The Unbridled Joy of DNR

I was in a quandary, facing the DNR decision again. In the end, it was easy and so liberating I could sing like Sarah Gabriel. (You know, you could sing like Sarah – all you have to do is release all doubt, fill your lungs with Faith and Joy, and let ‘er rip.)

Sometime yesterday, facing a heart catheter, I began to regret the decision to permit rescue if my heart stopped again. For all the things I have to live for (and they are many, including sending Monte the $50 I owe him), dyin is not the worst that could happen. All I needed to do is write a Last Words document. Once done (and it’s groovy), I’m more or less ready. I still need to address the to-do list, and manage the medical conditions, but bring it on…

It’s not such a big decision. I am going to die, hopefully not today, but eventually. Between now and then, I will have good days and bad days, I will feel good and I will feel bad. But I will feel, baby, I will feel it all the way.

DNR is easy to decide when you’re popping a 150 bpm heart rate, about to throw up, coughing incessantly and pissed off. Let it go, man, enough of this. Of course, if you’re deep in a conversation with a grand child or other good friend, if you are rocking out on a solo, you wanna be saved, please gimme more of this life. If morning meds will let me live more of this, pay the copay and pop the pills. If by-pass gets me out of a traffic jam or two, go on round.

On the other hand, when the moment come, there it is.

That’s not my last words – we all have to wait for those until it’s time. But if heart lungs brain have stopped, that’s it. No matter when, what or where, There. It. Is.

Truth vs. Real

Shit happens. You get sick, fall down, lose stuff, experience life. Without friends and family, the odd incident would merely pass, unmentioned. Inevitably, your partner comes home, a friend calls to check in, you go to a meeting, drinks or an event. They ask that question, and you are faced with a decision: are you going to tell the Truth, or the Real Story? 

Facing this dilemma, I often leave it up to the interrogator, but they nearly always choose the Truth. Big mistake. The Real Story is always more entertaining, and often contains clever life lessons to direct your steps. 

I discovered The Real Story when quizzed by Eric Simpson’s kid at a party shortly after the ventricular fibrillation that killed me in May 2010. She asked about the death experience. I told her the Truth: I was completely unaware – no bioflick flashing before my eyes, no glowing light. Here one moment, gone the next. I kind of regretted not having a better experience to share.

A few weeks later, the Mason family were at the house. As they were leaving, Leah asked the same question. I was ready.

Now, Randy Newman recorded a similar story, and so I am pretty sure The Real Story has validity.

I was in a meeting at esd&associates and I heard, “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh” in perfect harmony. Three French Algerian backup singers stood before me, grabbed me outta my chair and we whooshed away.

We landed in a musky old. garage studio, complete with cardboard egg cartons. Looked like Lubbock to me. Jerry Garcia, Jimi Hendrix and Craig Wiley sat on stools in front of Keith Moon’s drums. The guitars were locked away in some sort of A minor jam. John Entwistle was in the opposite corner – I was on the right side, standing behind a Hammond B-3 with twin wood Leslie cabinets whirring away. I fell into a full-chorded rhythm and Keith yelled, “gary! We been waitin’! We need some pad under the guitars.” 

I looked around the room, did my best to keep up, did pretty good. Jerry passed a segue to me, and I launched into a winding solo. I took one chorus, but passed on the next, sending it on to Craig. Finally, we wound it down. “Nice,” Entwistle said. 

I was suddenly struck by the players. “Aw fellas,” I said in a moment of doubt, “I need a lot more woodshed before I play this garage.” The whoosh came back and I woke up in the hospital. Dude, you can’t sing and doubt at the same time. If you get a chance, take it and play. Heaven is no place for cowards.

So, as you can see, don’t let your friends choose between Truth and Real. On Friday, June 2, I tripped and rammed my forehead into a wall. There was no lasting damage, but I sported a racoon face for a few weeks. That kind of cosmetic prompt calls the question again. Both Terry and I had good Real Stories to explain the bruising.


Terry: “I told him and told him, don’t EVER say that again.”

