Kobayashi Maru

I just had to.

Besides, admit it, you’ve prayed it too!!!

...Comment [3]

So I was asked to speak at a church tonight. A good old fashioned small town country style church where the median age is 65+, the potlucks are serious affairs, and the only true Bible is the King James Version because “if it was good enough for the disciples, it’s good enough for me”.

The first part of the evening was in fact a pot luck. And as I said, these folks know how to do a pot luck. There were maybe 50 people there and enough food to feed an army of college students with the munchies after an all night binge. And that was before the desserts came out. I have never seen so many pies in my life. And pies like only older women with decades of experience in the kitchen can come up with. Heck, I am pretty sure that some of the berries they made these pies out of don’t even exist. What the hell is a bumble berry or ruta-berry anyway?? But I am digressing again. I notice that I do that a lot when I’m writing.

During dinner I sat with a dozen octogenarians who told some pretty interesting stories. All of them were either missionaries or pastors somewhere in the world. One of them sitting next to me had not been able to speak above a whisper for 20 years because he had preached at the top of his lungs (just to be heard) in the streets in South America for so long. Fascinating stuff. Seriously. It made me wonder what has happened to us as a people, as a church, as people. How could folks just a couple of generations ago have been so unquestioningly sold out to their convictions that they didn’t give it a second thought when asked to go anywhere in the world and stay there for years. And still, in the later years of life, they are actively involved in their churches and looking for ways to give to others. That’s why they asked me there tonight. They were doing a “missions night” to focus on some of the areas, organizations and ministries that they give to. They area a giving bunch too. They already give 20% of their income to missions, but tonight was a special opportunity for them to give even more over and above that amount. Fairly inspiring - or convicting depending on perspective I suppose.

At some point in the evening I was invited to come and speak. Now, generally speaking, I like to consider myself a decent public speaker. I am of the opinion that humor is a good thing in oration. Throw in a good laugh or too and you can get the audience’s minds focused on what you are saying. At least that has worked for me historically. True that it can be a dangerous tactic when you are overseas and have an interpreter. The first time I ever preached in a church outside North America was in Nepal. I spoke to a gathering of about 200 Nepalis. The interpreter was very cool and gave me a great little pep talk to calm my nerves. So, as instructed, I went ahead just being myself. So I used some humor from my store of amusing anecdotes and was pleasantly surprised when the place erupted in laughter and smiles. After that I kinda caught my stride and preached a decent sermon I thought. When all was said and done I spoke with my interpreter and told him that at first I was a little nervous that my joke wouldn’t translate. He smiled and said, “oh it didn’t. I told them that you were telling a joke and that it was polite to laugh. So on command they all laughed for your benefit.” Awesome…and that is why I hate using interpreters to this day. WAIT!?! This story is not meant to be a retrospective thing that far back. I’m talking about tonight. Where was I? Oh yes, humor being a good thing in talks.

So anyway, I thought that I would use some of that ideology tonight and toss a few funny lines into the mix. After the third one bombed…well, bombed might be too strong. Somebody laughed, each time. Somebody different, each time. I wasn’t sure if they were laughing to be polite, if everyone else’s blank stares were due to a humor shortage, or if my deep south accent was just confusing the crap out of them. I get asked a lot how I can talk that fast with such a slow accent. I always answer that us southern folks aren’t really dumb, we just talk that way to piss other off and keep them from moving to Texas. Anyway, as I spoke (all the while thinking what the crap, I’m sucking here), it dawned on me that I an not used to this type of audience. There is a specific expectation from these people when it comes to church functions that include a speaker - GUILT. Oh yeah, it ain’t church if you don’t walk out feeling guilty. So, I switched tactics and basically explained that the issues of homelessness, poverty and drug addictions were most likely the fault of the church, possibly this church’s fault, and quite probably directly linked to their actions or inactions personally. It was an old fashioned Bible thumping style preach. Somewhere Johnathan Edwards was looking down with pride. I all but quoted his ending to Sinners in the hands of an angry God, “The wrath of Almighty God is now undoubtedly hanging over a great part of this congregation.”

