Category Archives: Life

General life topics

Fostered, Freed

There was a tipping point at which the prospect of being a foster parent felt like a much-needed salvation rather than an act of final desperation.  There are many that approach the foster-care and foster-adopt programs from a purely altruistic place and simply open their hearts and homes to a child in need.  While there was an element of that in the decision-making, there were admittedly some underlying financial considerations as well.  After struggling for years with infertility, the remaining options with IVF (In Vitro Fertilization) were not only pricey, costing up to $10k per attempt, but with a success rate of about 25-30% it risked further frustration and disappointment.  Through random chance friends of ours were considering enrollment in an upcoming training program for prospective foster care parents around this same time.  At first glance it seemed like the perfect solution; it was not prohibitively expensive, it had a relatively good success rate and it felt like it put more of the power back in our hands, and anyone who’s ever been repeatedly disappointed by the results of pregnancy test can understand the benefits of empowerment.  Though there were a few dissenters in the family that feared for the welfare of our son or the potential for further heartbreak, most were extremely supportive, praising us for what appeared to be an entirely a selfless act.

For the next 6-8 months from orientation to final licensing, you become immersed in the foster care culture.  In addition to months of weekly night classes, you are required to submit to home inspections, and have all family members interviewed by a social worker.  You must be tested for TB.  You must go through finger printing and Livescan.  You must learn CPR and first aid.  You must learn to document all medications including any over-the-counter items that could come in contact with a child in your care.  It becomes an interesting editorial on parenthood, knowing that if all parents went through this degree of training and probing there would likely be far fewer kids in foster care in the first place.

Once you are completely official the real adventure begins.  The social worker is able to start calling you with potential matches and you are able to proactively begin your own independent searches.  This search process starts out with the most surreal checklist you’ll ever see, where parents are asked to mark off all of the things they would be “comfortable” with in a prospective child.  These questions range from the more benign preferences on gender, race and religion and build up to psychological issues, like (and I kid you not) biting, cutting, fire setting, and feces smearing.  Needless to say, a great many boxes were left unchecked for the safety of our son if nothing else.

The shopping methods were also disturbingly varied; you could catalog shop, browsing binders stacked high in the office, you could shop online through posted profiles, and you could even window shop at semi-annual picnic days for the local shelters.  Depending on your flexibility and tolerance level the available options could be wide open.  For us, more than anything else it was the siblings that seemed to be the most limiting factor.  There were a number of kids who, understandably, wanted to cling to their remaining family so they came as a package deal that we weren’t equipped to handle.  With that restriction along with other considerations we went through a few months of passing on the offers, until we got the one call we’d been waiting for.

The first pictures we received showed a sweet little girl (we’ll call her Leah) with big brown eyes staring up nervously at the camera.  Leah was staying with a temporary foster family who was helping her look for a permanent home.  Leah’s mother had abandoned her at 11 months old, leaving birth dad and daughter and moving to Washington State.  The young father had his own issues with life and realized he was unable to provide adequate care for his daughter.  The introductions with Leah were slow and methodical.  We visited her at the other foster family’s home a couple of times and then met her for a play date at the park near our house.  She was understandably shy and reserved but did come out of her shell in small bursts of tentative smiles.  Her connection with Jenean was almost immediate.  I think she longed for the missing mommy figure in her life and was able to build trust quickly from that.  The connection with me was slower in coming, which could have been caused by my own fumbling to form a fast bond mid-stream rather than building one slowly from birth.

She found security strapped into a high chair or stroller, which is how her dad often left her.  She hoarded food in her mouth, stuffing her cheeks like a squirrel.  She didn’t want to be left in her room alone.  She had tantrums if I went to get her out of the car instead of Jenean.  None of the problems were insurmountable and honestly many of them were not outside the toddler norm.  She soon found comfort in routine and stability.  She slowly started to thaw emotionally and found her place in the family.   We thought it was all going to work out.

