BlitzBlog

After years of enduring sporadic rockets fired from within Warren County borders, the state of New Jersey’s troops that had been massing along the Warren County border have begun advancing into the county.

New Jersey Foreign Minister Vito Degeuineo stated, “Over the past 3 years, since the settlers from Bergen and Passaic Counties left Warren County, Warren County government has  been allowing more and more powerful rockets into its territory. These rockets are reaching farther and farther into the New Jersey, some reaching as far as Wayne and Paterson. Imagine sitting in your home in Pines Lake and have a rocket, launched from Blairstown, explode in your neighborhood, destroying the lives of dozens of innocent victims.”

“It’s gotten out of hand. We’ve endured 3 years of rocket fire, with almost no response on our part. It used to be only those who lived near the Warren County border who had to endure this life-threatening situation. Now with the increase in firepower these Warren County militants have gotten their hands on- we’re quite sure they’re being smuggled in through tunnels from New York’s Sullivan County- that hundreds of thousands of New Jersey citizens are within reach of Warren County terrorists.”

Degeuineo added, “The government of Warren County has explicitly stated that the State of New Jersey has no fundamental right to even exist. They will not negotiate with us, and we have been force to blockade the county as best we can to prevent more and more dangerous weapons  that could be used against New Jersey to be brought into the county. We have to do something to end this cycle.”

A spokesperson for the Warren County government, Mike Reich, responses, “Let them come! We will surround these occupiers and wipe them from our midst! We will not stop until all New Jersey is a grand and glorious Warrenian State!”

New Jersey military has been flying missions to drop leaflets over Warren County, warning civilians to stay indoors and resist those who would use their neighborhoods as launching sites for rocket attacks, as this would definitely evoke a direct response from the New Jersey Air Force. New jersey Secretary of State Rhonda Lagonda  says, “We’re doing this to try to minimize civilian casualties amongst the Warren County population. We realize this gives a strategic advantage to the militants, but we have a moral obligation to try to conduct this war against only those who are engaging us directly. Unfortunately, the militants have no qualms about hiding themselves and their weapons caches in schools, churches and other public areas. When we are forced to make the choice between destroying these targets, we regret there will undoubtedly be civilian casualties, but our intent is to minimize this none-the-less.”

Officials from Delaware, Louisiana and Ontario have been meeting in closed-door sessions to try to mediate some sort of cease fire.

I’ve always said that a person is either a result of their parents or a reaction to their parents. Most of us are probably a 90/10 mix of the result/reaction formula.

In my case, I am more reaction than result. My Dad was married 4 times in his life. He had 3 kids before he was 23 from his first marriage. He waited 10 years and then married my mother, to whom he was married for 17 years. About 4 years after they divorced, he got hitched again, but it turned out #3 was crazy, literally, and the union was annulled. Another 4 years down the road, and boom, he took his last wife, and after 9 years, they divorced. I guess after that, he’d learned his lesson, as since then, he really hasn’t come close to a 5th honeymoon. Unfortunately, at 92 years old, he’s not rich enough to attract a gold-digging cookie. Charming enough maybe. Rich though, no.

The interesting thing about Sid’s wives is that they were all the same woman. I met them all at one time or another, and it seems my dad is a twisted version of John Derrick (who’s wives you might recall- Linda Evans, Bo Derrick, and Ursula Andress all looked uncannily alike. Basically it seemed he just traded one wife in for a newer model). While Sid’s wives were certainly not in the league of the 3 Mrs. Derricks, they all were highly polished, 5-lbs of make up and hair spray before ever venturing out of the house, big-boobed, mid 20th century JAPs. Even their personalities were very similar. I guess either Dad never learned from his mistakes, or he’d start missing the last wife but couldn’t go back, so he found the next closest thing. Who knows? Maybe he just had a compulsion to give away half his assets every 20 years.

In reaction to this, witnessing it as I did growing up, I always knew in my heart, that I’d marry late, and be as sure as I could, that it would stick. In September, I’ll be married to the same gorgeous woman for 20 years, and while she sometimes needs to hit me with the frying pan, I’m reasonably confident we’ll still be together in another 20.

As for my Dad and the concept of “family,” while he was always tied to his 3 siblings, he was never really close. Not so much that he’s see them more often than on holidays and family functions. And with him being divorced, my Mom and I never really had that “family around the dinner table” tradition. It was usually just me and her, me home from practice or school, she from her job.

