40th reunion already?

On Saturday November 16, 2024, the Spring Ford High School Class of 1984 gathered at Copperfield Inn, Limerick, Pa., for their 40th reunion.

That's all you need to know.  Bye!

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Oh, ok I'll write more.  

Group shot from the Class trip.  I'm not in that photo

Wow.  Forty years in a heartbeat.  Heck, TEN years in a heartbeat.  Yet, in those ten, so much has changed.  I've gone from being new at transition to being a mentor: a trans "elder."  I've moved away from SEPa to State College, where I'm (supposedly) working on my PhD.  My daughter has gone from a child to a teenager.  The political scene has reached a boiling point.  I've made a friend or two but more than that have died.  The world survived a pandemic.

I have less years ahead of me than I have behind, and those years fly by.  I'd like to think that time has made me a better person, but I know that isn't true.  I've become more bitter and withdrawn.  I have gotten better at makeup though, despite rarely wearing it.

I wasn't going to attend this reunion.  It was $45 I didn't have. But, like the 30th, I was "bribed" by Eva, a classmate now in California.  She said she'd get me a hotel room for the night so I wouldn't have to drive back to State College that night.  Why she made me this offer, I don't know.  I still don't know why she offered to pay ten years ago.  

In any case, I made plans to get my hair styled near the hotel as I'm clueless.  It looked great for a while (until I started sweating.)  I then picked up wings at a local cheesesteak place that I must say were very disappointing.  I drove a backroad to the hotel that reminded me of what the area looked like when I was growing up- farms instead of strip malls and McMansion farms.

Limerick, PA

After meeting up with Eva (2 doors down in the hotel), she gave us both Korean facials (I have no idea what was in them- just that they were on plastic strips.)  She also wanted to do my makeup.  We settled on her doing my eyes and applying fake lashes which I simply cannot do.  She did a wonderful job on the eyes (I touched up one spot where there was a smudge) and I did the rest.  I wore the red dress I wore in Vegas with a bit of a push up bra.  Yes, I wanted the girls to shine!  I wanted to slay as best as I could.  That meant cleavage for miles, dammit!  

As I finished my makeup, the third of our group arrived.  She was my old friend Sue, who attended the 30th as well.  I went back to my room and watched the Penn State game as they changed and finished getting ready.  We rode over together in Eva's rental car, arriving just after 6.  When we arrived, we met a few other classmates in the parking lot.  We met another at the door.  Let's just say that back then, he and I didn't get along back in school.  Back then, we ended up in a fight which I handily won (remember- this is when I was still in the dojo.)  I did not introduce myself.  

I managed to reach some old classmates about this reunion.  One I hadn't seen (or heard from) in 30 years- not since the 10th reunion: Alecia.  She was #2 in our class (beaten by a razor thin margin) as well as an athlete.  Back then, we used to talk a LOT.  She was a sounding board after a couple of nasty events I will not discuss here.  When I first reached out to her (about the Scitman book) I wondered how she'd react to my transition.  I needn't have worried.  She took it all in stride, as I'd hoped (and rather expected.)  I'm guessing she googled me or something before responding, being a scientist and all.  Yes, she is a bionic scientist.  She can rebuild you.  She can make you better than you were.  Better, stronger, faster.  In any case, her husband was actually the one to talk her into going.  

With Alecia.  My hair already flattened.

She looked amazing (and yes, that's her natural hair color!)  We talked about old times, old friends, new times, her daughter's PhD... I always figured she'd become a doctor.  Nope- scientist.  Her husband was a delight as well.  He was content sitting back and watching people his wife knew from the day.  His opinion he kept to himself.

Eva, Thomas, Me, Dawn, Sue, Terri

I was surprised inside when I saw another old friend who'd moved to Houston: Dawn.  Dawn was a hairdresser by trade, and she was the one who did my makeup that Halloween fateful night in 2008.  Had I known she was in the area, I would've had her do my hair!  I was very glad to see her, and we sat next to each other at dinner.  (Dinner was nice, btw.)

As we're getting older, the number of "empty chairs" gets larger.  This time, there was a poster naming those who'd died.  It's missing a couple: John Cauffman and Don Schantz.  

Looking around, I noticed something: most of us looked our age.  Some looked younger.  Some looked FAR older.  Time had not been kind, and I assume neither had disease or such.  There but for the grace of God...  There were a couple of faces I hadn't seen at a reunion before this.  Alecia was one.  Another I will not name, but he was thrown out of the venue for being too drunk.  

