Old dreams

When I was young, I remember having pleasant dreams.  The ones I remember are when my toys were alive (like Toy Story) and we would talk and play together, and for those dreams I wasn't alone.

As I got older, Nice dreams became rarer.  As a teen and twenty something, some of the good dreams were, ahem, spicy shall we say.  Haven't had that kind of dream in forever.

In college (Summer 88), I remember a dream that was me going to the McDonald's down the street and enjoying a Big Mac.  I really don't like Big Macs, but that summer I was so broke I literally didn't have two coins to rub together.  Being able to afford such an extravagance was a dream come true.

Summer '88.  Living next to McD's didn't help

I've written several times that I almost constantly have nightmares now.  I don't remember my last pleasant dream.  That doesn't mean I don't have them- I just don't remember any. 

 

My dreams these days are usually me trying to go somewhere but I keep getting further away.  Others are sort of typical, taking tests after not attending class, or such.  In many dreams, I’m extremely frustrated or angry, and unable to make anything right.  Some are my being pursued by something I never see, but I know to be caught would be fatal.

 

Still, most are memories gone wild.  Rescue squad calls gone tragically wrong, or dead victims returning to blame me for their deaths.  Many involve being rejected by loved ones or abandoned by everyone.

The last ones are the worst, as I wake up exhausted, sad, or depressed. Sometimes that would last for days.  

The rescue ones tend to be the ones that repeat- frequently enough that I know what happens next but can't change it.  Like I'm just a spectator, or it’s a kabuki play.

I don't remember any good dreams since before transition.  Even before. 

 

 

I miss them.  

 

The First Call (another chapter)

This is another chapter of my book Men of the Skull.  It tells the story of my first rescue squad call, and first (no funeral) dead body.

*******************

Chapter 2.104 First Call

            In this book, I’ve done the due diligence and made sure that all dates are accurate, etc.  However, I’ve obscured this date intentionally.  Do I know the exact date?  Yes, and it’s around this time.  And I still mark it quietly. 

            Some things you never forget.

Chapter 2.104 First Call

January 12, 1988 LCB says fraternities liable for serving minors

The new pledges had already gone home as study hours were over.  I pulled one of the big black leather chairs over to face the fireplace.  I was feeling a bit, well, depressed.  Melancholy.

            I had with me a bottle of Southern Comfort, from which I sipped as I stared into the fire, thinking.

One of the new pledges, Ty, came over and stood aside me next to the chair.  He was a surfer dude with long black hair

            He looked at me and said, "Hey Lens, like, are you okay?"

            I looked up at him without moving my head, and said "just a bad memory."

            "Want to talk about it? he asked.

            “Well, it's kind of gory. It was my first Rescue Squad calls as an EMT."

            Oh, that’s right- you're an EMT," he said.

             "Yeah, still am," I said, offering a swig from my bottle.  "This is back in 84 and today was the anniversary of that call."

            "Okay, tell me about it," he said.

Rescue Squad truck, 1984

            I smiled grimly.  "Well, it was a motorcycle accident involving three cars.  Morning commute.  And without getting into all the gory details, the biker, who had survived three tours of Vietnam, was knocked off his bike, hit by a second car, and dragged over a hundred yards face-down on the highway by the third.  We all hoped the impact killed him before that."  I took a swig and handed the bottle back to him.

Accident diagram

            "And we got there, the rescue squad, and after checking the other drivers for injuries, the captain told me to go over with a body bag to the biker, and to roll him into the bag, as a doctor had already declared him dead.  Don't ask me where the doctor came from. Didn’t see him."    

             Swig.

             "I said sure, no problem.  So, I...  I followed the long blood and shit streak up the highway to the body.  And there he was faced down- my first dead body.  No helmet, dark hair matted with blood.  Open leather jacket with Harley Davidson and Vietnam veteran patches.  Uh, blue jeans. Boots.

Swig.

            You want any more?  I asked.

            "Nah, got more studying to do.  Thanks though."

             "So, I set out the body bag, knelt down, and I put my one hand under his head and the other under his stomach to roll him into the bag.”  

I moved my hands to show him what I did.  The bottle sloshed in my grip. 

             “And I did.  Most of the intestines, they stuck… to the ground or to my hand, and his brain stuck… to my other hand.  Leaving a trail of entrails between that bag and the highway.  I still remember it as clear as day.  The brain was sticky in my hand.  Whole face and chest rubbed  away.  I also remember the smell.  The smell…”

             Finished the bottle.

"So, after I finish throwing up all over the side of the road, the captain, Don, put his hand on my shoulder and says, 'welcome to the rescue squad."

 

             Ty stood there for a moment as I stared into the fire, then looked at the empty bottle.

             "I'm sorry" he whispered. 

             "Yeah thanks.  Anyway, that was four years ago today.  Never even learned the guy's name."       

            I kept staring into the fire.  I have no idea how long he stood there before leaving.

            I didn’t cry. 

A Man doesn’t cry. 

Just… stared into the cleansing flames.

 

 *****************************************************************************

            Ty would become one of my best friends in the house.  He listened.  Cared.  About everybody.  He was among my biggest supporters when I came out as Sophie.  He became a college philosophy professor and youth baseball coach in California.

