For those of you that have never seen The Dirk…here you go! How about that butt…right…right…am I right?! By the way, that truly is The Dirk (on the right)!

My Childhood Best Friend – Adios

My best friend died when I was fifteen. Jimmy was a year older but in my grade. I hate friends movies where one of them dies and the other moves through the manufactured stages of grief and ends up happy. Jimmy was supposed to go to summer camp with me but went on a family vacation instead. He was different. Jimmy was six feet tall at twelve years old and six feet six inches tall the year he died with size 13EEE shoes. I look at pictures of us together and laugh. We look like a strange comic team from a teen movie. We learned everything that young boys learn together, the good and the bad. Our moms were best friends and we were around one another from the time I was born. When my parents divorced, my mom, brother, and I lived with Jimmy’s family for almost a year. It was an experience sleeping three boys (6, 7, and 10) in a queen size bed. That is where my fear of cats developed. The family had several Siamese cats and at various times I would find one sitting on my chest intimidating me. It scared me half to death! Along with one other experience I have never liked them since. We lived with them until my mom remarried. I cannot imagine the stress and fear my mom went through during those times, but I know Jimmy and his family made it bearable and, at times, fun. We also did something that was quite common for boys in our era. We became blood brothers. My wife cringes when she hears of something so unsanitary and, in her words, dumb. We had watched some Western where this ritual was lauded and decided our friendship was just the same. So, we each cut our palm (only just enough to get bleeding…more of a scratch than a cut!) and clasped our hands together! We took that bond very seriously!

Jimmy was not academically inclined and to my limited knowledge, he may have been learning disabled. He was held back a year in school which was not uncommon then. However, he was very inquisitive and imaginative. The parental difficulties he had were always connected to this propensity. At about five, he wanted to get paint from a clogged spray paint can. He clamped the paint can tightly in a bench vise and hammered a nail in the side. An emergency room visit was necessitated to remove the paint sealing shut his eyes and nose (but he did get the paint out of the can!). We made or developed many various weapons, from blowguns to slingshots and every kind of go-kart. We hunted and fished at every opportunity. Our fathers and my stepfather encouraged and assisted that passion. One of the last memories of hunting with him was a rabbit hunt (about twelve years old). We both had single shot .22 rifles. As we were walking through the woods with me in front, I heard an exasperated groan from Jimmy. Looking around I saw only the forearm of the rifle as the only thing left. His rifle had simultaneously and completely fallen apart…not one screw or piece was still together. Funnier as the years passed.

Jimmy was a tall, gangly, sweet-natured boy, with a nose (a la Chesterton) that totally impoverished his face. When he drowned at age sixteen on an extended family visit 2,000 miles away, he was supposed to be with me at a miserable camp. My mom refused to let me go to the funeral for reasons I still resent (the reasons, not my mom). I spent most of the remaining summer in my darkened room. His parents moved back to their roots in the Northeast and where Jimmy died. His mother never really recovered. I spent the next summer with them and loved their extended family. They graciously gave me his shotgun. I still have it today.

Grief, after a time, is a funny thing. It generates the most painful and precious emotions at the same moment. I was engulfed in grief when Jimmy died. As I think of that time, my throat and chest are gripped in something akin to a mild heart attack. But the precious memories begin to massage that grip into acceptance. Jimmy and his family are some of the most wonderful memories of my childhood and early teenage years. I treasure them…I loved Jimmy as Jonathan loved David, closer than a brother. I pray that in someway Jimmy was saved through faith in Jesus Christ before he died. I miss him to this day. I have never had a friend as close (with the exception of my wife) and I realize that has been by unconscious design. I say goodbye in the way of 60s westerns: Vaya con Dios, my blood brother and friend.

Ruby

Three things come to mind when I hear the word ruby (discounting the stone). I am embarrassed to admit one is the bad country song by Kenny Rogers, Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town. The next was my dad’s dog and the last was a bartender. My dad only had border collies. The black and white versions to the untrained eye look exactly alike. He only had one dog that I ever remember and her name was Ruby. This dog must have been twenty-five years old. Or maybe not. There were probably five or six Rubys over the years.

