Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Sunday, December 09, 2007 All I want for Christmas
Remember the Brady Bunch episode where Carol loses her voice and can’t sing at the Christmas Eve service at church and Cindy asks Santa to bring Mommy’s voice back for Christmas?
Awwww. Cute little blond girl with wide eyed innocence and a lisp.
Okay. So I’m not cute or blond or innocently wide-eyed and I don’t even have a lisp. Can’t even fake one.
So Santa probably won’t grant my wish.
But.
In “A Very Special Episode” fashion I have a tear jerking request:
All I want for Christmas is my dad. Even if we only get one more Christmas, I want at least that one more Christmas with my dad.
You know cancer?
Yeah. Well. It’s mean. It sucks. It’s a mighty hunter and it stalks its prey with cunning and deviousness unrivaled. It takes delight in bringing down and victimizing the biggest, strongest and most life loving targets it can find. It’s Goliath and David is yet to bring down the treacherous giant.
First my cat, a big strong, healthy, youthful animal so full of lust for life his excitement and zeal was contagious. Fine, fit and feeling great one day, down for the count with cancer a week later. Just two months prior he’d passed his yearly exam with flying colors. “Trill, your boy is strong and healthy. Like an overgrown kitten. Blood and urine tests are fine. Keep doing whatever you’re doing and we’ll see you next year.” And then blam! a three foot long, 21” tall, 20 pound robust cat faded to a four pound, weak patient who desperately wanted to play with a toy and bat and toss it around in one of his rambunctious games but was too weak to do anything more than gently pat it and nudge it a nanometer toward me. That was not an animal ready to die. That was an animal with a lot of life in him. That was an animal who wanted to live and play. But. He died an hour later.
Cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
Now my dad.
Big. Strong. Healthy. Youthful. Robust. Lust for life. Finally learning how to really enjoy retirement.
Cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
The doctors keep saying how “lucky” he is. It’s a rapid spreading cancer but it was caught early. An immediate surgery removed two tumors. That was supposed to be the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
"Lucky" is not catching it early. "Lucky" is not getting cancer at all.
Because it won’t stop with just a couple of tumors. Caught early. Are you kidding? This is cancer we’re talking about here. And my dad is big and strong and healthy and robust as they come and cancer just loves to make a mockery of that type of person. Cancer loves that kind of challenge.
Cancer is like a deer hunter. Sure, the herd is overpopulated and Darwinism might need a little humane help, but deer hunters don’t seek out the sick, elderly and the deer who are otherwise putting the herd in peril. Deer hunters are not mercy killers. They go for the biggest, strongest and smartest of the herd. The ones the herd really needs. The ones the herd relies on to guide and help the herd. Those are the deer the deer hunters stalk and take special pride in killing. They're not mercy hunters. They're not helping Darwinism.
Neither is cancer.
Cancer’s the same way. Cancer rubs it’s hands maniacally together and says in a Jack Nicholson scary voice, “Big? Strong? Robust? Healthy? Enjoying life? Well, we’ll just see about that. The hunt is on and I always bag my prey.”
My parent’s pastor told me God gives us cancer to teach us about strength, humility and compassion.
Oh.
I see.
So God thinks my dad is weak, arrogant and apathetic and cancer is going to teach him a thing or two.
Great.
Thanks God.
Chalk up another lost soul.
I was trying, really, really trying to find some kind of spiritual enlightenment. I was really, really trying to understand. To let go and let God. Or, well, okay, at least let go and keep and open mind.
And then cancer.
Mean, sucky, devious cancer.
Yep. Cancer, and perhaps God via cancer, is teaching me some lessons.
Lessons in cruelty, fear, irony, injustice and heartache.
What’s all this I hear about a fair and forgiving God? What’s fair and forgiving about cancer?