So, now, at my house, dinner is a must-be-at event. Granted not every night, but I’d say we all sit down together 5 nights a week. Sometimes it’s a bit rushed, squeezed between social engagements for my kids or Kate or myself, but still, it’s a major part of our family life.

One of the traditions at our dinner table, on Friday nights, we light Sabbath candles (we’re Jews, if you didn’t already know) and go around the table, mentioning what we’re each thankful for, and what mitzvah (good deed) we’d done that week. It’s a nice way to take stock, and to see what’s going on that’s important in each others’ heads and lives.

In the year that my dad has been living with us, his turn at this ritual has usually been to say “At my age, I’m just thankful to be alive.” He says it with a tossed-off frivolity, but it has always irked me that he would never stop to look inward and give a truly thoughtful answer, as the rest of us do. My kids have done this since they could speak, so why couldn’t he? What happened to the myth of The Wisdom of the Aged?

So two weeks ago, at Friday night dinner, it is my frail old dad’s turn to say his “thankfuls.” We’re all prepared for his standard line, but he quietly shocks us by saying how thankful he is to be “surrounded by a loving family, and to know that he’s well cared for.” We all looked at each other quizzically, but kept our surprise to ourselves, lest we make too big a deal out of this momentous inward reflection. Dad repeated this same thankful last week again.

I wondered why he decided to take the time to speak up in these past weeks, and I’ve come to the conclusion that my dad has finally learned something. He’s watched my family interact for a full year, living with us, and sees what is truly important, and maybe even what he might have missed out on. And while he might be wistful that he spent his life bouncing from marriage to marriage, with (except for me) very few parenting duties, I think he’s finally happy to have experienced what it’s like to be part of a traditional, emotionally healthy nuclear family.

I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.

“Rosebud.” the dying Charles Foster Kane whispered.

“I’m freezing.” my dad says to me.

I’m in the waiting room, ancient 19″ Sylvania hanging in the corner, Citizen Kane playing in the background. I’m alone right now, as my dad sits in one of the 20 recliners, tubes attached on one end to his arterial perma-cath (catheter), the other to the dialysis machine.

I’ve covered dad in the 3 blankets we’ve brought to this place. This place where we’ve come now three times. For some reason, they keep it cold. I don’t know why. Every one of the patients seem to be buried in their own blankets. Why do they keep it so cold? Well, not cold really. Probably a “green” 68-degrees, but would they keep it like this if it were a nursery? Don’t they see that every one of their patients is uncomfortable? Why can’t they turn the heat up?

This is my first experience with dialysis. Dad is 92 and is in renal failure. He was hospitalized for a week or so, until he was strong enough to go home and start going to this outpatient dialysis clinic about 20 minutes from our house. The treatments last three hours leave him drained and tired. His first treatment here, last Monday evening, was disastrous.

You see, renal failure generally shuts down the urinary system, and being on dialysis, patients are advised to limit their liquid intake, lest they drown in their own fluids. However, for some reason, dad is a rare dialysis patient who needs to urinate about every hour. This presents a problem when one is bonded to a machine for 3 straight hours.

So Monday, dad felt the urge to go. He told this to one of the nurses, but apparently the urgency of the situation was lost on her, as she didn’t return with a urinal bottle nor the rolling privacy screens for dad to relieve himself. By the time they got the screens set up, about half an hour later, they realized they had no proper urinal bottle. Whatever cup they handed him was too cumbersome for him to handle, and well, by the time I returned, dad was sitting in his slowly-drying old-man pants.

I felt horribly guilty for leaving him alone, but dad is fiercely independent and insisted I not sit with him for the three hours, and that all had gone well in the hospital dialysis sessions, so he insisted he’d be fine. I went out to the waiting room, checked on him after 20 minutes, (”Go! I’ll be fine!”) and then went out to run some errands.

So we drove home, me in my guilt, he in his humiliation and exhaustion. He said to me, “I don’t think I wanna do this again.” “Dad,” I answered, “You don’t really have a choice.”  “Whaddya mean? Maybe if I take a few weeks off, I’ll feel better and then I can go back.”

Obviously dad did not realize the direness of his situation. “Dad, you won’t last a couple of weeks without this.”

“Get outta here.” he replied in disbelief (or denial).

