Thursday, November 30, 2006

the blowups

On my block, we were late to the game…we waited until Thanksgiving weekend to do the holiday decorating routine. Pretty much everyone else’s house resembled Candyland meets Las Vegas just 24 hours after the last trick-or-treater rang the doorbell. It’s so bright all night long, in fact, that I can’t really discern the sunrise from the perpetual glow. And the streets are rife with every sort of blow-up character imagineable: penguins suffocating in snowglobes, giant menacing polar bears, pillowy snowmen, and even The Simpsons. I refuse to jump on that bandwagon….well, at least until I can find a glowing, inflatable, holiday Lance Armstrong.

So now our lights are up and nobody got hurt. More specifically, my wife did not get hurt. I can do the ladder thing as long as it is on stable ground, but alas the ladder that we borrowed was no match for our lofty roofline. That only meant one thing: someone would have to crawl out of a window and do the Flying Wallenda act on the roof. There must be some sort of survival instinct that kicks in as you get older, because I never remember having a debilitating, pants-wetting fear of heights as a younger lad. Not one for senseless acts of bravado simply to imply manliness, I graciously accepted my wife’s selfless offer to wander out into blustery treachery. All I could do was watch nervously with sweaty palms and failing antiperspirant as she gracefully crawled out onto the roof from our guest room window. Had it been me, I would have been paralyzed with fear until the nice firemen came to get me down in time for dinner. But this woman, my wife, had all the strength and courage of a professional roofer, surefooted and deft. I could hear the snickers and comments of passersby, my face wrought with angst as I called out through the window, “PLEASE be careful!! Do you want your bike helmet?” Oh sure, go ahead and laugh. At least I can admit my fears.

Terrible thoughts entered my mind. What if she fell? How long would it take paramedics to get here? Would we be on the news? Would she end up paralyzed, or worse? How could I ever survive without my soulmate? How much is her life insurance policy worth again? No amount of cash could ever replace her! Oh God, I should be the one up there because if I slipped and was killed, my family would be better off financially!

Eventually, she came in and the relief was overwhelming. The lights look great and I couldn’t have done a better job myself, especially with my hands trembling like a frightened chihuahua. Our house doesn’t look Griswaldian, it doesn’t blind pilots flying overhead, and there certainly won’t be traffic jams to behold its incandescent splendor. It's very simple, and it feels like home for the holidays.

The kids love to go for a drive to see the fantastic displays around the area, seeking out “the blow ups” as they call the inflated things. It’s a chance to get them out and about to behold the merriment of the season. After all…if we had all those accoutrements, there would be no reason to leave the house. Holiday lights, whether larger than life, or simple and traditional, reflect as magic and sheer joy in the eyes of a child. This wonderful season is all too fleeting, and soon it will be time to decide just who will be the one to get up on the roof again.

i can read, thanks.

12:00 Noon. Conference call.

One by one, participants join.
“I had trouble dialing in.”
“Yeah, me too…I got a busy signal.”
“Is there going to be a netmeeting?”
“The first time I dialed in, all I could hear was a screeching noise.”
“Did you send out the presentation in email?”
"I don't think we have enough ports for this call."

And so it went for over 10 minutes. A conference call so mired in personal problems and ill-fated mechanics that if it were a plane, it would have aborted takeoff and headed straight for the hangar.

Finally, someone asked, “Is the information you’re going to cover the same as the presentation you emailed?”

“Yes” the presenter said.

Click. I gave up my connection so that someone else could enjoy being read to.

Ten minutes. Gone. Wasted. It took me 3 minutes to read the PowerPoint.

Friday, November 03, 2006

death and a smile

Ten years ago, on November 4th, my father passed away, ravaged by the slow, but ruthless grip of prostate cancer. Nine years ago, on November 4th, my mother lost her fight with lung cancer. She was a non-smoker.

It should be pretty easy for me to hate November 4th. Anniversaries like this are not much fun to face for anyone. While I think it is important to recognize a dark event and acknowledge that it caused profound change, I don't see much good that can come of dwelling and obsessing. Whether it's Pearl Harbor, 9/11, or a personal tragedy, it is often difficult to think beyond "we could have prevented it" or "so-and-so is to blame for this". This is not to belittle any one event, but tragedies are unfortunately a part of life. Dying is part of life. No one likes it, and it isn't any fun to think about, but in the end, whether we are vice presidents, doctors, attorneys, convenience store clerks, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, we all stop living at some point for some reason. We are no different than plants, bugs, dogs, cats, computers, cars, or batteries: all eventually cease to function. And please don't batter me with discussions about afterlife....that is an entirely different matter, and subject to a huge array of beliefs. This is simply about cessation of the here and now.

