Rising: Easter 2014

Dormont Presbyterian.... where I grew up

I have heard it at least three times in the past week. "Where do you go to church, now?"

Were they being curious? Kind? Offering an invitation? Making conversation? Whatever the case, the Communion of the Saints have been much on my mind lately.

Last night at midnight, I found myself online, looking for an Easter service. There's a little church in my neighborhood. I run right past it several times a month. A couple of the people in my classes at the Y worship there. Nothing to wear, though. I could handle being the only stranger. And I've gone to enough funerals in the neighborhood to be OK with being the only single white man in church. But sitting in the back row in khakis and a sport coat, wearing a shirt that needs ironing and shoes that are coming apart... it just seemed disrespectful to me.

There was a church once. (Not the one in the photo.) One I belonged to for years. The only place I ever really felt as if I belonged.  They made room for the kind of sinners, losers, failures and sons of bitches that Jesus used to hang out with. So, when I first arrived, there was a place for me, too. I went to their web site last night to see what time services were. I remembered a place where it didn't matter what you wore or how badly you'd screwed up your life, you could belong there.

And I remembered how much it hurt to watch a handful of angry people start to rope off the pews and lock up the side doors and back entrances. I fought them for as long as I could. Fought for the Gospel that had first welcomed, and then transformed me. Fought for the people who had found a church home for the first time in their lives. Before my fight was over, I wound up in a mental hospital. We lost. We lost the battle. We lost our home. I still believe that God lost, too.

But God will be fine. If Easter teaches us nothing else, we can be certain that God has a way of bouncing back.

Me? I'm not so sure about. And my church home? Judging from their web site, there is a thriving, loving community there now... but the my kind of trouble makers are gone. The people like me. The place that welcomed me is gone. I know the address, but there's no way back there for me. I drive a 14 year old Honda, not a time machine.

There have been other churches. Places where I was loved. Communities that offered me a place to rest or worship or serve. But my trust was gone. I didn't belong anywhere.

I know that's one of the reasons why it was love at first sight between me and the Y. I recognized the spirit of Christ there. Jesus was the woman whose bright smile and open eyes welcomed me on my first visit.  He comes there in bells and sneakers to dance in Zumba class. He arrives, laughing too loudly and covered with jailhouse tattoos to workout with the recovering addicts from across the railroad tracks, and tears up the weight room with them after supper to help them sweat out their demons. Jesus jumps into the deep water, helping his classmates to be brave and try, even if they are only 5 or 6 years old. He drops his children off at the Kids' Corner so he can go shoot some hoops with his buddies. And every now and then, on a dark winter morning, he limps in on frozen feet, and asks for a cup of coffee and a chance to sit down someplace warm before all the good, clean people who are so frightened of him start coming in to exercise before work. In some ways, those are my favorite visits.

I have sat in the lobby with Jesus on those days when it seemed like the sun was never going to come up and our lungs were never going to thaw, and he would tall me stories. Parables, maybe. About his family and how they had died or thrown him out because of his drinking. About the fortunes he had won and lost out at Keeneland over the years. The men he knew in the war. About how he could never live up to his father's standards or live down the heartbreaks of his past or find the love that would make him feel whole again. Once he told me about the years he spent serving as President of the World, and how he and General MacArthur saved the planet from nuclear annihilation. Just last week, he handed me a stack of pages torn from a children's coloring book and asked me if I would make him some copies to take back to the group home with him. It was the least I could do.

But every now and then, in a quiet moment, I'll ask him, "Lord, isn't there more? More for me to do? More for me to have? More for me to be?"

And every time, his answer is the same. "Pennsy, do you love me?"

After all we've been through together, it always hurts to hear him ask it.

"Lord, you know I love you!"

"Pennsy, if you love me, feed my sheep."

And that's how I know that I have found a place. Because here, where I might least expect to find them, the place is packed with Jesus' hungry sheep. I know, because I'm one of them.

You know, it's funny. This started out as a blog post about how sad I was that I didn't have a church home to worship in this Easter. Then right in the middle of the thing, Jesus shows up, smelling like a bus station men's room, and reminds me that he didn't have one either. Last Sunday, Passion Sunday, Christians waved palm leaves and sang Hosannas, and read a story about a man who was driven so crazy by what was going on in church that he started beating people up and busting the furniture. He made the wrong people very angry. And they made sure there would never be a place there for him there again.

So he found another place. One that no door could keep him away from. He rolled away the stone. Behind it, he found the world. He found you and me.

