Michael Haase's Blog

I get it. I really do. A cruise ship seems like a convenient vacation. It’s basically a resort going to special, exotic places, all the while entertaining you with an enormous complex of lights and flashing and music. It’s big, bold, in your face, relaxing (to many), and usually affordable for what all you get. The allure of an enormous ship is difficult to deny. I myself went on a cruise, and I can’t say it wasn’t fun at times. But it kind of wasn’t fun a lot.

I have no regrets about our family cruise, as it was affordable, convenient, and a way for all of us to get together in one spot. It wasn’t likely my father would be able to travel on another big trip anytime soon for health reasons, so when he announced that we should all cruise, I was gung-ho.

Walking up to the ship and seeing it was amazing. It felt like waiting in line for an incredible amusement park ride. The fact that a hotel, casino, water park, movie theater, and multi-bar/restaurant/snack joint mega complex can exist in one spot, let alone float on the fucking ocean, is incredible. And I ate it up. Totally. Completely excited when I first got there. And I dove in head first.

I could not believe how huge the damn thing was. And it was one of Carnival’s medium sized ships, methinks. All was well and happy, the drinks started flowing, the towels were folded into weird animal shapes…I was sold. And I think I spent most of the time drunk. Pretty sure I did. That would explain a lot.

Because what else could I do? I really couldn’t possibly see myself, knowing who I am, facing a cruise sober. I’m kind of an introverted extrovert. I like getting out and doing things, but people can just stay in their own bubbles. My experience on the cruise was that it was just a large boat party. Personal space is your cabin, which is nice, but small and rocking. This cruise was over a decade ago. I had not as much confidence then as I do now, and my need to relax was often met with heavy drink.

On the first night, we all went to one of the bars. I got silly drunk and thought it would be funny to sign up for karaoke. My song of choice was “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler. But the reason I chose the song was to do the Dan Band version featured in Old School by Will Ferrell.

But…that’s only funny because it’s just part of the song. Me, I trudged through putting swear words wherever I felt reasonable, which was twice per line. The karaoke dude cut me off and kicked me off the stage where I met my sober father asking me sincerely, “Why would you do something like that?” Yeesh. I hardly ever disappointed the man. Felt awful. Which meant I needed more drinks to ease that pain, of course.

As you might have guessed, it didn’t get much less sloppy from there. We had a few stops, including one in Nassau where a prostitute immediately solicited my wife. Another one of the stops was at one of the Cays owned by Carnival. We got a cabana compliments of one of my family members who won big at a slot machine before drunkenly revealing to me that my parents divorced because my mom cheated on my dad, a secret my dad had kept for over fifteen years because he didn’t want his kids to have that impression of their mother. Oh well. At least the cabana was fun. We ended up in the water a lot, with my sister’s husband at the time getting the drunken idea that we should all throw an orange at each other as hard as possible. At some point in that game, I lost my wedding ring in the water. Somehow, we found it. Thank God for clear, sandy beaches.

By the time the cruise was over, I felt completely sick, as could be easily expected. At one point, while going out to get another drink in the evening, I slipped on the deck and cracked the back of my head. I had a goose egg that stuck around for a week. On top of this, I couldn’t ditch my sea legs for at least 10 days. There were plenty of fun times, I assure you, but I can also assure you that I don’t remember them all that well because…alcohol.

So, I spent five days on a cruise ship whooping it up and making a total fool of myself in front of my family, and then spent the following week and a half trying to quell the nausea, diarrhea, headaches, injuries, and the fact that the entire world around me swayed back and forth with alarming regularity.

I realize that I had the option to do the cruise sober, as I would now if someone dragged me aboard one. But I can’t say I would/could/should. It wasn’t a bad idea to ride a Carnival cruise completely intoxicated, as it kept my mind off of all the things that could’ve gone wrong. Despite all of my terrible self-inflicted suffering from my Carnival cruise, the following years would provide regular details as to how truly harrowing a Carnival cruise could have been. 

The following are true stories of cruises, with links provided.

The Carnival Triumph, or better known as “THE POOP CRUISE”:

Oh man. This one earned its name, for sure. In 2013, an engine problem of which Carnival was aware beforehand caused the ship to lose power and drift off into the Gulf of Mexico without a working septic system. In fact, the septic system backed up and the cruise employees had to put biowaste into bags that they lined the halls of the guest rooms with. People had to deal with this nightmare for eight days until they were brought to shore. Until then, some guests found it easier to just poop and pee off the side of the boat, hence, “Poop Cruise.” And there was no way to get these people off the boat. Not enough resources, they say. Hmm…

The Carnival Ecstasy, or as I call it: “The Shining Cruise”:

Fair warning, this one is shocking and not the least bit funny. I work ER and have seen some shit, but I never thought a scene like the Shining elevator scene could be possible. Yet, in 2015, an electrician working on top of an elevator aboard the Ecstasy was crushed to death when he was pinned between the moving elevator and the wall. The resulting tragedy caused a wall of blood to drip from the eighth floor down through the seventh. Witnesses said it sounded like a rush of water. There’s video of the incident out there if you aren’t squeamish.

But that’s enough of that, let’s get to my favorite Carnival disaster, something a lot more lighthearted:

The Carnival Dream, or as I call it: “The Jon Secada Solution”:

This one was also in 2013, which was a particularly bad year for Carnival. But a similar situation to the Triumph occurred in that the ship lost power, resulting in air conditioning, elevators, and toilets either malfunctioning or not working altogether. What’s also fun to learn as you go digging into these disasters is that when power goes out, perishable food is unavailable, probably to help prevent all the norovirus outbreaks and other GI distress that has happens on cruises. What this means is that the crews only serve shelf-stable food, which often times is Spam. For real. And this was the situation on the Dream, but in this case they tried to ease the burden of overflowing toilets, Spam feasts, and the inability to return home by offering two key solutions: free booze and Jon Secada. Do you remember Jon Secada? Need a refresher?

Yes. The best jam. It’s in your head now. Maybe not. Try some free booze and watch the video again. See? That’s better.

So that was it. Booze and Jon Secada. Let’s try and look at this from another angle. The ship had NO POWER and it said it couldn’t GET THE PASSENGERS HOME, the passengers are relieving themselves OFF THE SIDE OF THE SHIP in between doses of SPAM, and they fly in Jon Secada in a helicopter, let him perform, and then fly him away.

“That Jon Secada performance was pretty good. But where’s he going?” 

“Oh, he’s leaving. Going home.” 

“Why can’t I go–” 

“You bought the ticket, so ride the ride! Now grab some Spam and a daiquiri. You’re on vacation, after all!” 

This is in no way an exhaustive list of cruise ship disasters, nor is it a complete list of Carnival cruise ship disasters. I honestly have no idea how they’re in business. I must be doing cruises wrong, because people obviously love them enough to forgive and forget.

Yes, I realize that there are plenty of safe cruises every year, and they are the bees knees for some people. And I also realize that bad things can happen on any vacation. But I just can’t fathom a problem happening with my hotel and suddenly I’m pooping off the balcony in between Jon Secada sets. These are exclusively cruise ship risks.

My wife and I went to an all inclusive resort in Cancun for our anniversary and we had a ton of margaritas with ice…a big no-no. I think we were sick for a week afterward, but we still were able to go home when we wanted. I’ll take that over Jon Secada, though just barely. That song is still in my head. So catchy.

But I will also add the detail I should disclose…I sunburn so damned easily. If I spend too long getting the mail, I’m pink for three days afterward (I might be embellishing, but hopefully you caught on to that). Most cruise ships go hot places, so if my cruise ship got stuck, I would die a Spam-stuffed, free-booze-soaked death to a Yacht Rock soundtrack. That’s just not the way I want to go. I’m allowed to live my life how I want, okay?

And I have my own preferences that cruise people don’t. For instance, I know that a lot of people hate camping, but I love it. And I’ve begged disaster when camping. But that’s another story for another time…but it has something to do with bottle rockets and various places to launch them from.

Until next time, it’s just another daaaaaaaay…

On February ninth, I made the decision to pull a book I had been planning on publishing with Inkshares from the platform altogether. It is the right decision for me, and I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my writing career. Below is my official letter of explanation for leaving. All correspondence will now be managed through my newsletter, which you can request to sign up for by emailing me at michael.haase@writingbloc.com. If you followed or preordered my book, please make sure to read the letter below in full.