Just as we were about to legally file for termination of parental rights from her birth parents, her mom flew back to California and demanded custody of her daughter.  Despite the abandonment and previous issues with substance abuse the rights of the birth mother in California hold up strong to the very end.  The social workers tried to calm our nerves, telling us it was unlikely that the mother would be able to meet the conditions of the court which were a number of rehab programs and proof of residence and income.    Surely she’d regress, or quit, or be unable to find a job.  It would all be too much and she’d return back to Washington within a couple of weeks.  We were all wrong.  In a way it was some meager consolation that her mom did fight so hard for her in the end.   Unfortunately she didn’t play nice along the way.

As one would expect the initial visitations were hard on Leah;  It was confusing to be taken from her new home to hang out with another woman she never really knew.  That in turn must have been equally hard to stomach for the birth-mom who had to hear references to this other family that was trying to steal her child.  Slowly those visits focused more on fun, like a visit to grandma’s with junk food and playful gifts.  She started telling Leah that we were not her parents and built up how she was going to take her away from all of that.   At this point the tantrums started up again before and after the visitations.  Even though we had been trained for the possibility of supporting reunification with a child and a birth parent, it was difficult to stomach when we had been so close to full adoption.   Over the course of a year and half, I was finally gaining some ground with the daddy-daughter relationship.  She enjoyed the playtime we shared together and I was able to see a future family with her in it.  But now, it was all changing again, and we had to be strong for her and help her get through the transition as best we could.

The last day she was with us, we got her ready for her “mommy time” like we would for all the other visits.  There really wasn’t a good way to explain to a 5-year-old what was about to happen, so we got her dressed, packed her backpack, along with some of her favorite toys and brought her outside to wait for the social worker to pick her up.  I think she started to suspect something was different from the prolonged goodbye hugs we gave her before buckling her in.  As they started to drive away Leah turned to wave goodbye, and I could hear her softly through the window say “goodbye daddy”.  It was the first time I remember her calling me that.  I went inside and cried for a very long time.

After all the work and all the turmoil, foster-adopt wasn’t salvation we had hoped for.   We felt more than a little betrayed by the system that would take a little girl out of a stable home and deliver her into an unknowable situation, and after that it was hard to stomach the idea of hopping back on the emotional roller coaster all over again, possibly multiple times before finding a perfect match.  Somewhere out there though a little girl is growing up with a very different life and maybe just a fleeting memory of the time she spent with another family while waiting for her mom to return.  Will she think fondly of us?  Will she think of us at all?  What started out as a promising solution to our problem, became a footnote in our personal history and the journey to find a child would continue down a different path.

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My Porch Front Days

In January I teeter on the edge of my porch as sheets of rain flow from the overhang and beyond. It is my life raft amid the growing storm. I imagine sailing off on a grand adventure of survival, so I run upstairs to gather my supplies and my plastic glow-in-the-dark sword.

In February I sit on my porch eating Sweetheart candies from classmates as my dad parks the VW Rabbit in the driveway. He has the box of Whitman’s chocolates for my mom and sneaks off to the garage to swap out one of the chocolates with a gold chain before he presents it to her.

In March I run straight off the porch like Wile E Coyote running off a cliff. Behind me is my enraged grandmother in hot pursuit with a rolled up newspaper. I’m not sure what I did to make her so angry, I’m just thankful that I can still run faster than her. This will not earn me a good review when my parents return tomorrow.

In April Johnny West and Geronimo slug it out theatrically on the cliff of my porch trying the toss one another into the canyon below.   Old Mrs. Scott from across the street sees me playing and comes over to deliver one of the traditional sugar eggs with vignettes of little bunnies.

In May I sit on my porch playing with the miniature cap gun fashioned like a western derringer that I just got for my birthday.   The smell of fresh popcorn drifts from the front door as my sister comes out to join me. We wait for the station wagon to back out of the garage so we can pile in for the ride to the drive-in.

In June I fidget on the front step of my porch, watching my dad push the rotary mower. I’ve been pressed into service, required to rake up once he is done, and not permitted to play in my room while I wait; though it seemed a reasonable request to me.

In July I pound on the door frantically pleading with my giggling sister on the other side. After convincing me to play dress up she shoved me onto the porch wearing one of her old dresses and a gaudy assortment of costume jewelry. I need to get back inside before anyone sees me, also I think I hear the ice cream truck.

