Slightly Off the Mark

 Today, February 5th, is my brother Jeff's birthday.

Almost a week ago, last Saturday, is the day he died.

Emily and I had stopped by to visit with him and his wife Cathy that evening. He's been undergoing treatment for lung cancer and other problems for years, and a couple of months ago had been given two weeks to live--but more recently he rallied, gained weight, and was doing a lot better.

But by the time we got there that night he'd taken a turn for the worse. A hospice employee was on the way to check on him, and the three of us were trying to get Jeff from the bathroom back to the living room couch when he collapsed and died.

I didn't think of it at the time, but in my fifteen or so years as an active EMT and forty years as a firefighter I've never had anyone actually pass away in my presence. Jeff quite literally died in my arms, surrounded by three of his loved ones. It was the end of the struggle for him, and the beginning of a struggle for us.

Here's Jeff's obituary:

https://www.hitefuneralhome.com/obituary/Jeff-Hunter

Jeff and Cathy

Of course, obituaries rarely tell you much about a person. 

Jeff was a lifelong smoker, and that's the only bad thing I have to say. When you get addicted to something as a teenager, it's hard to think it might come back to haunt you decades later. why do I bring it up? Because we could have had him for another twenty years or more. It's worth noting that for those of you whose loved ones would like to keep you around, too.

Jeff and I were only a couple of years apart, and since our sisters weren't born until years later, we grew up basically as just two siblings. We loved each other, and we protected each other, and we fought like wildcats, and we tried to kill each other. He managed to shoot me with both an arrow and a BB gun, not to mention almost blowing me up more than once. We loved blowing stuff up, climbing places we shouldn't climb, and jumping things we shouldn't jump.

He put together all my models of starships and warships, and his of various cars and trucks. He was a hands-on doer, while I just liked to play and imagine. That would be a pattern our entire life: Whatever I had that broke, he would fix it. Jeff could take an engine apart blindfolded, and put it back together again without instructions. I could write. Believe me, when people needed help it was him they went to, and he usually dropped what he was doing. He single-handedly kept my first three cars together, despite all my youthful efforts to shake them apart.

His teenage years were a little shaky, but by eighteen he was working, and he worked full time for the rest of his life. He wasn't a joiner; he wasn't part of volunteer organizations or other groups, although as I said earlier he was always ready to jump in and help. Like me he was something of a homebody, but he did a much better job of it than I did. Basically he wanted to pay his bills, take care of his home, see his friends and family, and not interfere with the lives of others. Boy, we could use more people like that.

He put ketchup on everything.

He was a fan of science fiction as I am, and wanted to see the new TV show, Picard, so Emily and I bought him season one. But his birthday is today, and he was gone before we could give it to him.

So, that was my brother. Life is duller for him not being around. My job now is to make it less dull by making sure people remember him. Forgive me, but for the moment this writer can't do any better.

He was loved.

 I started out last week in something of a good mood, because I finished the third draft of Smoke Showing and then took the preliminary steps toward writing a novel involving the Land of Oz--a project close to my heart that I've been planning in my head for years.

Then the week turned into one of those Medical Weeks. You know the ones I mean: When for a certain period of time everything that happens seems to be health related, usually in a bad way.

Starting from worst, my uncle and my grandmother both fell and broke their hips, and as I write this both are scheduled for surgery today. For my grandmother it was supposed to be yesterday, but they couldn't transfer her to the hospital where the operation will be done because all their beds were full.

You knew the coronavirus was going to pop up here, somewhere.

So everything after that is pretty minor. In fact, very minor, and begging to be made fun of, although sometimes even I'm not in a fun-making mood. It's just that it all happened at the same time.

I got poked by needles four times, for instance, but that doesn't really count because I get two regular allergy shots, anyway. The third was a routine flu shot, so only the fourth--my annual blood draw--led to anything worse than a little soreness.

Besides, one needle was a withdrawal and three were deposits, so doesn't that count as a net gain?

The first day saw the two allergy shots and the blood draw, which my employer has done so they can shake judgemental fingers at me. I had a feeling about the results, so I downed a half gallon of ice cream between then and the follow up ... I figured it was likely to be my last guilt-free food treat ever.