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IMPORTANT LAST UPDATE REGARDING INKSHARES

Hello again everyone,

I wanted to write to you to let you know some important news. First, thank you to all who took the time to fill out the survey. It is still open for a while if you wish to provide any answers, but the decision has been made at this point. I’m officially pulling Mr. Butler/The Man Who Stole the World from Inkshares. Refunds should come to your accounts within 7-10 days. If you need to update your account, please do so as soon as possible. And if you have any difficulties with receiving a refund, then please email Inkshares at hello@inkshares.com.

The survey did not make the decision for me. This decision was all mine. I’m sorry if the survey came across as though I were down on myself–the opposite is true. The important part was to try and gauge how you all, my supporters, felt about this singular work in my writing career. My intention was not to leave a poor impression of Inkshares or anyone working there. But at this time, Inkshares is not the right place for my work, no hard feelings.

With all things considered, this project was a weight on what will be a long and prolific writing career. I have other novels and stories moving forward, including a couple of illustrated children’s books. I even have two completely different manuscripts created from my work here that I will still develop into novels in the near future. But the truth is that I need to move forward with my best work, The Man Who Stole the World is far off from being my best work, and that drives 100% of my decision here. I no longer wanted to tie up any of your money or keep any of you waiting for a project that, if given all of my focus, might not be out for another couple of years. I have better things to offer sooner. I had to trim the fat, so to speak.

Some of you expressed that this seems like quitting, which you are entitled to think, of course. I assure you the opposite is true. I’m on the rise. I’ve developed my own writing community and so much more with Writing Bloc (writingbloc.com, Writing Bloc on Facebook, Writing Bloc on Twitter), and we have already released an anthology, are about to take submissions for another, and will start releasing novels within the year. Feel free to join us if you’d like.

I will be converting everything over to a newsletter soon, so please look out for that, but in the meantime if you need anything or have any questions, please feel free to email me at michael.haase@writingbloc.com.

I remember the feeling, the overwhelming joy I felt at winning the contest on Inkshares in March of 2016. I won thanks to your overwhelming support. I still carry that gratitude and joy with me as I keep pressing forward in my writing career. I wish to keep your support and I maintain that I am a quality writer to watch. I plan on producing more stories, creating more ways to help Indie Authors succeed, and generally being a source of support to the writing community in general.

Because of Inkshares I have made amazing friendships with authors from all over the world. I have pushed myself as a storyteller and creative, and I have had experiences I would not have had elsewhere. I have no regrets about my time with Inkshares whatsoever. Now is just the time to leave is all.

Please stay in touch. I wish you all the best.

And as always, I love you all.

-Michael

Today was a big day. I had been preparing for this day for six months.

Today was the day I fought the law.

It all started in August, on my birthday, as a matter of fact. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I decided to take my kids to a place called Memphis Kiddie Park. This park is a great place with small rides and the oldest operating steel roller coaster in North America. It’s a manageable size and you can just walk in and buy tickets for rides like a fair. It’s the perfect place to take preschoolers, and it’s really affordable. I highly recommend it, as long as you can get past the creepy clown sign.

[image error]Yes, it’s safe. I swear.

Anyhow, after letting my kids spin themselves dizzy and filling them up with sugar, I decided that it was a great day to take the long way home, take our time, and see what there was to see.

Long story short, there wasn’t much to see at all. The neighborhoods between our house and Memphis Kiddie Park feature many liquor stores, food marts, gas stations, and peeling paint. But it was still a beautiful enough day to let the windows down and just take it slow.

Which is why I was surprised when, two weeks later, I received a speeding citation in the mail asking for $100. A nice, blurry, black and white picture of my car served as proof of my mistake. The citation stated I drove 36 mph in a 25 zone. The ticket demanded immediate payment, unless I wanted to schedule a hearing to contest the charges. The city citing me was Linndale, Ohio.

My first thought was “Where in the hell is Linndale?” I decided to look it up, and this is how I fell down the rabbit hole.

Linndale is a town of notoriety to the west of, yet still inside, Cleveland. It’s technically a village, and it barely registers on a map. Its population is estimated at 179 people living in 37 houses, with the most modern home being built in 1968. It’s barely anything at all, and they barely have any businesses in the village to speak of.

[image error]See that tiny beige area in the middle?

So how does such a non-city exist without much of a commercial district? It turns out that everyone in Cleveland knows to stay away from Linndale because they will nail you for speeding.

The story goes back for decades. The original battleground was on the 422 yards of Interstate 71 that moves through Linndale. Police would camp out there and nail driver after driver for exceeding the ridiculously low 60mph speed limit. Linndale police would nail so many drivers on that stretch of road that Linndale ended up with the busiest Mayor’s Court in the entire state of Ohio. On top of this, these speeding fines amounted to 80% of the city’s million dollar annual revenue.

Linndale and Ohio’s state government fought back and forth for decades about the stretch of highway and Linndale’s right to issue citations on it. The difficulty was that Linndale, though it had 422 yards of I-71 in its village limits, had no points of entry or exit from 71, meaning that the Linndale Police department had to leave their own city limits in order to issue citations. Eventually, the fight ended up with the governor passing legislation moving Linndale’s mayor’s court to the nearby city of Parma, where the cases were consistently thrown out. Linndale’s main source of income took quite a hit.

To compensate for this, Linndale installed traffic cameras. The main one that causes controversy is on a short stretch of Memphis Blvd, which happened to be the route I took home on my birthday. This camera monitors traffic speeds for a section of road that has a sudden change of speed limit to 25mph while before and after it are all 35mph limits. I was tagged for going 36mph. And as you can imagine, I entered and left Linndale without even noticing.

I brought my grievances to Facebook, and everyone agreed with me. Some even just laughed at the fact that I didn’t know about the camera beforehand. I was raised in Akron, so I had no idea. But these cameras have taken the income lost by the police not monitoring a tiny stretch of 71, and increased it to well over a million dollars annually. Think about it: the cameras just tag people and send fines. If twenty cars all go through the 25mph zone at 36mph with the flow of traffic, then that is two thousand dollars worth of fines issued in just a couple of minutes.

The problem with speeding tickets in Linndale has gotten so bad, the city had its own feature on NPR’s internationally syndicated show, This American Life: https://www.thisamericanlife.org/629/expect-delays.

Needless to say, I wasn’t going to stand for this shit.

I got right on the village’s automated system and looked up my citation. I found the button to schedule a hearing, and I clicked it with authority. I immediately received a scheduled date, which was today, February 7th, 2019…six months later. That’s how long the line is to contest a ticket in Linndale. But I would wait. Oh yes, and when the time came, I would let them have it.

I had my case all worked up. The lawyer genes I inherited from my father kicked into high gear. I planned my entire defense out…

The cameras only trigger when 36mph is reached, so I could have been within a tenth of a mile per hour of not receiving a ticket. So, with this in mind, who monitors these cameras? When was the last time they were calibrated? How do they know the traffic conditions at the time? Could I have been speeding up to achieve a safe place to get out of the way of a passing ambulance? I didn’t get to speak with an officer, so how could any of this be determined?
At 36mph, I was obviously not in a hurry. And seeing the appropriate routes on a map, I was not taking the fastest way home by far. If I were in a hurry, I wouldn’t have taken that route in the first place. And, with the surrounding speed limits being 35mph, I obviously was driving safely and carefully.
How can they justify a fine of $100 for a one mile per hour infraction? Am I being charged with the same amount as someone caught going 40? 50? How is the fine in this case appropriate at all?
The citation was on my birthday…can’t they just give a guy a break? (I planned on giving a great big smile after this desperate defense, kinda like the one on my driver’s license.)

[image error]People are hesitant to sell me alcohol, but it’s my favorite driver’s license, ever.

I prepared my case and tacked my hearing date on the wall in the kitchen. I saw through their strategy. If I didn’t show up, that would be considered a guilty plea. So I had six months to forget about my hearing date and miss it. But not this guy. I was ready to wait and pounce when the time came.

When February rolled around, I realized trouble was coming. My hearing was scheduled on a Thursday at 1pm, and I had planned on having someone watch the kids briefly while I stuck it to the man. Unfortunately, the rest of my entire house came down with some serious upper respiratory infections. My two and four year old are still sick. My day came for the trial of the century, and I had two sick kids with nowhere to keep them.

I tried calling the number to reschedule. I wondered if they’d give me a new date in 2020. I had to leave a message, and they didn’t call me back until 12:30pm…my appointment was in 30 minutes. They said it was too late to reschedule. Surprise, surprise. So I did what any loving father with two sick kids would do…

I piled them into the car and took them with me. If the Village of Linndale was going to charge me $100, then I was going to throw a respiratory virus their way. Take that!

