Friday, March 07, 2014

The Hunt

Over the years, I’ve written several times about dating. For whatever reason as little as I enjoy the activity, I do enjoy discussing it. I’ve come to a realization lately about dating; it’s possibly the very root of what makes me abhor it with such vehemence. Curiously, this revelation stems not from dating, but from a trade show I recently attended as a vendor for my company.

When I say my company, I really do mean my company. I’m one of the co-founders, so when I discuss what we offer and how we’ve come to offer it, I’m divulging very personal details. This has been my life and my world for the past year or so, and selling my life and my world has become a part of my everyday experience.

Unfortunately as a small company with little to no brand recognition, “selling” has much less to do with offering a competitive service at a reasonable price than it does with hunting your target audience. exposing their weakness, and demonstrating how you are the perfect fit, capable of turning their weakness into a strength.

This is fundamentally what I despise about selling or dating - this notion of the hunt. I do not want to capture, I have no desire to catch. It’s not because I’m bad at it, it’s because I don’t value those relationships. They feel like the easy way out.

In any of my relationships, I most treasure freedom and independence - not in myself. In fact, I regularly impose excessive constraints on myself. This site is full of references to my “rules for dating.” But I most treasure freedom and independence in others. I don’t want to trick people into spending time with me.

In high school, I wore a leather coat. It was a fantastic coat. Not only did I love to wear it, but my friends would regularly ask to wear it. In fact, most of the winter, as soon as I got to school, I’d hand it to the first girl who asked and I wouldn’t see it again until it was time to go home. That coat would make my closet smell like women’s perfume well into the spring. I wouldn’t have traded that for the world.

It got to the point where I wouldn’t even worry about who had it or where it was. The girl who asked for it in the morning might hand it off to a friend and that friend might give it to someone else before it made it back to me in the afternoon. I didn’t know the girl in the locker next to mine very well, but she wound up with it one day and when she gave it back, asked me if she could borrow it again some time. Of course she could.

The next day she borrowed it first thing in the morning, but it was a warm day and she put in her locker fairly early in the day. I knew her locker partner, and she gave it back to me before lunch. It hung in my locker for the rest of the day, which almost never happened. But that afternoon the girl who borrowed it that morning came to me and told me she had no idea what happened to my coat. 

Now, it would have been nothing to tell her I got it back, but I delight in being slightly mischievous. Why, just this morning I told an old friend who graciously let me stay at his place for the night that I panicked and threw the garage door clicker in the garage when I left. It’s right where we agreed I should leave it, but what fun is that?

So instead of just telling her I had the coat, I kept questioning her until we had both become convinced that someone had broken into her locker and stolen the coat. I told her I wasn’t upset, but I clearly looked upset. I told her it was no big deal as I shivered a bit from imagined cold. I told her that I didn’t need her to replace the coat; buying me dinner would easily cover the loss.

I left my coat in my locker that night, but I had her phone number in my pocket.

We went out once, if I recall correctly. We broke up and made up every other day for a month. Relationships built on manipulation and lies don’t have a fantastic foundation. She’s a wonderful woman, but we never had a chance. There’s a line between playfulness and trickery; I was nowhere near that line.

I don’t want to trick people into liking me or my company. I don’t want to manipulate or chase or hunt. I want to dance.

I love the metaphor of life as a dance. I don’t want my goal to be to catch you. I’m not trying to end the hunt; I’m trying to keep the dance alive. I not trying to come at you or attack you or win you; I’m trying to be near you, to move with you, to act and react for our mutual benefit and enjoyment.

I want you to be free to do whatever you like, choose whatever you want, do whatever you please with whomever pleases you. I want you to see yourself as lovely and beautiful and capable and qualified. And as the delightful, bright, simply wonderful person that you are, if you choose to dance with me, if you choose to be near me, then all of that delight and brightness and wonder is mine. Not because I tricked you, not because I caught you. It’s not a trophy, it’s a gift. And I love gifts. I love free.

This is what I want. I don’t want clients who see me as a necessary evil. I don’t want relationships that feel forced and trapped. I want to play out the relationship I have with my God with the people he has put in my life. I want to dance with you because he dances with me. I want you to have the freedom and independence he has given me. And if that means I get to share in the beauty he has given you… well, that’s just beautiful.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Farsighted Hindsight

It's hard to believe that I've been out of the hospital for almost a month. The meds are all finished. I've got most of my strength and energy back. I'm back at work full time. Most of those surreal feelings that are inevitable when you wake up from a week long dream have waned and it's back to business as usual.

I've had the privilege of meeting almost everyone from the ER and ICU whose name I was able to discover. There are a few folks whose names are still a mystery and a few who I haven't yet met, but at this point I think it's best to let these wonderful people go back to saving lives rather than forcing them to humor me in my quest to thank everyone who cared for me.

It's just not possible to thank everyone. Random conversations with nurses in the ICU turned up any number of people who stepped in to help out for a bit. It became more and more humbling to discover how many people made me a priority, even if just for a moment.

The same is true for friends and family who took the time to come visit, call, text, message, send a card or a plant, leave me notes online, or pray. So many prayers, so many pray-ers - it has been truly humbling to hear about the old friends and new friends and friends I may never meet who set time aside to offer up petitions for my health and healing.

Some friends have made it a point to continue to care for me after I left the hospital. Mike's mom fed me for two solid weeks. Friends carted me to grocery stores and restaurants because I had the attention span, and therefore driving acumen, of a squirrel. I am truly blessed not just to be alive, but to be so well cared for.

My friend still in ICU leaves the hospital tomorrow. I've been going up there to see her almost every day, but between seeing her progress and spending time with her nurses and techs and family and friends, it's been a time of continued healing for me as well. I couldn't be happier that she is making such incredible progress, but it's tough to finally close the book on this chapter of my life.

In the time I've spent up at the hospital I've learned a few things; the one that still hits me the hardest is just how rarely medical professionals are thanked. I would love to tell everyone that you should make it a priority to thank the people who care for you when you can't care for yourself, but I have to qualify the advice. Thanking these people has been one of the most difficult things I have ever done.

Looking in the eyes of someone who has comforted you, cared for you, treated you with concern and respect - someone who has seen you naked, broken, covered in blood and filth and instead of being disgusted, instead of throwing you back out on the street, instead of writing you off as dying, as worthless, as trash, they saw you as someone worth protecting, worth serving, worth saving - looking in those eyes and seeing tears start to well, tears of joy and thanksgiving held back simply because you took the time to show up, to stand up, to say thank you... it's painful, it's scary, it's humiliating and humbling and so deeply, intensely, physically, emotionally and mentally draining.

Every time I felt like I made an utter fool of myself. I was excited and embarrassed and I couldn't stop talking. I interrupted every 3 seconds. Even taking a breath risked the possibility of a break down. Worse was knowing that the end of the conversation meant good bye. It's hard to be in the presence of someone whose entire existence seems to revolve around compassion and care and not immediately be addicted to the experience.

But walking away... when the conversation ended, it was impossible to not feel like the entire universe came to a screeching halt to just take a moment to be completely, totally, absolutely right. I love to smile, but these were the sort of smiles that turn you inside out, that take all the pain and fear and humiliation and dump it all out on the floor and replace the ensuing void with more joy and peace than you could ever manage to fit inside yourself on your own.

It's not the almost-dying that changed my life. It's not the life-saving that changed my life. It's the eyes, it's the smiles, it's the hugs and the humility and the joy of the people who refused to let me die, of the people who did their job and prayed their prayers and encouraged me in the vain hope that it might just barely be enough to make a difference... that's what changed my life.

I've spent a long time saying that the whole point of life is to leave people better than you found them, to honor the ones who came before and serve the ones who follow. Never in my life have I so intensely been the focus of exactly that by such a tremendous host of people. To all the ones to whom I must now say goodbye, please know that you are in my prayers and in my stories and in my heart. To all those whose walk with me has not yet come to an end, please know that you are in my prayers and in my stories and in my heart and, to my immeasurable joy, in my life.

Wednesday, October 09, 2013

Beautiful

I live a fortunate life. I have been blessed in ways I could never hope to describe. In a sense, the past few weeks are just another set of stories, another string of blessings. But some beautiful things have happened to me, and it would be a shame to split the stories up.

On September 20, 2013, I was admitted to the ER of Baylor University Medical Center at Dallas. After 5 days in ICU and 7 days out, the first of October I was discharged with a bottle of pills and a single follow-up appointment and returned home to live by myself. This is the story of my family, my friends, my God and the medical professionals who saved my life.

It's a difficult story to tell, and likely a difficult story to read. But I owe my life to more people than I can even thank; hopefully this will at least serve as a down payment.

The Arrival

On September 20, my good friend Mike broke into my house, called 911, and saved my life. I remember him opening up my front door and tossing me a shirt, after which I threw up, lay down and passed out. The next thing I can remember I'm in an ambulance. I was able to recall my name, the year, and the president, but not my birthday, the date, the current month, or any of my symptoms. After 5 bags of saline, they got me stable enough for transport and I arrived at the ER (Mike pointed out that the 5 bags were after I arrived at the ER).