My dad’s never hurt anyone, ever. Even in the Marines he was the one who used brain over might, the level, calm head of his unit. Never killed anyone, never hurt anyone, used his military power to help people. Every year, every year he uses his Marine background and connections to spearhead the local Toys for Tots and veterans charity initiatives. Marine tough? Yeah. I guess. But Marine fair, too. Marine compassionate, too. Marine truth and justice., Standing up and helping anyone who needs help, no questions asked and here’s the best part: Never bragging about it, never telling anyone he does it. Just quietly organizing and doing the work necessary to make sure kids have a good holiday and vets are taken care of with anything they need. I’m actually blowing his cover by going public about what he does. He’d be mad and embarrassed if he knew I told anyone about all the good deeds he does and has always done. His motives are not selfish. He doesn't help other people for his benefit. He does it because he is a sincere truly kind and helpful person.
My dad had a good but hard childhood. He was the youngest of five kids and an infant immigrant. His parents had almost nothing except a hand drawn map to Minnesota when they arrived in America. My dad grew up without extras. There was a small farm, a little food, hand-me-down clothes and shoes and a school two miles down the road. There were times his family got by only because of the charity and friendship of their neighbors and a few relatives in their adopted hometown. If you know anything about Minnesota you know that Winters are cold and snowy. My dad had perfect attendance throughout his entire school career. Yes. He really did walk two miles in snow up to his waist to get to school.
He’ll never tell you that, either. He’s not embarrassed or proud of it. He just doesn’t think about it. He accepted it, then and now. That was life. School mattered so you went. No matter what. End of story. Nothing to discuss.
He embodies most of the Marine traits. All of the good ones. And only a few of the Jarhead traits. He’s not a big, brutish killing machine. He once told me the only thing he hated about the Marines were the guns. Not the food. Not the discipline. Not the rigorous training. Not the harsh conditions. Not the rigidity to rules. Not the unwavering bravery and devotion.
The guns. He’s never held a gun since and doesn’t like to be anywhere near them. He’s not afraid of them, he’s not afraid of their power. He’s stronger than the temptation of a gun. But he doesn’t like them. He doesn’t like what they do to other people. He doesn’t like the sense of power they give to mindless people who have no business being anywhere near a firearm.
But he let my brother have a BB gun. Interestingly enough the novelty of shooting cans and bottles wore off on my brother in a few weeks and the BB gun was then disassembled, studied as an engineering lesson in design and discarded piece by piece. One week at a time my dad put a piece in the garbage instead of all at once so no one could put it back together. He wasn’t taking any chances. Not even with a BB gun. End of story. Nothing to discuss.
Don’t get me wrong. My dad is no Leave it to Beaver dad. My dad actually gets mad and yells. When he shakes his fist heavenward and lets loose a tirade my brother and I say he's imploring the wrath of Thor. Now that we're adults and sometimes have the nerve (and stupidity) to say that out loud my dad will usually, eventually, start laughing. Especially if my brother starts pontificating about golden hammers and smiting and the Viking dynasty rising again. But I'm glad my dad occasionally loses his temper. It keeps him real. And I learned some really great curses thanks to my dad. I feel confident I could hold my own in a drunken back room poker game with a bunch of Jarheads thanks to my dad. But he never uses the f-word. He never disrespects female anatomy. He never brings God or Jesus into it. He'll damn things to places I don't think actually exist, but he always leaves God, Jesus, sex and the female anatomy out of it.
My dad worked for the same company for 45 years. And it wasn’t his first job. He worked well past retirement “age” because he loved it. He loved the company, he believed in it and he worked hard for the company because he wanted to work hard for the company. He loved it. He loves working. Retirement hasn’t been easy for him. But since my mother’s illness he has really gotten into being retired. He’s embraced it with enthusiasm. He’s devoting his former career energy to all the volunteer groups he loves. He’s always helped, always been a go-to guy, but now, now he’s THE guy.
Charity is important to my parents. My dad, especially, knows firsthand what it’s like to go without anything but the basics. He remembers the neighbors and family who helped out his family. You help people. It’s just what you do. No matter what. End of story. Nothing to discuss.
