Emerald City in the Land of OZ

The driving rain pelts the blue field and white stars of the Australian flag waving on top of a turn of the century green copper domed pinnacle two hundred feet below me. Perched next to a window on the thirty-first floor of extravagantly appointed luxury hotel, I stare out over the exceptionally vibrant City of Sydney. The rain is a brief retreat from the spectacular weather and balmy tropical breezes. This is the first moment of reflection from a furious exploration of the Emerald City and the Gold Coast.

Sydney is a modern vibrant energetic city with a strong backbone of tropical British colonial influence which is evident in the beautifully maintained governmental buildings. While seemly isolated in this remote southern location, its reach is international as blends of world cultures travel to Sydney to savior its delights. The city is fashion conscious but not consumed. There is an emerging world class cuisine called “Mod Oz” which is a fusion of Asian, South Pacific and traditional Australia fare.

The people of Australia embrace everyone who ventures upon its shores with a warm and friendly attitude. It is possible to strike up a meaningful conversation with just about anyone in a restaurant, on the ferries or in an elevator and discover another hidden gem of urban life down under. One of the most revealing insights has been how open and safe the city is. We have spent the past six days walking huge areas of the city at all hours of the day and night and not once did we encounter a single individual who appeared threatening. That is a truly remarkable statement in the modern urban world.

In my heart I have always been a mariner migrating to oceans, harbors, beaches and other points of maritime adventures. Sydney is a city of the sea which is the basis of its beauty, from the ferries, harbors, piers, esplanades and beaches, the city is always reflected in shimmering clear blue water. At night the city explodes into a million stars that dance on the water like fireflies where you linger in the open air cafes captivated by urban culture.

During our visit to Sydney, we wandered the world famous beaches of Manly, Bondi and Bronti. Nothing I can say will fully express the spectacular rugged coast with the aquamarine sea foam crashing against the worn limestone cliffs. The lively beaches are lined with trendy restaurants offering a bounty of riches from the crystal clear water that stretches to the horizon.

The most pleasant surprise is how beautiful the young residents of Sydney are, especially the females. The streets, restaurant and nightclubs are filled with large numbers of spectacularly stunning women, more so by factor of ten than any other city in the world I have visited. While the rest of the world’s fashion choice is casual baggy, oversized non-descript unisex sweat pants and gym clothes, the women of Oz embrace femininity with alluring and head spinning results. What a refreshing and novel idea, women taking pride in dressing like women. If that isn’t enough on the beaches surrounding Sydney, they embrace the European custom of sunbathing topless.

There is only one disturbing observation of Australian culture that is immediately apparent when you walk off the plane. American consumer and pop culture dominates every aspect of Australian entertainment and commerce. Like an insidious contagious disease American products fill every movie theatre, music store, radio station, television channel, clothing boutique and lunch counter. It is easier to find a weather forecast for the states than it is for Australia. The process of consumer assimilation is so complete that the multinational companies are morphing to assume a cloak of pseudo Australian origin, McDonalds offers morning “Brekkies”, Burger King is called Hungry Jack, Dominos places “rocket” of its special pizzas. Like a predator assuming camouflage to blend into its surroundings, Australians are slowly being seduced into abandoning their identity.

In earlier writings I described how my grandmother was born outside of Melbourne and immigrated to the states in 1904. I never really considered my Australian origin. It was only a passing interest as the discussion of Australia surfaced when I was growing up. Only upon arrive to this great nation has a feeling of deep connection and belonging has arisen in me. My short time here is not nearly enough time to discover and explore this vast country, but it is with absolute certainly that I will return to this beautiful land and beautiful people for which I have fallen in love with. I find myself humming Waltzing Maltilda as my time grows short and all I can say is “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi”

Love In Idleness

"Since I once sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song.
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music.
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness."

William Shakespeare

The dream I'm in

“The dream I'm in
with the foamy ocean
and sea gulls
beautiful castles
I don't ever
wanna wake up.”

Ave Lilik

“My eyes are an ocean in which my dreams are reflected.”

Anna M. Uhlich

38 HRS – 02/05 – 10 GMT = G’Day

The exact formula has been determined, with each ingredient carefully proportioned to achieve the precise mathematical result. Preparations to decipher this journey have taken considerable effort culminating in a final 17 hour marathon before the computer was temporality suspended at 23:15 CST. Like the time traveler in H.G. Wells’ classic novel, we are about to embark on bending the laws of physics arriving in another world and time.

Here’s the itinerary as best as can be determined. Depart home to LAX airport 09:00 CST, arriving in LAX at 12:30 PST for a 12 hour layover. This is our last opportunity to indulge in somewhat familiar culture and rituals. We will grab a cab to the Santa Monica pier to participate in the traditional Super Bowl celebration in an impromptu local bar of random selection before heading to a casual dinner overlooking the Pacific Ocean as the sun sets. We will be providing the sun a head start as we race to overtake it. Sometime in the early evening we will catch a cab back to LAX for a 23:55 departure to Brisbane.

This is where it gets confusing our departure is 23:55 PST 02/04 that is really 02:55 CST 02/05 which is a day we will never experience. The flight time is about 14 hours during which 02/05 will disappear from our lives. Ultimately we will arrive in Brisbane at 07:00 02/06 -10 GMT after which we will catch a 90 minute shuttle to the Gold Coast. In the entire event will take about 38 hours, a challenging adventure for even the most trail tested road warrior. The finish line is the western edge of the Coral Sea.

Just in case you are wondering the photo is of Caines, Australia and according to insiders it includes our hotel if you know where to look. Hint: it’s next to white sand. Yeah I know, poor baby. It’s going to be hard to distract me at this point because I’m going down……I’m going way down……under.

Sometimes the Bar Eats You

“Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you.”

The Stranger... The Big Lebowski (1998)

Then are moments in time when the Unstoppable Force collides with the Immoveable Object and natural laws of the universal are reconfirmed. Laws of probability dictate that one shall yield and the other shall prevail. In the end, the unstoppable force was no match for the immoveable object, better known as the federal government. Years of travel knowledge, guile, swiftness and insider contacts could not budge the Immoveable Object.

The confrontation began January 15th when I discovered my passport was missing and was scheduled to travel to Toronto on January 28th. In a complete panic I quickly assembled all the proper documentation, photos, forms and fees running to the nearest Post Office to submit for expedited passport replacement service. Under this expedited service, I was guaranteed to receive my replacement passport within 10 days for a governmental imposed “you are an idiot to wait so long” fee of $175.

The first clue of my impending disaster was arriving at the Post Office to find it closed while celebrating Martin Luther King’s holiday. Understanding that this would delay departure of my application until January 16th, I quickly surmised that a governmental promise of 10 days and an absolute deadline of 12 days was going to be a problem. I vowed to arrive at the Post Office first thing in the morning to ensure my application was first in the express bin to the New Orleans processing center. The contradiction of New Orleans and expedited service imposed a level of concern to the process, but I stood fast in my faith that the benevolent protector and provider would deliver on its promise.

The following day on the way to the Post Office, my car blows a hose just one day after spending $750 to replace my radiator. I guess my auto repair shop discovered my credit score after quoting me a repair number and decided to up the ante with a second round of repairs. Not overly concerned I applied the principal of executive privilege and called my office manager to retrieve me and my pending application. Leaving the smoking heap of my car on a side street downtown I climbed into Mary’s vehicle for the overdue appointment with stewards of snail mail.

To no one’s surprise one day after the holiday, the line of customers that snaked outside the door lead to the gatekeepers, who sole function was to witness my signature on the application and to collect ransom for restoration of my freedom. Standing in line you begin to realize how the art of personal dehumanization has been perfected. It’s revealing how the system assumes you know this vague and confusing system of acquainted transportation of communications. How each individual is punished for the smallest of procedural missteps, such as not filling out a line on the back of a form thereby regulating them in to public to obediently complete the task and unceremoniously move to the back of this oversized conga line.

Optimism of quickly completing this task fades as I realize new impending passport rules has created a flood of applications from the elderly and drug addicts who are now required to show a passport before they enter Mexico to buy cheap drugs and velvet paintings. The whole scene reminds my of some sort of basic therapy for severe head injury patients who are being provided life skills before they are released back into the general public. I expect to see Jack Nicholson’s character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to run past in a white gown with his ass hanging out.

Sixteen passport applications later I arrive at the front of the counter to sign my name. The man behind the counter takes my money and gives me a number to call if I need information on my application’s approval statue. Walking out of the Post Office, Mary is standing on the Post Office steps. With a look of astonishment she says “You are not going to believe this, but my car just died and won’t start. I think you’re cursed?”

Yeah she was probably right, but my passport application is now in the capable hands of the trustworthy government officials. I smile at Mary and say “Call the office and get some other lucky employee to come and get the two of us. If we keep this up, I’ll have the entire staff out here with us and all their cars scattered across town disabled.”