It’s not that I really think that. But man, did they sit up and start engaging when I went that route. I got some “amens” sprinkled around even. I swear the women didn’t smile until tears began to well up in their eyes. And the men looked appropriately humble and ashamed of themselves. I finished up with a huge calls to action which implied that if they simply did A,B and C then all the world’s ills would be solved and if they didn’t then the blood of all would be on their hands.

No lie, this is so what they were looking for! I got hugged and had my hand shaken til it hurt afterward. Many of them told me that they were nervous about tonight because they saw how young I was and they fretted that I wouldn’t understand the nature of church (their words not mine). Luckily, I got the history to understand what they’re looking for. My folks church used to have a pastor who would throw chairs in the middle of a sermon!

Anyway, I thought it amusing that there are people out there (groups of them actually - and they seem to seek each other out and form groups - if not denominations) who want the old school guilt, need it even. Luckily, there are still folks like me who can bring the pain. I learned it well. My mama could do guilt. I once got a card from her when I was in college, on the outside it said, “Sorry I haven’t written sooner…” On the inside it said, “I died three weeks ago.” And under that she had written, “I love you, why don’t you call anymore? -MOM” Dude, I come from a southern family. Dinners are huge and include three fried foods, gravy and a side of guilt. My brother and I used to have an overnight bag packed at all times, cause you never knew when you might be going on a guilt trip.

Well, I gotta go to bed. But before you turn this off, you better think about your life - you might be the reason that there’s drugs in Canada or AIDS in Africa or poverty in South America. Go to your room and think about what you’ve done…or just make a huge donation when the next plate is passed. That’ll buy you an indlugence for a little while…

...Comment [4]

So my wife Ferf is now into public humilliation. It’s like a new thing for her. And she’s really good at it too! A natural - I swear. Take for instance last Sunday at church. Being employed in the NFP realms of poverty, homlessness and addictions, I was asked to bring in a presentation of said public ills for the edification and conviction of the belivers at the church I attend. One of those things where you comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. NOT one of those things where people leave confessing and guilt ridden over a secret porn addiction that they have never had, but the speaker talked about it like everyone did it so you figure, “hey, mabye I do. I better go confess that and thow my computer out.” But more like a service where the realities of life are presented and make you realize that not everyone’s life is like yours and we all need God.

So, I had some of the men from our addiction recovery program come in to speak. And they simply give a testimony and tell people their story. This happened. It was good and you gotta figure that after a church service in a foyer - you’re mostly safe. BUT then Ferf has a special gift. She comes up to me and puts her head on my should and with bright red cheeks says, “I am such an idiot!!!!” I amusedly pat her head and say why. At which point she relays the following story. She’s talking with one of the men from the program and while talking to him the Muppet goes back and forth to the water cooler filling and refilling her 4 ounce cup with water and drinking it, then going back for more, over and over and over again. You know how little todlers can be. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with what she’s doing - but it becomes a bit socially awkward when they display the standard obsessive compulsive behavior that is cute when you’re 2 and medically worrying when you’re 20. So in a moment of normalacy Ferf popps off to our 3 1/2 month sober friend - “My daughter is addicted to water.” And then promptly realizes that she made an addicition joke to a recoveing addict. And as one is want to do, quickly rambles on and on with a string of non sequitors trying to move time ahead and put distance between the comment and her current place in the conversation. All the while flogging herself mentally while said man from the program tries to politely follow her train of thought thinking to himself - “Dude, I used to talk like that when I was tweaking.” She finally excuses herself from the conversation and winds up where I started this story - head on my shoulder with metaphorical bruises forming on her frontal lobe where she’s been imagining banging it into the pulpit in a fit of self induced penance in the vain hope that she will be able to forgive herself for her social faux-pas.

Being the AMAZINGLY understanding and gentle husband that I am, I was able to not laugh out loud. But in a fit of leaving my wife completely open to mocking, I later blogged about it to an audience of at least 4 people…maybe more.

