Pariah

pa·ri·ah

[puh-rahy-uh];noun

1. an outcast.

2. any person or animal that is generally despised or avoided.

It was a little more than one year ago, in late March that I received a message that confirmed all I'd suspected, all I knew to be true but did not want to acknowledge. Gordon's phone call was the dose of reality that held me fast and forced me to acknowledge that though I was blood, I was no longer a part of the Gifford family.

My grandfather, the patriarch that no one ever envisioned as ever being able to embody anything but vitality had passed. Time had made it known to Jack that even he was submissive to its tendrils. His time upon this earth came to an end at home with his beloved by his side, in a manner that a man of his station required. It was not as pleasant as though he passed in this sweet goodnight, but when his time came it was with dignity and respect.

Or so I'd heard.

Third hand.

When the call came, a week after the angels called him home. It was my brother Gordon who informed me that 'it was best if I didn't attend the funeral. That it would be too much for my father, too much for everyone.' and that 'I would be a distraction from the celebration of the life my Grandfather led.'

I did not attend as requested out of respect for my Grandfather, and my Grandmother whom was left to grieve. I knew that though the words stung, they were true. My father would not be able to control himself in spite of the occasion and a scene would ensue, embarrassing all involved.

Reading Gordon's blog after it was updated, it was clear that neither my little family nor I were missed. It was clear then, and is clearer now that I am the pariah.
The one that when a family comes together to celebrate, mourn or play, people worry that I will attend.

My brother Brady moved sometime last summer. We found out when a birthday card came for Charles a few weeks after his birthday passed in early September. The postmark was Salem, Oregon, where the family home had been in Idaho and no return address was given. We only recently learned where Brady's family now lives, and it's nearly Christmas.

Thanksgiving is about family, coming together and sharing those things, those people and the intangibles in one's life that they are thankful for; even when you don't get along.

After being a focused upon subject in school for a few weeks, BW and JB asked if my parents, their grandparents, were still alive, as we'd not heard from them since they last saw them at AunT's funeral in Spokane. That, and so many of their friends have grandparents who are active in their day-to-day lives.

Charles's parents who live 4 hours away by plane take part in their lives as much as they are able and for that we are grateful.

To JB and BW, it made sense. If the grandparents weren't present in their lives, it was because they were no longer living; not because the family was so entirely dysfunctional that they could no longer associate with one of their children. But that is in fact what has happened.

It's the result of year’s worth of misunderstandings, poor communication and missteps on my part as well as others. Together we played a role in what has become the fray of the family. But now my position within that primary family upon which I was raised is clear as is where I stand. And truly where my future lies.

Those I was raised with do not know me and have not for quite some time. They have made it so very clear through their subtle, subconscious and overt requests that I am not welcomed nor wanted to participate in their lives.

It wasn't Gordon's phone call late last march that served as the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. No. That was left to the Christmas card that we received in the mail. The one that announced a new child into their lives, to be born sometime this coming summer.

Gordon deems it an oversight; that life caught up too quickly is the reason he didn't call to let us know that his little family was expecting. But it occurred during a time when we'd exchanged several calls, primarily about the Thanksgiving holiday that had recently passed.

That I am not welcome to join them isn't what hurts the most. Quite the contrary.
That acknowledgment is a relief. No longer do we have to go through the stressful and awkward rituals of forced family engagements that leave us all exhausted and dreading the next culturally mandated interaction.

No. What hurts is the realization that no matter how hard I was to try to convince them through words or deeds, they would mock me and say that I was only seeking attention. That I play the part of a victim or martyr.

That is not who I am though, and each time that I rise to defend myself from such accusations, I participate in the demise of my own character. And so why post this? To finish this particular chapter, to put the 'fin' at the end of that pattern of behavior and subconscious acceptance of the idea that I am inferior.

The collective 'they' would disagree. But that is the beauty of it all; I don't have to participate in that conversation any longer.

'The Can'

Many moons ago Charles sent me a link to a poem called the "Statistical Abstract for My Home of Spokane, Washington" by Jess Walter.  Written by a celebrated author in Spokane, this piece is more apt at capturing the essence of the city than any other attempt I've ever seen.

The roots in Spoke run deep and they are loyal. Blood means more than anything, and while many of the kids I grew up with were regularly beaten by their own, should you cross the path of one of their 'kin' you better run for cover, cause they will fight you to the death.

It is a town of extremes, but with a common love for the BMX bike. Even a google street view of my parents house taken within the last few years shows a faceless guy wearing a 'beater shirt', gangland pants riding his seat-too-low BMX.

