April 6: Very Very Improbable, Good Improbabilities, Fill Me Up

Zaphod Beeblebrox and Trillian are arguing about the presence of Arthur and Ford on their stolen spaceship . . .

He tapped irritably at a control panel.  Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important,  Whatever Zaphod's qualities of mind might include--dash, bravado, conceit--he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture.  Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason he had had such a wild and successful life was that he never really understood the significance of anything he did.

"Zaphod," she said patiently, "they were floating unprotected in open space . . . you wouldn't want them to have died, would you?"

"Well, you know . . . no.  Not as such, but . . ."

"Not as such?  Not die as such?  But?"  Trillian cocked her head on one side.

"Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later."

"A second later and they would have been dead."

"Yeah, so if you'd taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away."

"You'd have been happy to let them die?"

"Well, you know, not happy, as such, but . . ."

"Anyway," said Trillian, turning back to the controls, "I didn't pick them up."

"What do you mean?  Who picked them up then?"

"The ship did."

"Huh?"

"The ship did.  All by itself."

"Huh?"

"While we were in Improbability Drive."

"But that's incredible."

"No, Zaphod.  Just very very improbable."

"Er, yeah."

You know, I've been dealing with the improbable for quite a while.  Some of the faithful disciples of this blog may argue with my use of the word "improbable."  They would say that everything that I write about is fairly common--experiences that many people have every day.  That may be true.  People are diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain every day.  People are displaced from their jobs every day.  People work three and four jobs every day to pay their bills.  People's brother and sisters and parents die every day.  I know all this.  However, to me, my life seems improbable, and I have the same kind of reaction to this improbability that Zaphod has.  I bristle and complain.

I'm sitting in McDonald's this morning, after a fairly emotional week of goodbyes and endings, feeling a little empty.  Like I don't have any more to give at the moment.  In the coming week, I start a new/old job with new hours and duties.  There will be a learning curve for sure.  It's not a job that I'm particularly excited about.  I'm sure my attitude will change eventually.  I'm still adjusting to the upcoming change, and you all know how well I deal with change.

So, indulge me today.  I'm going to try to think about the good improbabilities of my life.  Things that fill me up again.

IMPROBABILITY #1:  I am a poet.  This one has brought into my life many joys.  Friends.  Opportunities.  Ways to do good in the world.  At this moment, my tribe consists of poets who think like me, share my values.

IMPROBABILITY #2:  I am the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, for the second time in a row.  This one still blows me away.  There are so many great writers who've been nominated for this position.  Mentors and friends and heroes.  The fact that this plumber's son was chosen still amazes me.

IMPROBABILITY #3:  My daughter.  She's 18 years old, about to graduate from high school.  Smart and beautiful and compassionate and passionate.  She danced into my life one cold December morning, and she fills me with improbable love.

IMPROBABILITY #4:  My son.  My orange child.  He's so much like me that it's frightening.  We butt heads.  A lot.  But he makes me laugh, gives me hope.  (Of course, that hope is sometimes that he doesn't end up in prison, but it's still hope.)  Improbable love, yet again.

IMPROBABILITY #5:  My wife.  Next year will be our 25th wedding anniversary.  We have our share of struggles over the years.  Things that would have broken most marriages irreparably.  Yet, here we are.  Still struggling, but more in love than ever.  Improbable love.

IMPROBABILITY #6:  I lived to see the first African American President of the United States.  This one gives me hope, even in the dark time we're in right now in my country.  We got it right once.  We'll get it right again.

IMPROBABILITY #7:  My friends.  All of them.  I have a large tribe of people who genuinely care about my welfare.  When I'm feeling down, they reach out, do things that life me up.  When I have something to celebrate, they are the ones putting the candles on the cake.

IMPROBABILITY #8:  My brothers and sisters.  Dysfunction is always a part of familial relationships.  Yet, I know that these people have my back, will do anything to help me out when the chips are down.  They'll just bitch about it when I've crawled out of the hole.

IMPROBABILITY #9:  My wife's family.  These individuals welcomed me into their clubhouse over 25 years ago.  Recognized a fellow freak, I guess.  They continue to fill my life with acceptance, humor, and love.  Plus, they serve alcohol at Christmas dinner.

IMPROBABILITY #10:  The future.  I don't always think about the future as happy and fulfilling.  I'm a pretty pessimistic person a lot of the time.  However, in the past few weeks, as I've been struggling with my job and life situation, so many people have told me, "There's something better coming for you.  There is."  So, here's to something better.  Amen.

There you go.  I embraced goodness and hope this morning.  Don't worry.  Tomorrow, I'll be back to my old, cynical self tomorrow.

Today, however, Saint Marty is all about good improbabilities.

April 6: Phrase I've Heard A Lot, Mantra, "Something Better"

I've been thinking a lot about something betters.  That's a phrase I've heard a lot these last couple weeks.  A friend told me last night, "There's something better coming for you."

It has become my mantra, a phrase I repeat over and over to myself during the course of the day.  Something better.  Something better.  Something better.  I'm starting to believe it, but it's hard work.

So, say it with Saint Marty:  something better, something better, somethingbetter, somethingbettersomethingbettersomethingbettersomething . . .