The Real Story, written by Adonis Yoda: “Sittin round, passin one with da boyz. Tyson was just about passed out, and stopped the flow with a loooong Bogart. I told an old hippie joke: “Hey Mike, you know what body part was most discussed in the Sixties?” Tyson looked up and said “What?” I took the roach from his hand, took a toke, passed it back to him. “‘Ere'” I said. I had no idea he was so sensitive about that…”

You got your own Real Stories. Next time I check in, don’t waste The Truth on me.

VIA Bus: Carless in San Antonio

My father did not approve of very much of anything I did while he was alive, and while I recognize a few accomplishments, in retrospect I agree with many of his objections. But now, he would be entirely disgusted.
Dad was attached to his cars. During his last few stays in the hospital, he made sure his car was in the parking lot, preferably someplace he could see it from his room. For my dad, car ownership and the liberty provided therein was part of being a man. My dad also knew I was very tough on cars. Still, when Rocinante died last summer, I sold her for parts. I drove Cat’s car until we split up in January. I have been busing since Jan. 1.
I like many things about busing. I can read, make calls, text and ride (more abut bus wifi below) just to watch the city go by (did you know we have a Snowden street? I wonder if it’s named after hero Edward.) Two excellent advantages: my transportation costs are $17.50 a month plus the occasional taxi for client meetings and staying out late; and second, I have lost a lot of weight.
There are two W words involved in the busing lifestyle. When you ride the bus, you will walk, and you will wait.
The bus is not door to door, and the stop might be a considerable distance between you and your destination. If it’s rainy, there’s a third W – you will get wet. An umbrella helps, but it’s still wet.
Waiting is inevitable. There are tools – Google maps, Via’s real time bus text system – that help you time your departure, managing at least one wait during your trip. When you transfer, the text system will tell you how long you are going to wait.

Some transfers have a distance between your stop and the transfer point. That’s when you discover the dreaded once-an-hour buses. I often land about seven minutes after the bus has passed; a couple of times I would be on the trek to a connection, and two blocks from the stop, the connecting bus sails past. Those just-missed buses are ALWAYS one per hour routes.
All of the Transit Centers have wifi, the UTSA Park and Ride at 10 and 1604 has a healthy signal. The Express buses (best in the fleet) and Primo have wifi. It’s cellular wifi, so I don’t use it for Netflix, but I can check mail and play Words with Friends, Facebook, Twitter, the usual suspects.
A special delight are bus routes that go precisely where I need to go. One of the two buses that pass the apartment goes through the Medical Center Transit Center (connects to Primo, which goes directly to Brady Green, my doctor’s office) then drives past the pharmacy then to MARC, the cardiologist’s office. The other bus goes to Crossroads, where I can catch an Express downtown or UTSA. To get to Al Rendon’s, I take either bus and connect to the Woodlawn, which passes through downtown to stop 1 block from his studio.
Other destinations can be more challenging, but one can reach anyplace in the city, with Google maps outlining the route for you. Out of town, particularly nearby locations, such as Boerne or San Marcos, are out of the question.
When you don’t drive, you don’t drive through, and it is much less convenient to drop in to the convenience store, and my junk food quotient dropped precipitously. Combine the fast food deprivation with walks to the bus, and I have lost nearly 50 pounds.
Dating is impossible. Even the most liberated woman wants a dancer and a driver. I can almost dance – I need some more practice to chance holding a woman in my arms for two-step or a waltz, but until then, I am very insecure about trying. While I am a nice man, not addicted, with manners and respect (somewhat uncommon among my demographic), car-lessness is not good. And anytime I feel the urge to invite someone for dinner or an adventure, Daddy’s standing over my shoulder asking me what kind of man calls a woman expecting her to drive.
I turn around and lay out for my dad the attributes described above – I am a gentleman – and proclaim my uniqueness, my ability to focus on the person I am with, the words I write that they never forget. That guy might take 2 hours to get somewhere, but he’s not a bad sort, and he sends interesting mail.

