november 14th

There is a phone booth in the waiting room. She's inside the booth, apparently calling work to tell them she won't be coming in for a few days. Tears are streaming down her face as she sobs into the phone.

I keep asking her why she's crying. Maybe it's because I've been running around in my underwear and hiding in the bathroom. But she keeps saying, "It's nothing, don't worry about it dear."

But this whole situation just doesn't feel right.

Things haven't been great for me lately. My ankles are swollen, my joints hurt, I'd been missing school. The last doctor I saw put me on prescription Advil.

It didn't do so much.

So mom's been taking me all over the place. And now I'm in St. Louis. I'm not sure who these people are. I'm not sure what they want with me.

I've been running and hiding all day. In my underwear mostly. Despite the ankles and joints thing I'm a sprightly little kid and can care less if people know I wear Superman underwear.

I tried the bathroom. They found me. So I slipped under the stalls and through their legs.

There was a long hall. So I darted down the hall and into one of the rooms.

Bad move. They had me corned. There was no escaping. My mom asked, "What can I do?" The reply? "Grab him!"

The next thing I know I'm curled up on a table and things were going into my back. I hate them. I hate what they were doing. I can't for the life of me understand how or what I had done to deserve to be punished like this.

Art Tyler is my savior. He's there through the whole thing. He's really the only one that gets me. He listens, never argues and always wants to hang out no matter what I'm doing. And even on that table while I was curled up and screaming, he's here.

After the table, the rest is a blur of needles and nakedness. But nothing was blurry for my mom.

Life comes into sharp focus when you find out your seven year-old son has leukemia.

Three years. Too many drugs with too long of names to remember. Twice loosing hair. 3 blood transfusions. One trip to Disney World. Two summers at camp and facing pain and anguish far beyond what my classmates could comprehend, I emerged cancer free at age 10.


That was exactly 18 years ago today. And though I don't celebrate it as a big deal, it is a big deal. Today is the day I was given my life back. Today is almost more important to me than my birthday. Today is my Life Day.

Today, thank someone who helps children. Today, thank your parents for raising you and putting up with you. Today, thank the powers that be that you've been given another day to make this world just a little better for the next generation.

Today is Life Day.

p.s. Art Tyler is still around. He lives with us now on a chair (just his size) by the fireplace in the living room.

question #2

Question #1, about evolution, was a while back.

I had intended to change the blog to all questions. But I don't know that my readership is big enough to get enough comments to keep it interesting. And the readers I do have don't like to make comments.

Nonetheless, every night while I'm trying to fall asleep, my brain is filled with questions. Sometimes they're based in reality (like how can I get motivated to paint the living room) but they're of a hypothetical nature.

So here goes. This was on my mind last night:

You get the chance to pick your dreams every night before you fall asleep. Right down to the last detail. Would you do it?

What if you weren't allowed to remember them the next day?

comment away.

paper clips

My blog has officially been compared to paper-clips: sometimes useful but not very interesting.

Ouch.

In person, I'm usually compared to the drunk uncle at Thanksgiving who you keep a close eye on just to see what very inappropriate thing he'll say next.

In person I've got an audience who reacts. I can play off them. I can read the room. If I see a lady at the table wearing a big cross, I'm probably going to leave the alter-boy/priest jokes at the door. If they look like a hippie, I probably won't talk about PETA. That is, People Eating Tasty Animals.

But you folks are inordinately quiet out there. Except for a couple of you anonymous Hebron Ground guys. (you do know that there is an "other" option where you can put your name, right?)

While I'm on the subject of Hebron Ground, let me just mention that you inspired me to write a whole post on the subject of all things Hebron. Be sure to let me know if there's anything I should not forget to include. It'll take a couple days though. I need to scan some pictures.

So I'm assuming that if there's some Wartburg guys reading, it must mean there's some sports fans reading out there.

OK, I'll admit, if it weren't for Chad Feldmann and his patient explanations(thanks Chad) I still wouldn't have a clue what I was seeing when I looked at a football game. At least now, I can feign interest when I have to go to the H.S. football games to watch my step-daughter march at half-time.

If it weren't for Vic, I'd still throw a baseball like a girl (Thanks Vic). Now I don't look completely sissified when joining the kids on the playground for a game of catch at recess. Sidenote: I still have that ball that Vic taught me to throw with.

In H.S., Jacquelyn tried to give me tips on tennis. I thought it would be like a big game of ping-pong. Oh, was I wrong. It didn't help I was using a racquet I'd bought at garage sale for $1.00. But it looked like a cool retro racquet and I still have it to this day. But now it's decoration. I'm trying to make my basement look like Applebee's. All I need is a H.S. football team that's just suffered a difficult loss show up, hang a picture of the heroic, retiring coach on the wall and stick around and find solice in a family size portion of turkey-jalapeno-fun-time-popper wings w/ bacon. (you'll only get that if you've seen the commercial)

I actually attempted to play basketball in J.H. To this day, I don't know what made me want to do it. I played out the season, but I was so ashamed of my chunky legs, I never wore the shorts. I always had on my sweatpants, sweatshirt and headband. I'm also sorry to report that all pictures from that time were destroyed in a tragic scissors accident.

