve stayed this long maybe you’ll read a little further.                                                           

This is what PTSD and anxiety looks like for me today. I’m not having a particularly great morning. I had a triggering (I hate the buzzwords, but I don’t know how else to label it) day yesterday. Some work related, some not. I was on edge most of the day yesterday. I felt depressed. I tried to work through it. I tossed and turned most of the night. I came home from work this morning thinking that I was fine. But I wasn’t. I promptly snapped at Danielle when she asked me a simple question. I didn’t even realize I had done it until I noticed her change in demeanor. Then I could feel it coming back in the pit of my stomach. That awful feeling of guilt, shame, self doubt.

“Why did you snap at her?”

“What’s your problem”

“Pull your shit together”. 

After I took the kids to daycare I laid in bed for an hour and felt bad for myself. I really beat myself up about it. I tried to talk to Danielle about it but she was at work already and wasn’t really in a place where she could have that kind of cPonversation. So there I laid. Catastrophizing. 

I started to run. I hated every step. I ran too hard at the start and bonked a few miles in. So I took a lot of walk breaks. So many walk breaks. But I just kept moving forward. I wanted to quit so much. I started breaking it down into more digestible segments. “Run to that fire hydrant and then walk for 5 seconds” I did that over the last 4 miles. It sucked. But I eventually finished. My first long run training up for what will culminate in my longest run ever. Next spring. 

Today was my first long run as a part of my training plan. I didn’t want to do it. The thought of getting out of bed was too much. So I laid there some more. Then through a series of thoughts I remembered the fundraiser I’m working on (more on that shortly) I couldn’t give in to my feelings. I had to get up. So I did. 

Late spring of 2020 I am going to run a kilometer for every firefighter that commits suicide in 2019. As of this moment that number is north of 60. It’s been over 100 for the last several years. I almost contributed to that number. I’m doing this run to raise money for Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support. The organization that helped me get to a place where I could get the help that I needed. I will be getting a link to donate directly to them. I’m not sure how successful this fundraiser will be. But I’m going to try to make it big. It needs to be big. People need to know there’s help. 

As a part of the build up to this event, and the run itself, Danielle is going to be documenting my story and my struggles. She’s a phenomenal storyteller & I think with her help we can really make a difference in people’s lives. 

If you made it all the way through, thank you. And stay tuned for details on next springs fundraiser.

There you have it. I’m so proud of the transparency he’s willing to show, baring his soul on the page like this. I can’t think of a better way to remove the stigma than to get this out in the open so people in need are more willing to talk about it without feeling they’re showing weakness. As I said, I’ll publicize the shit out of his efforts, and this is the first of what I hope will be many reminders.

One last thing, and this holds true with anything I post here, if you feel so inclined, please share the post. Hopefully someone that may need to see the message my son is sharing, will see it that way.

Peace

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What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Ok, I’ve got to get a couple things out of the way first… A.) Thanks so much for the overwhelming response to my last post. The sheer volume of readers was overwhelming as were the comments both on this site as well as on the various social media platforms I use to get this stuff out there. It was one of the most viewed posts and THE most shared post I’ve had in the (almost) ten years (side note, Holy Crap! Ten years?) I’ve been doing this. So from the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of my family, thanks!

Oh yeah, I mentioned “a couple things” didn’t I? Brief senior moment… So, B.) Often times the title I choose is a tad bit misleading. Sometimes they make perfect sense to me, sometimes they don’t and sometimes I just like the sound of it even though it doesn’t remotely fit what I wrote that day. Such is the case today, since what I’m about to put down for you here is neither about summer nor vacation. Rather, I’m going to attempt to put a literary bow on my trip back to Illinois.

Life is about discovery.  It starts at an early age, really. Toddlers discover new skills regularly and, as we grow, more discoveries, both similar and brand new come to our consciousness.  With a little luck, discovery is a part of our lives for the duration. 

For example, while I was home I made a very important discovery.  At the Heir To The Throne’s graduation party the Reigning Princess and the Little Diamond were seated next to me at one point and each was enjoying a lovely cupcake. A lovely homemade cupcake at that. Some wonderful human being made several dozen of these small delights, and I, for one, was grateful as you might imagine. I asked the Little Diamond if I could have one. She looked at me sweetly, and said simply, “No.”

