Mr. Funk E. Dude

Written on Nov 8, 2018

When I was young, my mother and I lived with her parents. My grandfather was a kind, strong, and loving presence. My grandmother was quick to anger, quick to hold a grudge, and not afraid to let you know it. She had a chip on her shoulder a mile wide, and she’d let you know that too. Her childhood on an Oklahoma farm was filled with abuse from her stepmother, neglect from her father, and was constantly told she was trash compared to her half siblings. Life had crafted her to be a tough, hard, emotional woman.

When my grandfather died I was 15. At my grandfathers funeral, one person after the next came up to me and told me how much they admired him. They admired his strength, his presence, his attitude towards life. They appreciated that he was always willing to lend a hand and would never ask for anything in return. My own father had divorced my mother when I was 2, and he stopped coming around to see me when I was 10. My grandfather and Uncle were the primary male role models that I had around me. My grandfather was my rock. He kept our family together.

And when he died, my grandmother fell apart.

My grandfather was the staff from which she stood tall and journeyed with her as she walked through life. Now, that staff was gone, and she found that she couldn’t stand on her own. Without him, she felt like everyone was trying to take advantage of her. Without him, she felt as alone as a person can feel surrounded by others. Without him, her toughness, her strength, her emotions, all of the things that my grandfather loved about her, became poisoned by his death. She became this paranoid, very angry woman.

Before he died, the family was by his side. I remember waiting outside of his hospital room when he called me inside. He laid there, thin from cancer, a shell of the man he had been. He was going to die. My hero. My rock. Was going to die. I stood there next to him, 15 years old, and he took my hand and asked me to promise to look after my grandmother. “Take care of her,” he told me. “Promise me that you’ll take care of her.” I looked down at him, scared, in shock, trying to be strong like he had been, “I promise Grandpa.” I told him. “I’ll take good care of her.” Those were the last words we spoke to each other.

“I’ll take good care of her.”

As time progressed, she became worse. She had always struggled with depression, and now, along with the paranoia and anger, her life became a daily fight between crying to herself in bed, and yelling at me. My mother had moved out. She had her own issues. I was living with my grandmother, helping her get around, pushing her in her wheelchair, taking her to her appointments, shopping, helping her around the house, etc. I had become her primary care provider, and she resented me for it. She hated that I could leave and see friends. She hated that I had a life outside of our home. She constantly accused me of being ungrateful, plotting against her with others, or stealing from her. She called me every name in the book. She would let loose her anger and frustration on me, and I took it all, because I had promised the man who meant everything to me, that I would take care of her. And I did for more than 15 years.

And then dementia started to peek it’s way out of her.

I tried to tell the rest of my mother’s family what was happening, but no one listened. It got to the point where I just could not do it on my own anymore, and no matter how much I asked for help, they wouldn’t. I don’t know if they thought I was just complaining, or that they didn’t want to take on the responsibility themselves, but I soon came to realize that as long as I lived there, they weren’t going to help her. So I moved out.

Having spent 15 years taking her emotional abuse, you would think that I would have stayed as far away as I could from that kind of toxicity. Yet, the human mind is a peculiar thing. Instead, I gravitated to a woman who, in a lot of ways, was just like my grandmother. She had a lot of anger, prone to emotional outbursts, and was controlling. Then we got pregnant, and I started to to try to mitigate her anger and keep her calm, just like I had done for years with my grandmother. I’m not saying I was a saint in the relationship, I made mistake, I had moments of anger. When a relationship ends it’s never just one persons fault. I spent 16 years with her.

More than 30 years of my life, spent trying to deal with another person’s anger. First my grandmother, and then my ex wife.

Now, when I’m faced with anger from a loved one, regardless if it’s directed at me or someone else that I love, I begin to have flashbacks of my grandmother or my ex. The associative part of my brain kicks into overdrive and I become withdrawn, frustrated, and filled with despair. My depression kicks up and starts telling me all of the negative, hurtful things I was told in my past. My strategy is to meditate, and to not allow the others negativity to infect me, but that doesn’t always work. It’s a fight within myself every time.

