I'm afraid their may be something wrong with me and I'm really worried. I think I may be a hypochondriac.
In all seriousness, I've seen more than my share of doctors in the last four or five years. There's nothing majorly wrong with me, physically that is. It just seems that one after another, and sometimes all together, parts of this middle-aged body have gone a little haywire. I never considered myself an "um me" (as in "uuu me knee" or "uuu me head"), but maybe I need to re-evaluate that assertion. Perhaps I'm getting soft or perhaps these ailments are a natural function of the life I have led.
I'm reminded of the question regarding the best way to leave this world. The debate is whether it is better to die occupying a body that is in great shape because that person lived cautiously and safely or, when exhaling for the last time, should a person's body look more like mom's old Mazda Protege, with it's dents, cracks, and rusted out floor? In answering this question, we all respond the same way. We know that our bodies are no different than our houses, investments and the cash in our piggy banks. It doesn't matter whether we believe we will be spending eternity among the clouds, sweating it out in Hades, or in the arms of a hundred virgins. We can no more take our corpses with us to our final end than we can take our worldly treasures. If we get to "old age", whatever that is, given that 80 is the new 50, then our soulless bodies are of little use to anyone. A well preserved 100 year old body does not suddenly become valuable. It is not an antique to be collected, polished and put on display, but rather one to be pitied for the life that was not lived to the fullest.
If any of you think that you have lived a rather sheltered existence up to now, it is not too late. The best times of your life lay ahead of you. This is not a recommendation to suddenly go off the deep end and to do something rash, like quit your job. Very few of us need to do anything radical to start down the path towards a better life. Every journey begins with one small step. Having balance in life is the key component. A close friend of mine once put life in its true perspective and I have shared his words many times over the years. He said "Jimmy, enjoy life because you are dead for a long time."
I'm doing the best to heed my own advice. I'm 46 years old, so that's probably the new 25. If I'm really only 25, then I should probably get a nipple ring and a face tattoo. If I don't make it to old age, then I'm going to make damn sure that no one will want any part of my body. I may need it when I meet those 100 virgins.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Having a Job is my Vice
An ex-coworker and friend of Lynda's is in town for a few days and staying at a hotel in downtown St. John's. We used the excuse that it was a Tuesday night to ensure he wasn't trapped in his hotel room watching a Miami Vice marathon and having to endure the shouts and curses of the prostitutes peddling themselves. The hooker and john show takes place every evening at a corner or two in the east end of our fair city. To those of you with your heads in the sand, St. John's has it's vices too.
Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week. There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table. It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m. A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub. Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil. Some good though!
With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement." Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days. I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not. It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month. I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice? I'll have to get the union rep to check that out. I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.
Lynda has actually been extremely understanding. Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be. I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way. I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer. I'll stick with this job for a while. I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".
My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children. Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion. He plays not because he has to but because he wants to. Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about. I love witnessing that in people.
It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed. We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners. It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations. We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows. It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate. I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami. I can be patient. I have all night.... I'm retired, again.
Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week. There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table. It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m. A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub. Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil. Some good though!
With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement." Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days. I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not. It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month. I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice? I'll have to get the union rep to check that out. I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.
Lynda has actually been extremely understanding. Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be. I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way. I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer. I'll stick with this job for a while. I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".
My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children. Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion. He plays not because he has to but because he wants to. Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about. I love witnessing that in people.
It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed. We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners. It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations. We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows. It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate. I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami. I can be patient. I have all night.... I'm retired, again.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Baseball, Sombreros and Feelings
I had a rough morning at work. Actually, this morning's episode was the culmination of several weeks of letting my mind wander out to left field. For you non baseball aficionados, left field is where the weakest player usually ends up. That player has the shortest throws to 3rd base and the shortstop, usually the best athlete on the team, is able to get to the balls that are heading to the short left field area. The left fielder can often be seen picking clovers or admiring the shapes being made by the passing clouds. Thus, being out in left field is synonymous with someone who just doesn't have his or her head in the game - they often are in an alternate reality.
Sounds like any of us could be in the major leagues, but even the left fielder has to come to bat at some time during the game. There's nowhere to hide when you're at the plate and the pitcher is winding up. Being a good hitter is as much about confidence and mental preparation as it is about strength, coordination and technique. Perhaps the attributes required of a 300 hitter are the same as for the enjoyment of life. In many respects, like baseball, life is a game. The more we are able to keep things in perspective and realize that we control how we feel about ourselves and our lives, then the better we will be at playing that most important of all games - life. (That's a small l, although my kids really love Life, the board game too. Grown ups run for cover whenever it comes out of the cupboard, either because it takes too long to play or because it reminds of us too much of paths not taken.)