It's the kind of Town you love or hate, you want to live in or leave and there is rarely an in-between. But there is one thing for certain that can be said about the town. It has a stubborn spirit and is the source of many a tall tale, but it is the kind of town that won't be pushed around, and has made the news so many times, that when people ask you where you grew up, no state is needed to identify it's location.

Is that a good thing or not?  I haven't quite figured it out yet.

MineCraft Lego

The Possibilities of a Ghost

During this past Halloween season, BW's scout troop organized a 'Walking Ghost Tour' through the more historic parts of River City for theirs and other dens in the pack. It was a great deal of fun, and the fall weather set the perfect stage for learning a bit of the varied history of our little town, and all present were impressed with the sheer number of stories about lost souls, murders, and ill-timed deaths of former residents of our town.

To set the mood before we began our tour, our guide dramatically reviewing what ghosts and orbs were, and how to look out for the presence of souls left behind while out and about on our stroll.

One child, obviously caught up in the spirit of the event, mentioned excitedly that "When ghosts are present the air temperature drops, and you can even see your breath!"

"That's right!" encouraged our host, "So if it feels cold, it could be a ghost!" Looking around the room it was obvious that the other scouts and their chaperone's were just as engaged as the guide and  the outspoken little one.

From the back of the crowd, BW could be heard responding "That, or air conditioning."

The Flu Shot Saved My Life

As with nearly every description for the flu, the aching started in my knees, elbows and shoulders and soon moved into my major muscles.  The sight and smell of food left me nauseous and by the end of the workday, I was running a fever.

When I awoke the next morning, my fever was in full swing, and every fiber of my being protested the slightest movement. Even my hair seemed to hurt. But this wasn't supposed to be happening since I'd gotten my flu shot well over two weeks before, and it should have provided me some protection.

After playing 'Flu Bingo' at the Doctors office, I was given a flu test to determine if I was a candidate for Tamiflu, which is said to shorten the severity and duration of the illness. When the test came back as negative, I was sent home with the diagnosis of 'a virus similar to the flu but not the flu' and told to drink lots of fluids and get rest.

Over the weekend, the fevers ranged from 103 to 106 and I lost nearly 10 pounds from sweating thru all the linens in the house. Monday, after calling the doctor again, I was advised to visit the ER as the sustained temperatures that I'd experienced were life threatening. After vials and vials of blood was taken, x-rays run and tests performed, I was pumped full of fluids and sent home to recover from the same virus I'd been diagnosed with the Friday before.

Eighteen hours later, the ER called instructing me to return as soon as possible with the message that I was near death could they call me a cab? Upon arrival, my temperature was 105, and Charles had to act as my Power of Attorney due to my exceptional delirium.

Following further blood draws, a series of CTs, another IV loaded with heavy concentrations of a broad spectrum antibiotic, I was given a bed on the cardiac ward of the nearby hospital. In sweating so profusely, my potassium levels had dropped to 'levels incompatible with life' and thusly I was at an extreme risk for a heart attack. The Doctor in charge told us that none of the doctors on staff nor the hospital records had ever seen the low levels I registered in a live patient.

During this exchange of information, the nurses were administering a potassium drip. The painful sensation of fire invading my blood vessels was so severe that in my delirium, I tried desperately to pull the IV out before they stopped the drip and diluted it out. The one saving grace was that I was so sick, so incapacitated from illness and fever that I mercifully fell into a semi-conscious state of sleep and I don't remember the remainder of the day.

It took two days and endless collections of blood to determine why I was so ill and two more days to determine if the medication I was receiving was effective. At that time all they knew was that I had a severe case of sepsis, and that massive antibiotics were being administered in the hopes that the infection could be controlled before any organs began to fail. Finally, the culprit was identified as an antibiotic resistant form of E. coli.

In becoming so distracted by work and life, I'd developed a kidney infection that eventually went septic and was unaware of until it became so virile that it nearly killed me. As I experienced no pain from the inflamed kidney, it was missed when I went to the doctor and the first time I visited the ER. It was only by having a CT that they were able to find the source of the sepsis, and by that point, it was so far along that the lab had to run a triple titration to achieve a measurable level of CRP indicators for the infection.

After 5 days in the hospital, I was allowed to go home, with gobfulls of medications and strict instructions that if my fever returned by even a single degree that I was to return to the hospital immediately, and instructions to not do any work, to not lift any weight until my strength had returned.

After two weeks of light bed rest I returned to work and it took a full year for my body as a whole to recover. I know this because I had bi-monthly blood draws to monitor my organ health. My kidneys were the first to recover, my liver, skin and hair the last.

Several months later I ran across the Doctor who treated me, and we conversed about how I was fairing. She admitted to me that I was a 'dead man walking' when I'd been admitted, and the staff had prepared themselves for my untimely passing. Even then, with the information she shared with me, I didn't fully appreciate how sick I'd been. Neither had Charles.