What I learned from both relationships, is that anger poisons the self, more than it does the intended. It creeps in, justifies itself, and destroys empathy and compassion. I knew, coming out of those relationships, that I never wanted to let the misfortunes in my life, shape me into an angry person. Anger is an emotion that calls you to action. Dealt with in a healthy manner, it should always be short lived. When we hang on to anger it changes us. Instead of yelling at the things that make us angry, it’s always better to evaluate our expectations, and find understanding.

Today I’m fortunate to be in a healthy, loving, understanding relationship where we talk about our issues and don’t allow anger to fester. We keep honest and open dialogue between each other at all times. She has taught me more about myself then I ever could have imagined. When we do get angry, we talk about it and try to resolve the issue. We don’t yell, and if needed, we take time out to cool down, and then come back to the discussion.

My relationship with anger is touchy and one that I will continue to work on. Hopefully, with patience, kindness to myself, and the support of those I love, anger won’t dominate my life the way it has in the past. And if you have issues with anger, I hope that this little piece will allow you to be patient, and kind to yourself, and help you with your relationship with anger as well.

Written on Oct 30, 2018

Six months ago I noticed a lump on the side of my dogs chest. I knew that sometimes dogs get fatty lumps and so I decided to just watch it and see if it got bigger. Then, 5 months later, I notice a different kind of lump has formed on his knee. This one was hard, like a golf ball. I was amazed at how big it was. I had missed it because it sat on top of his knee, almost like the kneecap. Again, I decided to watch it.

Then last week I notice something…

It’s on his back right leg. At first I thought it was a spider bite. So I watched it for a few days to see if it would become infected. I’ve dealt with spider bites before on dogs and knew the treatment pretty well. Keep it clean. Don’t let him lick it. Look for infection. If infection happens, see vet. But this one looked different. I couldn’t see any entry wound where the spider would have bit him. And while it didn’t look infected, it was definitely getting bigger and more red.

So my girlfriend and I decided to take him to the vet on Saturday. We needed answers and the best way to get them was to see a professional.

The news wasn’t good.

The vet wasn’t too concerned with the fatty lump, but she was concerned with the ball on the knee. She also informed us that no, it wasn’t a spider bite, and that it was likely another hard lump forming. She suggested a biopsy on the fatty lump to make sure it wasn’t cancer, and removal of the two hard ones. We decided to not to get the biopsy figuring that if it IS cancer, there wouldn’t be anything we could do for him anyway, so regardless if he had cancer or not, his care wouldn’t change.

The girlfriend looked over the estimate, we made some changes, and had them run a blood screen on him to check for any other abnormalities. We decided we would make a final decision on how to proceed when we got the results.

The ride home was difficult. I felt angry, frustrated, and sad, all tightly rolled up into one overwhelming feeling of loss. This was confirmation that I wouldn’t have my little buddy for as long as I had hoped. I knew that the average lifespan of a Doberman is 10 to 13 year, and at 7, I figured I had more time with him, and now I knew I wouldn’t. If this keeps happening, we wouldn’t be able to afford the surgeries, and eventually, would have to put him down. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried.

Dax came into my life at just 6 months old. He was a gift from my ex wife right before things finally fell apart between us. At one point, I thought he was the only true friend left that I had.

Then Tam came into my life. We became friends, then more, she had her dog, and I had mine. Eventually I moved in with her and my dog quickly became our dog. I was overjoyed watching her bond with Dax. Much too soon though, her dog fell victim to old age. Dax was there to fill that gap.

So together we’ve decided we’re going to focus more on the quality of our time left with him and not stress about the quantity. If we get him for just another few years, we’re going to make the best of it. We’re going to take more trips with him, and spend as much bonding time with him that we can. That way when he is finally put to rest, we’ll know he had a life worth living.

Written on Jan 2, 2018

When I tell you that I’m banging my head on my table as I write this, take it literally.

Ever since I was in the 5th grade, and Mr. Klusendorf put the spelling words on the chalkboard and challenged us to write a story using those words, I’ve been a writer. The story I wrote was called “Ronald Mcdonald goes to Porky Pigs farm”, and it was a SMASH in my classroom. A few classmates asked when I was going to write more? What happens next in the story? I loved it.