            He died in a surfing accident onelection day 2024.  Hundreds came to his memorial vigil on the beach where it happened.  There’s a plaque in Skull house now, dedicated to him.  On it is quote from Vonnegut, but encapsulated Ty perfectly: “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’”

A singular honor for a great man.

 

For Ty

On Wednesday November 6, 2024, Ty Torres died of head trauma after a surfing accident.  He was 55.  He leaves behind his wife, Robin, and his son, Coltrane.

Photo by Dave Sieling

According to a memorial site:

On the morning of November 5th, 2024, Ty Torres went for an early surf session, something he had done countless times before. However, this time, tragedy struck. Witnesses say that after riding a wave, he appeared to lose control and was knocked unconscious after being thrown off his board. Although lifeguards and bystanders rushed to his aid immediately, performing CPR and attempting to revive him, Ty was ultimately declared dead at the scene. The exact cause of death is believed to be related to a head injury sustained during the fall, although authorities are awaiting a full autopsy report to confirm the details.

His obituary.

The memorial is inaccurate.  He was taken to a hospital where he was declared brain dead, and his wife had him disconnected from life support equipment the next morning.  

Ty was a professor, artist, raconteur, polymath, father, brother, husband, and a great man.  He was also my fraternity brother, one of my closest friends from my undergraduate years, and one of the very few who stayed in touch.

1990

Many people are writing tributes to Ty which talk about his recent accomplishments- about the philosophy classes he taught, his art, his love of life, and his expertise at surfing.  Yes, he was an avid expert surfer.  He even appeared on the cover of a surfing magazine in his youth.  You could say he died doing what he loved.  One of his childhood friends wrote on facialbook "...great soul who understood people and found the salient part of every individual on Earth, never passing up a chance to make anyone feel good."  That really sums up Ty perfectly.

I met Ty in the Fall of 1987.  One of our pledges of that time went to high school with him, and invited him to our parties, eventually talking him into pledging as well in the next semester.  Ty had long, flowing black hair and an easy smile.  I'm not much into guys, but he was really good looking.  I knew he could seduce any person he wished.  

But here's the rub- while he KNEW he was hot, It didn't go to his head.  He was genuine, friendly, and CARED about people.  He actually listened.  He was easy to talk to and easy to like.  When he was "rushing," he and I drank together often.  He was amused that I'd never even tried drugs.  He didn't treat me like an outcast- he treated me like a brother: HIS brother.  He always had my back- and I had his.  There was never a doubt.

With Ty 1991

Ty pledged with the Spring 1988 pledge class.  His pledge class had several really good guys in it, but I think Ty was the engine that kept them going.  They became brothers in late April 1988- the week after the annual Toga party.  (They would've gotten in sooner, but we needed pledges to work Toga.)  

Fare you well, fare you well I love you more than words can tell.  (Grateful Dead)

As a brother, Ty was a phenomenon.  You couldn't ask for a better brother.  He was an incredible ambassador for the letters, and his hotness brought MANY women to our events.  

After I graduated, we stayed in touch.  He was kind enough to let me sleep on his couch a couple of times when I visited PSU before he graduated.  Eventually, he was elected vice president of the fraternity.  He also played "Sahntah" at the annual house Christmas gift exchange- which in our house was a great honor bestowed upon a senior.  When Wife and I visited California, we made it a point to visit Ty, his wife, and their newborn son.  He told me I'd gotten fat.  (He wasn't wrong.)

"Sahntah"

Then I transitioned.  Ty was one of the people I told via video (as I didn't have the money to fly out to California.)  He immediately gave his support.  He never dead-named nor misgendered me.  When my fraternity's 125th anniversary weekend came in 2015, Ty talked me into attending, as I wasn't going to do so.  He said he would walk with me to the House from the hotel to support me.  He also told me of pre-event happies in another brother's room.  At the event (which he helped plan and run) he was a dynamo of energy, and made sure to check in with me occasionally to make sure I was ok.  Seeing him, was really the highlight of the trip.  I told him his beard made him look old.  

The last time I saw him alive was last was at a mini-reunion.. 

With Ty 2015

We kept in touch, usually via text or facialbook.  We had fun destroying the arguments of 45 cultists on Ty's fb feed.  We talked baseball and Penn State football.  The last text I sent that he saw was a meme making fun of his Yankees, who had just lost the World Series.  

Then, the day after the election- a chilly, rainy day here in State College- I received a text from my dear friend (and fraternity little sister) Iva disclosing the horrific news.  I was downtown running an errand for work.  I walked back to work, stunned (I must've looked like a zombie.)  Once back at work, I went into the breakroom and broke down sobbing.  One of the undergrads I work with gave me a hug.  But my life and the world had changed.  

Ty was gone.  

I can't imagine how his family felt.  I can't comprehend the magnitude of their loss.  

His vigil

Soon, tributes popped up online- FB, Insta... all social media.  I knew Ty was popular and amazing, but I didn't realize how many lives he'd touched and changed. I shouldn't have been surprised.  People all around the world: former students, classmates from various schools, co-workers... family.  HIS family.  The family he created one smile at a time.  