The Hart household was not one of sports. And certainly not of sportsmanship. Anytime we played games, my dad had to win. No matter what, he won. I'm not sure if he just needed to feel better about himself, or if he really wanted to make sure we knew we were losers.

Otherwise, I'm apathetic towards sports . I don't love them. I don't hate them.

One thing I don't get, however, is the fuss over college sports. Entire magazines are devoted to the stuff. Whole radio stations and TV stations are tuned into it. Men (and the occasional lesbian) spend hours discussing it.

At night the radio is turned to an A.M. talk channel that changes to sports every morning. It's either that channel or the christian channel that changes to talk of the market prices for hogs and heifers in the morning.

These guys on the radio get worked up and even ARGUE over COLLEGE KIDS!! Seriously, these guys are going to have college careers of *maybe* two years. How, then, can you predict a season when the team changes every year?

At least professionals have teams that stay semi-coherent for more than a couple years. And if they pick up new players, they usually come from other teams and have a record.

So, guys, explain to me (especially you Wartburg folk who don't really have a alma-mater to cheer for on Saturday afternoon ESPN) why's college ball so big?? Why the fuss?

There. You've been given an assignment. I expect it to be turned in by Monday.

Extra credit if you can explain why guys wear jock-straps at the YMCA. Is it because your butt can't stand being confined?

please don't touch me there

It simply baffles me at times how in the world humans ever make relationships work.

Unless you're working with a matching agency or some online dating service that gives you hours and hours worth of personality profiles to fill out, it's really just a shot in the dark.

Sure, there's always that first spark of interest. But what REALLY tells you that you're compatible?

When it comes down to the nitty-gritty of everyday life, some little thing that you've never thought that much about suddenly becomes annoying after 5 years of being around it. Those little things that no one ever talks about that, in the course of any long-term relationship, (and I include friendship in this) will eventually pop-up.

Most of us know ourselves well enough to know what we like and dislike. But the majority of our likes and dislikes matter little when first getting to know someone. They're just irrelevant. Does it matter that you have to put your right shoe on first? Not really. Will it make a difference if you always take out the left contact first? I don't think so. Does it impact the greater world that you have to have your coffee at 130 degrees? Well, except for the poor coffee shop guy who hasn't learned to read a thermometer, no.

There are certain things, though, I've found that really should be upfront.

Growing up with an older brother and sister meant I was routinely subjected to tickle torture of all sorts and sizes. Jim and Denise knew my sides and my feet were my weakest areas. I'd be laughing so hard I couldn't breathe and would BEG them to stop. Of course that only made them want to do it more.

There's a reason my sister's screennames have included "evil" and "sick puppy."

Over the years I've tried to NOT be ticklish. Sometimes just telling a person, "sorry, not ticklish" and hoping they aim for an area where I'm not ticklish does the trick. Why tickle when you're not going to get a rise out of someone? My sides aren't as ticklish anymore. I've left a couple layers of fat in those areas just hoping the padding will dull the pain.

In college, it became crystal clear that I'm not a "touchy" kind of person. I get jumpy when people are touching me. Especially if it's by surprise.

My friend Jill discovered this pretty quick. If you're going to hug me, you have to warn me. Just something as simple as, "come 'ere and give me a hug" will suffice. She learned that even the hand-on-the-shoulder move had to be prefaced with a disclaimer letting me know that another hand was about to touch me: "such strong shoulders." (I was working out at the time, so I bought it.)

Poking my side just drives me batty. Even with fair warning.

My strangest "never touch" areas are my belly button and the dimple under my Adam's apple.

I HATE it when people, anyone/anytime, touch those areas.

It especially drives me nuts when I repeatedly ask someone to stop touching me there (of course in a light-hearted and jovial manner) and they keep doing it.

I suppose it all stems from growing up a very closeted kid. I never knew what was appropriate touch and what wasn't, so I didn't touch at all.

To this day, I don't touch other people, for fear it would be mis-interpreted.

And, as luck would have it, my lack of touching has been misinterpreted as not caring and not interested. Mostly by women, who are the touchiest-feeliest lot of them all. Seriously, you don't have to touch my leg to let me know that you're enjoying the conversation.

And for the straight guys, you don't have to grab and yank on my nipples to let me know that you think I'm alright.

Nipples? Off-limits in public or outside of intimacy.

By the way, is there a class I missed somewhere in J.H. or H.S.? How is it that so many guys have such perfect aim for nipples? Even under 5 layers of clothes, one swift move and my poor tic-tacs are throbbing. How the hell?

I've gotten better about other people touching me. I've gotten used to spontaneous hugs from kindergartners and first graders. And even the occasional adult touching me on the shoulder or leg.

But for god's sake, please leave my nipples be.