Flat hair due to sweat- it was very hot in the room

I must say he wasn't the only one who made an ass of themselves.  I was standing in line for a drink when a slim, beautiful blonde and I started chatting.  I didn't recognize her, so I figured she must be a spouse.  She asked what I thought of the reunion, blah blah small talk.  She then asked what my opinion was of a certain classmate, whom I will call AH.  I didn't even think for a second as to why she would ask about such a specific person (who was in attendance) and said "He's an asshole. A bully.  He loved tormenting people smaller than him, thought women owed him sex then discarded them like toys, and all he ever talks about at the reunions is the spectacular football play he made our senior year.  (It actually was pretty spectacular, but still...)

I stopped myself before pointing out how, at the 30th, his wife wasn't there so he was flirting with many of the women.  Then I said, "Why do you ask?"  

She replied "Oh, I'm his wife."

Open mouth and insert leg!  I felt so incredibly stupid and apologized for my candor.  I bought her a drink.  She wasn't angry.  She explained that I wasn't the only one with that opinion.  Apparently, she knew very little about his high school days.  I said, "So you don't know about the 'the catch'?"  She rolled her eyes and said "oh believe me I've heard about THAT so many times..."  Anyway, she wanted to ask people about her husband to find out about his past from other people's point of view.  Perhaps she'd asked him and wasn't convinced by his answer.  In any case, she missed the 30th due to surgery.  I apologized again, and we parted.  We spoke again later, and she bought my last drink of the night (of 4).  

With Michele G

For the most part it was a quiet night, rather sedate.  I spoke with the people I expected/hoped to speak with, (including Michele G and Tony S) and that was nice.  My transition was old news, and only one person brought up the class trip (which was nice.)  That said, early in the night I had an affirming moment.  A female classmate (I won't say who) told me "I am so jealous of your tits!"  I thanked her and replied that I was very lucky.  

Still, that makes me smile, even as I write this.  At least SOMEBODY was impressed with my look for the night.  

After returning to the hotel, Eva, Dawn, a classmate named Al (who was very well dressed) and I hung out in my room, drinking and talking.  It was my favorite part of the night.  We learned things about each other and rehashed the events of the evening.  I finally went to bed at 3:30.  I was up at 8 to shower and go see Wife and daughter, followed by the long drive back to State College.  As you can imagine, by the time I arrived at the apartment I was exhausted.  I was really dragging at work the next day.  

I've had over a week to think about the event, of the people I saw, and where life had taken or done to us all.  After the thirtieth, I wrote "What brought me to this event?  What brought the others?  I think it's the need for Connection.  All we have in common is that we lived in the same area and were about the same age, so that made us classmates...  Connection.  We all need it.  Maybe in time all wounds heal, but they never heal alone.   Sometimes it takes Change... and someone extending their hand."  

That still applies.  I'd add to that these reunions also connect us to our long-lost youth- the halcyon days of energy, vigor, spectacular catches, and a life wide open with possibilities.  It seems that's all some people have.  That's not an indictment or a judgement: it just is.  I spoke to my dad about the reunion.  He had his sixtieth reunion several years ago- it was the first he'd ever attended.  He also said it would be the last held, as their numbers dwindle (they are all in their 80s.)  That's twenty years away for me- a heartbeat or last breath.  A wise friend once told me "Days drag, but years fly."  

They weren't wrong.  

Thanks again to Eva for her kindness in getting me a room for the night. 

Be well.

A Lot of Gall

So, I was going to keep it quiet that yesterday morning, June 5, 2024, I had my gall bladder removed due to gall stones.  (I no longer have a lot of gall.)  That's what caused me all the pain that sent me to the ER on Christmas day and again a few weeks after.  Outpatient procedure- was home by 10 am.  Ate a little something and took a nap...

Gall Bladder.  Looks like a Lovecraftian slug

Photo source

Then woke up in incredible pain- even more than the gallstones.  It hurt so bad, I could barely move my diaphragm, so I could barely breathe.  I was pouring sweat, yet no temperature.   Linda had gone to get my pain killer prescription, so I was alone.  I felt like I was going to pass out.  So I called the hospital for instructions.  They told me to call 911, which I did.   