A week passes when I decide to have Mary contact the New Orleans processing center to find out the status of my application. As is the process with the government, they will not talk to Mary, but need to talk me directly. Now there is a foolproof security measure? “Who am I talking to?” a voice inquires from the phone. “Mr. Blue” I confirm, clearing this critical security issue. I wonder if I could get my dog to bark in a certain way whether it would clear this security checkpoint. In broken English acquired in the two days since she got off the boat from Asia, she says “Mistra Bleuz, You passport mailed tomorrow.”

In a rush of appreciation and guilt that I ever questioned our democratic system, I profusely thank the agency for their understanding and commitment towards service. It was like all the dread and anxiety was unwarranted. A small voice in the back of my mind whispered “She said mailed?” My application fee included the most expensive overnight; first delivery express mail money could buy. I dismissed the red flag as a misunderstanding by the operator which would be cleared up in her next English language class later tonight.

Four days later, while traveling in Philadelphia, I realized that there has been no messages or calls of exaltation at having completed the obstacle course and thus receiving the prized passport, so I ask Mary once again to call the New Orleans processing center. This time she must have figured out how to add enough baritone to her voice to clear the security checkpoint. In a decidedly sheepish voice she said “You’re not going to like this!” At the moment I knew I was screwed. “Let me guess, the Asian refugee we talked to was wrong? How could take possibly happen?” I thought of the recent cell phone commercial “You know what Daddy got? Daddy got hosed!”

In most circumstances I would be able to postpone a meeting to buy some time to correct the problem, but as Murphy would have it, “No way in Hell!” The meeting in Toronto is a historic summit of forty experts from around the world convening to establish an occupational skills analysis of a new emerging profession. The summit is being funded by the Canadian government which includes hiring an internationally recognized authority in occupational analysis to facilitate the workshop. The event planners have been working for almost a year preparing the background documents and organizing the venue, which is going to be held in one of the most prestigious hotels in Toronto. The event will begin will with an extravagant cocktail party in the presidential suite of the hotel which is where the chairman of the summit will stay.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I am the chairman of the summit………….. “You know what Daddy got? Daddy got hosed!” I was fortunate to spend my two days in Philadelphia with a couple of Canadians from Toronto who lifted my spirits by telling how lax the process was, even after the deadline has passed. I even listened to the news reports and heard how accommodating the officials were, letting passengers through customs with a warning. “Don’t worry all you need is a driver’s license and a copy of the passport. Not a problem, eh!

Today was the Day of Judgment; could the unstoppable force defeat the immoveable object? With the eager anticipation of a child running down the stairs for Christmas, I dashed to the counter with my story and limited documentation. I smiled and politely explained the situation. Like a bug hitting the windshield at highway speeds, my day was over. The rest is somewhat a blur. I seem to recall saying “You don’t understand you mindless ape, if I’m not traveling to Toronto today; I have no need of f---cking rescheduling on another one of your f---cking flights.” The last thing I remember for sure was being escorted off of airport property by the security guards. Needless to say this is going to cost me a few dozen cavity searches, before the system decides I’ve been reformed and rehabilitated.

The best part is that I have a total of five days to complete the passport application process before my flight to Australia. I’m sure the lead story coverage on the five o’clock news program featuring me will help the processors in New Orleans get the message, that a crazed psycho is planning a trip to the Big Easy if a passport does shown up in a day or two.

As I peer over the smoking wreckage of today, I recognize that in my entire professional career that I have never had a belly flog from the high dive that even comes close to this one. Do not assume that statement means that my professional career is void of miscalculations, misunderstandings, mistakes, bad judgments and total lapses of mental functioning. Quite the contrary I’m a walking poster boy for stupid dog tricks. What makes this belly flop so monumental is that it exceeds by far all the other stupid actions of a generally mistake prone career. As I search to find meaning in the events of the day, attempting to extract wisdom, I am at a complete loss. Someone needs to paint the picture for me, show me the great spiritual purpose, and mentor me in understanding the cosmic forces at work, because all I’m coming up with is “Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you, eh!”

“Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”
Henry Ford

Run To Daylight

“Time is that quality of nature which keeps events from happening all at once. Lately it doesn't seem to be working.”

Anonymous

Each second of the day and night are filled with focused intensity. Accomplishments are piled high in the corner, never am I allowed to find amazement of the milestones of the conqueror. With unrelenting determination each task is systematically dissected and efficiently dispatched. In the process every fleeting second is captured to fulfill a mission. It was said “Every man is given the exact amount of time each day, successful men knows how to use time with the greatest efficiency.” My mind is sharp as complex situations reveal critical structure as solutions emerge effortlessly. The volume of original and innovative work has never been surpassed as creativity flows forth in torrents.

It has been called “being in the zone”, the ability to see events with clairvoyance. It is not a random act of probability or statistics, but trained and disciplined mental acuity. In mentoring my staff, I consistently stress the ability to “see around corner”. It becomes the most difficult skill to acquire, the ability to anticipate future obstacles by knowing the evolution of events. The ability to predict how future events will culminate by understanding the processes in play is an acquired skill that some will never obtain.

I will explain it another way by using Vince Lombardi’s old football axiom, “run to daylight”. At a certain level of situational awareness all movement is inherently understood. Like a field of football players in motion, ebbs and flows create patterns that appear random but are really predictable. During precise and limited moments of movement opportunities or gaps reveal themselves as “daylight” between the moving obstacles. The challenge then becomes timing the events as you “run to daylight”. Most great running backs can instinctually feel daylight reacting subconsciously. As with everything in life daylight is fleeting.

Over the years my situational awareness includes the technical relationships to manage the construction process. I have acquired the ability to see on paper conflicts and contradictions months before they will occur on a jobsite. More recently my situational awareness includes the geopolitical world, thereby understanding politics, personalities and public processes which doom many great ideas. Working on projects I see the world in three dimensions as a moving football game, quickly discerning which design solutions are technically achievable and which ones will gain political traction. Between all the chaos and shifting forces is a small sliver of daylight. As the challenges become greater and processes more complex, the ability of hitting smaller and smaller gaps of daylight is its own reward.

Each day is keenly focused on making a difference in the world. The time to do so is so extremely limited, that one must constantly strive each day to make progress and challenge the world as we know it. I have no time for the self absorbed activity of being idle. There are those who sit and complain about the world from afar, never engaged in making a difference, believing they can see the plight of the world. Let them continue in self indulgent metal masturbation while hopeful that the acts of contrition will provide them solace. Those of us that are engaged in changing the face of the world do not have time to view our handiwork or to ponder our lives. We have no time for self awareness or ruminating about our purpose. We will allow someone else in the future to determine our contribution and of what relevance it was. We are just focused on investing every ounce of strength and fortitude, every second on “Running to Daylight”.

Love Beyond My Fears

Lakota Prayer

Wakan Tanka, Great Mystery,
teach me how to trust
my heart,
my mind,
my intuition,
my inner knowing,
the senses of my body,
the blessings of my spirit.
Teach me to trust these things
so that I may enter my Sacred Space
and love beyond my fear,
and thus Walk in Balance
with the passing of each glorious Sun.

According to the Native People, the Sacred Space
is the space between exhalation and inhalation.
To Walk in Balance is to have Heaven (spirituality)
and Earth (physicality) in Harmony.

New Year Toast

We drink to your coffin. May it be built from the wood of a hundred year old oak tree that I shall plant tomorrow.

To Slay Boreas

The time is growing short as I prepare for an epic battle with the Devouring One. My mind is stilled as the New Year approaches setting in motion a legendary struggle between mortal man and the god of the cold north wind, Boreas. Providence as has aligned the stars so that I will battle the white abyss as the first sun of the New Year sets over my small hamlet. So it has been written.

For those that do not know, Boreas was the Greek god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter. His name meant "North Wind" or "Devouring One". Greek legend described Boreas as very strong, with a violent temper to match. He was frequently depicted as a winged old man with shaggy hair and beard, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak. During my journey I am sure to stare into his cold fierce eyes challenging his rule. Do not underestimate his power and cruelty as he recently stole Christmas from a quarter million travelers in Denver last week alone. He has been conserving his energy for the time when he is the strongest at which time he will seek vengeance and retribution from anyone that stands in his way. The lands on which we will battle are already known and the mild calm is only a retreat from the fury to come.

In a hundred years my travels will never be aligned such as they are for January. Fate has written this clash in the calendar without reprieve or repentance. I shall only be home about six days in January. As if I was attempting to provoke Boreas by spitting in his face, I will visit the cities of Toronto, Minneapolis, Chicago, Rapid City, Cheyenne and Denver to face the brunt of the cold while Philadelphia and Baltimore wait with ice and sleet. The only shelter I will find is three days in San Antonio to recover my strength and will. No one can expect to walk the razor’s edge for so long without bleeding. I’m sure it will provide the next generation hours of entertainment as the tales of courage are told before a warm fireplace.

