....Appreciate...

*Note to reader: This posting is dedicated to a young man who passed from a brain tumor November 13, 2012. In deference to his family, I will not refer to his name. Just know that for all of the fighting and all of the bravado, there are losses and this fact, on every level, is tragic. I, for one, refuse to think this death or any other is in vain.

Ten years for an automobile is a long time. Ten years for child is nary a beginning.

I am approaching an age where loss, passing on and death tug at the corners of one's mind. A generation prior quickly becomes a generation lost.

In the battles with disease, when you are just trying to tread water, you can forget easily that your own mortality is in the balance just from time alone.

In recent days, news of the fallen has spilled in. One in particular is that of a ten year old boy who succumbed to a brain tumor. I confess to not personally knowing the boy but that doesn't cause one to pause for a very long moment.

During this time of year, our culture constricts the family bond to, sometimes, force us all in reminder that what is present now will not be guaranteed to have a future presence at all.

Immediately, there is a family who will not have their son, cousin, nephew, friend with them.

I know this is not uncommon. It's a sad truth. The world continues to rotate as we cling to the fabric of memory, every fiber stretching before us.

This isn't to focus on death. Tribulation berates us at every turn. So much so, that we often grow numb to the message.

This is a reminder that life is beyond price. Your life is priceless. We need you here. We want you here.

If we could pause for every loss, even for a moment, we would remind ourselves that there is a need, a demand, to be thankful for every breath we take.

We don't know where we will be tomorrow. I am not into the preordained. I am into appreciating every step we can take together.


This season, be thankful. Be grateful. Be humble. If we could all do these things at once, the universe would suddenly be in sync. Just an opinion.

Consciously remember to breathe. It is a treasure to do so. We want to celebrate life and the memory of how people lived, not how they left us.

Tell someone you appreciate them every day. It is our duty. It is our truth.


To the boy I never got to meet...be at peace.

Take it back...

It's breast cancer awareness month.

I think most of us, even casual observers have seen the wave of pink in everyday life. Whether it is pink hair extensions, pink football cleats, or pink Fiats driving around Downcity, you get the point. It is one month of pure focus on a type of disease that wreaks havoc on both female, and surprise, male populations.

I propose a new color for the ages. I submit that we don't just acknowledge ribbons, t-shirts, arm bands or pink elephants of all sizes. I offer up a new wave. A new outlook. A new mantra.

Trust me. I don't test the gods with a brave, foolish, cocky attitude. I understand my place amongst them. They often laugh at us with our trivial desires at a normal life, an old age, and a sip or twelve on the porch.

But as I sit bobbing in a sea of pink, it struck me - We are survivors. However, what does that term elicit when you say the word? Millions of people clinging to a life raft? Thousands thankful that they are "lucky"?

I think it is time to add a new color to our list. Here's the deal - you get to pick it out.

Me? I don't think there is anything wrong with a black tee, replete with skulls and a screaming word "WARRIOR" in blood red ink.

Why the hell not?

We are not just hanging on. We are not just sitting waiting for the next storm. We are taking back that which was taken from us - our health and well being.

You demand to take it back.

Jack LaLanne said it best. "You body is your slave. It works for you."

I don't have the scope of readers or listeners that good ole Jack had. But I say just the same. Something took your most prized possession - your health. Now get it back.

Put on your dark boots, adorn yourself in cammo, and streak the eye black on. Do it for real. Do it mentally. Do it anyway you want. Pierce whatever. Tattoo the mantra. Do what it takes because when you look in the mirror you will see one thing - your true self. Lying to yourself won't do you any good. Waiting for the next storm is for someone else. Sure, we all lose sleep over getting older but listen to yourself - you ARE getting older.

People live until they are one hundred, and why the hell not you. Yes we've been hit, and hit hard but if we focus, rally ourselves, hit the street, literally running and pour the perfect fuel into our bodies, you might, just might turn the tide. And your immediate result? A better quality of life.

