Irony

People always tell me that I am being ironic. But honestly, I have never really understood irony very well. When I was a kid, people said I was obnoxious – I just thought irony was the grown up version and left it at that. I do however, understand irony in its sarcastic form, but it becomes a difficult concept to grasp from the perspective of general observation. Many people feel that because something is incongruent, it is automatically ironic. That itself might be ironic of those people, but again, I am not sure. Ironically, I don’t know if stating that I do not understand irony here is ironic or not (I don’t think it is). This is why I named my blog Incongruent Rationalizations and not Ironic Rationalizations, even though the later name might have actually been understood faster by everyone that does not actually understand irony (ironic? I have no idea).  When you are writing about something or anything, it is often important that you eventually point the reader to the actual point that you will be trying to argue in your writing. So, here it is: I think that my life is somehow ironic or at least has hit a patch of irony, because irony is like black ice (Did I get it?).

For over a decade I held my family and myself to a daunting dilatory strategy in which we deferred any and all immediate gratifications in favor of the grand pay-off of our accumulated hard work and sacrifices. I had us all convinced that our immediate hardships and abstinence of standard comforts, material gains and  – I cannot stress this one enough – TIME, would in time reward us in an abundance of all three. This is what is referred to in economics as delayed or differed gratification. It is the argument for investment of any kind (education, time, monetary), in which delaying immediate gratifications will result in long-term or future benefits of greater utility (basically happiness). I let slip by career opportunities with immediate benefits while holding the long-term view that my education would eventually offer an immensely rewarding lifestyle that current opportunities lacked and therefore justify the costs of those opportunities (I want to end every paragraph with a statement about irony, but I cannot find one here).

Then I came down with a touch of brain cancer (a little goes a long way) right when things were beginning to pan out for us, we never actually got to have the material comforts that I continuously professed we would enjoy. But it is still usually easy enough in our deficiencies to manufacture a noble view of materialism and hold to a simplistic style of living, by which all standards of measure still leaves us wanting little in terms of location, entertainment, sustenance and safety. It is time that causes all of the trouble in our current lives. Time we sacrificed to time alone and lost because of a statistical anomaly so minute that it was never factored into the equation. (Dumb luck is probably not ironic though).

It seems that all these shit moments stretch and expand to fill the eons beneath the Planck scale of time where the substance of thoughts exist at the tips of the temporal realm in the absence of physical constraints in naked view of only God and self in an eternal hellish loop of regret and frustration caused from a linear inability to re-posture for a better present position. Did you see that; I touched on physics, God and the fact that deep down, I am a 13 year-old Goth chick with an unconventional Kafka-ish fetish. Now, within each day I have a larger amount of time available to give –although lacking the desired quality - and simultaneously less of those coveted days to give them. Do you see the irony? I am a grown man and a little girl at the same time. And maybe there is some ironic crap about time too. I don’t really understand irony.

So here is the deal. I cannot alter the past and I might not be able to stretch the future as far as I would like for myself to be able to enjoy the grown men that I am currently raising/ruining (it is debatable) or the elegant educated woman that will surely realize her mistake in choosing me if I can only stay around long enough to give her the chance (not giving my wife this opportunity might actually be a win for me though). This gives me the diseased filled present to paint an everlasting image of my glory that will follow my children into the future and prevent my wife from replacing me with…well, anything (maybe my love is ironic).

I have been trying desperately to create memories out of the abundance of immediate time that I have with them that do not highlight my current condition for my children to hold onto (my wife will have to rely on her drunken days of our courting). Ironically, I want them to remember me doing something manly and dangerous (I am not sure I got it right that time – that could be ironic too, I think). So, creating memories in which I still appear manly? There is this blog of course. Then there is their most recent memory of me passing out while attempting to cross the front room and being rushed to the hospital (it is my natural sense of dramatics I real life that gives my writing so much flavor). I now throw the ball underhand-lefty and I continuously ask everyone to slow their pace because it hurts my hip and I cannot keep up. I cannot drive a car, ride a bike, go hiking or swim well enough to be the only adult at the pool when my kids are swimming (my leg attempts to drag me to the bottom sometimes – like Jaws). I am not even strong enough to be abusive. I think that maybe the only manly thing that I am still capable of doing is growing a mustache. (Is ant of that ironic?).

