I don’t know why it caught my eye, or captured my attention. Maybe because it gave insight into the psyches of our three presidential candidates. Or maybe because my own signature is so horrid and erratic — comparable to what an electrocuted chicken might scratch out if given a pen. It was a news story I saw online that analyzed the signatures of McCain, Obama and Clinton in an attempt to mine a wealth of new information about the candidates, especially after the Magic 8-Ball revealed so little. I read the piece, fascinated. It told about how Clinton’s signature was written as if she were dodging sniper fire, how McCain’s when decoded said, “Age is 95 percent mental, and 5 percent how high you wear your pants,” and Obama’s stressed his main campaign theme by changing styles from one letter to the next.
And So It Ends … With Electric Shocks and Burning Thighs
Physical therapy … The final frontier. These are the voyages of a man’s punctured thigh as it explores strange new sensations and grueling trips on the stationary bike Oh, and don’t forget electro-shock therapy! Shoot, this is a science fiction movie waiting to happen. After six long weeks, physical therapy means I can walk, I’m almost healed and I can all-but put this long saga to bed. Unfortunately, I’m still left with a rather nasty scar from a surfboard fin that smiles at me and snickers. (It is great for show-and-tell, though.) I’ve been seeing a physical therapist I know, Joe Webb, and I figured since we were friends he would cut me some slack, throw me some bones and write me get-out-of-work notes so I could play hookie. I think my first words to him were, “Just show me some stretches I can do with a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other.” I think his first words to me were, “Come on back to my torture chamber.” I should have run right then, but well I couldn’t. They would have hog-tied me and carried me in.
Thank You, Honey, for Getting Me Through It
By the time you read this, it will have been six weeks since a fin on my surfboard punched a whole in my thigh, coming precariously close to the femoral artery and pretty much making April a blur of doctor’s visits, stumbles on crutches and trying to figure out how to pull medical tape off of legs that are hairier than a clan of grizzly bears. As I can see the end of this long episode now that I’m off of crutches, on to physical therapy, and finally able to look at my leg without spitting out words that my 2-year-old daughter is surely storing away to reuse at school there are some thanks than I need to share that haven’t been shared enough. People often come up to ask how I’ve been, how I’m doing, and to tell me how sorry they are to hear that, well, essentially my stupidity finally caught up with me. They say it much nicer, and with much more sincerity. I’m always appreciative, and it’s nice that people care. But the thanks goes to the person who really deserves most of the credit. The person who had no say in this whole matter. I injured myself, and I had to suffer through it. Maybe one day they will invent the equivalent of carbon credits for injuries where you can pay someone else to trudge through it for you. Until then, you make the mistake, you pay the price.
‘UNOs’ and the Things a Parent Will Do
We are such strange beings, us parental units. Things we would never have done in our former lives — that we would have turned up our noses and snorted at — we now do freely. Things that seem so outlandish, ridiculous, and frankly, disgusting. Take for instance the other day at pre-school as we dropped my two-year-old daughter off. I was in the passenger seat of the car giving her a kiss goodbye. My wife was carrying her and I noticed a little something in the little girl’s nostril. It was a “UNO” — an unidentified nasal object. I couldn’t let her go into school like that, and after failing myself to extract it, my wife — the old pro — went in for the kill, sans tissue. (We were already late and unprepared for duty such as this.) “Now what do I do with it?” she asked, stumped. Then, even shocking myself, I said, “Here, give it to me. I’ll figure something out.” My wife thanked me and trudged off with child, leaving me with the UNO. “Now what do I do with it?” I thought. But that’s the life of a parent. Never in my wildest imagination — not in some crazed hallucinatory delirium brought on by spoiled fruit or bad fish — could I ever have pictured this: me sitting in a car staring at a “boogie” on the end of my finger. I couldn’t even have ever imagined myself being so selfless, so thoughtful, and shoot, […]
An Extended Stay on Crutches
Things you learn during an extended stay on crutches: • That we as a nation have made incredible strides. We are innovators and overachievers capable of dreaming big and overcoming all manner of great hurdles. We’ve landed men on the moon and cured major ailments. We feed the world and, as far as I know, invented duct tape. Yet, we have never come up with anything better than the lowly, awful, excruciating device known as crutches. Why not? Millions of Americans a year get injuries and hobble around on these horrid things. Is this the best we can do? What about levitation or a third leg that you can strap on to your hip? How about crutches that walk for you, carrying you effortlessly to your destination? Or at least add some frills to the wretched beasts, like drink holders or satellite radio. Nothing is more frustrating than digging a nice, cold frothy beverage out of the refrigerator, only to realize you don’t have enough hands to make it back to the sofa. One day I put a beer in the pocket of my shorts, and it nearly exploded it was shaken up so much. • That co-workers can have an awful lot of fun at your expense. It’s so easy. All they have to do is put your crutches a little bit out of reach as they leave your office, or even more diabolical, change the height of them so you end up hunched completely over. A real cruel […]
A Little Long Distance Care from Home
The worst part of being laid up with an injury, besides that you sit on the couch so much that you might as well throw it away once you’re healed, is the long distance telephone care you get from your mother. That’s not to be ungrateful or unappreciative. Moms will be moms, no matter if you’re three years old or 73. The truth is moms care and moms worry. And more than anything, moms want to be there for you and they think they know the answers, even if they have no idea what the problem is. “Brian, did you ask them about clotting?” she quizzed me the day after my freak surfing injury a fin punctured my upper thigh and left me with 40 stitches on the surface, and many more in the muscle beneath. “There could be a problem with clotting. You know it runs in the family, and the doctor probably needs to know that.”