Thanksgiving and Christmas in particular are really important to my dad. He loves those holidays. He loves the whole family together and sharing with community aspects. My dad cannot bear the thought of anyone having a bad or lonely or poor or sad Christmas. He just cannot stand it. So he kicks his charity and volunteer work into turbo mode during the holiday season. When we were kids every year my parents helped organize the charity drive. When it came time to deliver the food and other donated items to the families in need, they didn’t spare us kids the cruelty of poverty. We helped deliver the goods. We put on our party manners and happy faces and went into homes in the “bad” parts of towns not like ours. Sometimes they didn’t have heat. Once there was a family who had no electricity. They were burning candles and the mother said they were using candles to get in the spirit of Christmas. My parents knew they didn’t have electricity but went along with the “spirit of Christmas” story. When we left my dad took the impoverished dad aside, got the details of the electric bill and paid the family’s bill for them.
I didn’t know about that until a few years ago. My mother told me one afternoon when she was in the hospital. “Don’t tell your dad I told you this…” She also told me for four years he took huge bags of dog food to another family who couldn’t afford to feed their family pet. He made sure the dog got to the vet every year. She said he cried for days when the dog had to be put to sleep. Not so much because of the passing of the dog, but because the poor kids in that family had no father, few toys and very little fun except for that dog.
But God thinks my dad needs to learn lessons in strength, humility and compassion.
So he’s got cancer.
That’ll teach him.
And me.
And my mother.
And everyone, the hundreds or thousands of people he’s helped in his lifetime, and the people who rely on his charity now, will learn, too. Make an example of him, hold him up to the world and say, “If you don’t behave, this is what I’ll do to you. And it won’t be quick and it won’t be painless. And in a poignant twist of irony, he shall be struck down during his favorite and most charitable time of year.”
He has another surgery the week before Christmas. A potentially very difficult surgery. With a very long and difficult recovery. There’s a good chance he’ll spend Christmas in the hospital.
This is heartbreaking for my dad. He loves Christmas. No matter what he always makes sure everyone, family, friends, strangers, everyone has a good Christmas. He’s a Marine on a mission when it comes to making Christmas. I took my dad to see Nightmare Before Christmas. He didn't believe me when I told him it was a sweet story about a guy with a big heart, a lot of holiday zeal but some basic misunderstandings of his place in the holiday world. You know when Jack gets shot down in flames and suddenly realizes in his effort to do the right thing he totally messed up Christmas for, well, the world? I looked over at my dad and his eyes were watery.
That was several years ago. Ever since he tells everyone what a great story it is and gives the DVD to people. This got him in a little hot water at church. Every now and then my dad fills in for the older kids' sunday school teacher. A few years ago during the holiday season he showed Nightmare Before Christmas to the kids. All of the kids said they'd already seen the movie. So throughout the viewing of the movie my dad made some good analogies to some bible stories and brought up lessons about pride, being true to yourself, good v. bad, David, Goliath and a false idol or too. The kids loved it. But one of the more fundamental parents was outraged that such "blasphemy" would be shown in a sunday school class. She would have preferred the 10-year-olds make creches out of popsicle sticks, tin foil and macaroni. Because of course 10-year-olds are not savvy enough to understand allegory and metaphor. And because of course 10-year-olds are innocent little angels who have never been exposed to anything as weird and maniacal as Nightmare Before Christmas. And popsicle stick, tin foil and macaroni creches offer a wealth of religious education. The ridiculous allegations and the lines drawn in the sand of the church were insane. Most people, parents included, sided with my dad. But the pastor has an entire fellowship to consider. So my dad was banned from substitute teaching Sunday school. The bruhaha finally blew over but my dad, like Jack upon realizing the error of his zeal and his lack of judgment, has never really gotten over it. He loves that movie and finds it to be a brilliant story with loads of good lessons and some snappy songs, to boot.
My dad is mad. Not at cancer, not at the doctors, not at their church, but because this is smack in the middle of his busy season. He’s mad at the timing. He's got to make Christmas. Kids are counting on Toys for Tots. Vets are counting on warm meals and care packages of warm clothes. And my dad is mad because he’s letting them down. He’s worried someone will be overlooked or forgotten. My dad doesn’t just stick to a list provided by an agency or social worker. My dad sniffs out those in need (which right now, on the East side of Michigan, is not difficult to do) and quietly helps them out when no one’s looking. He’s mad that someone won’t get the little help they need.
