Category Archives: Disasters

What’s a Little Cough Between Friends?

Posted on November 23, 2019 | Leave a comment

Cough

My life has been so chock full of the bizarre lately I’m truly grateful to have found ten minutes on a Friday night to write about it. Trust me, it’s that good.

It all started late last week when the local health department notified our school of a confirmed case of pertussis. What’s pertussis, you ask? Whooping cough (pronounced hoop-ing). “But I thought no one got that anymore because… vaccines and stuff.” Well yes and no. It doesn’t spread like wildfire like it used to and it’s usually not as severe as it could have been. But, as I found out this week, even the vaccinated can get it (albeit usually in milder form) and apparently booster shots are recommended and quite often for the inoculated. One learns something new every day.

In a small school such as the one where I am vice principal (I still like saying that) a highly infectious disease can certainly make the rounds rapidly. To make a long story short… We’ve had a few more confirmed cases since the first. I haven’t heard of serious complications. I think we’ve helped maintain a sense of calm. We closed the school early on Thursday. I have personally been in close proximity to every single student and in every single classroom as have numerous faculty. Everything will be OK.

And… we’re taking precautions. My daughter had developed a cough over the past two weeks that is probably NOT pertussis but after all of this one cannot be too cautious. Today I brought her into her doctor along with my son who was also coughing. To make matters murkier there are also strains of strep and influenza going around our larger community. We haven’t seen the actual doctor in a number of years; it’s only ever his physicians assistant. I don’t mind. Although, she is always pushing flu tests on us even absent any symptoms. Today I walked in, told her the whole story, and then said, “The good news is you’ll get to do one of those swabby tests you seem to love so much.” I didn’t think of those words in terms of a “shot fired”. But I should have. The PA stared at me with a wry smile and declared, “Actually, I think the kids are probably fine in terms of whooping cough based on what you’re telling me. It’s you I’m worried about. I mean, you’re standing here obviously tired, haggard, you know. I can tell you’re run down.”

“Haggard?”

This is me staring down the physician’s assistant. (courtesy: Wikimedia)

Before we’d left the office the kids had been tested for every airborne illness known to man. Yours truly? I dragged my “tired and haggard” parts out of there with my head hung low. On my way to the car I passed a raccoon digging through a dumpster. I took a good look to see if the dark circles under his eyes looked better than mine before Googling whether my insurance would cover botox injections.

Consumption

I came home and returned to my lovely and unexpected Friday off. Lately I’ve been watching a few things here and there. There are the Youtube videos about aviation, engineering, and all the many JFK conspiracies. And then there’s Netflix. I decided to do a one-month trial in order to watch the third season of The Crown. I can’t help it. If it’s about the Royals I’ll probably watch. If it’s written well I’ll definitely watch. Maybe it’s my British ancestry coming through and manifesting itself in my TV viewing habits; but I simply cannot turn away from ~~the train wreck that is~~ the House of ~~Hanover~~ Windsor.

In particular I have have been fascinated to learn more about the life of the late Princess Margaret, the only sibling of Queen Elizabeth. Brilliantly portrayed by Helena Bonham Carter, Margaret is a troubled figure. Denied the opportunity to marry her first love, Peter Townsend, she ultimately found solace in photographer Antony Armstrong-Jones. For the moment, overlook the fact that Townsend was already married. Oops, forgot that detail while trying to make her a sympathetic character. Never mind the fact that she admits she thought Armstrong-Jones was gay when she first met him. Never mind the fact that she forgot about her own vows when cavorting around the world with a man half her age. I mean, come on you pesky moralist… The point is that HRH Princess Margaret was a chain-smoking gin fiend. And in this I can relate.

It is not just Netflix and Youtube that have captured my interest lately, though. Tonight my wife asked if I would accompany her to the movies. I’m not usually big on the big screen (the commercials and previews are cumbersome to me) but I do enjoy spending time with my wife. Tonight our kids rounded out the group. The flick? We saw the new Tom Hanks feature about the life of the legendary Fred Rogers. Mr. Rogers is, undoubtedly, an American icon. I must admit that as a kid I didn’t care much for Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. I found it kind of slow and boring and Rogers’ hyper-gentle personality to be a drag. In fact, the only times I enjoyed watching his show was when he left his studio and went on location. I still remember vividly the time he went to the Crayola factory. Then again, those episodes played out more like a Youtube video on engineering.