Like all maxims, being absolute is, well, absolutely hard. It takes saying no to certain aspects in life more often than not. It takes discipline but ask yourself this - if you were being chased by a large bear would you just sit and wait for it to eat you? (Okay all the Nature Channel viewers, now is not the time to remind me about being "prey" when you run and curling up in a ball instead - you get my point).

Get up and fight for it. Take it back. We aren't just survivors. We aren't in a really bad lottery. It's not a god who has a sick sense of humor. It's not "why me".

I've done all of it. Sarcastic to sardonic. Tears until your gut twists into itself.

We can't be superheroes. We can't be superhuman. But we can be at our best.

We are breathing, right here, right now.

For a brief moment, you are a warrior. Forget the pink. Embrace the black....

And take it back.

Prisoner of War

*Note the reader. This blog posting is posed as an analogy. War is a disease unto itself. There is no disrespect intended for the men and women that guard our shores. This is meant to illustrate on how the war on disease can be just as brutal and unforgiving. Some of the imagery you are about to read can be considered graphic by some. - JM

It's an old story.

We all know it. Most of us understand it.

We see it everyday.

It's on all of the media. It trends. It lives and breathes as a nightly headline.

It's a war that rages every minute of every day of every month of every year.

In terms of victims, whole nations are swallowed.

Millions have died. 

And the soldiers?

These are people who are struck down in a matter of seconds or decades.

They don't volunteer.

They are definitely drafted.

For once there is no discrimination.

Men. Women. Children. Adults. Teens. Toddlers. African American. Native American, Caucasian. Hispanic. Asian. Every nationality is drafted. 

As with all conflicts,  often there is no real grace to speak of. Politics fail here. Many times dignity is an afterthought.

There is a fragmented story of one six year old in particular.

The day he was drafted was the day his father discovered a lump the size of a golfball on his neck.

He was wounded from the outset. 

Gashed to be saved. Saved only to be gashed again.

He saw angels in the form of nurses, and ministers both medical and spiritual. 

He had nightmares that led to habitual sleeplessness that led to staring at television patterns until the dawn finally broke.  

He suffered from what one of his many psychiatrists later called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

He vomited from medicines that may have been called poison by anyone who happened to fall upon them in a darkened cupboard. 

When he finally saw the shore, he suffered a relapse. 

"Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more." 

Swimming against a current that never relented, he cried to his mother that he wanted to die.

He wanted to lose his own personal war...

This was his childhood. 

A domino had fallen. Rarely does one fall in solitary confinement. It hits other dominoes and the cascade continues.

The child made it to adulthood. He had hit the shore and for a time there was peace.

But this war is never truly over. It just recedes with the tide only to come back in full force once again, drafting at will. 

The soldier suffered from other wounds. Heart blockages. Radiation fallout. Etc Etc Etc.

The story could go on, and probably will go on for a millennia. Just insert another name. Jane Doe. John Doe. No matter. The beat will go forth. A pentameter of retreat and resolve...personal defeat and penultimate victory. 

However, there is one other story that runs parallel to this war account. 

It, too, is a never ending story. It will never end until the last human has breathed the last breath. 

Amazingly enough, it is a short tome. It has one everlasting chapter with one line that coincidentally contains the same words as the title of the book.

It is a simple four words.

Four words that unite every soldier, every doctor, every nurse, every patient, and every being. 

The title of the book is We Are Still Here.

The chapter states the same. 

It's a book of hope. It's a book of determination. It's a book for all of us. 

May we continue to write in this book and may this story continue to have no ending but rather a continuing repetitive chant.... 

We are still here.

Want vs Need

Friday morning. 4:30 am.

I hear the alarm. I know it's on. It will just get louder and louder. Some random song will torture me for as long as I let it.

Just 2 more hours of sleep. You were up at 2 am. Then 3 am. You just want that time back. It's dark and a blue moon is mocking you through the window. Even those damn birds that love to nest right under your ear drums are fast asleep.

