Weary Traveler

I have heard the conservative camp condemn healthcare as a thing of entitlement for deadbeats who don’t want to work. I have heard enough, and I am sick and fucking tired of it. Not everyone who needs this healthcare thinks they are entitled to it, nor are they deadbeats. Some people have exhausted all their options, and have nowhere else to go…especially if they have a terminal illness.
As a family, we hate the government. We know first hand how the government “helps.” Ever had the cheese, and canned goods that came in white cans and black stencil? If you have not, then you don’t get it, and I’m not going to explain it. My pop worked his ass off sixteen hours a day, and mom even had two jobs; one of them was the arby’s at 21st & Shadeland. It still wasn’t enough even with the “help.” What got us through was our family and the lodge.
I grew up in my Great-Grandmother’s house. It was a brick house double that my Great Grandfather built when the neighborhood was the Hansing farm so he could be closer to the barn when he was crippled from Wilson’s disease. In any other circumstance, he would have lost, and he and his family would have no where else to go. A few lodge brothers(who also went to his church…Post Road Christian Church) sacrificed their time, and helped with the chores. Because of their help of a brother, both Christian and Mason, I had a home to grow up in when my parents lost their home off of Kitley when I was less than a year old.
My Great Grandmother kept a very old world setting in her home. Her parents were Scottish and Irish, and her inlaws were German and Welsh; and she maintained that kind of home out of habit, because they all lived on the Hansing farm. Everything was grown, and made from scratch. Very little need to go to the store when you grow most of the ingredients for traditional meals from across the pond. Needless to say, we ate well. My Grandmother lived ten minutes west of us at 21st and Riley(next to Emerson), and she saw to it that we were clothed.
This embittered my father. He’s a man, and men put in all their efforts to support their families. Receiving help means you were foolish, and didn’t think things through. He was no idiot, or a slouch; he ran an entire farm by himself for six years after his father died; and was quite good at it. After he married my mom, he moved to indy, and things went down hill. He was a mechanic, but was on commission. He didn’t bring enough in so he set up shop in the neighborhood, and worked under the table fixing anything mechanical in the neighborhood. As a kid, I rarely saw him because he was always working.
A vivid memory had to do with a cold, and rainy morning. Pop has always had a bad back, and the pain got worse when a damp chill would hit the hair. One morning I was in the dining room, and I heard him roaring like a bear cursing God and anything with two feet as my mom put his backbrace on. Once that was finished, he would get dressed, come barrelling down the hallway, grab his gigantic thermos of coffee, lunchbox, and out the door to work in a damp garage for twelve hours.
When he was diagnosed with prostatic bone cancer, he worked until the treatment began to weaken him so much that his job had to let him go. He had insurance there, but that, obviously, went away the job. No worries, though, because mom still had her job, and pop was on her insurance. Then, mom was laid off, and there went the insurance. The lodge was there to help, but there is only so much that can be done, because cancer treatment is expensive. When mom had her insurance it was covering 80%, and collections was calling for the remaining 20%; and there was nothing that could be done, because she had her income to take care of her car, rent, food, and whatever else came up. Pop would get his ssi, and that covered some of his medication.
They had to get on medicaid. They didn’t want to, but they did so that Pop could get his medication. Mom and I had many talks concerning socialized medicine, and it’s benefits for us and families in similar situations. It’s so freaking expensive, and the funny thing is it’s the fault of the government for regulating the health industry. This is one of many reasons that I am an anarchist. Without bullshit like this my pop, and people like him would get treated because it’s the humane thing to do, but this is reality; and as much as we hate the government we want to see my dad get his medication without getting dry fucked.

Not everyone who wants health care is a leech. So next time you say healthcare is for deadbeats with an entitlement mentality, you think about my pop’s story, and hold your tongue.