Such a long long time to be gone and a short time to be there.  (Grateful Dead)

The following night was a candlelight vigil at Salt Creek beach (Dana Point, CA- south of LA) where he surfed, and a shrine created on the large rock that...  I saw pictures of the vigil.  So many people; so many candles; so many lives.

Ty was one of a kind.  He was a beacon of optimism and, yes, kindness.  This world has been around for billions of years, and may be here a lot longer, but I'm blessed to say that not only did I live at the same time as Ty, but I also had the honor of calling him "brother."  The world desperately needs more people like Ty Arthur Torres, but he was one of a kind.  He was one of the finest men I've ever known.

My deepest condolences to Robin, Coltrane, and his extended family.

May the four winds blow you safely home, Ty.  The world is lesser without you in it.  

Men of the Skull Part 1, Chapter 27: Sucking Chest Wounds

For the most part, I've confined myself to posting chapters of my book, Men of the Skull, from Part II, which concerns Penn State.  Part I was about my time at Drexel leading up to my transferring universities.  To that point (2004 when I wrote that chapter, and until 2014) transferring schools was the most radical thing I'd ever done in my life.  I couldn't believe I had the guts to actually take initiative and do something that seemed so drastic.

Like climbing into wrecked school buses was ordinary, but I digress.

This chapter was the second to last of Part I, and, upon editing, will probably conclude Part I.  It's one of the best written chapters of Part I, and that's because I had some help.  A few years back, I posted an old story I'd written called "Disorganized Light."  I mentioned that a dear friend of mine liked it, and threatened to re-write it.  Well, he never did, but he DID re-write this chapter.  He read it as one of my reviewers once I finished the book in 2007.  Out of nowhere I received this chapter, re-written to the form you see now.  

Chris is an amazing writer, especially detective stories.  He introduced the 'dummy family' motif to the piece which I'd use while rewriting Part II.  In any case, his rewrite was far superior to the original (which I'd titled "It's Over") so I kept it this way.  Yes, I'll give him credit for that bit.  

However, none of that has to do with why I'm posting it now.  The piece concerns my final breakup with my first girlfriend, whom I call Julianne.  After this, I'd see her a few times before PSU took me in other directions.  I saw her once after college, and once at the bookstore pre-transition (She didn't recognize me.)  Well, I saw her again this past weekend.  I was visiting Wife and Daughter, and was in a grocery store, and there she was.  She'd aged, obviously, but still had her classic beauty and tiny nose.  She didn't recognize me (go figure) and I didn't say anything to her.  Even if nothing else has, that old wound has healed.  

***********************************************************************

Chapter 1.27 Sucking Chest Wounds

 Saturday, June 28, 1986 World Court: Aid to contras illegal

           “The doors are blocked.  We won’t get them open until the towing equipment arrives, and we’re losing time!”  Don shouted from in front of the crippled school bus.

            “Let’s cut in from the roof,” suggested Allen.

            “OK.  You and Lance do it.”

            Don, our captain, had sent me with Allen to the roof of the bus, because we were the thinnest, so the initial hole could be smaller.  It was an advantage of speed that we needed, but a disadvantage when it came to handling the massive hydraulic K-saw.  I steadied Allen as he pulled the big buzz saw across the yellow roof.  Sparks were still flying as he finished his third cut and I worked to pry back the metal of our make shift entry… revealing two steel struts and another layer of sheet metal blocking our path.

Modern K-12 Saw 

(https://www.thefirestore.com/Partner-K-12FD-Fire-Rescue-Saw)

“What the hell is taking you so long?”  Don called up.  He had a couple of other guys using the Jaws of Life on a wrecked car nearby.

            “We’ve encountered some roof struts and a second layer of metal.  Five more minutes, I’m guessing” answered Allen.

            “People inside may be bleeding to death.  Cut between the struts and have Lance climb through without his gear.  He’s scrawny enough!”

            “You just wish you were still so thin!”  I yelled back at him as I stripped off my jacket and tossed it down to Mike, who was tending the saw’s hydraulic line. 

Three minutes later, I kicked open a flap into the school bus.

            “Watch it!  That cut metal will be sharp and hot!”  Don warned from the ground. 

I put my gloves back on, but could still feel the metal’s heat through them as I lowered myself through the narrow hole and jumped down into the bus.  A bit of the metal cut my arm.

            “Ouch!  Sonafabitch!”  I yelled.

            “Watch your language with those kids!”  Allen called down, smiling.

            I quickly triaged the injuries of the four people in the bus—one with a broken arm, two with head injuries, one of those unconscious, and one… shit.

            Allen dropped a first aid kit down to me, then lowered himself through hole.  As we worked on the unconscious head trauma, our priority, Don and some of the other guys were finally making headway on removing the emergency exit in the back of the bus.

“Julianne comes home from the shore today” I mentioned to Allen as I held the victim’s head while he put on a cervical collar.

            “How long has she been gone?”

            “A week.”

Allen finished with the collar, and we started strapping the victim to a short back board to immobilize the spine.  “Are you going to keep dating when you go up to PSU?” he asked.