Technically I arrived at triage first, but it didn't take long for Carly, the nurse at the triage desk, to wheel me straight to ER. I was reasonably aware when I arrived, but everything is a little on the fuzzy side. I've since discovered that the whole time I was in the ER, Dr. Amanda, one of her residents, and my nurse Scott along with a number of other ER professionals worked hard to discover the symptoms I was unable to describe. I was first in a staging room where they took my vitals, and was quickly moved back to one of the rooms. They were convinced I was in diabetic shock, but that was easy to rule out as I'm not diabetic. They attempted to insert a catheter twice with no success, in the process establishing my 10 on the pain scale. They then performed a lumbar puncture, a procedure which requires a giant needle be jammed into your spine to collect fluid to test for neurological issues, since they were concerned that a brain infection was responsible for my confusion. The lumbar puncture was substantially less painful than I was lead to believe it would be, which I attribute to the still fresh in my mind trauma of failed catheter insertions and my resident's long hours of study and practice.

I'm sure more things were attempted in the ER however the next thing I remember is being wheeled to the ICU by (I think) Scott, Danielle, and Blair. I definitely remember on the way Danielle and Blair discussing how I was going to be a fun patient. And by "definitely" I mean I could have been making all that up in my head; I am a bit on the arrogant side (Clearly my arrogance, Mike says it was Scott and a paramedic in training who transferred me to the ICU).

The ICU

I'm a little hazy on my arrival at the ICU. Danielle was my nurse for the first few hours, but I don't remember her very well from that time. Apparently in the few hours she cared for me, she also assembled the dream team of doctors who ultimately diagnosed me, treated me and saved my life.

While Danielle built my medical team and my medical history with the help of my dad and brother, Blair took those first few hours simply trying to comfort me. At some point, I went into shock, the nurses moved everyone to the hall and attempted to give me another catheter. Around the shift change, when Danielle was replaced by Kaitlin, Blair believed she had successfully given me a catheter, but that it was clogged.

A specialist (I assume a urologist; I can't imagine the horror of being a catheter specialist) was called in to solve my catheter issues, and it's about this time that I recovered enough to be conscious. The specialist explained to me that we would first attempt a normal insertion, if that failed he would use a scope, and if that failed I would be given a super-pubic catheter. 

Kaitlin sat with me through the entire process. The scope established a new 10, cleanly beating the earlier record set by the ER attempts. As a wave of intense pain swept over my body, I instinctively clenched Kaitlin's hand, which she had given me to hold. She told me I could squeeze as hard as I wanted. I can still see her hand in mine, the first hand I had held in more years than I can count. I don't remember her face at all, but I remember laughing at the thought of what a large man in pain could do to a hand that delicate. After that I held her hand for support not transference. I wanted to protect her from my pain, not subject her to it. The memory of her hand in mine stuck with me well after the ICU and was one of the images I ran to for comfort in the coming days.

After the super-pubic catheter, I remember they started to outline the beginning stages of my treatment. I was going to be given dialysis but my blood pressure was taking a nose dive. They were going to need to give me a vasoconstrictor, which forces your blood out of your limbs, and they were going to put me on a ventilator to make sure I stayed breathing through it all. I'm not sure which procedure was first, but I remember two things. The first was Blair asking me to take off my Aggie ring. She told me I could take it off or they could cut it off later; off it came. The other was Blair asking to give me pain medication.

"No, thank you."

"This is really going to hurt."

"I understand."

"Please... let me give you something for the pain."

I understood this too. There was every chance I wouldn't remember the pain. There was every likelihood that I would go into shock at some point, or block it out through whatever coping mechanism I managed to employ, or eventually I would give in and take the medication anyway. But she would have to watch every second of my agony. She would have to carry what I would forget.

"Yes ma'am."

And in this brief interaction I learned the fundamental rule of the patient-nurse relationship. Every decision has to be made for the benefit of the relationship. Your doctor or nurse is going to offer you the best possible care he or she can devise, but there is a certain amount of selfishness as well. They pour out their hearts into their work every day, and it is literally exhausting to see that much pain and agony. After Blair, I treated my nurses as gracious hosts rather than medical servants. The decisions I made were for the benefit of us, not just me (I could have sworn this story was with Blair, but it's possible it's with someone else since it doesn't seem to fit the timeline as I now understand it. Unfortunately as Blair has transferred hospitals, I'll likely never get to meet her to find out).

In hindsight, Blair was one of the nurses from ICU I remember most vividly. However with the exception of a few brief snippets of conversation, her face, and her name, I really don't remember much about her at all. I only have this overwhelming sense of safety when I recall her; perhaps that is enough. At the very least, I can tell you that this one lesson I learned from her translated into blessings for me and my nurses in the Jonsson building dozens of times over the next week.

After this conversation, I was unaware of pretty much anything for 3 days. I have no memory of Saturday, Sunday, or Monday except two. The first was of my friends Amber and Robynne talking about the song Coconut by Harry Nilsson, which if memory serves was a song they tortured me with on a skiing road-trip we once took with Robynne's family. Though now that I think about it, I thought the song they tortured me with on the trip was Swinging by John Anderson. They do enjoy torturing me; so let's just run with it.

My other memory was some sort of test and must have happened on the weekend, since I'm pretty sure my mom and sister-in-law were both there. My memory is a sort of snapshot, and it's taken just as the test was completed successfully. I'm looking at the excited faces of my loved ones and there in the middle is a light, a bright pure light beaming at me like it's smiling too. That image, just like the conversation with Blair and the memory of Kaitlin's hand carried me through the rest of my stay in the hospital.

(My brother pointed out that we talked about both of these events on the Tuesday I left the ICU. It's entirely possible that my "memories" of these events have no basis in reality other than my brother's description of them.)

The Revival

I came to on Tuesday, and my first memory is of a head hovering at my door saying "Do you remember me?" The disembodied head was a beautiful face of joy and excitement and love and it was so clearly all for me that to this day I'm still humbled by the memory. I have no idea what I said in response, the memory ends there. But when I made it out of ICU, I interrogated all of my friends and family until I discovered that this wonderful woman was Danielle. I have since taken to calling Danielle, Kaitlin, and Blair my angels as they did not just save my body, but my heart and mind as well.

To my shame I must admit that I don't remember why I should have remembered her. There are so many conversations and interactions that are just not there when I try to recall them. What I can say is that first day in the ICU I felt safe and completely cared for, even if I can't remember why. I know that Danielle did everything for me she could think to do. I don't think there is any way she could have fathomed just how much she had done.

That's not to say that I didn't have other amazing nurses while I was asleep. Without Bethany, I would almost certainly not have made it. I've not been able to track down the names of the other nurses with too much certainty. One of my nurses was likely named Sally, and another night nurse talked with my friend Arturo about being vegan, but no one can recall her name. They were critical to my recovery, but I have no memory of them at all. Morphine will do that to you. It takes a special kind of person to be able to care so well for someone who can barely respond to you and will never even remember the contribution you made to saving their life. I was truly fortunate to have had so many of these special people so close to me during my stay.

Part of me wishes I wouldn't have taken the pain medication. There are so many beautiful memories I'll never have of amazing women I'll never know, and the only cost I would have had to pay was to bear the pain. I know it hurt a lot. I only wrote about 100 words in 3 days, and most of them are illegible, but twice I wrote "My throat hurts." For as desperately as I wish I had those memories, I know that if Blair asked me 100 times to take the medication in a way that made it sound as much for her as for me, then 100 times she would hear "Yes ma'am."

(My friend Sara, whose two boys still pray for me every day, pointed out that if I had turned down the morphine, all I would remember is the pain. Even before I was on the drugs, my memory is fuzzy at best. I know she's right. I told Kaitlin yesterday that if I knew everything that everyone did for me those first few days, I would not be able to bear the weight of the debt I'd owe. I know that's true. But I still wish I could say something to my ICU staff besides "Hi, I'm Mike. I don't remember you at all, but you saved my life. Thanks.")

The next memory was my Bonfire son Andrew, who had come up from San Antonio and by some stroke of luck was the first lucid conversation I can remember. I have spent some hard days with Drew and to see him at just that moment was the best medicine that could have been offered. We talked about old times and caught up on recent events. 

The physical therapy technician came in and I was able to stand up on my own. I vaguely remember that doing so caused me to defecate myself and immediately end physical therapy; let's hope I made that part up. But I had stood on my own, and that meant as far as PT was concerned, I was ready to leave the ICU.

Later on, Karen, my nurse that Tuesday, came into the room and said "Quick, what are 2 things that mean we are giving you very good care?"

I remember asking if this was a joke, as the level of care I'd received had bordered on the divine, but I caught on quickly to the reason we were writing them on the board.

So my number 1 criteria for Very Good Care was to have my foods color coordinated on my tray. Number 2 was that you had to beat me at Rock Paper Scissors to leave the room.

Karen laughed, and said "Perfect." She left the room as quickly as she had come in.

A few moments later a woman I can only identify as some sort of admin walked in and said "Would you say you have received very good care during your stay with us?"

"Oh yes ma'am, very good care."

"Wonderful!" She turned to look at the board, sees it's filled out and heads towards the door, presumably checking a box on her clipboard.

"Ma'am, did you read them?"

She stopped, looked at the board then back at me, "You mean..." as she did the motions with her hand, "I have to play Rock Paper Scissors?"

"No ma'am, you have to win."

She can't leave, since it would violate the otherwise Very Good Care I had so far received. As she walks back towards my bed, I lift my hands up and say, "By the way, I cheat." Cue admin lady look of horror. "Ok, on 3..."

Now anyone who has ever been around me when I'm playing RPS knows what is about to happen. As I hit my fist in my palm the first two times, I say "I always do paper," followed by throwing paper on the third hit.

As I said it, she said "What!?" and threw scissors.

"Thank you very much, ma'am. Please have a wonderful day."

