Life at 30
Yippie-ka-ay MF'ers. The most unlikely event ever occurred - I made it to a fourth decade. Seemed impossible with so many points in my history being overly rife with risk-taking. As with so many others of my baby boom generation, I had often cited attaining 30 as the demarcation between youth and older age. Now at 60, this seems ludicrous, as at 30 I was in fantastic shape and felt strong virtually every day. This sense of well-being was to be challenged just days after my birthday, which I spent not at my home but at my brother's in a suburb of Little Rock. The occasion? I was about to donate one of my kidney's to Billy so he would have a chance at some sort of normal life.
I remember a good deal of the aftermath. There was pain. Then there was PAIN. In that era, one was cut open over half one's body to safely remove the donor kidney. By this writing, the procedure has been refined to perhaps six inches of incision. So the agony was so great even the constant metering of morphine would only take the edge off it. The surgery was on Wednesday, and for some reason – probably not thinking it through thoroughly – I had made my return plane reservation for Sunday just four days forward. Because of finances I couldn't afford to change the flight, so I had to sign a waiver of liability for the doctors who were unwilling to release me without it. Denise who had flown up the day of the surgery accompanied me back on the flight to Love Field, and then drove the 42 miles to our house. That's my enduring memory of this time – every bump in the road magnified 50 times in the large wound around my body searing my brain with shattering pain.
My convalescence humbled me. Even walking from the bed to the bathroom was an ordeal. Denise had to travel the next day for work so I had four straight days to manage on my own. Tylenol 3's, better known as percosets, were my only buffers against the pain that seemed in some ways to even worsen during the first week of convalescence. I had no appetite, but what a hard way to lose weight (I dropped 20 pounds during the entire process). Gradually as with all recoveries I was able to take a few more steps each day with lessening pain but the experience was in many ways just as difficult as my rehab from the car wreck at 18.
One challenge which arose for me in the wake of this was a mental and emotional one. A few weeks later on a weekend, I had awakened and went to the kitchen where our wall phone was posted. Denise was talking on it, and hung up quickly. I innocently asked who it was (spoiler alert: a turning point in the plot of my life) and she replied it was Dawn. Since the two of them had continued to talk sporadically since Denise's leaving to take the health department job, I thought nothing of it. Forward several days, Denise is traveling and I am at home. I receive a call from Dawn and since I too had known her socially we talked for several minutes. Saying our goodbyes she told me to tell Denise to call her sometime. I replied perplexed “but you two just talked days ago.” Dawn was silent for a few seconds and then claimed she hadn't spoken to her in months. At first I thought she was teasing me but she was serious, thinking that this represented some form of cognitive issue. I knew better. It was confirmed when I called my wife that evening and laid it out to her. There was silence on the other end for several seconds until she said the infamous words so many have heard before: “we need to talk when I get back.”
It was never about jealousy or sex for me. I had endured many temptations during the-then 4 prior years of our marriage and though I hadn't completely fallen off the monogamy wagon I was honest enough with myself that it just as easily could have been me as the cheater getting caught. My issue, one which never was resolved through nearly 3 more years together with her, was that she was defiant and refused to explain her actions or apologize. Instead, she said she wasn't sure who she was in love with and that until she could get clarity on this, we should live together like roommates. No amount of argument or protest made her budge from her position and I concluded that unless I was willing to end the marriage I had to accept her terms.
I have often questioned my mindset at that time. An even just few years older version of myself would not have accepted these terms. It may have been the vulnerability I felt still getting over the shock of surgery and not having a job, which by extension gave me empathy for those women in roughly the same positions who often are judged by others for not leaving cheating spouses. I don't think I will ever understand it, but it is part of my story and as such apparently needed to happen just the way it did. A few months later at our anniversary, she told me she had ended the other relationship and wanted us to be together again. It was never the same from then on; no amount of lying to myself could mask that .
My physical rehab was aided by my rediscovery of golf after being given the green light by my doctor six weeks after surgery. The walking was a tremendous help for my stamina and though my shots and scores were predictably terrible, this redux ignited my passion for golf and within a few years I was often shooting rounds in the low 80's and high 70's.