BUT in my own vain attempt to cover her, I submit the following information that I found on the internet - so you know it has to be true!!!!

Water Can Kill You

The Journal of Irreproducible Results
Reprinted courtesy of The Pragmatist

Water is one of the most hazardous substances known to man. However, until now, no one had yet seriously considered the grave threat that water poses to unsuspecting victims. The evils of water-dependence — a physical addiction to which every human being has fallen victim –have gone virtually unrecognized in our time. It is our purpose here to detail the harm that this chemical causes to people, in the hope that responsible leaders in government and industry will adopt appropriate legislative and voluntary measures to contain the widespread abuse of water, and to develop treatments against water addiction.
According to Ann Landers and various official government sources, every year there are approximately 2.7 million injuries from recreational and leisure activities such as boating, fishing, swimming, beach and pool parties and waterskiing. Each year, there are 7000 drownings in the United States–outright cases of water overdose.

THERE YOU GO - she was rightly concerned for the Muppet…like a real mom would be.

...Comment [4]

Say you have a problem, something that is driving you crazy, something you need and want an answer to. Maybe the problem is romantic in nature, or has to do with your career. Maybe a decision needs to be reached that involves one of your kids, or your spouse, or an aged parent or finances. You feel like you really need to go left or right but you have no idea which way to turn. Maybe you feel just a little scared, maybe profoundly anxious; maybe you’ve even developed facial tics and early-stage Tourette’s. If you’re at all like me, you’re torn between really wanting to know what God’s will is for you, and just desperately wanting this one thing to happen, this one thing to turn out this one particular way.

And you keep feeling this, even though you remember the amazing scene at the end of “The Mission,” where the warrior, played by Robert DeNiro, comes to see the priest, Jeremy Irons, to seek his blessing in the battle ahead, and the priest says, “If what you are about to do is God’s will, then you don’t need my blessing. And if it’s not, then my blessing isn’t going to help.” You remember that and still: You frantically want the guy to call; you want the project to be a huge success; you want the authorities to let your brother off the hook. Whatever.

A small part of you, a crescent moon-shaped part of you, wants to be in alignment with God’s will, because you have reason to believe that you are truly F***ed up if you somehow get your own will to prevail. But a louder part of you secretly believes that you alone know what the best possible outcome would be, for all parties concerned, even with a lifetime of evidence to the contrary. And you are prepared to use the sheer force of your personality and character to get it to happen. It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it — the self-will run riot? Here you long to inwardly resemble the Dalai Lama humming to himself, or Therese of Liseux at dawn Christmas morning in prayer. And instead, on the inside, you’re feeling like Roy Cohn with the flu and bad coffee nerves.

But at the end of the day you are still left waiting. Waiting to see how the story ends.

That’s where I am most of the time. I believe that life is, in many respects, about waiting. Waiting to see if you can make rent this month. Waiting to hear from the doctor. Waiting to see if today’s life altering situation will work out for the best. Waiting on God. A friend of mine once told me that God is never late, but rarely early. That is so freaking true that it is annoying in its simplicity. It is always about God’s timing. Of course, that could be because that, unlike us, God is not a slave to the immediate. We can panic over things that seem to be globally catastrophic in our lives that day. Things that seem to cause time itself to slow down if not stop altogether.

That’s one of the reasons that I find journaling to be so healthy. My journal is not full of flowery language and haiku dedicated to the magnificence of the Lord. It’s more like raw, unabated lashing out at situations with unadulterated anger. It’s tear-stained and torn. It looks exactly like you would think paper that survived fury induced, bile filled violently scrawled verbiage should. It’s like a private manifesto to God. Ted Kaczynski would be proud at times I am sure – though I have never sent God a letter bomb (just to be clear). But I can write a scathing letter to Him.