I said “Wait a minute, who took you to the cupcake place and bought you cupcakes?” She pointed at me. “And who took you to the park to play all those times?” She pointed at me. “And who took you to the coffeehouse and got you juice and bunny cookies?” With a mouthful of cupcake frosting, she pointed at me.   “So, now can I get a cupcake?”

Her reply, again, was a resolute “No.”  With an impish grin for added emphasis.

Now what, you might ask, did I discover?  Simply this.  When I’ve lost control of the things that make me me and it comes time for the family to make decisions on my behalf, I want that kid nowhere near the process or I’ll end up living in some rat-infested dump of a nursing home.  And if my room has a window, (and I feel like that’s a big IF) it’ll probably be overlooking a bakery that specializes in cupcakes that are bigger than your head.

I’m joking, of course. Mostly. I’m fairly confident she’ll get out-voted anyway. So far.

Ok, I’m gonna keep this one a little on the shorter side than the last one was. But I want to end it with a question and I’d really like to hear from some of the faithful on this. Honest opinions, at that. I think I’ve talked about this before here, at least in passing, but I’m thinking about it again. Specifically, I’m thinking about selling ad space on the site. Tbh, I haven’t really dug deep into that yet, so I don’t know what kind of revenue would be generated. I’m fairly confident it wouldn’t be huge, based on the volume of “clicks” I generate, and a part of me kind of enjoys providing you with content that, while it may not be Pulitzer material, is at least also not clubbing you over the head with ads for E.D. meds or whatever Godawful fashion bit is trending at any given moment. I recognize that Godawful fashion is probably not the kind of thing advertisers want their website typing, but hey, I’mma speak my truth. So think about some of the other websites you peruse, and tell me what you think about having ads alongside whatever it is you may be viewing.

Like I said, I really want to hear some opinions on this from those of you that read me. So please comment, either here or on whatever social media platform drove you here. Thanks in advance for your input, and, as always, thanks for reading the stuff I put out here.

Peace

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PTSD

You may have noticed I haven’t produced any content here in, oh, almost two months. There are many reasons for this, and I’m not about to bore you with any of them. Instead, I’d like to do this. Devote today’s post to something different from my typical light-hearted fare and dive right into the topic I’ve chosen to come back here with.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Last fall I wrote about the way we (mis)treat our veterans and I included some statistics I found on the interwebz along with some nonprofits that provide essential services to vets in need. I had no idea how close to home any of this was at the time. I found out just how close it was this past April.

I had already planned a trip back to Illinois for various grandkids events. What I hadn’t planned for was finding out my son had been diagnosed with PTSD as a result, not only of his time in the Army, but that service coupled with coming home from Baghdad to the immediate aftermath of Caitlin’s death with a topper of the often times life and death (emphasis on the death part) of our chosen career.

For some background, after he graduated high school he knew he wanted to make the fire service his career. The fly in the ointment was that he was too young to test for FD jobs at that point. I had told him, probably several times, that I thought the military would be a good experience for him. As I’ve said numerous times, both here and IRL, he was never a bad kid by any means, but I felt that the self-discipline the military would teach him would serve him well as an adult.

Then September 11th happened.

And, of course, everything changed.

In January 2003 he was sent to Kuwait for the second time. His unit had spent several months there in 2002, but this time they prepped in earnest for what would become Operation Iraqi Freedom. In March of 2003 his unit was among the first into Iraq. They were in country for about eight weeks when Caitlin was killed and I contacted the Red Cross to get him home, ultimately too late to say good bye to her.

