Sometimes you need a wake up call. My goodness, life has been so complicated this last year…good stuff, but nonstop. Alexander was born in November of ‘21 with extensive complications that had him flighted to the NICU where he resided for the better part of the following month. After much physical therapy and the attention of watchful eyes, he’s approaching his first birthday as though nothing ever bothered him.

During his stint at the NICU, we stayed at the Ronald McDonald House in Columbus. I tried to pick up a novel, but found myself unable to entertain such a distraction at that time. I all but stopped reading. 

I started to see a therapist, which was nice for a bit. It took six months on a waiting list to start seeing someone, and now every session gets canceled by the other party…so I’ve accepted the system isn’t there to help me. Healthcare is broken in this place. 

I tried to start writing again around the new year…and for a little bit, it worked. I plotted out a story that I’d been preparing to compose, and drafted about 25k words before I had a shakeup at the day job that took away the bit of writing time I was able to carve out for myself. It included a promotion and bit more of a work/life balance, so I’m in no position to complain about it, but I’m hoping to get back to this novel as it gets cold outside. 

We bought a house, too. That was exciting. With Alex entering our lives, we needed more space than our apartment afforded us. This event wouldn’t have taken place without significant help from family, as grinding our bodies against the corporate machine in this bootstrap culture is simply not enough. 

All things considered, life has been good…so of course I slipped into a moderate depression. My wife has gone through the ringer with the complicated birth and the postpartum depression. It’s all been so…difficult. But dare I say it’s getting better? I’d like to think so. 

In September I took Lydia to see our first live music experiences since the pandemic removed that occasional joy from our lives. Father John Misty was such a delightful treat and the band was so sharp, they exceeded my expectations and I felt as though I’d returned to a long abandoned well to find it still held the capacity to sustain these broken yet loving hearts. Twelve days later we saw Nine Inch Nails in Cleveland. That too, brought a peculiar and wretched sort of joy that isn’t exclusive to me. 

Father John Misty in Columbus, Ohio

I’m less than a week away from my birthday. Last year I conjured a list of goals to complete by the time I turn 40, and in the first year of the list I accomplished nothing…and yet…

The growing family with good health…the purchase of our first home…reminders of how art impacts our lives…how good do I have it? I’m waking up to find all the quality life has to offer in my possession. I’ll try to not let it slip through my fingers, but any attempt to control/retain a solid grip is in vain. Life will continue to take me up and down, and I’ll make do with any given moment, as I always have. This post is meant to be a personal update. This insight to personal matters is how I explain my absence beyond the occasional noise I make on social media. Still here…hoping to make something happen. 

Nine Inch Nails in Cleveland, Ohio
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Of Loss and Illness: A Personal Entry

This is a personal entry of sorts. I’ve worked up a great deal of enthusiasm for a story I began to plot just before the New Year. Started drafting it out, and got about 5k words of it down in the first five days of January. I awoke on the sixth day of the year to find I’d missed two calls from the home of my parents. I returned their call, and received the news that my grandfather on my mother’s side of the family had passed away earlier that morning. His health had been in decline since a close call in 2016. A closer call last year had his medical professionals calling him the miracle boy. His survival through those ordeals allowed him to attend my wedding and meet his great granddaughter, for which I will be eternally grateful. I’ve been luckier than most, in that I’ve had both sets of grandparents into my 30’s. My grandfather lived most of his life in Columbus, but moved to Florida with the intent of enjoying his golden years in the sunshine state. He was a working class musician and youth athletics coach for many years, in addition to the “professional” jobs he held throughout his life.

Later that day I had a Skype session with a friend who is currently residing in Los Angeles. Aside from catching up, the purpose of our conversation was to have him describe his life in Hollywood, as I intend to write about such places. It was during our chat that my wife entered the bedroom with our baby, the both of them covered in vomit. I told my friend we’d have to resume the talk at a later time, ended the session, and promptly bathed the child. The stomach bug ran through our home, and made the week the most miserable in recent memory. Everyone took a turn being bedridden. Once the stomach issue had passed our baby seemed lethargic again, and a visit with the doctor confirmed respiratory and ear infections, though both were minor. She’s been prescribed some medicine, and seems to be doing better.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all of this out. Complications from being sick and familial loss have brought the writing to a halt, except in this strange exercise. We’re heading into the weekend, my wife intent on starting her new job with a nine-hour shift on Saturday, followed by the family gathering that’ll take us into next week. I guess I’m exhausted, and instead of putting words down on my new piece of fiction I’m just here making excuses. But you’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to take a break. Family and health take priority, and I’ll not be shamed for it. I’ll not shame you for it either, when the time comes. I’m rambling at this point, but it’s my declaration that I’m taking a short break to recuperate and be with family. Rest easy, Grandpa.