“No Dad, here’s what’ll happen- you’ll start to feel weak and tired, worse than you did before you went into the hospital. Except it won’t get better. It’ll keep getting worse. Your blood will turn to poison and start shutting your organs down, until one of them is your brain and you start losing your mind. Eventually you won’t be able to get out of bed, and after that you’ll spend a week or so unconscious until you die.”

It was a cold thing to say, but he had to know what kind of decision he was contemplating. He was quiet after that for while. I broke the silence, “Dad, give it a week. We’ll go back Wednesday night, then Saturday, and by next Monday you’ll see if you’re feeling better.” He nodded and then went to sleep for the rest of the ride home. Me, I cried a bit.

As expected, Dad was pretty drained all day Tuesday, but surprisingly, still so on Wednesday. This particular Wednesday was the day before Thanksgiving, so the house was a buzz of activity, what with cleaning and cooking preparation and the arrival of my brother-in-law and his girlfriend from out of town. As 6 o’clock approached, when we’d have to leave for dialysis, my dad told me he wasn’t going. “I just can’t do it Matt. I feel weak and lousy. Let’s just wait ’til Saturday.”

“Dad, if you don’t go, you might not make it ’til Saturday.”

He quickly retorted, in all seriousness, “Promise?”

I called the dialysis center and told them we weren’t coming. Their reply was that they’d have to call the nephrologist to let him know, and that he’d probably call us back.

About an hour later, the doctor called. I explained to him how my dad was feeling, and told him what a disaster Monday had been. He earnestly replied,”I feel terrible Mr. Blitz. What you’re basically saying is that our treatment was so bad that your dad would rather die than go back to our facility.” I told him that was spot-on accurate.

He told me that he’d try to set up an appointment for Friday instead of Saturday, and that he would make our feelings about our previous session known to the staff, and that dad would get the royal treatment on Friday. I told him I’d try to get dad to agree to go again on Friday, if at all, and I’d call the doc on Thanksgiving evening to let him know. I told dad about the doctor’s offer, and he said he’d think about it.

It cast a pall over our usual revelry on Wednesday night, knowing that my dad had decided to give up on living. We avoided the subject as much as possible all evening and even after our family showed up for Thursday’s feast.

One of the customs for our Thanksgivings has been to go around the table and say what each of us is thankful for. Usually my wife or I initiate the conversation, but this year, I think neither of us was in any mood. This year, we skipped our “thankfuls.”

By the evening, after everyone had gone, I sat with dad in his room. “So what do you think? Should I tell the doc you’ll go back tomorrow?” He sighed and said yes.

Friday night’s treatment, while better, was certainly nowhere near “royal.”  We sat in the waiting room for a half hour past dad’s appointed time. At least this time we’d only be doing a 2-hour session, and I made doubly sure that the nursing staff knew Dad might need to use the urinal and that they should respond to his needs pronto. Of course, this time I stayed with him, asking him frequently about his need to go. After about an hour and a quarter, he said he had to go, but could hold it. I tried prodding him to go in the urinal we’d brought with us, but he said he could wait. He never looked comfortable, but even after a few times of my insisting he’d be more comfortable if he went, he refused. At least he didn’t pee his pants as he finally skedaddled to the rest room after they de-attached him from the machine.

Dad felt marginally better than last time after this treatment, but still wasn’t thrilled with the dialysis center. He agreed to return for the planned schedule next Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, albeit reluctantly.

On Monday, we went to dad’s regular doc- his GP- who genuinely cares for dad, and who dad also thinks the world of. So I asked Doctor K, “Could you explain to my dad why he’s not feeling better?” “Well, he hasn’t really given it a chance. Sid, you’ve only had one-and-a-half sessions. That’s half of what you should have had so far.” Using a metaphor, he continued, “If you want the medicine to work, you have to take all of it. You don’t take one aspirin and expect your migraine to disappear, do you?”

At this point, I wasn’t convinced Dad was fully aware of his dire situation. I thought that if he heard the truth from Dr. K, he might realize and digest it. “Doc, what happens if he doesn’t do the dialysis?”

“Well, Sid, you’ll feel like you did when you went in to the hospital two weeks ago, but then you’ll start to feel even worse.”

I asked, “How long would that last?”

Dr. K replied, “How long would he last? A month, maybe two.”

I saw recognition in dad’s eyes, and finally I think he “got it.”

That was yesterday. A little while ago, Dad used the urinal about 2 hours into the session with no spillage. Right now, the monitor on the machine next to dad is saying 8 minutes left.