In August great armies of miniature plastic battle fiercely on the porch, trying to resolve the ongoing conflicts that have raged throughout the summer. A short-lived cease-fire is called so I can sample my mom’s macaroni salad and offer some expert suggestions for improvement.

In September as the acorns begin to fall tiny villages sprout up made entirely of acorn cap structures. I breathe deep the autumn air laced with damp leaves and wood smoke admiring one such village just below my perch. I launch off the step of the porch, crushing the puny village beneath my giant feet with a satisfying crunch.

In October I strike a heroic pose in the doorway before leaping over the already sagging pumpkin on my porch. The unseasonable heat has sweat and condensation already dripping from the inside of my Superman mask before I hit the grass. I press forward knowing there is candy at stake.

In November my porch is the distant safe haven as a neighborhood dog from across the street takes sudden interest in me on my way home from school. The dog gives eager chase to my fleeing form. After his hunt is called off I’m soothed with chicken noodle soup and, ironically, my favorite cartoon, Underdog.

In December the postman makes his daily stop on my porch to stuff our mailbox with holiday cards that we will later shake down for dollar bills. My mom rushes out with holiday greetings and presents him with a box of fresh chocolate chip cookies for his service.

In later years I teeter on the edge of my porch, remembering the fleeting joy of childhood, and wondering what lies beyond. I imagine sailing off on the grand adventure of life, and must leave the safety of the porch to pursue it.

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Less to the Story

There I was, fidgeting on one those folding metal chairs that only plague school gymnasiums and juror waiting rooms. The lights dimmed as the principle welcomed us to the annual Dance Show where proud parents spend $20, and an hour of their life to watch mostly kids they don’t know in an attempt to capture that one blurry picture of their child doing the coffee-grinder so they can post it to Instagram. While I waited for my daughter to grace the stage with “Who Let the Dogs Out”, I amused myself by watching the other children and imaging what was going through their minds as they struggled to keep pace with their classmates.   And then I had a moment that caught me off guard; I noticed a kid with no hair, he looked thin, and maybe a bit pale under the stage lighting. A scene played out in my head, of how he struggled against illness and bravely fought to take the stage with the rest of his class. I was moved by his courage and resilience in the face of adversity, wanting that one chance to shine and find a small slice of happiness amidst all his suffering. As I sat there, awash in emotions and trying to fight back tears, he fell out of step and began vigorously scratching his head. And then I thought “maybe he just has lice”.

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Planning to Death

I like to plan ahead. I’m a planner, an over-thinker. I like to know life has in store, and I do my best to be one step ahead of whatever it has to offer. There is however this one nagging detail that I haven’t been able to get in front of. Death. Mortality. The final exclamation point. The big send off. How does one really prepare for the end?

Now this isn’t meant as a somber walk down a dark morbid trail. I’m blessed to be healthy and have no immediate plans to attend any funerals. I’m talking about high level stuff; as an ongoing preoccupation that resurfaces when life’s other minutia settles down to a dull hum. It comes down to a question of what comes next after this great journey we call life. Is there life after death? Do we take a stairway to heaven and enter the pearly gates? Do we come back for another go around as a monarch butterfly in Mexico or a future sheep herder in France? Do we stumble through the afterlife as a restless spirit haunting the family home and animating creepy clown dolls? Does our energy transition into another form, contributing to a universal stockpile to be tapped for future creation? Or is it all just lost to entropy?

We are indoctrinated about these concerns from an early age. The simple bedtime prayer for kids starts right off with mention of death;

“If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

This was the sort of thing that scared the crap out of me as a child. Surrendering to even that brief bit of oblivion was difficult enough, acknowledging that we may not even make it to sunrise was simply terrifying. I sided with Edgar Allan Poe on this one;

“Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them.”

As we grow up our understanding of death and dying becomes an integral part of our early development. We experience the death of a goldfish, a family dog, a grandparent.   These are defining moments in our childhood. We try to come to terms with death without fully realizing the implications on our own lives; we are wrapped in the perceived immortality of youth with little thought of confronting the inevitable.