I figured that I would just stumble upon an ending to this post. That did not happen, so I am going to just make something up instead (it’s harder than it sounds). Someone recently told me that the definition of manly is finding something that terrifies you and just doing it. Mike Tyson terrifies me, but I do not think my kids would want to see me doing him or that they would feel that I was very manly afterwards (maybe if I didn’t cry after). I think that nothing is what you expect it to be; unicorns are just deformed semi-retarded goats at backwards carnivals, the most spectacular sunsets are caused by pollution and my life will always be remembered by my unintentional impacts and externalities and not by my intentions.  (Maybe it is my efforts that are ironic, but I doubt it. I will never understand irony).

I'm fine

I’m fine. Those are usually the first words out of my mouth in the morning, because it is always the first question of my day. My inquiring and concerned wife never really believes me, but she respectfully asks me just the same. She monitors me intently for at least fifteen minutes every morning before she decides if I am actually fine and she can begin to move about her day or if I am – in her words – lying like a stubborn-ass because I must think that she is an idiot. But, I’m fine.

Being “fine” is subjective and really means that there is nothing out of the ordinary and no reason for alarm. Take for example seizures. Seizures seem to be a daily hobby of mine; I have had one since typing this (not a joke). They seem to be brought on by a multiple of activities that include any type of straining, intent concentration, anxiety, commotion, physical exertion, etc… Unless I get it under control, I will never be able to vigorously wash in exciting places ever again. We have tried (doctors and I) several seizure medications with varying and terrible results. The first made me so dizzy that I kept falling and smacking my head – not a good idea with a brain tumor and squishy skull. The second one gave me Stephen Johnson’s Syndrome (SJS) – an allergic reaction so severe that it carries a person’s full name (In case you are wondering, SJS causes all of your skin to burn and slough off your face and body). Then there was this last medication that caused me to pass out from internal bleeding and put me back into the hospital with a possible heart condition and a massively annoying heart monitor that I am currently wearing at this moment. I have since decided to (at least for the time being) sustain from the meds and deal with the seizures. The point being that if I have had multiple seizures today, but have not been hospitalized or suffered some maddening, painful or embarrassing reactions, I’m fine.

My normal everyday problems are fairly typical of someone with a brain tumor. They include falling, seizures, headaches, massive ankle, knee, hip and back pain caused from walking on my big toe alone (the only foot muscle in play at this point), stomach issues (also caused from neural paralysis), a weakened immune system and speech and cognitive issues. I am forced on a regular basis to discuss all of these exciting components of my life with my doctors, wife, kids and mom. It is sometimes a difficult thing to bury the emotions of previous conversations ending in a loved one crying over you, in order to allow others in a public or family function the comfort of ignorance. Talking continuously about an illness is tiring and painful. So, when I see you and you ask if I am okay, I’m going to say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

My condition is not without irony though. Despite the fact that I feel like hell and have the athletic ability of Stephen Hawkins, I look better than I did in my 20’s. Paradoxically I am terminally ill, physically handicapped and at the same time, healthier than I have ever been before. I eat right and workout every day. My workouts are an hour long, consisting of working hard for a few minutes and then waiting for the dizziness to pass, before working for a few minutes again (a long and boring process). This results in a bittersweet outcome. On the one hand, I am proud of my accomplishments of becoming healthy and in shape while being sick (I have worked my ass off). But, on the other hand, some people are beginning to question the authenticity of my illness. It is like they need proof; an x-ray, a doctor’s note, a small film of me having a seizure while on the toilet and screaming for help. I cannot tell you how much it sucks to have someone look at you like you are a liar, like you are not allowed to look healthy and still be unemployed. It’s as if all of my hard work and sacrifices to improve my health are being turned on me. I am just trying to get to a point where I can truly say, “I’m fine.”

So, please understand that my situation is extremely personal, often times embarrassing and most of the time depressing as well. I am not trying to be rude, off putting or misleading. When you are sick there is really a fine line between being whiney and being aloof.  If I talk about being sick too much, people think that I am seeking attention. If I do not talk about it that much, people think that I am keeping something from them or that it is really not an issue anymore (depending on the person’s perceptions of me). Honestly, this post is whiney as hell and I should have left it where I started it. Just forget all this and know that, “I’m fine.” 

