A Pilgrim’s Digression

I’m finding it really difficult to sustain much of an interest in the rest of this Presidential campaign.  That’s sad, because I recognize its historic nature, and I’d like to be able to tell my grandkids all the details of Obama’s road trip through Europe and the Middle East, and how he stirred our hearts and the world changed that day, etc., etc.

But I am missing it all.  I am not watching the news.  I am not listening to Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity.  I am not even reading the news online, save for an occasional odd story about millions in damaged money that mysteriously turned up at the Treasury over the course of several years.  The story begins like a treasure hunt: a man shows up at the treasury over the course of several years with thousands, eventually amounting to millions, of dollars that has been buried and damaged by the elements.  He tells Treasury officials the money was found while excavating a tree in Mexico.  The Treasury exchanges the damaged money for new bills wired to a bank account.

By the end of the story, it seems less a mystery than a story about an ingenious way for Mexican drug dealers to literally launder money.

But politics, politics…aye, there’s the rub.  I have no interest.

To some extent, I think the primary season was so exciting and anxiety-filled, there is little in the general campaign season to excite interest.  Obama seems more and more like a typical politician, and a rather stodgy one at that.  All the excitement seems to have gone out of him and his campaign, as if there can be no public displays of humanity inside the campaign bubble.  I suppose we can expect no more “dirt off your shoulders” moments.

Even holidays at Obama’s house sound about as enjoyable as a 19th century Christmas with the Ingalls family in the Big Woods of Wisconsin.  I remember reading the “Little House” books as a boy and being quite astonished at the lack of presents the children received for their birthday or a holiday.  Well, recently there was this report from the UK that the Obamas do not give their children Christmas or Birthday presents because they want them to know some “limits.”

It makes me wonder if the Obamas force their kids to spend Sunday being seen and not heard while studying Poverty in America.

I am all for setting limits on children’s gifts, however not to give any gift at all seems extreme and downright cold.  Why not set a limit of one gift, or two gifts maximum?  That seems more in line with the spirit of what Christmas means anyway.  Christ himself only received three Christmas gifts, and not one of them was a toy.  Seriously, what is a baby going to do with Frankincense?

McCain is no better, in terms of providing some degree of excitement to a boring campaign season.  I did listen to a little Hannity and Colmes last night, and the liberal commentator Susan Estrich commented that McCain’s campaign reminds her of the last days of Bob Dole’s run for the Presidency.  One of these days soon, McCain is going to slip up and let loose with a “Where’s the outrage?!”

On WMAL in the morning last week, Fred Grandy remarked that he believed John McCain was on “mood enhancers,” by which he meant anti-depressants, specifically Zoloft.  McCain’s behavior seems too subdued, his mood seems too even.  He has no feeling for anything that happens, no matter the subject.  Even when he seems genuinely angry, such as when he is criticizing Obama for not recognizing the success of the surge, his anger rarely rises to the point of feeling.  He simply looks tight-lipped, like a man who is tamping it all down, all that emotion, right down into the pit of his stomach where it will become his first major heart attack.

All in all, there has been little to sustain interest in this campaign over the months of June and July.  But the summer is winding down.  School begins for my wife in a little more than two weeks, and for my son the week following.   College will be back in session about the same time.  Labor Day is around the corner.

And we all know there is often some big event that occurs in August, September, or October that can galvanize public interest.  There was 9/11, of course, and all that followed that fall…but also Katrina.  Gas prices have to some extent roiled the otherwise still waters of the summer, but I don’t know if that issue will extend into the Fall, now that gas prices are coming down a little ($3.75 for regular at the Sheetz where I buy my gas in Virginia).  It seems ridiculous to think that $3.75 is cheap, but it is a relief to finally see the numbers go down, even if only a little.

Anyway, what will be, will be.  The months ahead may be full of turmoil and anxiety, if Obama can’t pull definitively ahead of McCain, and then I will start paying more attention.  Right now, I am just enjoying the long weekends, the pleasant weather, and steak on the grill.

The results of grandma’s CT scan were not heartening. The tumor has grown; her doctor suggested that she try another form of chemotherapy, and yesterday she had her first treatment.

I called her around 4:30, and knew when I heard her speak that the news wasn’t good. She sounded different, tired. After she told me the results, I said, “You sound more tired than usual. Is this new treatment worse than the other chemo?”

She said no, that the treatment is actually easier than before, taking only two hours instead of the usual four to five. She said she has some chest congestion she can’t get rid of which has made her tired. The doctor said it was just an ordinary cold, however.

I asked about the side effects of the new chemo. She said the only thing the doctor mentioned is that she can’t drink any cold beverage for about a week after treatment. She has to drink liquids at room temperature or warmer. Apparently cold liquids will results in a kind of long term brain freeze that, as you can imagine, would be pretty uncomfortable. Grandpa made the joke that she will no longer be able to drink cold chocolate; it will have to truly be hot chocolate.