First, Linda returned.  Then two police officers showed up.  They told me the ambulance was coming soon.  Seemed like an eternity.  After a bit, the ambulance arrived.  They couldn't find a vein for an IV (they tried and missed), so they gave me an intermuscular shot of fentanyl using a huge needle.  The ambulance ride was really bumpy, and really hurt.  It was like they had lead pipes for shock absorbers.

I couldn't breathe- it hurt so bad.  The paramedics said I was pale grey, like death.  (Technical term is cyanotic, in case you're wondering.)

When they got me into the emergency room, the fentanyl started kicking in, making me dopey.  The nurses drew blood (that was an experience as well) and I waited.  I talked to the male nurse.  He was a combat medic (Navy) attached to the 78th Company, 6th Marines (He had a tattoo saying 78th), which was a famous unit in World War 1.  He did three tours in Afghanistan and one at Gitmo before mustering out. Linda arrived a while later with a book and my phone charger... but I'd forgotten my glasses, so it didn't matter.

Blood test came back negative for sepsis. Probable explanation:  During surgery, they inflated my abdomen with carbon dioxide to give more room to work (laparoscopic pneumoperitoneum).  At the end, they let out the air... but not all of it escaped.  They told me to expect gas to escape from forward and rear orifices... but it didn't.  So... the pain.  The gas was compressing my diaphragm, which was why I couldn't breathe.

Yep, that's how I felt.

They injected me with oxytocin and gave me the option of leaving or staying overnight.  I chose home.  I can't afford an overnight stay.  I was still doped up, but going back to the apartment.

Bill: $300 co-pay.  No idea for much the ambulance cost.  Sigh.  

Today, it still hurts, but nowhere near as badly.  I'm rationing the pain pills, as I don't have many.  Also drinking a LOT of water and taking Dulcolax as the pills tend to cause constipation, and I'm in no condition to fight that.

Why am I posting all this?  Well, if you're having intense abdominal pain, and doctors can't figure it out, it may be gallstones.  Also, I felt like posting it.  So there.

My stylish gown, post-surgery

Be well.

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.  

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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

 

 

 

Silly Thoughts

As you can imagine, dear reader, there are many posters hanging about the university.  Advertisements of all kinds for different classes, programs and events are everywhere.  Unlike my day, they aren't confined to the occasional corkboard, as there are now electronic posters with shifting pictures, circles and arrows and a paragraph on... sorry.  Started channeling Arlo Guthrie again.

Yesterday was one of those events advertised.  The center where I work held an LGBT all campus welcome jawn in a large sweaty hall in the student union.  It was quite the success, with a lot of people coming, many organizations tabling, and free food (including Swedish meatballs, brie, and chicken amoretto.  Not mixed together.)  There was music as well, but all I could hear was the bass line and drums, as I was on the other side of the room.  

In any case, during the event, I had to run down to the center, which was two floors down.  As I walked, I saw a poster that caused me to pause.

"BECOME AN EMT"

As long time victims, I mean readers of this blog know, in my youth I was a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician (EMT.)  I would eventually become a Paramedic, but that doesn't matter.  I volunteered with an ambulance and a rescue squad.

As I wrote in a previous entry: "Doing this work radically changed some of my thinking back then.  Back when so many people my age thought they were invincible, I looked death in the face.  I watched friends die.  I saw things that hurt and haunt me to this day.  What does that do to someone still in adolescence?  Well, it makes us less fun at parties for one thing.  It puts things in perspective as well.  And for someone who carried the Dark Secret I had inside of me?  Yes, I have PTSD. Not just from the Paramedic days, but from repressing my Truth and swallowing my Pain."

All true.  I still think of what I saw every day.  I think about the people who I tried to help, but couldn't.  When I sleep, I have consistent nightmares of helplessness and failure.  

So why in the world would that poster give me pause... and cause me to consider re-certifying my EMT certification?  My EMT and other certifications ran out decades ago (I keep my CPR current when I can get a course.)  Well, at first glance, I figured that the course might be free, as it would be paid by the University in exchange for  service on the University Ambulance.  Fair trade.  And beside, ambulance work, while not easy, was nowhere near as traumatic as rescue work.  Usually not as bloody.  In fact, in the old days, they were a lot of routine transports.  But here were also heart attacks, births, strokes, and suicides.  The ones that still haunt me from those are the suicides- one in particular.  