Teasing

I was not really all that shocked when it was discovered that I had a brain tumor. I think that I had known (or at least had some suspicions) all along. The truth is a lot of people secretly think that they might have a brain tumor – something I learned after my own diagnosis and something I very much enjoy taking advantage of too. “That keeps happening to you and you’re worried? Did it happen to me before I was diagnosed? Yeah actually, it happened all the time. I never thought of that before. You should definitely get that checked out – it sounds like brain cancer to me.” Honestly, I know that I should not play with people that way because having a brain tumor is not like having a broken arm or a gigantic gapping hole in your abdomen; it is almost invisible. It is usually fairly subtle at first and (at least in my experience) causes only gradual and easily excusable symptoms. “Have I always been able to smell colors?  Of course I have, how else would I know that the smell of purple equals four?”

For me, the first sign was a super cool gangsta-lean (limp) that spontaneously developed. I excused it as just a delayed externality of throwing my back out a few months earlier from a manly, dangerous and visually spectacular backyard slip-n-slide accident (if I had not hurt my back during the maneuver, I would definitely have gotten some that night). All of the other signs of having a brain tumor were masked by my lifestyle and the stresses that went along with being me – for all of you that have never been me it is very stressful, at least for me anyway. Uncharacteristic clumsiness along with a diminishing vernacular and cognitive reasoning skills were all chalked up to stress and lack of sleep.

In other words, the problem with figuring out if you might have a brain tumor is that if you think you might have an invisible illness, it is easy to believe that you are just manifesting imaginary problems. Anyone with a moderate imagination has created artificial scenarios of serious challenges involving their own health and safety and that of their families as well. Watch My Life or Life as a house and try not to conjure up any artificial cancer symptoms complete with tear jerking scenarios. Or watch Ransom or Man on Fire and try not to picture your own child being kidnapped; are you already thinking about going on a killing spree with nothing but a steak knife and a print out of Megan’s List? It takes a few moments, hours or even days sometimes, but we eventually stopper the flow of morbid fantasies and snap back to real life. It is exactly the same with real symptoms.

Once you notice a symptom (other than visible things like herpes or missing teeth), you only become temporarily afraid. You make a mental note to see the doctor and then you become accustomed to the symptom and the symptom becomes normal and arbitrary. This might seem strange, but it is essentially the same principle that allows hardcore runners that have learned how to push through enormous amounts of pain for their sport, to continue running while having a life ending heart attack and not notice until it’s too late.  It is human nature really. Anybody that has started to age has had to slowly accept certain limitations and pains that grew as gradually as the elbow skin that has been creeping over the rest of their body. The difference is the ability to look at a photo album or to notice the revolted look on the faces of the neighborhood children (just give them a cookie and they will adjust to your haggard looks). Without some kind of measuring stick and an abrupt and drastic enough deviation, you probably would not be aware that you have become a scary ugo or that you have a life threatening debilitating disease either.

The moment that made me aware that there was something “unignorably” (new word. I made it up. You’re welcome) wrong with me, I had a seizure.  Although, I did not know it was a seizure at first; I thought that I was demon possessed - I played with an Ouija board once and it has haunted me forever. As it turns out I was lucky. I only had brain cancer with no trace of Demon and therefore, no frightening as hell crucifixion masturbation. My doctors have confirmed all of this. I took it better than my wife, who insisted that we were not in the emergency room because of a brain tumor; it was a spasm from throwing out my back. She could not believe that the dumb-ass doctors did not notice my obvious limp (gangsta-lean) when I came through the door.

After drug testing my wife, asking her sanity testing questions and calming her down enough to explain the situation to her, we entered into an exciting new chapter of our lives. Unfortunately we cannot read most of it due to the terrible handwriting of the doctors and the parts we can read, and even more rarely understand, sound very soul crushing and nightmarish while somehow remaining as boring as after school detention. I finally get time off, only to spend it in bed. I have lots more time with my kids; I just can’t play with them. I feel like the moron in a parable; I made a wish with an evil trickster genie that granted it only to show kids that it is extremely fun to fuck my life up for a lesson about… Stealing cookies? Peeing in the shower? My inability to comprehend irony? What?