In fact I don’t even use pencil anymore. I used to, because in my younger and more idealistic days, I thought that if I got angry I would get over it and then feel guilty so I should erase the offending entry once things got “better.” Now I realize that there is a grounding in reality that comes from having a permanent record of the roller coaster of emotions that I go through in situations. I cannot realize the immense grace of God if I do not remember the humanistic fury I endured at my own inability to change things.

I know that a lot of people are ashamed to admit that they have been (or are) pissed off at God. They see this as some kind of failure of faith. Some test of trust that they could not pass – like a cumulative mid-term exam that they forgot, didn’t study, and showed up naked for in the exam room of life. One of those awful dreams that you don’t admit except under extreme duress or intoxication – or both. I, on the other hand, will fully admit that my relationship with God is eerily similar to all my deep love relationships. No one makes me happier and no one can piss me off more (or more often to be brutally honest). Take my relationship with my wife Ferf. She is my best friend. She is my soul mate. She has been with me through the deepest depressions and highest highs in my life. When I lost my dad to cancer – she was there with me. Just being. (having lost her own parents to cancer, she knew enough to know that the only thing you can do is be there and keep your mouth shut). When I got married – she was there (convenient – it would have been really awkward if she hadn’t). When I lost everything financial – she was there, losing everything too. When my daughter was born – she was there (again, rightly so). When the Muppet was diagnosed with a blood disorder, Ferf was crying with me. And at every time in-between when it seemed like a good time to break into a fight – she was right there! Fighting with me. We shared the good and the bad and argued about both probably. But there is no one – not even you – that I would rather have around me every day. That’s like me and God. The knockdown dragout fights that we have engaged in are legendary. (and by we I really mean me. God’s not really engaging in the fighting part. I think He just shows up for moral support and listens patiently as I unleash a torrent of poison that would make sailors blush and my sister-in-law proud. Heck, when I get really going I make swear words up for God. It’s like my own personal “toungues” and prayer language. (every charismatic reader just deleted me from their favorites file in utter disgust and deep offense I know. But I married the daughter of a charismatic preacher, so I know that they’ll come back. They’re a forgiving bunch.)

Honestly, the very first time in my life that I ever dropped an F-bomb it was directed squarely at God. It’s true. And that was back when I was young and Southern Baptist and still fairly certain that I would go to hell for it – or at least get seated by the door at the feast in Heaven and end up with a African style hut with no view of the street of gold just happy to have made it into heaven and desperately trying to get the stench of sulfur out of my robes…but I digress. My point is that I get angry at God and I think He’s okay with that. He made me after all. He is no stranger to my inter-workings. I figure he built me in such a way that I can feel that anger, He can take the proverbial heat. In a lot of ways it’s a show of how much I trust Him that I can give Him everything I have with both barrels and not be afraid that He will leave. I remember one time right after we lost everything and were about to be evicted from our house and I was working an unskilled, manual labour job that did not pay enough to cover bills and I was fully enflamed with anger towards the very creator of the universe. For days I was pissed. Openly and honestly. And eventually Ferf got angry at me for being pissed at God. She told me I was wrong and that I was sinning and in a neat twist of the space time continuum decided that it was probably this anger that had caused the situation in the first place - even though the anger was in response to the situation. You know women – logic is not necessarily an integral part to an argument if it messes up the point they are making. So one morning she sends me off to purgatory with a lunch pail and a kiss, even though she was righteously pissed off at me for being pissed off at God, and as she turns back to the front door she hears God (yep. She hears God. That pisses me off too). She hears God say (and I paraphrase) “Back off Ferf. I can handle anything he can dish up at me. I don’t need you to protect me. Turns out I’m God.” At that point the anger she was feeling dissipated instantly.

