Year One

A couple of weeks after we lost Rhys we were driving down Highland Avenue on the way to pick up his ashes from the funeral home. Kelly and I were emotional. We had  a difficult time leaving the hospital knowing that we'd be leaving him behind, that it would be the last time we saw him, and I was worried that at some point in the near future I would forget what he looked like or some important thing that reminded me of him. It was on that drive to pick up his ashes that I realized I could picture his face. I hadn't laid eyes on him for more than a week, but there he was, as clear as the first time I drank in his face. The tears flowed freely in that moment; Joy and sorrow, loss and peace all sitting quite comfortably together.

There was so much about those 4 days in the hospital that were difficult and then these seemingly odd moments of peace absorbing the features of his face and hands and feet. Neither Kelly nor I wanted to leave. Leaving meant we'd never hold him again; it meant saying goodbye to that physical reminder that he was here, that he lived and breathed, that he entered the world and became something. The most touching gesture and gift we received in the days following Rhys' death was from a friend who donated trees to be planted in his honor. That gift spoke to me. It connected to the moments of that day in a way that was devoid of judgment but held a deep recognition of the experience. I didn't want to conceive of what had happened as right or wrong, good or bad. There was nothing wrong with my son, there was nothing bad about his short life. It simply was. That's a hard thing to explain and share with people when they're consumed with wanting to explain those things. Those trees never said that to me. Those trees said that, regardless of the length of his life, Rhys contributed something to the world in some small way and that made all the difference sitting in that hospital room trying to figure out how to summon the courage to leave that place.

In the months that followed, after Rhys' ashes had found a home in two different urns, Kelly and I fell in to a rhythm of life that revolved around getting out of the house and walking in nature. We'd walk the prairie path West and East and spend time circling the ponds at Madison Meadows. Eventually, once Kelly had recovered sufficiently from her c-section, we returned to the East Branch dog park that we looked forward to traipsing around with a newborn strapped in a Baby Bjorn. There were moments when those forays back in to the world felt timely and needed and others when each step felt like sorrow and every one of those moments were vital. Sometimes my sadness and pain abound, sometimes it's joy and peace, sometimes it's all of those things at once but there has never been a moment in all of this when I've wanted someone to try and take any of these feelings away from me. These are the only things I have of him.

At the beginning of June our restlessness had risen to a peak and our energy turned towards doing. We wanted to create a physical space for our grief and a garden in the backyard seemed as good a way as any other. We pulled up a section of grass, moved the Day Lilies and Arborvitae that were in random places in the yard, and planted a new Hydrangea bush. In the weeks and months to come it would continue to take shape, adding other plants and moving some (apparently Hydrangea don't like full sun...who knew?), setting up a wind chime, placing his memorial paver, and adding a small bird bath made by his grandma. It is, for us, a place where his future siblings will know him, where they will interact with him, a place where they'll be able to add their own choice of plant or tree or bush and be reminded of ways in which all of our lives contribute something to the world around us. My hope is that they're reminded to contribute something positive towards the great balance of life.

In the last moments of writing this I have a pregnant Kelly sitting next to me, a 70 lb snoring dog in a tight ball between us and am preparing to go spend the rest of the day in the dirt of Rhys' garden planting, shaping and remembering a short life that has reminded me to be who I am.

Son and Tao

Oh hai blog. Long time no write. It's only been like a year...or more. No big deal. I don't mean to dismiss your feelings and all but, as you might know, life tends to happen. So anyway, I thought, in an effort to get back into this semi-regular writing thing I'd do more writing. Ha ha, writing thing...do more writing...ehhhh. Let's not make this any more awkward than we need to.

This past year has been a lesson in remembering to be who I am, without pretense or false tense or past tense or future tense. When my son Rhys was born last year it was a stark reminder of the importance of being present. At 23 weeks and 5 days, I was never under any delusions that his life would be anything more than a short abbreviated version of all the hopes and dreams his mother and I had carried with us for the past 6 months.  In the days and weeks and months to come I never figured out how to respond when someone said, "You'll be with him again someday in heaven," or some other similar sentiment. Usually I didn't say anything. Occasionally I'd offer something approximating a smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach the corners of your mouth. Those moments were reminders of feelings I've carried for years and buried, the kind that remind me I've felt like an intruder upon a faith practice and spirituality that hadn't felt honest or authentic for years.