Most people consider my actions as a road warrior who has gone insane. Why tempt fate and hurl myself into the lair of the winter gods. Everyone knows that I no longer ski or enjoy winter sports. The sad truth is that this fools schedule is another fleeting attempt to gain fame and fortune. However if I should survive, I will be granted my reward in February when I travel to Australia for three weeks during the waning of the summer season. What can I say “Only fools rush in where wise men fear to tread.” I’ll see you on the white side.

In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.

Archangel Winter
by Victor Hugo

To My Youth

thirty-five years ago

"Hold on to what is good even if it is a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe even if it is a tree which stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do even if it is a long way from here.

Hold on to life even when it is easier letting go.

Hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you."

Pueblo Blessing

Wisp of Smoke

The fragile nature of our existence is ever more present in my thoughts. Having first hand witnessed the impact of a brain trauma, my understanding of the world has been deeply altered. Our collective life experience is nothing more than a wisp of smoke from a cigarette hanging in the still air; it only exists and is recognizable if undisturbed. Even the smallest of gestures can scatter and dissipate life’s delicate balance. A slight draft will mix and blend the smoke distorting all previous arrangements. The collective total of our memory can be lost or altered in a blink of an eye, like the breeze that consumes the fragile smoke. This appreciation of the fragility of self awareness leads me to focus on the moment, since it all we really know as truth.
I’ve watch how the mind struggles to reconnect to old pathways of memory. In my wife’s case it was as if her mind had quite literally experienced an earthquake leaving some items undisturbed, while others were either slightly displaced or completely destroyed. There was little pattern to what remained and what didn’t. She was extremely fortunate to only experience relatively slight trauma compared to most, but the impact in many respects was devastating. Isolated areas of memory and brain function were altered, like a file cabinet that had a few files fall from the drawer scattering the contents. In her case the entire dictionary of words starting with the letter S was reorganized. Instead of soup it was now stew and spaghetti was now spareribs. Tentative mental relationships tangled in a hopeless knot.

Another area of impact was names of relatives and associates. Names were randomly associated with new individuals like picking names from a hat. Surprisingly the new connection was not superficial, but deeply rooted. For a few weeks Marcy was Patti and Linda was Marcy. On the other hand, her livelihood is finance and there was no altering of mental acuity for mathematics, as she quoted from memory interest rates and amortization schedules to the attending physicians. I have yet to look deeper into brain function to determine if there is a correlation with these cognitive skills and the area of damage. I suppose that this particular area of the brain represents a crossroad for associative memory.

The dark side of the experience was truly frightening as I peered into a window of losing one’s mind. Watching her lost unable to find the past was profoundly painful. The loss of self identity and personal perspective created a chasm that I could not bridge regardless of how hard I tried, like watching someone lost through a crystal ball, your calls and pleas go unheard. My explanations and reassurances never provided solace as she struggled with the vastness of darkness of what was now her life. I constructed simple models to illustrate the complex processes that were in motion. Consider that you have worked in an office for the past forty years and all the manuals and references you require are within your fingertips. Each time you require an answer you instinctually reached up and open the right book where the information was located. Today you arrive at work only to find your office of forty years has been moved to a new location. As you sit in your new office you are now surrounded by cartons full of books and manuals, but you do not know which box to look in to immediately find an answer. The prospect of taking all the years of knowledge and organizing them back on the shelves can be intimidating and demoralizing.

The single greatest fear is that many cartons of books were lost never to be returned. How do you get someone to accept that not being who they were or that they will forever be a degraded version of themselves is still a blessing? How can you not grieve the loss and fear the future? The first couple of weeks were easier because so much of the brain was still sleeping. Slowly as the higher intellect of self awareness awoke distinct comparisons of who she was and who she is were now possible facilitating a mental struggle about who she will be.

One aspect of recovery that took a while to understand was absolute denial of the severity of the event. She refused to accept that anything extraordinary occurred, always more intently focused on repairing the damage and fixing the gaps. She would continuously question why people would consider her lucky or blessed, because she did not feel lucky. It took me a long time to understand why this was not a miracle in her mind. Ultimately the event needed to be viewed from within her experience. One normal Friday she had what they call a “thunderclap” headache and in the course of a few hours was rushed into surgery. A few weeks later her mind awoke with little memory of the preceding weeks, but physically she was normal without any pain or after effects. She did not experience the near death emotional trauma that all around her experienced. It was our near death ordeal not hers, deeply traumatizing everyone but herself.

Not only did she deny the miracle, but she refused to associate herself with any information about the procedure, recovery or probable long term disabilities. A number of good website clearly explained how to cope with the memory loss and therapies for a strengthening mental acuity, but she was offended that I had implored to read about her condition. Finally I had to accept the fact that it was not a life altering event for her, which lead me to wonder if this experience was intended to change the lives of those who surround her, because it most certainly did?

In my case, a new understanding of the fragility of existence is not confined by the line between life and death, but rather with an ability to maintain self awareness as grounded in your life experiences. Once we lose memory of ourselves we become divorced from reality and no longer exist as we were, only to wander lost in a new existence. In the blink of an eye everything we know of ourselves can be swept away leaving only a faint trace of the past. Conscientious is a delicate system of electrical charges and stored chemical patterns that shows an amazing ability to heal, but it pales in comparison to the frail temporal balance of existence. I now envision the mind as a wisp of smoke sheltered from the wind. Our existence depends on the smoke remaining connected and visible as it swirls. As each curl of smoke representing a memory or experience, its easy to see how memories change and reinvent the past as the smoke blends with new memories. It’s just as easy to see how memories are lost as they are replaced with new.

“Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.”

James Dean (1931-1955)

The Small Print

Everyone inherently knows that a brain aneurysm is deadly, but what does it really mean? With the shock of the emergency behind you, we begin to read the small print to find some truly disconcerting facts that are only disclosed on an as needed basis. It’s the medical profession’s way breaking the news to you slowly. Little by little a clear picture emerges of the devastation of this type of brain injury.

The first surprise it that the brain surgery is easy part of the procedure. Opening the skull and clipping the aneurysm is low risk compared to the recovery period. How can that be I wondered? Apparently surviving a ruptured aneurysm means that you suffered an subarachnoid hemorrhage or in layman terms blood pooled in the fluid between your skull and your brain. This is a very dangerous condition since red and white blood cells can not survive in the cranial fluid and over a period of three to four days the blood cells will die. As the blood cells die and decompose they can be viewed as small sacks of toxic poisons that are released into the cranial fluid. The most critical point of recovery is four to seven days after the surgery as the toxins from decomposing blood cells reach their maximum concentration.

As these toxins build in the cranial fluid they irritate the veins carrying blood to the brain. The natural tendency of the veins is to spasm and contract. If any vein becomes excessively irritated it will spasm and completely close resulting in a loss of blood to large portions of the brain or what is called a stroke. Where the aneurysm is located, degree of bleeding and distribution of the blood inside the skull dictate your chance of survival. During the operation the surgeon will attempt to remove as much blood any possible from the injured area. While some anchoritic hemorrhages are defused deep into the recesses of the brain tissue where vascular spasms are more probably, my wife was fortunate that most of the hemorrhage was contained in the frontal lobe.

The difficult part of the recovery is the waiting knowing that each day the risk of death is on the rise until the fifth to seventh day. Each day you sit unable to help, knowing that tomorrow might be the end. Quietly you are surrounded by elaborate machines and wires staring at the numbers displayed on a computer monitor afraid to look away. You learn to read the graphs and understand the beeps and alarms. This graph is oxygen level, that graph is heart rate, that number is blood pressure. That tone is a sensor alarm, this beep means a patch has fallen off. Each movement changes the graphs as your heart jumps into your throat wondering if the erratic graphic is just a temporary disturbance or a new serious condition.

The nurses in ICU tell us take we need to watch for changes in brain function. I ask what that means, what am I looking for? A change in brain function is a sign that the patient has had a vascular spasm or a stroke. Symptoms include slurred speech, disorientation, emotional eruptions, prolonged sleep, or weakness in extremities. Besides sitting watching the monitor you observe and scrutinize the smallest of activity. Is she blinking her eyes excessively? Should she remember what day it is? Has she been sleeping too long? Your mind is hypersensitive every moment as time creeps second by second.

Slowly the person you know so well periodically emerges from the fog, but it doesn’t come without effort and loss. At first there is no memory of our pets that she has daily cared for over the past five years. There is no memory of a private joke that been told thousands of times over the past twenty years. There are moments when she stares at you and doesn’t remember that you’re her husband. She asks her mother where her mother is. While she sleeps at night and you are alone in the ICU room you begin to ask yourself difficult questions. What if she doesn’t make it back all the way? What if she can’t work and requires home care? What if she dies? Sleep doesn’t come easy at night in ICU especially since to check brain function aneurysm patients are awoken every fifteen to sixty minutes throughout the night.