Yesterday was the first day, I actually felt relaxed; and being a full on cheat day enhanced it. The night before, I hung out at Crystal’s place for the weekly british tv thursday. It’s a fun time for Carrie and myself because we enjoy hanging out with Crystal, Chris, and Jesse. Unfortunately, I ended up on the porch for most of the night talking with Crystal and Chris’ neighbor, who is also named Chris. I don’t mean to say that it was unfortunated that I spent most of the night talking with him, because he’s a really good guy who brings coffee, conversation, and his British wit(he’s a naturalized citizen). It’s just that I think that Crystal, Chris, and Jesse did not get a lot of my time; that is unfortunate, and it was also unintended.
For a couple hours, I vented to Chris about the stresses that are in my life. There are currently two. The first one is my pop and his cancer. Yeah, he’s getting worse, and it still hurts, but the only emotionally good thing is that I am past the mental breakdown of watching superman waste away. Chris can relate to that. His own father had stage 3 bladder cancer that he survived, but his grandmother died of cancer. His dad is also very much like mine in the sense that he won’t stop because of a disease, and that it takes swearing and yelling to get to the point; which is something my brother and I had to do many times, because pop doesn’t like sitting on the sidelines watching; he wants to get into the mix, or he’ll feel useless.
The second stress, I have is coming up with money by Nov. 2 so that Carrie and I can successfully move from our current apartment to another one close by that is $200 cheaper. It’s not one lump sum. It’s two lump sums in the form of this month’s rent, and the prorated rent at the new apartment. The other stuff is nickel and dime stuff like getting rabies shots, and records of merlyn and isis to the new landlord, healthy food that Carrie and I can eat, boxes, and moving trucks.
This doesn’t sound like a huge thing, but the corporate offices of my employer have caused this mess in their shady, and illegal treatment of Carrie. I am not one to sit on my ass, and piss and moan while playing the blame game. I went out scurrying, making phone calls, running all over Indianapolis finding places that might be able to help, and a place to move; all the while, I am saying with clenched teeth “Those motherfuckers!”
They go to Mexico monthly to build homes for homeless people, and their corporate American Jesus(yes, the leadership in the corporate offices are professing Christians) b.s. has caused an injustice in my own life, and with Carrie’s life. Sad thing is we’re not the only ones this happened to. Carrie had a supervisor there that went through the same thing, and he is currently suing them. Carrie has a case also, and we we’re told that it would take a year before it went to trial. We don’t care about monetary compensation(although that would be icing), we want justice. We want the people who are responsible for this to be held accountable.
Everyday, I am under intense pressure to keep this contained. Pressure that I put on myself. I fail. I have a friend here at work, who has noticed that I have been more hostile in the last few weeks along with my other coworkers. In order to solve this, I joined a gym to do intense cardio and lifting to work out the tension and stress. It helps, but I also I have pushed myself past the point of physical exhaustion; but I don’t stop, because I still get up and try again to bring in the money that we need.
I have also been talking to the chaplain that comes here regularly. I don’t hold back, or sugar coat my words with him. I have this thing about being real to pastors, and not holding back. It has nothing to do with punishment from God. My view of pastors/priests is that one of their job concerns is the spiritual welfare of people, and how am I letting them do their job if I put on a fake smile? He’s been a huge help in walking with me, letting me vent, giving me his input, and praying with me. However, there is still hostility coming out in my wake, and people around me are either engulfed by it, or cleaning up after it; and I don’t think that is right.
I thought that I had been doing the necessary things in rolling with what life is throwing at me. I also thought that I had been handling it in a proactive manner by going to the gym, asking God to help all in the process(I don’t pray and sit around. I pray and do…most times simultaneously),and talking with a pastor. Then I vented to Chris thursday night, and friday morning when I dropped off gRegor’s phone to him, I vented to him about all the things that are happening. I didn’t feel better, but I felt relaxed. It dawned on me that I have not been letting anybody in, nor have I let them be my friend. I have done the same to Carrie, but not at the same intensity. That it isn’t a pat on the back, she still had to endure it. The burdens I have, exceed my strength, and to ask for help is to admit that. I didn’t want to admit it to my friends because that would also admit that I am weak. I’m a tough guy, raised by tough people.
About three years ago, at a different job, my hours were cut. I could not afford to eat, and I went without eating for about four days. At the end of it, I called my mom, and asked if she had enough food for me to make a sandwich. I told her what was going on, and she told me to come over. She told pop, and as soon as I walked in the door, he roars at me from his chair. “Goddamnit, boy! Next time you’re hungry come over and get some food! There is no reason for you to go without!” I just looked at him and said. “Come on, pop that’s bullshit for me to come in complaining that I’m going without food while you’re dying of cancer. Going hungry for a few days is not worse than dying of cancer.” He yelled back “It doesn’t matter! We’re in this together! Next time something like this happens don’t you dare wait around. You come over.” I put hands up in surrender. “Ok, I get it.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, I get it! Jesus, pop”
“Good! Now go eat!”
I think that the toughest thing for me to do is admit that I am weak, and need help in certain areas of my life. Like Rudy, I keep pushing myself, and when I think that it’s hopeless, I’m asking myself “Have I done everything that I am supposed to do?” I ask it of my chaplain(in all actuality, though, he is my confessor), I ask it of God, I ask it of my family, and most of all I ask it of Carrie. I think that the answer to that question is “No, you have not.” The reason for that is because I have not let anybody in. Carrie, God, or my friends. They watch as I struggle, strain, and crack when all the while it would cease if I would simply open up and say with slumped shoulders, “I can’t do this on my own. I’m exhausted.” It’s not weakness to admit exhaustion to yourself, or those closest to you in your life. It’s the strongest thing anyone can do, and yesterday, I learned that the hard way, and it’s one more gray strand in my beard. :-)