Dad’s place was five acres on a slow moving tributary river of the Brazos in central Texas near the only highway in that county with only one neighbor close enough to see. The place had barbed-wire fencing around it but no chain-link to keep dogs in. The magic of dad’s method was to always have black and white female border collies and name them all Ruby. When Ruby died he would get another female border collie and call her Ruby. On the arrival of a new Ruby, I asked him if he tied or penned the “new” Ruby for a while so she would not run off or get run over. My dad would give a grunt and spit, replying that he did not want a dog that did not want to stay or dumb enough to get run over. Ruby was never “fixed” but I never saw any puppies. She was well fed but never fawned over. Through the limitations of memory I remember only one time Ruby needed serious tick removal. I do not know how many Rubys that stayed and were smart enough not to get run over but there was one always around for twenty five years or more. Maybe the Kenny Rogers was right after all.

Ruby the bartender. My parents were divorced when I was six or seven. On my visits with my dad my brother and I normally went to the home by the river. The rest of the time we stayed in the major city in which I lived with my mom and stepdad. On those occasions, my brother being four years older was busier socially than me so more often than not I was alone with dad when he visited. After eating at the Big Boy restaurant, we would head to a bar in a highly industrialized part of the city sitting right above the river. The river was a disaster and a metropolitan point of shame. My problem was that it stunk! Every time we drove over the stench enveloped the car. I still remember the smell very distinctly. My contemporary sensibilities will not allow me to use the phrase my dad used to describe it.

The bar was a small cinder block building with few windows supplying little natural light. The darkness was punctuated with the expected bright flashes from the pinball machines and the numerous beer-brand signs. Strangely, I do not recall any objectionable smell or pool tables. I always sat at the end of the bar and Miss Ruby took care of me with noshibles and soda. I have to admit that I felt quite mature sitting there. This bar, in contrast to the bar out in the country where the canine Ruby lived, was a construction worker bar. These men worked with my dad in glazing or carpentry in the metroplex. They seemed to sincerely like and respect my dad. Interestingly, rarely did the country and city worlds meet.

Everyone knew my dad and he was often called “Arab” (pronounced AY-RAB). The name was not meant as an ethnic slur but descriptive in nature (at least to those who placed the moniker). My dad was tanned darkly year round and was nomadic in his habits. Dad would take me there when our visit was too short to go to the country or he was working in the city. Dad would gamble on pinball or watch some sport with some kind of bet or another. I never recalled any loud disagreements or fights in that bar (unlike its country cousin). No one ever harassed me and anyone talking to me was under the severe gaze of Miss Ruby. She was wonderful to me. This little woman of 5’2” and barely 100 pounds was the center of the place. I do not know if she owned the bar or just ran it, but she was there every time I was. Her voice rasped from years of cigarettes and booze without any rancor or hatefulness. Ruby simply could look at a possible unsavory situation and say, “Go on, now,” and that was the end. While I was there, she would regularly come by, pat my hand, smile, and ask, “How ya doin, sweetie?” I had a fondness for Miss Ruby. After I learned to drive, I would drop-by to see her and was always greeted with a hug and kiss on the cheek.

Ten years and multiple lives later, I asked my dad how Miss Ruby was. He very soberly with a twinge of anger told me that she was dead. One night after closing, she was locking up when two men grabbed and killed her during a robbery. This sweet, hardworking blue-collar barkeep was savagely beaten to death and thrown into the refuse-ridden river without a second-thought. I do not know if the men were ever caught or if Miss Ruby had family or even her last name, but I mourned her deeply. She was one of the kindest people to a skinny homely kid lost in the throes of divorce. At that time, she was one of the few on my dad’s side I was safe with.

The three Rubys. I really cannot stand the song. I laugh to myself every time I see a border collie automatically assuming the name is Ruby. Miss Ruby is enshrined in that part of my memory dedicated to those people God put in my path to protect, encourage, and comfort me during difficult times. Call them saints, angels, or whatever but I am so thankful for every one of them.

Dirk

[The following is not an attempt to counsel anyone struggling with suicidal thoughts or their families. I am not putting my thoughts on everyone who has chosen suicide. This is my ramblings as I work through my thoughts. If you know the Dirk, don’t setup an intervention.]