            “I don’t know.  I guess it wouldn’t make sense really.”

            “Especially when it’s been in and out of the toilet so much with you being close,” Allen added.

            “Straps are tight.”

            “OK.  Let’s move her from the seat” Allen said.

            The door in the back popped open with a large bang as the Hurst tool did its job.

            ‘We need another short board, two long boards and two more people in here!” Allen called to the back.

            “Take care of that person, there, next” I said, pointing at the other head injury.

            Mike and another guy jumped in and started caring for the victim I’d indicated.  Don brought in the two long boards and a short board.  Allen and I strapped our patient to a long board and carried her out the back.

            “Why did you direct Mike to Victim One?”  Don asked us after we put Annie on the ground.

            “Victim Three was dead, so I thought number One took priority after this one.”

            “What do you mean Victim Three was dead?!  Victim Three wasn’t dead, but she probably is now!”

            “There was no card, so I did a quick exam and checked for a pulse… there wasn’t one, so I figured she was dead or uninjured.  Either way, it put her at the bottom of the list.”

            “No pulse, huh?  You think that’s funny?  Well, just so you know, you’re still wrong—you’re not a doctor, so you can’t pronounce people dead.  If that person’s family sued…”

            “The dummy has a family?  I didn’t know…  I’m really sorry.”

            “That’s why we practice” Don smiled.  “Are you sure there wasn’t a card that said ‘sucking chest wound’ on her?”

            “Not that I saw.  Besides, wouldn’t I hear a sucking chest wound?”

             “Sucking chest wounds might make a wheezing sound that you can hear, but accident sites tend to make a lot of noise of their own.  If you come across someone with a sucking chest wound that‘s louder than a siren, you can pronounce that person dead.  Now, get back in there!”

            Allen and I went back in the bus to take care of the driver.  We still couldn’t find a card detailing what her injuries were supposed to be, but this time I did notice a gear shift lever sticking out of the side of her coveralls.  “Still no pulse,” Allen called out to Don, “Is she dead, now?”

            “No, damn it, she has sucking chest wound, but she’ll be awfully damn lucky to be alive after you two guys are done with her!”

            “He can sure say that again,” Allen said quietly as we began to minister to another Resuci-Annie dummy.

            We spent the rest of the morning training in the junk yard.  We saved a lot of dummies that day; I felt even better about it than I had in the past, now that I knew they all had dummy-families waiting for them at home.

            After a shower, I sat around watching MTV while I waited for Julianne to call back.  Lenny was having a party tonight and I was hoping she would come along.  Julianne had never met Lenny—nor anyone else that I worked with for that matter, except Chrissy, who she knew from the Springsteen show.  Chrissy’d be there tonight.  She and Lenny were a couple now.

            I hadn’t spoken to Julianne in over a week.  Part of me wondered why she hadn’t bothered to call while she was down the shore.  Another part already knew the answer.  All of me didn’t want to hear it.  The phone rang as Phil Collins was singing to his drumstick “She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart.”

            “What’s up?” she asked as if we’d just spoken to each other this morning.

            “Lenny—the guy I work with—is having a party tonight.  Want to go?”

            “Sure.  What time?”

            “Seven?”

            “OK.  I’ll see you then.”

            “OK.”

            “OK, bye.”

            She sounded happy enough.

            It was a few minutes after seven when I got to her house.  She must have been waiting.  She came right out of the house and jumped in the car.  The trip to Lenny’s house was filled with hearing about how great Sea Isle City was and how much fun she had, but she seemed a bit cautious again, like she was editing and measuring her words.  Eventually, we pulled into Lenny’s front yard; his driveway was packed with cars.

            We followed the music into the open garage where we found Lenny pulling a beer from a nicely iced keg.  “Hey!  You made it!” he said, turning toward us.

            “Told you we would.  Lenny, this is Julianne.”

            “Pleased to meet you Julianne!  I’ve heard a lot about you.  Want a beer?”

            “No, thanks.  My parents would kill me if I came home with beer breath.”

            “Well, dating this guy has to make them suspicious, doesn’t it?” he said, nudging me. 

            I got myself a beer and followed him into the living room.  It was wood paneled and had a gold colored shag rug.  Several bookshelves full of knick knacks and a few books lined one wall.  Chrissy played with a high-speed stereo, which had a CD player and four huge speakers.  The cutting edge electronics clashed with the 70’s décor… but then what doesn’t?

            “Hi Lance!”  Chrissy cheered as she came over to hug me.

            “Chrissy!  You remember Julianne?”

            “Yeah.  Hi!” she said smiling.

 

            The stereo began to blast the new Peter Gabriel record.

            “This CD is awesome!” Lenny shouted above the music.

            “So’s the tape.”  I replied.

            “Huh?” Lenny asked unable to hear me.

            “SO IS THE TAPE.”  I tried again louder.

            Yeah, ‘So’.  This is it.”  He replied pointing to the stereo.