Surfing, Stitches, and Growing One with the Couch
We were supposed to be on our way to Amelia Island to celebrate our 10th anniversary in a wonderful seaside lodge. Instead, I found myself firmly planted on the sofa in boxer shorts massaging a three-day-old beard and gathering up the strength to go…um…pee. How is it major injuries always hit right before momentous occasions? I guess an explanation is in order. But first, some much needed thanks. To the outstanding paramedics who tended this wounded surfer on the beach last Thursday night; to the doctors and nurses in Flagler Hospital’s ER who laughed at my jokes while putting over 100 stitches in my thigh; and to our good friends Len and Kristy Weeks who happened to be there on the beach in my time of need and helped not only me, but also my wife and daughter as I stained the beach red. “It’s pretty bad isn’t it?” I asked Len as he kneeled by my wounded leg. His answer I’ll never forget: “You know, Brian. I don’t really do that well with blood, so I’m trying not to look down there right now.” Told me what I needed to know, and you guys were great. To all of you, I can’t thank you enough. You don’t know how much it means. And a huge thanks to my traumatized wife who easily could have drawn up divorce papers right there, but played it cool, stuck by my side and never once said, “See, I told you surfing would kill […]
Ten Years of Marriage and All I Get Is Foil?
My goodness gracious, I have been married for 10 years. Ten WHOLE years! All 520 months, a complete 3,650 days and, except for a tense five minutes several years back when I said her pants looked like a road map back to the ’60s (I blame tainted beer), I’ve made it more than 87,000 hours. Isn’t that amazing, and wonderful? Doesn’t that sound like a monumental accomplishment? Like I should be in the Guinness Book of World Records? At least deserving of a medal. The life expectancy of modern marriages is unfortunately not that long. But this woman — a wonderful, beautiful, smart and witty woman — has put up with me for that many years. Me! Little ‘ole me. A lot of people figured the whole thing wouldn’t last more than 15 minutes because I have a knack for saying really stupid things and thinking they’re funny. When we were at the altar and I was asked if I would take this woman, I think I said out loud, “Now, point out which one she is again.” I jest. I’m not that quick on my feet.
Just a Southern Boy Braving the Chills of NYC
Boy, only in New York can you hit the events of an entire newspaper front page in just about 5-10 square blocks. I was in Manhattan for a College Media Advisers’ conference, and took Monday morning to visit a Flagler College alum who had been working with Rudy Guiliani on his ill-fated campaign. After hearing about that, I wandered outside his high-rise office building to stare in awe down the street at rescue efforts on that construction crane that crashed to Earth killing several people. Blocks later, I strolled past the homes of JP Morgan and Bear Stearns where one of the business world’s biggest news stories had just unfolded. Both were swarmed with news trucks and TV reporters. And as I trudged on, I fought my way through the gathering crowds for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade down Fifth Avenue. Wow, New York, you sure do pack a lot into just a few square blocks. What a city!
Wind and Running: A ‘No-Fun’ Cocktail
National Weather Service’s definition of gale warnings: Sustained surface winds, or frequent gusts, in the range of 39 mph to 54 mph. What not to do during gale warnings: Parasail. Take small craft with leaky hulls out to sea. Windsurf. Change your contact lenses. Blow glass. Do your tax return. Do anything that involves tar and feathers. Juggle expensive China. Or, run a 9.3-mile race that includes a towering bridge that’s tough enough to get over in a car not to mention tall enough that you need an oxygen tank. That race was the Jacksonville River Run, and it was finished by more than 12,000 crazy lunatics just like me this past weekend. Twelve thousand crazy people who didn’t understand that if the winds were strong enough to blow down power lines and knock over trees, running across a mountainous bridge that is highly exposed to the elements isn’t the wisest of ideas.