But I’m mad at cancer.
If this surgery is unsuccessful, or more or different cancer is discovered in the process, this could be my dad’s last Christmas.
And there’s a very real possibility he’ll spend it in a hospital.
My dad will tell you about his wife and his kids and his grandkids. He’ll bore the socks off you with our feats of skill, merit and virtue beyond compare. I’ve never once questioned if my dad loves me. If he wanted to have me. If I matter to him. It’s not just paternal love and care. It’s more than that. He seems to really like me. And my sister and my brother and the grandkids. We’re all very different but he seems to actually like all of us. He wants to be with us. He’s never happier than when we’re all together. Especially at Christmas.
And yet I’m supposed to find comfort in some lame excuse of a “master plan” that God is teaching him, or me a lesson or two? A lesson in what? Irony? I passed that class at the AP level a very long time ago. A lesson in building character? Ditto. A lesson in patience? Huh? The man is no spring rooster. Why worry about patience now and for crying out loud, why teach him so cruelly?
“Good morning Father of Trillian, We up here at God, Inc. heard you like Christmas. Well good for you, Jesus is the Son of God, you know. Always looks good in your file if you like Christmas. But here’s the thing. We think you need to learn a few lessons. So We’re not going to let you have Christmas at home with your family. Why? Because We know it’s the one thing you look forward to every year. Because We know you can’t sleep for days before the 25th because you’re so excited for everyone to have their presents and treats. We know you really understand the spirit of Christmas and have spent your life devoted to making sure those less fortunate have a good Christmas. But nonetheless, there are lessons to be learned and so you will lay in that hospital bed and you will think about your life and your disease and you will learn lessons, mister. And your family will learn lessons, oh my yes, especially that goodfernothing youngest born of yours. That girl Trillian is nothing but trouble and blasphemy. Sins of the daughter visiting the father, now there’s a twist! The gang in policy implementation will get a kick out of that one. They just love it when there’s a twist on a rule. You will lay in that hospital in that stupid green gown and you will be miserable and your family will be miserable. It will be the worst Christmas ever. You have cancer for a reason, you know. It teaches you and the people who care about you lessons.”
Spending Christmas in the hospital is a cruel insult to the injury that’s farcical. My dad is feeling better than he’s felt in ages. He quit smoking a few years ago. His blood pressure is lower and stable. He almost postponed his yearly physical because he felt fine and was going to help at a Cub Scout Native American Heritage Day event. Then he realized he could do both so he kept the appointment. Fortunately. Let that be a lesson to you. Get your yearly physical. No matter what. End of story. Nothing to discuss. My dad felt fine, better than he’s felt in years. He was even coaching some kids on the peewee football league.
Yet a few days after the physical he got a call from the nurse at his doctor’s office saying the doctor wanted a few more tests. A few more tests after that and a specialist here and there and the next thing you know we’re talking about “his cancer.” And the next thing after that we’re talking about if he’s home for Christmas.
And people, neighbors, friends, their pastor, all started giving me that look and telling me how strong and good my dad is and relaying stories about my dad, talking about him in the past tense.
I went through this when my mother was clinging to life support.
People are weird. They say weird things and behave oddly and out of character in “these situations.”
Just once I’d like their pastor to wipe that beatific benevolent condescending holier than thou look off his face, talk in a voice that doesn’t sound like Reverend Lovejoy and say, “Crap. That totally sucks. There’s no justice. He’s a good guy. God schmod, lesson schmesson, this is unfair, unjust and makes no rational biblical sense whatsoever. And at Christmas of all times! God sucks. The master plan is stupid."
But that won't happen. God people cling to that master plan theory. It justifies everything, no matter how cruel or illogical.
Me? I just don't want my dad to have to spend Christmas in a hospital.