I checked the scale this morning after my workout. I have lost another two pounds which, to date, is a loss of fifty five pounds. I started the journey back in the first of April by changing my food intake, and cardio. This consisted of walking and running in intervals, and by September 11 when I joined Cardinal Fitness I had lost forty three pounds; in the last thirty days, I have lost another ten. I have a goal weight of 250 pounds, and I am down to 300; halfway there.
This isn’t a pat on the back. I am quite proud of myself, and the hard work I have put in, and continue to do. While, I am starting to physically look better, it is not my motive for going into the gym twice a day to lift and do cardio. As many people know , my father is dying of prostatic bone cancer. What some have heard from me is this cancer is hereditary. His father died of the same thing, and is father’s father before him. My mom was diagnosed with diabetes a couple months ago which runs rampant in my family, and her sister is dying of congestive heart failure; another disease that is from her family. I had been eating like crap, being sedentary, and smoking. I was also at 355 pounds. I was practically sprinting towards cancer, diabetes, and congestive heart failure.
The catalyst came when Carrie decided in the middle of March to get back into body building, and began training. It got me off my ass to do something about it. I am the kind of guy that once I make up my mind to do something, I do it. I don’t want diabetes, congestive heart failure, or cancer. Because of my genetics, I am predisposed to these things, but I don’t need to be living a life that will definitely bring these things about quickly. However, the work and lifestyle change that I have committed to does not mean that I will definitely avoid these horrible things, but I would rather take that chance of avoiding it.

On a humorous and true note, my other motive is to have a waistline one size smaller than my brother so that I can call him a fat bastard. To date, he is 6”10, 220 pounds, and a 38” waistline which makes him look like a stick…except in his shoulders. He has to wear 3 XL shirts because his shoulders are so broad, and when tucks in his shirt it looks like he’s wearing a tent. He’s always been skinny, and ate doritos with six packs of dr. pepper daily without doing anything physical. Little fucker didn’t break a hundred till he was 15, and I have always struggled with my weight. I have no illusions how this will look. Even when I get down to my goal waistline, I’ll still look bigger than him because I have a stockier frame and I’m 6”8; but I will have the smaller waistline, and he will be the fat bastard; it will not matter if anyone can tell. :-)

I know that I am not a perfect man, and that my sins and inconsistencies are blatant. I also know that everyone lives in a glass house, and should be careful in where they throw their rocks.

carrierapp:

I have told many stories concerning my pride in my ancestry, and heritage to the point of ad nauseum. Today, I told Carrie why that pride is there.

Growing up we were poor. I’m talking the kind of poor where your canned food has a white wrapper with black stencil telling you what is inside. I am all too familiar with the cheese that comes from Uncle Sam. Granted, we had plenty to eat, and that was due to growing up with my Great-Grandmother Hansing, and my Great-Aunt Mary K. Lots of garden grown vegetables, and very little money spent at the store for food; so I ate well. What really sucks about growing up poor is knowing that you’re poor; and that shame is an ugly weight to carry…especially if you’re a kid.

My great-aunt and great-grandmother saw to it that my brother and I knew our family heritage, and from where our family came. From my great-grandmother’s lineage, I heard how I descended from highland warriors, and the brave Irish who ventured across the Atlantic to get away from England’s oppressive government. From my great-grandfather I heard the story of how is father came over before WW1, and anglicized his name for fear of an ethnic backlash. He married a fierce, but loving and gentle Welsh woman named Carrie Rutherford. In true Celtic fashion, I would sit at the table, and eat while I was told stories and shown pictures that dated back to tintype.