You stare in amazement at the list of twenty four drugs printed in large black oversized type that hanging over her bed indicating the drugs that are being pumped into her. You are hypnotized by slow methodical drips of the rack of IV bags, but most of all you just wait. Then out of the blue, the person you know is back to normal for a few minutes. There is so much small print that we never knew.

Probably the most surreal moment is reading the surgeon’s report of the operation. In clinical precision he describes how her brain surges from the skull to relieve the pressure from the hemorrhage. How a massive blood clot that shows signs of drying is evacuated from beneath first fold of the frontal lobe. How the aneurysm is masked by a second massive blood clot deeper in the brain tissue. How the aneurysm was clipped and lanced to remove another blood clot. How the patient “tolerated the procedure”.

Finally the attending surgeon explains the small print to you in terms that you can understand while your breath is stolen. “Of the past one hundred patients that were diagnosed with a cranial aneurysm and subarachnoid hemorrhage ninety died and eight are institutionalized with severe neurological dysfunction. Only you and one other girl have survived to resume their lives.”

“The most astonishing thing about miracles is that they happen.”

G. K. Chesterton (1874 - 1936)

Blood of My Blood

When our heart flies Towards Heaven,
Time stands still.
It does not interfere

Walking through the parking garage the exhaust fans are whirling filling the concrete structure with a loud mechanical sound. I have just finished an eight hour seminar to a group of thirty people when my business associate, Dave who was carrying a large cardboard box with all our left over manuals and presentation material remarked that his cell phone was ringing. I said “You better answer that you never know when it is something important”. We walked another 50 feet toward the parking attendant when his cell phone rang for the second time. He removes the box for his shoulder gently placing it on the trunk of a parked car and answered the phone as I continued to move toward the attendant. As we approached the exhaust grill covering the fan he tapped me on the shoulder.

“It’s for you” he said as he handed me his cell phone. I laughed thinking it was a joke because there was only two people that knew I was with Dave, let alone what his cell phone number was? I placed my hand over my ear to deaden the sound as I raised the phone to my other ear. Straining to hear above the clatter, the words took my breath as my knees buckled slightly. “Your wife has had a brain aneurysm and is being rushed to into surgery. You need to get home!” The sound of the fan was so overwhelming that I was not sure I heard it right. Ducking around the corner of a cinder block wall I asked “Tell me that again.”

The voice over the phone repeated the words with a decidedly serious tone “Your wife has had a brain aneurysm and is being rushed to into surgery. You need to get home! You need to call your mother-in-law.” There was no mistake, I did understand the message. Instantly I reached my hand into my pocket retrieving my cell phone. It was turned off during my presentation and I had not remembered to turn it back on. I noticed it was exactly 5:07 pm on the cell phone screen when time stopped. Turning the phone back on the screen flickered for a moment then twelve messages appeared on the screen. I immediately closed the phone slipping it into my pocket without listening to the messages. Turning to Dave; I said “You need to get me to the airport.”

I frantically I stood waiting for the attendant to bring Dave’s car up from the basement. Without talking we paid the parking fee and jumped into the vehicle, pulling out into the cold driving rain on 44th Street and 6th Avenue in midtown New York City and directly into Friday evening rush hour traffic. Slowly we inched block by block, bumper to bumper as the windshield wipers beat like a metronome punctuating each frozen second as time stood paralyzed. In attempt to restore the world to normality while we waited wedged in a mass of honking horns, we talked about what route we should take to get to the Lincoln Tunnel in the least amount of time. Our conversation was a thin transparent veil that hid nothing but did distract me from thinking about what was happening. I glancing at my watch when it was 5:11 pm, I recall thinking “My god it has only been five minutes!”

“Dave, when we get to Newark Airport, drop me off at Continental Airlines, I know there is a direct flight at 6:30 pm”. He turned his head away from the traffic looking at me “You really do travel a lot, if you know when the next flight home is.” Nodding my head I admitted “Yeah it’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” At that moment Dave got a brilliant idea. “Look at that line of bus moving. They must be headed to the Lincoln Tunnel. Let’s follow them.” Executing a swift lane change and a halfhearted slowing at a red light, the car was inserted into the stream of buses heading out of town. Swiftly we rounded two blocks watching the Lincoln Tunnel signs pass over us with each turn. On the next right turn we could see the entrance to the tunnel as it consumed the long line of buses, but a large flashing yellow sign announced LINCOLN TUNNEL BUSES ONLY. With a touch of disappointment in my voice I said “Dave, we’re we had a problem were in the wrong lane, this entrance is for buses only.” Quickly surveying the snarled mass of traffic and blinking light glistening on the wet pavement, Dave made an executive decision “Hang on we’re going in. What are they going to do to me, give me a ticket? I’ve got Maryland plates, I can plead ignorance.”

I pulled my cell phone out and dialed my brother, who works for Continental. “Hey Karl I need to get on the next flight home. Check and see what you can do. We are heading into the tunnel. Call me back when you know something.” At that moment the world went dark and silent as we enter the mouth of the tunnel. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as red reflectors streamed by. Traffic flow began an even pace as bus exhaust crept into our vehicle. Panic was surrounding me as emotions surged like a rising wind of an approaching hurricane. I can not allow myself to think about the implications of what is occurring. My mind is denying the situation, as I concentrate only on the deplorable traffic conditions and the remote possibility of chasing the last flight home. I can do this. I am in charge I tell myself as feeling of hopelessness and despair starts my mind spinning.

A brilliant white flash mimicking a nuclear blast startles me exiting the tunnel as we emerge into daylight. I squint as the tangled blur of vehicles and tail lights overwhelm me. Upon exiting the tunnel my phone rings with my brother calling. “Sorry there was a storm here and all the lines are down. All I keep getting is that the computer can’t connect to the server. I wish I could help.” In a false assembly of macho strength I play it off. “Thanks Karl, No big deal, I’ll be at the airport in a couple of minutes.” My heart sinks as my ace in the hole rolls snake eyes. I feel that I’m being sucked out of my body and transported to a world where no one else exists, where the air is to thin to breathe. A wave of isolation saddens me as reality stalks my sanity like a hungry tiger. I attempt to soothe myself with an insincere mantra “It’s going to be alright.” Inhaling deeply I want my heart rate to slow.

The traffic is brutal as we inch along bumper to bumper. Each second sears my skin like drops of molten lead. I look at Dave and he is absolutely focused on the task at hand, darting one car length at a time to advance the vehicle at every partial opening in this mass of humming steel. I feel guilty that Dave was pulled into this nightmare for his anguish is evident gripping the steering wheel with sufficient ferocity that his knuckles are white. Destiny does not allow us to chose who we share these moments with. From an early age masculine culture breeds into us two primal principals, a guttural instinct to fight and an absolute rejection of failure as a possibility. Complex higher brain functions of intellect and reasoning is stripped away as baser reptilian brain functions dominate. Human civility melts away under the flood of adrenaline and endorphins that course through my veins. Fierce animal instincts emerge from being trapped in a steel cage on some remote asphalt jungle.

Focus on controlled breathing I tell myself as being caged in NJ turnpike traffic without any ability control my surrounding pushes me to the edge of reason. It is not hard to imagine crossing the thin line between sanity and madness. In fact madness seems to be a logical evolution. At that moment in time I am capable of just about anything as all ends seems to justify the means. I resist the urge to open the car door and take off running to the airport cursing everyone along the way. That decision is illogical, but there is a strong desire to take control of events. The feeling can only be described as “running down the center of the interstate naked with your hair on fire”.

To relieve his tension, Dave begins telling me a story. I smile and nod, but don’t hear a word he is saying. I decide to distract myself by listening to the twelve messages waiting on my voicemail. The first three messages are business related as I advance thought them. The first about my wife is from my mother-in-law. “Your wife isn’t feeling well and her friend Perri wants to take her to the emergency room. Call me as soon as you get this.” I then listen to two additional calls with increasing concern from my mother-in-law. “Hey, this is Perri, I’m really concerned about our girl, because she can’t remember your name or even her own last name. She’s extremely disoriented. Call me as soon as possible.”

I forward my phone to the next message and my heart stops a beat. It’s my wife calling “Hey, I wanted to let you know that Perri is worried about me and she is making me go to the hospital……..I don’t know why she is so worried………Something is going on with me and I don’t know……….Where are we going, Perri?........Why are we going there?........Anyway I’ll be home later call me then…….” The message goes silent as I press the number 9 to save the message. I am quiet for a moment as I realize that maybe the last time I will ever hear her voice. A cold chill grabs me as I fight back my emotions. I need to be there, somehow I can fix the situation, and somehow I can make it right.

The next two messages are from my office attempting to locate me. This was followed by one more message from my mother-in-law and two more from Perri. Each message is increasing in concern and severity of her condition. I immediately call Perri the strongest of the group, knowing I would get the truth without sugar coating. “Perri, sorry I didn’t get my messages sooner, but I had the damn phone turned off. What does the doctor say?”