The kids really weren’t that sick. Plenty of energy at this point, just the occasional burst of coughing. And I have trained them to cough into their arms because I’m a good person. And good people shouldn’t get bullshit speeding fines from Big Brother.

As we drove to Linndale, I used the time in the car to make the situation into a lesson for my daughter. I told her that police are there to protect us, and when we break the rules on the road, we should pay the amount of money that the police tell us to. But, if we don’t think we broke any rules, or if we think we aren’t being treated fair, we can go to the court and STICK IT TO THE MAN! I think she understood at least part of it. I spent the rest of the car ride rehearsing my defense strategy as stated above.

Today was my first time going to Linndale intentionally. Oh man, it is tiny but creepy. If you’re paying attention, you can tell where the village begins because there are stoplight and traffic cameras everywhere. Seriously. Every single stoplight had a traffic camera attached with a blinking blue light. And the city is just older houses and the occasional weird business or temple of some sort.

[image error]Actual photo of something in Linndale.

Despite the tininess of the village, it was difficult to find the town hall, as it wasn’t much larger than the houses on either side of it. It was on a side street and there were no signs directing anyone to it. If it weren’t for the line of cars vying for spots out front, I might have passed it on the first round.

[image error]That’s Barb’s house next door, about ten feet away. There’s only room for one Barb in Linndale.

As I pulled in, I realized that there were a lot of people lining up to get inside, and all of them were no doubt there for the same reason. I rushed the kids in, signed in, and we waited.

As we sat there, my kids were actually quite good and sweet. My daughter kept asking how long we would be, but she did so in a nice, quiet way. The mood was odd in there, and both of my kids could sense it. We sat in three folding chairs as a woman in the front called people up one at a time to go off into another room and plead their case. One man started yelling for a moment until the officer stepped into the doorway. I did my best to keep calm, make my kids feel at ease, and rehearse my case. I wasn’t about to raise my voice, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to pay $100!

I had never been in a court before. I’ve never even had a jury summons before. I didn’t really know what to expect, but all I knew was that I had planned and planned and planned for this day for half of my 39th year of life, and I was going to nail my defense, damnit! I even had a number in mind…$20. I wasn’t going to accept a fine over $20. Things moved fairly quickly, much to my surprise. Finally, they called my name.

I walked up to the front of the courtroom and the woman pointed to my right. My heart rate increased. I tensed up. I was thrilled to express my rights as a citizen and go to my own defense. Every bit of planning and anticipation built up to that moment. I turned right and entered a room with a large man sitting at a desk with a stern, serious face. He had the kind of no bullshit look I worried could break me.

“Mr. Haase?” the man said the same way a curmudgeonly neighbor might ask some pesky kids “Is this your frisbee in my yard?”

“Yes sir,” I said. And to ease the tension, I introduced my two kids as my lawyers. He laughed. I felt better instantly. A little humor always helps the words come out. I took a deep breath in as I prepared to regurgitate the defense I had spent the last six months building up.

“Is this their first case?” the man asked, playing along.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, they did a great job. We determined shortly after your infraction that it was inconsequential, so we dismissed it but failed to send you a notice. Your case is dismissed.”

“No charge?” I asked.

“No. Have a good day.”

After six months of build up and research and preparation, they had already dismissed my charge back in September. But maybe they were just seeing if I would show up and then send me a bill if I didn’t. So I’m still taking credit for the victory.

I fought the law today, and I WON.

Eat your heart out, Joe Strummer.

It’s really damn cold today. The Polar Vortex has elbowed its way into Northeast Ohio, and we are all huddled together in our houses. Schools called off for the next two days just based off of the projected cold. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Naturally, we have bought all the milk and bread in the area.

I’ve never understood that. Why do humans buy bread and milk when storms and harsh weather approach? Is there a recipe for milk sandwiches I need to know about?

Anyway, it’s a high of -2 degrees Fahrenheit today. This kind of cold naturally reminds me of the last time I remember it being anywhere near this freezing, and that would be in January of 2014.

I was working day shift in the ICU at the time. Winter is strangely busy in hospitals. It seems like the cold brings on more serious cardiac events than any other weather, which has never made much sense to me. But the winter of 2014 was no different. The ICU was packed and I finished a shift dead exhausted.

I rarely pay attention to forecasts as they seem like they are only cause for anxiety, and I have enough of that without outside influence, thank you very much. So when I left the hospital to get to my car, the absolute chill punched me straight in the gut. Little ice crystals formed in my beard. Shivering, I hoofed it to my car while the voice of my mother nagged in my brain, “How many times have I told you to wear a coat?!?” I leapt into my car and blasted the heat. As I watched my breath puff out in clouds while I drove, I thought to myself that everything would be fine once I got home.

Sure, at first everything was great. My shift was over, my wife was ready to cuddle, and soon enough we were tucked in bed with my two dogs inside the home we had just purchased the previous May. Things were great and about to get better, as my wife was about seven and a half months pregnant with my daughter. There was nothing to complain about.

And I love sleeping in winter. The cold puts me in a comatose state and I can usually attain a deep sleep unavailable during any other season. I love wrapping myself in warm covers and tucking in with just one foot out to remind my body that if it has any inkling of waking up early, just remember: it’s not worth it.

My wife and I fell asleep in our little piece of winter heaven, ready to greet another day, even though the forecast (of which I was unaware at the time) called for the temperature to drop significantly during the night.

It was about one in the morning when my wife shook me awake.

“Are you cold?” she asked.

I remember being momentarily irritated. The reason is that my wife loves to wake me up to ask me things I would have no way of experiencing while asleep. She has woken me up to ask weird things such as “Did you hear that?”, “Can you get the dog to move?”, and my personal favorite, “Are you asleep?” I thought we were adding to the collection with the “Are you cold” question, as I was obviously fine with the state of affairs since I was passed out.

But I soon noticed that she was onto something. I was cold. Really cold. Too cold for someone with a new house and a paid balance on the heating bill. Something was wrong. I trotted downstairs and checked the thermostat like the man in charge I was. It read fifty-nine degrees. It was set for seventy. I tapped it for encouragement, because that’s what men do. I fiddled with the buttons. The heat turned on. I felt accomplished. Then it immediately shut off. This was discouraging, for sure.

Taking the next obvious step in being the man of the house, I went down to the basement to look at the furnace. It turned on again and then immediately turned off. I stared at the furnace for a few more moments and then came up with the manliest of conclusions…

I had no idea of how a furnace worked.

Luckily, the internet wasn’t too cold, so I searched for a solution. Satisfied, I marched back upstairs to let my extremely pregnant wife know the good news.

“Pack a bag. The furnace is broken. We’re going to stay at the La Quinta tonight!”

The La Quinta Inn was the only hotel in the area that took dogs. It was literally the only option. No one was going to come out and fix our furnace in negative figures at one in the morning, and even if they would, we couldn’t wait around in a steadily cooling house. So, we packed ourselves up and shuffled back out into the cold to move out of our new house. This time, I remembered to wear a damn coat. My mother would have been satisfied. Not proud so much.

My wife was not happy with the situation, as being pregnant is hard enough without having to spontaneously evacuate your house into sub-zero temperatures. She moved at a waddle in the best weather at this point, and now she needed to move on a half-inch layer of ice while dead tired. I worried about her falling, for sure. I couldn’t breathe without forming crystals; I couldn’t imagine what would happen if her water broke.

Slowly but surely, we made our way to the La Quinta. The people there were extremely nice and accommodating. It wasn’t a bad set up, especially since we could crank the heat with reckless abandon. I settled my amazing, highly pregnant wife into bed and then took the dogs outside to make sure they wouldn’t have to pee for a while.

Walking the dogs was another adventure altogether. Everything was covered in a layer of ice, even the hand railings. And now I had basically tethered myself to two animals walking in different directions. It was so cold that their paws would stick to the ground if they stood in one spot for longer than a few seconds. Because of this, both dogs were in constant motion. It took only one trip outside and one slip and fall on my ass to realize that I could only manage one dog at a time.

By the time I made it to bed, it was past three in the morning. I don’t think I fell asleep until after four.

In the morning, we enjoyed the continental breakfast (does that mean cereal bar? Because at most hotels it just seems to mean “we’ll set out some cereal and shit for you.”) and then I left my wife to enjoy the spoils of a mid-range hotel while I went to get some supplies and check on the house.