It was an odd experience sitting in theology class in seminary and having to hide aspects of my own spiritual experience because they weren't fitting the mold. Even in seminary, a place where there is ample room for ideas and theological concepts, I never felt safe offering my honest thoughts and feelings . I still remember responses from a professor on a rough draft of a statement of faith that invited me to revise because my conception of god was too distant. The message I got was, "You don't sound very Christian," and the truth was I wasn't. I hadn't been for some time. I'd been spending plenty of time and effort shoehorning certain beliefs into appropriate sounding Christianese out of some misplaced sense of duty to a faith I'd grown up in, a faith that helped shape the person I am today. How do I say goodbye to that? How do I part ways with something that has had a positive and important impact on my life?

Rhys was never able to thrive, he never had the chance to tread water. He required a lot of help-extraordinary help-that couldn't do much about the fact that he just wasn't ready to be on his own in this world. In those hours Kelly and I spent helplessly watching I was reminded of a number of people I've had the privilege of knowing and stories I've heard of others who never got that chance either. Whether because of a culture that fears difference or wounds that festered and never healed those stories are important. By virtue of the fact that we are human beings, those stories mean something. What my son reminded me of in his all too brief 12 hours of life was that everyone has the right to live their life fully, completely, openly and honestly. He reminded me that it's not enough to be tolerant, it's not enough to tread water. He reminded me that, as much as I try to be an advocate for others to be fully, completely and authentically themselves, I've not been much of an advocate for myself to do the same thing. As we prepare to welcome our next child into the world I want to be able to show him that being who you are is important and life-giving. I want her to see that and not just hear that.

So, little one, whoever you are, whoever you become, know that your Taoist father only wants you to be who you are and hopes you never feel like you have to be something you're not. You can thank your big brother for that.

A Christmas Story (Paraphrased and with License)

While it is the case that the majority of Christianity would find my theological beliefs unpalatable and while I'm sure they also leave some people trying to figure out why I call myself Christian, I have always loved the Christmas season.  That might have more to do with family traditions and experiences growing up and my love of all things winter and hot cocoa while it's snowing but I also love a good story.

The wonderful part of the birth stories for me is that we essentially have a family who, for whatever reason, has fudged the cultural expectations of there day a bit. Joseph got Mary pregnant before their "marriage" was officially official.  The sticky wicket in which they found themselves, however, had more to do with political expectations.  Rome was in the middle of making sure they were getting all of there taxes (as empires do) from everyone they "owned" and it was decreed by the provincial governor that every man (along with his family, because, ya know, only men count) was to return to their place of birth in order to be counted and taxed accordingly.  It was a bit of a hooplah and Mary was in her third trimester.  I imagine Traveling with a very pregnant woman is no big deal.  I mean, there's only the threat of early labor, dangerous traveling conditions, potentially life threatening situations; if ever there were such a thing as a cake walk, this would be it.  They didn't really have a choice, so they went.

Thankfully, mercifully, gracefully they arrived in Bethlehem without major incident. I say major because I can imagine there were myriad and justified amounts of discomfort, complaining and anger from everyone involved.  What I mean to say is everyone arrived alive.  But of course, owing perhaps to the slower pace which they were forced to take on account of Mary's very pregnant condition, one of the few places left to stay was somebody's stable.  Soon after Mary went into labor. We have no idea how long or how hard that labor was for Mary (thanks, undoubtedly, to the male writers of the gospels and their keenly honed sense of important details).  From what I can cobble together from the women in my life, that shit ain't easy.  It's absolutely true that said labor involved lots of blood, body fluids, ungodly amounts of pain and a healthy stream of cursing unleashed in Joseph's direction.  Mary probably called him a viper a time or two which in today's parlance translates to something like, "Joseph, you fucking asshole, this is all your fault," (I looked it up).

Anyway, they did it.  Mary gave birth to a very loud baby, wrapped him in some blankets and laid him in a feeding trough as is the customary thing to do...kind of (but not really at all).  As good Jews they took the baby after eight days had passed circumcised him and bestowed upon him the most godly name they could think of, Jesus (or Yeshua or Joshua or something or other; the point is the name is actually quite ordinary).  And later, as is prescribed in the Torah, they presented Jesus at the temple in Jerusalem with a sacrifice honoring their god, their culture and their ancestors.

The point of all of this has nothing to do with Jesus as god's son born to save the world from itself.  That's not really my thing.  The miracle is in the fundamental and ordinary experience of creating and caring for life.  The wildly divergent emotions and expectations and everyday life of people sharing the struggles and joys of bringing a child into their lives.  The miracle is that life happens in some of the most peculiar and ordinary and exceptional ways.  For myself, there's no place for some fabricated fanfare about a virgin birth or a chorus of angels and there's no need for shepherds and wise men paying homage to a new king (although it does make for nice story-telling).  I feel like and think that the point has something more to do with the fact that the birth of and care for any child in any place at any time should be enough to call all us to hope (and act!) for peace and love to reign on Earth.  I think we would do well to pay more attention to those mundane things in life, to remember that ordinary doesn't preclude the experience of the sacred or transcending but that the ordinary is very much the heart of what is sacred and transcendent.

