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8 Nov

My thumb and finger have healed as much as they are going to.  My thumb sports a permanent dent, and my finger features a ragged but still impressive scar.

My brothers and I emptied Mom’s garage of the rest of Dad’s stuff, mainly odds and ends of wood, fasteners, and other things too valuable for him to throw away but too small to be useful.  I brought home sandpaper, a few tools, and some of his desk things.  No one wanted his desk things, but I think they are too valuable to just throw away because they are part of who he was.  They are cluttering up our house instead of Mom’s garage, and that’s fine with me.

Dylan died this summer.  He participated in graduation and earned a diploma.  Cancer finally claimed him in July but not without a fight.  Dylan never thought giving up was an option, so he never did.  He would say that the cancer just overwhelmed him, not that it defeated him.  I think nothing ever defeated Dylan.

Our son is doing missionary work in South Africa.  He blogs when he gets a chance (Internet access is spotty and unpredictable).  He writes his blog posts the same way he wrote essays for my English class.

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only a flesh wound (a busy afternoon for me–part 1)

23 Oct

On June 30, I was cleaning up the garage and decided to cut up some scraps of wood into kindling.  When I realized that some of the pieces were longer than the distance from my fingertip to my thumb, I tried to think of what I could make out of them.  (My grandfather always maintained that if, after a project, you had left over any wood longer than the distance from fingertip to thumb, then you misfigured.)  I sketched out a plan for a box for my biking stuff–helmet, seat cover, mirror, tire pressure gauge, and such–with the frames being lap joints and the actual sides being pegboard.  I sized the wood and set up my saw with the dado blades.  After cutting a dozen of the sixteen pieces, I accidentally grabbed the moving blades.

It was much later that I realized the pain was like a terrible burn.  I turned off the saw and yelled into the house.  My wife came and saw me walking in small circles and holding my left arm up.  She went back in and came out with a dishtowel.  I pointed out it was one of the new ones I had just given her for her birthday and we shouldn’t ruin it, so she got a different one.  She dispatched our daughter to call 911 while she tried to make me sit down and drink a little water.  I felt better, but we both knew I needed to go the ER.  Much later, my wife told me that, as she was talking to me and trying to calm me down, she also was furtively scanning the garage floor for anything a doctor might need to reattach.  She told our daughter to cancel the EMS people, and we went to our local ER, about four miles away.

On the way out of our neighborhood’s hilly and curvy streets, we passed the largest fire truck the station could send.  It was what EMS had sent to my house.  When they arrived, my daughter greeted the fire fighters, told them they had just missed me, and thanked them for coming so quickly.  They agreed not to submit a bill since they had not actually seen a patient or potential patient.  I really like our fire fighters.

I am very stubborn and a bad patient, but I did agree to getting out at the ER door while my wife parked the car.  My normal skin tone is pale, but apparently I looked even more ghostly than usual because the admit nurse looked alarmed when I walked in.  She sat me down and began asking basic questions for admittance, questions I would answer several more times before I went home.

My wife came in, and we went back to an examination room.  Two doctors and a nurse appeared and assessed my injury and asked me the same basic questions the admit nurse had asked.  I volunteered my average resting heart rate and blood type; I talk a lot when I am that nervous.

My relationship with needles is a fraught one.  They don’t frighten me, but I don’t like them.  If I were diabetic and had to inject myself daily, I would be dead.  When I give blood, I have to close my eyes, cover them, and turn my head.  The nurse at the ER had my IV in before I realized that’s what she was doing.  Whatever the hospital pays her is not nearly enough.  My IV contained a pain killer, an antibiotic, and something to counteract the nausea that the pain killer would cause.  The pain killer was my favorite.

The doctor cleaned everything thoroughly so I could see the damage.  My wife would only take quick glances.  For the first time, I got a good look at what I had done.  I could see the bone on my left index finger between the distal and proximal joints (I picked up some terminology), and the side and pad of my thumb were an icky, meaty mess.  Nothing was missing, though, as far as I could tell.  The doctor wrapped everything securely and told us he could not sew anything up because he was not a hand specialist.  So, he sent us to the ER in the next city, but he called ahead so we wouldn’t have to wait when we got there.  He offered an ambulance, and it was very tempting, but financial reality won out.

I don’t know why I didn’t think to grab my camera on the way out of the house when all this started.

this is what I meant

18 Oct

I taught my son both his eleventh and twelfth grade English classes, which went much better than it might sound.  He insisted on calling me by my last name, as other students did, so several of his classmates took to calling me Dad.  When he was in my eleventh grade class, I learned how he wrote essays.