Training Part 1

The first time I rode the train was 41 years ago, traveling from le ave in San Antonio through Kansas City to Indianapolis, where I was attending DINFOS. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to find the train stopped. I went back to sleep. The train was late enough that I finished my journey on bus. I don’t buy a train ticket to ride the bus.
I should not have been surprised, then, to experience a series of unfortunate delays on the Texas Eagle between San Antonio and Chicago.
First, we stopped south of Fort Worth while crews moved a broken freighter off the tracks ahead of us.
In Fort Worth, an injured worker on our train necessitated a visit from an ambulance and EMTs. We were told there would be no lounge car service for the remainder of the trip.
Once a train is off schedule, it needs to accommodate other traffic to keep them on time. So we would frequently stop until we found our rescheduled place in queue.
The travel itself was quite pleasant. The legroom in coach is expansive, with a tray table that pulls out. I was transcribing interviews and – since there was no one sharing my space) able to use both tables and work productively. I slept ok, including naps, though I lost my sleep mask early in the trip. I woke at 4 a.m. Thursday morning and went to the observation car to try shooting video of the sunrise.


I worried about whether we would make our connection in Chicago, where I would change to the Cardinal and travel to Indianapolis. My previous schedule said there would be a 3-4 hour layover in Chicago, enough time to walk down and see the Willis (Sears) Tower. We arrived with about 15 minutes to spare.
I should not have been surprised. Amtrak data shows that the Eagle averages 136 minutes late, so our 202 minutes was not unusual.
The schedule says I have a longer layover on the July 9 trip from Indy to New York Penn. If that turns out to be true, I will subway to the Art Institute and back. In New York, I have an overnighter both directions. I will blog that journey as well, but before I disembark, let me offer some tips:
Do not check your bags. You do not want to spend time waiting for them, and it’s nice to have all of your stuff available on demand.
Balance your load. I had one bag with clothes, and my backpack with electronics. The backpack was too heavy. On the next leg, I am going to put the laptop in the clothes bag.
Buy the comfort kit. Amtrak offers a kit with a blanket, an inflatable pillow, eye mask and ear plugs. You will like having these things.
Pack a lunch and a readily-accessible toiletries kit. Food on the train is not gourmet, but it is edible (avoid the snack bar in the lounge). Breakfast and dinner are a little more expensive in the dining car, but the food is hot and alcohol is available. I will carry cookies, a sandwich or two, fruit and bottled water on my subsequent trips. You will also want a toiletries bag – tooth care, brush, and personal moistened towels for armpits and other odor-producing areas.
Do not try to span two seats when sleeping. It will seem tempting to stretch out, but the ridge between the seats is painful. Your seat reclines without disturbing the person behind you, and your pillows (I carry an extra standard size pillow from home) will enable you to stretch out in your own seat.
The roomettes and family rooms are probably worth the extra money. If I was traveling with a comely companion, I would probably get a room. The larger ones have showers, there’s coffeemakers in your room, and meals are included.

Speaking of Heaven

I have not heard from the theologian who cast doubt on the possibility that those who commit serial sin (he was referring to homosexuals, I was thinking war mongers, money changers and churches that cast judgment) will see heaven. I think I know the answer to the question: yes, they will know heaven. They will also know hell. We all do.

My understanding of existential reality tells me that time is extremely fluid and relative to the immediate experience. A minute can be a moment or a millennium, depending on whether you have a limited time to be with someone you love or you’re sitting at the traffic light at the junction of IH-10, Fredericksburg and Woodlawn.

Feels like Heaven, Feels like Hell
There will be moments that pass immediately, only to be remembered forever – the first time ever you saw her face. Moments like that are pure heaven – complete focus on a blissful experience. Then comes the moment you last see her face – grown cold, hard, vengeful. May you never know such hell, but you are likely to come upon your own.

The virtues and cautions embedded in our holy writings and the best of our secular canons can indeed, carry you to heaven. No human experience contradicts the wisdom to know God, honor parentage and love your neighbor as yourself. Do as the good scriptures instruct, and you will know more bliss than blisters. You will have love in your soul and nothing to trouble your heart.

“Or Else”
Indeed, fail to live up to this standard, you know – be human, and you will experience negative consequences. “Treat the Earth and all that dwells thereon with respect,” the Native American 10 Commandments. To the Commandments of all faiths, I would add “or else.” Because if you steal, or kill, or use sacred language profanely, you will experience excruciating consequences. If the system discovers your crime and prosecutes with jail and other penalties, that hurts. But even in the event that no one else knows of your crime, it does not go unpunished. Your consciousness is damaged and no matter how desensitized your heart may be, the Shadow pays you back with Hell.