I heard the stories of our family and how our luck didn’t change for the better after coming to America. My great-grandfather grew tobacco, and brewed wine which barely brought him, my great-grandmother, and their four daughters(my grandmother, and her sisters) through the depression. My great-grandmother told me of the tragedy she suffered after nearly being burned alive when she was a little girl, and how she miscarried what would have been my great-uncle. The victory is that we were still here, and the fact that we’re still breathing is a testament to our toughness as people; and my brother and I were named after these people.

When I heard these stories, both ancient and “current” I swelled up with pride; and still do. Because no matter what happens in my life either riches or poverty, good times or bad, my ancestry and heritage still remain. It is a permanent thing, and life and circumstance can never take that away. So I continue to tell the stories, and live my life in light of them because one day I will join them; and in their presence I will feel no shame. The only thing that validates them, and these stories I continue to tell is this:

I am still here.

“Put your hope in the LORD
travel steadily along his path
he will honor you by giving you the land.
You will see the wicked destroyed…
The LORD rescues the godly
he is their fortress in times of trouble.
The LORD helps them, rescuing them from the wicked.
He saves them, and they find shelter in him.”
(Psalm 37:34,39-40 NLT)

There are a few friends who would be bothered by the above statement “You will see the wicked destroyed.” And in a different set of circumstances, I would share in that agitation. Because of the tough times that I am facing, and why I am facing them, I am bitter at the ones who caused it.

Carrie worked for the same people I currently work for. Through their own little corporate games, hypocrisy, and illegal activity, Carrie lost her job. Because of this we have no money. We have had to have help for food, and right now we are facing eviction. We’re dealing, and moving, but I am extremely bitter at this company and I want to see these people brought to their knees…with such a force that they shatter.

Yesterday, I went so far as to say that the name of the Human Resources Director is Satan, and it wasn’t anything startling. They all know what’s happening, and they have all expressed their own viewpoints. They all have heard my view on these things, and the people involved.

So, yeah, because of all this, I want to see them destroyed, and I want Carrie and myself to be rescued from these bad things that have come from their own arrogance.

Until then, I will still go to work, because we still need the money, and the job that I do is, comparitively speaking, easy.

I spent some time with my pop on friday just talking to him about the stresses and struggles I have experienced up till now. He’s been there, and still doing that. I asked him if there is a break, or if it gets any better. He shook his head, and in a low voice said “No it does not.” Not the answer I want to hear, but I prefer the pain of plain truth than the comfort of a pretty lie. He then shared with me something that hit him. It was something that he heard a minister say, and even though he couldn’t remember the name it gave him some peace with life:

“If you have a life of ease. If everything is going your way, then you need to stop, and take a look to find out what’s wrong. Because if you’re going with the flow of the status quo, and you’re not making a stand for what you hold to as right, then you aren’t.”

I shook my head in agreement.

He went on to tell me that nobody ever learned anything when times were good; it was only the bad times when we learned the things we need to get through this life.

I agree

constantly struggling, and it seems that there is no end in sight. I have read poems and thoughts of people, particulary christians, who want to be taken out to the rougher, deeper, and unsure waters where their faith will tested, stretched, and, if they survive, strengthened. There is a degree of resentment that I feel when I read those things, because I live there, and would rather be on the other side. You know that place. Comfort, and ease. A place where bills are paid, and jobs are stable. I just want to tell those people to shut their fucking mouths and enjoy their time in the sun, because out here the stress, fear, and worry wear you out.

I shared my thoughts with a friend today, and in light of the recent stress this sums up my sentiment:

not diggin’ on life right now
it’s why i’m sitting here at work reading my bible, praying, reading the legend of fin macool, and working, trying to stay focused. feel really burdened right now. don’t know what else to do about it. I mean, thank god that i still have a job to go to. I just don’t know what to do about the rest. don’t want to ask for help either because our story is similar to other stories. so i listen to The Journey Of The Celts, read the bible, and read about fin macool. i think about the stories of my ancestors and what they survived, and I think about my own story and my prayers. I am damned near out of faith, and I am tired. These stories remind me of the toughness of spirit i possess. this does not come with the arrogance and pomp that goes into psyching up oneself in the midst of adversity. It is a quiet sigh of resignation of the truth, and heavy feet moving. I am tired of the struggle, but i’m not giving up. Is there a happy ending? this is a celtic story. it is neither happy, or sad…it is bittersweet, and when it’s over I will take my place in the great hall with those who have gone before me; and I will feel no shame.