"Wait, why do you always do paper?"

"Rock Paper Scissors is about trying to decide who is going to make a decision. I force the other person to make the decision about who is going to make the decision."

"That's excellent! I'm going to use that."

As the admin walked out, Karen walked in laughing. That conversation made me feel like me again. It takes a special skill to be serious and ridiculous in just the right ratios to have your ridiculousness taken seriously. Just in case anyone wonders, the reason it's specifically paper is that if you wind up in a stalemate, it sounds like We Will Rock You by Queen.

The Transfer

Shortly afterwards was the shift change, Daria replaced Karen and I was prepped to leave for my new room. I quickly wrote Karen a note about how much fun the Rock Paper Scissors escapade had been, and my brother Mark, Daria and I set out with two guys pushing my bed.

Now, unless you have a really really good imagination or are currently coming down off morphine, you probably missed what I just said. I had Mark, a pack mule carrying my personal belongings, Daria, a pack mule carrying my medical supplies, and a wagon drawn by two horses. Yep, I was living Oregon Trail, and yep, it was awesome.

The beds from the ICU for some reason don't fit in many elevators on the Baylor campus, so to get to the adjacent building, which when I walked it later took less than 5 minutes, somehow took a ridiculously long time with my trusty steeds. We wound up in the basement I think, and the first elevator we tried wasn't big enough, so we had to go even further away. 

At one point we were headed down a dark hallway with only security lights and I remember actually fearing for Mark's life. Daria was the heroine and if something happens to me or the guys pushing the bed then the game was over, but Mark was expendable. I vaguely remember asking him for the plant he was carrying, you know, just in case. It was a very nice plant from my friends at Improving, and there didn't seem much sense in losing both my plant and my brother to dysentery or an indian attack in the same evening.

At the end of the trip, I got into the new bed, Daria and the guys left, and Mark and I tried to get some sleep. At about 10:30pm Mark decided he wasn't going to be able to sleep in the chair in my room, so we agreed he should go back to my apartment.

The Darkness

That Tuesday night was pretty rough. I was given my bedpan backwards, which as you might imagine is substantially less effective at achieving... hmm... let's say "containment." That was my first experience at being cleaned by Lisa; I wish for her sake it had been my last.

After lying in your own waste for a while, morphine withdrawal is a little less fun. Up in ICU I had remarked to Mark that it was cool to close your eyes and see stuff, but I was happy there. Alone in the dark in my room with my IV alarm going off, closing my eyes was an exercise in dark, terrifying things. I didn't sleep much at all, but the fleeting memories from ICU were enough to remember there were beautiful things in the world, and this would all pass.

That next day, I had one mission in life: to never use a bedpan ever again. When the physical therapist came in, I asked him what it would take, and he told me I had to be able to move back and forth between a chair and the bed. I did it well enough and was cleared by PT to have a bedside commode.

That morning, Red gave me my first real bath since I'd been in the hospital. Apparently in the ICU, there's this kind of gel foamy stuff that works a bit like anti-bacterial gel. Red wasn't even my tech that day, but she took the time to scrub me down. Sometimes all it takes to feel good is to feel clean. Red became one of my biggest supporters; cheering for me every time I was doing my physical therapy and stopping by when she came on shift to see if I needed anything regardless of whether she was my tech that day or not.  

Later my friends Jess and Kelli showed up and we had a great conversation. Jess and Amber were Bonfire co-chairs for an all girls dorm (in which Kelli was also a resident) that adopted me back in the day; honestly I've shared more good times with the Neeley girls than I could retell in a lifetime. Jess and Kelli had also been to see me when I was in the ICU.

Sometime that same day, my friend Samantha's mom Sue came by my room. She told me she had been up in Dallas all week visiting her sister Nancy who was in the Neuro ICU. She had been coming by my room to report back to Samo on my condition. I decided that when I got the chance I would go visit Nancy, if only to repay the favor.

My brother left and my dad took his place a few hours later. The look on my dad's face was priceless when I stood up to give him a hug. He stayed for a few hours before heading over to my apartment to sleep. I settled down to see if I couldn't manage a few hours of sleep myself, but right before I turned out the light I noticed blood on my gown.

Now I realize women learn very early on in their development about the appropriate level of response required when finding blood around their lady bits. Men don't. The only appropriate level of response for a man when discovering blood around his junk is the sort of terror that translates almost immediately to panic.

When my nurse came in to change my IV bag, I pointed out that I was bleeding and she felt like it was probably just my catheter incision. I explained that if that were the case, I would still feel terror, just slightly less panicky. At this point in my recovery, unexplained blood from pretty much anywhere felt like the sort of thing one should at least pay attention to.

She suggested a test. She grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom and covered me with it. Content that we were at the very least a few hours from contacting a doctor about the likely trauma resulting from 5 failed catheter attempts, I tried to sleep for a while.

When she came back, I pulled out the washcloth and showed her the dried blood. She says, and I nearly quote, "I think that was already on it, I noticed there was a spot of something when I picked it up." She put the washcloth back on me and walked out.

I went from terror to utter horror in nothing flat. Not only was I bleeding unexplainably, but my nurse had used a dirty washrag to soak it up. I was caught somewhere between wanting to scream, throw up and cry. I threw the washrag on the floor and in the interests of continuing the experiment, covered myself with a tissue.

When I woke up at 4am for my blood draw, I realized three things: tissues are great at soaking up blood, leaving a blood-soaked tissue against your skin turns it into a very thick blood clot, and I had no way of cleaning myself. It is humiliating to have someone scrub dried bloody tissue from your man parts. To top it off, somehow during all of this, my catheter separated from the tube to the bag. So an hour later, I had effectively wet the bed. 

While Lisa cleaned me up after now the third humiliating mess, I sat naked in a chair holding my damp gown between my legs, partly to cover myself and partly to keep from bleeding on the floor. Lisa and my nurse changed my bed and changed my gown and I struggled to get comfortable as they turned out the lights.

I laid in bed just wanting the night to end. I couldn't close my eyes for fear of the visions. My head was pounding. I was tired and scared and tired of being scared. As I rubbed my face in my hands praying for something beautiful I noticed that I had a manicure. I'm a man; I've never had a manicure. I'm not saying you can't be a man and have a manicure. I'm just saying I'm not comfortable enough in my manhood to stroll into a strip mall and have a little Vietnamese lady make fun of me while she works on my cuticles.

But there in the half-light I realized I didn't just have a "let's make this presentable" manicure. I had a "getting married tomorrow" manicure. Someone took the time to make my hands beautiful. I assume that it was Kaitlin or Blair, as none of the other nurses both had the time and knew me as anyone other than some guy on a ventilator. But that means my angels gave me a manicure when I was still dying (Danielle told me that Blair went home at the shift change, so it probably wasn't her, but that it might have been Angela, one of the techs).

I was knocked to the ground, just leveled. These women saw something in me to love when I was completely unable to offer anything in return. The nurses I had at Baylor were all of a different breed, but the ones in ICU are made of steel and ice and granite and fire and a whole mess of beautiful things I don't even know how to identify. I don't know why they gave me a manicure, but I can tell you beyond any shadow of doubt that I did not in any way deserve it. These women give everything and then have the humility to say it was just their "best." Their "best" probably wouldn't have saved my life; it definitely wouldn't have saved me from the darkness Wednesday night. My angels gave so much more than their "best" that I am permanently humbled. They showed me more compassion in one day than I've shown in my entire life.

My mission for Wednesday was to never use a bedpan again. Starting that night my only desire was to thank the people who had saved my life.

(Kaitlin and another nurse gave me a thorough scrub down that first night in the ICU, but she's not aware of anyone doing anything more than cleaning under my nails. It's quite possible that the "manicure" was nothing more than a desperate man's delusion. Delusion or not, I was cared for both in and out of the ICU more than I can ever understand. Manicure or not, the medical professionals at Baylor deserve so much more than a "thank you" for everything they did for me.)

The Recovery

My brother had given me my phone before he left Wednesday and I was able to respond to the texts I'd been left since I entered the hospital. I had also spoken with a few people who are very dear to me, a couple of whom hadn't even heard I was in the hospital. Thursday I spent quite a bit more time texting and calling. There's a lot of downtime in the hospital, and it was good to hear voices that weren't just in my head.

I also wrote the previous post to this blog. When Kelli was visiting she mentioned that I had made it on TexAgs, an online forum for Aggies to get together and talk about Texas A&M. I never visit the site myself, and so when I show up on TexAgs it's either because Tom or Doug, two old friends from many moons ago, posted something about me. Whenever they do, I try to write something up for them to post to the discussion, and this time I wrote "Here".

It's not one of my usual posts. But sometimes when the darkness gets too close, you have to write something that reminds yourself and the world that there are some things bigger than the darkness could ever be. I also needed a way to remind Mike that under no circumstances was he allowed to feel guilty about the mixup on the Thursday before he found me. All of this, from my ambulance ride Friday to surviving the darkness the night before, was working out perfectly even though there were any number of times along the way where he and the rest of my friends and family couldn't have seen it that way.

That day, I asked my doctors if I could move to solid food. I didn't do very well with it; my appetite still hadn't really come back and my throat hurt from the ventilator, but at least I was off the Jello.

I also decided that I was tired of mooning people in the hallway while I used the bedside commode, so I worked with PT to use a walker to be cleared to use the restroom. At the end of the session, my therapist Ross and I were talking and I mentioned that it was going to be hard to continue the therapy until I could get my feet in my boots. My feet were still extremely swollen and without my boots, my mostly-healed ruptured plantar fascia hurt too much to walk too far in grippy socks.