Two days later, we took our dog Beowulf to the vet to get his ear infection looked at, so that counts as one. He's been walking sideways with one ear drooped over, and no, I don't share booze with him. Last time I walked that way was after two strawberry daquiris. (I'm a lightweight. Well, in that way, I am.)

Left ear, the one under the dump trunk.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the chiropractor. As usual, my vertebrae were trying to pass each other on a curve, but she pounded them back into submission.

Then came the flu shot, which was entirely uneventful as shots go. My wife and I were together for those last two, because it's important to experience pain as a family.

We closed out the week with a follow up at the doctor's office, where I mentioned two strange little bumps on my left hand that didn't really seem worth mentioning. Turns out they might be the beginning of a condition that can lead to the inability to use that hand without surgical intervention and GAH! I've always had a fear of not being able to type. Talk to text just isn't the same, because the whole reason I started typing to begin with is because I can't speak.

 Oh, and also I'm fat.

But you already knew that, and thanks for being polite. The doc didn't actually say so, in so many words. She said my cholesterol was going through the roof, I had a fatty liver, and my PSA levels took a huge jump. Since two out of three of those things mean I'm fat, I took it that way. The third had to do with my prostate, so I guess another visit to Doctor Finger is in my future.

Prostate cancer is one of the cancers that's more common in firefighters, so of course I'm going to have it checked, but I'm not too worried ... and there's nothing I can do about it, anyway. Doctor finger will poke around until he digs out the problem.

Weighing 233 pounds is whatI can do something about.

First I took all the stuff out of my pants pockets, then I cut my hair, and finally I bought a cheaper pair of shoes, so I'm already down to 232.

No. Just--NO.

Anyway, that was my medical week. If I read back through this I'd probably feel ashamed of myself for whining, and delete most of it. Then I'd have to find something else to blog about, so hang the edits! I'm going back to my story outlining.

Maybe a trip down the Yellow Brick Road will shave off some pounds.

Oh, you'll heard more about my new project later.

Happy birthday, Jill Mapes!

That's my number two daughter on the right, me on the left, and in the middle is her early Christmas present from two years ago. They get their cuteness from ... I don't know ... upbringing?

Lilli doesn't look all that happy at the moment, but only because she had to take time out from all her new toys and books to get her picture taken.

Emily's father had knee replacement surgery Monday and came through okay, although she tells me he's having pain issues. She's going to be down there taking care of him for a week or two.

I drove her down Sunday, and drove back Monday, because there was quite literally no one to replace me for my whole work rotation. (Which isn't to say I'm irreplaceable--that's a different thing entirely.) It was right at 1,000 miles starting out Sunday morning, and getting back Monday afternoon.

We had a passenger part of the way. Apparently Pokemon are only visible in a phone screen..

A thousand miles in thirty hours is hardly a record, by any standards. Still, I'm getting a little, um, older for that. We listened to Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere" on the way down, and I listened to podcasts on the way back, which made it easier ... but man, am I stiff and sore, and tired.

Beowulf wasn't overly thrilled either, especially when he realized we were leaving without Emily. It took half the trip to get him to drink any water, and as we got close to home I bought him a cheeseburger just so he'd eat something. Poor fellow hasn't gone a day without seeing her since we got him, and I haven't been separated from her that long since we got married. The difference is that I can stay busy to keep my mind off of it, and he's just moping by the door.

Not much of interest on the drive, except that I got buzzed by a biplane doing some crop dusting. It's startling to suddenly see a shadow pass over that's bigger than the car.

We passed this guy on the way down ... twice, after a rest stop. The military sometimes hauls its haulers.

Prayers and good thoughts requested for my father-in-law -- and for Emily, who's tasked with making him get up and exercise his new knee, something I'm sure he won't want to do.

I sent out a press release about the Avilla Freedom Festival appearance; it may seem silly, but silly is what I do best:

            A local author will make his second trip to the Avilla Freedom Festival this year, along with some of his family.

Hi, can I complain for a second?

I try to only complain once every few months or so except in my humor columns, where my misfortunes are supposed to be humorous. Nobody likes a complainer. In fact, don't read this. Just stop right there and head on over to some video of cute horses toying with much smaller humans. 