I’d love to say, “and then in the most miraculous of ways, there in the cab of my buddy’s truck I felt the Lord show up and my anger abated in a wash of heavenly grace and peace that passes all understanding.” BUT that would be a HUGE lie. Nope. I stayed pissed for a long time after that. Somehow over time I simply got past it. Nothing life altering happened. I just got over it. Through the mini-miracles that pass by unnoticed everyday. The friends who are Jesus in the flesh. The patience of God that keeps Him there day after day taking the best shots I can dish out. Through that and over time I simply got passed it. Oh, I “made up” with God. Asked forgiveness and sought His grace for the stupid things I said, etc etc. That has actually been my history with God more than anything else. I “know” how things ought to happen. He never does it that way and I am left fretting the day away about some major thing that 6 months from now I would have no recollection of were it not for my codified history of God fights. Not the best kind of bedtime reading, but then honesty rarely is. I’m not gonna get a publishing deal out of that work let me tell you. But what I do get out of it is the bloody history of my relationship with the all loving God who was willing to die for me and then be patient with me when I stop caring about that because of some pressing daily thing.

What’s in your journal? Do you have a notebook of monologues with God like I do? Do you actually tell God how you feel at any given time, good or bad? (It’s not like He doesn’t know already anyway)

More importantly, what’s the solution to all your problems that God refuses to implement for you? Besides Ecclesiastes 10:19 I mean… You know you have all the answers. I do too. It would so much easier if I were God.

...Comment [8]

And you thought you knew all about Thanksgiving…

Following a nineteenth century tradition, most Americans believe that the first American Thanksgiving was a feast that took place on an unremembered date, sometime in the autumn of 1621, at Plymouth Plantation, Massachusetts. In 1620, a group led by separatists from the Church of England, who were heading for Virginia, instead landed at modern-day Plymouth, Massachusetts, for uncertain reasons. In the autumn of 1621, they celebrated a three-day harvest feast with the native Wampanoag people, without whom they would not have survived the winter of 1620. This event was not viewed as a thanksgiving celebration at the time; the colony would not have a Thanksgiving observance until 1623 — and that was a religious observance rather than a feast.

The nineteenth century reinterpretation of the 1621 festival has since become a model for the U.S. version of Thanksgiving, but it was an established tradition before the popularization of the Pilgrim mythology.
The first known thanksgiving feast or festival in North America was celebrated by Francisco Vásquez de Coronado and the people he called “Tejas” (members of the Hasinai group of Caddo-speaking Native Americans) on 23 May 1541 in Palo Duro Canyon, Texas, to celebrate his expedition’s discovery of food supplies. In the sense of a feast in gratitude to God celebrated by Europeans in North America, this has a claim to be the true first North American Thanksgiving. Another candidate for the first true Thanksgiving in territory now part of the United States is the feast that the party of Don Juan de Oñate celebrated April 30, 1598 near the site of San Elizario, Texas with the Manso Indians.

See, I always knew Texans started Thanksgiving!

We recently celebrated Thanksgiving here in Canada. Either much earlier than in the States or much much later - depending on your perspective. We had my seester-in-law Merf up from So Cal. She is Ferf’s wittle sister. 8 years younger. Either an oops child or a “special gift from God” again depending on your perspective. She used to live with us for a while. Of course, prior to that she thought I was the anti-christ for a while too. (long story - too long for even this blog) But that’s not the point of this story. The point is that we got to spend the long weekend with family. And close family. The kind of family that you like. You understand. There’s good family and then there’s family that you know you share blood with, but you just don’t understand how a single gene pool could actually be that well…shallow at one end. Not that there’s anyone like that in my family…but there might be in your family or in a family you know. But not mine - especially if my mother ever reads this.