Grandma said that what she was really going to miss is ice cream. She and grandpa have made a habit of going out for ice cream in the evening, and now she won’t be able to do that, at least not the first week after treatment. Since her chemo is every two weeks, that gives her a window of about a week to indulge, but the threat of a painful side effect might make it difficult to enjoy her treat even when she knows she should be safe.

We didn’t talk long. She seemed glad when I asked her about the weather, and she talked a little about grandpa’s vegetable garden and all the good beans they are getting. No tomatoes just yet. Maybe by the end of the month.

Finally, as we were saying goodbye, I said, “Well I am glad you are continuing treatment. You have to fight.”

She said, “Yes, but you know it’s just something we have to accept. I’m not going to get better.”

It. Accept it.

True enough, but it’s like consenting to live with the person who you know is going to murder you one day.

I slept reasonably well last night. I still woke up about every hour, but was able to go back to sleep easily. Then I woke up about a half hour before the alarm went off, and I didn’t go back to sleep. But I don’t feel too bad, today. Just normal. About average. I don’t remember my dreams.

At the bus stop last week, I found a little pink Croc, probably this one. It’s infant-size, and I thought, “Someone will miss that.” So I hung it from its strap on a screw on the back of the bus stop sign.

Today, it was lying in the grass. I picked it up and put it on the curb. Maybe the pink will catch someone’s eye as they drive by, but maybe not. It’s a very small shoe.

If not, I’ll get to see how long it remains on the curb. I am betting it will only last until winter, and then the first snow will cover it, and a snowplow will bury it even more with the sooty ice scraped from the street, and then it will either be swept away by the street cleaners or washed away in the dirty winter rain.

My bad dreams seems to be spilling over into my life at home on weekends. I slept poorly roughly half of the time I was home this weekend, not always because of bad dreams. I am easily awakened now, for reasons I don’t understand. Also, I seem unable to fall into a deep enough sleep. Deep enough to dream, but then I wake up frequently in the night, and sometimes I have difficulty going back to sleep.

This afternoon, I lay down and took a nap around a quarter of two. I woke up within fifteen minutes, having had another nightmare. In this dream, I received a phone call from someone who sounded like a great aunt. I assumed she was calling to ask me how my grandma was doing.

Grandma has been much on my mind this weekend, because she went for a CT scan last week and the results are supposed to be in today. Whether or not she continues treatment for her cancer is dependent on the result of these periodic tests.

I have been putting off calling her today, because I am not sure I want to know the news. It’s been a year since her diagnosis with pancreatic cancer. How much longer can she reasonably live?

Anyway, in the dream, I talk to this person who I assume is a relative. I tell her I have not called grandma, and in my head I feel guilty because I haven’t called.

Finally, as the other person talks, I begin to detect oddities in the voice and in what she is saying. She seems to be repeating what I say, for the most part, not adding anything to the conversation.

I ask, “This is Aunt Mary Ann, right?”

There is silence on the other end. Then the voice says, menacingly, “Subtle. Very smooth.”

And she hangs up.

In the dream, I have this sickening feeling that this person knows something, or is going to hurt me in some way because I talked to her like a family member.

Probably, the dream is no more than an expression of guilt over not calling my grandma today. I need to do that and get it out of the way.

But what about my other nightmares? I had a therapy session today, but forgot to mention my sleep problems. I did talk about grandma and my feelings over her situation extensively, however.

I mentioned how I felt when I went to my great-grandma’s funeral at the beginning of the month, how it seemed like an eerie preview of the funeral to come. In retrospect, it almost seems like a nightmare itself, right down to the way my grandpa and his brothers kind of made light of their mother’s death by only postponing their fishing trip long enough to put their mother in the ground.

I know that puts a harsh angle on their actions, but as I told my therapist, the whole thing seemed rather surreal, not like a funeral at all. And I was left wondering, how is grandpa going to act when my grandma dies? Will he go fishing then, too?

My therapist didn’t say anything, other than to repeat back to me what I’d said I felt. Sometimes I feel like I’m in echo chamber. I wish I had one male friend who lived close by, with whom I could just go out and drink and talk. But this isn’t exactly the kind of thing men talk about when drinking…”Oh, my grandma’s dying…I’m afraid I’ll cry at her funeral, and no one in my family ever cries.”

But I’ve got a therapist. I’m going to see him again in two weeks. I’m thinking about scheduling my next appointment for one week later, and seeing him every week for awhile, until I start to feel like I’m getting a better grip on things.

I’m going back to Washington tonight. Here’s hoping for a good night’s sleep.

Whenever I see a man wearing a pink shirt, the theme from Miami Vice always starts playing in my head. I think it was Don Johnson who first popularized pink in men’s fashion back in the eighties.