Completely in charge and control Perri begins “She has had a CT scan and they found two brain aneurysms. There is a small one on the right side that is of no concern. However the one on left side of her brain has ruptured. It is located in the front temporal lobe and is slightly smaller than a golf ball. It’s in a bad place located at the intersection of two major veins going to the brain. They are contacting a neurosurgeon to come in evaluate the test results. They are running another MRI on her now. I’ll let you know what the results are. You need to get home, honey.”

“Perri, you know I’m trying. Tell her I’m on my way.” Another wave of helplessness washes over me as I hang up the phone. As the head of the clan, I have always been the hunter, provider, defender and protector. There is no problem I can’t solve and here I sit motionless in New York traffic impenitent. I look over at Dave, he is still talking. I have not heard a word he has said.

The closer we get to the airport the worst the traffic gets as time creeps like a slow motion replay. We have been stuck in traffic for an eternity as I look at my watch again, realizing it has only been 50 minutes. It’s 5:57 pm and I’m never going to make it through Newark airport security on Friday evening in sufficient time to make the flight. I rack my mind to recall the flight schedules. “Is there a later flight home on Friday?” I can’t remember as I rub my forehead hoping to relieve the tension building in my temples. Oh my god, I totally forgot I was headed to my mother’s home in central New Jersey for the weekend before I got the call. She is still expecting me for dinner.

Retrieving the phone from my pocket, I inhale trying to conceal my emotions. I can’t make her worry any more than she will. I need to be strong in control without conveying panic “Hey mom, how are you doing?” Her voice clearly is elated to hear from me “I’m doing just fine with my son coming in town. I’ve got dinner almost ready for you. I’ve cooked some pork chops, scalloped potatoes and red cabbage. The food will be ready whenever you show. How was your presentation?” I needed this simple conversation to continue, it was comforting to be normal for a second.

I don’t want her to carry this burden, not at this moment. In the past bad news is conveyed only after a resolution is known. My sincere desire would be to carry the weight until after the operation and call the next informing my mother what had happened. Telling her everything turned out fine, so don’t worry. I have no option; she is expecting me home for the weekend.

“The presentation went fine.” I paused to gain courage “I got to miss dinner…….”Before I could finish my sentence she interrupts me dismissing the guilt she though I was feeling “On I know, you need to have dinner with some of your business associates. I’ll just leave the back door open and you can sneak in whatever time your done. We’ll go down to the club tomorrow and have breakfast together in the morning.” I needed so much to hang on to this small piece of sanity, but the world was in chaos.

Slowly I begin “No, I wouldn’t trade one of your home cooked meals for a dinner with a bunch of stuffed shirts. I need to see if I can fly home; our little girl is headed into surgery with a brain aneurysm.”

A deadly silence fills the awkward void as a baseball to the stomach makes her involuntarily exhale her last breath of air. “Oh my god honey is she going to be alright?” timidly she asks with hope in her voice.

With surrender I reply “I don’t know. All I know is that she is in the best neurological hospital in Midwest. I’ll call you back if I can get on a plane.” Guilt overwhelms me for needing to burden my mother with such bleak news as she sits alone at home. I’m sorry I’m not in control of events. I can’t protect you like a son should.

She offers an idea “Did you talk to Karl about getting you on a plane?”

Stoically I answer “Yeah, the computer at the airport is down and he can’t get through.”

We conclude the painful discussion “Tell her we are all praying for her.”

Unable to maintain composure I close “I’ll tell her. Remember I’ll call you as soon as I know something new and for god’s sake to worry, she’ll be fine.” I close the cell phone before I could hear say goodbye. There will be no goodbyes today.

Anger sweeps over me in waves as the traffic has come to a standstill. “How the hell can anyone live in this god forsaken place? I would go nuts and kill someone just from frustration of trying to drive in this mess everyday.” Dave looks at me saying something in response to my rhetorical question but I never hear the words.

The rain has stopped with dark grey clouds parting exposing crystal blue sky where the setting sun is highlights cloud margins with golden white halos. Distracted by the surreal painted sky, I wonder to myself when did the rain stop. Dark blue grey hues of clouds mixed with powder blue, mustard and creamy white appears ominous. Staring at the sky for a long time fear begins to grab me. I can not decide if this stunning sky is a positive omen or not. The calm could be the eye of the hurricane, a gentle reprieve from destruction waiting on the horizon.

In the distance is the exit sign for the airport. I ask Dave to pull on to the shoulder so we can circumvent traffic. For the first time our vehicle picks up speed as tangled masses of steel is left behind. The access road to the terminals is open as we breeze past terminal A and B heading to terminal C. Dave pulls up to the skycap as I leap out of the car grabbing my luggage. A few simple words are spoken as I thank Dave for the ride, turning toward the ticket counter. Inside the terminal is a mass of travelers shuffling slowly in monstrous long sinuous lines. There is no time to stand in line. Glancing at the counter I see an open first class line at the far end of the counter.

Nervously I wait for the ticket agent to appear from the back room. “Please help me, I’ve been notified that my wife has been rushed to the hospital and I need to get on a flight home.” The polite lady with black hair immediately begins to search the computer. I interrupt her typing with “What about the 6:30 flight?”

Without looking at me she says “I’m sorry sir that flight has already pushed off the gate.” Glancing at my watch the time is now 6:35 pm. My shoulders slump as my forehead comes to rest on the counter.

“Our last flight is 8:30 pm but it is oversold.” she admits with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “Did you check the other airlines?”

“No I haven’t had a chance, but its Friday night. If you’re oversold everyone is oversold.” I mumble in resignation.

She is determined to solve this dilemma for me. “Well American has a 9:30 flight to Chicago but there is no connection…….No flights for United………US Air has an open seat to Pittsburg, but the second leg is oversold……….We could look at Delta to Atlanta to Dallas to Kansas City which would arrive in Kansas City at 7:20 tomorrow morning?"

Reaching for straws I ask “What about Midwest Air out of terminal A?”

As the optimism begins to melt from her face “Midwest stopped flying into Newark last month.”

“Shit, I should have gone to La Guardia instead of Newark.” La Guardia airport is basically a dump which has a terrible departure record because of a short runway and crowded airspace. While there are a lot less flights, travelers avoid La Guardia because the lack of public transportation, so flights into La Guardia cost half as much as Newark. Why didn’t I call Midwest and try the 7:30 pm direct to Kansas City? I know it is not typically full.

I’ve now got to get creative. I could rent a car and drive to Philadelphia. The thought of going back to the tarpits turns my stomach. How long a drive is it to Hartford? Three hours on either Interstate 95 or the Merritt Parkway on Friday night is a disaster. The door slams shut as she points at the screen “No flight from Philadelphia……No flights from La Guardia………No flights from Hartford.” The problem is that all the flights travel from the west coast to the east coast during the late afternoon to connect with the international flights that begin flying off the east coast in the evening.

I resign myself to working the best opportunity which is the 8:30 flight. “How many are on the standby list for the 8:30 pm flight?”

“Sir you would be number four.” she says. Hope is growing in the back of my mind as she finishes her thought “……but the flight is a regional jet which only seats 50……..and 44 have already checked in.”

Unable to contain my anger I lash out “When are you going to decide to fly real planes instead of these damn toy planes. A three hour flight in one of those cigar tubes is inhumane.”

“I’m sorry sir, but between Labor Day and Thanksgiving the flight has such a low capacity that we take the 737 off the route” She explains.

Did the airline ever think that the reason the flight is under utilized is because the public doesn’t want to be crammed into a torture cell for three hours. “Whatever……what is my best chance to get on the 8:30 pm flight.”

Responding in her best corporate customer service training which is devoid of any humanity “Your current return flight on Sunday is a restricted fare………your best opportunity is to buy a full fare one way ticket which would raise your priority on the standby list ahead of employees and non-revenue producing fares…………Then we could book you also on the first flight out in the morning at 7:00 am which has only one seat left.”

Knowing where this conversation is headed I ask “Okay, how much?”

In a sheepish timid voice she responds “It would be seven hundred and fifty four dollars.”

“Can I use my frequent flyer miles to buy the ticket?” I ask assuming I have two hours to waste which is about how long it will take to clear all the hurdles in order to try to use frequent flyer miles.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that from the airport.” She says unable to make eye contact with me anymore. That’s right providing travelers the ability to access their frequent flyer miles at the airport would make it to easy and someone may actually cash a ticket.

Disgust for the entire airline industry boils over. I’m what the industry calls a whale. I travel over a hundred times a year. My combined staff probably travels two hundred times a year. I collectively spend somewhere around one hundred thousand dollars a year on company travel. I am considered the hope of the industry, but yet in my hour of need I am treated with no regard. I could understand ignorance, but my frequent flyer account number is attached to my record and anyone interested could see the value of my loyalty. No it is not ignorance; it is simply apathy, arrogance and greed. Do they really think that I don’t have options? Are they so secure in bankruptcy protection that they can act so cavalier to their future? Do they understand that by screwing me out of $500 in my hour of need they are jeopardizing a hundred thousand dollars a year for life? I feel violated as I have exhausted the boundaries of what the industry jokingly calls customer service.

