November 16: Another Orphan, Work Fate, Root Canal

. . . On the second day, a sail drew near, and picked me up at last.  It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.

Yes, these are the last two sentences of Moby-Dick.  Ishmael, adrift at sea after the sinking of the Pequod, being saved by the crew of the Rachel.  It doesn't feel like a victory.  The ending of the book is too littered with death and loss for any kind of happy ending.

Welcome to Friday.  The end of the week.  In some ways, it sort of feels like the conclusion of Moby-Dick.  I have had a strange day of disappointment, pain, and numbness.

Today was the day I was supposed to find out whether I will have a job come January 1, 2019.  The powers-that-be who own the outpatient surgery center where I work were supposed to reveal their decision some time during these 24 hours.  I checked my e-mail this morning.  Nothing.  I texted my boss, asking her if she had heard anything.  She told me that she would personally call me if she found out.  I have waited all day for my phone to ring.  Nothing.  It is now almost 6 p.m.  I have a feeling that no news is coming this weekend.

This afternoon, I had a root canal.  I sat for about an hour-and-a-half in my dentist's chair being needled, drilled, drained, ground down, and filled up.  I left the dental office numb and feeling like my nostril was collapsing on my face, which was a little disconcerting.  Got home and had a roaring headache, so I went to bed for a couple hours.

My face has come back to life, so I now don't feel as though my nostril is trying to suffocate me.  And I have resigned myself to the fact that I am not going to know my fate at work this weekend.  I will have to live in a state of negative capability, accepting my uncertainty for the time being.

Tonight, I plan to go out to dinner with my family.  I will have a couple drinks.  Order a burger and waffle fries.  Try to laugh and enjoy myself and the people I love.  Perhaps God is trying to teach me something.  Patience?  Acceptance?  Faith?  Doubt?  Fear?  I don't know.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for possibility and hope.

June 6: Polyphemus Moth, Root Canal, Bookstore

I have no intention of inflicting all my childhood memories on anyone.  Far less do I want to excoriate my old teachers who, in their bungling, unforgettable way, exposed me to the natural world, a world covered in chitin, where implacable realities hold sway.  The Polyphemus moth never made it to the past; it crawls in that crowded, pellucid pool at the lip of the great waterfall.  It is as present as this blue desk and brazen lamp, as this blackened window before me in which I can no longer see even the white string that binds the egg case to the hedge, but only my own pale, astonished face.

Dillard doesn't want to talk about her childhood.  Her agenda is not to uncover all of the mistakes and hurts of the past.  Rather, she wants to be present to the present, fully engaging in the world around her.  That means paying attention to things like an egg case of a Polyphemus moth hanging on a hedge outside her window.  Of course, she does go on to tell the story of another moth cocoon her friend brought to school when Dillard was eleven years old.  Can't always escape the past.  It returns, reverberates, creates meaning in the present.

This morning, I had a root canal.  Now, before my two Constant Readers start reeling in empathetic pain and anxiety, let me say that it wasn't too bad.  Dentists and dental procedures have never bothered me.  Sure, there was a little pain involved, tiny white-hot jolts that quickly evaporated, but, overall, it was like sitting in a recliner for an hour-and-a-half, listening to the Today show on the TV hovering above me.

The root canal is not the story, though.  The story is my walk to the building where the dentist office was.  It was early, a little past 7 a.m., in downtown Marquette.  There wasn't a whole lot of traffic and very few pedestrians.  I used to work at a bookstore in the downtown area over twenty years ago, so I frequently made this walk in the past.

It was overcast, and rain looked like it was rolling in off Lake Superior.  The lake itself was the color of wet cement.  As I came out of the parking structure onto Washington Street, I passed the bookstore where I used to work.  It was dark inside.  The windows were full of the latest bestsellers, advertisements for specialty tobacco, and Minecraft plush toys.  I stopped and peered inside.

You see, my friend, Lee, who died this past weekend, had been the manager of this bookstore for many years.  In fact, the last time I saw him was when I was shopping for a birthday present in the store.  As always, he greeted me with a huge hug.  Nothing had changed.

During my period of employment, I was in charge of organizing the porn section of the magazines.  I used to laugh at the different titles.  Hairy Heiny.  Big Butt.  Latin Inches.  T&A.  I could go on.  Porn took up two full sections of the magazine wall.  Nobody else wanted the job, so I took it.

During my last visit, I joked with Lee about the state of the porn.  I always organized the section by fetish.  Butt fetish.  Breast fetish.  Foot fetish.  Age fetish.  Asian fetish.  You get the idea.  I told Lee he needed to hire me for a day to put the porn into some semblance of order.  Lee laughed like he always did--deep and loud and long.

That's what I thought about on my way to the dentist this morning.  Books.  Porn.  My friend, Lee.  When I got to my appointment, I was still smiling.

Saint Marty had a good root canal.

June 5: First Run, June 5 Posts, Classic Saint Marty

I went for my first run of the summer this afternoon.  Yes, it was rainy and cold.  Okay, I ran for less than a mile.  And when I was done, I collapsed on my living room floor, gasping like an asthmatic 90-year-old.

Despite all of that, I am really happy I was able to run.  You see, I haven't bought a new pair of running shoes for about two years.  In fact, it was two years ago this week that I purchased my last pair of Hurricanes (my shoe of choice).  I have been wearing those shoes every day for the past 730 days.  There are holes in them now, and their cushion is flat as a Finnish pancake. 

After church this morning, my wife surprised me.  We drove to the local sporting shoe store, and I purchased a brand new pair of neon green Hurricanes.  My feet felt like they were floating when I walked out of the place.  And, while my lungs weren't cooperative, my feet could have kept going for another ten miles.