But as I grew I came to understand the value in what he was doing, even if it wasn’t quite my speed. As a teacher I can appreciate his work with children. As I came to learn more about his personal life I really came to sense that he was a genuine man who loved what he did and, more importantly, he was a man of prayer. The movie we saw tonight brought into focus the fact that he was a man who worked every day on trying to do what he saw as God’s work, laboring – sometimes with great difficulty – on the virtues of patience, humility, and gentleness. In many ways I can relate. In my own life and career as a teacher and vice principal I try to exemplify these same virtues. It seems odd sometimes. One tends to think of the vice principal of a school as the stern disciplinarian, something I definitely am not. Forgetting the fact that “vice” is right in the title, I see my job as someone called to help young men and women find and then stay on the path of virtue. If that comes in the form of reminding them of our dress code or making sure they are in class then I need to do that without personal animosity. Look, I will be me. I will let God work His discipline through the personality He gave me. I’ve never been an ogre and I’m not going to start now. Learning from Mr. Rogers I will focus more on prayer for specific people every day and continue to help my students in kindness and humility.

Character

Lately I have been contemplating who I am. I don’t mean in the “existential crisis” sort of way. But I’ll be turning older soon. It’s only natural to take stock of one’s life when one reaches 30. Having done that many years ago I decided to take stock once again. God has bestowed many blessings on me. Whether I realize it or not; whether I like it or not, He made me who I am. I am soft-spoken and somehow I command the attention of dozens of teenagers. I get no sleep and yet somehow I’ve remained immune to most diseases. I doubt myself all the time and yet somehow I’ve been able to help my students find confidence in God’s Will for them.

As we came home from the theater my children fought with each other, almost coming to blows over some silly squabble. Calmly and with the gentlest tone I diffused the tension. I saw them off to bed, poured myself a gin and tonic, stepped out onto my porch and lit a Marlboro. I listened to the sounds of my kids coughing themselves to sleep. I yawned. And I thought of how wonderful God is and how wonderfully He made me…

…a cross between Princess Margaret, Fred Rogers, and a raccoon.

Trying to Be JUST Like Her Old Man

Posted on August 20, 2019 | 1 comment

Readers of this blog (both of you) will note by now my penchant for orthopedic insult. That is, doctors trained in the fine art of examining deficient skeletal systems and then mending them tend to have a field day with yours truly. Scratch that – most bone docs hear my name and look for the nearest window out of which to leap headlong.

We could start, of course, with the traumatic injuries suffered when I was thrown from a burning building at the age of 4. I’m sorry, I’m just taking in that last sentence and realizing how awesome that makes me sound. Seriously, it could well be a source of great sorrow and the wellspring of a thousand phobias but I look upon it like a phenomenal story to tell at a bar. “Hey Harvey, what’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?” Me (thinking for a moment): “Well, let’s begin…”

Any X-ray techs want to play spot the fracture?

That fall resulted in hundreds of microfractures which eventually manifested themselves in degenerative disc disease. This led to my first spinal fusion at the age of 23. And another spinal fusion at 36. Together these two surgeries accounted for the complete removal of two discs from my spine, an autologous bone graft from my hip, countless titanium rods and screw that sometimes set off airport magnetometers, and the delightful fact that inside my body right this minute can be found 1) cadaver bone, 2) my brother-in-law’s blood, and 3) a bovine bone “donation”. I know you’re all caught on that last bit too. Yes, there’s a freakin cow bone in my spine. Moove on. Modern medicine is udderly fascinating.