I'm not saying you can't find Jesus in a church pew. I'm not saying he doesn't go there or bless the people who do. But just like in Heaven, there are many mansions in the world. And while I miss the smell of lilies and the sound of organ music and trumpet voluntaries and the warm embrace of a hundred whispers of "The Peace of the Lord Be Always With You..." Even though I miss those things... I am grateful.

My heart may feel heavy as a stone sometimes, but there is no stone so heavy that the Love of Christ can't roll it out of the way to throw open the door and let the love pass through. And the only thing I am sure of is that when the tomb is opened, I will not find what I expect inside.

It is always so much more wonderful than I can ask or imagine. Once, I even met the President of the World.

The day of resurrection! Earth, tell it out abroad;
The Passover of gladness, the Passover of God.
From death to life eternal, from earth unto the sky,
Our Christ hath brought us over, with hymns of victory.

Our hearts be pure from evil, that we may see aright
The Lord in rays eternal of resurrection light;
And listening to His accents, may hear, so calm and plain,
His own “All hail!” and, hearing, may raise the victor strain.

Now let the heavens be joyful! Let earth the song begin!
Let the round world keep triumph, and all that is therein!
Let all things seen and unseen their notes in gladness blend,
For Christ the Lord hath risen, our joy that hath no end.

The Lord is risen, indeed. Happy Easter, y'all.

Peace,
Pennsy

The Final Chapter Begins

Two heads with pieces missing

Four years. It doesn't seem real, somehow. Four years ago today, the doctor and Mrs P and I sat in a room and decided that my life was in imminent danger from a fast growing mass that threatened to cut off the flow of blood to my brain, and crush my larynx. Basically, my body was strangling itself.

Two days later, the diagnosis came. The Amazing Cancer Boy was born.

I'm not going to tell the whole damn story again. If you're interested, the links to the right will take you through the entire adventure. It's a story that has taken over my life, defined every waking moment since that morning, for good and for ill.

"How do you feel?" a friend asked today. "You should feel great."

On the phone, Mum agreed. "I think you should, too."

Yeah. I should.

Somebody said to me once, maybe only half-joking, "You know, you were a lot more fun before you became a national treasure."

It was a joke. I know. But life is certainly different.

The Amazing Cancer Boy

Better in a lot of ways. I got to experience an outpouring of love that most people don't get until they are dead. I know what resurrection really means. I've experienced it. Several times. I have a purpose for my life, and a place to fulfill it, thanks to LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. I'm not sure I've ever had that feeling before... knowing that I'm doing something that is making a measurably positive difference in people's lives every day. I have done things physically, athletically even, that I never even dreamed of doing before I was sick. And maybe best of all, I have had the chance to know and love my mother in a way that might never have happened if we had not spent all those hours together laughing, crying, working crosswords, and pumping protein drinks into me through a rubber hose.

But in a lot of ways... well, it's hard to put into words. Resurrection has its price. My teeth are gone. And yeah, I miss them every day. My thyroid is dying, cooked by hours and hours of radiation. I have to take pills by the fist-full, and still I get so tired, so easily now. And so very sad sometimes. It's hard for me to remember things, especially when I try to memorize lines for a play.

Mrs P and Me in "happier"days

And there are other costs. Much more painful ones. I have loved and lost so many brave cancer fighters in the last four years. Been to way too many funerals. I've lost my family. Half of it, anyway. My dogs. My home. My best friend and the love of my life. The woman who fed me and cleaned me and mopped up my puke and kissed away my tears. Who gave me a reason to keep fighting for life. Can I blame cancer for all that? I don't know. Maybe not. But maybe without it, things might have been different. I know that at some point I went over a very important edge. I stepped into a place where even the woman who loved me most could not follow. And I know that cancer had a lot to do with my going there.

So yeah, I guess I'm glad to be alive. Being alive means I have a chance to... what? Make a difference? Heal? Find love again? Be whole, whatever that means? I don't know. All I know is that it's getting to be time to turn the page.

Five years. They throw a pile of numbers at you when you have cancer, but one of the biggest is five years. When we met the radiation oncologist, Mrs P and Mum and I, one of us asked my prognosis. "50%" the doctor answered. "50% of the people with your kind of cancer will live for 5 years." I remember seeing my mother cry at that. Five years. And no reason to think I'm not going to be one of the lucky ones. "Heads. You live." So that's how long he has left. One more year. One more chapter left in the tale of The Amazing Cancer Boy... the real-life boy who didn't die. In twelve months, I can close the book, put him to rest, and get on with whatever the rest of my life is going to be.