I'm not a Heroine Addict But If I Was I'd Be Good At It

It was an early nondescript weekday morning that I found myself entering an unassuming four story building the purpose of which was to deposit yet another sperm sample for doctors and embryologists to ogle.  Don't ask me why they need so much of my sperm, I can only assume that their sending it all over the country as examples in medical schools of what you don't want to see under a microscope. Posterity.  So, I walk into the office, write my name on the little sheet (even though I was the only one there), the receptionist hands me forms to fill out and turns to the nurses behind her saying, "The sperm freeze is here."  This is my life now.  I no longer have a name.  I'm just "the sperm freeze."

Being known around town for the state of your sperm is an interesting place to exist.  Most people don't know what to say or how to react when they ask how things are going or are unfortunate enough to make some quip asking "when are we going to have a baby" and are met with a stony, if not irritated, response. Being "the sperm freeze" brought it to a whole new level.  The nurses in the back kept repeating it to each other (to spread the news I guess) and I felt a tinge of frustration that was followed by incredulity and eventually ended in subdued acceptance of my new identity.  I guess there are worse things in the world to be known for...  And besides, this first step in the IVF process was but a small penance to pay for the insanely unfair position my partner would be in.

This week on Intervention...

I've been carrying around a fair amount of guilt over all of this.  I'm the one with the problem and she gets to endure all of the poking, prodding and monumental discomfort IVF entails. She's the lucky winner of shiny new nightly injections and a veritable cocktail of pharmaceutical magic.  And I get that this is just the practical piece of how this has to happen, I do, but man if I don't wish I could account for even a small piece of the shit end of this stick.  For now, I'll pay my penance by gearing up for lots of puke and poop clean-ups and attempting to find a way to be able to do those things without adding my own adult-sized vomit to the mix; no small task as my gag reflex is notoriously sensitive.  I still can't eat peas without an immediate involuntary heave.

So anyway, for about two weeks I stuck my partner with needles in order to entice her ovaries to produce as many follicles as humanly possible.  After more monitoring sessions in which I slowly watched her ovaries grow to the size of baseballs it was time for the retrieval, which of course meant more pain and torture for her.  This would require a doctor to stick a needle through the uterus and into the ovaries to suck out the follicles in which reside the eggs.  It all sounded very medieval to me.  They did at least put her under anesthesia for the surgery which probably doesn't mean much when you can't really stand up or walk for a few days afterwards.

All of this is a horribly abbreviated flash forward through a process that is about as satisfying as learning there is a cure to some long-standing grief that requires you to intensify and transform said grief in new and varied ways.  And of course it all ends with more waiting; waiting that can feel so interminably long that you almost forget you've already been trying and failing for years to have a child on your own. So we do the only thing we've been able to do and wait.  There are moments when we dare to hope and moments when we feel like we need to prepare ourselves for the worst but never a moment when we aren't acutely aware how long we've been waiting.  I guess, in a way, it's fitting.  Here we are in the middle of a season of waiting and we wait.  Small consolation at times but at least its helpful to be reminded that we're not the only ones in the world waiting for something.

ThanksChristmasGiving

This time of year always brings conflicting emotions for me.  On the one hand, I absolutely love the Christmas season.  I love the fact that I can enjoy a Christian holiday with quasi-pagan traditions and can be secretly more excited about the changing of seasons than I am about anything else.  I can enjoy family traditions and shoveling the driveway, we fluff the tree and hang lights on the bushes, it's all very festive and wonderfully cozy.  The problem, for me, is this little holiday called Thanksgiving, in which we completely overindulge on tons of food and try and act like we're thankful for things after throwing half the food away because we can. It's really just a thorn because Thanksgiving causes people to get uppity about when you are and are not allowed to put up your Christmas tree or listen to Christmas music.  People will flood Facebook with their righteous indignation upon seeing a Christmas display at the mall or Target because that's what Thanksgiving is for, getting pissed about Christmas being celebrated too early.