This was how I learned a lot more about homes in the cold. I remember going to the bathroom and then flushing the toilet. The water went down, but the toilet didn’t refill at all. I tried the sink. Then the tub. Then every other faucet in the house. They were all frozen.

Lucky for me, we have the best neighbors on the planet. Dave from next door came over and helped me expose the pipes and aim space heaters at them all. He also knew a guy he trusted to come out and look at our furnace. Every other furnace guy in the city I had called was busy for hours. When Dave called his guy, the man was at my house in under an hour. I don’t know if Dave has mafia connections, and I don’t care. I’m just going to stay on his good side, as he does “know a guy” for a lot of things.

Within two hours the heat was back on. It turned out that there was a clog in my furnace that didn’t allow for the first stage to get enough air to light. Once the guy unclogged it, we had heat again. It was a simple and cheap fix. Thanks for the hook up, Mafia Dave!

Slowly our little family moved back in to our house. The space heaters did their thing and the pipes all came unfrozen without incident. We were lucky. Soon, we were back in bed and safe with the only problem being that when I let the dogs outside to pee I had to follow them and carry them back in because their paws still stuck to the ground. Poor things.

And poor me. My dogs are each sixty and eighty-five pounds. I remember carrying Maizie, the larger of the two, back inside. I waddled my way across the driveway all top heavy, hauling a giant dog with a thick layer of ice under my shoes.

I thought to myself, “If only someone would start punching my bladder and lungs right now, I might have an idea of what it’s like to be pregnant.”

Okay, probably not. Sorry.

Now slow down if you don’t know that I’m an ER nurse…I didn’t just go on some strange adventure hike in the deep forest and end up putting my daughter in danger before closing a wound of hers using the heads of dead ants. (Yes, that’s a thing. Kinda.) This was all an accident, and thankfully the stars aligned to create a scenario where everything turned out a-ok. Better than a-ok, actually.

It was a nice early autumn day in 2015. I was working my usual noon-to-midnight shift in the ER, and of course, we were busy as shit. Noon-to-midnight is one of those staggered twelve-hour shifts they have in ER’s to cover the periods of higher patient loads, and, go figure, most emergencies happen when people are at their most conscious. I was running tail through the ER like usual, bouncing from room to room, when I suddenly got paged that my wife, Margie, was on the phone.

This was my first indication of big trouble. Marige never calls me at work unless something is wrong. Any non-emergent stuff goes through my phone via text, and I can get back to her when I can. Not this time. She had me paged.

Gulp.

Rut-roah, Raggy…

Margie’s near hysterical, yet holding her last thread beautifully. She tells me that Penny, who was about nineteen months old at the time, cut her hand, and that Margie had to bring her in. Normally, Margie would ask my advice. In this case, no need. She just wanted to make sure that we weren’t too busy.

Here’s the thing: we were. Not terribly so, but busy enough. But there’s an unwritten code about ER’s that should offend no one: We bend over backward to help our own. That’s not to say that we reject anyone or treat anyone differently. The truth is that we fold our backs in half, squash our emotions, and put ourselves through the wringer for each and every patient. ER staff is an amazing breed of people. This is not to toot my own horn, as I am hardly the best ER nurse out there. I love my job, but I have worked with so many people who have left me flabbergasted with their awesomeness and commitment, I can hardly compare. That being said, I’m a solid and reliable ER nurse. And I’m part of an ER nurse family. And as soon as I told my ER family that my daughter was in trouble, the ER parted to make way for her.

It wasn’t inappropriate, though. It’s not like she came in with cold symptoms or took a bed that could’ve been used for a cardiac arrest. She had a laceration to her hand, and lacerations aren’t urgent emergencies as long as they get repaired within six hours. (Do you hear that? If you have a laceration, go to an ER within six hours! Otherwise they might not be able to fix it! Seriously. This isn’t a 100% rule, but it’s best to get it checked out as soon as possible. Here’s more detailed information.) So, the room we held was a typical laceration room. There were no other patients for which that room was appropriate, and honestly, getting a bleeding nineteen month-old into a room to stop the bleeding would normally be a priority for an adult-centered ER, so it was all good.

You gonna say sumthin’ anyhow?

My ER family rearranged assignments to make sure that I was my daughter’s nurse. I would’ve been too distracted for another assignment anyhow, so that made sense, too.

By the time my wife arrived, I was all set to receive my daughter in my new patient assignment. The matriarch of my next-door neighbors, an amazing woman named Toni whom I’ve adopted as my new mother, was en tow. She rode in the back with my daughter, holding pressure on the wound. I met my wife and daughter with Toni in the parking lot, and all I could see for a moment was a blood-soaked kitchen towel wrapped around Penny’s tiny hand. My little daughter was surprisingly stoic about the whole thing. She lit up when she saw me and greeted me with a cheerful “Dada!” I was relieved she wasn’t upset. She’s still that way. Unless the girl is tired or hungry, she’s typically not easily rattled.

We got Penny back immediately and poor Margie was all apologies. It wasn’t her fault at all, it was a simple accident, but there’s no way to take away a mother’s guilt when her child is injured on her watch. I supported her as I listened to the story of the injury.

It all started with a step stool. I built this railed step stool from a hack of an Ikea foot stool and painted it red. The end result still lives in our house:

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It’s actually an amazing little piece of furniture. You see, toddlers always want to know what their parents are doing. This results in a lot of tugging on legs while doing kitchen work, so this step stool has let our children peek up over the counter and get involved. They’ve cooked and cleaned with us using this step stool, and at the time of Penny’s injury, she was “helping” Margie do dishes, which mostly consisted of her playing in a bucket of soapy water in the sink while Margie did the actual washing.

At the end of the dish chore, Margie went to put a glass away in an upper counter and it slipped from her hand and came crashing onto the counter. Shards of glass spread out across the kitchen floor, and the sound brought both of our big dogs charging toward the kitchen to investigate. As Margie didn’t want either of our dogs to end up with glass stuck in their paws, she headed them off at the kitchen doorway and put up the child gate to keep them out. Crisis averted. Unfortunately, in the few seconds it took to prevent the dogs being injured, Margie turned back to find, much to her horror, little Penny clutching a big shard of glass in her left hand, blood dripping down.

Penny wasn’t upset, but I can only imagine how upset Margie was. The shard was a rather big chunk, and it came out as soon as Penny opened her hand. Margie immediately charged into action, wrapping Penny’s hand in a kitchen towel and calling Toni and me to get this horrible situation handled. If I remember correctly, Dave, the patriarch next door and my adopted father, cleaned up all the glass from the kitchen after Margie, Toni, and Penny left. We have amazing neighbors. Truly.

When the physician’s assistant and I unwrapped Penny’s itty bitty hand, I realized things were worse than I thought. I could see the little bones in her pinky poking out in between the minimal subcutaneous fat below the layers of skin. The glass nicked Penny’s tendon. It was time to call in a plastic surgeon.

That might surprise you. Plastics doctors do much more than “enhancements.” They are the people helping reconstruct skin and bodies after horrible traumas. Theirs is a precise practice that requires a lot of time and skill. That being said, there are a lot of plastics doctors who choose to specialize in boobs and such. It’s all lower risk and higher payout, so who can blame them?  But just know that the next time you meet a plastic surgeon, he or she might be more involved in life-saving issues. And, in my limited experience, those plastics doctors who choose to involve themselves in the traumas and serious issues are a little more humble.

And luckily, one of those more humble doctors was on for Penny’s trauma. His name was Dr. Novotny. We put out a call for him, and he said he’d be there in about an hour. So, we had some downtime, and it was not stress free by any stretch of the imagination.

More info about lacerations that require stitching: if an artery isn’t involved, then it’s not as big of an emergency as you might think. Luckily, Penny hit no arteries, so her bleeding was slowing with pressure. And, as I’ve said, she’s a calm kid. She took in the entire scene while everyone else around her looked and acted much more anxious. And rightly so. Depending upon the level of injury to the tendon, there was a chance that Dr. Novotny would want to take our little girl to surgery. The wait was horrible.

Adding to that, Amber, the nurse who was so kind to take over my old assignment so I could be with my daughter, approached me quietly and pulled me aside. She seemed worryingly serious. I excused myself from my daughter’s bedside and walked away with Amber toward the back of the ER as she gave me the great news: one of the patients I was taking care of brought bedbugs with them.