Something Better

by:  Martin Achatz 

I want something better for my kids,
The way all parents want their offspring
To attend college, law or medical
School.  Do something extraordinary.
We scrub toilets, paint walls, deep-fry potatoes
For thirty or forty years, put everything
On hold until we're sure our daughters
Can study veterinary medicine, our sons
Learn to x-ray broken vertebrae, tibias,
Clavicles.  My uncle drove to the GM plant
For over thirty-five years before he received
His pension, then began to paint oil landscapes
Of places he’d dreamed about in rush hour
Traffic on I-75, places full of waves,
Evergreens the color of Chinese jade,
Places he knew he'd never see,
All so his daughter could study,
Become an engineer at Ford.
I don’t want my children to teach
College English part-time, work
Eleven-hour days in an office,
Scribble poems on napkins, lunch bags,
Margins of graded essays, dreaming
Always of a time when those words,
Cut and polished and set in lines of gold,
Will buy vacations to Stockholm or Rome,
Ballet lessons and birthday parties
In hot air balloons.  I want my kids
To know a life better than mine,
Even if it means I eat bologna
With cheese every day, pretending
My cut of lunchmeat is somehow
Superior to the one my father ate
At work for over fifty years.

April 4: Five to One Against, Last Day, I Did My Best

Zaphod Beeblebrox is anxious about having Arthur and Ford on board the Heart of Gold, the spaceship he has stolen . . .

Zaphod Beeblebrox paced nervously up and down the cabin, brushing his hands over pieces of gleaming equipment and giggling with excitement.

Trillian sat hunched over a clump of instruments, reading off figures.  Her voice was carried round the tannoy system of the whole ship.

"Five to one against and falling . . ."  She turned her microphone off--then turned it back on--with a slight smile and continued:  "Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem.  Please relax.  You will be sent for soon."

Zaphod burst out in annoyance, "Who are they, Trillian?"

Trillian spun her seat round to face him and shrugged.

"Just a couple of guys we seem to have picked up in open space," she said.  "Section ZZ, Plural Z.  Alpha."

"Yeah, well, that's a very sweet thought, Trillian," complained Zaphod, "but do you really think it's wise under the circumstances?  I mean, here we are on the run and everything, we must have the police of half the Galaxy after us by now, and we stop to pick up hitchhikers.  Okay, so ten out of ten for style, but minus sever million for good thinking, yeah?"  

Worked my last day at the medical office of the surgery center.  Probability of me returning to it at this point:  less than one and falling.  I tried to keep myself focused on work--registering patients, putting together patient charts, packing up my personal belongings at the end of my shift.

The busyness of the day was good.  It kept me from getting too nostalgic or sad.  I've been in this situation before.  About five years ago, I was forced to leave my job at the surgery center.  It had to do with the fact that my sister was the supervisor of the facility.  It was either her or me.  So I went to work in a cardiology office for a couple years.  Then my sister was diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain.  She died in August of 2015.  A little less than a year later, my old job became available.  I posted for it and was rehired.

That's how I came to this day--leaving the surgery center again, this time for good.  In a month or so, the place will no longer exist.

After work, I drove to the cemetery with my friend, Missy, and paid a visit to my sister.  As I was standing my her stone, I said, "Well, Sal, I kept it going as long as I could.  I did my best."  Then I started crying.  I pretty much cried all the way home.

I will say that it doesn't seem quite real at the moment.  Like next week, I'll be punching the time clock and opening up the surgery center office, like any other day.  I suppose that reality will set in soon.  One or two days of being at my new job.

Tonight, however, I'm going to lead a poetry workshop.  This will help with the sadness, I think.  And I'll be surrounded by some of my best friends.  

Chances of me crying again tonight:  even.

Saint Marty doesn't take sucker bets.

April 4: My Job, the Surgery Center, "History & Physical"

On the day I leave my job at the surgery center, I found this poem that I wrote some seven years ago.  Not sure if it's any good.

But Saint Marty's sister would have liked it . . .


History & Physical

Chief Complaint:  pelvic pain.

History of Present Illness:  pelvic pain for eight days, started at granddaughter's high school graduation when patient saw granddaughter in cap and gown, realized she looked exactly like patient's daughter who died three years ago of ovarian cancer on a December night, holding patient's hand, whispering about warm bread and raspberry jam.

Past Medical History:  pelvic pain, sense of emptiness, the way a dining room table seems empty when a child goes to school, finds a boyfriend/girlfriend, gets married, has children.

Past Surgical History:  tonsillectomy at age eight, Cesarean at 22, patient sometimes rubs C-section scar in middle of night until it burns under her touch, like an infant with an ear infection.

Social History:  lives in Michigan, winters in Florida, can't stand cold weather or snow any more, reminds her of things she's lost:  her father's buffalo nickel, sound of her mother's voice, smell of her daughter's just-washed hair.

Allergies:  aspirin, Tylenol, shellfish, grief.

Medications:  Coumadin to thin blood, avoid coagulation, clots, pulmonary embolisms that sit in your chest like forgotten love letters, waiting to be opened.

Physical Examination:

     HEENT:  Within normal limits (WNL).

     HEART:  Enlarged, empty, the Grand Canyon at midnight.

     LUNGS:  WNL

     ABDOMEN:  WNL

     EXTREMITIES:  WNL

     NEURO:  WNL

     OTHER:  WNL

Impression:  pelvic pain, phantom, incurable.

Plan:  discharge to home after observation, avoid winter ice, smell of baking rye bread, sound of school bells.