Suicide is a topic which needs to be discussed by the SLLCC. Suicide, like murder, stands under the rubric of means, motive, and opportunity. Most of us have means and opportunity. Motive gets messy and ultimately lame. I am conflicted discussing suicide. The typical counselor and suicide prevention course provides a paradigm to hopefully detect suicidal tendencies. How effective they are is beyond me. I have firearms at my immediate disposal but I also have medication, rope, vehicles, knives, motorcycle, etc.. Means is rarely an issue with most men. Most of my day and some of my evenings are spent alone. Opportunity is there.

Motive. I want to reiterate that I am not a healthcare professional and speaking only from my perspective. I find myself clenching my teeth as I write this. I irrationally identify with some of the obvious motives: disability, loss of job, marital dissolution, personal failure (to name a few). These are charged with intense anger or fear or hurt or hopelessness (depression).

At my age I have known numerous people that have committed suicide. A late teen was morose compounding that hopelessness with narcotics. Another could not take the stress of boot camp. One distressed over a fledgling romantic engagement. An older man was devastated at the systematic removal of employment prestige and another with the discovery of his wife’s infidelity. One man killed himself for revenge and hatred on family property. Robin Williams committed suicide recently…what motive overwhelmed him (we think we know, but we can’t). I do not know all of the precipitating events or even the relevant psychological earmarks that pointed toward the “motive” overwhelming the moment for him or anyone. That is not my point. But, that moment where the motive overtakes impulse control for many men…it is over.

As a young man, I had an anger problem coupled with poor impulse control (a typical Marine). Normally my failure to control was externally directed but I had bouts of MMA with inanimate objects. A friend and I would engage occasionally in cutting our arms or chests (honestly these were more testosterone challenges than attempted self-destruction). I had a saying from my destructive days, “Suicide never, homicide–maybe.” Fifty+ years of life and drafted into the SLLCC has altered my view. I understand when others chose suicide and that scares me a little. My wife and I have said privately to one another that choosing suicide is cowardice. I still agree in some situations. Some men plan to flee their pressures or responsibilities, leaving others to do their dirty work. Other times it is poor impulse control in the face of something seemingly demanding a permanent change.

Life, for most of the SLLCC gang, didn’t turn out like we thought and for me, I am struggling with the thought of becoming an animate memory. My stepfather was a great man and wonderful to me. He was much older than my mom, so he was older earlier in our lives. We loved him but it became different as he became more disabled. We always talked about who he had been and not who he was (except in a clinical sense). He became an animate memory.

The Sopranos elaborates, “When you are sick, people treat you different, like you are a non-entity.” Of course, many disabled or older people encourage that existence and find there only solace there (they are the “Uncle Rico” in the Senior Citizen Center). In much of SLLCC life I am involuntarily that animate memory. To former staff I am that animate memory, to many friends as well. The hardest for me is my family, I am the man that used to fix anything and handle any situation. My wife, in my perception, sees me as the love of her life that I used to be. To my sons, the man I used to be. I am an animate memory. Don’t get me wrong I know that they love me but differently. This is inevitable if we live long enough and part of the transition of generations, but dang it–it is hard! I do not want a sociological/psychological explanation of the process…don’t’ insult my intelligence, I know the drill.

Impulse control in the face of such changes assaults me every minute that I am conscious. Depression of the clinical sort notwithstanding, life in the SLLCC can (not ‘will’) present a twisted or bleak view of reality which can spark that moment. I am struggling…I thought of the old song by Peggy Lee, Is That All There Is. The lyrics describe someone disappointed by all of the normally significant milestones. Her answer to all of life’s letdowns (and all of life) was in the chorus:

Is that all there is, is that all there is?
If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing
Let’s break out the booze and have a ball
If that’s all there is

Paul responds to life without Christ similarly in 1 Corinthians 15:32, “If from human motives I fought with wild beasts at Ephesus, what does it profit me? If the dead are not raised, LET US EAT AND DRINK, FOR TOMORROW WE DIE.”

But it does not have to be that way.

Recap: Self-destructive motives get messy, they are clouded and twisted, and are ultimately lame. Such motives are like a$$holes, as the saying goes, everybody’s got one and they all stink. My life–animate memory or not–is not mine to terminate.

Bottom Line: God brought me into this world and I will go ONLY when He determines. I may be an animate memory, but damn it, I am animate!