I imagine kids growing up on a farm might have a different perspective on the whole “circle of life” thing. They collect the unfertilized chicken eggs in the morning for breakfast and then break the infertile chicken’s neck in the evening for dinner. Farm to fork. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. They witness life coming into the world in spring and life passing from the world in winter. Everything has a natural ebb and flow, all in its own time.

Then there are the less fortunate kids; the ones who grow up facing atrocities in war-torn nations or battling a serious diseases in children’s hospitals. For them death and dying is a harsh reality that they cannot be sheltered from. They cannot escape it, and often cannot justify it, trying to make sense of life’s wild injustice and trying to find gods hand in some universal order. For them more than any I pray there is a perpetual circuit of souls that, with each trip through life, is meant to teach us an essential lesson. If that could by any hope be true then those brave kids at least can look forward to a full, rich, life in their next go-around.

I remember back when I was a teenager I found a book of questions that were meant to inspire soul-searching and generate lively discussions among friends and family. The one that stuck out most in my mind asked “would you risk being diagnosed with cancer if it would give you a better appreciation of life?” My immediate gut reaction had been “absolutely!” before considering the implication that this newly found perception of life may not be long-lasting.   I imagine that bit of uncertainty is exactly what precipitates the change in the first place. We’re told all the time to make every moment count, treat each day like it’s our last, live like you were dying, but without a real end in sight it’s hard to stray from the safe and narrow. If faith is believing without being able to know, facing death is knowing without being able to believe.

Speaking of faith, though, this had always struck me as one of the greatest gifts one could have; the unquestioning certainty that the afterlife offers every abundance of love and acceptance without a trace of suffering or hardship. I had a close friend back in high school who was a devote Mormon and carried with her such a sense of peace even at that early age. There was an underlying confidence that everything would work out in this world or the next. Jesus will provide. Jesus will protect. Jesus will welcome you when you close your eyes on this life and join him in the next. You are covered, baby! I was raised in the Jewish faith where the focus was on living a good life without consideration for what comes next. I don’t recall any talk of heaven or salvation. We would watch grim footage from the holocaust; newsreels of bodies and bulldozers with no talk of those poor souls going to a better place or assurances that they now sat at the hand of god.   So without faith what should we be preparing for?

Just before my son was born I was having a difficult time with this very topic. It was a few years after my father had passed away and it struck me that I was about to welcome the birth of the generation that would one day outlive me. You think about all the generations that came before you were born and all the ones that are yet to come after you pass away and one’s lifetime starts to feel all the more fleeting. It was in this context that I sought out a counselor to speak with. After a couple of sessions speaking about my dad we got down to the mortality issue. Turns out the counselor I had selected at random had advanced prostate cancer and was facing some of the same questions. I tried to ask if he’d found any answers, but being true to his profession he ducked most of my questions with related questions redirected back at me. What he did offer though was something like this;

“Think back to your childhood and the things you remember. Think back further to your oldest earliest memory. Think back to when you were born. Now think back before then to when you didn’t yet exist. How did it feel? What was it like? Think to that and perhaps that is what you will return to.”

What I did take away from those meetings was not about what will happen to me, but what will happen after me. Knowing my children remain behind to grow and prosper does offer a touch of immortality. Knowing that I will be remembered and in some way have made an impact on the people who continue after me is some small sense of comfort. I guess in the end that’s all we can hope for. Benjamin Franklin said the only two things that are certain are death and taxes and while I can save all of my receipts and organize my statements each year, there’s really not much prep I can do on the death front.   Not like I’ll get audited for being unprepared.

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Christmas Passed

My first experience with Christmas wasn’t until I was in high school. Sure, I knew what it was and it was hard to deny its presence once the pumpkin patches turned to tree lots, but I only had a high level concept of the event gleaned from beloved TV specials and movie classics like A Christmas Story. I imagined it was something like a combination of a Thanksgiving Day feast, a well-stocked birthday party and a ride on “It’s a Small World” (with slightly less repetitious music). Whatever it was, it sounded awesome and I wanted a piece of it.