I can't say I regret letting my certifications expire.  At the time, I'd met wife, had a steady job, and was ready to move on from that work.  I still stop at accidents when I came upon them (one day I'll have to tell the story of the Christmas accident in Delaware) if no ambulance had yet arrived.  I like to fool myself, once in a while, that I still make a difference.  Heck, I'm considering donating my old helmet to a museum! (Spring Ford Historical Society)

Is it a desire to reclaim my lost youth?  Do I miss the adrenaline rush?  Not really.  The fact is that in my middle age I feel useless.  I want to make a difference  again- directly- in a way that I can see.  

But then those pesky facts get in the way.  I'm really in no physical condition to run ambulance (not that many ambulance people I met are paragons of physical fitness) due to my back, hip, and knees- which were partially destroyed in the rescue days of my youth.  Also, I looked into the program- it isn't free.  Like my undergrad days, they are for-credit courses, which means tuition: $726 per credit hour.  It's a four credit course, so... $2904.  That's too rich for my blood... and bank account.  If I had that money, there are other things I'd need to do first.  Like pay bills.  Or send my mum's ashes to Scotland.  Or...

In any case, I guess my mind is writing checks that my body (and sanity) can no longer cash.  I already have enough bad dreams and flashback.  I think that, in this case, it's best to let this "opportunity" go.

Be well.

Deadly Sin

I'd like to think I'm a good person.

I volunteered as a paramedic while still in high school.  I forsook big money in Engineering, and decided to become a teacher instead.  I wanted to help kids be ready for the future.  I volunteer with organizations as much as I can.  Even if I have little, I will give what I have to someone who has less (to the chagrin of Wife and others.)  I drove a friend to the airport at three o'clock this morning, not expecting compensation (She paid me over my objections) because that is what friends do.

Is it to make up for my Dark side?  All the drinking and fighting I did?  My inability to cope with the Woman inside of me?  Standing by and watching bad things happen and not standing up for what was Right?  My encyclopedia of faults as a person?

I don't have an answer to any of that.  I wish I did.

Very recently, I spent my day in a waiting room in a Philadelphia hospital with the wife of a fellow transgender woman who was getting Gender Confirmation Surgery.  It wasn't the first time I'd done this.  It won't be the last.  I was asked, and I was glad to help. Her wife and I had a pleasant few hours sharing stories and maybe some secrets, before we went up to the room where the transgender woman would be for the next week.  I said "hello" and left, as I didn't want to intrude on that couple's moment.

Whiz Comics #1, art by CC.Beck

There was another reason I left, though.

I like to think I'm a good person (is there an echo in here?)  I have many faults.  One of them is... sometimes I get Jealous.

That's not a revelation to my Wife.  She is quite aware of it.  As are past girlfriends.  I'm nowhere near as bad as I used to be, though.  I've developed a Zen attitude to it- that good things happen to others and not to me because They deserve it and I don't.

But every once in a while... yes, I get jealous.  And I am jealous of everyone that can afford Gender Confirmation Surgery.  I'm jealous of people who have a spouse who will sit in the waiting room while getting that surgery- who stay through thick and thin.

I don't blame my Wife for how she feels.  Far from it.  But that doesn't mean I don't get jealous.

I'm VERY happy for my sisters who get the surgery.  I truly am.  I am glad SOMEONE in this life gets to be happy.  But that doesn't mean I don't wish it were me.

Wanna know what's worse?  I feel REALLY bad that, at my age, I still feel that emotion.  In some ways, I've tried to purge emotions, as they have brought me nothing but Pain.  No, I'm not going for Kolinahr.  But jealousy is an emotion I've done my best to eliminate.  I try to replace it with being happy for that person's success.  For being happy that said person found someone.  Happy that other people jump effortlessly from high paying job to higher paying job while I can't get hired at Burger King, and am standing by to be homeless.

Here's me: smiling for their success- success that THEY DESERVE.  Yay them!

That doesn't mean I don't feel like a total asshole for wishing that just once, it were me.

Because I do.

An Old Story

This is an old story goes back to spring of 1990.  I think it was April.  (The journal that has that month and year in it has been in storage for a long time and I have no idea which box it's in.)  In any case, it was night and my girlfriend of the time (GF) was visiting.  I was living still at my parents house at the time, and we were both going to head down to her place to hang out for a little while.  She lived in Wayne.  We were each driving in our own cars.

Accident area circled

We were heading east on route 422, right around the Oaks exit, when I noticed a pretty serious car accident in the opposite lane.  At least two cars were involved, and there were a lot of other cars and trucks stopped in the area, but no Emergency Equipment yet.  GF was ahead of me in her car, but I pulled over- knowing that she knew that I was going to stop.  After all, I was still a paramedic at that point.