I guess maybe it has something to do with the fact that I ignored my gut feelings. But most likely, it has absolutely nothing to do with anything at all. It just is. And I will always wish that it just wasn’t. At least I can still tease the hypochondriacs.

Crap talking

I have become an expert on talking crap. I don’t mean bad mouthing others or that I have any type of expert conversational skills either; I literally mean crap, poop, feces, etc… Since being diagnosed with brain cancer it seems the major theme of my hospital and health discussions are overwhelmingly about poop. You’re probably thinking that’s because my brains have turned into poop from the cancer, chemo, radiation and surgery - and if you have been reading my blog at all it is an understandable conclusion for you to come to, but my terrible thinking skills and obvious inability to write coherently are largely unfortunate preexisting conditions due to a shallow and very muddy gene pool; not my current illness. Hence, David’s incongruent rationalizations. At least I think that is why.

Now, when I say talking crap, I do not mean to say that I understand crap and all of its intricacies. I am not in fact, a poop reader of any kind. My physical knowledge of poop stops just beyond the ability to decide if my shoes can be washed or if they need to be thrown away (usually based on location and consistency – grass or walkway, corn or curry based). I am however, proficient enough in talking crap to understand the hospital natives as they jump around excitedly babbling on about it. It is in truth, one of the oldest and purest forms of science.

Originally, poop-study was a prehistoric skill developed and used by Homo-carnivorous for tracking game and shy cavewomen. Eventually Cavemen became so skilled at tracking, catching, killing and eating now extinct creatures that they consequently had too much time on their hands – thus, mischief and daring each other to do gross and painful things was born. “Og, dare you smell this. Giggle, giggle.”And then “Og, dare you eat it,” giggling, laughing out loud and banging clubs on their heads.  Og eventually developed a weird fetish and an amazing ability to distinguish the subtle nuances in people droppings allowing him to become the first medical doctor.

Poop-science is now the prevailing science of medical doctors and nurses everywhere. In fact it now borders on obsession and you can hardly get anyone in the medical field to discuss anything other than your bowels and the precious contents inside. They all seem to want samples in every thing from fun-size cups to king-size containers. The most impatient and aggressive of them actually want to touch the contents prior to expulsion and give you immediate feedback. “It seems that there is blood in your stool.” “Thank you doctor ham-handed knuckle buster, but aren’t you my chiropractor?”

Anyway, talking crap. Learning to talk crap at the hospital is as important as learning to talk hobo at the bus stop or Wal-Mart. It is not so much a language as it is a defense. You learn to not engage the hobo/Wal-Mart shopper, just as you learn not to bait the medical staff with statements that require embarrassing follow-up questions and uncomfortable anal inquisitions that border on Spanish (on a side note, if you just became ill and are going to spend a lot of time in hospital emergency rooms and have never had to ride the bus or shop at a Wal-Mart, it is a good idea to learn to talk hobo as well as crap, because the bus stops at Wal-Mart go directly to the emergency rooms for hobo convenience).

A Quick lesson in crap talk – always say “fine, normal, regular, brown, solid, only just some corn maybe…and peanuts.” Never say “loose, red, sporadic, bearing down or looked like skittles…I think.”

Good luck.

Becoming a blogger

My whole life I have dreamed about becoming a writer – well, sometimes. Actually when I dream, I mostly dream about being a ninja assassin. Tragically, my parents were never killed in a mysterious car accident and I never got taken by a secret group of men that continuously and harshly beat me in an underground training compound until I became physically hardened and emotionally dead; a super cool ninja assassin that hates the whole world and everything it stands for. Oh yeah, and I would be totally ripped too! But no, I just had the stupid normal kind of childhood that causes eating disorders, confidence issues and erectile dysfunction. 

I cannot say that my childhood was not a scary, cold and lonely place though. Or that it did not involve copious amounts of emotional and physical abuse. All childhoods are scary and cause some kind of emotional, physical and even spiritual scarring. If yours did not then you did it wrong and you should go back and try again. This time you can actually be the cool kid, just watch a couple of random movies from the 80’s – it does not matter which ones, they all have the same theme. Only beware, if you actually give a high school girl money to hangout and possibly make-out with you in front of the cool kids in order to win their approval, it will totally work and you will not go to jail either. Even her Dad will understand once you actually explain it. So have at.