I went out to lunch today and saw not one but two young men in khakis and pink dress shirts, walking down the sidewalk together along with three other men. I don’t even know if the term yuppie applies anywhere in modern culture, anymore, but that’s what I thought of: yuppies named Brad and Chip, blond hair and pink dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up. All they needed was a sweater draped over their back, the arms tied around their neck.

I see a lot of pink shirts on men, and I wonder what it means. Or maybe the better question, as my therapist would say, is what does it mean to me?

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I slept badly again last night. I’m not sure what’s wrong lately. I sleep fine at home, but when I return to Washington I don’t sleep.

Last night, I even got to bed early, at 10:40. I turned over and over, one side to the next. I got up and got an extra pillow to make myself more comfortable. I lay there for what seemed an eternity.

I kept thinking I could hear thumping bass, as if someone were sitting outside the house in their car, playing hip hop on the stereo. After awhile, I decided the sound was coming from the air conditioner.

When I finally did get to sleep, I had nightmares that woke me up. I don’t dream much anymore, so it is worth recording what my nightmares were about.

In one, my son is kidnapped by a psychopath who keeps him in a dungeon in a dog kennel and forces him to watch as he murders other victims. The killer is intent on raising my son to his specifications and shows him pornography and talks to him for hours about the history of serial killers, and he grows furious when to comfort himself, B. starts singing a Carly Simon song he listens to at night when going to sleep: “Into White.” One day, he drugs B.’s food and, while he is unconscious, cuts his tongue out so he can’t sing anymore.

Meanwhile, the authorities seem indifferent. The police don’t organize a search. No one steps forward to offer a reward. Detectives have other cases they are working on, so they only get to our son’s case in the late afternoon when they are tired and ready to quit. The FBI isn’t interested in helping at all. Dateline turns down an offer to interview us.

“Will there be a Clarice Starling come to save you?” The killer asks my son. “No, I don’t think so.”

I woke up from this nightmare around two AM and then lay there reliving it for who knows how long. When I went back to sleep, I dreamed that my elderly landlady had died and I had to find a new residence. I moved in with a seemingly pleasant man and his wife, who actually have their tenants unwittingly sign a life insurance policy along with the lease. Then they butcher them. This nightmare ends with me locked in my room and the man and woman coming up the stairs for me.

In between all these bad dreams, I kept waking up periodically simply due to the lightness of my sleep. As the air conditioner cooled the room, the wooden doors in the room would crack or there would be a popping sound in the walls. Sometimes it actually sounded as if someone had opened the bedroom door, and I’d wake with a start. My groggy sleeplessness also brought on a headache which lingers even now, several hours later.

Hour after hour passed like this. I’d wake up and look at the clock, seemingly always in hour increments: 12:10, 1:00, 2:08, 3:12. Until finally I got up to get ready for work around 4:30.

What a dreadful night. I can only hope I’ll be tired enough to sleep better tonight. And may it be a dreamless sleep.

It’s one of those mornings where the alarm clock must have been going off for ten minutes before the sound penetrated my sleeping brain. I was in a deep freeze of undreaming sleep. When I finally did come out of my coma, I rolled out of bed into the morning dark and staggered around my room trying to get my bearings.

What time? What place? What am I supposed to do?

I try to gather up the things I will need in the bathroom. Towel, contact solution and contacts, toothbrush. I end up standing, swaying in the dark, trying to get straight in my mind whether I have everything.

Ugh, my head.

Fifteen years ago, this might have been the morning after a night on the town. Instead, it is the result of playing World of Warcraft until ten past midnight, then not being able to fall asleep until one A.M. Then the alarm went off at what time?

I look at the clock for the third time. 4:50 A.M. But I know that’s not right. I always set the clock fifteen to twenty minutes fast, so that I feel like I am saving time. It sounds silly, especially when I have barely slept and I’m standing there looking at the clock thinking “It’s really 4:35 A.M. Can I go back to sleep?”

No, I can’t.

I hadn’t done this in awhile. I thought the addiction was over, after more than a month of being able to quit playing and go to bed at 10:30. But last night, I went on an impromptu Karazhan raid with some people I hadn’t played with for a long time, and we had so much fun. There was Frenchy and his wife, the two Quebecoise who everyone loves to hear speak over Vent. There was the middle-aged, retired guy from Vancouver…who plays a petite, pretty female Draenei mage. There was the newbie, our novice Paladin healer we took along just to gear him up out of greens and blues. There was our guild leader, female cancer survivor and tree Druid, never letting our health fall much below 5%.

It was a wonderful time. We almost could have made a Karathon of it, running the whole instance, but we started too late. So we went through Shade of Aran, then did the Chess event just for kicks (and to try to get our Paladin the shield that drops). Then we all quit, dead tired.

And this is the morning after. I feel like crap, but am happy as can be.

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