            I gave up.  The name of the new Peter Gabriel album we were listening to was ‘So’.  He must have thought I was asking about it.  Maybe he forgot that I worked in the record store with him where we played it to death every day.  In any case, my window for making a joke out of the fact that most people didn’t have a CD player was long gone, so I just smiled and nodded.

            We stayed for a couple of hours, but there wasn’t a lot of conversation.  When the party is at the guy-who-works-in-the-record-store-with-the-really-big-stereo’s house, music tends to dominate the evening.  Julianne followed me around and I introduced her to everyone, but she didn’t seem to be too interested in really getting to know these guys.  We said our goodbyes relatively early and started back to her house. 

            As the Rabbit sputtered down the road, Julianne stared out the window.  Finally, she spoke.                      “Lance, we, um, need to talk.”

            Uh oh.  Contrary to practical medical advice, I pushed my finger into my ear and wiggled it around in an attempt to reopen my auditory canal, so I could better hear that which I knew I didn’t want to.

            “I met some guys down the beach.  And it made me feel so… so wanted.  They made me feel sexy.”

            “And I don’t?”

            “You do, but this was different.  It was fun.”

            “Gee, thanks.”

            “That’s not what I meant.  It was fun playing the whole ‘chase’ thing with them.  It was fun flirting.  You know?  What I mean is…”

            “Well, we’ve been seeing other people for a while.  How is this different?”

            “It just is.  I don’t want to hurt you, but staying together would just hurt us both more.  And it wouldn’t be fair to me.  Or you.”

            “So, this is it?”

            “I think it is.  I’m 17, Lance - I think we both know this isn’t “it.”  I still love you, but I’m not ready to settle down right now.  I want to be fair to us both.”

             “Ok.”

            “I still want to be friends.”

            Oh shit – the “friends” line.  There wasn’t anything else to say.  No words can more quickly end a conversation between a man and a woman, leaving him dumfounded, than, “Let’s just be friends.”  I guess I should have been glad that she didn’t use them verbatim, but the familiar stabbing pain was back, stronger than ever.  I felt empty, and relieved, yet full of rage at the same time.  I knew I was just telling Allen this morning that it made no sense for us to keep dating when I went to Penn State, but somehow I didn’t expect it to end like this, with so much… ‘Fairness’.  I felt sick.

            The rest of the short ride was silent.  At some point, I thought I heard a faint wheezing sound.  I looked over at Julianne.  She looked fine… Too fine.  Oh, my God, it was coming from me!  Reflexively, I felt around my torso for a sucking chest wound.  She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart.

            As I pulled up in front of her house, she half-whispered, “Please don’t hate me.”

            Another cliché.

            She got out of the car and walked up her driveway. 

            I drove home to my dummy-family.

Next Chapter

 

 

 

Tentative post: Bike on a Hill

One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

In any case, I write about dreams often.  I even have a "dream journal" I keep next to my bed, so that if a particularly vivid dream hits, I can write it down before it fades from memory.  [Insert bit about dreams being portents and signs and such.]  Last night, a dream re-visited, however briefly, an incident from my childhood that, while I haven't forgotten it (and have a scar to remind me), I haven't thought about it in a long time.  

I learned to ride a two wheel bike fairly early in life- first or second grade.  My older brother (OB) taught me.  His bike had no training wheels, so he'd push me down a hill in a parking lot, and, at the base of the hill (where there was sediment gravel near a drain) is where I'd intentionally ditch the bike, as it was too big for my feet to touch the ground.  Crash!  Scrape!  Minor road rash.  "I wanna do it again!"  After a few trips down the hill, I'd mastered the necessary balance, and went into the house dirty, bloody, and happy.  Within a day or three, my dad (on a rare day off) removed the training wheels from my smaller bike, and off I went with my new found freedom!  

From an ad- the bike I had.

Maybe a year or two later, my parents got me a bigger kid's bike from K-Mart for my birthday.  That's the vehicle upon which this tale concerning Newton's Second Law of Motion takes place.  This bike, like all bikes of that type, had coaster brakes, which means if you pedal backwards, that would slam on the brakes, and you'd come to a quick-ish stop.  And if you did this as a skid, you'd look "BOSS!"  (Yeah, that was a thing in the 70s).  The weakness of coaster brakes was that the bike chain needed to be on to work.  Bike sprockets back then would bend if you crashed enough, which meant the chain could "pop" off.  An easy fix if one is stopped.  I think you can see where this is going.  

As I've written before, the street where I grew up was on a steep hill.  Hall street was about three blocks long.  West to east, the first block was flat, the second block was a steep-ish hill (and was closed after snow storms for sledding), and third block, upon which I lived, was far steeper with a slight bend to northeast.  At the bottom of my block was Main St, and across from that, the foundry and a driveway leading to the creek.  

 

In that order.

Current USGS Topographic Map

Using google maps and equations I looked up (hey- physics class was almost 40 years ago!), the second block descended at an angle of 350 degrees (slope -0.167) and my block was 338 deg, slope -0.4.  QED.

One summer's afternoon, I decided to walk my bike to the top of the hill and ride to Church Street (top of my part of the street) for a quick thrill.  After all, it was summer, I had a bike, and why not?  ZOOM!  SKIIIIIID!  Maybe do it again.  Hey!  Maybe if I practiced skidding enough, I'd do it cool enough that the older kids on the block would be impressed and pick on me less for being girly!  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Still with me?

