June 17: Bad News, Spiral, Magic 8-Ball

I received some bad news at work today.  It seems the health care system which recently acquired the hospital where I work has sent down an edict that no clerical staff are allowed to work overtime any more.  That means that the overtime money that usually helps my family make it through the summer has suddenly gone the way of the passenger pigeon.

Here I sit in my office at the university.  I had to leave my other job because I'd already worked too many hours.  I'm in a downward spiral at the moment, imagining everything from bankruptcy to foreclosure.  In one of my fantasies, an asteroid hit the hospital and took out the entire administration building.  That was actually quite pleasant.

I don't know what I'm going to do.  I don't know if or how my family is going to survive until the checks from the university start coming again in late August.  Basically, I don't know anything.  It has been a pretty crappy few days for bad news.

My question for Magic 8-Ball Monday is pretty simple:

Is my family going to make it through the summer financially?

And the answer from that wellspring of positivity, Holden Caulfield, is:

"She's fine, thanks.  I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"

I'm going to take that one to the bank.  Too bad I can't cash it.  I'm going to be "fine," according to Holden.  Of course, "fine" for Holden is a nervous breakdown and pneumonia.


Saint Marty needs to stop spiraling.  Now.

Anybody got a spare parachute?

March 23: Pneumonia, Anne Lamott, "Help, Thanks, Wow," New Cartoon

Finally, I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark.  Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice.  That worried me.  I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die...

Near the end of The Catcher in the Rye, Holden gets pretty sick.  He's been wandering around New York City in December, drinking quite a bit.  By the time he gets to the carrousel with Phoebe, he's pretty much at rock bottom, physically and mentally.


My daughter has been ill since Wednesday.  Low fever.  Tired all the time.  She missed school Thursday and Friday, including the school dance.  I know she's not feeling well.  It's Saturday, and she's too sick to go to her dance lesson.  In about twenty minutes, I have to take her to a doctor's appointment.  My sisters, the daughters of doom, think she has mono.  I do know there is a kid in my four-year-old son's class who has chicken pox.  Two of the symptoms of chicken pox--low grade fever, lethargy.  My daughter isn't covered in red spots.  Yet.

Writer Anne Lamott recently released a book titled Help, Thanks, Wow:  the Three Essential Prayers.  In the Prelude to the book, she says,

I do not know much about God and prayer, but I have come to believe, over the past twenty-five years, that there's something to be said about keeping prayer simple.

Help.  Thanks.  Wow.

Basically, she says that all prayer boils down to these three principles.  First, help.  That's when you reach the end of your rope and don't have any where to turn.  You raise your eyes to God and say, "Help me, God.  Help me, help me, help me."  Second, thanks.  That's when something good happens to you, whether it's expected or unexpected.  Then, you breathe a sigh of relief and say, "Thanks, God, for the toast I had for breakfast" or "Thanks, God, my kid doesn't have chicken pox."  Last, there's wow.  That's when you're totally in awe of something God has done.  You kind of sit back, shake your head with a little smile, and say, "Wow, God, that snowstorm was incredible" or "Wow, that pizza was really good."  Prayer is that simple, Lamott says.  That easy.


At the end of her book, Lamott writes,

More than anything, prayer helps me get my sense of humor back.  It brings me back to my heart, from the treacherous swamp of my mind.  It brings me back to the now, to the holy moment, whether that means watching candles float on the Ganges or bending down in my front yard to study a lavish dandelion, delicate as a Spirograph drawing, that looks like its very own galaxy.  Amen, amen, amen!

Saint Marty is going to the doctor this morning with "help" in his heart.  He hopes he can quickly progress to "thanks" and "wow."  And then amen.

Confessions of Saint Marty

January 31: Pneumonia, Old Phoebe, Blessed by People

I started thinking how old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia and died.  It was a childish way to think, but I couldn't stop myself.  She'd feel pretty bad if something like that happened.  She likes me a lot.  I mean she's quite fond of me.  She really is.  Anyway, I couldn't get that off my mind, so finally what I figured I'd do, I figured I'd better sneak home and see her, in case I died and all.  I had my door key with me and all, and I figured what I'd do, I'd sneak in the apartment, very quiet and all, and just sort of chew the fat with her for a while.  The only thing that worried me was our front door.  I creaks like a bastard.  It's a pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent's a lazy bastard, and everything creaks and squeaks.  I was afraid my parents might hear me sneaking in.  But I decided I'd try it anyhow.

Holden has been talking about his kid sister Phoebe almost since the beginning of the novel.  In fact, the only time Holden is happy or at peace is when he's thinking about her.  At this point in the novel, he's almost at rock bottom.  He's cold.  He's almost broke.  He's drunk.  He's friendless.  He's sitting by the lagoon in Central Park, imagining his death.  It's a dark moment.  And yet, in this darkness, Holden finds a little light.  In Phoebe.

It's another cold, snowy day in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Except for the university, all of the schools in the area have shut down.  The temperatures have been steadily falling.  It has been a week for hunkering down indoors under blankets.  However, after two or three days, kids don't want to hunker anymore.  They want to get out.

My wife just took my son to Burger King so that he could expend some of his four-year-old energy, of which he has a huge supply.  He spent a couple of hours climbing and running and eating fries.  Sometimes, I get a little jealous of my wife's ability to do things like that in the middle of the day with our children.  I mostly see my son and daughter at night, when bedtime is looming.  I'm the bad guy.  I give my son his bath and nag my daughter about her homework.  I make lunches and pick out clothes.  I don't generally have time simply to play with them.

My wife and  son are on their way home now.  They stopped by the Medical Center to drop off a Diet Coke for me.  As I was walking away from the car, my wife started beeping her horn.  I walked back to the vehicle.  My wife rolled down my son's window.

My son smiled up at me and said, "I see you at home, Daddy."

I leaned in and gave him a kiss.  "I love you, buddy."

"Me, too," he said.

I watched the car pull away from the building, into the afternoon wind and snow.

It was a Phoebe moment for me.  A light in the middle of a dreary day.  A blessing.

Saint Marty is a lucky guy.

Having a Phoebe blessing