After losing my folks, I choose to remember their legacy and the things they instilled in me. They were a part of the WWII generation. I came along much later than my sisters, more on the cusp of Generation X rather than the end of the Boomers (yes, maybe I was an "oops" but no less loved). I feel fortunate to have been raised by them, for theirs was a generation of saying what you mean, meaning what you say, and doing what you say you will do. They taught me to be trustworthy and honest; dependable, and reasonable. Dad was a total nut with a rather twisted sense of humor that seems to have been passed down to my children. He would always take me to jazz concerts in the park, and make the best homemade chocolate peanut butter milkshakes in the world. Mom was the sweetest, dearest lady you could imagine, and always stood up for what she believed. The day Dad died was an election day, and Mom still went out to vote. That's the kind of person she was. If there is one aspect of losing them that still remains painful, it's that my kids will know them only through stories and photos. But when they died, they were in their 70s, so there is some solace in knowing that they lived relatively full lives. Had the cancer not done them in, the ravages of time likely would have before my children were born.

But it is this thought that cancer killed them that still gnaws at me and it has gnawed me to the point that it has changed the way I see things. I see the value in life's small things more clearly now; I never take sunset and sunrise for granted, and a crying baby is not a nuisance, but rather a melody of new life. My parents' cancer has taught me to be aware and to be informed. I know now to watch for things and to take control of the situation, always asking the right questions about what's best. Perhaps that is their greatest legacy - bringing to light the realities and tribulations of cancer. It made me seek information, it got me involved with the Lance Armstrong Foundation, and it enabled me access to resources that may one day save my children's lives. When we learned that my wife, Dena, had early stage cervical cancer, we did not panic. We knew that there was information available and there were means to fight it. My own fate may very well include the same disease that took my father, but in one sense, I can thank him and I know the steps to avoid that same demise.

During those days, my folks lived in Colorado Springs. In the end, I spent many evenings after work and long weekends driving that 60 mile stretch. I was at work in downtown Denver when I got the call that I had "better get down there". Dad had suddenly taken a turn. I was just with him two days earlier at his bedside. We didn't say much, because he was very weak. He called me over closer to him to make sure I took his collection of watches, the most prized of which was a gold Hamilton that he'd received for his high school graduation. He knew. He just knew. I didn't make it to the Springs before he passed. And in my mother's last days, she had suffered a stroke. We later learned that her cancer had spread to her brain. She was never herself in the end, but I was with her when she died and I held her hand before her last breath. There was a strange moment where she suddenly seemed very alert and she squeezed my fingers ever so slightly as if she woke up and wanted to fight it. "It's ok Mom", we all said, "it's ok to go now". And she did.

Those are the things I do not care to remember. Those last memories are the ones that drive me to work for the LAF, and to help in the fight against the disease. Those are the memories which infuriate me when I think of the billions and billions that our nation spends on bombs at the same time it cuts millions from cancer research, clinical trials, and survivorship funding.
But mostly, I remember the good things....the family vacations, shooting hoops in the driveway, milkshakes, jazz concerts; their pride at my graduation from college, watching elk from the deck of their mountain home. Those things make me smile. Thanks Mom & Dad, for all the things you taught me, and for all that you gave me.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

late but fast

I've written a few too many pieces recently about the dreariness of life at work. After a couple of those, I have vowed not to dwell too much on that topic henceforth. I'm really not all that negative. Sometimes cynical, perhaps, but not really negative and I don't want to seem that way.

But I have one more workplace rant that I must share. I guess it's not so much a rant as it is something puzzling to me and indicative of what goes on in corporate America.

I still get pretty worked up any time the FedEx truck pulls up in front of our house. Last night was no exception. I had already dipped into our supply of Halloween candy, so the added frenzy of hearing the doorbell ring, seeing the big white truck unexpectedly, and watching the uniformed delivery guy sprint back to his package-filled chariot was nearly too much for my heart to withstand. It was tempered a bit by the fact that it wasn't something that required my signature, but that was fine - I was important enough to someone that they felt the need to get it to me in a hurry.

I flung open the door to find an 8.5 x 11 envelope partially tucked under the door mat. A little disappointed that it wasn't a crate full of Belgian chocolate, a gift of assorted rare coffee beans from around the world, or a live pygmy goat, I looked on the bright side: good things come in small packages. Why, an envelope could contain a check for $14 Million from a benevolent uncle, an autographed photo of Lance Armstrong, or a lucrative job offer I couldn't refuse.

Eagerly, I looked at the label to see its origin. Hm.....my employer. Is this how they do layoffs now? Opening the envelope, I see the word "Congratulations" on the document inside. In my mind, that word could still mean an indication of termination, so I pulled the contents out to see what was so important that my company FedExed something rather than emailed it. "Congratulations on your fifth year of employment! Please accept this certificate as a token of our appreciation for your tireless efforts to..." blah blah blah. Ok, well I suppose that's nice that they at least recognize years of service. It wasn't the company logo t-shirt or coffee mug I had long dreamed of, but that's ok.

But wait....wasn't my fifth anniversary back in April? Why, yes it was!

It's fine that it took six months to acknowledge this crowning achievement. No big deal. Honestly, I don't care. But what escapes me is why anyone would go through the effort to FedEx a document directly to my house rather than use interoffice mail when it is SIX months late. "We know we're horrendously tardy, so to make up for it, we're going to get it right to you very quickly."

Should I survive in this job for so long, I can hardly squelch the anticipation of my 10 year anniversary. Or 10.5 years, more appropriately.