My point at the beginning of this article was that I have always wanted to be a writer – sometimes. But, lacking the time, talent and something to write about, I have always put it off. I would talk about it sometimes with my wife and friends.

Me: (Mysterious and contemplative far away look) You know what I would do if I had the time?

Wife: Write?

Me: Porn! (It pisses me off when she interrupts my verbal fantasizing).

Wife: Good. You would make a terrible writer. (She is aware).

Me: I um…(Not witty enough to counter).

Wife: Not witty enough to counter?

Me: You suck! (Eating disorders, confidence issues and erectile dysfunction). 

Having brain cancer has granted me an ample amount of time to write; no excuses. But, unfortunately I do not have the type of brain cancer that John Travolta had in Phenomenon, or I would have better things to write about and you might still be here to read it (I am sure that you bailed when I was talking to my wife, I get it). With nothing to write about and a lot of time to write about it, I find myself day dreaming about being a ninja a lot. And also of living out my dream of wanting to be a writer – but, only sometimes.

Idea Slut

I have always been an idea slut; drunkenly passed around from one idea to the next. That’s not to say that I am an immoral person unable to have a monogamous relationship with the right idea. In fact it is the opposite; I am desperately seeking the ideal idea. So many ideas out there appear stunning, mysterious and reek of adventure. Causing me to immediately fall head-over-heels and hopelessly in love. But then, after you completely open up and allow yourself to commit, to dream of that perfect future with your glorious idea and all of the amazing little ideas the two of you will bring forth and nurture together, the idea changes. I swear it isn’t me. It’s them (the idea's). I am not a commita-phobe and I am not trying to be an idea slut either (because there is always a chance that an idea might have a imaginatively transmitted disease (ITD) and could possibly contaminate future ideas). 

All ideas, it seems, turn out to be something completely different then the picture they gave you while they were courting you. They come along and romance you, inspire you, give you that feeling in the pit of your stomach whenever you think about them and all the joy they will bring you: Wealth, admiration, happiness and the ability to smugly laugh at those who have never had an idea as good as yours. And then not 10 months into the relationship their façade starts to crack and you begin to see their ugly centers. Like being introduced to your fiancées blank faced banjo-playing relatives who’s eyes all seem to be slightly too far apart and the same exact color. Vasectomy, Abstinence or children of the corn? I have no choice – I have to bail!

This has been the story of my life. And it is not fair. My best friend, on the other hand, is an idea whore. Continuously making money from all of the ideas that he expertly seduces and then discards like pieces of corporate trash when he has had his way with them. I cannot act that way though because as I said before, I am a romantic. Lately though, it has become so bad that my smug friends, who are all currently in long term profitable relationships with their ideas, are now giving me advice or trying to set me up with “an old, but very attractive” idea of theirs or a new idea that they just met and are positive “would be perfect for me!” Second hand ideas! Ideas that are obviously not good enough for them! Really? How have I sunken so low?

I have recently found a new idea and have been dancing around a possible relationship: Writing this Blog. I am not sure that we (the Blog and I) are a good match though. This might be because I have been so badly hurt in the past. Or, because I lack the needed skills to write proficiently. But, is it safe to dream though? Is it safe to scribble my most intimate (but still somehow extremely shallow) dreams in a public forum for strangers, and even worse, the people that know me to read at their leisure? Is this my Parris Hilton home porn video (made fun-of, but repeatedly watched in private) or my David Hasselhoff eating a cheeseburger moment (made fun-of and repeatedly watched in with friends)? Or I guess it could be like the Parris Hilton eating a cheeseburger commercial; still just a disgusting display of drunken shame, greasy meat and a messy face, but lacking all the entertainment value of the first two? Whatever.

Thank you for stopping by.

You can go find the Parris Hilton video now. 

Garden Ninja

I have always lived slightly on the reckless side of life. Well, not really, but I would do household chores and errands in super cool and exciting ways that would make me feel manly and athletic while having the added benefits of scaring the hell out of my Mom (and later my Wife) at the same time impressing the neighborhood guys (mostly kids). These impressive feats of agility, strength and a calculating intellect usually involved some sort of extravagant way of dangling from the roof or rafters with an assortment of very necessary power tools for extremely important household fixes, or balancing on a stack of kitchen chairs to place awkwardly heavy and fragile objects in their mandatory assigned

by-me precariously high places. But, my all time favorite and manliest feat of all: Urination Ninja – Operation hateful old ladies rose garden.