Due to his short-timer status (he only had a few months left in his enlistment) he was allowed to stay stateside after Caitlin’s funeral. I don’t recall exactly how long he was able to stay with Diane and I but it seems as though it was several weeks, maybe a month, before he had to go back to Fort Benning, GA to finish out his enlistment. We didn’t talk much about his time overseas in these days. The only conversations I remember having with him were that it took him about two weeks of being home to stop scanning the rooflines for snipers for one; and that one day, as he cut the grass for me, a couple neighborhood kids innocently lit off some firecrackers. It was a week or two before July 4th, so that wasn’t unusual. His response to the sound of the firecrackers was to hit the ditch. That’s the environment he had come from, so I understood it and wasn’t too alarmed when he told me. I figured as he reacclimated to civilian life, he’d get a better handle on things.

I had no clue how wrong I was.

We had always been able to talk about any number of topics, he and I. But, looking back, few of the topics were of a serious nature. And I don’t say that to throw stones at either of us, more as matter-of-fact. I don’t believe for a second that either of us feared difficult conversations. Maybe more that by our nature we each tend to put off the difficult conversations.

So now, flash forward to April 2019. A got a text from my daughter-in-law one morning asking if I had a few minutes to talk. I did and she called me a moment or two later.

As I listened to her tell me my son had been diagnosed with PTSD I felt all the air in my lungs leave me. I had had no clue. And as the realization that I’d had no clue washed over me, I felt an almost instant sense of failure. How could I have missed something like this? How could I never once have a conversation with him about this? And, almost as quickly, I recognized the same behavior in myself. I mean, after all, I chose the name of this blog due to my own ability to hide personal struggles from the general public. Again, this is not me pointing fingers, this is me trying to lay this out as matter-of-factly as I can. These were the thoughts that went through my head. And they rocked my world like it hadn’t been rocked in a very long time.

Since I had planned on coming home in about ten days anyway, I told her I’d pack up my stuff and be there as quickly as I could. So while they made arrangements to find in-patient counseling for him, I made arrangements to get out of town and on the road home. 48 hours after finding out, I was on the road back to Illinois to help out however I was needed. I figured, at the very least, I could provide some sense of normalcy for their two littles, since we soon found out Daddy would gone for around a month, maybe more, depending on how it went. He ended up getting admitted into a behavioral health center founded by our union, the International Association of Fire Fighters (IAFF) in suburban Baltimore, MD.

Just a few weeks prior to all this we had both attended a legislative conference for the union in Springfield and one of the speakers was a young woman from the center. I remembered something she had mentioned, it was something I’d heard before, but this time, it stuck. She said, if you encounter a friend or coworker that was struggling emotionally, you need to ask them if they’d had any thoughts about harming themself or others. And I mentioned that to my D-I-L and told her if she hadn’t asked him that, specifically, she needed to. She texted me back a little while later and said she asked him and he said that he had not. So that was a small sigh of relief. After he had been at the center for a few days we found out that he’d lied to her. He had, in fact, given thoughts to harming himself, the stress had gotten so bad. He said he couldn’t handle seeing anymore dead people. It goes without saying that’s a part of our job.

We were able to speak with him pretty much every day right from the start. And as his time there went on (he was in for 30ish days) and he made more progress the frequency of his calls increased. In all honesty, I worried that he was pushing to get released too soon. But he assured me that wasn’t the case, that he was truly ready. To say there were no bumps in the road after he returned would be a lie. There were, without question. To the point that he and I went for a drive one night so we could vent at each other, and, while in the car he gave me, for the first time since he came back from Iraq in 2003, an example of what he’d been dealing with since then, unbeknownst to all of us. And I’m not going to describe it for you other than to say it was pretty horrific. And I can’t imagine carrying it with me for any amount of time, let alone for sixteen years. But it really helped illuminate for me what he’d lived through and with for all those years.

The plan laid out for him to return from the center was; his first week was off work, to get back into the flow of home life. Then back on the job for a week of light-duty. Followed by a return to full duty. His time on light-duty was pretty helpful for him as he went to each of his firehouses on each shift to explain to them what he’d been through and what the center had done for him. Talking about it helped. His return to full duty came at him like a young Mike Tyson. Relentlessly. Each shift, for his first four shifts back, his crew had a cardiac arrest call. Karma gave no fucks, clearly.

But he continued, and continues, making baby steps forward. It helped a lot once the people that lived in the town he works stopped trying to die every day he worked, but more than that, the things he learned at the center helped him keep upright and moving in the right direction. Which is, of course, the best outcome we could have hoped for, all things considered.