Suicide and leadership often knock heads in SLLCC. I conquer when I remember whose I am. I lead effectively as I remember that I still follow The Leader. I lead others properly when I remember that I am still an example (barely animate or not). Suicide can suck it.

Some Country songs are like Coen Brother films: Tragic and over the top. I knew at least two family members that could have been the impetus for the song “Whiskey Lullaby”. I did not say that all country music or Coen films are good but some exude a similar truth: Life can be rude, tragic, and desperate.

“Even a drunk acorn finds a squirrel sometimes.”

Mrs. Dirk

Holidays always depress me. –Charlie Brown

Thanksgiving has morphed, of course, over the years into something more and something less of the Peanut’s Thanksgiving Special or the ever elusive (and never attained) Rockwell cover of Life. My blended family holiday as a child was rarely a disappointment and at nineteen I drove 36 hours straight to get to the dinner and Cowboys game. It was great as seen through the many years that have past.

I especially have loved the last ten years or so of Thanksgiving with just our sons and football with friends later. My wife and I had the Macy’s Christmas Parade blaring, experimented with different ways to cook turkey, made homemade buttermilk biscuits, my older son always excited about friends and football, and my younger son helping me with the secret pumpkin pie recipe. It will not be the same this year but I am truly thankful for all of the Thanksgivings we shared together but the last ten “shore up” the corporeal vacancy of this one. So, contra Good ‘ol Chuck Brown, I do not hate the holidays. I praise God for His goodness to me with such an undeserved and wonderful family.

How ‘bout them Boys!

The Chin

Look, I am a man’s man…after all, I am a former Marine, ride a Harley, have tattoos, and I love guns (I would provide more evidence but it would be showing off and a real man is humble, too). One thing I have figured out in this SLLCC journey is that certain elements of my past are slapping me about. I have provided lots of humor and ammunition for my family…

I have a hard time walking so I use a cane but since my illness also affects my hands, a wheelchair was provided for me. It is not a wheelchair in the traditional sense. It is a transport wheelchair. The transport wheelchair does not have the large side wheels by which the wheelchair confinee can move about. I expected those large wheels as I attempted to get in this transport chair. The VA graciously gave me one. If you have never been to a VA hospital you are missing a treat. It is a large gathering of SLLCC that are still trying to prove that they are not SLLCC. The name of one’s particular branch of service is proudly displayed on T-shirts down to waistlines that are significantly larger than chest sizes, service pins and medal facsimiles on hats, and special language and looks bantered between those of similar military sects. There are also countless wheelchairs, walkers, canes, gurneys, prosthetics, and limps that support the branch representations.

In many ways it is very similar to the military. Men sit next to one another in endless waiting rooms and do what we did on active duty experiencing the terminal waiting… gripe. Think about the DMV. You sit next to someone you do not know and eventually griping emerges. The gaggle of former military will gripe to one another after the preliminaries and positioning: “What branch were you in?” “Enlisted?” “When were you in?” “Lifer?” “MOS?” This provides your standing in the pecking order: WWII, Korea, Vietnam…they all win no matter what they did as they are still kicking. They deserve it. The rest of us jockey with the exception of combat vets. They move to the front of the line.

The VA experience is a sweet, nostalgic, sad place. For many, this is it. If they don’t get help here, they don’t get help. For some that recognition is deeply engrained on their faces. There are those who’ve been slackers all their lives leaving a trail of dependency, entitlement, and abandonment. For most, the VA reflects what they expect and not what they were promised. Most of us know what the deal is with the VA; the government seems to be the only ones that are shocked. For me it is the freedom to look at another face and connect, nod at another man with a Marine hat or tee-shirt or pin and utter Semper Fi and always… always get a reply no matter the time period served, the expanding waistline, or the desperate nature of the situation. “Semper Fi.”

While I was in I had an injury to my groin from a physical altercation while on active duty. After numerous tests, the medical bobble-heads decided to perform an ultrasound of my man-land. After some prepping, I was placed on a gurney with a rather interesting twist. One specific portion of my anatomy was set on a towel with everything else was covered. I found it rather amusing in the private preparation area. Soon however, the ultrasound patients were lined up in order for the ultrasound in the hallway. There I was with my “most English parts” literally on display in a public hallway: Marines, sailors, women and children. The corpsman said not to touch or cover anything because I was prepped exactly like the doctor wanted. I was so relieved when I was wheeled in for the test. Very early in the test I was clutching the sheet in a fist up around my chest due to the pain and the doctor stopped and would not proceed until I released my fist promise not to hit her. I wanted to hit her but didn’t.