It would be easy. Just roll over. You will catch up another day.

But there's the burn. You've had your rest day on Wednesday. Now you complete the week. Push. Push. Push. If you don't...someone will put you in a hospital.

One day ain't gonna do you in.

One leg over the edge. Then the other. Dressing in the dark. iPod clicked in, torn up workout notes in the pocket.

You should drink Gatorade.

Pomegranate juice.
Vitamin C.
B-Complex.
Resveratrol.
CO Q10.
Multi Vitamin.
Toporol.
Aspirin.
Fish oil.

One big gulp.

Lights are barely on. The trap bar awaits. Last day of the light phase month ends today.

Ten repetitions. Water. Now for 20 more.

Cut it. Stop at 10. Rest up. 

20.

Lat pull downs.
Close grip benches.
Dumbell triceps

Rest more. Everyone is talking around you. ESPN is on. You are so tired from the other night.

Twisting sit-ups.

Roll away ball abs

Give it up. You really want a donut. 

Truth is, I REALLY DO want a donut. What happens is that I will eat a bowl of chia seeds and almond milk with blackberries instead. It's not a donut though.

A donut. That would be really good about now.

http://www.etsy.com/treasury/MjIyNTYxODh8MjcyMDQxMzcwOQ/do-or-donut-there-is-no-try?ref=pr_treasury

Jelly, please. Thanks. Leave the box too....

From 9 to 90

I catch myself in fits of nostalgia during the final furlong of summer.

I'll be running and the wind will shift. The sweet smell of cut grass wafts over you and you are transported to the hot summer days of your youth. 

I don't peruse the obituaries as a rule. I was looking for someone but I stumbled onto someone else. What caught my eye was that she was the age of 9. I'll call her Betty.

Before a run, I'll always check which directions the clouds are moving. As a boy, I'd lay in the warm grass staring up at a stark blue sky. The slight movement of a few scattered wisps of clouds was the only indication that time was passing. The silence was beautiful and humbling. 

The article was brief, like Betty's life. She died of cancer in a local hospital surrounded by her family. 

My son is past 8 years old. I was 6 when I was first diagnosed. I see his summer of awesome and I think of Betty's family. 

Let's face it. We all want our obits to read the same. Dead at 90, after sex, with a 1/2 a glass of wine in our hand.

I think back to the sounds of the street when I was a kid. My cousin and I would walk the streets, up and down, scraping old gum with a rusted nail. We were going green before it was fashionable. No need to check in with the parents. It was sun up to sun down.

There was no i-Anything. No white earbuds keeping your bad music to yourself.  

Music was shared by people blasting it from their garage or their driveways. And best part of all was that it was free.

All you needed was a t-shirt and shorts. No shoes required at Cumberland Farms.

I wondered if Betty had any beach days. Did she miss a lot of school? 

In the evenings, the temperature would be 85 but 70 in the shade of a tree. The grass under there was even cooler and green just from rain, no chemicals to kill weeds and everything else.

Dinner was always at dusk and no matter how much you feigned ignorance, you mother knew you could hear her calling for you three streets away. 

Betty will no longer have these memories if she had them at all.

Time will slip through your hands no matter how you may attempt to freeze it. To stay in your own personal snow globe where time stays still forever.

I am looking to run longer these days. I curse myself for not being better. But it doesn't last long. I remind myself I am breathing. I am giving it my all to go beyond what I feel is an acceptable time to leave this world. 

We should all strive. One day at a time. Make a memory not just for yourself but for those around you.

You don't know when. Why would you really want to know?

Betty's obit read that she was of the age of 9. It should have read 90...

Thankful

A couple of bad nights.

That's all it takes.

A few hours lost and your thoughts wander more than other nights.

The morning comes in like a sledgehammer. You truly are vampiric as light flows over you like safflower oil, flooding your eyelids with spikes of day walker insults.

This is when you dig deep. What is the beast that makes your breath short and your night long?

For me, it's always the same.