I’m done with this conversation. I understand that the poor lady in front of me is genuinely trying to help me and she is only doing her job as best she can, but in my anger and disgust I can no longer separate her from the industry she represents.

With a dismissive tone I tell her “Just get me on the damn plane”, as I turn to answer my cell phone.

“This is Perri. Here’s the latest. The doctors tried to complete a coiling of the aneurysm and it is bleeding too great.” Coiling is a procedure where a small catheter is inserted in the femoral artery in the groin and is navigated into the brain where the aneurysm is located. At the aneurysm a thread like titanium wire is pushed or coiled into the weakened area. Slowly the aneurysm is filled with coiled wire so that if the aneurysm ruptures it can not bleed into the brain.

Perri continues “Apparently the bleeding won’t allow the thread to coil in the aneurysm and it is essentially being flushed into the fluid surrounding the brain. They have no other option than to go into the skull and surgically clip the bleeding aneurysm.”

A cold chill runs down my spine as I feel the cold hand of death standing next to me. The surrounding chaos of the airport shrinks away as I stand alone in the crowd only hearing a faint voice on the other end of the connection. No questions or inquiries can ease my sense of dread. I can not bear the thought of her being afraid and lost without me by her side to provide strength and comfort. Hoping for the best I ask “How is she doing?"

Providing some relief to my concerns “She is doing great just acting like it’s just another day at the park.” My heart starts beating again. “She is still very confused and keeps asking where you are.”

In oblivious distress I reply, “Perri, I’m doing everything humanly possible to get back.”

I breathe deeply attempting to steady to nerves. “The flight is oversold and I’m listed number four on the standby list, it’s not looking good. If I had wings I would fly myself.”

Perri continues “She is schedule for surgery at 7:30 pm and it should take about four hours. Call me as soon as you know if you have made the flight.” Glancing at my watch the time is now 6:50 pm about ninety minutes before the surgery accounting for the time change. How ironic that she will be rolled into the operating room at the same moment as my flight departs. I look up at the gate agent holding my ticket, grabbed it and head for security. The situation was understood, so pleasantries were not necessary. The mere thought of the gate agent muttering “good luck” or “hope you make the flight” seemed like the most insincere thing she could do. Fortunately she knew better maintaining an awkward silence, while forcing her lips into a hopeless crooked little smile.

Slowly I move toward the escalator. There is no reason to hurry because all I can do is kill time. I’m relieved to see a long line at security. A slow mindless shuffle blanketed on both sides by faceless strangers provides me time to digest the severity of the events to come. I can not make eye contact with anyone as my arms hang lifelessly dragging a small black computer bag as if it is a treasured family pet tethered to my side in a sign of unending loyalty. Security is crowded as people strain at the process of rushing onto the next destination. New Yorkers are already genetically predisposed towards rushing and straining but Friday evenings always dials it up a couple of notches.

Past security the airport is a madhouse with gangs of angry travelers marauding around the concourses looking for someone to scream at. The tension in the air means that it has not been a good day to travel for large groups of people. I realize that if I am locked up with the general prison population for ninety minute, there is going to be a riot. I need to place myself to isolation. I need a place to hide. The President’s Club is a place where I can sit alone in comfortable overstuffed chairs staring out the floor to ceiling glass windows at the black nothingness of the asphalt tarmac. Slipping past discreet frosted white glass doors into the executive club, there is a long line of disgruntled gold elite travelers using the private booking agent in the club. Most travelers don’t know that a world of privilege and comfort exists behind a velvet rope. The club is a small vestige of a long lost world of what air travel was like when someone valued you as a customer. It’s like the Disneyworld of air travel, a world of suspended disbelief, a world where sofas don’t have metal bars to prevent you from laying down, a world where you can plug your computer in to find powerful wireless service. Like Disneyworld the entry fee is prohibitive to most.

I quietly wander the floor until I see a black leather chair unoccupied facing the window in the corner of an entertainment nook. It feels good to sit as I stretch my legs slumping backwards so that my head rests on back of the chair. The room is crowded with travelers that should have been somewhere else a long time ago. Tension of the airport has even permeated this last circle of civility. Small audible snippets drift past as people grunt into small cell phones, “……….you wouldn’t believe it, they cancelled………..I was originally booked on……… Yeah my baggage ended up in……..I have no idea when we are going to………”

Wondering how much battery life there is on my cell phone, I notice that the time is only 7:15 pm. My god has time stopped altogether. This must be one version of hell; similar to the version my grandmother would warn me about. “It’s like standing in a cool refreshing mountain stream with a incredible burning thirst and each time bent over to sip from the cool stream the water would recede a fraction of a inch from your lips, never allowing you to quench the burning thirst.” In my version of hell I am burdened with an incredible desperate urgency to fly somewhere, but each time I look at my watch it’s the same time, never closer to departing. To put it a different way, it is like holding a raving mad rabid dog at arms length by the back of the neck. You understand the incredible urgency to disengage, but can do nothing except hold your arm still and level as the muscles burn for what seems like eternity. Once again I inhale deeply trying to loosen the tightening grip of anxiety surrounding my chest.

The battery on my phone is almost depleted. In the concourse it is nearly impossible to find an electrical outlet to plug anything in, but here behind the velvet rope I am surrounded by end tables designed as laptop docking stations. Reaching into my travel bag, I withdraw a small black phone charger. Leaning over to reach the table, I can’t believe it when my phone charger won’t fit the receptacle because of the brick like transformer at the end of the plug. The thought that I can lose contact with the real world during this crisis infuriates me. I need to conserve battery until I can find a real electrical outlet. I begin to become restless as the air in the President’s Club suffocates me. Deciding that its time to head to the gate I pass the long line of angry gold elite travelers which now stretches out the frosted glass door into the concourse. The mood of the crowd is continuing to descend deep into despair.

Arriving at the gate there is already another long line of irritable travelers. I wonder if I have covered every conceivable option which would increase my chances of getting aboard the last flight of the night. My best option is to communicate my dire situation to the gate agent in attempt to leverage human compassion. Standing in line behind me is a couple of overweight drunk Rutgers football fans that missed their earlier flight because they drank to much in the airport bar and forgot what time their plane departed. They have now been trying for the past six hours to locate a plane to Cincinnati to catch the football game the next morning. I overhear one of them say, “We can fly to Pittsburgh and drive three hours to Cincinnati. That will get us to the hotel at 3:30 am and the game doesn’t start until noon.”

Having exhausted every connection combination in the nation only a couple of hours ago I mention “There is a Pittsburgh flight on US Air that leaves terminal B in about 90 minutes.”

Showing a bit of relief the Rutgers fan replies in a thick New Jersey accent “Hey, thanks a lot. We’ll check this last flight to Cincinnati and if that does work, we can run over to terminal B. Thanks again.”

Having broken the ice with some useful information, we trade small talk about the unusual Rutgers season, when the conversation changed to what should have been a relatively innocent subject. “So, where are you going tonight?”

Never having been in the current situation before I am unsure on what to say, I stared blankly at the two drunks for what seems like a long time. Finally I decide that sharing would help me unload some of my baggage providing an opportunity for a total stranger to reassure me that everything was going to be fine. With reluctance and embarrassment I sheepishly in a quiet tone say “My wife has had a brain aneurysm and is going into surgery. I’m trying to get home tonight.”

From their reaction you would have thought that I just revealed myself as a child molester or pissed on the family bible. They both looked down at the floor and turned their backs on me without saying a word. Stunned I stood thinking what was that all about? It was like I had the black plague. I took me a few minutes before the angry surged coursing through my veins with a violent fever. As a volcano erupted I had a difficult time controlling myself and not kicking the crap out of these two drunken fools.

Who the hell are these two losers? Two fat slobs that can’t keep their face out of a beer mug long enough to catch a plane. How dare they judge me? Wining and crying about the bad day they are having. They can’t even imagine what a bad day is. My ears begin to burn as my blood pressure spikes. I tell myself that it was stupid to have divulged my crisis and I need to calm down. Getting arrested for beating the daylights out of two drunks is not going to help me.

Arriving at the front of the line I place my arms on the counter and lean toward the gate agent. In a quiet and controlled voice I repeat my story ending with a simple admission “I’m number four on the standby list and I just want to make sure that I have covered every possible option which would get me on that plane.”

The gate attendant is a robust black lady with thick features and dark ebony skin. Her uniform is misshapen as it stains to contain her. Her hair is a cross between an old fashion afro and a swept back wild nappy look. It has been a long trying day for her as she ignores anyone except the one person directly in front of her. While her movements are methodical an overwhelming sense of exhaustion punctuates each slow deliberate task. She acknowledges my request without lifting her eyes from the screen. It’s just another day at the coal mine. You can tell there are no stories she hasn’t heard and none that will allow her to bend rules.