Now, my transport chair. One of the techs said, “Sit in this here out in the hall, it is less crowded,” and turned away to leave. The hallway was not much less crowded than the waiting room, but I thought I would give it a shot. I still had my cane and looking around as to what to do with it. Across from me was a gentleman in his seventies in a “classic” wheelchair not looking too good in a backless hospital gown. There was a woman standing in the hall waiting to assist a family member. I swung around, kicked my foot back for balance as I shot my butt backwards to sit down. Several things happened very quickly. The wheelchair moved backwards about ten inches from my foot because the tech did not engage the brakes (I had forgotten that wheelchairs had brakes). The result was different than if I had kicked it completely from under me and my body immediately sprawling on the floor. This was that agonizing extended attempt to right the ship–grasping, kicking, and drunken master-like movements by me and everyone in sight trying to get me in that chair (even the old guy in the gown was trying to help).

All was saved, my butt never hit the deck, and I didn’t hit anyone with my cane. One leg was pushed up under me while the other was at a weird angle for balance. Both of my arms were still slowly looking for the big-wheels with my shirt up under my armpits because my back was the only thing on the chair seat. I muttered some incoherent excuse that no one had given me a training class for this model. It is hard to regain much dignity after that.

Amazingly, the occupational therapist came to escort me back to his office personally about an hour later. He was the only health professional actually prepared for my unusual disease having researched it thoroughly. He informed his intern the delicacy by which they must proceed with my body. I was stunned. Jon (not his real name) asked me about my living situation and brain-stormed how to improve my safety in doing normal daily functions and “improve your quality of life.” NO ONE has ever considered or seemed to care about the quality of my life. That is how he softened me up. Jon then looked at me and said, “I know your type…a Marine and I bet you ride a Harley.” I proudly said “That’s right!” He said “I want you to be able to get off your feet and minimize the use of your hands as you get around doing things that you refuse to stop doing because of your disease. I know you are cooking and cleaning as much as you can but it exacerbates your condition doesn’t it?” “Yes” “I want you to consider the new electric mobility transport chair we have.” There was a significant pause. “I see by the look on your face,” he said “that you know I am talking about one of the hover around type scooters and the answer is NO.” Here he went for the close as he leaned in and said, “Don’t you want to extend THE quality of your life and the use of your hands and feet for important times with your wife and sons…not wasting them cookin’ and cleanin’?” Then he broke the hypnotic connection jumping up asking, “Want to take one for a ride?” I got on one and rode in a hallway thinking I must be dead and this was just a sardonic hallway passage to heaven but alas, no. I told my wife for 20 years to “just kill me first” when she would joke about me “riding a hover-round scooter.”

In a matter of thirteen months I devolve from riding a powerful, loud Harley-Davidson Heritage Classic with a big bore kit, 2-to-1 pipes, and enough chrome to blind someone a mile away on a cloudy day to a transport chair only to be pushed around to a Seinfeld episode senior citizen scooter.

A Man’s Man…my tattoos will probably wash off when I get home.

I feel like a group hug…Dirk

I first heard the phrase “sick, lame, lazy, cripple, crazy” (SLLCC) by one of my drill instructors in Marine Corps boot camp. My drill instructor would call us to attention and point out each and every recruit that was slithering their way to “sick bay.” Boot camp recruits going to sick bay, according to the DI, were “missing their mommy, May Lou, or just frickin’ wasting government money here at Hotel San Diego!” (Some of the “Sick Bay Commandos” were trying to skate, but most had things like shin splints, terrible blisters, heat exhaustion, and more) Our wordsmith Dis informed us that they would “pay with time in the pit.”