I've already registered for a marathon in May to celebrate my new life. I'm going to keep running. Don't really have any plans beyond that. I'm going to keep acting. I'm going to keep writing. .I'd like to be able to make a living again, so I'm not at the mercy of the docs and the shrinks and the Social Security Administration for my income. Maybe I can write and star in one-man shows about running.

I'd like to get on with all that. And in a way, I am. But in another sense... it's hard to explain... it's like I have one more year left to serve... my term?... my sentence?... maybe both. All I know is that I'm not going to really feel free until April 16, 2015.

Of course, there's a downside too. Without cancer, there'll be nobody left to blame but myself. I'll have lost the greatest excuse in the world. I'll be on my own.

And in some ways, that's even scarier that a tumor.

As for Cancer Boy? Well, there are some advantages to being a Minor Local Celebrity... It can be very good for the ego. But to be perfectly honest... I'm getting kind of sick of the son of a bitch.

New Years: Goodbye 13, Hello 14

I apologize for the length of this post... I really did intend to break it up, but it all just sort of poured out at once, a little like pulling off a band-aid. Anyway, if you choose to ride along to the end of the track, I hope it's worth the trip.
Pennsy

Lessons learned are like bridges burned
You only need to cross them but once
Is the knowledge gained worth the price of the pain?
Are the spoils worth the cost of the hunt?
Lessons Learned ~ Dan Fogelberg

Some pretty important bridges burned for me in 2013. And to be honest, I've stared at the places where they used to be for just about long enough. It's time to turn my eyes away from the shadows and back toward the light. But first, one last long look. There are a few pearls I don't want to leave lying in the mud.

January - New Year, new goals.
Get that personal trainer certification. Run a thousand miles this year. Raise $6000 for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. Grow the program into new locations. Take Martha on a real vacation. Get faster and stronger. Finish my second marathon. 

I learned the joy of knowing where you want to go, and sticking to your plans to get there. 

February - Goodbye old man
Brady, the majestic old Golden Retriever who greeted us when we first moved into our new house, who started staying with us one rainy day when his dad had to work and wasn't home to let him inside, who had been growing a little more stiff and tired with each passing winter day, turned and snapped as me one night as I tried to comfort his aching hips with a gentle massage. He was in so much pain that he couldn't stand. I lifted him in my arms, and carried him across the yard to his dad and we wept together for this old friend who had so touched both of our hearts. Brady was never "my dog," but he took a piece of my heart, and left a bit of himself in its place. 

God bless you, old man. You taught me dignity and friendship, even in suffering. I was going to need those lessons sooner than I could have known.

March - Living Strong
After training hard with Coach Carrie for months to build core strength and increase my speed, I launched my Fundraiser and my spring racing season with a bang. Lowered my time in the Shamrock Shuffle 3K by a ridiculous 3:40. Finished the month with another PR in the Run The Bluegrass Half Marathon in the best shape of my life. Accepted a new position as head trainer of the first LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program in Scott County. 

I learned how perseverance and commitment could make me better than I ever imagined I could be.

April - It all goes to shit
I notice my Blood pressure readings are steadily increasing. The doc sees me right away and orders me to stop running until we can learn if the new meds will stabilize me. I'm running a marathon in three weeks. 

At a YMCA workshop I overhear a conversation that was not meant for my ears, and learn that my friend, mentor, and beloved Coach Melissa is leaving for a new job. In two weeks. I go home, tell Martha the news, and begin crying, almost without interruption for the next month. I increase my therapist visits from once a month to twice a week.

Once the doc gives the go ahead, I'm back on the road. piling up miles, my pre-race training schedule shot to hell. 

There are tearful meetings at the Y. Attempts at business as usual. Attempts to say goodbye. Attempts to teach a new class. All dissolve into tears. I ask for, and am granted an indefinite leave of absence from the best job of my life, afraid I will never be able to return. 

At their annual banquet, the YMCA of Central Kentucky gives me an award for service. I am so ashamed.
Coach leaves. 

The marathon is a blur. I cry as I run in the rain, feeling as lonely as I ever have in my life. Mrs P is trapped in traffic, and doesn't get to see me finish. I wander the streets of Cincinnati, feeling as if even God has forgotten where I am. 

The next day, Martha tells me the family suspects I must be having an affair because I'm so upset over Coach leaving. She hasn't felt me caring about her that much in years. She's had enough, and says we need to separate. It's been a long time coming. 

I don't learn a god damned thing in April.