Once again I lean forward speaking in a soft voice. “By the way the two guys behind me are really drunk and seem like they are headed for trouble if they get to Cincinnati. I question if they really should be traveling?”

The comment contains enough concern that she lifts her eyes from the computer screen and bends around my shoulders to take a good look at the two drunks who are now screaming at someone on their cell phones. She looks back at me and nods slightly “Thanks, I’ll look into it.”

As I walk away from the counter, she picks up the microphone and in an emotionless voice announces “If you are waiting on standby for the Cincinnati flight, that flight is full.”

Watching from the corner of my eye I notice the two fans slump in disbelief that they are going to miss the big game. They immediately start blaming each other as to who was responsible for missing the flight. As I sit down waiting for the next flight to board I mumble to myself “You still are not having as bad a day as me. Now go home and watch the game on television.”

Mental fatigue is beginning to take its toll on me. I remember that I spent an entire eight hours in front of a crowd lecturing today. The effect of all that activity is accumulating as my tired limbs argue with my racing overcharged mind. Finally the announcement to start boarding my flight is broadcast over the concourse in a familiar emotionless monotone voice. Eagerly, I stand as each person boards the plane one by one, standing directly ten feet in front of and in plain view of the gate agent. It takes forever to load the plane and begin processing the standby list. The first two standby passengers are asked to come to the counter. They enter the plane as the gate disappears with them down the Jetway.

My heart sinks as the last chance of getting on the flight seems more remote with each passing second. Silently I stand as my only hope of getting home is about to push off the gate. Five minutes pass as the Jetway door remains open. I consider running down the Jetway and forcing myself onto the plane. I come to my senses and dismiss the urge thinking about how difficult my travel life is already without getting myself added to some high security terrorist watch list. As if by magic the gate agent returns and consults her screen. “Mr. Brown” she says handing a boarding pass to a young college kid.

I can’t contain myself and blurt out “What about me!”

She looks up, grabbing my ticket and says “You need to get on that plane, because I need to get this plane off the gate.”

A surge of emotions makes me shudder as I run towards the door. “What seat do I have?”

With a stern Baptist authoritative voice she replies “Honey any seat that’s open. You have the last seat on the plane.”

As I approach the jet door I stop and pull out my cell phone and push redial. “Perri, I made it on the plane! I can’t believe that I did it! What’s going on?”

The relief in the voice on the phone is comforting as I catch my breath. “Thank god, we all need you here. She has been prepared for surgery and we are with her as they are rolling her into the operating room. She seems to be doing fine.”

The flight attendant is tapping her foot and staring at me through the jet door. The second I enter the plane the door will be closed and the flight will depart. I look at her a hold one finger up. “Perri, can I talk to her? Can you hand her the phone?”

I strain to hear as the engines begin to whirl. Assuming there is no room on this flight for carry on luggage, I toss my shoulder bag at the ground crew and gate check my bag. In a weak voice I hear my wife say “Hello”. My mind explodes with guilt at not being there as tears fill my eyes.

“Honey, how are you doing?” I ask stiffly suppressing my trembling voice.

In a display of strength she offers the traditional, I’m trying to walk it off. “I’m okay, I’m not sure what’s going on, but they said it’s pretty serious. Where are you?”

I hold a hand over one ear to lessen the deafening sounds of the jet engines. “I’m on the plane in Newark. I’ll be there before the surgery is complete, I promise. Don’t worry everything is going to be fine. You need to be strong, okay.” At the same moment I’m next to her providing her hope, but also ten thousand miles away trapped in a foreign world. The whirl of the turbines is so loud that I can no longer hear the faint voice on the phone.

The gate agent is sternly reprimanding me as she is briskly running down the Jetway. “Mr. Blue, there is one seat open on that plane and if you don’t have your butt in it immediately, you will be walking home tonight. I’ve got to get this plane off the gate. Do you understand?”

Without saying a word I closed my phone without saying goodbye and head into the jet. Passing each row of filled seats the passengers give me an “it’s about time look.” Finally I locate the last open seat in the second to last row of the aircraft. Preparing to sit in the open aisle seat the young man in the window seat looks at me and says “There’s someone sitting in that seat.” In shock I can’t understand what he means. Glancing up and down the aisle nobody else is standing except the flight attendant. I stand dumbfounded trying to understand why he would say that, when all of a sudden the rear restroom door opens and a middle aged housewife steps out. She is just as confused as me as we face each other as the sounds of the engines fill the rear of the aircraft.

Once again the air in my lungs is expelled as if I was struck to the abdomen with a baseball bat. This idiot got up to take a piss when the flight attendants where counting the seats before departure and her seat appeared to be open. The realization is crushing as I am unable to either speak or move. This all has to be a cruel nightmare that I’m unable to awake from. Real life could never be this sinister and evil to provide hope and then snatch it away so arbitrarily. My heart bleeds for the blood of my blood. From the darkened back of the plane I see the gate agent making her way down the aisle.

In her emotionless professional I don’t give a damn attitude she explains “I’m sorry Mr. Blue but you need to get off this plane, my flight is now late.” Broken and despondent I silently obey and slowly shuffle behind her towards the front of the plane.

Somewhere in the middle of the plane a gentleman in an aisle seat grabs the gate agent by the elbow and tells her “I can wait and take a bump here in Newark if someone really needs to get home.”

She looks at him, smiles slightly and continues to walk past him to the Jetway. I’m horrified at the complete lack of compassion or interest in doing the right thing. This is where legendary stories of customer service are created, stories that are told for decades, stories that forge missionaries to preach the virtues of great companies, but I am sentenced deal with a person that a long ago lost all passion for what their job is. The gate agent’s only concern was to get the door of the plane shut in order to ship of another 50 problems to some other gate agent in a far away city. This is Continental Airlines, the company that paint their plane each year proclaiming the winner of the JD Powers award for customer service.

I wait at the counter for the gate agent to complete sending my flight home without me. When she reappears I stand on the other side of the counter and stare intensely into her eyes. I want her to feel every ounce of my disappointment and pain. I want to make her understand that her actions impact real people. She coldly looks through me like I’m not human, but some sort of pesky insect that needs to be crushed. Finally I lean over the counter and with as much sarcasm as I can muster and says “I only hope I can do the same for you one day.” I turn and walk away from the counter, dismissing her with no greater concern than her showed me.

I can no longer forgive the airlines for their lack of courage and empathy. This is a wrong that can never be righted. There is no longer an affinity with the people that I spent so much time with. The mere thought of returning to this airport tomorrow attempting to catch another plane makes me sick. Vile disgust churns sour bile in my throat as my hopes are dashed.

With great regret I pull my cell phone from my pocket. “Perri, the bastards pulled my off the plane. I’m not going to make it. I’m sorry I tried.” My mind was a raging torrent of sorrow, anger and impatience.

Her response recognized the pain and loss I was experiencing. “I’m so sorry honey, but don’t worry we are going to stay here with her until she gets out of surgery. Her mom and daughter in-law is with me.”

Although I was helpless and emotional destitute I knew she was with her closest friends and family. Abruptly I ask “What’s going on?”

With a controlled calm, Perri answers “We are not going to know anything for a while, she just when into the operating room. I’ll call you from the waiting room the second we get an update.” I look at my watch and calculate the time until the surgery is complete which will be sometime after midnight.

Perri has been my wife’s best friend for over 25 years. They have followed each other in management positions through a half dozen companies. They are a set inseparable in work or life. Perri was the one that recognized the problem when my wife was dismissing a severe crushing pain as just a migraine headache. They had a close mutual friend crippled by stokes and Perri was highly sensitive to the symptoms. Reluctant to go to the doctor, my wife would have left work that day and went home to sleep it off, certainly never awaking. Perri recognized the loss of memory and disorientation as a fatal sign of serious trauma, immediately took control. Talking to my wife on the phone she demanded “Girl, I’m coming to get you and we are going to the emergency room. No room for discussion.”

Perri drove past a dozen hospitals until she was at one of the best neurological hospitals in the nation. Once in the emergency room it can take hours to be looked at and admitted. Many brain aneurysm patients die in the hospital waiting for treatment. Perri has always been a strong decisive woman that is fiercely loyal and protective. After waiting about ten minutes, Perri took control by cornering the attending physical of the emergency room setting him on his ear. “It is my understanding that heart attack or stroke victims take priority over all other patients in this emergency room.” Two minute later my wife was on a gurney heading for a CT scan.

I begin to break down when I thank Perri for what she did today. “Perri, your saved our girl’s life, if it wasn’t for you…………..”

She interrupts me not allowing me to uncork the rising tide of emotions which would turn me into a hopeless quivering mass. “Look honey, we can talk about that after our girl is fixed up. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”

I realize I’m just wandering down the concourse, not knowing what I’m doing or where I’m going. It late enough in the evening that most of the travelers have been either pushed into plane headed for somewhere or decided to give up returning home. An eerie calm pall permeates the concourse. There is only one place in world I want to be if I can’t be at the hospital. I need to heal. I need to go to the center of my strength, the place of personal power. I need to go to the house I grew up in.