Basically all of this boils down to Thanksgiving being a terrible holiday.  For one, if we need a holiday to remind us to be thankful for things then we're already screwed.  For two, it's predicated on a ridiculous story about native people sharing with inept and intrusive Europeans who would later kill and steal form them all in the name of god and country.  This is a great holiday.  Let's remember to be thankful for all of that killing and stealing.  Besides, Thanksgiving comes courtesy of some of the worst culinary inventions in history.  What other time of the year is a dinner table graced with the presence of Green Been Casserole, Yams and Cranberries of which you are expected to mash all together and eat with something approximating pleasure.  I don't understand these things so mostly I just eat rolls and quietly sit through dinner.  I'm probably also shaking my head a lot and making rude comments, but that's beside the point.

The point is that Christmas is a far superior celebration than anything Thanksgiving can ever hope to muster out of it's sad revisionist history and apocryphal story telling.  Mind you, I'm not referring to Coca-Cola-commercialized-spend-to-your-absolute-limit-and-then-some-Christmas.  I'm talking about candle light midnight church service in which you sing carols and tell stories.  I'm talking about early morning breakfast that is both simple and wonderful all at once.  I'm talking about sharing gifts and lives and time and board games and general merriment involving good beer and conversation.  There's snow on the ground, it's pleasantly cold out, hot cocoa abounds and you can simply sit and be with people instead of feeling rushed by the next day's shopping extravaganza.  Life can take a break and you have a moment to breathe and relax and just be.  Why should I wait until after Thanksgiving to be excited about that?

Bottom line: Thanksgiving misses out on being the worst holiday only because Columbus Day is, inexplicably, still a real thing...yay European imperialism.

X-Mas 4 Life

Because Sometimes the Magic Doesn't Happen In the Bedroom...It Happens In a Lab

There are few things in life that garner praises of perfection. My partner's uterus is one of them.  I was under the impression that I'd been intimately aware of my partner's reproductive system for some time now.  Apparently not so true.  Thus we found ourselves beginning our first fertility treatment.  Part three of the continuing saga in which I become a man required that I first understood a fraction of what it means to be a woman.  It also required that my sperm take devastating hits to its self-esteem because that builds character, or something.

The moment that I realized this was actually happening was when my partner returned home to report on her first "monitoring session."  As she began recounting the experience I was swiftly waylaid by something called an internal ultrasound.  I was under the impression that ultrasounds only happen outside the body and require an instrument that looks something like a defibrillator paddle. Why in the hell would you want to stick something like that inside a person?  I was assured the instrument was a bit more stream-lined.  So, she goes in for this vag-o-gram and apparently passes with flying colors.  And I quote, "Oh Kelly! Oh my! Oh Kelly! You just have the most beautiful uterus! I ought to take a picture of that and frame it to put up on my wall! Textbook perfect!"  The, "Oh Kelly"'s were uttered in a breathy orgasmic tone; apparently the nurse was very enthusiastic, which I guess is a good thing seeing as one problem is more than enough.  All the while my poor deformed sperm were sinking deeper into despair.  They're textbook too, just of a different variety.  Not only are they under-performing, come with at least two tails and few in numbers, but now they had to deal with the shame of entering a perfect uterus in order to do their job.  It wasn't looking good.

In a show of support and solidarity we decided I should probably witness this vag-o-gram for myself, not least because this was really all my fault.  And mind you, I wasn't expecting this to be any kind of a picnic.  I've had doctors' hands up my anus.  I understand uncomfortable.  I was woefully unprepared for what came next. Before things started the nurse pulled out the the vag-o-wand which resembled a miniature mace sans spikes.  Fear level was about a 3.  It took me a minute or two to realize that this thing was going inside my partner's body.  Fear level rose to a 7.  As the actual vag-o-gramming began the fear level spiked and I quickly became concerned that the nurse was damaging the one thing that was healthy and going to allow us to have kids.  That thought was replaced by astonishment at the actual range of motion the nurse was getting out of her inserted vag-o-wand which was again replaced by fear.  So there I sat, in mixed horror and fascination, trying to make out anything other than gray matter on the TV screen set up for our convenience.  By the way, I'm still not convinced anyone can see anything on those things.  There is literally nothing to see.  I'm operating under the assumption that the nurses are just making things up until such time as we manage a successful pregnancy.

So anyway, a number of these "monitoring sessions" and a shot in the stomach later (which I administered whilst groggy sometime around midnight thank you very much), we were back at the office preparing for our first IUI.  IUI stands for Intrauterine Insemination, which, obviously.  Essentially what happens is they turkey baster the sperm past the cervix (which is where most sperm go to die) and right into the uterus.  The hope is that the sperm won't need to do much to successfully find and penetrate the egg that will be happily falling down the ole' Fallopian tube any minute.  In addition to this express train into the uterus, they put the sperm through a wash which is basically a glorified tilt-a-whirl ride with chemicals that leaves only the best and brightest behind.  I had a bad feeling when the nurse came in and informed us we would need to sign an extra consent as my sperm numbers were lower than is usually considered satisfactory for an IUI round.  I, of course, was cursing my partner's perfect uterus and Nurse Uteran-Orgasm for dropping the guilt hammer on my poorly performing seed.