Along the way and since then I’ve broken several ribs, a collarbone, the wrist on my dominant right hand (even though I’m naturally left-handed), and every toe on both feet. Come to think of it, I guess I’m a pretty tough dude. For instance, just three weeks ago I broke a toe on my left foot while jumping out of bed one morning to answer the phone. I lost my balance and slammed it into the leg of a table. Ironic that I’d break a toe on a leg… At this point, though, I don’t even bother to get stuff like this checked out. They’d just slap a boot on me, place me under all kinds of restrictions for six weeks, and NOT even give me a decent painkiller. No thank you. I’ll take my chances with sufficient rest and Motrin. Harvey doesn’t have time for such things as six weeks off from jumping rope and lifting weights.

Also, I really can’t afford to be taking it easy when the school year is only two days off. Recall that I am a high school teacher and the vice principal of our school. This school year is especially exciting for me as my precious daughter will be coming to school with me as our newest fourth grade student. Let’s refresh for the occasional reader who isn’t one of my two kids.

Don’t worry. It will be wrapped in pink shortly.

Although I do have a twin sister, I also share my birthday to the exact minute with my little girl. This is great fun considering my twin died when we were young. What fun is celebrating your birthday with someone who isn’t even living anymore? I mean, I made the best of it but when God decided to give me another young lady to share the birthday with that was about the coolest thing ever. Factor in that said little girl appears to have received way more than 23 of my chromosomes and things get really fun. We’re looking forward to our drive to school every morning and having Daddy visit her on the playground at recess, and all the fun things that come along with your father being the guy all the other students love but you get the special knowledge that he loves you a little bit more for a whole lot of reasons.

One of the reasons I love my daughter is that she seems to want to be just like me. There was the time she started playing the piano when she was 4 (like me) or the time she mastered roller skates at 6 (like me) or the time she distilled her own blend of botanicals into bathtub gin (like m… OK, you get that point. What I don’t love is when she tries to copy the dumb things like breaking bones. With her it seems to be a straight up thugfight to the death. It’s like “Hey old man, I WILL dominate in this so step off or I will cut you.” Such a sweet girl.

Remember when I mentioned breaking my wrist as a child? Well that was just one wrist. She matched that last Christmas when she fell off her scooter and snapped the left one. Today I had her with me up at school setting up some things in my office. We had just swapped the 7th and 8th grade classroom signs (no it wasn’t a prank) and I asked her help mounting a whiteboard across from my desk. “Sweetheart, can you hand me that screwdriver?” I asked. But instead of a “yes, Daddy” I heard the sound of tears. And it was the hard, painful tears of a “oh no, something’s horribly wrong” variety not the “I’m hungry and bored” variety. I’m a Dad; I know the difference.

I turned around to find my baby girl on the ground. Seems someone had decided to wear a pair of (let’s see if I’ve got this right) wedge heels? You see Mommy had already told her not to wear these shoes she had found from her aunt but someone opted to let human nature put on a great big show and disobeyed Mommy. How did Daddy not see this when they left the house together? Dude, Daddy can’t find a giant can of coffee in my pantry when it’s in the same spot for 8 years running. You think guys – even dads – pay attention to shoes? In any event, my genetic minion, unsteady on her feet in these clod-hopping death traps, tripped over herself and landed on her backside. In the process she put her hands out to soften the landing and incurred what’s known as a “buckle fracture”. She’s getting good at this. Once she stopped crying she said very calmly “Daddy, it’s broken. My symptoms are identical to when I broke the other one.” A trip to the orthopedic urgent care confirmed her claim. So I brought her home to rest with her pretty new pink cast that stretches almost to her shoulder. Five weeks from now and at least $600 later perhaps she will have learned her lesson on obedience. Meanwhile I have to be both discipline dad (instilling the lesson that she really should have listened to her mother) and kind and sympathetic dad (trying to comfort her and console her that the first few weeks of a new school won’t suck because of this). In fact tonight at Parent Night her new teacher already told me that she would be fine with my daughter dictating her homework to me if writing is too difficult. What contest in hell did I just win? I don’t want to do 4th grade homework!