Suddenly, I felt uncontrollably itchy.

Bedbugs means that we have to sequester the patient and those who were in direct contact need to change their clothes immediately and inspect their skin. ERs are full of beds, don’t ya know.

Flash forward about fifteen or twenty minutes. Margie had been sitting patiently and anxiously for my return, and I finally busted through the curtain in an all new set of scrubs and freshly combed hair. I couldn’t pretend nothing was different, so, I told her. It wasn’t too big of a deal, since Penny was small and she was holding her the whole time. A quick check of her and the bed put our minds at ease, but still…that was another hectic couple of minutes to add to everyone’s distress.

At last, Dr. Novotny came in. He was a calm, cool, collected fellow. He approached Penny and she let him see the whole wound. He assured us immediately that no surgery was required. SIGH…such a relief. Then, he got to work and I assisted the entire time. We got everything together and made Penny as comfortable as possible with her little left arm outstretched toward me. Margie held her body while I held her arm while I assisted Dr. Novotny.

Penny only really stirred and got upset one time, and it was at the most painful part of any suturing: the injection of the lidocaine. The little stabs and initial burning of numbing an area for suturing is the worst. After that, it’s just pressure and getting over the mental hump that someone is sewing your skin together. Luckily, Penny had her mom and dad right there, reassuring her that everything was just fine and that she was the bravest little girl in the world.

Truly Wonder Woman…but in toddler form.

ELEVEN sutures later, she was all done. I cleaned and dressed her wound. She took it all so well. Dr. Novotny did an excellent job. When he came back in to check on the dressing, Margie and I shook his hand. Then, much to our surprise and delight, little Penny stuck out her healthy right hand for him to shake. It was the first time a child shook his hand in gratitude, he said.

Crisis averted, all that was left was for a couple of weeks of wound cleaning and dressing changes. I got to be Penny’s at home nurse as well as her father. To this day she says that I “fix boo-boos” for a living, and I’m not going to correct her anytime soon.

She’s a tough little kid. Always has been. And my wife is awesome and amazing. She handled the situation perfectly. My neighbors are irreplaceable. They are incredible people. And all of my ER family…I will never stop admiring them. Dr. Novotny is a wonderful man as well. In fact, I found out that he has a stipulation on his consults: no pediatrics. We tried calling him for a pediatric case a couple of weeks after my daughter’s injury, and he referred us to another doctor, which happens. When he was reminded of how he fixed my daughter’s hand, he said “That was a special scenario.”

I’m not trying to underplay the seriousness of the situation. Penny’s finger bones were exposed and her tendon was nearly severed. Things could have been much worse, and it was all because of a simple accident. But, accidents happen. In debriefing after this crisis, Margie and I realized that we have done well surrounding ourselves with amazing and quality people. Also, we felt confident that we could handle sudden, intense situations well. Sure, it’s nice to try and keep your kids from being hurt, but the odds of your children getting through childhood unscathed are next to nil, unless you keep them in a bubble, in which case the trauma can have deeper wounds that are much harder to suture.

Instead, my daughter willingly shows children and adults alike her little tiny scar along the inside of her left pinky. She does this to help people feel better when she sees them get hurt, because she can say “I got hurt bad once, and I did okay. So will you!” In fact, the entire reason I felt like telling this tale was because her teacher just had hand surgery, and when Penny saw the teacher’s bandage, she had to tell her the tale of her finger. The teacher told me that when Penny was done telling this very tale, she said “We were all very brave.” And by “we” she was referring to herself as well as Margie, Toni, and me. She remembers that day, and what she has taken from it is that she is surrounded by helpers, she herself is a helper, and we are all brave.

That lesson wouldn’t be there in her mind if it weren’t for a simple accident with a broken glass. I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could.

I love my little family.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

2018 was a big year for me. Lots of ups and downs. It started out mostly with downs, as January brought gall bladder attacks that brought me to tears and then surgery to remove the dying organ. After surgery, one of my wounds dehisced, and I found myself having to do extensive daily wound care for about two months while going back to work while both in pain and leaking fluid from my abdomen. What was supposed to be a positive bit at the start of the year was when I turned in my manuscript for the novel I’ve been working on for nearly three years, but my editor basically panned the entire thing, sending me to rewrites without finishing a complete edit. For a little bit, I teetered on the edge of giving up on the writing deal. I was depressed. I had just come from a place where I had control over my health and was ready to deal with grieving a big loss in our family, and BAM! my own health and personal aspirations took a dive.

But I am a resilient fellow at my core. While a restart on my novel was a big blow, the criticism from my editor wasn’t uncalled for; I definitely can write a better book, and I need to. I am.

I’ve pushed myself quite far as a writer over the course of the last four years, and I’m always improving. A great part of the process of improving has been surrounding myself with an awesome group of writer friends from all over the world. In my dark time of self doubt, I turned to these friends for help in April of last year.

I had no idea how amazing of a response I’d get.

At first, I just assembled a simple group. I created a Slack group, a Facebook page, and I sent out invitations for everyone to join a place for all of us writer folks to get together and support one another. Within the first few weeks of May, we created a website, made plans for publishing a short story anthology, and called the group Writing Bloc. We sent out invitations to submit short stories to be featured in the anthology, and the response was incredible.

By June, we had a great collection of stories, and we began a large, ambitious, collaborative, cooperative editing project. By August, we had all the stories completed with an initial edit and we had a cover design for the book. By October, we all joined in to collaboratively edit the stories and provide feedback. By Thanksgiving, we were taking preorders.

By December, Writing Bloc had become an enormous creative force. The anthology was finished and ready to be published, the website was getting good traffic with regular contributions and articles, the Facebook page was getting a steady increase in traffic, and our plans kept getting bigger and better.

And now, here we are. Publication day. My preorders already downloaded to my phone and my Kindle, and the end result is beautiful. Twenty authors all collaborated and worked hard to get a published work together. And it’s damn good. The stories stretch across genres, but all are united by the same theme: escape.

Escape. How apropos. 2018 started with me in a terrible state of mind overflowing with depression and self doubt, and I reached out to my writer friends to help. Now here I am, proud as hell of what we’ve all accomplished, knowing that those involved in it helped me to escape from a dark place.

Naturally, I must ask that you consider picking up a copy of this anthology for yourself. The best place to do so is on Amazon. It’s $2.99 today (New Year’s Day), and it goes up to $5.99 after that, so please consider getting your copy right now by clicking here. If you have another kind of e-reader, you can get your copy by clicking here. This anthology has a special place in my heart, and I’ll admit that I teared up a little after I opened it up on my Kindle.

[image error]So beautiful.

It’s not just about being published. It’s several things. I’m proud of my story. I’m proud of everyone’s story in the book. I’m proud of all the tremendous effort that went into producing the book. I’m astonished at how far a motivated group of writers took my simple question: “How about we make a group and support one another?” Every writer in that collection is a great person and quite talented. I owe every person involved in that work an enormous amount of gratitude, whether they realize it or not.

Moving into 2019, we are working on a print version of our anthology. We are preparing to announce the next anthology and open up for submissions. We are gathering our resources to start a small press publishing company. We have been featured on podcasts and radio stations in both North Carolina and Tasmania (the audio expired on the Tasmanian radio link, but I swear we were featured there). We have so many big dreams, and we have every reason to believe we can attain them all. It’s been only a little less than eight months, and we’ve already accomplished a ton.

I had the honor of writing the foreword for the anthology. I was encouraged to, as I have been credited with being the “founder” of Writing Bloc. This title is an honor. Writing Bloc was definitely a central part of my 2018. I wanted to give up on so many projects at the start of the year, but here I am now, reading my own published work alongside a fantastic team of writers. I expect even better things to come as well.

GO TEAM!!!

For those of you who invested in my novel, The Man Who Stole The World (formerly “The Madness of Mr. Butler”) just know that I’m sincerely sorry the wait has been long, and your continued support and patience means everything to me. I nearly gave up on the whole thing altogether last March. Now, nearly a year later, I’m in a much better place mentally, and I’m already reworking a ton of it to make it the greatest story it can be. I thank you for your support, kindness, and patience.

I am ready to move forward with all my creative endeavors with confidence. Writing and creating bring me tremendous joy. I thank you for following me along for the ride.

2019 is looking up already…stay tuned.