I’m digressing. It was a good Thanksgiving. We cooked a huge turkey and everything. Which was an adventure in itself. I went to Sav-On Foods on Friday to purchase said large bird. I walked back to the frozen food aisle thinking that I would just grab a turkey and check out. One would think that it would simply be that easy. I was specifically looking for a Butterball turkey. Because those are quite simply the best turkeys. Evidently, I was not the only one here in K-town who believes this, for as I walked down the aisle, I heard two (what in other circumstances would be referred to as ladies) engaged in a heated exchange because there were no more butterballs and to make matters worse, there was only one bird (of the crappy off brand kind) left that weighed over 6kg. They both needed a 13+ pound turkey. Needed it so much that they were willing to step right out of any “Thanksgiving Spirit” and begin cussing at each other. I stood there in awe wondering, well actually first I was wondering if the heavy set lady could take the younger one in a full on fight, cause the younger one was scrappy but definitely fighting out of her weight class. After that I started having these weird visualizations of these women finally settling their differences at dawn in the fresh food section with pistols or swords, pulling hair, slapping faces, baring their teeth and fangs, and cussing a freaking blue streak that would make a sailor in a third world whore house blush and then going home and freshening up, putting on make up and a nice floral sun dress (or moo moo in the case of the older lady) and putting a bird in an oven surrounded by small children and holding hands to say grace (maybe the only time that year) before carving the bird. No one in the gathered circle of extended family and friends even able to comprehend that 2 days earlier their mommie was engaged in a mixed martial arts brawl surrounded by frozen fowl cadavers and one simply stunned male staring in amused terror.

Anyway, I still needed to grab a bird as Ferf, Merf and Muppet were waiting for me in the parking lot – and equally important my Eightbucks latte was getting cold. Therefore I called upon all the mad skills I have learned from religiously watching 24, and surreptitiously sauntered over to the freezer and looked at what was evidently sparse pickings. Yet lo and behold, there buried amongst small crappy brand turkeys I saw a sliver of yellow plastic webbing. In a move that would make Jack Bower proud, I maneuvered myself between the female combatants and the potential prize and began to quietly move turkeys around so as to achieve visual confirmation of the bird. And what to my wondrous eyes did appear, but a Butterball Turkey with a tag that said 6.38kg. Oh yeah! A 14+ pound piece of frozen Thanksgiving tradition. It was at this point that I felt the dual emotions of exhilaration and terror. It quickly dawned on me that should either Thelma or Louise realize what I was doing, or more to the point, what I was holding that my life could very well be in danger. The two of them could combine their forces and stone me to death with frozen burritos. The only thing worse than two feral women focusing on each other is both of them focusing on you. I knew that if they saw me carrying the prized bird they would loudly proclaim “dibs” on the bird. It would rightfully be theirs and I would have stolen it from them like the worst kind of interloper. It’s the grocery equivalent of winning a slot machine jackpot on the first pull after some bleary eyed unshaven lump of human flesh badly in need of a shower has just stopped feeding the monster quarters after 8 hours. Yeah, it was your quarter and you pulled the arm, but by god that money belongs to him!!!!

Anyways, choosing to screw the mindset that discretion is the better part of valor I stood for a moment and recalled everything I ever learned from 7 years of Texas schoolboy football. After visualizing the end zone, I grabbed the turkey tucked it underneath the arm away from the two linebackers blocking my way to the express lane so as to limit their ability to cause a fumble with a single swipe of their sweaty paws, turned directly towards the defenders and ran at them. When they realized what I had they forgot their recent mutual animosity and instantly realized that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I knew I had once chance and it was risky. I put my head down, and with a form that would have made Jerome Bettis proud, ran directly between the two hoping that I could get by them before they could even react – shock is a powerful paralyzing agent. And besides, I’m not just quick…I’m sudden. I figured best case scenario, I stiff arm the little one into the more dense of the two causing a domino type effect – or at worst stunning the wiry one and using her as a pick against the larger woman who was eyeing me like she had designs on me being the main course at her dinner.

OK OK…Actually, about the time I picked the turkey up, some poor assistant to an assistant manager came up to see if he could draw upon the immense amount of conflict resolution skills that he learned in summer school last year while getting his GED and solve this little game of brinksmanship between these two lovely customers. While he distracted them with his dizzying intellect a la Vizzini, I walked the other way holding the turkey in front of me - happy for the first time about my girth being able to block views from behind.