Thursday night, Lisa came in to help me to the bathroom and on the way I apologized for how often I had made her clean me of my filth and how grateful I was that she was always so quick to help me. She laughed and told me she's been cleaning up after people for a long time, so it was no big deal. But after I got out of the bathroom, she had cleaned up my room and made my bed. That usually only happens during your bath; I could have cried.

Friday, my brother massaged my feet for an hour to get the swelling down. Just as my therapy was starting, we got my feet in my boots and my catheter threaded through my cargo shorts and I went for a walk around the floor. I didn't need any assistance getting around, so I was cleared by PT. No rehab, no more sessions, as far as PT was concerned I was ready to leave the hospital. That was followed by the best hug Mark and I have had in a long time.

By Friday, my bleeding had become much worse. I was embarrassed by the state of my gown almost as soon as I would change it. The doctor had said that some "spotting" would be normal, but I would have used a much stronger word for what was happening. However, that evening I was able to urinate normally, even with the catheter, and that dramatically eased my fears.

The (Anti-)Social Network

Friday is also the day I found out that Facebook was the primary way my family had been getting the word out about me. Now, I'm not crazy about Facebook. I'm of the opinion that it's a poor model for human communication and breeds narcissism. But hey, I'm in the hospital and people are worried about me, I'll play along for a while.

When I logged on to Facebook that day, I discovered several things. People around the world, the vast majority of whom I had never and would never meet were praying for me in droves. It was humbling and awesome to be the focus of so much prayer. But my personal private medical information was the fuel for some of the updates that were apparently incentivizing these prayers.

Now I don't mind if the whole world knows that I'm in the hospital or the ICU. I'm not opposed to people knowing that it doesn't look good, or it does look good, or the doctors are hopeful or anything like that. But when things like "spinal meningitis" start getting thrown around, things I may or may not have, that starts getting a little too private. My family was receiving this information to make educated decisions on my behalf, not to broadcast to the world.

I'm bringing this up in the hope that people would think about their loved ones privacy over social networks when acting as their proxy. I don't use Facebook very much; my "friends" are basically anyone who added me and I can sort of remember when we knew each other. I'm still stunned that no one thought to go through my phone and call or text the people I actually talk to on a regular basis. Many of those friends didn't even know I was in the hospital until I got out.

The last stunning thing to me about Facebook was just how many people were clicking like on every one of my posts and liking comments to my brother's posts, but didn't message me directly or call or contact me in any way. When I brought it up later, many of my Facebook friends said they didn't feel comfortable contacting me directly, because that's not how we communicate. I was blown away. Facebook supposedly exists so that we can all keep in contact, but friends I've had for years feel like they can't call me when I quite nearly died. Facebook is so broken it makes my heart hurt.

During all of this I also discovered that my dad told people to not visit me in the hospital. I felt betrayed by my family that Friday. It was almost like they had no idea who I was. I tend to be a very private person and rarely broadcast anything on social media. I'm also a very social person and I can't survive long without quality conversations. I was angry at being forced to trade in my real support group for the internet.

(I do understand that my brother was scared that I was going to die, and so he leaned on his support group which is primarily on Facebook. I also understand that my father was scared that I wouldn't get better if I was entertaining guests all day, so he told folks to see me when I got home. I understand that they both did what they needed to do in the face of their fear. But it was not what I would have chosen for myself.)

The Infection

Saturday was a big day. That was the first time that my whole family came to see me since I'd left the ICU. It was great to see my niecephews and to have everyone together. We worked Rubik's cubes and played with the Perplexus. The kids shared a lot about the stuff they had been learning lately in school. But there was a recurring theme that would show up in side remarks and at some point I'd had enough. There was the repeated insinuation that I was not capable of taking care of myself. It's obviously why I landed in the hospital and why I needed to go live with my brother or my parents for a few weeks or quickly find a "live-in girlfriend" as my family put it.

As far as I can deduce, here is roughly how I wound up in the hospital. Keep in mind I am not a doctor and have no idea if this is even feasible, I'm simply going by how the fevers happened. Around the 8th or 9th of September, I'm fairly confident I got food poisoning from bad sushi. That night I had a mild fever and extremely strong smelling urine. The next day I was fine. (Some friends have pointed out that I was actually sick the weekend before I had sushi. The last meal I had was a pizza I shared with 5 other people. It seems unlikely at this point that food was the source of the infection.)

On Thursday the 12th of September, I went out with some friends. After a very stressful evening, I woke up the next day with a fever again. It broke that day, and I didn't associate it at all with the sushi fever.

That Saturday, the 14th, I went shopping for a new car and then went to a friend's birthday party. The birthday party was again fairly stressful, and while I didn't wake up Sunday with a fever, I did have difficulty urinating. I decided to stay home instead of driving to Waco for the installation of one of my favorite pastors and after taking it easy for the early part of the day, I felt just fine that night.

Monday I went back to the dealership and bought my car. I had a business meeting for lunch and a very productive afternoon. Tuesday was productive as well until I got a call from the dealership saying they had sold my car to someone else. My new car - the one I paid cash in full for.

I drove back to the dealership to get my old car back. They said they couldn't return my money or title that evening. I went home fairly mad and turned in early that evening. That night I woke up several times to a fever and vomiting. The next day, I woke up with my heart racing around 150 beats per minute. When it hadn't slowed much after 20 minutes, I called 911.

The EMTs arrived and by the time they ran all their tests, we knew I had a fever of 100, I had difficulty urinating, and my heart was at 130 bpm. They were of the opinion it was an STD. After I stopped laughing I asked if I needed to go to the hospital. They said I had 3 options: go with them to the ER, get someone else to take me to the ER, or get someone to take me to an Urgent Care facility. Their only real concern was my heart racing, which by this time had slowed considerably to something much more normal.

After the EMTs left I called Mike and asked if he'd take me to the doctor first thing in the morning. He agreed and I turned in. Due to a mix up Thursday morning he thought I went to the doctor on my own. In reality, I didn't wake up Thursday. He called several times to see what the doctor said, and, assuming I was passed out on some strong medicine, wasn't worried when I didn't answer.

Friday morning, both he and my phone say I answered a call I don't remember. I told him I hadn't gone to the doctor and needed to go to the hospital. He then climbed the fence and got into the complex. Once upstairs, he called 911 and saved my life.

If I hadn't answered, he probably would have gone to lunch and it wouldn't have been until after work that he would have come to check up on me. According to the ER doctor, I wouldn't have made it that long. If the bacteria hadn't been so aggressive, they wouldn't have been able to culture it in time to save my life. If the bacteria wasn't one they were already targeting with antibiotics, I might not have been able to bear the switch to the new antibiotic long enough for it to kick in. If my kidneys and blood had needed longer on dialysis, the vasoconstrictor I was on might have taken my toes or damaged my fingers. There were so many miracles those first few days, it's almost painful to imagine how many things could have gone wrong.

So needless to say it was frustrating that my family thought I had not been taking care of myself. I really just thought that stress was making me get a low grade fever that would pass after resting for a bit. No sensible, reasonably healthy, self-respecting, self-employed man of German ancestry goes to the ER with a 100 degree fever.

One more thing came from that conversation with my family. When we were talking about the ICU and in particular the test where I could remember the bright light in the middle of my family. My sister-in-law kept saying that after the test I couldn't stop smiling at "the pretty one," which apparently is how she had come to refer to Kaitlin. I had assumed that the light beaming at me was an angel, and it turns out I was right.

There seems to be a universal consensus that Kaitlin is a beautiful woman. My memory has been so swiss-cheesed that I have to rely on friends and family to fill in the details about the people who cared for me. I want to know about conversations. I want to know what it is about them that made them care for me with such fervor. I'm frustrated that for all of my questions trying to discover what Kaitlin did for me and what she was like, the most I seem to be able to draw out is that she is pretty. While I cannot remember anything of her appearance besides her hand, I can assure you there is no way her face could compete with her heart. No one is that beautiful.

(Sara pointed out that my family was there to see me through my pain and sickness, not remember every detail later. I couldn't agree more. My frustration is twofold. I am angry with myself for being unable to remember the things that matter to me about people who matter to me, which makes it very difficult for me to understand or explain why they are so important. Also, I have been frustrated my whole life that beautiful people or smart people or people with special needs, et cetera, are seen as beautiful or smart or special needs by almost everyone and as people almost never. I'm frustrated that someone who everyone seems to remember could be described with such a small set of words. Failing to see the depth of character in others exposes shallowness in ourselves.)

(While it is possible that my memory of the ICU test was a figment of my imagination, when I finally did meet Kaitlin her smile was unforgettable. She quite literally lights up the room; I'm not shocked in the slightest that I would have thought she was beaming.)

The Party

On Saturday, my family was discussing when they were going to come visit over the coming days. Even then we were hopeful I would be out of the hospital early the following week. No one really wants to visit a nearly healthy man in the hospital, and my family had been making the trek across the metroplex for over a week. They were tired of the drive and looking forward to some needed rest.

So with the exception of a few hours early Sunday, I was going to be alone until I got out of the hospital. I am ashamed to say it, but my greatest moment of weakness in the hospital was when I was very nearly ready to check out. I panicked at the thought of being alone for days. When someone is in my room I can move around; I didn't have to stay in my bed. But when there's no one in my room, I had to page the staff just to brush my teeth. By this time, aside from meals, my IV twice a day and my vitals check every 4 hours, the staff had no reason to come to my room.