One private, Private Ryan (not his name and nothing could save him) embodied the SLLCC. He had flat feet, was overweight and severely near-sighted. He was a retread, failing two other previous recruit platoons for physical failings, moving into our platoon was his last chance. He tried so hard to avoid sick call, but the DIs knew his weaknesses, targeting him for his many failures. In their minds, he did not look like a good Marine and he was a “walking and talking f&*# up.” This recruit was always last on runs during PT and thus always the last to shower and get to formation. At the Rifle Range portion of training, Private Ryan was especially late after a run and our platoon had already formed to march to chow waiting for Private Ryan. One DI, Staff Sergeant Derriere, was loudly, repeatedly, and very, very slowly calling for Ryan. As Ryan came stumbling out of the barracks barely dry and glasses fogged, he ran toward the wrong platoon about to pass between the Platoon Senior DI and his platoon. We watched, at attention, horrified. The instant Ryan crossed the line between the platoon and leader the recruits pounced on him, pushing, shoving, and smacking Ryan around. All the while the “wrong” DI was screaming at Ryan that he was disrespecting him and his authority and our DIs were gathered around him screaming that he was a disloyal puke. Ryan’s glasses were still fogged and we could see him just turning from voice to voice and suddenly he simply collapsed.

The din of screaming continued adding useless commands to “Get Up!” Momentarily, one of our DIs marched us to chow leaving Ryan with three DIs. When we returned, he and his “trash” were gone. Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Derriere informed us that Ryan was on the way out of the USMC. SLLCC…”Slovenly pieces of human refuse” (not quite so nicely stated, however) according to any drill instructor…clearly, THEY did not have the “right stuff.”

Ryan was an OK guy. This experience left me with two emotions: revulsion and commitment. It was revolting to observe the degradation of another human being in such a way and I was committed to dying before being SLLCC in boot camp. I saw Ryan at my recruit training graduation (at that time, discharging a recruit was a bureaucratic maze and took many weeks) and would not even meet my eyes when I spoke to him.

It stayed with a Marine throughout the future service. I served in eight years of relative peace so no combat was widespread. It was fine to receive a medical discharge for service related injuries but not EVER to be associated with THAT crew which surfaced within active duty.

I have been out of the Corps for over 25 years but the Marines have a way of creeping bone-deep into a person…even if you didn’t LIKE it! (More on that in a later post) I was glad I went in and really glad I got out. But, hey, I still have a Marine sticker on my car, the Marine Corps Hymn chokes me up, and the uniforms are still the best. So, certain aspects permanently reside in you and one particular, for me, was this negative idea of the SLLCC.

Just three years ago I was working one full time job and two part-time jobs. Then I got sick…which left me literally lame and crippled…feeling lazy and crazy. The Social Security Administration has officially declared me “disabled” with all of $1200 a month to prove it (anyone who thinks disability is the way to wealth and leisure should check the pay charts first!). I am not totally confined to a wheelchair yet, but I use a cane and it is difficult to walk much. I look healthy and I don’t drool much, so most people wonder what is wrong. Sometimes even I wake up and once the excruciating pain passes, I think all this disease stuff is part of my ”lazy” or “crazy” -time and I just need to get up and get going…STOP sloughing off with the SLLCC. The funny part is I can get a few things done (dishes and shower) and then the wheels come off…the disease wins. I wish I could tell you that this blog is going to be inspirational show-tunes with me training for marathons but it will not.

So, now that I am a card-carrying-member of the SLLCC I wish to apologize to all those I have disparaged in my mind over the years…being SLLCC is not all that it is “cracked-up to be” (no pun intended). I would not do this on purpose for any amount of free time.

In this blog I will muse about my physical, spiritual, psychological, and familial “space” because of my diseases. Most of the reason for undertaking this venture is selfish. I know that continuing to express myself through various means will help some cognitive issues I have (yes, due to the disease and the medications…not just because I was in the Marines!).  I hope it is a way to reach out to my wife and sons with things they have heard a thousand times but in a different way. Also, it is a venue to talk about hard things like suicide…death…and taxes. Oh, I am Christian and darned humbled to be one.

Dirk McChin

(*I told that specific event for this blog introduction, but it does not represent the entirety of my boot camp experience. One funny example was a recruit caught laughing during bunk inspection so the DI put a trash can on his head and laugh for thirty minutes straight and when he started to wane in his laughing the DI would smack the trash can with a ruler and scream, “I can’t hear you!” I guess you had to be there…)