About two weeks later we got our results: negative.  We were kind of expecting  it though hoping for the best.  After the IUI we had looked up statistics on how effective this was supposed to be and essentially halved it because of the added consent form we signed which basically told us this is not going to be successful. The one positive that came out of it was that our insurance accepted the doctor's recommendations to move on to IVF which I guess we can thank my bogus sperm for seeing as they turned in an absolutely abysmal performance.  So now we're gearing up for an all together different and exponentially more intense experience trying to get pregnant; one in which my partner will be transformed into a walking pharmacy and we brace for the possibility of wildly outrageous hormonal reactions.  I'm sure I'll be displaying couvade-like symptoms through all of this as well so it could also result in the end of all living things on Earth.  For now, excuse me as I go and shove a needle in her stomach.  Practice makes perfect.

Jacob's Hierarchy of Appropriately Fried Eggs

I'm a fan of eggs.  I like them many ways.  Scrambled eggs, fried eggs, even poached eggs.  So why the fuck can't restaurants make them the way I order? Seriously, I can make eggs like a bagillion different ways.  Why is it so goddamn hard for people, who are employed to do as much, make eggs to someone's order?  I get that there will always be a bit of room for variance (for a little artistic license if you will) but for the love of everything that is sacred can we please clearly define the differences in fried eggs?  This is consistently the most frustrating and annoying part of eating breakfast at any restaurant.  Let us begin:

Sunny side up is pretty straightforward.  You never flip the egg and baste the "uncooked" side.  It is generally accepted both with the white a bit runny or not. When you say sunny side up, you expect there to be a little bit of leeway with the consistency of your white.  Yolk is of course runny as hell.  This is the fried egg you want to order when you are looking forward to cardiac arrest.

Over easy is also not to difficult.  While it requires a delicate flip of the egg, over easy means your white is going to be runny as will your yolk.  It's pretty simple, though I have experienced the over easy as over medium in many places.  This revelation usually comes after over medium comes out over well and I have to send it back.  Actually that's not entirely true because sometimes I ask my partner to have it sent back since I'm really a giant wuss with microscopic testicles when it comes to asking the server to fix something.  I mean, it's honestly not their fault, they're innocent bystanders caught in the cross-fire.

Over medium.  I should probably stop saying these are not difficult as none of them are actually difficult but holy shit if this is not the bane of my existence. Apparently this one is difficult for everyone but me.  The appropriately made over medium fried egg has it's white cooked through and yolk still wet but a tad more solid than the runniness of the over easy.  This is your classic dipping egg.  The yolk is of excellent consistency for your toast and is usually held in it's bowl by the slightest layer of solid yolk.  You cannot actually order this in a restaurant.  They will give you an over easy egg or over well, but never over medium.  Why?  I have no fucking clue.

Over well is by far the simplest form of fried egg.  Just cook the fucking thing. Everything is solid, just don't burn it.  There is not a soul on Earth who can't cook this egg.

If you are not cooking your eggs according to this handy guide, you are doing it wrong.  And since I titled this "Jacob's Hierarchy of Appropriately Fried Eggs" let's place these types in their proper order:

Over medium - Superior in all aspects, the over medium fried egg contains the best of both worlds; cooked through white and nice liquid yolk.  It is, beyond a doubt, the best way to cook a fried egg.

Over well - This one is really a situational style but remains at the top of the list for the sole reason that you're not dealing with runny white.

Sunny side up (only if the white is thoroughly cooked) - Better than snotty ass over easy, the sunny side up with white cooked through makes a decent change of pace from the over medium and you can feel superior to other cooks by showing off your basting skills.  There is the psychological problem of knowing that one side of the egg hasn't touched your cooking surface and also the heart attack.

Over easy (as long as the runny white is minimal) - And I mean minimal.  If the white is barely noticeable in its runniness then this egg is serviceable for purposes of potatoes and eggs and skillets as the runny white gets hidden in the mixing of ingredients.

Over easy - Can be vomit inducing when the white is jiggling on your plate.

Sunny side up (non-cooked through white) - Fucking disgusting.

So there you are world.  I just dropped some knowledge on you and knowing is half the battle.  Go forth and prepare your fried eggs appropriately.  You're welcome.