The TV in the waiting room is saying “Rosebud.”

About 2 years ago, after we had to put our old dog, Gogi to sleep, I was sure my family would insist on replacing him pretty soon. (See Izzy Blogs)  We’d already done a “pre-emptive replacement” the previous spring when we acquired Izzy, our standard poodle. I say “pre-emptive,” as we’d all expected Gogi to die within weeks of us bringing the puppy Izzy into our home. But instead, having the new pup around re-energized Gogi, and for a while he overcame whatever pain his arthritis was causing him, and allowed him another year or so to experience his Dog Joy.

So it’s been about a year and a half of owning only one dog, and generally, my lovely wife Kate’s mindset was that Izzy, The Best Dog Who Ever Lived, was all the dog we needed.

But somewhere along the line, she changed her mind.

Using clever psychology and mental trickery, she steered ever more conversations around the dinner table to how Zac, our 16 year old son, really needed a dog of his own. Now let me say that Zac is in all likelihood leaving the house to go to college in a year and a half. He is also the least “animal-friendly” person in our family. (Granted we are an extremely animal friendly family, having at one time or another, owned cats, dogs, fish, cockatiels, turtles, iguanas, ducks, chickens and goats, so the term “least animal friendly” is a relative one).

“So Zac, what kind of dog, if you could have any kind, would you like?” Kate would not-so-transparently query. Zac was non-specific at first, usually mentioning he’d like a small dog. “How small?” we’d ask in reply, “Like Gogi-small? Or smaller?”  Gogi, a Puli, was about 28 pounds- roughly Cocker Spaniel-sized.

“No small, like really small.” Zac replied. “Like a Chihuahua, or a Yorkie.” We’d continue the conversation, always coming back to musing on fun-fantastic mutt-mixes and names like Chi-weiner or Weiner-Danes. We’d muse on why it’s a Cock-a-Poo, but a Golden-Doodle? Why not a GoldenPoo? (Okay maybe that’s obvious, since it sounds more like a fetish act than a dog). Or fun names like a Bulldog-Shihtzu mix called the Bullshihtz.

But it’d always come back to Zac wanting a tiny dog. And this would drive Kate down to her Secret Lair where she’d spend hours perusing the internet, downloading thousands of pix of itty bitty dogs for adoption or sale. If your internet connection has seemed slow over the past few weeks, now you know why.

At some point, this obsession became reality, when she started showing the rest of us pictures of actual dogs that we should look at to consider bringing into our home. It was then when I raised the question of the wisdom of combining some tiny ankle-biter with the 70-pound drool machine that takes up most of my side of my marital bed every night. While I could spend hours regaling one with tales of Izzy’s fabulosity, he does have…um…issues.

So to see how Izzy would deal with a new puppy, we took him along on a visit to The Dog Lady’s house to see some of the prospective adoptees. Two BichaPoos (Bichon Frisé-Poodle mix) and a Cockapoo.

And he was freaked.

He wanted nothing to do with these three little rolling balls of fur, tumbling excitedly betwixt his lanky legs. He looked like the elephant jumping on the chair to stay away from the mice.  We figured that an excitable puppy bouncing off the walls was going to be a difficult adjustment for Izzy. So we thought we’d look for something calmer- perhaps an older pup maybe a year or two old.  We drove off dejectedly, knowing that the search might take awhile.

Three days exactly.

The Dog Lady at whose home we had gone to see the three pups called to beg us to take one of the BichaPoos. That our house was perfect for this dog, and we should reconsider. We spoke to our vet and some of our animal-people friends about Izzy’s anxieties, and we were told that perhaps Izzy’s problem was that he’d just gone on an hour car ride to a place where he was on unfamiliar turf that smelled of hundred of other dogs. Perhaps he’s be more receptive if he was introduced to a new pup on his own turf. We grasped onto this ray of hope and told Dog Lady we’d come down  on Friday with Zac and Sarah (sans Izzy) to have another look.

In short, Zac loved the BichaPoos and we chose the seemingly calmer of the two. Since we had plans that wouldn’t allow us to take the pup right then, and there was paperwork to be filled out by Dog Lady, we arranged to come back tomorrow to pick up the new puppy.

We spent the hour ride home mulling names. We finally decided on Gizmo, for no reason more than it just seemed to fit (and he reminded me of the movie Gremlins), and it’d probably be shortened in everyday use to just ‘Mo. Which would leave us with dogs named Izzy and Mo.