On our ride home from the doctor’s office my daughter asked me to run down all of my broken bones with her. “But you did break your wrist, right Daddy?” I replied: “Yes I did,” and told her that fun tale. I was just at the point where my mom threatened to “demolish” my older brother Sean for goading me into taking a shot at him and then jumping out of the way so I’d slam my fist into a brick wall possibly leaving me unable to play the piano again when my daughter cut me off.

“So wait, Daddy… You just broke the one wrist? Then I WIN!”

Yes, sweetness, you win. For now.

Talk to me when the few strands left on your scalp are all white because your kid decided he wanted to be just… like… you.

1 Comment

Posted in dad blog, Dad Stuff, Disasters, Family, Kids, medical, Parenting

Tagged broken bones, broken wrist, competitive family, dad blog, daddy-daughter, dailypost, postaday, starting school with a broken bone

My In-Flight Style

Posted on April 11, 2019 | Leave a comment

This Saturday I shall take to the friendly skies as I head home to visit my mom. She’s had a health scare recently. Although she appears to be fine I still like to “pop in to town” to let her know I love her.

This got me thinking of an old article I wrote about flying. There are many old articles I have written about flying, in fact. This one, however, made me laugh out loud while reading it to my son tonight. And so I present to you, my lovely audience, the re-printing of My In-Flight Style (originally published October 9, 2011):

When Flying Was Glamorous

Just came across an article on Foxnews.com detailing the level of formality (or lack thereof) people choose to display when flying, particularly evident in their attire.

I can remember my dad, who was born in the 1930’s, always recalling how “in the old days” people didn’t dare attempt to board an airplane unless they were appropriately dressed. It was as much a social thing as it was a matter of pride. Apparently this meant men wore suits and ties, ladies wore a nice dress. To him, people getting on planes in jeans, shorts, tee shirts, generally unkempt was an abomination. I’ve been watching that new show Pan Am* and I can see what he meant. It must have been an incredible time to fly!

These two travelers embody the light, carefree attitude of the modern and sophisticated aeroplane flyer.

According to the article there are six basic in-flight styles ranging from the “ethnic adventurer” (whatever that is) to the “beleaguered parent” (which I have been on a few occasions). For instance, the “suited frequent-flyer” is, as the name implies, one who flies a lot, typically for business. He or she is recognized by the ability to pack everything with precision into a perfectly regulation sized carry-on bag, and zip through security like it’s no one’s affair. This person has been around the TSA screening line before and his or her sole purpose at the airport is utilitarian. Get in. Get on board. Get to the destination.

After much thought I have decided to review my own recent airport episodes and have concocted two profiles. The first is the type of flier I imagine myself being and the second is who I actually am.

The Flying Man I Want to Be

In a perfect world, I am driven to the airport in a black Lincoln Towncar. Although I banter freely with the driver I am not personally interested in his life — except in so far as it is fodder for my blog. Oh, I forgot to mention, there is soft smooth jazz being piped into the back seat of my ride. I am neatly pressed in my appearance, calm in my demeanor, and ever so excited about my destination. I am delivered curbside where a skycap opens the door, collects my bag, which is black and showcases an elegantly stitched “HARVEY” near the top. Another skycap hands me a chilled Sapphire and tonic and leads me to the lounge. I, of course, given my importance, bypass security altogether. Once in the lounge I mingle effortlessly with the elite of the world and we trade quips about the weather and the latest offerings from Brooks Brothers. A stewardess dressed in stylish garb approaches. “Mr. Harvey, we’re ready for you. But first, the captain wishes for you to review his flight plan for your satisfaction.” “Gladly, my dear”, I respond, my voice now bearing a strange British accent. As we walk through the jetbridge I pass framed 8×10 sepia-toned prints of myself holding plastic models of various aircrafts, not smiling, simply presenting. After checking in with the flight crew I am seated. Another stewardess switches out my drink while still another approaches with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and still a third offers to light my cigarette. My sportcoat has been placed on a hanger and my shoes stowed overhead. I am now in a red velvet robe and slippers. The flight is magnificent — no turbulence — and we land safely, three hours ahead of schedule and, miraculously, my hair is still in perfect form.

See the elegance and grace with which they board the aircraft!