I pull the phone out again breathing deeply to steady my voice “Hey, mom. I didn’t make the plane. How about that late dinner I stood you up on earlier?”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. What are you going to do?” she asks.

Tired and not wanting to talk about tomorrow I muster the energy to answer. “I’m on the 7:00 am flight tomorrow.”

Trying to be helpful she offers “Why don’t you get a room at the airport hotel instead of driving all the way down here and getting up early to drive back to the airport? I’ll pick up the room charge.”

“No, it’s not the cost. I’ll not going to sleep much tonight. Sitting in a hotel room would drive me insane. I would prefer to spend the time driving in order to spend some time together. It would make me feel better if I was at the house.” I reply.

“I understand. I can heat up dinner and you can have a cocktail to relax.” I close the cell phone turning to the escalator for the monorail. Every ounce of emotion has been drained from me. My mind is numb as a tension headache is a constant pounding reminder of my wife. I am a lost soul wandering aimlessly like a zombie unwilling to interact with anyone. Just leave me alone is painted on my forehead in neon lights.

Standing in the monorail elevated above the airport the New York harbor is clearly visible. In the distance the Statue of Liberty is bathed in warm orange light, a solitary sentinel in a black lifeless void. For generations people have passed this symbol of hope wishing for redemption, wishing that tomorrow’s promise is fulfilled. The statue buoys my spirits. Leaning against the glass, I can’t recall thinking about anything at all. The defensive mechanisms take control turning off consciousness and reason.

In a familiar routine I exit the monorail and head downstairs to the car rental facility. I remember that I forgot to reserve a car, but because I practically live in this company’s cars, so I walk directly to the executive aisle picking out a white nondescript Impala and drive to the exit booth. I like the fact that the parking garage is abandon. Without saying a word I hand the attendant my license and gold membership card. A few minutes later she hands me back my cards along with a contract as the gate opens allowing me to leave without a single word of interaction. There is no need for urgency as I follow the labyrinth of ramps, exits, crossovers, merging lanes and underpasses until I am on the New Jersey Turnpike heading south.

This stretch of the turnpike from the airport to the Garden State Parkway is a surreal wasteland of chemical plants, refineries, piers and power plants. It always reminds me of another world at night as you pass huge jumbled masses of pipes dotted with thousands of security light. Protruding from the industrial wasteland is dozens of stacks extending high into the horizon with bright blue and orange flames dancing on poles as the natural gas is burned off in the refining process. A strong order of natural gas mixed with petroleum and chemicals invade the confines of the rental car. The landscape at night is a photographic paradise that I’ve dreamed about exploring some night.

My phone rings with my stepson on the line. He is a complete wreck sobbing out of control. His contorted gasps make what he is saying unintelligible. Calming him down I tell him the only thing I know for sure “Look Troy you need to be strong, you can’t get your mother upset. There is only going to be one outcome to this situation. No other outcome is acceptable. You understand me there is only one acceptable outcome and you need to focus on it.”

It takes a few minutes but Troy calms down and realizes the truth in my comments. “Your right there is only on acceptable outcome. Thanks. Call me when you hear something.” Helping Troy gives me back some strength, knowing that his situation is improved.

The car drifts off the turnpike at exit 11 and rolls towards the tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. Out of reflex, seventy cents is pulled from my pocket and drops into the basket. Miles disappear as I sit in a silent trance listening to the hum of wheels on the asphalt of my childhood. The closer I get to the house the more confident I feel. I am surrounded by forests and meadows of my youth as the spirit of my father and grandmother invigorate my soul. Being grounded to the land is the source of my power and I make the only decision I could, which was to come back to the center of my life to heal the spirit.

The car pulls off the exit driving itself. There is a sacred place just next to the house which I always must pass. Over a have a century ago the developers of where I grew up preserved a half mile of pristine American beech forest. The warm gray trunks frame the narrow lane to create a natural cathedral as great as any church in all of Europe. The moist rich forest floor was the playground of my childhood as I spent thousand of hours cradled under those sheltering boughs. I see myself as a child running down the slopes in fall with the entire forest ablaze in yellow and gold. I see years pass like pages in a book. Where did all the years go? In this cathedral of youth I whisper a small prayer of hope. As if a summer breeze touches my face, a solemn peacefulness sweeps over me as I know with absolute certainly that there is in deed only one acceptable outcome.

Mother is standing on the porch as I pull into the drive. As we hug she breaks into tears. It’s been a long difficult day for everyone. I look into her worried eyes and say “You need not worry everything is fine. I know this to be the truth.”

She draws strength from me and heads off into the kitchen telling me “Why don’t you fix yourself a cocktail.”

I fill a glass with ice and reach into the cabinet, pulling out my father’s favorite “Dewers White Label. I pour a drink that even my father would be proud of. Sitting down at the table mom brings in a plate of food. We sit together while I pick at the plate not really hunger. I can’t recall the last time I ate. I guess it was a muffin for breakfast before the seminar at 7:00 am this morning. After a while we move into the living room where I fix another stiff scotch and sit in my dad’s chair. This chair has always been the absolute center of the world’s power in my life. I can feel the past. The conversation is superficial as we discuss my brothers and sisters. Mom is careful not to ask about the white elephant sitting in the room. Time is frozen as I glance at my watch a thousand times, but no longer worried about the outcome of the surgery. Once again time has stopped, refusing to let next chapter start.

At 11:45 the phone rings, its Perri. “The nurse just came out of the operating room to tell us that our girl in doing fine. The aneurysm was successfully clipped, blood was re-established to the brain and she has in their words tolerated the procedure well. They are planning to close her up and take her to recovery in about 45 minutes. I’ll call you back when they are done.”

Looking up at mom I nod as tears of relief roll down her face. I give her a big hug and decide this news deserves another drink in celebration. I can relax as exhaustion and scotch allows the stress to melt from my limbs. We watch the clock until the phone rings again at 12:50 am. “Okay I’m with her in the recovery room and everything is fine. She is talking and asking where you are, but she won’t remember what’s going on.”

“Thanks Perri. I’ll get to the hospital around 11:00 am in the morning. Give her a kiss for me.” As I smile at Mom letting her know the storm has passed; now we just need to see what damage has been done. “I’ll need to be up by 5:00 am in order to catch the flight home.” As I note that the time is now 1:12 am. I walk up the stairs and falling into the big overstuffed comforter with all my clothes on.

I’m too exhausted to undress. As I relax with my eyes closed an image appears in my mind. The image is indistinct and covered with snow like an old television with bad reception. I focus on the image trying to discern the details as it drifts in and out of focus. Suddenly I realize the faded image is my wife in the recovery room laying there asleep. I must have tapped a spiritual connection by coming to this place of my childhood. Allowing the energy of this powerful place to fill me I direct myself as a conduit transporting the energy to a recovery room a thousand miles away. I feel the white crispness of what seems like static electricity. Can this connection be real or has my exhaustion advanced to the point of hallucinating. It is of no consequence to me as I drift into a deep slumber holding the faded image in my mind.

What seems like a split second later I hear someone calling to me? Opening my eyes a searing pain rips through my temples. “It’s 5:00 am. I am cooking some eggs before you leave.” I stand up only to realize that my body feels like it has been in a car wreck and was eject from the vehicle at a high rate of speed. On top of it all I wasn’t content with a normal mental and physical beating I decided to add a hangover to the mix. Barely able to see I climb into the shower looking around for my travel bag. I totally forgot I checked my bag at the gate last night and it is quietly resting in some distance location. It’s acceptable to look rough hewn today considering yesterday as I run my hand through my wild spiked hair.

Feeling terrible I choke down some eggs and three cups of coffee while saying goodbye. Other has feeling like a dump truck ran over me; I cruised back to the airport, hardly stopping at the car rental facility and security. At the gate it’s another completely packed flight. I think to myself, “Why the hell doesn’t the airline add another flight or two maybe try to grow the business?”

The plane is loaded and we take off. My pounding headache and sour stomach won’t allow me to sleep during the three hour flight. Without incidence the plane lands and I walk off and go to the luggage claim. The lady behind the counter looks up “Mr. Blue, I just left a message on your cell phone,” Reaching under counter she hands me my luggage. I think why it is so easy today and such a mess yesterday? Jumping into the car I drive directly to the hospital getting instruction on how to get into ICU. At the hospital I press a button as a camera projects my photo to the ICU receptionist. The door swings open as I take a deep breath and walk in. My heart is racing as I find the door to her room. I stop for a second and prepare myself for what I’m going to see. I gather the strength and turn the corner. A small face turns looks at me with a huge white bandage covered in wires and medical equipment. I notice a weak smile as a tear rolls down my cheek.

I Did Not Die

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

Navajo Prayer