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I’m commonly mistaken for a Grammar Nazi, but the opposite is true. While I am drawn to the poetic nature of language and I love learning all the parts of speech and the attempts at rules to govern them, I honestly love watching language develop. I’m not insecure about my mistakes, and I definitely make no attempt to speak like some sort of English purist (which is kind of an impossible thing to be). My favorite books tend to bend the rules. Intentional misspellings. Sentence fragments. Swear words. Prepositions at the ends of sentences. I mean, you don’t need rules if they can’t be broken. If what you say or write makes sense and conveys the message you wish to convey, then you’ve successfully communicated.

And while you can assume that I’m trying to silently tell you that I’m in danger/kidnapped/unable to talk if I send you a message with the improper use of “your,” I still don’t go around correcting people. Language evolves. What we call English today would shock and disgust many who spoke the language even just a century ago. Shit changes all the time, so you either ride the wave or get someone else’s surfboard lodged up your ass.

Or your own smashed into your crotch.

That being said, this wasn’t how I was raised.

My mother, God rest her soul, is still the only person I’ve ever heard of who received a Master’s Degree in Victorian Literature. And if that weren’t enough, she got the damned thing from Duke University. Our house was always filled with books, and she would keep shoving them in my hands to the point of me refusing to read any of them (a decision I now regret, but I’m working on making up for it). I always loved books, mind you, but I wasn’t allowed the same relationship with them as I had with music. In my house, music was to enjoy, books were to appreciate. And I get it now, especially since I have kids. Books need to be appreciated. But not forcibly so.

Don’t get me wrong. My mother was a loving woman with a carefully honed sharp sense of humor. She was an incredible person to talk to and know, and I’m lucky to have had such a mom.

But goddamn if I don’t think of her every time someone says “I’m going to go lay down.”

My mother’s voice slides up from the back of my brain and conducts my voice like a puppet master.

“What are you laying down?” My mother’s words slide from my lips.

I get a look of confusion as I sneak in the old beat-into-my-brain lesson. “Oh! You’re going to go lie down. Have a good rest.”

Middle fingers abound.

Even from good old Fred.

It’s shit like that that’s been beaten into my head. But language has undergone considerable changes since my mom died. I’m sure she rolled over in her grave when “irregardless” made it into the dictionary. But that’s how language do.

Another example is when someone says they’re nauseous. When this happens, my mom’s voice pops up in my head, begging me to ask that person to take a shower since their scent is making others nauseated. That’s right: when something is nauseous, they are *technically causing others nausea, most likely from a stench. To be nauseated means that you might just yarf at any moment. BUT! I looked this up in the great Merriam-Webster Dictionary, and it now also includes the newer second definition for nauseous: “affected with nausea or disgust.”

We should’ve buried mom at the top of a hill to help her with all the rolling she must be doing.

This is the look on her face as she reads the internet in the afterlife.

Now, what does this mean? What does this have to do with words I say dummer?

Well, in quick summary, I’m just a kid brow-beaten into speaking the King’s English by a woman with the above stated degree, so obviously my upbringing leaned toward the purist and/or British manner of pronunciation. However! I’m not trying to say that I am the definition of correct. I feel I’ve stated my case well enough to be considered understanding and lenient even with the most heinous of grammatical crimes, save for straight up murder of the language. I make mistakes all the damn time, so who am I to judge?

If only my wife’s side of the family felt the same way.

I have no idea which word fired the first shot, but the difference in pronunciation for some fairly frequently used words has caused a bit of a war between my wife’s family and, well, just me. It’s gotten to the point where every Christmas, for at least the past six Christmases, they have included a category in the annual Family Jeopardy! game called:

Words Mike Says Dummer

And everyone jumps all over it, out for my blood.

I’ll admit it, it’s a pretty fun game. What’s adorable and hilarious is that, inevitably, whenever a member of my wife’s family pronounces a word the way I do, they do so in a mocking British accent, not realizing that the polar opposite would be me pronouncing the same word the way they do with a jangly redneck accent. But what’s great is that they disagree. More often than they’d admit, many members of her family pronounce a word exactly as I do. Confusion and anger sweep across their faces as they realize they match up with this “language purist.” I say nothing much when this happens. They inevitably fight among themselves when someone sides with me. All I have to do is sit back, sip on my tea, take a bite out of my crumpet, and enjoy the action.

So here’s the challenge. I want you to take the same test. Look at the list of “Words Mike Says Dummer” below and decide how you say each and every one of them. You might not even realize you say some of these words differently than anyone else. It’s a fun game, and there are no wrong answers. Let me know in the comments whose side you are on when it comes to pronunciation.

How do you pronounce the following words?
Orange

Me: Two syllables: Or-anj

Margie: One syllable: ornj

Plaza

Me: Plah-zah

Margie: Plaa-zuh

Envelope

Me: on-vel-ope

Margie: en-vel-ope

Pajamas

Me: pa-jahm-uhs

Margie: pa-jam-uhs

Either/neither

Me: (n)eye-ther

Margie: (n)ee-ther

Nevada

Me: Nev-ah-duh

Margie: Nev-aa-duh

Dilate

Me: Two syllables: di-late

Margie: Three syllables: di-uh-late

Mayonnaise

Me: may-oh-nays

Margie: man-ays

Colorado

Me: Col-oh-rah-doh

Margie: Col-oh-raa-doh

Mirror

Me: Two syllables: mir-ror

Margie: One syllable: mear

Dwarf

Me: dwarf

Margie: dorf

Mayor

Me: Two syllables: may-or

Margie: One syllable: mare

Exit

Me: ex-it

Margie: eggs-it

Picture

Me: pick-ture

Margie: pitcher

Poem

Me: po-em

Margie: pome

Caterpillar

Me: cat-er-pill-er

Margie: cat-ta-pill-er

Kielbasa

Me: Kill-boss-uh

Margie: cob-boss-ee

Catch

Me: catch

Margie: ketch

Youngstown (This is where Margie’s accent is from)

Me: Youngs-town

Margie: Yunks-town

Temperature

Me: tem-purr-ah-chure

Margie: temp-rah-chure

Wolves

Me: wolves

Margie: woofs

Crayon

Me: cray-on

Margie: cran

Pumpkin

Me: pump-kin

 Margie: punk-in

Often

Me: of-ten

Margie: offen

Mittens

Me: mit-tins

Margie: mih-ins

Address

Me: uh-DRESS (stress on second syllable)

Margie: AA-dress (stress on first syllable)

Comfortable

Me: come-fort-uh-bull

Margie: comf-ter-bull

Whipped Cream

Me: whipped cream

Margie: whip cream

Leaves

Me: leaves

Margie: leafs

Peanut

Me: pee-nut

Margie: pee-nit

Jury Rigged

Me: jury rigged

Margie: Jerry rigged

Error

Me: err-rurr

Margie: err

Roofs

Me: roofs

Margie: ruhfs

Halves

Me: haves

Margie: haffs

Data

Me: day-tuh

Margie: daa-tuh

Porcupine

Me: poor-cue-pine

Margie: porky pine

Hamster

Me: ham-stir

Margie: hamp-ster

Grocery

Me: gross-er-ee

Margie: grosh-er-ee

I’m sure there are plenty of others, but we will stop there for today. What do you all say? Do you have any other words you think I might say dummer?

This dog wants to know.

My son is a risk-taker.

My son is only two, and he’s a ridiculously physical kid. He likes hanging from the chin-up bar in our house, climbs every ladder he sees, and tries to jump off from whatever is the tallest thing around. He will climb up the back of a chair and jump into your lap without warning. He will go for every hot beverage and electrical outlet he can find. At this point, he’s had so many bumps to his head he no longer cries. He’ll just tap his head where he just clomped it against a doorway and say “Uh-oh! Bonk!”

And it’s the cutest thing, ever.

With his physical nature seems to come an extremely voracious appetite. The kid can eat. He’s been that way since he was in the womb. He convinced my vegetarian wife to eat steak during her pregnancy, his first nursing session was over an hour, and when he had bottles, he would drink 40 ounces a day…when he was two months old.

As he is now a slim thirty pounds and in the 93rd percentile for height, the appetite hasn’t calmed down. I’ve sat through a breakfast where he will eat two eggs with cheese, an entire banana, a piece of toast, and one of the dogs. Well, maybe not one of the dogs, but he has tried to bite them before. That habit did not last long, thankfully.

His eating has been a bit of an interesting issue, as he also wants to eat everything at once. He’s not the only toddler to want to eat this way, I’m sure, but it’s something that is a bit troubling at times.

Here comes trouble.

