Some Days You're the Dog...

     ... and some days you're the fire hydrant.  This relatively well known phrase is one of the many that my wife has put her own spin on. Her penchant for creating malapropisms is one of the innumerable things I love about Kayla. One day, she was trying to remember the dog / hydrant phrase, and she said, "Some days you're doing okay, and some days you get pooped on by an animal."  During my first trip to the beach in three years, my wife's phrase applied to me in the most literal sense. 

     The nine other people in my party and I had just gotten settled:  sun screen, towels, sun glasses, and cold beverages.  While my son dug in the sand near the water, I stepped into chilly Lake Michigan and reminded him that this was the first time I'd been able to do this since he was three years old. I didn't go all the way in the water for a variety of reasons, among them the temperature of the lake and my inability to swim. But even if I were an Atlantean, I wouldn't have submerged myself, since my doctors have told me it's still too soon post-transplant to be taking a dip in anything other than filtered and chlorinated pools. No matter- I went to relax on my towel next to where Kayla was sitting, along with my in-laws and nieces. I had been on the beach a grand total of five minutes, and then it happened...

     We are still asking each other, what are the odds?  The vast majority of groups who go to the beach leave without anyone getting pooped on by a seagull. And of the ten people in our party, it had to be me: the immunosuppressed person who has been ordered by his doctors to avoid aviaries and lizard exhibits at zoos.  I never asked why exactly, but I know it involves their droppings, and that was enough for me.  Maybe if I were an ornithophile this limitation would have been upsetting, but "avoid bird poop" seemed pretty easy to accomplish. 

     I sat there frozen after I felt a "plop" on the top-left side of my head. Before I could utter a word, I felt another, this time on my lower back near my hip. It must have been quite an angle of release, since I was sitting down. For a split second I thought (wished) that someone had tossed dirt in the air, but I knew the grim truth. I called out to my family in a panicked tone, "I got pooped on by a bird and I need help because I'm not even supposed to be around birds!"  My good natured mother-in-law asked, "Just now?" 

     "No, four months ago, but I just realized it..." 

     Maybe I become a little mean after I've been defecated on by a seagull. 

     The collective scurry to grab paper towels has peppered with astonishment and laughter. I helplessly sat there while Kayla wiped the poop from that wretched winged freshwater rat off of my head, shoulder, back and hip. She then used all of the hand sanitizer in the little bottle I had brought and rubbed it into my hair and everywhere else that had been hit. Soon enough, the poop was gone, but I knew I wouldn't feel "clean" until after I'd taken a shower. 

     The rest of our time at the beach was without incident, though we remained incredulous at what had taken place and were still laughing about it at various intervals.  Because it is not in my nature to let small things like getting crapped on by a seagull sour my mood for too long, I was the embodiment of a slightly tweaked version of my wife's quote: "Some days you're doing okay despite getting pooped on by an animal."

Can't Thank You Enough

     Yesterday I returned two items to Old Navy. The cashier seemed to be happy about scanning the items and crediting me the money back, even though I'm willing to bet she wasn't exactly having the time of her life. But she put a fun and energetic spin on something as mundane as a refund, without being sarcastic or fake about it. I was about to mention her attitude and thank her by saying something beyond, "Thanks," but didn't, lest I seem weird or something.  (Not that that's bothered me in the past.)  But this little situation reminded me that all too often, the "above and beyond" actions displayed by others go under appreciated.

     When I spoke to the Gift of Life Michigan staff at their meeting yesterday, I concluded by noting that teachers and those who work at GOLM tread the common ground of being chronically under appreciated. Not because we aren't thanked for our efforts, but because no amount of gratitude can match the significance of the work we do. That work is very different, to be sure, but the impact the people in the meeting yesterday have on others-- often during heart-wrenching moments-- cannot be undervalued.

     Though I have not been teaching these past two years, I still feel the sting of news reports and political efforts which undermine the importance of effective educators. Ultimately, we should not base our worth on those things, but rather on the responses of those we serve. We must remind ourselves that when we do hear a heartfelt "Thank you," it is representative of more than just that individual. If we regard these shining beacons of gratitude (such as my brief speech yesterday or the college application letter a student wrote about me) as the norm rather than the exception, the path to satisfaction, to knowing we have done good work in our time here on earth, will be extraordinarily bright. 