I became the writer of our class. When there were story assignments, everyone looked forward to my turn to read. The attention, at such a young impressionable age, struck me in a way that would influence me for years to come. I started to study words, grammar, how people spoke. I paid attention to how words influence people. I read and read and read and by the time I hit my freshman year in high school, I was writing and reading at a college level. My talent had been noticed in my church and they started asking me to write talks and to read them during meetings. I wrote for my drama class. I helped other with their writing. It was part of who I was and continued to be for decades.

And I never took it seriously.

What I mean, is that I never wanted to do it professionally. There have been a few times where I’ve helped people write scripts. I was a writer for a philosophy website (no pay). I’ve helped people flesh out their stories. I’ve even helped with some technical manuals. I did it because it was the thrill of creating something that I was looking for more than a paycheck. I did it because I loved it. I did it because it flowed from me like water.

And then I became a dad and I found myself struggling to take care of a family. I fell into a depression for years brought on by my eroding relationship with my wife. I would eventually crawl my way out with the help of therapy and divorce, but it was my creative side that I lost along the way.

So now, here I am, 18 years later, and I’ve got the time, and the ambition, to reignite my creative side once again. I’m going to start writing more, and get back into the habit. So why am I banging my head on my table?

Because the lack of originality in this post is overwhelming.

This has got to be, what? The one zillionth article on someone’s love for writing? I bet most of you reading this won’t even make it this far. No one reads anything long on the internet anymore do they? Why am I even bothering writing this? It’s just a drop in the ocean. Few will see this. Few will read this. Fewer will make it to the end.

The short answer is, I don’t write for you. I write for me. I didn’t write for my drama class, my friends, my classmates, my church, or for anyone one or anything, but me. I write because creating something is thrilling to me. It lifts me up. I enjoy the process. I do it because if I don’t, then I’m not me anymore. And I haven’t been me for a while now. That’s all about to change.

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations. You’re a trooper.

Written on Feb 12, 2020

I awoke early Saturday morning to intense pain in my abdomen. I thought maybe it was just food poisoning, so I took it easy Sunday hopping it would go away the next day.

It didn’t.

Monday came and more of the same, especially during a bowel movement. I thought it had been easing off so I wasn’t that concerned.

It wasn’t.

Tuesday morning I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t getting any better. It was getting worse. I called my doctors office and talked to a nurse who, after asking me about my symptoms, told me to get to an Emergency Room in the next 4 hours.

I did.

To make a long story short, they discovered I have something called Diverticulitis. Basically I have a hole in my intestine that isn’t supposed to be there and it got infected. I had to be hospitalized. For the next 2 days they pumped me with lots of antibiotics and emptied my stomach by not allowing me to eat or drink. My options were, if the antibiotics work, I could go home and continue the antibiotics. If they didn’t work I would have to have the infection drained, and then possibly have the section of intestine removed. And lastly, if draining wasn’t an option, having the section removed.

Did I mention that even if the antibiotics worked I might still have to have the section removed?

Fortunately the antibiotics were doing there job and by late Thursday I was able to go home. I was put on a liquids only diet and now I’m on a low fiber soft foods only diet until I see the doctor next week. By that point I will have had another CT scan and we’ll discuss if I should have surgery. I’m really hoping I don’t.

I’m not really afraid of surgery. I’ve had out patient knee surgery. I get that there’s always a risk with any surgery, but I don’t fear it. I just don’t want to have to deal with the hospital stay and the aftercare. I want my life to go back to normal. Getting rest in a hospital is a struggle. You’ve got people poking you every few hours. People in rooms next to you crying or coughing. Hell, the IV unit in my room was loud enough to keep me from sleeping more then 45 min at a time. After I came home I passed out and slept for 9 hours and then slept for 5 more hours later the next day.

Then there’s the surgery after care. I’d have to have a nurse check in on me daily at home. I’d have to be on a liquid diet again. I’d need help doing basic things for a few weeks. It would just suck, and if I can avoid it, I’d rather.

The one thing that I’ve really learned from all of this is that I need to make some changes in the way that I take care of my health. Time to be even more proactive then I’ve been. For the last few years I’ve been paying more attention to my calorie intake then I have foods to help keep my gut healthy. That’s going to change for sure. Hopefully I can learn from all of this and make positive changes.

Hopefully.