I ran across the grassy median, and went to the closest car.  The driver was a young woman- I found out later she was a college student, but I'll get back to that.  She was still alive.  In the back seat was someone I knew named Shannon, who who graduated from my high school.  As it turns, out she had some first aid training and stabilized the victim.

Knowing that she was there, I then went to the other car, where there were two Burly men doing their best to pull the door open using a crowbar.  That car was in far worse shape.  I looked inside and there, through the broken driver side window, and I saw one woman laying on the front seat with no seat belt.  Her body was pretty banged up.  I told them to stop for a second.  I reached in and took a pulse from her neck- carotid artery.

There was no pulse, and the body was already getting cold.  I couldn't declare anyone dead, but in this case, it was triage.  I understood that I should focus my efforts on the living, so I told those two men not to bother and instead focus on traffic control. I gave them directions what and where they should move their big rigs, which were blocking the entire Road.  It was my thought that help may be coming from that direction.  They moved their Rigs and began directing traffic around on the median.

I went back to the other car.  The victim was wearing a Drexel University jacket.  I figured she was around 20 years old, and the impact, even though she been secured by the seat belt, had caused both of her eyes to pop out of their sockets and rest on her cheeks.  I'd seen this before, and it's never pretty.  I did not have the equipment to do anything about that.  With Shannon's help, I finished stabilizing  the woman's knee injuries and did my best to stop the bleeding.

It seemed like an eternity that we were in there.

It's funny how you see someone who you haven't seen in years, and I was there in front of a person who's literally dying, and we were chatting about high school. What else could we talk about?  I mean, there was nothing we could do for the victim at that point.

As I said it seemed like an eternity, but eventually help came.  One of the paramedics with whatever fire company had come came to this car, and I explained to them the situation, gave the vitals as I had them, and they took over.  Shannon came out of the back seat.

The Drexel woman died the next day.

The cause of the accident was that the one car came up the exit ramp driving the wrong way at high speed.  She quickly found a target.  She left a suicide note at her house.

In this case, neither survived. Due to one person wanting to commit suicide, another innocent person died.  This girl who was around twenty years old at the time would now be around 47.  She would be a mother or maybe even a grandmother- but she's dead.

I never really considered that at the time, because she was only a couple years younger than me. I was 23, so I didn't have the perspective that I do now.

That November was my first suicide attempt.  If I could've given my life to that girl in the car so she could finish college, have a family, experience life, I would've happily done it.  I still would.  I still believe her life was more important than mine.

I still see her face at times, especially at night when I try to sleep- eyes on her cheeks.

I had a conversation with one of my dearest friends the other day.  I mentioned that my reward for being a volunteer paramedic was PTSD, bad hearing, and a bad back. 

Meanwhile, people who never worked or volunteered a day in their life make more money in an hour than I'll ever see in a lifetime. 

I hope my Pain has earned me Heaven.

Trapped in a Memory

Have you ever been trapped in a memory?  A feeling of nostalgia brought on by a place or situation that is so strong it pervades the day, night, time?

I really hate the month of September.  I've written about that many times.  I've written about being thrown out.  I've written about Lisa's death.  I've written about my hatred of the fact that I was even born.

But there is another September... event... that started my hate and dread of September long before that.  I have mentioned it here and there in passing.  I think it's time I discussed it further.

Early September for the longest time meant a mental replay of an older Pain- a memory of what could have been, and wasn't.  These events led to my first suicide attempt, which I have detailed elsewhere.  As the weather subtly shifted from sultry August nights to crisper September days, I found myself trapped by sights, smells, and feelings of a particular September.

In 1990, I was working at TGI Fridays.  I was a bartender/server and wore the silly red and white striped uniform required back then.  I called it "the Clown suit."  (The movie Office Space brilliantly parodies this uniform with "Chotchkie's.")

Me.  Spring 1990.  I still have the hat.  And suspenders with "flair."

I was deeply depressed, and had been for over two years.  The betrayal by my college girlfriend, and leaving the first place I ever loved (Penn State) due to graduation sent me into a deep tailspin, which wasn't helped by my inability to find a real job.  Also, there was the fact that for seven years, I'd denied my Truth- by this point, it was just a dark blot on my rotting soul.