I realized I was on a different life path when my mother would make her annual trip to our elementary school to embarrass the crap out of me and my sister,… or, from my mom’s perspective, “to share ethnic diversity” in the form of potato latkes with our Christian / Catholic counterparts. Turned out we were the only Jews in the entire district so my mother saw it as her duty to spread the word of God and try to make Hanukkah sound cool. Not an easy sell down on the school yard.

Historically Hanukkah was more of a minor festival, somewhere between Easter and Groundhogs Day. It was meant to celebrate the miracle of a deep fryer that kept the home fries cooking for over a week while the chosen people hid under their table trying to wait out some particularly persistent Mormon missionaries that came knocking at the door. Ok so maybe the fryer was an oil lamp, the table was a temple and the Mormon’s were Maccabees, but you get the idea. The telling of this tale is not nearly as catchy as “the birth of our lord and savior”. The first Christmas would become such a defining moment that we would change our very measure of time from that point forward. The first Hanukkah,… they may have invented shadow puppets, who knows, I wasn’t there, but you see the disparity; Hanukkah is like the Coors Lite to the rich thick Guinness of Christmas.

My parents tried to up the game and keep up with the gentiles. We got some blue string lights and decorated a Hanukkah bush. My dad, being the handy electrician, made a 3 foot wide menorah with light up candles that we would set in the front window, just in case people were wondering where that one crazy Jewish family lived. Like all Jewish (American) parents they would try to play up the fact that we got eight nights of presents while our friends only got one.   That might sound great in theory, but think about Christmas morning when you’re faced with a pile of presents and then have to wait so everyone can take turns opening one present at a time. Imagine the torment of waiting your turn,… now imagine opening just one single present and then being asked to wait entire day before you can open another; That would be Hanukkah. To make matters worse a lot of those early presents were nothing to write Santa about, they were either necessities such as socks and underwear, or just plain sucky gifts like coloring books with some B-list cartoon characters like “Dastardly and Muttley”. I can remember waiting all day for the sun to go down so my mom could light the candles and then waiting again after dinner for the candles to finally burn out. Then, and only then, were we ready for the big event. We’d retire to the family room as my mom dug around in the closet for a suitable present du jour. The day long torment and anticipation culminated in this one exciting moment; “Yay, my very own Hot Wheel! I’m going to sleep. Wake me at sundown”.

Don’t get me wrong I do have many fond memories of Hanukkah as well. The Sunday brunch that my mom would host with fresh bagels and an assortment of weird salads and Jell-O concoctions that were all amazing together. Teaching my friends how to gamble with the dreidel and eating the chocolate gelt (coins) as we played. The few times when the final big present was a trip to King Norman’s Toy Store at the mall and we got to pick out our own present.

But still I always wondered what lay behind the curtain, how did the other half,… or the other seven-eighths live? I got to see the aftermath growing up, going over to my friends’ houses following the big day while still on Christmas break (before schools changed the name to “Winter Break” so as not to offend). They all had amazing piles of loot to show off, not to mention a healthy dose of candy and other random leftovers that still littered the living room days after the tree had been pillaged. Everyone was happy in the post-holiday glow. Everything about it seemed magical, and a night much better spent then our traditional Christmas Eve of Chinese food and a movie. “Wanna see my Hot Wheel?”

When I was in high school, one of my friends, Pat invited me over to experience their family ritual. Pat was the youngest of four kids, and each of his siblings was married or engaged by this time. Combine that with a couple of grandkids and a few other friends and relatives and you got one very full house. For them Christmas Eve brought the sentimental exchange of gifts between family members, opening all of the presents under the tree. On Christmas morning Santa would leave a fresh batch of special bonus presents to round out the holiday.   It was a warm, cozy, boisterous night filled with love and laughter. It was everything I’d ever dreamed off, with one small exception; as welcome as they made me feel it still wasn’t really “mine”.