I begged on Facebook for people to come visit Sunday. My plan worked something like this: if only 2 people came, we'd probably stay in my room. More than that and we'd have to move to the family room across the hall. That would seat at most 12, and then we'd have to move somewhere else. I was reasonably confident that at this point I could get a half hour downstairs if there were too many guests to host upstairs on my floor. So with enough people we'd be forced to move downstairs and it wouldn't take too many more before we had to go outside.

I desperately wanted to go outside. Even just for a half hour. Even if it was just for a moment. I was so tired of the stale, cold, recycled air in the hospital. I just wanted a breeze and the sun and the sky.

But that Saturday night something fantastic happened. My nurse that day, Venus, came by after her shift was over and took my heart monitor. She told me she was very sorry, the order had come through earlier and she hadn't had time to take it. I was ecstatic. The heart monitor is a wireless transmitter connected to leads on your chest. Having your heart monitor taken means 2 things: no one will know if you die in the middle of the night, and you can leave the floor if you've been cleared by PT and your attending nurse is okay with it.

This meant that if a lot of people came Sunday, we could go outside as long as I could convince my nurse to sign me out.

When my night nurse Angela came in to take my vitals that night, I was lounging around like I was king of the world. It struck her as so out of place in a hospital that it made her laugh; well, that or there's the possibility that the way I was sitting in my bed wound up flashing her. Either way, she laughed. We wound up having a wonderful conversation that night and I wish her the best of luck as she chases her dreams.

Sunday morning started out great. An old friend from middle school, Amy, came by early that morning and we had a great conversation catching up. I had an equally awesome surprise from my old roommate Tommy and his wife Courtney the day before. The only thing in the world that beats seeing old friends is seeing old friends happily married.

My parents came by for a few hours at lunch, and then I figured I'd try my luck at getting to walk around on my own. I convinced my nurse Robert to let me go for a quick walk over to the ICU. I stopped in to check on Nancy, Sue's sister, and she was able to say a few things to me. I talked with her husband Mark about all the craziness that had been going on with me and then went upstairs to try to meet any of my nurses.

Bethany was shocked to see me up and moving. She had only ever seen me on the machines. Keep in mind I had been moved from the ICU Tuesday, and in 5 days had recovered enough to be allowed to walk unescorted over to the ICU. We only talked for a few minutes, but it was clear that I was truly fortunate to have had her as my nurse during those critical hours the weekend before. She saved my life and met my gratitude with humility.

I went back to my room to see if anything would come of the party invitation.

At about 6 that evening, my friend Ric showed up with his wife Vikki and 4 sons right after my friends Dana and David arrived. We had a great evening as I retold the stories of my angels and the darkness and the beautiful things that had surrounded me like a thick blanket during my stay. Ric was the only person who prayed over me in my room after I left the ICU besides the hospital chaplain, Cassandra. For me, it was a beautiful night and I'm so thankful these friends chose to spend their evening with me.

Late that night my friends Arturo and Susan came by and asked if there was anything I needed. Arturo and I are like brothers and it meant a lot to me that he had been up to see me several times in the ICU. I asked him if he would bring me some nice stationary and a good pen. He's an artist, so I figured he'd be my best bet at getting something that says "You saved my life; I will never stop thanking God for you."

The Way Out

Monday morning started out pretty exciting. The urologist said we were going to test whether I could get the super-pubic catheter removed. The infectious disease doctor said we were going to move from IV antibiotics to oral as soon as the urologist cleared me to leave the hospital. The internal medicine doctor said she had the paperwork ready to process my discharge. And then... nothing.

So I went over to the ICU twice, once in the afternoon and once in late evening. Both times Nancy was asleep, but I met both Karen and Daria again and thanked them. They had both seen me since I came off the machines, so they weren't as shocked that I was walking around. But they did get a good laugh at my hospital gown tucked into my boots and jeans with an over-shirt covering my center line and my catheter bag in a reusable target bag. Karen and I told the Rock Paper Scissors story to her charge nurse and we all got a good laugh out of it.

I do have to say that meeting Karen was really the first time in all of this that I really missed my mom. I think it would have crushed her to see me in the ICU. But I think she and Karen would have really hit it off. Sure, I'd have a lifetime of "Karen wants to know if you've scheduled your next physical. She says you're due." but I think it would have been worth it to see the two of them interact.

That afternoon Arturo came by with Sarah and my stationary. I have to say, the two of them did a great job; it's exactly what I would have picked. I stayed up all night writing letters for Danielle, Kaitlin, and Blair, since I hadn't met them yet and there was a good chance I was leaving the next day. My handwriting was awful, but they read doctor's handwriting all day, so there's a decent chance they wouldn't even notice.

First thing Tuesday, my urologist comes in and asks how the test is going. I told him it hadn't started. He left the room frustrated and by 10am I had started the test. Urologists really only have one test: pee in a cup. By noon I had filled the cup, but my tech, Johanna, emptied it before I could stop her. Johanna is a wonderful woman and was my tech several times throughout the week. That morning she asked me "How did your parents meet?"

It seemed a very strange question; I wasn't sure where she was going with it. "On the Internet."

"The Internet?! How old are you?"

"Haha, Barbara isn't my birth mom, she's just my mom."

"Why hasn't your real mama come to visit you?"

"It's tougher for her to get around. She's dead."

"Oh sweetie, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"It's okay. It's been about 10 years. I'm pretty sure she's over it."

"Well, I just want you to know, your mama raised you right."

"Johanna, that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you so much."

"It's true. With you, it's always 'Yes ma'am' and 'No ma'am' and 'Thank you very much.' You sure know how to make us feel nice."

"It's pretty easy to appreciate the folks who saved your life."

"Well, thank you anyway."

My brother thought that I was so sick I had regressed to childhood and that's why I was saying "ma'am" and "sir" so often. But I've never been very good about acknowledging people in authority. In reality, I discovered some years ago that saying "ma'am" and "sir" to people you care about is a great way to demonstrate willing submission in the relationship. It quickly establishes a sense of trust and respect. I enjoy saying it to people who are serving me, as it has a way of leveling the field by allowing me to serve them as well.

By 2pm I had filled the cup again, and this time the nurse was in shortly afterward. He said he'd go call the urologist right away and I begged him to give me 20 minutes so I could run down to see Nancy and deliver my letters.

Nancy was asleep, but when I went up to deliver my letters, Danielle was on the roster. I walked down to meet her and I think I hugged her before she recognized who I was. It's difficult to be patient in the presence of your angel. The conversation was unfortunately awkward; I really couldn't find the words to say and she seemed like she was still trying to figure out how I was walking around. Part of me is sad that I couldn't be as clear as I hoped I was in my letter. Part of me knows I could not ever stand in front of that woman and form a sentence that could get anywhere near how grateful I am for what she did for me.

For such a small woman, she is packed to the brim with joy and hope and beautiful things I don't know how to describe. She glows; though I'd expect nothing less from an angel. It was a beautiful thing to meet her, and while I'm sure I disappointed her with my complete lack of conversation skills, in my defense I was just trying to hold it together. Sometimes "Thank you" just can't happen in words.

I dropped off the other two letters and then made my way back to my room. As I turned the corner, I could see my urologist pacing in front of my room. Doctors do not like to wait, not at all. But as I walked up and he saw me almost fully dressed cruising the halls like I owned the place, he laughed a bit, and led me into my room. We discussed the test results, set up a day for a follow up and he cleared me to leave. I honestly think if I hadn't gone to the ICU he would have strongly considered holding me till the next day.

Ron was my nurse while I was being discharged, and the guy is a ninja. He once gave me a shot before I even realized he had taken the cap off the needle. He replaced the dressing on my central-line twice in two days without batting an eye. He was always willing to explain what every drug did, why I was taking it and when the next drug was coming. We are talking the kind of ruthless efficiency only the Spanish Inquisition could claim.

He had me out the door before shift change. Mike was there to pick me up. Since my brother still had my wallet, Mike bought my groceries and medicine. Then to top it off his mom made me enough food to last me a week at least.  Saving my life clearly wasn't enough. If it takes 3 miracles to get yourself made a saint in the Catholic church, Mike got his hat trick in two weeks.

The Home

I've been home for about a week now. I've started a few supernovas on Facebook, but not to worry, Facebook has a memory about as long as an ICU patient. I've had some beautiful conversations with some beautiful people. Every day I walk up to the ICU to sit a little while with Mark and Nancy. Some of Nancy's nurses, Trish in particular, have been fantastic to me and even better to Nancy. The Wednesday after I was discharged, when I went in to see Nancy she smiled a bit as I walked in and said "Hi Mike." It's surprising to me just how often the hospital is a beautiful place.

I had more nurses out of ICU than I brought up in the story. Erin, Sebha, Susan, Armando, Jennifer, and Maria took excellent care of me and I value each of them (I think I'm even missing a few, but it is an omission of memory, not because they weren't amazing). My techs were fantastic as well; I can't imagine how much harder that week would have been without Carolyn, Maria, Analace, Stephanie and others whose names I know I am forgetting. Even housekeeping treated me better than I deserved; thank you to all of you, especially Octavia and Maria.

I'm so thankful for the rest of my friends who came to visit as well. Mike came every day he was in town and even brought his wife Jen a time or two. Mike's dad came down that first weekend as well. Gleason, Joe, and Diana, thank you for coming to visit me in ICU. Please forgive me for not remembering; those drugs are something fierce. For Marty and Julie, thank you for coming to keep me company, I always enjoy conversations with each of you and it was truly a pleasure to have one in the hospital.