I was released for work 8 weeks post surgery, and was forced to search in Dallas since lab jobs were scarce in my area. 47 miles away, a facility named Dallas Memorial Hospital became my new income source as I was hired for a 7 on/7 off job with hours from 10A to 10P. This hospital was a legacy remnant from earlier decades, located in a very ethnic low income area in east Dallas and was barely staying afloat. The job itself was the lowest volume of work I had ever encountered. The majority of lab employees were legacy as well, many of them having worked there for over 30 years. They were so used to the snail's pace and I being so used to balls-to-the-wall intensity that had been every other lab job I had worked at, I felt myself going stir crazy. So it was fortunate that over half of the facility was in mothballs and rife for exploration or just getting lost as I had a pager that would reflex from the phones. It was a slacker's dream and I soon learned to gear myself down to fit the slower pace.
In December, my in-laws came for the holidays. One night when I returned from work, they met me with a tale of how our house had been broken into, showing me as evidence the patio door with some damage, purporting it to be the entry portal for the thieves. My mother-in-law Jean had supposedly brought all of her jewelry with her, which seemed to be the only things taken. The claims would be near the limit that our policy would pay for. I didn't voice it at the time, but in reflection this was no doubt a fraud scheme cooked up to get them out of financial troubles - one that my wife was complicit in!
Some backgrounding here for posterity's sake. Her parents were both characters of differing types. Jean was raw, gravelly-voiced, and negatively inclined. She was from an Illinois coal-mining family and her persona reflected this hardscrabble early existence. She eventually owned and ran a cafe in Michigan near the Canadian border. A nearby bar owner called her one night, asking her if she could assist them. There was a 2 year old girl left there by her mother who was a prostitute and she hadn't returned. Jean took that child for a night, then another until it became clear that the mother had abandoned the child. Jean agreed to adopt this child to save her from the negativity of the underworld and of course that young girl born in 1953 was now in 1989 my wife. Raymond was from West Texas. He had lied about his age to join the Navy when WWII began, and was on the beach at Iwo Jima just yards away from the iconic moment of the flag raising ... at the age of 15! He later migrated to Michigan where he had met Jean and assumed the role as husband to her and stepfather to Denise. I never felt a great bond to either of them, which should have been a clue that they were not destined to be part of my life for long. They were not bad people in any sense, they just had succumbed to existing in negative patterns instead of creating more positive moments. By example, Jean with only one lung, and it with one lobe removed was by then forced to be on oxygen most of the day. But her smoking never ceased. Though they weren't genetically related, I would see in the years to come that same grip of addiction with Denise.
In March, Denise became pregnant. This wasn't planned but we both felt good about it. The happiness only lasted a few weeks as she miscarried. She was affected quite a bit by it but as always talking to me about it or someone professionally trained was not going to happen. We still led mainly separate lives with our varied schedules and as my 31st approached I felt as isolated socially and emotionally as I had ever been. The following year's events would change that arc.
I remember a good deal of the aftermath. There was pain. Then there was PAIN. In that era, one was cut open over half one's body to safely remove the donor kidney. By this writing, the procedure has been refined to perhaps six inches of incision. So the agony was so great even the constant metering of morphine would only take the edge off it. The surgery was on Wednesday, and for some reason – probably not thinking it through thoroughly – I had made my return plane reservation for Sunday just four days forward. Because of finances I couldn't afford to change the flight, so I had to sign a waiver of liability for the doctors who were unwilling to release me without it. Denise who had flown up the day of the surgery accompanied me back on the flight to Love Field, and then drove the 42 miles to our house. That's my enduring memory of this time – every bump in the road magnified 50 times in the large wound around my body searing my brain with shattering pain.
My convalescence humbled me. Even walking from the bed to the bathroom was an ordeal. Denise had to travel the next day for work so I had four straight days to manage on my own. Tylenol 3's, better known as percosets, were my only buffers against the pain that seemed in some ways to even worsen during the first week of convalescence. I had no appetite, but what a hard way to lose weight (I dropped 20 pounds during the entire process). Gradually as with all recoveries I was able to take a few more steps each day with lessening pain but the experience was in many ways just as difficult as my rehab from the car wreck at 18.
One challenge which arose for me in the wake of this was a mental and emotional one. A few weeks later on a weekend, I had awakened and went to the kitchen where our wall phone was posted. Denise was talking on it, and hung up quickly. I innocently asked who it was (spoiler alert: a turning point in the plot of my life) and she replied it was Dawn. Since the two of them had continued to talk sporadically since Denise's leaving to take the health department job, I thought nothing of it. Forward several days, Denise is traveling and I am at home. I receive a call from Dawn and since I too had known her socially we talked for several minutes. Saying our goodbyes she told me to tell Denise to call her sometime. I replied perplexed “but you two just talked days ago.” Dawn was silent for a few seconds and then claimed she hadn't spoken to her in months. At first I thought she was teasing me but she was serious, thinking that this represented some form of cognitive issue. I knew better. It was confirmed when I called my wife that evening and laid it out to her. There was silence on the other end for several seconds until she said the infamous words so many have heard before: “we need to talk when I get back.”