I celebrated my first Christmas about five years later when I’d turned 21. Appropriately it was spent with my first real girlfriend. We went out on a blustery morning to pick out a tree of our own. We decorated our tree together (something I’d never done before) as we drank hot cocoa in holiday mugs. I put presents under the tree. I listened to Christmas carols freely. I embraced the holiday.

After I was married there was no turning back. Christmas would explode all over the house on the first of December. I happily hung lights from the roof (at least as much as I could reach with a ladder), lined the windows and sprung for some festive lawn ornaments.   When kids came along they enjoyed both holidays; a sampling of Hanukkah throughout the week, including a traditional first night dinner of brisket and latkes with doughnuts for dessert and then a full Christmas experience with all the trimmings.

At this point I can’t imagine a year without Xmas. Even after the divorce, with some of the established customs disrupted and kids only appearing on alternate years, I still enjoy all the moments leading up to the big day. For me it’s not about religion; I celebrate the spirit of Christmas; peace on earth, goodwill towards man, all that sappy stuff. I don’t go to Midnight mass and I don’t have to trade in my mezuzah for a crucifix. I still love and respect my heritage and all that comes with it. But there are only so many times I can listen to the one Hanukkah song by Adam Sandler on the radio while I could play A Charlie Brown Christmas on a continuous loop. It warms my heart, and this is a time of year to share your heart with your friends and family in whatever way feels best to you. So Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night,… l’chaim.

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Motivation

Someone asked me what my primary motivation in life was. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that directly. I know for some it’s as simple as faith. For others it can come from inspiration born of tragedy; an inner artistic voice that cries out to be free; a drive to be better than a sibling or to rise above the means of your parents. I don’t ththrowback_thursday1_largeink any of these really apply to me. It’s like I’m missing a compelling back story that would account for where I am today and lay out everything I have yet to accomplish.   The answer that I came up with is something more indirect. I love watching kids playing the games I’ve made or see people read comic strips I’ve drawn. At home this extends to just watching my kids thrive and be happy. Knowing that something I do can positively affect someone is the most satisfying motivation for me. Then I wonder, as I do about everything, is that enough? Is that a real motivation? How does that help me when I have no timelines or deadlines? I think I have trouble inspiring myself with the indirect motivation that maybe someone will someday see this something I’m spending hours on and appreciate my creation. It should be more internal shouldn’t it? Or maybe more transcendent? More inspired? More soulful? Like others with an artistic voice I should want to create simply for the sake of creating. The mere act of creation should bring me peace and joy. Nirvana. Lacking that how does one change their primary motivation,… or improve upon an existing one? Maybe I need to focus on the “positive affect” and keep that as a mantra whenever it comes time to draw. Maybe I need to find motivation to find a better motivation.

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Patient Be Where

So let’s say you do happen to wake up in that seedy hotel bathroom in an ice filled tub with a throbbing pain where your kidney should be; what’s a guy to do? Well naturally your first thought would be to travel with all haste to the nearest purveyor of compassionate health care; the town doctor, nestled behind his white picket fence in the heart of the community, waiting diligently to tend to the needs of his flock with swift alacrity.   The wise doctor who brought you into this world and has seen you through all the trials and tribulation of life like he were a member of the family. The noble doctor who has only your best interests at heart.

Of course such a doctor no longer exists so instead you direct the GPS towards the nearest emergency room and hope for the best.   The welcoming glow of the ER signs (along with the commercial marketing campaign funded by the conglomerate that owns the hospital) promises a blissful resolution to whatever ails you and beckons you into its safe harbor just behind the sliding doors. Take that first step beyond the threshold however and all of your expectations come to a screeching halt along with your concept of space and time; in your mind you try and make conservative estimates on how much of your life you will be sacrificing to this visit but in this at least the hospital will certainly exceed your expectations.

You shuffle forward to the admissions desk where you are greeted with all the warmth of a frozen pizza. Trained by the palace guards at Buckingham Palace the job of this receiving nurse is to respond to your symptoms with poker-faced neutrality. You could report that an alien probe has dislodged your spleen and get the same regard as if you’d just shown her a shallow paper cut. She calmly takes your information, tags you like a wild seal and then sends you out into the vast ocean of the waiting room where everyone idles about, attempting to make limited contact with people, furniture and door knobs.   You navigate the germ encrusted surfaces, tune out the sounds of intestinal distress and take a seat until called by the triage nurse.