In the end, I did not get the privilege of witnessing the conclusion of pre-holiday mêlée and I even checked the newspaper the next day to see if there was something in either the local section or sports section. Alas, there was none. I still give odds to the older contestant, not just because she outweighed her opponent, but because old age and wisdom will win out over youth and vigor every time. (Older folks fight dirty).

BUT, we did have a great Thanksgiving feast with family – blood related and adopted, we attended a wedding, and spent quite a bit of time working on intercultural relations – mostly with White Russians. Maybe not the same way the original Texans did Thanksgiving, but I think they would have approved (more than those puritanical Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock would have for darn sure). Hope yours was enjoyable too.

Just remember, if your Thanksgiving was half as fun as mine, then mine was twice as fun as yours!

...Comment [2]

Last week I found myself where no one ever wants to be. Where every father wakes up with nightmares about being. A children’s hospital. I want to be very clear that BC’s Children’s Hospital is about a great a children’s hospital as there is. The doctors there are downright amazing. Having been poked and prodded and pushed and examined tons of times in her 2 short years, the Muppet is not a fan of doctors. Wear a lab coat around her and she freaks out. She has not sat quietly through an examination in forever - but throughout a fairly long one at BCCH she never as much as teared up. So BCCH is about as good as it gets in that realm.

That being said, you still never want to be there. Seriously, no matter how brightly colored the walls are, no matter now cheerful the people are, no matter how many chipper smiles and brave faces you run into…YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE THERE. You cannot escape the basic reality of why you are there and what the place is for. It is a place for very sick children. There is no way to sugar coat that. If your child has a devastating illness you find yourself there. And no matter how sick your child is, you quickly realize that there are much sicker children there. But that is of absolutely no comfort, because no one with a soul can compare sicknesses when there are children involved.

And yet, I found myself there. Driving into the parking lot for our 12:30 appointment with a paediatric hematologist with the Muppet fast asleep and Ferf looking out the window as quiet as death. One of the worst parts going into this was that we knew the hematology department is integrated into the oncology ward. It’s bad enough that between Ferf and I we have lost 3 outta 4 parents to cancer. Taking our only child in to see a doctor that is even peripherally associated with that medical nightmare was unimaginable.

Evidently I had spent the last couple of weeks being “strong” for Ferf. I didn’t realize that I had – I thought that I was actually strong. Yeah, not so much. When I turned the ignition off and opened my door I had to actually think about moving my feet. You kinda that that for granted. You know what you want your body to do and it just does it. But I had to actually think “hey, my feet aren’t moving. Feet, I need you to move now.” That’s when I knew that I really did not want to be there. That my body was not going to just jump up and go into that hospital. I had to make it move. And the Muppet was just as happy as she could be – oblivious to the crushing reality that was keeping me from bringing air into my lungs. As I picked her up to get her out of her car seat, I wanted to hug her harder than I ever have. She just pushed her hands against my chest and said, “Down Daddy…pwease. Walk. Me walk.”

So in we went. Into the one place that no one wants to go. We had blood drawn, and other bodily fluids collected. We sat around and waited. We saw other children and talked with other parents who did not want to have to be there. All of us putting on the brave face and talking about our kids as only parents who share a common nightmare can. Until we finally got in to see the intern and then the specialist himself. It was an excruciatingly slow day to live through. But we did make it through the day.