There’s a little back story.  Like most parents, I became a necessary nuisance in my son’s life when he was about twelve years old.  I clearly didn’t know anything and existed to make him miserable.  In eighth grade, he took a high school freshman English class.  I read his first essay and made several suggestions about how he could make it an actual essay.  He argued that his writing had always been excellent so this was, too.  A week later when he brought home the graded paper, his teacher had charitably given it a 50.  Her comments for improvement were exactly what I had told him.  From that day forward, I have known what I was doing and what I was talking about, in my son’s estimation (at least when it comes to writing, English, and education in general).

When he was in eleventh grade, I assigned my son (and his classmates) to write an essay.  They had two weeks or so.  After a few days, I asked my son if he had started or jotted down ideas or completed any prewriting activities.  He had not.  A few days before the paper was due, he had made no progress on it.  The evening before the paper was due, he sat down at the computer and typed for a little more than half an hour.  He announced his essay was finished and that he had sent it to the website where my students posted their assignments.  I expressed my dismay that he had not let anyone proofread it or look over it at all.

I needn’t have worried.  His essay was excellent, easily the best in the class.  He had been working on it all along in his head.  He had been turning over ideas and developing them and organizing them in the background of his waking thoughts until he began typing.  My wife and I marveled.

My first post on this blog is something I had been carrying around in my head since late summer.  I finally wrote it down here, and it looks like it did in my head, except that the ending came out as I typed it.  I don’t remember writing like that–in my head for days with nothing on paper until typing–in high school or college, but I think I probably did.  I guess I forgot because there was nothing I could see, nothing I could look at, no papers to file or flip through.  So my son comes by it naturally.

There is a funny story about the online paper site, Turnitin.com. When my school first made the site available to teachers and students, I made midnight deadlines.  After a couple of those, I realized that my students were using my assignments as excuses to stay up late and do other things online.  One essay was due at eleven on a Friday, and my son was on a date.  About 8:00, I decided to login to see who had turned in their essays so far.  Three or four of my students had submitted their essays, but my son was not among them.  My wife said I should text our son and remind him about his assignment.  I pointed out that I didn’t provide that service to my students.  So, his sister texted him.  Shortly after ten, her brother appeared. He messed around for a few minutes, sat down to type, and submitted his paper with fifteen minutes to spare.  Again, his was the best in the class.

I still find this kind of freakish.

 

Here he is in his freshman dorm room.

not what anyone expected

5 Oct

Shortly before dawn on Sunday, May 6, 2012, my Dad died.  He had been sleeping noisily as he sometimes did, but Mom was unable to wake him.  She called EMS, but Dad was gone before they arrived.  He had not been sick nor been complaining of anything.  He was 79.  May 6 is Mom’s birthday.

Before going to bed Saturday night, Dad laid out his Sunday clothes, the ones we wound up burying him in.  He made Mom a birthday card and left it at her place at the breakfast table, along with their daily vitamins.

Earlier Saturday evening, Mom and Dad came to see my son graduate from college.  The BA candidates went first, so my parents got to see their grandson get his diploma.  After the final BA, Dad and Mom left because it was getting late, the stadium seats were increasingly uncomfortable, and they didn’t want to drive in the dark.  I told my Dad I would see him tomorrow.

My big brother called a little before 6:30 Sunday morning.  My wife answered the phone and spoke to him.  I don’t know how he was able to call all three of us brothers.  I don’t remember getting dressed or driving over to Mom’s house.  I spent something like fourteen hours over there that day, but it all seems pretty fuzzy.

Dad’s death surprised everyone, but his faith and ours kept us from mourning very much.  I feel bad for Mom because she has to reestablish her life after more than fifty years of marriage.  She is a bright and determined and happy woman, so she is going on with things.

I feel especially bad for my son.  What should have been a day of celebrating his accomplishments turned into a day in which he was pushed–gently and unintentionally–into the background.  He spent much of the day moving out of his on-campus apartment and helping his girlfriend move out of hers.  He simply couldn’t get to Mom’s house until the middle of the afternoon.  And while being busy and having a significant other probably were good, I wish he could have been with the rest of us.  He would have sat around and chatted with cousins and such and would have had to meet umpteen strangers who were so glad to know his grandfather but so sad to learn of his passing.  It would not necessarily have been pleasant, but it would have been shared.