     I will close this post by thanking you-- as of yesterday, these blog posts have been viewed over 3,000 times in less than three months of existence. I realize that doesn't translate to 3,000 people, but no matter how many of you are reading this, know that you are providing me with the motivation to work on (and soon (?)) finish my book. And then comes, as my mentor and friend says, the most important job an author has-- rewriting! Don't worry, I'll keep the blog from becoming a writer's workshop once that time comes. 

Using those hand gestures I teach students about in Public Speaking as I talk to the Gift of Life Michigan staff.

What Ifs, Lasts, and Goodbyes (?)

     Thursday was the last day of summer school-- my attempt at "dipping my toe back in the water" to see if I can return to teaching in the fall.  While I had every intention of having a decision made before summer school ended, a few pieces of the puzzle were still missing prior to my last day.  As such, I invited everyone I'm friends with on Facebook who is connected with me through teaching to attend what may have been my last day of teaching.   

A Message from the Past, a Prophecy of the Future

     This video is something I made to officially explain to my students that I would not be returning to teaching in the 2013 school year.  It seemed like all of the kids (and everyone on staff) were hoping, wondering, and worrying, so I made this and had my substitute show it to all of my classes.  I didn't write down any notes, just turned on my webcam and spoke.  

Cars 2

     Taking a child with CF to events which, at first glance, seem totally family friendly, does not always go as planned. My parents learned this when I was about eight years old on the night they took me to see the dirt track races in a town near my home. As we sat there watching cars whiz past, kicking up massive amounts of dust, my parents became worried about the environment they had brought me into. 

     The air quality was the second thing that made them question bringing me to the races that night. The first was the man in front of us, who had been swearing almost constantly since the moment we sat down.  Packed tightly in the stands, we didn't have many options but to stay put, and for a little while, my two brothers and I were exposed to a whole new vocabulary. As the noise of the cars drowned out the sailor-mouthed man, we settled in and enjoyed the roaring vehicles and sliding left turns. It wasn't until we got back to our car and were waiting in the jammed parking lot that my parents had a dual realization: they hadn't done my fourth "pounding" of the day, and I'd just been inhaling dusty air for several hours. They had never failed to do four percussion & postural drainage treatments on me per day, and they weren't about to let that change. We arrived home well after 11 pm, but they still did it, and fell asleep on one of their laps in the final downward slanting position. 

     A few years later, we had another situation where cars and CF clashed. My family went to the Kingston Burnouts, where a small town street is blocked off for one night and motor heads bring their tricked out vehicles to show off their aesthetic appeal and horsepower by spinning their tires and squealing down the road.  We arrived and found a small restaurant to have dinner at before the burnouts began, and our seat by the window let us see when the action started. 

     As soon as we stepped out of the restaurant to take a position to watch from the street, I could tell this was no place for me. After a few cars the air was already becoming saturated with the smell of rubber and the haze of exhaust. But we were trapped. Though we could see our vehicle down the street, it was on the other side and blocked off by barriers-- not to mention the cars flying past the excited onlookers.  We had initially turned to walk up the street to where the cars were starting their runs, but my mom and dad had us turn around to return to the restaurant. With a respite from the foul air, we decided to leave immediately and walk all the way down to beyond where the cars finished their runs so we could cross in a safe place. We walked back up the street to our station wagon and I felt a pang of guilt, being the sole reason why my parents and brothers couldn't stay and enjoy the evening's event. But nobody said a word to make me feel worse, and the "it's no big deal" mentality, the blip of me and my illness taking us off our normal path, was forgiven and forgotten without a word. 

     Situations like this were a hallmark of my childhood, which helped tremendously in making me feel like I was no different than anyone else in my family. It wasn't sad, or frustrating, or horrible that we didn't get to see the Kingston Burnouts, just as it wasn't sad, frustrating, or horrible that I was born with Cystic Fibrosis. It just "was," and life moved on-- as far as I was aware-- without turmoil, handwringing or fear. 

Rope. Swing.

     Though my family has visited my sister-in-law's cottage a few times since I went on the transplant list, our visit this past weekend afforded many opportunities that weren't on the table over the past two summers.  We played two epic volleyball games, with everyone in both families, including my six year old son, enjoying a highlight reel moment or two.  And though I'm not a fan of going fast or of heights, it would have been a crime to pass up a chance at using the rope swing...

I'm King of the World!

In lieu of a movie quote befitting this photo, I just made something up... ;)

In all seriousness, this weekend was another reminder of how lucky I am to be able to do new things, like travel further north than ever before in my life and take a boat ride to see Pictured Rocks. It was an amazing experience that wouldn't have been possible the previous two summers.