So up I went, uphill, barefoot, (shoes in the summer?  Oh please!) to the top of the hill.  Of course, I'd be pedaling as well down the hill to reach maximum speed so the skid would have maximum coolness!  And... they're off!  In my mind I was pursuing an enemy plane, and catching up for the kill!  Nearing the bottom by the police station, I decided to slow a bit before doing the spectacular skid, and...

The chain popped.  No brakes!

The trip

I zoomed through stop sign and intersection fast enough that I didn't want to ditch.  Preacher's yard?  No I'd hit the curb and wreck.  Now the steeper hill... no brakes!  Mounted the sidewalk using a driveway about half way down...Zoomed past my house doing 0.5 past light speed.  At this point, I had the brilliant idea of slowing by dragging my left foot on the pavement!  I forgot- no shoes!  Scrape!  Owwww!

Angle into the fire house parking lot, maybe ditch there?  No going too fast... oh shit!  I'll run straight out onto Main Street into traffic!  I'll be crushed!  

Lower hill.  The red X is where I put down my foot

By the time I reached Main street, I was easily doing warp 9.7.  Leaned into turning to the right, hoping not to flip and... into the street!  Fortunately, no cars were coming.  Main street was flattish, so the bike eventually slowed after a couple of blocks, and I put my feet down to stop and OUCH!  I left a bloody footprint from my left foot.  I ended up stopping next to a yard, hauled my bike onto the sidewalk and turned it over to fix the chain.  Then I lay on the grass, my left foot finally sending signals of intense pain.  

Don't cry- only babies cry... only girls cry...

I don't remember riding back to my house or dressing the wound (my mum probably did that with mercurochrome- the red-orange cure all that stung like crazy!)  In any case, this dressing made me don sneakers for at least a month to avoid infecting the injury, which of course happened anyway, and left me limping, which made me useless for what few games I'd be invited to join by the neighborhood kids.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Speaking of those kids- no one saw my epic death-defying stunt.  At all.  So obviously, it never happened.  If a bike crashes on the street and no one sees it...  OB knew I was hurt, knew it was bike related, and, being an older brother, made fun of me.  (As I would've had the positions been reversed.)  

In any case, said infection led eventually to a Planter's wart (how??) and in either case left the third visible scar on my body (after the Arrow-Chisel Affair and the Bat-rope Rusty Nail Episode.)

Right- so the Dream.  This dream was unusual in that I didn't have to be somewhere and by going, end up further from my destination.  Also, I wasn't being attacked by someone who I couldn't hurt.  Nor was I being abandoned by a loved one.  No, in this case, I was driving in "Spring City", the dream version of which is older, rotting, and hillier than reality.  I stopped at the intersection of Hall and Church Streets, facing south, when I saw my young self zoom by on the bike, barefoot and yowling like Slim Pickens riding the bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove.  (I don't remember saying or yelling anything on my escapade.)  I knew that I had to cross the intersection in my car quickly, as that bike was on an endless loop, with each lap increasing speed until... I don't know... I actually get hit?  In the dream, I crossed the intersection, and in the rear view mirror, saw young me on the bike whip past again, face distorted like I was in a 10G dive.  Part of me wanted to stop, and, when I zipped by again, try to grab me from the bike and roll into the preacher's yard.  But- I (older me) was in a dress, and that wouldn't be lady-like, and what if the neighborhood kids saw me in a dress?  I'd get beaten up for sure and they'd tell my parents and...

I woke up.  

Went to the bathroom.  3 am.  Back to bed.  No more dreams for me tonight, thanks, I'm driving!

Looking back now- remembering how I felt careening out of control on that bike- I don't remember being really scared of being killed or maimed or such.  I was scared of getting in trouble for breaking the bike.

Some things never change.

FYI: Out of curiosity, I enlisted a Physics PhD candidate to help me figure out how fast I was going, and impact force had I hit a car on Main St.  By taking measurements on Google earth, and approximate heights from a topographic map, using my approximate weight at the time (plus bike), constant of friction from air and from bike tire on asphalt, he whipped out equations, calculations, and eventually determined that, depending upon certain factors such as how I was sitting on the bike for wind resistance, and tire pressure, by the time I reached Main street I was going somewhere between 40-60 mph, probably on the lower side of that range.  In a car, 35 mph is lethal upon impact, so (checks the numbers in Tefft, 2013), I had a 75-100% chance of serious injury, and a 50-90% chance of death... depending upon various factors.  So me not hitting something at the bottom of the hill was damn lucky.

Be well. 

Tefft, B. C. (2013). Impact speed and a pedestrian's risk of severe injury or death. Accident Analysis & Prevention, 50, 871-878.

Bonk Bonk On the Head

Well, up until an hour ago (4 PM), I was good. After going to buy groceries with eBay money, I opened the trunk to carry bags into the apartment. I heard a metallic POP! The load bearing strut holding up my trunk hatch snapped while was under it. Hard hit to the back of my head, knocking me forward.