We do little heavens and hells all day long. The big ones mark us. We may be taught, and live to redeem whatever big sin, but we remember it. And we are certain to know the weight of a grandbaby in our arms, quiet evenings with close friends, spectacular sunrises and other spiritual oases that remain with us for the rest of our days.

The Flashback Dance
Before I died in May 2010, I would talk about “The Flashback Dance.” Knowing that time is relative, I imagined that a person’s last moment of consciousness must seem to be an eternity. If, as reported, one’s “life passes before my eyes,” that last moment will be filled with heavenly memories or hellish recall.

My experience in 2010 did not match the myth. Despite the “Real Story” I have no memory of the moment of death. But then, I am not dead – despite the indications that may have appeared on the instruments of the EMTs or emergency rooms that attended to me (again, I have no memory of this), I came back to life, the incredible medical team at North Central Baptist stabilized me and brought me back all the way to full capacity. So, my lack of a Flashback Dance is no proof that it doesn’t happen.

No Need to Wait – Heaven and Hell are at Hand
As I went through old journals yesterday looking for material for a new edition of SavajCards, I lived through some heavens and hells all over again. I recognize the value of Hell, how it does what it can to indicate how off-track we can get. I don’t want to live through another one, not as big as some of those, so I’ll watch my path and heed the lessons, whether inscribed in a bible or taken from experience.

Mindin’ My Own Morals
One thing I’m sure I won’t do – I won’t tell you where you’re headed, heaven or hell. It’s none of my business, and I am in no position to judge. I’ll warn you if I see you approaching a cliff – I’ll support you in acknowledging yourself and seeking your true bliss, but I’m not tellin’ you what to do or what it may bring. And I suggest that Dr. Gagnon and his students follow a similar policy – mind your own morals (just a suggestion).

An Open Letter to a Fundamentalist Theologian

Dr. Robert A. J. Gagnon
Associate Professor of New Testament
Pittsburgh Theological Seminary

Dear Dr. Gagnon:

Today on All Things Considered, you said that your fellow Christians in the Exodus program that sustained a relationship with the Lord after discovering that they could not be “cured” of their homosexuality should not expect to be redeemed in the eyes of God as long as they continued in homosexual relationships.

“The problem is, you can’t assure people that are engaged in serial, unrepentant sin of an egregious sort that they’re going to be in heaven,” you said.

I have a question.

My government engages in serial, unrepentant war. Today, commenting on a story about a family decimated by an American air assault, one of our officials said they conduct targeted, “legal” assaults against persons – with grudging regard and regret for collateral damage to neighboring families – deemed terrorist threats by some sort of undisclosed due process. I am not sure which of the people involved: the pilots or the commanders or the defense department or congressmen, whomever, but they seem to persist in this sin. If they seek forgiveness, will they find a welcome at the Pearly Gates?

And then there are these bankers – they might even be members of your church – that obscure credit terms and manipulate other people’s investments such that usury is committed and theft occurs. They do this with serial consistency and I do not know whether they have repented or not, but they sure resist any regulation to limit their inequities. What are their chances of a reward in heaven?

And, Dr. Gagnon, there is in my country an institution, a church proclaiming the name of Jesus Christ, the Redeemer, Teacher of Grace. This church, in many denominations regarding themselves as carriers of fundamental truth, spends great energy condemning. They condemn not the war mongers, not the cheating money changers – they condemn people who, by nature or nurture, lifestyle or genetic formation, have a different orientation. This institution, this church, commits the sin of judgment with serial, unrepentant venality.

Could you please explain this to me, for the God I grew up to worship created all things, loves without limit and sent his only begotten Son to liberate us from envy, spite, hate and bigotry.

I look forward to your clarification, for my heart is somewhat troubled by your testimony this afternoon.

every MOMENT

Two years ago I died. Medics brought me back to life, doctors and nurses brought me back unaffected. But the luckiest thing was I realized:

every MOMENT a MIRACLE every breath a blessing.

So, feel your energy know your power sing your song dance your day re-assemble your mystery dig a pony LOVE YOUR LOVE walk this way and that flora fauna

hearten your heart.

for swift kat – noblsavaj 060612

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