But, in late December 1989, I met someone.  I'll call her "Becky" to preserve her anonymity.  She was 19, and an English Education student at a prominent local university.  Through the winter and spring our romance blossomed.  Despite my feeble attempts to stay detached, I fell head over heels in love.  She said she had as well.  In fact, we talked about getting married someday after she graduated and I found a "real job."

However there was a slight hiccup.  You see, she'd accepted a summer job as a Ranger at Philmont Scout Ranch in Cimarron, New Mexico.  She's worked there before, but in staff positions.  Now was the chance for her to fulfill her dream of being a Ranger!

Of course, that meant we'd be apart from late May until late August.  In addition, she wouldn't have much telephone access.  Our main form of communication would be letters.  I also would sent cassette tapes I'd record- one side of me talking and the other of local radio.  I figured I'd be fine.  She told me that if I wanted, she would cancel her trip and stay home that summer.  I knew that if she did, she'd always regret it, and would blame me for it.  Besides, it's something she really wanted.  So in late May 1990, she flew to New Mexico.

However, I managed to save enough to visit her for her 20th birthday in late June.  It was my first flight since I was five years old.  I flew to Denver, rented a car, and drove south to Cimarron.  It was a long drive.  Maybe someday I'll detail this trip in another blog entry.  It was, for a time, one of the most amazing weekends of my life.  In any case, we promised each other that we would spend the rest of our lives together- that we would get married.

As July became August, the tone of Becky's letters changed.  She didn't share her feelings as much (which she's always done previously.)  Then, a rare phone call- there'd been a car accident.  She'd been out riding in another ranger's car when it went out of control and crashed.  She was hurt, but "not badly."  However, it was bad enough that she couldn't hike for the rest of the summer.  She spent the remaining month in base camp, recovering.  While there, she struck up a romance with that other Ranger- I'll call him "Chaz."

I heard about Chaz on the more infrequent phone calls- and in one letter.  (Yes, I still have her letters.  They are in a pocket folder in storage.) She didn't SAY that they hooked up or anything, but I knew her well enough to read between the lines.  My college girlfriend cheated on me- now Becky was.

With age, I understand a few things I didn't back then.  These were young women (Becky and college girlfriend)- too young and yes, immature to really commit to something like marriage. Actually, so was I, but I wouldn't admit it to myself.  I HAD to get married- only that would cure me of the Dark Secret I knew was still inside me.

I plunged into a deeper depression, fueled by Fear and Doubt.  I counted the days until she was expected home.  One of the agreements we had was that I would write a lot while she was gone.  I started a story in early summer, but that story took a much darker turn during this time.

In mid-August, a letter arrived from her.  Instead of flying home as planned, she was going to drive home- a road trip across the United States.  After all, she wrote, when would she ever have another opportunity like this?  What could I do?  Say no?  I was already deep in paranoia and depression, and she knew it.  It was scaring her, she wrote.

Fridays placemat, 1990

So it was that she started across the country.  She had no idea how long the trip would take- so I had no idea when she would arrive.  She called me once during that trip- from Colorado.  She'd been to the top of Pikes Peak that day, and was staying at a motel near there.  She told me who her travelling companion was:  Chaz.

I was back working at Fridays by then, after a short leave of absence to work an editing contract at Boeing Helicopters.  The Pain and depression piled onto the stress of that job (and if you've never worked food service: it can be VERY stressful.)

One night, my friend R was home on leave from the Army, so all of our group gathered for a late night poker game.  Part of me didn't want to go, as I didn't want to miss a phone call from Becky (we didn't have an answering machine then.)  I left a note for my parents saying where I'd be, as well as a phone number.

Typical Card night on R's back porch, July 2010

Around 10:30 that night, the phone rang there- it was for me.  Becky was home.  She wanted to see me.  I cashed out my chips (I was up one whole dollar) and drove at very high speed down 422 to her parent's house.  I remember WMMR was playing a block of John Cougar Mellencamp.  For years after, I couldn't stand to hear his music.

I arrived at her parent's house.  She was waiting outside on the side porch.  She's gained weight and walked with a slight limp. Her hair, having not been cut for months, was a shaggy curly chaos.  We hugged and kissed.  I sensed hesitance.

We talked.  She told me everything- about the accident.  About Chaz being the driver of that car.  About the trip back.  About hooking up with Chaz.  (They didn't have sex- Becky was adamant that she was waiting until marriage.)