As I was standing on ice, I lost my footing and collapsed into the trunk on top of the groceries, and the trunk then hit the back of my legs. Gravity at work.

What it's supposed to look like

I saw stars and tweeting birds (ready when you are, Raoul!). Now I have a nasty headache and a trunk that's hard to open and won't stay open.  

I took Aleve. If I start feeling dizzy or sick, I'll go to the emergency room.

I'll bet it looked funny as hell. At least I didn't crush the bread.

Ouch!

Broken

I stayed awake and sitting up, keeping busy.  Now it's later in the evening.  I'm going to take another Aleve along with my evening meds.

When I sell more on eBay, I'll buy a new strut and have a garage put it on for me, as I'm hopeless with car repairs (I was absent from guy school the day they covered that topic.)

I hope it's not a concussion, but I'll find out by morning I guess.

Funeral Today

Sometimes I feel like I go to far too many funerals.  I used to, but not so much anymore.  Prior to today, it had been a year and four days since my last funeral.  

I hate funerals.  Always have.  Funerals aren't for the Dead- after all, they aren't there.  They are a coping ritual for those left behind.  I've read many books on funeral customs, and have, many times considered going into the mortuary business.  

In any case, this one was a family funeral.  Zack Fanning was the 20 year old son of my cousin Sharon.  Sharon is a cousin on the paternal side of my family.  Her mother is my dad's sister.  The last time I saw her was at a family wedding in the early 90s.  Heck, it may have even been hers- I don't remember.

Ready to go South 

Zack died in a motorcycle accident at Reedy Point Bridge in Delaware.  In my paramedic days, I saw many of those, and none were pleasant.  Some still haunt my nightmares.  I'd never met Zack- never laid eyes on him before I saw him in the casket.  He looked like his father.

My heart breaks for my cousin and her family- I can't imagine losing my daughter in any way.  

What made this an... event... for me was that this was the first time all of them (except my cousin Brenda, Sharon's older sister) would meet the Real Me: Sophie.  I went to support my cousin- I can't imagine not doing so.  But... how would the rest of the family react to my presence?  I really had no idea.  Of the "male" cousins, I was the youngest, and our generation only had daughters.  Our branch of the family name dies with us, unless one of the daughters keeps her maiden name.  

The drive to the funeral home in Hockessin, Delaware was a little more than an hour on rainy roads.  The past couple of days this event was on my mind- what would They say?  Sharon has been very supportive in her messages to me since transition.  Not all of my family has.  So, it was an hour of second guessing scenarios and plans.  I'd put the last of my money into my gas tank, so if there were a lunch after at a restaurant, I wouldn't be able to attend.  What sort of people are Zack's friends? 

I needn't have worried.  Many of Zack's friends are, well, rednecks and/or bikers.  However, as Zack was a volunteer firefighter and worked for DelDOT, there were many firefighters and state troopers in attendance.  The troopers were in uniform.  Everyone was there for one reason only- to say good bye to their loved one.  No one even noticed me as I slipped in a couple of minutes before the ceremony began.  

Reedy Point Bridge- 135 feet of clearance

I was a little surprised about how few of my family were actually there.  As there were visiting hours the night before, I'm guessing that some paid their respects then.  I know my parents did.  In any case, some of my cousins were there, as were Sharon's parents- my aunt and uncle (of course.)  

The first ones I spoke to were Sharon and her husband.  I kept it brief, as I didn't want to intrude.  Next was Sharon's older brother- who, among my paternal cousins, was the one I was closest to.  He was there with his amazing wife, and their two kids, only one of which I'd ever met, and that was back when he was an infant.  He's in his 3rd year of college now.  My cousin Brenda saw me speaking to him, and joined us as well.  We spoke for a bit- it was good to catch up.  No problems with names of pronouns.

I then saw another cousin, this one who I hadn't seen in 30 years.  We spoke briefly.  The last cousin I saw was one whom I've had issues with online, as she is a rabid 45 supporter.

All of these interactions went well.  No problems with names or pronouns.  Was I surprised?  A little.  More relieved.

After seeing that last cousin, I quietly slipped away.  As I walked out of the funeral home, all of Zack's friends were firing up their pickups and muscle cars and leaving in loud and fast procession.  

On my way into the funeral, I noticed a truck near where I parked.  It had a lot of stickers and window vinyls all over it; most motorcycle related, and typical of an immortal 20 something.  One on the side window caught my eye: 

"But Did You Die?"

I didn't get a picture of it, and that truck was one of the line of vehicles tearing out of the parking lot as I walked to my car.  I couldn't help but think of the irony.

I lost my sense of being immortal while in my teens.  I saw so many deaths as a volunteer paramedic, and many of them were my age or younger.  I wondered about all of these people who today said goodbye to their youthful friend- was this their first taste of mortality?  Death is one thing when it's a grandparent, etc, but a whole different thing when it's a peer.  A friend.  A different sort of sting.

My cousins and I are old enough that some are grandparents.  Gray hair replaced the children I knew.  And them?  Their boy cousin was there in a black dress and makeup- a Woman.  