I retired from the RCMP a year ago in order to preserve my mental health or, more accurately, what was left of it. At the end of my career I felt like a baseball player who had already struck out three times in a single game and was stepping to the plate for the forth time against a flame throwing southpaw. Every day, as I headed into the office, I believed the prospects of a fourth strike out, thereby earning the inglorious golden sombrero, loomed large. Negative experience after negative experience clouded out anything that was good about being a cop. I became afraid to make a mistake. I found it tedious to even think about taking the bat off of my shoulder. I became a left fielder who couldn't hit. There was no place for me to hide or be hidden. I went to the bench and warmed it for a while. I evened tried pinch hitting, but the magic never returned. I considered myself washed up. My contract was bought out. I was only too happy to go.
Time is the supposed healer of all. I think this is often true, especially for illnesses of the mind. In some cases though, healing appears to have occurred, but in reality it is only because the passage of time plays tricks on our memories. It is the human tendency to see the past while wearing rose coloured glasses. That would explain why so may athletes attempt comebacks long after the sun has set on their careers. A few months or years removed from the routine and rigors that permeated their lives for decades makes them believe that they can run just as fast as ever, that they are smarter than before, and that they can still catch up to the 95 mile per hour fastball. In reality, few, if any, ever get back the ability or the glory. Despite this fact, every year, there are those amongst us who make the attempt.
I was (am) one of these hopefuls. Four weeks ago I began a temporary job with the province doing regulatory enforcement for the financial services industry, which is comprised of those companies and individuals who are involved in real estate, insurance, and securities. In my mind it was sort of a "cop lite" situation, similar but calorie reduced, so it would be better for me. It would have a similar flavour as policing, but would likely not have the same degree of stressors that gave me such a bad taste at the end of my career. In any event, my term would expire at the end of March and I could then walk away knowing I had fulfilled my obligation.
The first four weeks have been like baseball's spring training. I have slowly been working the cobwebs out and have shaken the rust from the part of my investigator's brain that has been dormant for many months. It has been good to get back into the field and once again toss the ball around with my teammates at my new office. There has been no pressure to put up numbers. For four weeks I have been the Babe Ruth of batting practice, as I easily handled everything thrown my way. As you know, batting practice fastballs are not fast at all. Even chasing down fly balls in left field is easy when it's not in a game situation.
Today was opening day. This morning, I was to commence an investigation involving some possible wrong doing by people in the financial services sector. It was to be my first plate appearance in my first real game since I started on the come back trail. I froze. Worse than that.... the bat was shaking so much in my hands that I could not hold it, let alone think about taking a swing and making contact. The not-so-good memories of my time as a cop returned with a vengeance. I was not ready for the negative emotion that came along with the memories. These feelings are powerful and oh so real. For the last number of years when I was a police officer, I had a recurring dream that I was in a dangerous situation and needed to fire my gun at a bad guy. No matter how hard I tried, I could never muster the strength of actually pull the trigger. The dream would always focus in on my hand and my gun and I would be left wondering why I couldn't do something so simple and that I was so good at in practice. My dream never went any further to explore what happened to me or the bad guy. I never really find out if I'm shooting my gun to save only myself or someone else as well. When I left the RCMP last year, that dream stopped. As I reflect to write this story, I realize that it returned last night.
I've been told by a person, who should know, that dreams don't mean anything. I've also been told by a person, who does know, that I must first deal with the feelings that I am experiencing because of my new job and that dealing with the specifics of the job are secondary to that. Well, where do I start? I have feelings of here we go again, disappointing my family, of anger towards people at my new office, of being trapped in a job that I hate, uncertainty about what my career future will be or should be, guilt for seeming not to have made any progress in my self-understanding during the past three years, and about contributing and bringing enough money home so my family's quality of life is not adversely affected. I want my life to be filled with happiness and worth. I think(?) I need a job that has those qualities as well and is not simply a place where I go for 40 hours a week or is used as a means to an end. Is that unrealistic? Perhaps I'm dreaming. Maybe I've spent way too much time in left field. Maybe I like the view from there.