We finally got the answers we have been waiting for. Dr. Specialist told us that the Muppet’s neutropenia is most probably Severe BENIGN Chronic Neutropenia of Childhood. What that means is layman terms is that it is NOT the kind that turns into Leukemia. Praise God! In addition, he is of the opinion that her body does indeed produce neutrophils – she just doesn’t release them unless she needs them. That’s my Muppet – she’s just overly efficient. She gets that from Ferf’s family. Those folks are all about administration and efficiency. Hell, it’s surprising that the Muppet hasn’t started color coding her toys and filing them alphabetically yet. Anyway, little miss efficient is evidently capable of mounting a defense against bacterial infections – there was just no way to tell that until she needed to mount said defense – which was exactly once thus far in her life. Our pediatrician told us that it was probably a coincidence and that he really had no explanation for it. (The “it” being the one time we had to rush the Muppet to the ER with a spiking fever. They took her blood to check for bacterial infection, and her neutrophil count was 3 times greater then normal) Dr. Specialist however, was more of a proponent of Ockham’s Razor – namely that the simplest answer is usually the right one. So in this case, if she had a large neutrophil count then it would stand to reason that her body can in fact make neutrophils. And if she had them only when her body was responding to something, then one can deduce that she only lets them out when they are needed. I love basic logic. You rarely seem to be able to count on basic logic when it comes to medical issues – and never when your child’s health is involved. So we had to wait until a specialist stated the obvious (or at least it’s obvious now in hindsight). Then he tells us that there is no need to keep her away from groups of kids around her age – as we had been instructed by our local doctor over a year ago.

Here’s the very strange thing. The first emotion you feel is relief. That might be intuitively obvious even to the most casual observer, but hey, it’s my story so I get to choose the details relayed. So after a bit of disbelief, we fully embraced relief. But we drove back to our room in relative silence and went to bed early, feeling as emotionally drained as I could possibly imagine. I would have figured that I’d sleep deeply and quietly the first night after hearing my daughter is effectively healthy. But not so much. Ferf and I both spent the night in fitful sleep never hitting the quality REM stuff. As we drove home from Vancouver that day, we talked at length about what we were feeling and why. The interesting thing is that we both felt sad and angry. DISCLAIMER – neither of us are upset that our daughter is healthy. We are not wanting the Muppet to be sick. We are not some freaky parents. Let me explain the emotions that we found ourselves awash with.

Anger was actually easy to understand. We were told a lot of things from doctors over the last year. All of them were “right” in the sense that they were medically prudent warnings given the information they had. Most of them were fully unnecessary it turns out and lots of them were difficult on us. So we were understandably dealing with some level of anger. Not really at someone per say…just some residual anger at the whole damn situation. When your only daughter is diagnosed with a potentially life threatening blood disorder you get to bank some anger anyway.

The sadness part took some time to work through. We tried to figure that out for a while. We weren’t sad that the Muppet wasn’t sick. We were ecstatic about that. Eventually we figured out that we were sad about. We were mourning. Yeah mourning. See when your child is sick you do whatever it takes to deal with that sickness. For us that meant a lot of changes and difficult situations. We never gave them a second thought in the moment. You do what you have to do. The doctor says you have to get rid of the beloved family pet – you do it and say “whatever, he’s a dog.” You have to rearrange your future plans and not be able to live near family with the only grandchild – you just do it without a lot of deep pondering. It’s your child and they come first. No matter what decision you have to make you make it. It’s just what you do. There’s not even any sadness about giving stuff up because it’s your child. BUT…once the situation “changes”, once you find out that all those decisions and changes and life altering moves we not actually necessary – well, then it all hits you at once. The depth of feeling of loss and sadness is almost unfathomable. It hits you with a slow build up as you think back over all the things that you gave up. It’s not that you would do anything differently. It’s just that now that you know the whole situation, you start to realize that you miss them. It becomes a process of mourning losses. And that is what we spent the 4+ hour drive home doing. Remembering things and shedding tears and working our way through the stages of grief. I don’t really expect that it’s over. I have felt quite a few twinges of sadness grip my heart at random times in the last few days. But there have been more moments of excitement and elation. Like when we went to BP and the Muppet got to use the community crayons they give kids for the first time in her life. She got this huge smile, sucked in a big breath cocked her head to the side and said, “ I get to use these Daddy!?” Then she gave me a huge hug and said thank you – like I had finally decided that she was a big enough girl to use these special crayons.

I guess that the point of all of this is that we really do never know how things will turn out. I have to believe that God had His hand all over this. I have to believe that all of this was and is part of His plan. I go back to my post about blessings and say, we got to experience many of the ways that God gets the blessings to us. Yep, through this whole thing we were seriously blessed.

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