Resurrection

It's always a hassle to write when you're not sure what you want to write about - or even what the point of writing will be. Let's face it - as nice as it is to write project summaries in the hopes that someone will find your mistakes useful (while working in a good joke every now and again) it's more than a little egocentric to spend more than a little time writing about yourself or interests. I don't particularly enjoy the attention.

I do enjoy stories, though. I enjoy clever fixes and observations. I enjoy going about reading other people's stories and other people's cleverness.

Writing is a form of communication that maintains an individual's sense of position and relation in the extremely alienating experience of modern society. It's easy to let the formality of commerce and the politics of politeness distance us from the full-time realization that everybody shits. Everyone lives. Everyone fails. So, what better way to reinforce the realization that we're all highly-evolved plains apes monkeying along in this mess together than listening the sound of surprise in my father's voice as he gets up from the couch to find out that his catheter bag has filled up with mostly-clear urine in the short span of 2 hours, declaring, "I need to pee! My bladder's full!"

I worry, of course, that people will judge me by what I write - or worse - judge my writing by me. If I could, I'd make myself anonymous in order to circumvent the fear of judgement and my resulting defensive offensive. But that's a complete cop-out. There's a paper trail that identifies me. You know who I am - and if you don't... well, that doesn't matter.

----

My father just underwent a radical prostatectomy to get around the problem of having aggressive prostate cancer. If you're curious about his fears, views, somewhat insane sense of humor and the current state of his Chief Justice John Roberts... his blog is over here. On my end, the situation isn't dramatic or sorrowful, but matter of fact. Vetting a doctor. Deciding on the procedure. Getting insurance approval. Scheduling the necessary vacation time. And in the beginning, it was very matter-of-fact for Mychael. But now, post-op, while my father is having his Come-to-Jesus moments facing his age and the effects of aging and surgical-induced infirmity on his pride and sense of masculinity (the effects of which, I hope are minimal - he's got nothing to worry about - one's identity isn't seated in the prostate or ovaries), I'm staring at the business end of the exit valve of a catheter bag horrified only by the prospect of getting the release wrong and accidentally spraying myself in the face with urine.

Sometimes I wonder if he's walking around the house with a forlorn look on his face to make me laugh, and then I try to empathize the feeling of having a catheter, liken it to the worst urinary tract infection of my life, and I cringe for how the old bastard is feeling. God - two weeks of a catheter! You can't really sympathize with situations like that without making the suffer way more self-conscious. So, I tell him I love him and try to make a dirty joke (funny enough to grin, but not so funny he has to laugh).

"Hey look! You can urinate on yuppie SUVs without risking indecent exposure!"

It's good to be home. It's even better to be human.