Kate and I picked up Gizmo the next day and came home to introduce him to Izzy. We let Gizmo out of the car and ran him around the yard a bit. Then we let Izzy out and held our breath.

It took about 30 seconds before the two dogs were running and romping around the yard at breakneck pace, playing happily despite their 65lb weight difference. Another crisis averted.

6-days later, everyone in the house is adjusting to life with Gizmo. He’s both mellow and willful, but about as cute as the law allows. Gizmo has spent every evening bonding with Zac and sleeping in Zac’s room. He’s just playful enough for Izzy and the rest of us, and passes much of the rest of the time sleeping and sniffing about his new home. And so far, with very few “accidents.” I’d guess he’ll be totally house trained in a few weeks.  It helps to have a big brother to show him the ropes.

As for your internet connection, you should see an improvement in speed by now. Sorry for the inconvenience.

We flipped channels all night, CNN, MSNBC, ABC, Fox, CBS, NBC. My 16-year old son sat with the laptop, IM-ing and texting his friends, arguing politics. My 13-year old daughter watched also until Ohio was declared for Obama, and once I told her that pretty much sealed it, she went up to bed. My wife was feeling confident and had preceded her.

At some point, MSNBC’s Keith Olberman summed it up best, once it was apparent that Obama was going to win, that this was one of those “Man-on-the-moon” nights, where people will remember where they were when the USA elected its first African American President. A few minutes before 11pm, we were tuned in to ABC, and we watched Charlie Gibson virtually count down to the closing of the West Coast polls, take a beat, and then say that “ABC News predicts that Barack Obama will be elected the 44th President of the United States.” I was surprised at the swiftness of the announcement, coming a few seconds after 11pm, but I didn’t doubt its truthfulness for a heartbeat.

For the next hour, we watched as pundit after pundit, both Black and White, spoke of the greater symbolism of this momentous day. Of what it means to America, and just as importantly, what it says to the rest of the world. We were shown people dancing in the streets in Kenya and other places around the globe.  It was if the world’s trust in us had finally been restored. That Americans aren’t just a bunch of middle-class idiot cowboys who want to be led by a rich idiot cowboy. That we could now rebuild our leadership position in the world, not because of our economic and military might, but because of our moral high ground. Because of what we stand for.

Obama “got it” last night. He knew the eyes of the World were upon him. He knew this was that “Man on The Moon” moment that people will talk about for generations. He was eloquent and low-key. He was inspiring and awe-struck. He was, and is, the embodiment of America (except a lot smarter). Multi-racial, up-from-the-bootstraps, self-made, hard-working, family-valued, patriotic.
He said all the right things, and what we will find in the next few months and years is that the divisiveness that began with ‘94’s Newt Gingrich Republican Revolution is coming to an end. Obama will not abide a Pelosi-led legislature that is mean-spirited and punitive to the opposition party. This will be a git-’er-done time for the government, the likes of which we haven’t seen since statesmen like Ronald Reagan and Tip O’Neill worked together. And at the end of his term(s), I hope- so deeply hope- that we can re-establish the USA as a true leader of the free world, and not just the military/police of it.

And yes, while we all know how well-spoken and eloquent Barack Obama is, when they showed Jesse Jackson standing there in tears, I did sort of miss his brand of preaching eloquence. But when Obama began that great Yes We Can riff, it went just far enough to be preacher-inspiring, but not so “Black” as to scare those who are still on the fence about this historic figure.

So now what? I don’t know who Obama will choose for his cabinet, but I am sure it’ll reach across party lines. Maybe a Dick Luger or Colin Powell for Defense. Maybe John Corzine for Treasury. Or Warren Bufftet. Maybe Al Gore for Energy or Interior. Or even T. Boone Pickens. How about Hillary Clinton for Secretary of State?

As for the White House, what a great example for all the broken homes of African Americans to live up to. A traditional nuclear family, extended to 3 generations, complete with new puppy, as a living example of what we all strive for, regardless of skin color. Not a sham marriage with a philandering husband and power-mad wife. Not a spoiled rich-kid with drunken daughters and a Xanax’ed out zombie wife. No, this time it’ll be a pair of self-made, brilliant people, who with the help of their families and friends, are raising two sweet kids while holding down two demanding jobs.

Sounds familiar.