For all of you who called and texted and messaged, I am truly grateful. You gave me your time and that was the greatest gift you could have given. To Carlos and Peter especially, thank you so much for praying with me on the phone. It is truly a blessing to call both of you friends and brothers. For all of you who sent cards or left comments on Facebook, thank you so much, your actions uplifted and sustained my spirit. For the tens of thousands of you who prayed for me around the globe, thank you for offering up your petitions for my life. They were all answered.

And to Baylor, I'm begging, please stop calling it Very Good Care. Please stop telling your professionals to say they do their best. They do their everything. They give their all. They suffer with their patients, pouring their heart and soul and strength into providing care so exceptional it is its own miracle. Please rebrand, I don't know to what, but to something that honors the sacrifice these beautiful people make just to turn around 12 hours later and sacrifice everything again. Every single person I met during my stay deserves a Five-Star Spirit award. And frankly that's still a few billion stars too low in my opinion.

The End

I wrote the end to this the day I got home on Facebook. I'm including it here since it is still the best end to this narrative I could dream up. I pulled out my favorite verses from John 11 below, which may explain why it may not make sense they're there. If you're not familiar with the story of Lazurus, it might be worth reading just for the context.

So, I just walked in the front door. I'm sitting at my computer exactly 2 weeks to the day from the last time I sat here (mostly) healthy. I've had a pretty wild ride, but almost everyone else has had a much more wild ride than me.

25 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; 26 and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”
27 “Yes, Lord,” she replied, “I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is to come into the world.”
40 Then Jesus said, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?”
41 So they took away the stone. Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. 42 I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”
-John 11

I wonder if Lazurus, when he walked out of the tomb 4 days later to find his sisters sobbing uncontrollably, found himself suddenly very angry with whatever jerk had hurt them.

In this whole ordeal, my faith was never tested. I was just asleep. But while I was asleep my friends and family were tested to their core. The only parts I remember were either decidedly beautiful or woefully boring. But everyone else remembers fear and anger and the pain of imminent loss.

I wonder if Lazurus, when he realized that he was the jerk responsible, felt guilty, felt guilty for feeling guilty or felt something much different.

I'm an arrogant jerk. I can't dodge it. I don't feel guilty, because you got something beautiful out of the ugliness.

You asked for a miracle and you got one. He finger painted "I love you" in my blood for you. He wrote you a love letter and used me as the letterhead. I'll do that any day. I'll do that every day. I'd do that for just one of you. For tens of thousands I wouldn't hesitate an instant.

Because either way I was going to leave that hospital and go home.

So enjoy your letter. It's more like a postcard honestly. The real letter he wrote in his own blood, and it's a much more compelling read than this one.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Here

Some of you know me as Mike Doberenz CO '97, some as Fuwjax, some as that guy from Lechner. Most of you though are probably hearing about me for the first time as that guy who scared all his family and friends by kicking down death's door with a shit-eating grin. But I want to take this opportunity to thank you for the overwhelming support and prayers I've received from the Aggie community, and to share something small in return. 

A week ago, a fellow Aggie, great friend and all around good guy Mike Deck CO '05 climbed the fence at my gated community to break in and save my life. There were Aggies in both EMT crews that assisted me. There were doctors, nurses, and all manner of hospital staff who greeted me with a "Howdy" right up till the moment they told me I needed to take it off or they'd have to cut it off. I tell you, taking off my ring was one of the hardest decisions I've had to make in my time in this hospital. 

That ring is back on my finger today. 

I'm proud to be an Aggie for the same reasons I'm proud to be a Texan and an American. It's not because of our sports, or our politics or any of the stuff people say we are supposed to care about. 

America is full of runaways, traitors, rebels, criminals, slaves, aliens, and illegals. We are the worst of the worst, the rejects and the outcasts. And we built this land up, with sweat and blood and tears, into the greatest country in the universe. 

Then you take all the outlaws and the rustlers and the criminals; the barons, slaves, aliens and illegals; and pack them into one of the harshest landscapes in the country. We are the worst of the worst, the rejects and the outcasts. And we built this land up, with sweat and blood and tears, into the greatest state in the universe.

Then you take the boys from that state too dumb, too slow or too poor to go to a real man's college and dump them off a railroad stop in the middle of nowhere. We are the worst of the worst, the rejects and the outcasts. And we built this college up, with sweat and blood and tears, into the greatest university in the universe.

I am proud to be an Aggie, a Texan, and an American because it is my God-given birthright to be a worthless son-of-a-bitch, and He expects nothing less than my blood, sweat, and tears to be the greatest man in the universe.

That probably sounds pretty arrogant, but I'm not saying "better than everyone else"; frankly I don't give a damn about comparing myself to anyone else. I'm saying it is my divine calling as an American, Texan, and Aggie to be far better than I have any earthly right to be given my aforementioned worthlessness. Everyone else expects me to fail on their terms, but I'm not even playing their game. I walk on the field as an Aggie, and at the end of the day I'm going to walk off the field as an Aggie or die trying. 

Now I'm not out of the proverbial woods yet, Ags. But I've got a sharp ax, a back built to fuck (logs, you dirty bastards) and a burning desire to clear cut this bitch with every Aggie, Texan, and American I can muster along the way. These woods don't stand a chance in Hell, and the next woods don't either. There isn't a force this side of heaven than can withstand a pissed off Aggie.

Because this is what it means to be an Aggie: honor the ones who came before, serve the ones who follow. That Rough Tough Real Stuff ain't bullshit; you live it, you bleed it and if you wake up tomorrow, you do it again. You leave people better than you found them. 

We are the worst of the worst, the rejects and the outcasts. And we built this spirit up with sweat and blood and tears. Death, foreign threats, and our own ineptitude cannot and will not overcome as long as one of us can stand up, not to fight, but to shout "Here". That maroon blood didn't come cheap but God help you if you don't make it rain down in buckets when your time comes. 

I am alive today because countless Americans, Texans, and Aggies over the past week have turned the fucking heavens and earth maroon. God loves that shit. I'm proud, damn proud, to have been witness, and deeply humbled, awed, and grateful to have been the recipient. 

Michael "Fuwjax" Doberenz CO '97, Here

Friday, August 23, 2013

The Honorable Rupert Arturo Murdoch


Rupert A. Murdoch lived on a beach
Along a long cliff within easy reach
Of a towering tower whose windows would see
Across the cliff and the beach to the deeply blue sea

Rupert B. Murdoch was a quiet old gus
Who never did make too much of a fuss
He lived simple and free each and all of his days
On the sands of the beach where he soaked the sun's rays

Rupert C. Murdoch sounds such a great guy
If you'd known nothing more to judge this one by
You'd think he had friends by the bundle to spare
Up the towering tower they'd stack in the air

Rupert D. Murdoch would agree with the claim
That he should have buckets of friends to his name
But he didn't have buckets or bundles or bunches
He ate by himself all his breakfasts and lunches

Rupert E. Murdoch had a secret you see
And that secret he kept, just between you and me
All to himself, it consumed him until
It had robbed him all his confidence and will

Rupert F. Murdoch wanted only to hide
From the people who picked and who poked and who pried
Into bits of his life he wished would wisp far away
From the bits of his life he had on the beach where he lay

Rupert G. Murdoch had a secret it's true
But some secrets aren't secrets except only to you
And the secret he kept and lived secretly in fear
Was the world would discover he was secretly... a reindeer

Rupert H. Murdoch lived in terror no doubt
But why would a reindeer hide and never come out?
Surely reindeers have fun, why they have their own games
They have roles in big holidays and they have funny names

Rupert I. Murdoch had a problem it seems
A reindeer means more than having wintery dreams
He knew that he should, he tried all he could try
But are you even a reindeer if you never could fly?

Rupert J. Murdoch never did soar
He barely could jump, his hooves stayed on the floor
He couldn't play in the games or help with the sleigh
In the stable alone he spent each holiday

Rupert K. Murdoch ran away to the shore
Far away from the others who thought him a bore
He sat all alone and stared at the waves
Head-In-the-Sand was the game he would play

Rupert L. Murdoch was not completely alone
In the towering tower on an ivory throne
Sat another who sat by herself all day long
As she stared at the sea and sang softly a song

Rupert M. Murdoch heard the song every day
And the song when sung melted his troubles away
The song made a part of him feel it could fly
And that part of him really wanted to try

Rupert N. Murdoch was a dreamer who dreamed
Better versions of him whose own selves he esteemed
Reindeers who knew only to do or to die
Who never had learned a definition for "try"

Rupert O. Murdoch was dreaming one day
Of holiday games even he could play
Mid-dream on the beach he started to choke
And quickly he realized he did not dream the smoke

Rupert P. Murdoch looked left and then right
He looked for a flame or a plume or a light
He looked down the beach for signs of a fire
His heart hit his throat as his eyes passed the spire

Rupert Q. Murdoch spied the towering tower
Engulfed in flames as though burning for hours
"Perhaps it's ok, perhaps it was planned
Perhaps it's just..." a soft cry pierced the land

Rupert R. Murdoch took off in a blink
He ran up the beach, scaled the cliff in a wink
To the tower he ran then he stopped at the base
Knowing what he must do, a firm look crossed his face

Rupert S. Murdoch shut his eyes really tight
Bent his knees to the ground, turned his head to the right
Stuck his tongue out his mouth, mumbled "fly Rupert fly"
He lept in the air with his nose to the sky

Rupert T. Murdoch could be a great many things
A lovable guy, a smithy of rings
A tamer of lions, an advisor to kings
But he could not fly if he'd been born with wings

Rupert U. Murdoch hung his head in disgust
He knew he should fly, he knew that he must
He stood there in shame, as the smoke swirled around
Then the soft cry rang out and his courage he found

Rupert V. Murdoch broke down the door
He raced for the steps, he raced up the floors
He raced ever higher, he raced to the top
He raced and he raced and he never once stopped

Rupert W Murdoch climbed the towering tower
The throne room he found with his newly found power
She sat on the throne beautiful, scared, and alone
Flames crept slowly closer, the roof started to groan

Rupert X. Murdoch knelt down by her side
The tears left her eyes as her eyes opened wide
To be offered escape, a surprise in itself
she climbed on his back smiling "I feel like an elf"

Rupert Y. Murdoch went to head down the stairs
But before he could start, a sudden change of affairs
The stairs had collapsed, no way out could he see
But the window overlooking the deeply blue sea

Rupert Z. Murdoch had no options left
No time to think, no time to rest
No time to plan, no time to try
No time to prepare, it was his time to...