I’ve tried over the years, and I think I’ve done an ok job, of telling him that I’m proud of him, proud of the man he’s become. He’s got a good heart, an empathetic soul, and he truly cares about others. I think he’s on the right track to caring equally about himself and his own well-being. To that end, he’s working on a fundraiser with the proceeds to support an organization that benefits firefighters- Illinois Fire Fighter Peer Support . Imma tell you right now, as he figures out what he’s going to do on this front I’ll be publicizing the shit outta this.

Before I wrap this up I want to get a couple things out here. I’m usually hesitant to name people for fear of forgetting someone. Today, I’m going to take that chance. I need to thank in no particular order; the guys from my union, Local 3234 for offering support in any way needed and with no hesitation. The men and women from my son’s local, Local 4813 for truly displaying brotherhood and sisterhood in his time of need. Matt Olson, the driving force behind ILFFPS, for answering every question I threw at him and also taking the time to ask me if I was processing everything ok. Thanks to Wendy, Vin, Carey, and Laura for letting me unload on you when I needed someone to talk to because, of course, I still have a hard time showing weakness in front of my own kids, especially when I feel like they’re looking at me for strength. I need to thank my rock star of a daughter-in-law for, well, pretty much everything. You kept the wheels on at the house when we were struggling to understand the changes coming our way, all while putting up with the quirks Lilly and I brought. We’re truly blessed to have you in our family. And if there is anyone I forgot to mention, I’m so very sorry.

Lastly, if you’re reading this and you’re struggling with whatever personal demons you may face, please remember you’re not alone. Talk to someone, seek help, recognize your value as a human being and how important you are to someone else. Please.

Peace.

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Random Conversations With A Three Year Old – Wrapping Up

In order to wrap this up, I’ve got two updates on my time hanging out with the 3 year-old. I mentioned in an earlier post that after our stop at the coffeehouse we head to a local park for play time. Unless it’s raining, in which case (the first time anyway) we went to a well known, franchised, hamburger place. She got a meal that made her “Happy” (lulz) and played for quite a while on the indoor playground. The next time it rained, as I GTS’d a somewhat less Golden Arch-y place to go, she very helpfully suggested we might try visiting Disney World. Taking that advice under consideration (not really) I continued my interwebz search and found a spot, very close by called Kinderland. Can I just say that this little indoor playground is right in the wheelhouse for three year-old grandchildren of mine? Slides, a ball pit, swings, stuff to climb on, a plethora of options all geared to preschool aged kids. And to top it off they have Nutella To Go packs! As I mentioned in my first post about hanging with a three year-old, she’s a big fan of Nutella, so this place is like pure win for her.

And since we’re talking about food (can I segue like a boss or what?) let me just say the Little Diamond is a confirmed grazer. Like three breakfasts, two lunches, a dinner and a snack is not an uncommon day. She’s got a good appetite and eats a variety of good, healthy, things. With the occasional exception, because the apples in our orchard often stay close to the tree… Case in point, the other day for breakfast 2.0 she wanted grapes and mango slices. Healthy, right? I asked what else she wanted and she pointed innocently at the fudge stripe cookies. You know the type, they’re made by elves, I believe. In an incredible display of discipline, I told her she could only have one and she had to have something else healthy. So she chose carrots. Now, we’re good here, right? 75% healthy stuff with one cookie, especially a cookie as irresistible as one with stripes of fudge, feels like the best of both worlds. I figured this would be kept on a need-to-know basis; between LD and Grandpa. That lasted until Daddy walked into the kitchen to refresh his coffee.

“Daddy I had a stripe cookie for breakfast!”

Ratted out by a 3 year-old. We went through a similar exchange when her brother came into the kitchen a few minutes later, at which point I asked her if she’d like to go out on the front porch and shout it out to the neighborhood. She demurred. A little while later, when Mommy came into the kitchen and commented on the fruit LD had chosen for breakfast, I asked LD if she’d like to add any further comment aaaannnd she helpfully told her Mom she’d started her breakfast with a stripe cookie.