As a nurse who works in critical care and emergency medicine, I’ve been kind of overtrained and exposed to a lot of troubling situations. I’ve spoken with many parents who have thought their children were choking when the kids were, in fact, coughing and gagging as they are learning to eat. My son has pulled this faux choking over and over again.

Hell, I’ve learned that when he has a full belly of food and makes himself gag by, say, trying to fit an entire half of a banana down his throat, I can catch his entire stomach contents in my hands cupped together. It’s a valuable talent, especially if you ask the dining room carpet.

And he’s coughed and gagged time and time again. We are teaching him to learn his limits, and that’s the best we can do. making his food into little chunks only serves to make him want to fit more in his mouth at once. And what is he going to learn from us restricting his food? Trust me, nothing.

So, we carry on. He gags occasionally, gets it up, and carries on to eat more and more and more. And he’s a really healthy kid, so what’s there to complain about.

The day I’ll never forget.

One of the only fast food places he’s ever eaten at is Chipotle. He gets a chicken quesadilla with rice and beans, and if his sister still has any left after he’s done eating it all, he will eat her food as well. It’s one of his favorite places to eat.

Last week, I picked up some Chipotle and brought it home. It was just the kids and I, and I was about to work night shift all weekend, so it seemed like a good time to have a “treat.” We sat down at the table and I scooped up a piece of chicken with a little rice and beans into a spoon for him like usual. And as per usual, he put the spoon right into his mouth.

The difference here is that he laughed because he was happy to have food in front of him. He does that. He loves food so much he can’t even be serious during a meal.

So, he laughed, and then he recoiled. The sharp reaction and the look on his face matched just about every time he’s taken a spoonful of food that’s too hot. So, that’s what I said to him.

“Oh! Too hot? Want some juice?”

I held his cup up to his mouth and he still looked affronted. His cheeks were pink. His mouth was open. No sound.

That was when I realized that his airway was closed off. My son was choking.

I patted his back a couple of times, but he only started turning dark blue. Still no sound.

I have no recollection of exactly what happened between the dining room table and the sink, but the next thing I knew I had my son bent over the kitchen sink and I was thrusting up against his abdomen. Once, twice, three times, four times…

On the fifth time, he gagged out and a chunk of chicken popped out of his mouth and into the sink. I spun him around and looked him in the face. The blue/purple was receding. The bright pink stayed in his cheeks because he started crying. Hard.

And damn, was that a beautiful sound. I hugged him both desperately and gently, because the dude needed to breathe. Getting a tight hug after choking isn’t necessarily the best course of action. Ironically, I wanted to squeeze him to death.

He wailed for his usual thirty seconds or so when he gets upset about anything. I swayed back and forth with him in my arms, assuring him that everything was okay. I was also assuring myself that everything was okay. His sister was still at the table eating, oblivious as any four-year-old might be. I think she asked if he was okay. I can’t really remember.

The happy ending.

What I do remember is that, after I swayed my son in the direction of the dining room so his sister could see him, he looked at the table and saw his uneaten food. He shifted back so he could look me in the eye. He pointed to the table and with the sweetest little look on his face, he asked “Mor? Mor?”

Yes, his food nearly killed him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still hungry. The little shit.

We finished the rest of the meal with me studying his every bite. Adrenaline kept me alert and aware. The reality of what had just happened didn’t kick in until after I cleaned up lunch.

My son could have died. Without brisk and exact intervention, he would’ve choked to death. And it was a simple thing.

I’m not writing this to say that I’m now a more cautious parent, nor am I saying that I deserve any sort of recognition for performing appropriate abdominal thrusts. I am trained to do these things by my trade, and I have to keep my education up to date regularly. What I did for my son was thankfully procedural for me. Even with his previous adventures with gagging on food, I had never been close to doing abdominal thrusts on him.

Or on anyone, for that matter.

The moral to the story.

I’ve done CPR more times than I care to recall. I’ve never had to save someone from choking. But since I had practiced it and been certified in it, I could remain calm and do what had to be done. And it worked.

And like CPR, it was nothing like they show you on television or in the movies.

So, this is my first post that perhaps has a serious moral or message.

You are surrounded by people everyday. Family, friends, loved ones, strangers…anyone could laugh during their first bite of food. Anyone could suffer a cardiac event that good, effective CPR could help increase their odds of survival. Too many of us think that someone else will be there to save someone when shit goes down, and it’s simply not true. Outside of a hospital, nearly 90 percent of CPR recipients die, and part of the reason for that is ineffective CPR or too much time passing while people wait for “a doctor” or someone who can and is willing to perform CPR. People die from choking at restaurants even when someone intervenes, and sometimes that’s because they aren’t actually trained in appropriate abdominal thrusts. There’s different techniques for different age groups and conditions (such as pregnancy) for both CPR and abdominal thrusts, and they aren’t difficult to learn.

So, surprise! This is my PSA. If you haven’t been trained, go enroll in a class to learn basic lifesaving techniques. The classes don’t take too long, and the information is invaluable. You could be the difference in a stranger’s life, a friend’s life, or even your child’s. Don’t assume you know what to do, especially if you think they’re doing it even close to correctly on your favorite TV show. (Spoiler: they are not. Not even close.)

As for my son, he’s fine. He’s happy. And he’s still eating us out of house and home. I’m not suddenly a helicopter parent or anything. Life continues as usual. I was shaken to my core for a good 24 hours, but now that all of the adrenaline has worn off and the trauma has passed, I don’t think of how bad it could have gone, because it didn’t go badly. It was an accident that was prevented, thanks to my training.

Imagine how many accidents like his could also have happy endings if more people were trained.

Are you trained in basic life saving techniques?

https://www.redcross.org/take-a-class/cpr

(Hint-hint.)

 

Here I sit in my hospital bed, finally feeling good for the first time in a few weeks because of a drug called dilaudid. Dilaudid, for those of you who don’t know, is a strong narcotic painkiller, stronger than morphine. I’m getting it because my stupid fucking gallbladder won’t stop nagging me about the fact that it doesn’t function properly, so they’re going to yank it tomorrow. Until then, dilaudid.

I’m not used to being the patient. I’m an ICU/ER nurse, and sitting here in a hospital gown with an IV, fluids, drugs, and vulnerability in not my typical perspective. It makes me appreciate a lot. I have a ton of friends and support, and I can’t thank you enough for that. I am particularly reminded of this because I’m getting my gallbladder yanked in the hospital where I’ve worked for the past seven years. Naturally, as I’m being admitted, I’m going to run into a few people I know.

One of these people is a good friend of mine named Nick. Nick and I met under the weirdest circumstances, and I’m just in the perfect narcotic-laced mood to divulge the details, perhaps at Nick’s embarrassment. Ah well, it’s a good story, so…sorry, Nick.

It all started out about four years ago. My wife was severely pregnant with our first child, and part of the first pregnancy is sorting through all of the different classes the obstetrician wants the parents-to-be to attend. One of these was breastfeeding class.

Breastfeeding class, for those of you who have never attended one, is about as awkward as it sounds. Not for immature reasons having to do with talking about boobies, but because you’re in a room full of couples all handling fake plastic babies and pretending to feed these babies through clothing. It’s all incredibly thorough, and every couple is just trying to pretend that the other couples aren’t there, and that they’re having a great time.

Especially my wife and I. We love making each other laugh, and we tried our best to wear our “this is serious” hats throughout the two-hour class, but we ended up making each other giggle over and over. It didn’t help that every other couple seemed to be trying their best to listen. How could we pay attention at all when we’re learning such valuable things as “you shouldn’t use crack cocaine if you’re breastfeeding”? I had no idea that crack was fine otherwise, but you just shouldn’t if you’re giving a newborn essential nutrition.

My wife and I didn’t make any friends during the class, as no one spoke to each other. I probably wouldn’t have recognized a single person in the class ever again, except there was this one dude there with his wife, and I admired his mustache.

He had a nice, full, proud, handlebar mustache. The thing was no shit, and I envied it. I mean, I can grow a full beard, but I have almost no chin, so I can’t pull off that kind of mustache. I know, because any time I decide to shave my beard, I do it in stages, trying out everything from mutton chops through the final Hitler mustache for about a minute a piece before I’m finished. I simply have not enough chin for a handlebar; it makes me look like I should be introducing myself door-to-door to everyone in my neighborhood because it’s a requirement of my parole.