Sounds like any of us could be in the major leagues, but even the left fielder has to come to bat at some time during the game. There's nowhere to hide when you're at the plate and the pitcher is winding up. Being a good hitter is as much about confidence and mental preparation as it is about strength, coordination and technique. Perhaps the attributes required of a 300 hitter are the same as for the enjoyment of life. In many respects, like baseball, life is a game. The more we are able to keep things in perspective and realize that we control how we feel about ourselves and our lives, then the better we will be at playing that most important of all games - life. (That's a small l, although my kids really love Life, the board game too. Grown ups run for cover whenever it comes out of the cupboard, either because it takes too long to play or because it reminds of us too much of paths not taken.)
I retired from the RCMP a year ago in order to preserve my mental health or, more accurately, what was left of it. At the end of my career I felt like a baseball player who had already struck out three times in a single game and was stepping to the plate for the forth time against a flame throwing southpaw. Every day, as I headed into the office, I believed the prospects of a fourth strike out, thereby earning the inglorious golden sombrero, loomed large. Negative experience after negative experience clouded out anything that was good about being a cop. I became afraid to make a mistake. I found it tedious to even think about taking the bat off of my shoulder. I became a left fielder who couldn't hit. There was no place for me to hide or be hidden. I went to the bench and warmed it for a while. I evened tried pinch hitting, but the magic never returned. I considered myself washed up. My contract was bought out. I was only too happy to go.
Time is the supposed healer of all. I think this is often true, especially for illnesses of the mind. In some cases though, healing appears to have occurred, but in reality it is only because the passage of time plays tricks on our memories. It is the human tendency to see the past while wearing rose coloured glasses. That would explain why so may athletes attempt comebacks long after the sun has set on their careers. A few months or years removed from the routine and rigors that permeated their lives for decades makes them believe that they can run just as fast as ever, that they are smarter than before, and that they can still catch up to the 95 mile per hour fastball. In reality, few, if any, ever get back the ability or the glory. Despite this fact, every year, there are those amongst us who make the attempt.
I was (am) one of these hopefuls. Four weeks ago I began a temporary job with the province doing regulatory enforcement for the financial services industry, which is comprised of those companies and individuals who are involved in real estate, insurance, and securities. In my mind it was sort of a "cop lite" situation, similar but calorie reduced, so it would be better for me. It would have a similar flavour as policing, but would likely not have the same degree of stressors that gave me such a bad taste at the end of my career. In any event, my term would expire at the end of March and I could then walk away knowing I had fulfilled my obligation.
The first four weeks have been like baseball's spring training. I have slowly been working the cobwebs out and have shaken the rust from the part of my investigator's brain that has been dormant for many months. It has been good to get back into the field and once again toss the ball around with my teammates at my new office. There has been no pressure to put up numbers. For four weeks I have been the Babe Ruth of batting practice, as I easily handled everything thrown my way. As you know, batting practice fastballs are not fast at all. Even chasing down fly balls in left field is easy when it's not in a game situation.
Today was opening day. This morning, I was to commence an investigation involving some possible wrong doing by people in the financial services sector. It was to be my first plate appearance in my first real game since I started on the come back trail. I froze. Worse than that.... the bat was shaking so much in my hands that I could not hold it, let alone think about taking a swing and making contact. The not-so-good memories of my time as a cop returned with a vengeance. I was not ready for the negative emotion that came along with the memories. These feelings are powerful and oh so real. For the last number of years when I was a police officer, I had a recurring dream that I was in a dangerous situation and needed to fire my gun at a bad guy. No matter how hard I tried, I could never muster the strength of actually pull the trigger. The dream would always focus in on my hand and my gun and I would be left wondering why I couldn't do something so simple and that I was so good at in practice. My dream never went any further to explore what happened to me or the bad guy. I never really find out if I'm shooting my gun to save only myself or someone else as well. When I left the RCMP last year, that dream stopped. As I reflect to write this story, I realize that it returned last night.
I've been told by a person, who should know, that dreams don't mean anything. I've also been told by a person, who does know, that I must first deal with the feelings that I am experiencing because of my new job and that dealing with the specifics of the job are secondary to that. Well, where do I start? I have feelings of here we go again, disappointing my family, of anger towards people at my new office, of being trapped in a job that I hate, uncertainty about what my career future will be or should be, guilt for seeming not to have made any progress in my self-understanding during the past three years, and about contributing and bringing enough money home so my family's quality of life is not adversely affected. I want my life to be filled with happiness and worth. I think(?) I need a job that has those qualities as well and is not simply a place where I go for 40 hours a week or is used as a means to an end. Is that unrealistic? Perhaps I'm dreaming. Maybe I've spent way too much time in left field. Maybe I like the view from there.
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