I took it all stoically.  I didn't show it, but my spirit was shattered.  But I'd be damned if showed her that.  Yet, I didn't want to lose her.  She was my "last hope at a normal life." Becky told me that I took the news far better than she thought I would.  That she thought all along that she was mature than me, but she saw now she was wrong.  But she wasn't.  I was just hiding the Pain.

I'd become an expert at hiding Pain.  I still am.

I told her what was done was done.  That if she could stay faithful from then on, I'd forget it ever happened.

Then she told me that Chaz was there- at the house.  He hadn't just dropped her off and left.  No, he was staying a couple of days before heading home to Pensacola, Florida, where he was stationed.  He was a Navy pilot.  I remember that news hitting me hard.

At this point, my memory blurs, and my journal entry from that day is vague.  Before I left, we agreed to meet for lunch the next day at Fridays: me, her, and Chaz.  I remember driving home around 1 AM and hearing a song that was very popular at that time.  It was from Don Henley's current album, The End of Innocence.

But I think it's about forgiveness

Forgiveness

Even if, even if you don't love me anymore

It was years before I could bear hearing that song again.

The next day, I stopped at Becky's house, as she requested I drive.  She was upstairs in her room, she told me.  I went upstairs, and there, coming out of the bathroom, was Chaz.  He was an inch or two shorter than me, short sandy blond hair parted to the right, and powerfully built.  He had a towel wrapped around his waist.

"You must be Lance," he said.  I said I was.  "I'm Chaz.  He held his towel with his left hand and offered his right.  He had a firm grip- he was trying that whole male dominance thing.  Whatever.  He then went into the guest bedroom, and I went into Becky's room.  She was in a t-shirt and shorts.  We talked briefly.  I gave mostly one word answers.  By then, the enormity of what was happening set in.

We went to Fridays for lunch.  I ordered Wings.  I think I ate one- I lost my appetite despite having not eaten at all that day. I took them back to Becky's house, dropped them off, and headed home.  Chaz was leaving the next day, but that night, he and Becky were going out somewhere. When I asked her if "anything would happen" she said "probably."

I had to work that night- closing shift.  I don't know how I made it through.  I wanted to die so badly.  the fact that she and Chaz were together, and she was cheating on me tore me apart.  But I could not cry.  I was incapable of it.

The next day Chaz was gone.  I started trying to repair what was left of the relationship.  She had already checked out.  She told a friend that she wanted to wait until after my birthday to break up with me.  I thought I couldn't do it myself.

On my birthday, I worked day shift.  As I was leaving, my coworkers bought me a drink: a Russian Quaalude.  Becky and I were going to the movies that night.  We saw For All Mankind at the Ritz 5 in Philly.  She made me a cake- a heart shaped chocolate cake with orange icing.  We went back to my place.  I walked her to her car.  I told her it was over, and went inside.  I didn't cry.

Drinking the Russian Quaalude, Sept 13, 1990

I did my best not to contact her over the few weeks, but she kept popping up at my one friend's house.  I stopped going there. I tentatively started dating again.  One night, I brought a friend/coworker/date to a party at that same friend's house when Becky showed up.  She saw me with someone else and became very jealous.  She asked to speak with me outside.  We talked, argued, and talked more.  The next day, we got back together.

One night she came over my house.  My parents were away.  She made me dinner, and showed me the huge bruise on her hip.  It was the size of two fists and still very dark.  Months after the accident, she was still badly bruised.

She was flying down to see Chaz in Pensacola.  She planned to break up with him there.  When she came home, I picked her up at the airport.  I asked her if she'd broken up with him.  She said 'No."  We broke up again- this time for good.

My depression kept swirling until Halloween night, when I saw her.  She "wanted to talk."  She told me she was in love with Chaz.  I snapped.  I punched a wall, breaking my right hand.  Eventually, I ended up in a Psych Ward after my first suicide attempt.  (I've detailed that elsewhere.) What did Becky do when she found out I'd attempted suicide?  Went on a date.

The following May, she married Chaz.  by then I had just started dating Wife.  She helped me through that tough time, and essentially put the pieces of my broken heart back together.

We didn't speak again for eight years.  I don't remember who sent the first letter, but we slowly started writing to each other again.  Eventually, we had lunch.  After more time, we became friends.  She and Chaz had divorced.  She was back in Pennsylvania.  Eventually, she married again.

When I finished the story I started that summer, I called it Disorganized Light.  I gave her a copy when she told me she was getting married (she's stopped at Fridays.)  She hated it.

I've told this story many times to therapists.  After all the repetitions, and the time, I've gotten to the point where I don't feel the Pain of it anymore.  But...