"You think you're gonna ride me? I'll mess you the heck up."

Good, now I can write this just for me, which takes a lot of the pressure off. It's a private diary entry that happens to be available to billions of people. Anyway, basically I'm just here because February sucked.

Some people don't like the word "sucked" in this context, seeing it as a naughty word of sorts. I get that; I'm not really a fan of bad language. But in this case I feel I'm justified, because February did suck, and the only other words that might describe it are way worse.

I was sick for all of February, first with a cold and then my annual sinus infection; my wife was sick for only half that time, although with the same thing. (Which, yes, means it was my fault.) In this we were in good company: 90% of all the people in Indiana, and 75% of all the people in the world, also got sick in February. What else is there to do? It's February.

Of course, February sucks every year. It's maybe a little better than January but worse than December, and way worse than March--although March has its moments. I understand these are actually good months if you live in Key West, South Africa, or New Zealand. But New Zealand keeps getting overrun by Hobbits, so there's that.

"This sucks."

I think maybe what triggered this is a combination of Seasonal Affected Disorder and Facebook. SAD is only depressing during winter, and is a condition in which sane people feel bad because they recognize how much winter sucks. Facebook is depressing all year round. But this particular February, it seemed like every time I looked at Facebook someone had died, either locally or celebrity-wise.

The celebrity part isn't important, and functions mostly to remind me I'm getting older. But locally, the population of my home town dropped 10% this February.

And then, on the last day of the month, my father's sister and my mother's brother both passed away. It happened in different states, and was completely coincidental. And yet, I couldn't help thinking that it was February's last, parting middle finger of suckiness.

I wanted to touch on that, so I could end on a less negative note. Almost anything is less negative than that.

There were other, little things, too. I tried my best to shatter my foot (yes, I wrote a blog about it--be patient); our book sales, like February, sucked, but from what I've heard the same thing happened to all my writer friends. (I assume book sales would have been bad for non-writers, if they'd had any.) Then there was the weather, which was very February-like.

"I would just like to point out that this is NOT dandruff."

But now it's March. Meteorological spring, a time of longer days and, hopefully, the first green shoots of a new season. Time to pull ourselves up by our boot straps, which as a firefighter I've literally done, and accentuate the positive.

The positive being that it's not February. Which sucked.

Izzy was ten. She spent fully half of her young life battling cancer, and once we really thought she'd beaten it. But cancer is stubborn, and insidious, and it really, really likes killing people.

There are some fund raisers going on for the family, and they really need it. (She has two younger brothers.) Overall there's a Prayers for Izzy FB group here:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1005688059446767/ 

And also a Paypal fund raising account: 

https://www.paypal.me/findacureforizzy?fbclid=IwAR2PJtiUpHGtXKlNiOhqYv2hPajg2haI9Ip63WW0oWc0yzwpGqA2S46dWQw 

And some creative people selling stuff to help: 

https://www.etsy.com/listing/661308018/prayers-of-izzy-washer-bracelet?fbclid=IwAR2LcYLkhKFGB6ZyN3njWSiUVgjZekKXeuk01ppRJbWBQxTIoqMVPcutdjc

https://www.etsy.com/listing/675149071/prayers-for-izzy-cuff-bracelet?ref=landingpage_similar_listing_top-4

 And that's about all I have to say, because ... what can you say? Nothing covers this. There's no inspirational comment or encouraging word you can give anyone in the face of this. Honestly, I have trouble even looking at those last few photos.

I have two daughters of my own.

Happy birthday to my youngest daughter, Jill!

She used to go by Jillian, but apparently she's all grown up now, or somethin'.

Last year she got an early Christmas present that was pretty much the greatest, not to mention the most expensive.

Maybe that's why this year the most practical present would be a plus sized case of one-year diapers. But that's okay, because she gets that first present all over again whenever Lillianna smiles.

Which she doesn't do for me nearly awesome enough; we need to work on that.

Well, I may be a grandfather times three now, but I'll always be dad. Many happy returns!

Party for Lilli's first birthday!

A mermaid theme. Why not?

Our present to her, continuing the Oz family tradition.

"What now?"

"Oh--and I'm walking!"

"Dad, Mom--Let us eat cake!"

Well, that didn't last long. What's next?