Friday, August 02, 2013

Art


Some definitions escape the bounds of human language. We have a word for "it", whatever this mysterious "it" may be, and we all, most of us anyway, know "it" when we see "it", or at least condition ourselves to believe we can recognize not-"it" when we don't see "it". We all use such words as though we have "it" in a convenient little box, and yet when pressed, none of us can provide any evidence that we have any idea what we are talking about.


There are more of these words than I can count. Words like "beauty" and "love", or others like "gravity" or "light". We use these words without any idea of what we are really talking about, but we use them nonetheless. 

I recently acquired the first work of art I've ever bought for myself. It's stunningly beautiful, and while most people agree it's awesome, there seems to be some debate over whether or not it's "art". And yet, when I question people, they can't really explain why they think it is or is not "art".

So, what is art? Leo Tolstoy argued that art is the transmission of feeling from one to another. Oscar Wilde professed that it is both serious and useless. I would argue that they still aren't defining art, but it's relation to us.

Now, before we go any further, I would like to point out that there are two ways of looking at art. One is from the perspective of the artist, the other from the perspective of everyone else. It is my opinion that the world has heard plenty from the side of the artists, and it's not been particularly helpful to the rest of us.

Think about it, if you were wandering in a field of Indian Paintbrush and were suddenly forced to consider why it was that you thought a field of flowers was so beautiful, you'd be hard pressed to get a satisfactory answer from the flower or the field.

Let's say you're stumbling around in your grandparent's attic and you happen to find a Matisse. Now, perhaps you don't think Matisse is particularly good, maybe you're glad Fauvism died a quick and sudden death, but in perusing your grandparent's attic, if you found one of his works tucked in with a pile of children's scribbles, you'd almost certainly pick it out of the mix. You'd stare at it, and whether you'd like it or not, you'd be forced to admit there's something there. Not necessarily something good, not necessarily something worth keeping, but there's something there, and the more you look for it the less likely you are to find it.

The rest of this post is meant to be read out loud. It doesn't matter if there are people around, in fact, that's even better. If there's not someone around, go find someone and make them sit and listen while you read it out loud. And then make them read it to you.

Art is the something in the nothing. The glimpse of meaning in what is otherwise useless. The divine in the impractical; the truth buried in fiction. But so what?

Art is communication, but not with the artist. Who then? The observer, certainly, but who else? And for that matter, about what?

Art is a filter. Just as you can hold a sheet of blue cellophane to the light and see only blue or nothing, so art masks what is seen through it. In fact, this is what makes great art great: the filter works so precisely in it's job as a filter that it filters consistently across humanity. It may not filter much, or in exactly the same way, but a Pollock is distinct from scribbles because scribbles don't force you to see what lies beyond the scribble. Scribbles don't force you to see where you fall in the scribble. Not just how you feel about the scribble, but how the scribble reminds you how you feel about yourself, your love, your beauty, the woman standing across the room, your job, the job you want to have, the stars, tomorrow night, small animals, large rivers, a perfectly cut onion, your parents, the A-Team, Vietnam, 9-11, 7-Eleven, your first dance, the way that water flows over glass, whether you think purple and violet are really just the same color, the way the sun feels on your hair, the way the wind feels in your hair, that time you got hit in the face with a baseball, whirlpools, the Loch Ness Monster, your best friend from middle school and the best way to reduce the federal deficit.

Scribbles can't do that.

Art can.

Art is a conversation between me and myself filtered through the eyes of someone else. It's a conversation between me and past-me and future-me and the me-that-loves-you and the me-that-hates-you and the me-that-wishes-you-wouldn't-have-left and the me-that's-glad-you're-gone. It's a conversation between me and the woman staring at the Picasso in the next room and the couple in the corner laughing at the still life and the people who will stand exactly where I'm standing but they'll be standing here tomorrow night and thinking something completely different and feeling something completely different yet somehow exactly the same.

Art is a way of standing outside yourself and everything, closing one eye, standing on one leg, hopping around in a circle until you get dizzy, screaming until you get horse, and then falling down on the ground and staring up at the sky until the clouds paint your life story in a swirling soup of wind and water and thought and pain, exhilarating randomness and gut wrenching order. It is laughing with all of humanity at all of humanity then giving all of humanity a simultaneous hug and left hook. It's about experiencing life without experiencing anything by experiencing nothing, a completely opaque window to a world of infinite beauty. 

Art is me looking at me and finding me beautiful not because I'm beautiful but because I'm not art. Art is me looking at you and finding you beautiful not because you're beautiful but because you're not me. Art is me looking at the world and finding you in the middle of everything beautiful and everything ugly and nothing and everything in between. Art is me looking at us and seeing the us-we're-not-and-have-always-been. Art is me looking at the space between us and seeing everything there is to see about me and you and everything that is neither of us and nothing that is both of us. Art is me.

Art is me.

Art is me. And I'm fucking incredible.

Tuesday, April 09, 2013

Legal Status FTW

Please be aware, gentle reader, that the following post is extremely adult in content. If you are not of a temperament where you believe it is occasionally acceptable to be rude, crass, vulgar and downright mean, then you're probably a good person and shouldn't ever come back to this blog. I throw down some pretty strong language in the text that follows, so if your ears bleed or your eyes forcibly eject themselves from your sockets when in the presence of profanity, please consider yourself warned.

So, it turns out that absolutely no one can tell that the previous two posts were intended to be satire. It is sad just how absolutely bat shit crazy the entire world has become. Then again, maybe that just means I'm the bat shit crazy one. Maybe I'm just not very good at writing satire.

But maybe that's not fair. Maybe you think debate is about playing word association games. Maybe you aren't even sure what the words mean.

I'm going to put this in super simple language so that everyone can understand: legal status is the pretty-pink-bow-on-a-pig way of saying legal discrimination. Maybe that was too hard... I'll try again.

Legal Status = Legal Discrimination

Just so we're all on the same page, in this post and the two that precede it, when I use the word "love" either raw or in double quotes it specifically means the word being thrown around in the media as the primary reason that I should care about this whole debate. I don't know what the media means when they use that word, and frankly it's irrelevant. It's almost certainly not what I mean when I use the word, as almost no one means what I mean when they use the word. But I breathe oxygen and can generally smell a red herring when it wreaks of fish. "Love" may be the reason people want to talk about because it's warm and fuzzy, but there isn't a legal definition of "love" and I really really don't want there to be one. Seriously, if the thought of the government defining "love" doesn't scare the shit out of you... I just don't even know what to say. Can you imagine the government enforcing whether you meet the qualifications to use the word "love" to describe one of your relationships? Can you imagine the test a judge would have to perform to decide whether your relationship meets the legal definition of "love"? Ok, stop imagining, pervert... though to be fair there have been social groups throughout history that have invented some rather disturbing legal tests around all this stuff, so historically speaking at least, you're not all that perverted.

If you like to grow herbs in your garden, you might call it farming. Maybe you're trying to be cute, but maybe you really feel like it is farming. Maybe you feel like it's farming so much that you start to refer to yourself as a farmer and your garden as a farm. Maybe you find that the more you stick stuff in the ground and pull stuff back out, the more you identify yourself as a farmer. Finally one day, after seasons of sticking stuff in and pulling stuff out, you decide that you want to get the legally afforded benefits of being a farmer. So you try to gain the legal status of farmer, only to find that you don't meet the criteria.

This seems horribly cruel and unfair discrimination. You love your farm, even though the government feels it's really only a garden. And you love being a farmer, but that's just not enough to meet the criteria. Isn't the government denying you from being a farmer?

Absolutely not. If you go get yourself a qualifying farm, you can have all the legally supplied benefits of farmer-dom. No one is preventing you from being a farmer, you simply don't meet the qualifications. You're free to make the sacrifices it takes to get a qualifying farm, just like every other farmer, and those sacrifices may be more difficult for you than the ideal farmer given your deep love for your garden-farm. But other farmers had to sacrifice things they loved to get a qualifying farm as well. The government isn't interested in what you had to sacrifice to get the qualifying farm. A farm that qualifies for the legal status has been deemed beneficial to the greater good. Your garden simply doesn't benefit the greater good enough to gain the benefits granted to qualifying farms. So you have to choose between farming your garden and not qualifying as a farmer, or sacrificing farming your garden to get the benefits of farming a qualifying farm.

