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Scar Stories

Earlier today, I was sitting in my orthopedist's office. He was going to give me another cortisone shot in my hand for a 'trigger finger' problem. Hopefully, the third time would be a charm.

As I waited for the doctor, I looked down at my left hand and noticed the various imperfectioms.

• The V-shaped scar on the middle knuckle is from a weird soda bottle versus glass incident after an AC/DC concert in 1980. Getting stiches at Fort Bragg was quite the adventure. Neary self-service.
• Lots on scar lines from having cats for 20 years and losing some of the play fights.
• Some deep ridges from fingernail scratches. Mostly basketball opponents with long nails trying to steal the ball. That didn't happen and they got my flesh instead.
• One notably crooked pinky finger that was crushed in a basketball game in Chatsworth, CA in 1987. A big dude landed on it when we dove for a loose ball.
• A bump on the left side on my hand from a 'boxer' fracture in 1979. I found my Army mate drunk and asleep in his car. Fearing the MPs might nab him, I attempted to get him to his room. He didn't like the idea and slugged me. I punched him back. Hence, the fracture. He got a nice black eye for his trouble. After they set the break, I got a cast.
• There are more scars along my knuckles from a tobogganing accident in 1970. I was steering the toboggan and the friend behind my decided to cover my eyes with his mittens. This took us off the path and into the woods. I cut up my hand and busted a wrist blasting into a tree.
• In 1991, I was watching the Giants/Bills Super Bowl at my parent's house. When the Bills kicker missed an easy, last-minute field goal giving the Giants the win, I jumped up with excitement and banged my knuckes on the ceiling. I left blood stains in that sandy white ceiling paint and a line of small scars on my knuckles.
• There's a dot of pencil lead buried my palm from 1976. The kid behind me thought it would be funny to stab my hand during high school biology class. We're now friends on Facebook.

It's interesting what tales one hand can tell just by looking at it. Not to mention all the things this hand has grabbed, held and touched over the years.

 

Battle Beard

If you're a NHL fan, you're probably familiar with the beards the players grow as they compete in the playoffs. It's meant to show their bond in reaching a goal. It's a constant reminder of what they're striving for together.

My father wore a beard for last fifteen years of his life. It looked good on him. He had a Santa Clause-type vibe when his grew in. On occasion, I would grow one when we were on summer vacation together. My dojo-mates would then take to calling me 'Hemingway' given the silver beard and my sunburned face.

With my jujitsu black belt test currently slated for late August, I'm going to grow a battle beard of my own. Partly to remind myself to focus and work hard in preparing for the upcoming test. Partly as a rememberance to my father who I wish could be here to share in the run up to my attempt.​

 

Precious Memories

I attended a wake today. It was for the mother of a long-time and good friend. In fact, she's so well-considered that she's the godmother to my only daughter (and she takes the role seriously).

We spoke for a few moments about her mother's difficult last year and also about times past. We'd shared good times. As an example, I'd been the best man at her wedding and she'd been the maid-of-honor at mine.

As we spoke, a young man entered the funeral home and she struggled to remember his name. As he neared us, she said, "Well, I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

 

While her mother finally passed from a stroke, she had suffered with Alzheimer's for a few years.

 

As the people in the wake gathered, they began to mingle into groups to catch up. They shared updates and stories of the past. It was impossible not to notice the irony of all the memories shared at an event honoring a women who'd been ravaged by Alzheimer's.

 

The other day, someone asked me a hypothetical question. Would I rather lose my hearing or my sight? This was meant to be a conversation starter. I choose hearing.

 

After today, my worst fear would be to lose the memories that I cherish so much.

I'm Not Afraid

With one glance, it was clear that something was wrong. I should not be peeing blood. Then again, I'd had jujitsu class the night before. I had worked hard with my 6' 5" and 280 pound training partner, Big Dave. Possibly this was just the aftermath.

My doctor sent me for a CT scan and I went home to wait on the results. I was alone when he called. Sitting in my home office in January of last year. The news wasn't good. It looked like I had a large tumor on my left kidney. More tests would be required. Those tests would find another issue. Tumors on my thyroid.

During the first couple weeks when the testing was underway, I kept the issue to myself. I didn't know specifically what was wrong or what my prognosis was. I spent my time scrambling to organize myself for the worst case scenario. I visited my financial planner to ensure matters were in order. I furiously worked to clean out my desk, closets and garage. I dug tunnels through the blizzard's snow banks to allow for drainage in the Spring. I created a document with all my account and password information. I was preparing for those I might be leaving behind.

I then prepared myself of the prospect of dying. Was my life going to be over soon? Grasping the reality of own mortality, I even wondered who would be at my funeral. Family and friends for sure. My acquaintances from 20 years of soccer coaching. My jujitsu training partners. My workmates from the past 30 years. Even a few friends from as far back as elementary school. There would be plenty of folks to help console my family. This was reassuring.

I asked myself whether I'd lived a full and decent life? I thought so and could rest easy in that regard. I'd been adventurous and most often kind-hearted. I could feel comfortable that I'd lived a worthy life.

I found that one thing troubled me most.  This was the prospect of what I would miss in the years ahead. I was already fearing this and even found myself napping on the floor beside my daughter's desk as she did her homework.

A couple days before I spoke with my family about my illness, my wife, daughter, sister and mother went off for a shopping day. They enjoyed these treks down to Clinton to wander through the outlets in each other's company. While they were away, I spent more time frantically organizing. As they were returning that evening, they called and asked that I meet them for dinner at a local restaurant.

When I arrived, I found the four of them sitting at a table by the fireplace. They were in great spirits. They laughed and smiled at each other's stories. surrounded by her mentors, My daughter looked radiant that evening. The conversation soon turned to beginning high school in the Fall and learning to drive soon thereafter.

My daughter said, "Dad, you're going to have to teach me to drive. Mom has NO patience."

Across the table, I smiled and nodded as my heart ached and I fought back tears. Would I be there for her? To teach her to drive and so much more?

Last February, I had my left kidney removed. Earlier this year, I had my thyroid removed. For awhile, I was worse for wear but I've rallied over the past few months. I'm back at jujitsu class and cheering on the sidelines of my daughter's soccer game. My daughter and I recently went parasailing and jet-skied in the Gulf of Mexico and ran a five-mile race together on Thanksgiving.

We've shared similar experiences in the past but, these days, I cherish and savor it all just a bit more.

The other evening, I was wheeling the garbage bin up the driveway while perilous gazing up at the star-filled sky. As I reached the garage, my daughter arrived home from soccer practice.

As she jumped out off the car she greeted me with a smile and a greeting.

'Hi, Daddy.'

I'm glad that I didn't miss that.

These days I'm not afraid of dying. I'm only afraid of not savoring every moment I'm graced with.

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