Triage is an important concept in the ER. This is where the nurses try sort the priority of your treatment based on your likeness to croak or to generate a lawsuit before your name can be called. If you have anything about to fall off your body or shoot out of your body you’ve got a better chance of being elevated to the top of the stack. Anything short of that and you get sorted into amorphous categories along with the rest of the wannabe patients. In general the healthier you are (or should I say ‘the less sick you are’), the longer you’re gonna have to wait. One would assume then if you walked into the ER completely healthy you’d never leave.

Put another way, there is a math concept called Zeno’s Paradox that basically says if you needed to reach a destination you’d first have to travel half way across the total distance, and to reach that half way mark you’d first have to travel half of that distance and so on. So if you always had to cross half the remaining distance you’d never reach your final destination since there are infinite ways to repeatedly divide the remaining distance in half. This is what the triage system brings to mind as you endlessly inch ever closer to being “next” without ever actually being called.

Once in this situation, I repeatedly asked the nurse for a status. She informed me that we were “next up in our category”. Apparently this category was “people we’ll call when hell freezes over”. It’s like the waiting room in the DMV or the courthouse where they do the similarly mysterious break down by category; you stare at your ticket with H112 on it feeling pretty good that they are now serving H110. After you see H111 called to the window you breathe a little easier with the knowledge that you’ll be the next one called. And then comes the parade of random tickets from every other possible category; X102, X103, F242, D117, X104, B001, D118,… on and on with no further mention of our precious H group. And so it goes in the ER as time stretches onward.

After several long hours of waiting to be next, you finally get called up to the big league. They announce your name and the thick double doors to the inner sanctum part with an internal glow of healthy radiance. Overwhelmed by the sheer sense of relief to finally be called you forget all about the pain that brought you here in the first place. You rise to your feet triumphantly wanting to pump your fist in the air or thank the academy, or some other display of wild exuberance. Instead you just shuffle on through to the other side and take a seat in a smaller room where you can continue your wait.

Having arrive in your new waiting place, the ER nurse now directs you to strip down and put on one of their swanky hospital gowns. It does not matter what you’re being seen for they just want you to get naked and experience the ass-numbing draft from their rear-opening apparel. Actually there’s an ulterior motive; without the gown they would have no way of knowing who was a patient, who was a visitor and who was doctor or nurse. Uniforms are very important in a hospital and you’re just being asked to play your part.

Another hour goes by. An entire shift of nurses has come and gone since you entered the building. You’ve been poked and probed (though leaving your spleen in place) and shuffled about to get you where you are right now. It’s all built up to this moment when you finally get to see an actual doctor. The selfless doctor that will care for you, empathize with you and cure you with his gentle healing hands. Instead you get the speedy doctor that flies in, assails you faster than a pick pocket groping for loose change, and then flies off again through the curtain like a ripple in the wind.   If you made a pie chart of the time you spent in the ER with the wedge of time you spent with the doctor you would have one very sad and very small slice of pie and the same sense of the lingering disappointment that the doctor leaves in his wake. His parting words are something about waiting for discharge (a horrible choice of words considering the context of your current situation) and the final paperwork from the dismissive nurse (not to be confused with the naughty submissive nurse from the Halloween store). When you have the stack of papers in hand they officially set you free by cutting off your bracelet and shuffling you back towards the big double doors.

The last thing you see as you head out for the parking lot is the collection of poor souls still stuck in the waiting room; some still waiting for relatives that went in before you, some just starting their own long adventures in waiting. You’re struck with mixed emotions, not sure if you should wave a flippant “so long suckers” or pat someone sympathetically on the shoulder. The ER is misery without the courtesy of dignity. Surviving it and the ailment that brought you here fills you with a sense of euphoria. In the big picture everything feels a little better and easier to endure. Maybe living with just one kidney isn’t so bad after all,… beats sitting in the ER.

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