This applies to nearly every legal status. You can't be a veteran just because you love guns. You can't be a rancher just because you love animals. You can't be retired just because you love to not work. Legal status is about classifying a certain subset of the population for the purpose of granting benefits and responsibilities because their existence is critical to the greater good.

If you're mad now, just wait for what I've got in store for you next. If you're offended at the parallel I just drew, keep in mind that I haven't even used the m-word yet, so everything you're thinking and feeling right now is due exclusively to parallels you yourself have drawn to the plight of our hypothetical farmer. Really go back and reread the farmer story as a story about a farmer; you'll find that you would absolutely blow a fuse if owning a garden qualified a gardener for tax-funded federal assistance reserved for farmers just because he really loved gardening.

Let me ask you a question. Really answer this honestly. Do you believe for even a second that there is not a single instance out there of a person who identifies as homosexual but is currently in a legally qualified heterosexual marriage? These days, I'm expected to believe that homosexuality is not a choice, but is in fact genetic. So don't you have to concede that there is almost certainly someone out there who purely due to social pressures has consented to being in a hetero marriage, even though he has since birth been blessed with the gay gene? I mean with so many people living in denial due to social oppression, surely there's one homosexual who is in a marriage, right?

Of course. We all know it's true. The central point of the debate is not that homosexuals are denied the legal status of marriage, it's that they are denied the legal status of marriage with the person they want.

Well sure, we all know that, it's almost silly to point out. We all know that this debate has been about "love". So it seems almost pointless to bring up.

Imagine a man who because of the social groups he desires to remain a part of, say for instance his family or his church, is told he must marry the woman he has impregnated instead of the woman he loves. Now, he's certainly not being denied the legal status of marriage with the other woman that he actually wants to marry by the government. But if he desires to remain a part of the social structure he identifies with, he must marry a woman he does not want to marry.

Imagine a man who because of the social groups he desires to remain a part of, say for instance his family or his church, believes there is nothing wrong with entering into a marriage covenant with several women. Now he will definitely be denied the legal status of marriage with at least all but one of those women, and could face criminal prosecution should it be discovered he has other spouses. So if he desires to stay out of prison and provide for his family he will be prevented from marrying all the women he wants to marry, at least concurrently.

Imagine a man who does not believe in the traditional definition of marriage and wants to commit not to a person, but to a group. He wants to stay committed to the core group regardless of how its membership changes over time. He will absolutely be denied the legal status of marriage with this group, he will simply never be allowed to marry the group he loves and works to maintain, protect, grow and thrive.

Imagine a man who loves his sister so intensely that he cannot imagine spending his life with anyone else. He cannot marry the woman he loves because society is scared of their babies or some nonsense. He will absolutely be denied the legal status of marriage with the woman he wants to marry.

I'm frustrated from pointing out that I haven't actually heard any evidence at all about why the legal status should be extended specifically to homosexual unions but not all these other ones. I keep hearing "love" and "equal rights". I keep hearing that I'm a bigot because I'm not ok with calling a legal status a right or with using a legally undefined word to define a legal status. Can't you see that it is insane to demand that I without protest or discussion agree to grant one specific social group a privilege no other group can claim. Everyone else on the planet who wants the legal status has to agree to a qualifying marriage under whatever qualifies in their jurisdiction. What is the reason that homosexuals are somehow justified in being the only group that gets to redefine marriage so that they get to marry whomever they want and still be guaranteed the benefits? Why do you feel justified in saying that gay marriage is good and incestuous marriage is bad? Why should gay marriage be given the full benefit and privilege of the law, but polygamy is a felony? How am I the bigot if I'm interested in changing the legal status so that all unions are given the same provision under the law, and you're not a bigot even though you pick and choose which unions should secure legal benefits based on your own personal preferences and prejudice?

I'm being asked to support elitist policies, plain and simple. If you can't provide a single shred of evidence as to why the legal status of marriage should be changed to include a group it has never before in the history of legal statuses ever included, if you are not able to say what has changed that makes it a clear benefit to society, then you are asking me to arbitrarily discriminate in favor of one social group against all the others and you have the fucking gall to dress it up as equal rights.

Women couldn't vote, hold most jobs, or generally own property. Minorities couldn't vote, live other than in designated areas, pursue an education, hold most jobs, own property, use public services, eat in restaurants, have social relationships with whites, or drink out of a fucking water fountain. These are humiliating, degrading, dehumanizing atrocities that people literally fought and died to get reversed in law in a country that supposedly believed in the inalienable rights of all people. This is equal rights. If you come to me about equal rights know that you're putting yourself in the class of people that I have the utmost respect for and who we as a society will forever be indebted to; quite frankly you've got some damn big shoes to fill. If you spend too much time talking about how tedious it is to get a power of attorney, I'm likely going to explode.

Then when I bring up the fact that this isn't a love issue or a rights issue but a legal status issue, you feel the need to insinuate or flat out state that I am anti-gay. I am not anti-gay. I am anti-elitist, anti-discriminatory, and anti-you-pretending-you-have-the-right-to-abuse-folks-just-so-you-can-get-your-way.

I hate it when people imply I'm a bigot, because I hate being exposed as prejudiced against people who call me a bigot, unless they call me a bigot for being prejudiced against people who call me a bigot, because I love those guys. So normally I wouldn't help you out, (and by you I specifically mean the straight-white-guilt crowd who feels the need to act out their guilt in rage, not the gay community because I've got no problems at all with y'all) but since we're technically on the same side of the issue, I will anyway. Look at me getting over my bigotry; there's hope after all.

The legal status of farmer has changed several times over the history of this country. Over time the amount of land and types of crops a farmer can maintain to the benefit of the greater good has changed with technology, property ownership and water rights, co-operatives, et cetera.

Legal statuses are allowed to change their meaning over time. Legal statuses are supposed to change their meaning over time. But they change for reasons that benefit the common good, not just because the Real American Pastime is backing the underdog and making the other team feel like assholes.

The legal status of marriage has up until very recently never actually been defined. Even in places where it has supposedly been "defined" it's not the sort of definition that actually defines a legal status. Amendments, laws, or rulings have been passed in 33 states that say marriage is between a man and a woman. This is a constraint referred to as "necessary" but not "sufficient". In other words, if I walk into a state that has this "definition" and point to an arbitrary man and an arbitrary woman, they're not suddenly married. These states have decided that it is necessary for a marriage to be between a man and a woman, but they haven't separated all the between-a-man-and-a-woman things into those that are marriage and those that aren't.

A single necessary constraint does not in any way get you a definition. For a legal status to be defined and therefore exist it must have "sufficient" criteria. In other words, a legal status must have a legal test, there must be a clear way to determine what both is and is not granted the legal status, not just what is not.

So, I dare anyone to come up with a necessary and sufficient definition for one man, one woman marriage that allows everyone currently granted the legal status of marriage to keep their legal status without some sort of self-referential nonsense like "survival of the fittest". For that matter, I dare you to come up with a definition of "man" and "woman" that allows the entire population to be partitioned into the two groups with no overlap or exclusions.

If the legal status of marriage between a man and a woman cannot be defined, then it does not exist, and cannot be used to provide benefits to some members of society and not to others at the whim and mercy of the government or religion.

Therefore, if we wish to keep a legal status of marriage, we are bound as a rational people with rational law to allow the legal status of marriage to be available to all individuals who meet the necessary and sufficient criteria which we as a society define, whether that excludes some of those who currently enjoy the benefits of the legal status or includes those who currently do not.

If we decide to keep the status, I'm personally in favor of a definition that does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, religion, national origin, age, sex, familial status, disability status, veteran status, or genetic information (therefore close-relations) as we as a society have determined that these are protected classes and therefore cannot tolerate discrimination. In addition as it seems arbitrary to discriminate on the basis of quantity, I also favor a definition that does not discriminate on the basis of the number of participants in the marriage union.

If I'm wrong, which is I suppose somehow possible, and there is in fact a possible legal definition necessary and sufficient to determining the legal status of marriage between a man and a woman that does preserve the conventions and conditions which we have as a society up until now somehow managed to follow to the letter even though it has remained unwritten, then I would highly recommend that gay, polygymous, polyamorous, polygamous, incestuous and any other sexually oriented groups that might desire the status of marriage please come up with evidence that clearly shows that things have changed in our society in a way that makes it beneficial to the greater good to grant your particular sexually oriented group the benefits and privileges afforded to the legal status of marriage. And it's probably in your best interest to tell the straight-white-guilt folks to stop throwing words around like "love" and "equal rights" which are just clouding the real issue.

I support equal, not social-group-specific, rights. I support legal statuses with clear, necessary and sufficient criteria. The legal status of marriage is not defined with necessary and sufficient criteria and therefore does not exist. It should either be defined with necessary and sufficient criteria or deemed arbitrary and discriminatory and its provisions, benefits, responsibilities, and protections should be removed.

I would also like to point out that I am in general against the legal status of marriage since the vast majority of its benefits are predicated on the idea that women should stay home, make babies, raise the children and tend to, as Chaucer puts it, "hussif's capery" (At least I think he does. I can't find the reference because I don't remember the spelling. I vaguely remember it from high school, so maybe it's not even Chaucer. At any rate, it literally means "housewife's work", at least, whatever the quote really is does). I personally feel like this is one of those clear changes in our society that demands a reassessment of the legal status and the benefits it provides. I am not against the social contract of marriage as I believe it is one of the fundamental requirements of civilization.