I’m perfectly fine with all this too, btw. If a Grampa can’t feed possibly inappropriate breakfast foods, well then, we’ve let the terrorists win, haven’t we?

I’ve been sitting here, intermittently staring at the computer screen for about 30 minutes now, trying to decide which direction I want to go as I try to finish this post. We had a couple of larger events the last couple days and either of them would be perfectly fitting ways to close this out. Ok, I picked one so here goes. The other one may surface soon or it may float off into the ether of my brain, time will tell.

A couple posts back I pondered whether there was anything more adorbs than a three year-old in a tutu. I can now say that there is, in fact. A dance floor full of three year-olds in tutus may well be the highest score to be obtained on the Adorbs Gradient Rating System (not a real thing) ever. Blasting past puppies, kittens, bunnies, laughing babies, you name it.

This was confirmed yesterday afternoon at the Little Diamonds first ever (and possibly last ever) dance recital, as her “troupe” gave their interpretation of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” as sung by Judy Garland. The miniature prima ballerinas all did great although I must admit the LD was by far (no bias on my part, nope, not a bit) the best of the show. She really did do great, in all seriousness, and it was truly a joy to watch. Of course it’s far too early to say if she has a future in dance or not, but the fact that, when asked by her Mom what she wanted to do next, her reply was an emphatic “KARATE!” leads me to believe her debut may have also been her swan song.

Such is the temperament of an artistè.

Fun fact – I just GTS’d artiste and the proper spelling shows no accent mark, but I like it so I’mma keep it there. You don’t like it, write your own damn blog. Seriously, some of you should. You know who you are.

Peace

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Dates

I know I’ve written about this before, I’m not sure if it was here or on my old site, maybe both, but once again the calendar has managed to tie a wonderful moment in the history of our family with a horrible moment.

Regular readers, or people that know me (us) IRL might recognize May 24th as the anniversary of the day Caitlin died from her injuries after being struck by a drunk driver in 2003. From this point forward we can add May 24th as the date the oldest grandchild graduated from high school.

There’s no small amount of irony to me here, as Caitlin was one week shy of her own high school graduation when she was killed. This whole senior year for the Heir To The Throne has been filled with bittersweet memories. As I’ve watched his accomplishments in this final year of high school; from Honor Rolls, to FFA Banquets, going to three different Proms, to Senior Night, to walk-off home runs, to being named All-Conference catcher, I find it’s almost impossible to not think about how thrilled Diane and Caitlin would have been to watch this year unfold.

I haven’t had that conversation with him, but a couple of the offspring and I have talked about how proud Diane would be, not just about HTTT, of course, but of all five of the littles. But she loved baseball. We went to as many of her nephews games as we could and she was always yelling her encouragement to them. And she always told them how well she thought they played whether they had an 0-fer or got a hit every at bat. The Oldest One tends to be a wee bit vocal at HTTT’s sporting events. That’s an understatement, btw. On par with saying the Titanic had a mishap with an iceberg. And I don’t say that to make fun of OO (well, maybe a little) but rather as a point of reference, because I’m fairly certain Diane would have boosted the decibel level significantly above that produced by OO. Had she been in attendance at the walk-off she may well have jumped the fence to greet him at home plate with his team. And to hear he made All-Conference? I truly believe she would roll down her car window in traffic to tell random strangers about her grandson’s accomplishment. For real for real. As I wrote that I got a vivid image of her doing that very thing. And I laughed a little (I try really hard not to literally lol when I’m writing in a coffeehouse) when that popped into my head.

So yeah, tonight will be another in the line of bittersweet days for us all. I mean, we’ll get through it alright, we always do, but it’s just another example of the ripple effect. They never stop coming, it seems. There may be lapses between them, but they’re always lurking. At least it seems like it.

Before I let this devolve into anything darker, I’m going to wrap the post up with a couple pictures

The first is the HTTT with his (unanimous) All-Conference pitcher, the second is the HTTT with Caitlin taken Mother’s Day weekend in 2003. I felt like they were a far better way to end this post.

And so I am.

Peace