I go back to 6 years old. My left hand is taped to what amounts to be a 2 x 4. It still burns where the clot was flushed a few days before. If you don't know what that is, it's when your IV gets a blood blockage. Instead of a re-stick, they 'flush' the IV with more pressure till the clot breaks.

Ouch.

But that wasn't what truly flashed back.

I honestly don't know anymore.

It may have been the nine shots I needed to prevent me from catching chicken pox from the kid down the hall. Or the fact that I had to first watch my dad take a shot in the arm first to prove it didn't hurt. It 'popped' and he blinked. Years later he said it still hurt.

It could have been the sticks, re-sticks and more sticks at 3 am by someone who always asked "How are you sleeping, Dear?"

It may have been the pings, pops, hisses and moans from the machines and other patients as the quiet of night turned into a cacophony of inhuman clicks in an unnatural symphony.

Lately, sleep, no sleep, depression, anger, joy....whatever. I've made a choice.

Call it karma, positive thoughts, praying, wishful thinking or Universal speak but I have resolved to be thankful for one simple fact - I am here.

Three years ago, I was convinced I was dead. That was it. I was to be no more. I never told anyone that before really. I was simply going to die too soon, too young, too bad.

To pull out of a daily tailspin isn't easy, trust me.

It is simple really - I am just thankful.

I often do those Hallmark moment scenes where I look up and I am thankful for a blue sky.

Before a run, I am grateful for a breath.

I am thankful that I can do normal things. I can walk, run, lift, whatever...

I can drive. I can think. My muscles can hurt. My back can ache. I can be hungry. I can be happy.

I can be everything because I am alive.

It's not a miracle. It is this side of hokey.

Some will nod knowingly and others will roll their eyes ruefully.

I find myself laughing at the little things that would bring me down. I cherish those that make my life a treasure around me.

Sure, someone somewhere will find all of this just a tad over the top. Sometimes I catch myself as well but even that doesn't matter. It is cool to be thankful whether it is an ocean breeze, a few words on a page or a 10 minute nap.

Doesn't matter really. It's all good because I am still here.

Dear John...

John Henseler


His name was John. I had known him for almost 12 years.

He was a simple person and I mean that in the most complimentary manner.

John was always polite, knowledgeable and definitely from the midwest where people tend to scare Northerners with their friendliness.

I spoke with him about 3 weeks ago - 3 weeks before his passing from a 2 year battle with colon cancer.

I don't always know what to say when someone passes on to the great spaces. Death is a reality for most, an afterthought for some, and a non-topic for others.

As a survivor, you are measured in inches. You are measured with instruments. You are measured by stats.

It can be said that John has converted to the final stat - the stat that scares nations.

I submit to all survivors and those that have fought and lost, that the stat that is never measured is character.

Character lies in the fight. We are dragged into this. No one raises their hand and says "pick me". It's a lottery. We start the fight, Day 1.

Our struggle? Normal life.

John walked the halls with a funny gait. Arthritis took its toll on his joints but never dulled his clear blue eyes. He always kept a military cut for his hair.

In the end, his walk was a pure struggle. His khakis barely clung to his hips after losing an undeterminable amount of weight.

I would ask him how he was doing.

"Pretty good. Doctors are getting together. They will call me"

A week would go by and I'd ask the same question.

That answer was always the same. In hindsight, he didn't want anyone to know. He knew he was a walking signpost and yet people still didn't truly know.

Character to keep marching. Character to do his job until, literally, the very end. Character to ask others how their day is going when your insides are dying.

I can't say anything that will make John or generations of others come back. I can honor them for the fight they put up 24/7/365 even if they aren't given that long to begin with.

There is no Rocky theme playing.

There is no fly by overhead. No fanfare by John Williams ushering the hero to a monument.

They are just people trying to live a normal life. There should be a coronation just for that.

Dear John,

I miss you...

Signed Joe



Here's your fly by....and sign off.

Just know that some of us won't be seeing you for at least another 50 years....