Created out of shear necessity by a recipe of beer, yard work, muddy and possibly dog-poopy shoes, a full bladder and a floor-mopping wife that would not reward my painstakingly hard work in the yard if  I soiled her floors. The dangers were a combination of passerby neighbors and traffic, an extremely grumpy and very deserving old hag and of course the obvious dangers of exposing your genitals to one of the harshest and pointiest environments known to mankind: A rose garden. Turning quickly would be end game and I would end up looking like a crying fisherman posing next to the extremely tiny minnow that he just hooked through mouth and out the head.

I think that this attitude of suburban daredevil-ism is a holdover from our prehistoric instincts of battling the harsh elements of nature; weather, wolves, saber-tooth tigers, or the rare pack of vicious wild migratory poodles (which was by far the most embarrassing way that a prehistoric man could die). Brain cancer though, has changed everything. What were once common and non-issue activities, like taking a shower while not slipping, is now a deadly and terrifying task that has left me several times bleeding and moaning in a heap on top of the fractured pieces of toilet that I broke with my head and shoulders (ironically, it was head and shoulders shampoo that I slipped on).

What used to be a relaxing and enjoyable place of soap and sin has become a death trap. Just about every mundane activity that you can think has become dangerous; stairs, rugs, small moving children and dogs, walking in general, getting out of the car next to a curb, a slope of any angle in any direction and pretty much any activity that is not sitting in a lounge chair, and this also includes getting out of a lounge chair. The excitement and entertainment of innocently manufactured dangers that I so continuously sought after to break up the dull repetitions of every day life in my youth of literally just a couple of years ago are now embarrassingly scary and nightmarish. I have in the span of a few painful moments been transformed from my young mildly daring self into the male caricature of my crotchety old neighbor with the rose garden that grew disgusting flowers that smelled like asparagus.

My Name is David

Well, this is going to be my new Blog, a place of narcissistic babble that attempts to externalize my rational in a coherent and semi-competent stream of thought for remedial purposes. So let’s let the healing begin.

My name is David, and I have brain cancer. It’s honestly very weird to say it that way. I want to say, “My name is David, and I have a self inflicted illness that is a direct consequence of a previous daring, brave or even just a moronic action that I performed of my own free will and therefore had at least attempted to enjoy the “Blank” that has forever impaired my physical and intellectual abilities. I might be dieing faster, but at least I am very ill.

Maybe I should analyze this from a spiritual tit-for-tat karmic kin of view; if “My name is David” was a television show, my bad karma list would look something more akin to Schindler’s list then Earl’s. Or I can have a Biblical kind of “the sins of the father” thing, but my Dad has a heart condition and the guilt might make his heart feel a little guilty. Also, I can’t blame it on God, because I am afraid of him.

I guess the first thing that I will say about cancer is that cancer makes you take a really hard look at your current life and come to what I believe must be the universal conclusion for all those that have cancer. That is “I don’t really want to have cancer”. After that, the rest of the dribble that pours forth is just a bunch of garbage that you spout to your family and friends about how you have discovered the importance of relaxing and about your new found insights gained from the knowledge that you are possibly dying, at least faster than the people around you. Truth be told, I have not found any perspective from being ill, other than, I just don’t like being ill.

Maybe the hardest part though, is that plans are a thing of the past and all goals become crushed and distorted by time and physical constraints. I am in the process of figuring out which goals have to be abandoned completely and which ones can be modified or only partially accomplished.

Did I mention that this Blog is supposed to be my humorous and light-hearted diary of having soul crushing brain cancer and the hilarious situations that I find myself in? No? Wait until you read next weeks post about my dexamethasone (steroid) induced hunger rage, a beaten child and a brownie.

Test Post

Test post

If I were to say something brilliant, which is probably not going to happen until my thirty-something post (thirty second post to be specific), it would go right here -- if I am still around-- (I don't mean dead, I mean still writing)[what are these for?] {these ones must be for math or something} if you come back later I will write something misspelled and gramaticaly wrong, possibly funny and sure to be personal enough to be humiliating for anyone that has to say "That's my Dad."You are welcome kiddo's.