I am tired, but it's a good tired.  After a weekend of sadness, it was a good way to focus my energy on something positive.  Constructive.  Tomorrow morning, I will be getting a root canal at 7:30.  No, that is not some metaphor for starting my new job or taking my car to the mechanic.  I'm actually having a root canal.  And then, after the root canal, I will be going to my new job.

Looking back over past posts, I've noticed a trend in my June 5 posts:  they all deal with worry and loss.  As you can see, I went back four years for today's episode of Classic Saint Marty.  Four years ago, I was neurotically obsessed with a catalogue of concerns--mental illness, jobs, bills, car issues.

Some things never change . . .

June 5, 2012:  Mind Flew Back, Over and Over and Over, Disquiet

Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it.  The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought.  Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly.  Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dream or not?"

Scrooge is stuck in the limbo of the spirit world.  He wakes up after the visit from Jacob Marley's ghost, and he's not sure what's going on.  The world is dark when it should be light.  The clock strikes midnight when it should be noon.  Scrooge finds himself in a position of disquiet, mind racing, thinking and thinking and thinking, over and over and over.

It's a pretty good description of the kind of mania that comes with mental illness.  The obsessive thoughts.  The displaced reality.  I've seen this state in my wife more than once.  However, Scrooge's disquiet is not really due to mental illness.  (At least, I've never interpreted A Christmas Carol in that light.  However, Scrooge does have visions of spirits that could be psychotic hallucinations.  He does have an altered sense of time.  At the end of the book, his frenetic state of joy could definitely be attributed to a hypomanic bipolar episode.  Hmmmmmm.)  Scrooge's disquiet is due to fear.  He's afraid of the upcoming appearance of the Ghost of Christmas Past.  He's afraid of the possibility that he should "retire to Bedlam," as he says earlier.  (Bedlam is short for "Bethlem Royal Hospital," which was a London hospital that was first to specialize in treating mental illnesses.)  And I think he's afraid of the prospect of change, for that's what Jacob Marley wants him to do:  change his ways.

I could go with any of the above explanations for Scrooge's disquiet.  I, myself, have experienced the kind of racing thoughts described by Dickens in the above paragraph.  It's not fun.  Usually, I fall into that pattern of thought when I'm worried or anxious about something:  job, bills, money, the past, the present, the future, a mole on my calf, my weight, my house, my attic, my garage, the clunk in my car engine.  That's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.  I could go on, but that would take way too much time.  You get the idea.

My point is that Scrooge can't change a thing that's going to happen to him.  The ghosts are going to show up.  Jacob Marley is pretty clear about this fact.  The only thing Scrooge has any power over is his reaction to the ghosts.  He could cower under his bed or soil himself, which would be my reaction to random spirits appearing at my bedside in the middle of the night.  Or he could roll with the punches and go for some ghostly strolls and obtain some ghostly wisdom.  Scrooge chooses the latter.

I can't change most of the things on my list of worries.  Sure, I could go on a diet.  Clean my garage or attic.  Take my car to a mechanic.  None of those things will really alleviate my worries.  I'll just be thinner with anxiety.  I'll have an attic or garage to have a breakdown in.  I'll have a car to drive to my therapy appointments.  But I'll still have worries. 

Worry is about control.  I'm a control freak.  (I'm also a chocolate freak, book freak, poetry freak, and movie freak, since I'm making a confession.)  Control means happiness, at least in my book.  Of course, a lot of people would argue this point with me, including my therapist and pastor.  Scrooge's miserly ways are all about control, as well.  He was pretty wounded as a young person.  Abandoned by his father.  He doesn't want to be wounded again, so he pushes people away and collects wealth to protect himself.  Of course, all he's done is create the illusion of control.  Jacob Marley tears away that illusion.  But I'm OK with the illusion of control.  It calms me down, makes me feel safe and secure, like a warm blankie.  Marley can stay away from my skewed view of reality.

As long as Saint Marty has the illusion of control, he can sleep well.

My feet are in love . . .

January 23: My Sister's Life, Wilbur's Life, Charlotte's Trick

This morning, I found out that my sister in Utah is very ill.  She went to the hospital yesterday because she was experiencing back and chest pain.  The doctors admitted her and discovered she has sepsis.  It seems my sister had a root canal in 2007, and she's had an infection ever since.  My sister just chose to ignore it.  Now, she has a life-threatening condition.

I haven't been close to my sister in Utah for a long time.  It's complicated.  When she told us that she was moving out west with her family, I was almost relieved.  I'm a little ashamed to admit that.  But my life has been a lot less difficult since her departure.  Since I found out about her illness, I've been struggling with an incredible sense of guilt.

The doctors did an echocardiogram to find out if the infection has damaged her heart valves.  And she has to talk to a facial surgeon because her jawbone is infected, as well.  It's serious.  She is in need of a Charlotte-sized miracle.

At one point in Charlotte's Web, Charlotte calls a meeting of all the animals in the barn.  She needs their help to think of a new word to weave into her web:

"...Zuckerman thinks Wilbur is an unusual pig, and therefore he won't want to kill him and eat him.  I dare say my trick will work and Wilbur's life can be saved."

Charlotte knows she can't save Wilbur by herself.  She needs the help of the geese and the sheep and the cows.  She even needs the help of Templeton, the rat.


My sister needs a lot of help right now.  From doctors and nurses and surgeons and specialists.  And she needs good thoughts and prayers.  I know, in the last ten years or so, I haven't had a lot of good thoughts for my sister.  As I said before, it's complicated.  So I'm asking all the readers of this blog for lots of positive energy.  If you are a praying person, please say a quick prayer for her, because I'm not so sure how effective my prayers are going to be.  Complicated.

That's a piece of Saint Marty's mind tonight.  Please, God, watch over Saint Marty's sister.

Help me out, folks