Ironically, it was that night while watching one of the sciencey medical mystery shows was on that Charles dreads that we both came to realize just how close I'd come to death. Featured on it was a story of a man who was attending a business seminar and turned in early saying that he felt ill from either too much booze or the flu and missed the second day of presentations due to raging fevers. It was on the third day that he was found to have passed away sometime during the night. The cause of his death was determined to be sepsis resulting from a kidney infection.

It was then that I realized that were it not for having had the flu shot, I would have dismissed the illness I suffered from as the flu, and I could have quiet possibly passed away as a result of an asymptomatic kidney infection.

I shudder to think of the life my little ones and Charles would lead without me. When the occasion presents itself to talk about this frightening period in our lives we can't help but grow emotional. As we nearly lost all that we had.

Ironically, I nearly didn't get a flu shot that year. It was inconvenient, and due to vaccine shortages the clinic was really late that year.

Looking back though, I'm very glad that I did. I don't like to think of what might have been if I hadn't.

The Planet

If you've read the post Good Intentions, you know that I've been dreading one of the many 'talks' to be had with BW about adult and mature topics. It's not THE talk, but one about the Boy Scouts of America and the 3G's; Girls, Gays and Godless.

Ever since BW began Boy Scouts, it's been a tenuous journey. He and JB are such close friends and whenever JB thought she couldn't do something, regardless of what it was, BW was there to rally her. And none of us liked the fact that the only country where Boy Scouts doesn't let girls join is here, in the United States - the land of the free and 'equal'.

After dropping JB off at dance class, BW and I were out running errands, and I used the opportunity for some Mama/Son conversation.

"BW, I have a question for you."

"Yes Mama?"

"So, you know how unfair it is that your sister can't participate in Boy Scouts, right?"

"Um-hum."

"Well, not only do the Boy Scouts not let girls in, but they also don't let in what they call 'Gay' people."

"Yeah. that doesn't seem right ... Mama, what is gay?"

"Well. It describes what kind of person you fall in love with. For the Boy Scouts, it means that when a boy grows up into a man, he falls in love with and wants to marry another man. The Scouts says that isn't ok, and you can't be part of their group if you are like that. But, I'm uncomfortable with that rule because I don't think that it's ok to tell people that they aren't good enough to join your group because of the way they are born. What do you think?"

"I get what you are saying, and it seems like that rule is kind of silly. JB is stronger and more talented than any of the boys in Scouts. Besides we don't spend our times hugging and holding hands. I wish we spent more time using our knives and learning how to shoot and respecting the blood zone. I need to teach JB about that. You don't want any blood in your blood circle."

"Well, there is the third G, and that is for people who believe in or have a God."

"You mean they don't want those people to be part of their group?"

"That's right. If you don't believe in God, they say 'no thank you' to joining them."

"Well. You don't have to worry Mama because I have a God."

"You do?" I asked somewhat startled as neither religion not the topic of God have been a significant focus in our home.

"Yeah! It's Uranus." Pronouncing it as 'Your-anus' rather than Yer-anus. "We learned all about him in school. He is a Greek God, and he's so important that they even named a planet after him! Isn't that COOL!?"

"Oh ... Well, I guess."

"Yeah. So. There, you don't have to worry."

"And, how do you show respect for him?"

"Oh, I sit and think quietly. And wonder how I can be like him, and someday have a planet named after me."

Well. Alright.

Later that night as we were eating dinner, the subject of God came up again as I mentioned to Charles that apparently BW had one.

"Yeah! He has a planet named after him!"

Looking confused, Charles raised his eyebrows and asked, "And his name is...."

"Uranus!"

At the mention of God, JB became upset and said that it was no fair, that BW had a God and she didn't. To which BW said that she could have Uranus as a God too.

"But I don't want Uranus!"

"It's not spelled MY-anus, it's UR-anus. And he's so strong we can share him."

"Ewww! I don't want Uranus, I want my own!"

At that point, Charles and I exchanged a glance, sighed deeply and surfed the wave of chaos. I don't remember much after that as the two began to bicker in earnest about how one spelled and pronounced the God of Uranus and whether or not he could be shared.

The Greek God. And oh, by the way... He has a planet named after him.

Tales from the backseat #8903

Driving home from what was a rare but greatly appreciated uneventful dinner out at a local restaurant JB's happy little voice began singing, to the tune of 'Jingle Bells' a little merry song. It took the entire trip home to figure out what she was singing, and it wasn't until I found myself softly humming along that I realized what the words to her little song were...

'Eat some food, take a pooh, have a little nap'

"JB! That's disgusting!"

"I know mama, but isn't it true?" as she skipped off to get ready for bed.