Milestones, hoops, and gateways.  I passed one today, as did all those kids in their trucks, and those family who saw me today.  Three different ones, but still...

Rest in Peace, Zack.  May the four winds blow you safely home.

Incidents and Accidents

Drove up to Penn State Tuesday- full of Hope (when will I ever learn?)  I was meeting with my advisor to find out why I'd received nothing from the Student Aid office about my fellowship.  I needed THAT to get an apartment up there, seeing that I'd been unemployed for over a year.

My appointment was at 1.  I arrived at 11, stopped at an apartment complex, then to downtown State College for a quick lunch at Baby's.  My friend Michaela was there.  Great seeing her.

An Idiot with False Hope, at Baby's

Went to my appointment.  Well, I understood that I had a fellowship (full ride). Nope.  Refused. Nothing. No money.  If I want to go for my doctorate, unlike EVERYONE (and I do mean EVERYONE) else I'd ever known who went for their PhD, I would have to pony up the cash first.  Is this because I made waves already?  I'll come back to this.

 On the way back from PSU, my mind was swirling.  I was maybe three quarters home when, at the Morgantown exit of the PA Turnpike, I encountered a serious two car accident.  Debris was all over the road. 

I slowed down (I had to- so much debris) and yelled over to the first car to ask if anyone was injured.  There were, so I pulled over and ran back to that car.  At this point, I didn't see the second car.

Car 1 was hit from behind coming onto the highway.  It rolled four times before coming to rest almost perpendicular to the side of the road.  All airbags deployed. In the car were a young mother, father, and a young toddler.  The toddler was in the baby seat when it happened, and had superficial bruising from the restraints, and a bump on the head, probably from flying debris.   Mom had head injury (concussion?) and an injured ankle.  She kept calling and texting people.  Dad had superficial cuts that, while bleeding, were not bad.  All three ended up being transported to the hospital.  They were the first group to whom I went.

Eyewitnesses (a mom and daughter who pulled over) said there was a second car, that they thought sped off.  I looked down the road, and saw a car pulled over on the left, and a tractor trailer pulled over on the right further down.  There was a burly man standing outside the car.  After stabilizing the young mom, I ran down to the other car.  That man was the truck driver, on the phone with 911.  The driver of Car 2 was trapped.

He had a nasty bloody head injury, and a broken nose.  The windshield had a large star indicating his head hit it.  No airbag.  He was conscious, and also kept calling people.  He told me not to open the driver side door as he was leaning on it (not that I had room to open it.)he told me his hip hurt, and by the angle, I saw that it was broken. Blood and debris were everywhere.  I crawled into this car to help. My dress was covered with blood and car fluids. I stayed in that car, trying to stop the bleeding and keeping him talking until the rescue squad came.  "Rescue 69" had been in service than less than a month, and it was shiny.  (The station number was 69.)

The rescue squad had to rip the roof off to get him out.  They were still removing him from the car when I pulled away.

It's been a while since I've seen injuries that bad. I was shaken. 

I remained calm when told I didn't get the fellowship.  I remained calm while speaking to student aid.  I remained calm while at the accident scene.  I remained calm through play rehearsal that night...

And after rehearsal, I got in my car and lost it.  I cried my eyes out.  My hands were shaking badly.  I had a blinding headache.  I cried intermittently through the night. 


So, I was informed that despite what I was told previously, I did not receive a fellowship from PSU.  That means if I want to go for my PSU, I need to pay.  At least this year.

My whole going for this was contingent on me being paid to go.  To me, that meant that they WANTED me there- that they thought I and my studies were worthwhile.  Now, I'm just another paying customer.

There are 3 major considerations now.  In reverse order:

3)  Linda.  Uprooting her to the middle of nowhere, where she, like me, would be starting over.  She was considering transitioning to full time while there.

2)  Would the time/money be worth it?  Will I be able to find a job?  Will my research really make a difference?  Or will I be an overeducated retail worker?

1)  I see Wife and Daughter maybe once a week.  I've missed so much of my daughter's childhood.  If I go, I'll see them maybe once a month.  If that.  Wife is not a huge fan of State College.

So.  The paradigm has shifted.  I've gone from "Yes, come here because we REALLY want you" to "meh.  You got the money, we'll take it."  I'll be putting myself deeper in debt.  And for what?  A long shot.  Hail Mary.

I really have no idea what to do now.  I'd always dreamed of teaching at PSU.  That dream was going to come true.  Now, not so much.  I can hear a familiar voice in my head telling me how worthless I am, and how I should just forget it because I'll never be good enough.  In harmony with that is my own inner monologue saying "why f**king bother?  It's not like you'll make a difference.  Nobody wants you there- nobody needs you there- you're just money in their coffers."

Some of my dear friends have suggested that I just go somewhere else- that my love for PSU is clouding my judgement.  That may be true.

However, when I attended PSU, it was as Him.  And when I graduated, I was deeply depressed.  Maybe I want Redemption.  I want to wear the graduation gown as ME- a woman.  I want a chance to show PSU the power of a Transgender scholar. 

Now the question with which I'm faced is... do I dare eat a peach?