May - Numb
The crying jags get a little farther apart. I desperately want to return to the Y, but the boss and the shrink both think I need more time to recover. 

Packing. Drinking. Weeping. Begging. Posting painful, inappropriate, damaging blogs.... Taking them back down. 

A few tearful phone calls. Tell Mum. Tell my sister. Tell my best friend. Tell Coach. Our last real conversation. 

Apartment hunting, praying for one that will let me have a dog. 

Coach Carrie calls to tell me she's taking another job and leaving the Y. She didn't want me to find out from someone else. I am so grateful to her for her kindness, that I weep: this time for joy. I contact the boss. So ashamed of failing the program. Without Carrie, they are going to need me back. I need them more than air. He suggests I try to work my way back into things slowly, starting with the LIVESTRONG session that has already started. For the second time that week, the tears are for joy and gratitude. I swear to myself that I will not let the Y down again.

I learn that the people I work with - with their gentle,loving, forgiving spirits -  are among the greatest gifts God has ever given to me.

June - Bachelorhood
So, this is my apartment. Nice view of North Broadway. Nice neighbors. A little loud, but kind and welcoming. So close to the Y, I can walk there. No pets allowed. Haven't slept without a cat in years. Keep seeing Jake in the corner of my eye. 

Less crying. Less drinking. 

A chance to teach SilverSneakers, an aerobics class for seniors comes my way. I leap at it, studying the choreography furiously. I will not fail my coaches this time. 

Martha and I settle into an amicable separation. We talk. We visit. We consider the possibilities. I lie in the bed we shared for so many years. staring at the empty walls. What just happened? What comes next? I thought I would die without my wife. 

I learn that I won't.

July - Funerals
It has been a season of death for the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family. More funerals in the a few months than the first two years combined. Some I never met. Some I loved like sisters. The dark suit is in and out of the closet every couple of weeks, it seems.Coach Marian and I are asked to say a few words for our friend Becky. A joyful warrior. She survived her first encounter, but not her second. She loved her friends, her family, and the Y. The paper says she "lost her battle with cancer." I am furious. I tell her loved ones, "don't you believe it." Cancer took her life, but never touched her spirit. I saw her without energy, without strength, without connection to the reality around her... but I never saw her without her joy. I never saw her without love. Cancer killed my friend. But it never won. 

I learned that no challenge, no matter how relentless and cruel, can take away our heart if we refuse to let go of it.

August - Reality sinking in
The fifth would have been our 24th anniversary. The papers haven't been drawn up, but already, it's starting to feel like the chances of going back are fading. 

Mum makes her annual summer visit. She has her poodle, Cujo with her, so she can't stay with me. She is at what I've already started thinking of as "Martha's house," and I go over for uncomfortable visits. It's difficult for all of us. Mum is confused. Wants to help. But there's nothing for her to do except to love us both. It's what she does best. The morning of her return to Pennsylvania, she and Cujo visit my apartment. We both cry a little, and she hugs me for a long time. 

Late in the month, I get a letter from Social Security telling me that my Disability Benefits will end in October. I try to kill myself, but chicken out at the last moment, thinking about how someone would have to call my mother and tell her. 

It took me too damn long to figure it out, but my Mom is the most faithful friend I've ever had. 

September - Lights on the horizon
At lunch with Eric from Actors' Guild, he tells me he wants to produce King Lear, and he wants me to play the king. Looks like a November opening. At the Y, a job is opening up for a water fitness instructor. I speak to the Aquatics Director, and send him my resume. 

Therapy is going well. We've stepped down to meeting every two weeks. 

I run what will be my last race of the year with my friend LaDonna and an infuriatingly pokey kid from the Y's Run This Town program who seems to have chosen this morning to decide that she doesn't want to run, hates running, and will never run again. I am even more stubborn than she is. I refuse to leave her behind, and we finish the 8K with her sprinting angrily ahead, and me trotting in as the very last finisher of the race. I skip the awards ceremony because I have to rush off to a rehearsal, and a few weeks later, I receive a medal in the mail. I finished third in my age group. 

October - An Actor's life
Two mornings a week I teach in the pool and in the Aerobics studio. Two nights a week, I coach LIVESTRONG.... And the rest of my waking hours are all about King Lear. 