It was never about jealousy or sex for me. I had endured many temptations during the-then 4 prior years of our marriage and though I hadn't completely fallen off the monogamy wagon I was honest enough with myself that it just as easily could have been me as the cheater getting caught. My issue, one which never was resolved through nearly 3 more years together with her, was that she was defiant and refused to explain her actions or apologize. Instead, she said she wasn't sure who she was in love with and that until she could get clarity on this, we should live together like roommates. No amount of argument or protest made her budge from her position and I concluded that unless I was willing to end the marriage I had to accept her terms.
I have often questioned my mindset at that time. An even just few years older version of myself would not have accepted these terms. It may have been the vulnerability I felt still getting over the shock of surgery and not having a job, which by extension gave me empathy for those women in roughly the same positions who often are judged by others for not leaving cheating spouses. I don't think I will ever understand it, but it is part of my story and as such apparently needed to happen just the way it did. A few months later at our anniversary, she told me she had ended the other relationship and wanted us to be together again. It was never the same from then on; no amount of lying to myself could mask that .
My physical rehab was aided by my rediscovery of golf after being given the green light by my doctor six weeks after surgery. The walking was a tremendous help for my stamina and though my shots and scores were predictably terrible, this redux ignited my passion for golf and within a few years I was often shooting rounds in the low 80's and high 70's.
I was released for work 8 weeks post surgery, and was forced to search in Dallas since lab jobs were scarce in my area. 47 miles away, a facility named Dallas Memorial Hospital became my new income source as I was hired for a 7 on/7 off job with hours from 10A to 10P. This hospital was a legacy remnant from earlier decades, located in a very ethnic low income area in east Dallas and was barely staying afloat. The job itself was the lowest volume of work I had ever encountered. The majority of lab employees were legacy as well, many of them having worked there for over 30 years. They were so used to the snail's pace and I being so used to balls-to-the-wall intensity that had been every other lab job I had worked at, I felt myself going stir crazy. So it was fortunate that over half of the facility was in mothballs and rife for exploration or just getting lost as I had a pager that would reflex from the phones. It was a slacker's dream and I soon learned to gear myself down to fit the slower pace.
In December, my in-laws came for the holidays. One night when I returned from work, they met me with a tale of how our house had been broken into, showing me as evidence the patio door with some damage, purporting it to be the entry portal for the thieves. My mother-in-law Jean had supposedly brought all of her jewelry with her, which seemed to be the only things taken. The claims would be near the limit that our policy would pay for. I didn't voice it at the time, but in reflection this was no doubt a fraud scheme cooked up to get them out of financial troubles - one that my wife was complicit in!
Some backgrounding here for posterity's sake. Her parents were both characters of differing types. Jean was raw, gravelly-voiced, and negatively inclined. She was from an Illinois coal-mining family and her persona reflected this hardscrabble early existence. She eventually owned and ran a cafe in Michigan near the Canadian border. A nearby bar owner called her one night, asking her if she could assist them. There was a 2 year old girl left there by her mother who was a prostitute and she hadn't returned. Jean took that child for a night, then another until it became clear that the mother had abandoned the child. Jean agreed to adopt this child to save her from the negativity of the underworld and of course that young girl born in 1953 was now in 1989 my wife. Raymond was from West Texas. He had lied about his age to join the Navy when WWII began, and was on the beach at Iwo Jima just yards away from the iconic moment of the flag raising ... at the age of 15! He later migrated to Michigan where he had met Jean and assumed the role as husband to her and stepfather to Denise. I never felt a great bond to either of them, which should have been a clue that they were not destined to be part of my life for long. They were not bad people in any sense, they just had succumbed to existing in negative patterns instead of creating more positive moments. By example, Jean with only one lung, and it with one lobe removed was by then forced to be on oxygen most of the day. But her smoking never ceased. Though they weren't genetically related, I would see in the years to come that same grip of addiction with Denise.
In March, Denise became pregnant. This wasn't planned but we both felt good about it. The happiness only lasted a few weeks as she miscarried. She was affected quite a bit by it but as always talking to me about it or someone professionally trained was not going to happen. We still led mainly separate lives with our varied schedules and as my 31st approached I felt as isolated socially and emotionally as I had ever been. The following year's events would change that arc.
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