So, in case I haven’t stated myself clearly, which you can blame dilaudid for if I haven’t, this guy’s mustache was awesome, and it was unforgettable. Alas, breastfeeding class came to a close, and all of us couples had to retreat to our homes. And I had to go get some crack, since I wasn’t breastfeeding.

A few weeks later, our beautiful baby girl was born. She was a c-section, so my wife was pretty damned sore. In order to give my wife some peace to rest, and just because it was fun to do, I would put my newborn daughter into a wheeled bassinet of sorts and walk her around the hallways. It was sweet. She’d just be lying there, arms up by her ears, looking all around with her tiny hat on her head. On one of these nights while I bonded with my child on a walk, I turned a corner and passed another dad out for a walk with his daughter.

It was the mustache guy! I got a little excited, to be honest. But both of our babies were sleeping, and he looked tired, and seeing as how I didn’t have any real distinguishing features like he did, I just smiled and nodded to myself, perhaps whispering “congrats, mustache dude!” Not within his earshot, of course. I was excited enough to tell my wife about how he was here and his baby was born, too. Considering how sore and sleep-deprived she was, I wouldn’t say she matched my excitement.

A couple of months pass, and I decide to change departments at my hospital. I was working day shift (7am-7pm) in the ICU, and the ER had an evening shift (noon-midnight) that was better for spending more time with my daughter, seeing as how 7am-7pm was the only time she was awake for. I got started in the ER, spent more time with my daughter, life was good, and then…it got a little better.

Mustache dude worked in the ER! He was a pharmacist tech, so he was in and out and running around like the rest of us, but our paths only really crossed when we were in the medication room at the same time. I wanted to introduce myself right away, and it seemed only appropriate, seeing as how we were coworkers, so we went through the normal shaking of hands and exchanging of names, but he obviously did not remember me. Perhaps he would have if I started giggling while talking about crack cocaine and breastfeeding.

The difficulty in meeting anyone new is striking up conversation. Naturally, all of us clamber for something in common. I wondered what I could have come up with that I had in common with mustache dude, but there was literally only one, inescapable event we shared. I decided just to go for it.

And why not? This might have been a once-in-anyone’s-lifetime event. I mean, when have two grown men had the opportunity to either ask or be asked:

“This is going to sound really weird, but don’t I know you from breastfeeding class?”

Seeing the array of facial expressions Nick went through after I asked was worth it alone. Especially with that awesome damned mustache. Of course, it all ended in laughter and discussions of fatherhood and how our wives and babies were doing. We’ve been friends ever since.

But! The strangeness of the story does not end there, ladies and gentlemen! After this initial meeting, our families ended up getting together a few times and the details of each of our child’s birth was discussed. And if sharing the same breastfeeding class wasn’t enough, here are the other crazy stats:

-We both had daughters

-Our daughters were born on the same day

-Our daughters were born in the same hospital

-Our daughters were both c-sections

-Our daughters were the exact same birthweight

-Our daughters were delivered by the same physician, with his wife’s c-section being the one just before ours

And now, here I am, drugged up before surgery, and Nick walks in to get my medication history.

It seems that the universe wants Nick and I to do either something spectacularly great or tremendously evil, as it keeps putting us together in random, inescapable ways.

Either way, I love this story. You might have great friends as I do. And I love all of my friends.

But I will only have one breastfeeding class friend.

You can be jealous.

I have a young daughter and son. They are both tiny; the girl is a preschooler and the boy is a toddler. What is happening right now that has me absolutely glowing is they are becoming fast friends. Sure, they bicker and fight from time to time, and they certainly can’t share worth a shit when they are either tired or hungry (AKA: 50% of the day), but they are still awesome together. I’m going to enjoy watching this relationship grow.

Today is New Year’s Day. This also means that it’s been five years since my dad died. In July, it will have been eighteen years since my mom died. Obviously, neither one of them got a chance to meet their little grandbabies. I’m not saying this to be a downer or milk any sympathy, I’m saying it because I still seek their advice in parenting. Death, though suckier than a Dyson, still has its good aspects. And reflection is among those benefits. If either of my parents were alive and well, I’d be on the phone with them, begging for advice and perspective, as they also raised a daughter and a son in that order. I would, of course, give anything to hear about what a little shit I was to my sister when I was a toddler, to have one of them comment on how one of my children is doing something or smiling like I used to. But instead, I get the benefit of reflection. I’ve been pushed from the nest, I am flying, and every time I reflect upon how I am doing as a parent, I feel happy and satisfied, and I blame that partially on not being able to constantly run to the phone to beg for advice. I’ve figured it out for the most part. It’s worth mentioning, however, that I married a kick-ass wife. She taught me not to be afraid of kids. Now, I swing them around upside-down, much to their delight or dismay, depending upon how tired or hungry they are.



I still crave the insight, though. I would love to talk to my mom and dad and just get a quick answer to the question: “What was it like raising a daughter and a son two years apart?” But, every time I want to have that question answered, when I’m at my lowest in my grieving over the non-opportunity to be grandparents my mom and dad had, it always seems that something great happens. Some sign of their presence. My most recent sign came just before this past Christmas…you know, the most wonderful time of the year to reflect upon parental loss.

Bleh.

But this Christmas was different. With a 3-year-old and a 19-month-old in the house, there was a new magic to Christmas. I joyfully pulled down the attic stairs, ready to get down some decorations and plaster the goddamned house with as much jolliness as I could muster. But the Christmas decorations invariably bring up old memories. I looked at the Christmas ornaments that used to hang on the tree when I was a kid, the “Baby’s First Christmas 1980” one gets me the most, every year. The nostalgia and closeness with my parents always stings each time I look at that ornament. I could go on and on as to how each ornament and decoration made me feel, but I’ll spare you, of course. We try to keep things light around here.



And then, I spotted one of the “Keepsakes” boxes that my mom put together when she was still alive. She would gather up all sorts of random things from my sister and I and place them in plastic boxes to the point of overflowing. We kept these boxes after she died, taking the ones most relevant to ourselves. I have three full boxes of childhood souvenirs in my attic. I decided to crack one open, kind of as a way to say hi to my mom.

As I’ve covered in previous entries, my mom wasn’t your typical mom. She had a quick and uninhibited humor, and if something struck her as particularly hilarious, she would never let that joke go. This is why, a couple of weeks before Christmas, I sat in my attic holding up a pair of my old boxers.

I was a fairly relaxed teenager. I tried not to let things bother me, and that included the fact that one of my favorite pairs of boxers was wearing a hole in its crotch. Those boxers just felt nice. It was soft material, and they fit well in all of my pants and shorts. I wasn’t letting those boxers go without a fight. I remember fishing them out of the trash on more than one occasion. Who doesn’t protect a favorite pair of underwear?

Admittedly, the hole in the boxers reached fairly epic proportions, as is always confirmed when I retrieve them from the “Keepsakes Box.” I can fit my fist through the hole, actually. No, I’m not embarrassed. I’m writing a blog about it, aren’t I?



On the day that earned these boxers their place in the “Keepsakes Box,” I felt particularly relaxed in my teenager skin. I wandered out from my bedroom with just a T-shift and the notorious boxers, grabbed myself some coffee, and sat out on the back porch to watch TV with my feet up on an ottoman, knees bent. I believe I either underestimated the diameter of the hole or I did not care (or both), but I soon found out how a hole in the underwear can be damaging to others.

A scream of “AAAAH! BALLS!!!” echoed through the house enough to startle me. It was my big sister. She had innocently entered the porch to join me for some television, only to get a full view of the results of my recently-completed puberty.

Naturally, my mom responded to the scream, only to hear my sister’s account of her trauma and try to comfort her while unsuccessfully holding back laughter. I was perhaps embarrassed, too, but the comedy of the situation drained away all sense of humility. My mother was shocked that I had, once more, fished the boxers out of the trash. I was given a small lecture on how it was inappropriate to continue to wear those boxers, seeing as how I had permanently scarred my sister. Reluctantly, I handed over the boxers, assuming they were being incinerated.



It was only after Mom died that I discovered the boxers had earned their place amongst old toys, trophies, and drawings in the “Keepsakes Box.” I assume this was her way of showing me what to expect in the future when raising a son and a daughter.

I lovingly tucked the boxers back in their home, ready to bring them back out whenever I need a quick laugh at my sister’s expense. I then brought out the Christmas decorations and had a great holiday.

I hope everyone’s Christmas or whatever you celebrated was amazing as well. Here’s to a great New Year. May your favorite underwear stay intact, and may your sibling’s genitals remain hidden from view.