But...

Come September, I always had that feeling of dread- the memory of all that Pain and betrayal.  Then in 2013, more Pain was heaped upon the old scars.  More Pain than I could handle.

September 2018

28 years after that horrible September, and 5 years after the next horrible September, I am still here.  I had my second suicide attempt in September 2016.  Obviously, I failed.  The worst of the September anniversaries are coming up fast.  I've already started writing a blog entry about them.

I hate September.  It always takes me back to Pain.  Old Pain.  I feel things that happened in another life, to a person who is gone.

Trapped in a memory.


[Note: I have a hard copy of Disorganized Light that I'm typing into Word.  I'll post it when I finish]

Had to Pull Over: Thoughts on Coming Home in early August

This is going to be kinda random and jumpy.  If anyone actually reads this.  Which they won't.

I'm back from New Orleans.  I had to pull over twice on the road home from the airport because I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't see.

I'm home.  Flat broke.  I had to beg my wife for money to borrow for my share of the rent.  I'm useless, worthless, and  have no future

The Darkness has me.  I feel useless, and the fact that I can't find a job makes me worthless.  I spent more money than I had helping people I will never meet, and who will never know what I did.  And, the trip being over, I have NOTHING to look forward to.

Nothing.

The New Orleans trip was the last thing I had planned.  Now, nothing.  September will be here soon- and I HATE September.  It's the month I lost my marriage (technically that was August 31 I think, but I'm not quibbling.)  It's the month I lost Lisa.  It's the month I was born, and I hate it most of all for that.

Me.  Now.  Typing this.

I don't tell people my feelings anymore.  I tell people this, they get angry and tell me it's my fault because I don't think positively.  One fact I've had burned into my soul: I can never tell people the Truth about how I feel.  Oh and it's my fault because I travelled, and put money into an account for my daughter.

I just want the depression to end.  I cannot remember a day without it- literally.

And if I say that, people threaten to have me hauled off to a hospital.  I have sworn I will never, ever go back to one of those.

Insomnia when I desperately want this day to end.

I don't think I'll be writing about the New Orleans trip. I think I'm done with writing.  No one is reading what I write, and it doesn't make me content anymore. Doesn't help.  Last thing Im posted still hasn't broken 100 views.  I used pull that in an hour.  No one gives a shit any more.  Why should I?  I still have my little writing books that I keep filling.  I suppose I should put them all in one box.  Then throw that box away.  Then those thoughts will be gone, unheard.  As they should be.

I volunteer to help others and lose lots of money in the process.  I'm done with volunteering. You want me to help- pay me.  This weekend, I debated a bunch of entitled kids who have been taught to hate and mock anything different.  But, I managed, with help, to get passed a trans-positive motion for my fraternity.  And the people who will benefit?  They'll never know about the 18 months of work several people put in on it, or the debate, or the insults I endured.  They wouldn't care if they did know.  I was invited to New Orleans by the fraternity.  I thought more costs would be covered.  And maybe I'll be reimbursed for some of the outlay.  Eventually.

I shouldn't care about that.  One person of facialbook wrote me: "Most people don't volunteer to help others expecting something in return. They do it from their heart and soul."  Well, so did I. Past tense. All its gotten me is a zero bank balance, PTSD, and wounds that can never heal.  

I did this for a fraternity which, when I was an undergrad, 95% of the brothers didn't want me around.  Many actively hated me.  But, I'd sworn an oath, and my word is all I have.

I used to believe that all the sadness and pain I endure would be balanced out by happiness and good in my life.  That there HAD to be balance.  When I was a teen, that kept me alive.  I now know that thought was absolutely wrong.  There is NO balance.  And if there is, my suffering is balanced by the happiness and ease of someone else's life.

I often think of myself as an old toy, neglected and forgotten when the child outgrows it.  I use that metaphor often in my journals.  An object which has no function but to bring happiness, fun, laughter and joy, sitting silent and still.  Do they long for the child to return and play with them?  (Kinda Toy Story, I know, but I think about it.)  I wrote about this on my old guy blog once.  

When I'm gone, my wife will probably put my dead name on my urn instead of my legal name.  An echo.  A memory.  And if it brings her comfort so be it.  I've hurt her enough.

Melatonin is finally kicking in.  Maybe I can fall asleep.  Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, the Darkness won't have me by the throat.  But I'll still be unemployed.  And worthless.