There are so many lines. More than I've had to learn in years. More than ever, maybe. I work through the play twice, sometimes three times a day, trying to get them to stick in my brain. The cast is young. So very young. I barely know any of them. A couple of old friends, and the rest of them are young and beautiful and talented and I feel like a visitor from another planet among them. They know music I've never heard of. Speak in language I don't recognize. They smell like youth and life and sex and joy. And they work their asses off. Once, when I was touring with the National Shakespeare Company, for just a few months, we found an ensemble, an organic company that fit together so tightly that i wanted to act together with them for the rest of my life. That's what this company is starting to feel like to me. I can't wait to get to rehearsals with them. I rush to be early, just so I can sit back sagely and enjoy their laughter and stories. 

Holy shit. Out of nowhere. I'm an actor again. 

And somehow, in spite of all the changes, I learn that I always will be.

November - Riding the bi-polar roller-coaster
A long interview in the paper about the play. The writer was very generous and kind. Just a brief mention of our separation and nothing about my recent nervous breakdown. 

As opening night approaches, I am exhausted, and a nervous wreck. 

I'm going to suck. I'm going to let the kids down. A dear friend tells me she won't be attending the play because she saw a great production of it once, and doesn't want to ruin the memory.

Mum is coming. Martha is coming. People from my classes and my running group and my LIVESTRONG family and God knows who else - class mates from grad school who I haven't seen since 1985, for God's sake - and I am playing the role of a life time and I have absolutely no business doing it. 

I become irritable. Mumbling under my breath. Bitchy in the dressing room. I'm an asshole during notes after rehearsals. 

And all around me, these beautiful young actors, for whom I have tried to set such a good example.... they remain positive and focused and supportive. The believe in the show. They believe in me. Their courage gives me courage. We open and run for two impossibly short weeks. 

After strike, I'm inconsolable. I feel as if I've lost my family again. Deep, deep depression this time. A bad one. But I will not give in. I say my prayers. I sleep. And I teach at the Y. I will not fail my people again. I have promises to keep.And I keep them. 

Thanksgiving alone passes without the pain I feared, and I learn that I'm stronger, more loved, and more blessed than I knew.

December - Advent and redemption
So then, here we are. I've called 2013 the worst year of my life, and I'm sticking to it. If you'd told me what was coming, and given me the choice between that and a relapse of my cancer, I would have taken cancer. Absolutely. But here I stand. The devil missed me again. 

In December some pretty wonderful things happened. I made some new friends, and reconnected with some old ones, both online and in real life. 

The people in my classes offered me much kindness and love for Christmas. And I enjoy them with an affection that is both devoted and professional.

I've heard a lot of words about myself over the years, but this month, for the first time I heard these two: "Mentor" and "Father figure." I was shocked and humbled to imagine that people saw me in such a light. It just never occurred to me. But to be considered someone who is safe to talk to, who can be trusted, whose life has given them something like insight or wisdom... It really rattled my cage. I'm still sorting it out, but I think it's going to be the catalyst for some positive changes in the way I look at the world, and myself. 

Therapy is helping a lot. I'm starting to make more and more sense to me. My shrink needn't worry about his cash flow, though. I have a feeling we're gonna be together for a long, long time. 

My physical conditioning is shot to hell. My first line of defense against depression is always food, and I have loaded on the pounds this year. It's going to be a long way back, but I'm gonna do it. I know I can. I've done it before. 

Christmas alone wasn't easy. I'm not going to lie to you. Several people invited me to join them and their families, and I gratefully declined. I chose to go it alone this year. I figured if I could get through this, I could get through anything. And I got through it. Not as gracefully as I would have liked, but not nearly has badly as I feared. Santa didn't come to my house this year. But Jesus did, and we spent the day together. We had a long, serious conversation. Both of us had a lot to get off our chests.

There are good days and bad days. That's just life in the Bipolar Nation. Today is a good day, and the future looks full of hope for me. I've started gettingt back into racing shape. I'm finally reading Great Expectations. I'm using more tools in the kitchen than the freezer and the microwave. And someday, when I'm ready, and the time is right, I'd like to be in love again. But in the meantime. I've got work to do. some wise person posted on Facebook one day and I'm paraphrasing: 

"Don't worry about finding the right woman. Work on becoming the right man." 

God has saved my life again, from yet another fatal disease: depression. He keeps doing that.I figure he must have something in mind. Whatever it is, I want to be ready when it comes. Whether that's love, work, a marathon, or just being at the right corner at the right time... I want to be ready. And for all the grief it's caused me, this year will have made me more ready than I was before.

I don't think I'll ever look back at 2013 and laugh. But today, with just one day left of this annus horribilis, I can still look to heaven and say "Thank you." 

It's good to be alive.

Peace, and Happy New Year!
Pennsy.