The Flying Schmoe I Really Am

Meanwhile in the realm of reality, I am dropped at the curb by my wife in our white Chrysler Town & Country. The musical selection is Veggie Tales’ The Princess and the Pop Star. I try to offer my kids a heartfelt kiss good bye. “Daddy’s going on a trip now. I love you!” “Hurry up, I’ve got to get back in time for Pan Am“, my beautiful spouse informs me as she tosses my bag out the door and speeds away. At this point I realize I have left my phone in the car and my iPad has zero battery life because my one year-old daughter decided to watch Backyardigans 18 times this morning. I enter the terminal where I attempt to swipe a credit card for my boarding pass only to realize that my card has my middle initial on it and my flight information does not. In frustration I kick the machine. I break three toes on my right foot. Damn, that’s a long line I’m going to have to stand in. Shouldn’t have done that. Meanwhile, in my attempt to get my card back into my wallet I have actually sprung loose five other cards (two of which will remain missing in action for good).

With a smart cocktail in hand and a kiss from a pretty stewardess we’re ready to take off into the future of flight! Lucky Lindy, eat your heart out.

I spend the next half-hour on the line for security only to be touched in ways no one should be by a woman twice my size. Past security, there is no lounge for me. There is only the dull passenger waiting area where there are absolutely NO seats to be had. I am last to board a plane that smells like popcorn and urine. I do believe the lady sitting next to me is drunk. Well, that’s a given, she just threw up. And… OH! She missed the vomit bag. I’d hate to be the owner of that jacket she just soiled. Oh wait, I AM the owner of the jacket. “Miss, you can keep that jacket…” The flight takes off with all the gracefulness of an elephant leaping from a waterfall. It is turbulent for twelve hours until finally crash landing at the wrong airport. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I know we were supposed to be flying into Newark but our pilots both fell asleep for a while. It happens. You’ll be enjoying a nice weekend in Manchester, New Hampshire!” And, oh yes, they lost my luggage. Meanwhile, I still have not been handed a single drink by a stylish stewardess.

Is it any wonder the airline industry has been teetering on the edge of collapse for some time now?! At least I have Pan Am!

*Pan Am was cancelled the day after this post was first published or thereabouts.

Crushed

Posted on February 15, 2019 | 3 comments

So here’s the story about that picture I posted earlier this week.

Two weeks ago at this very hour yours truly was driving around the DFW Metroplex. During the day I am a teacher and school administrator. At night, however, I still maintain my other job as a medical courier. I don’t usually have Friday jobs, it’s just a slow night of the week. But this particular Friday night I got called to pick up a sample at a lab in north Dallas. On my way out to the airport I decided to make use of the time to pray.

Traveling south on the President George Bush Turnpike (yes, they use the full name as it was constructed during the gubernatorial administration of his son) I drove along, praying my rosary. I’m a pretty safe driver – never been in anything more than a minor fender-bender. I was praying for a few specific things. You see my car, a 2006 Accord, was starting to show its age and I had begun to think it was time to move on. “Blessed Mother,” I said summoning all best Catholic school boy piety I could muster. It never goes away. “Blessed Mother, I could really use a new car.” Trust me, friends, Mary is the Queen of Heaven and Earth. There is nothing she can’t obtain for us from her Son. Of this I am certain. But there’s also no guaranteeing how she’s going to go about doing that.

I was just about to toss in the part about the F-150 and in my mind I was thinking about color options (hint: a car should only ever be black or silver, possibly navy) when I looked up into my rear view mirror and saw a smaller, older pick up truck barreling toward me.

“Not like that!” I shouted as I frantically looked around to the two outside lanes. It was rush hour traffic, though, and there was nowhere to move. I braced for impact and in a second it was all over. The driver of the pickup wasn’t paying attention, caught himself at the last minute, and hit his breaks. He slammed into the back of my car and shoved me into the car in front of me. No airbags deployed so the impact speed must have been low enough. The three of us moved over to the shoulder and then waited for the police to show up.

The other two drivers barely had a nick on their cars. My Accord? Let’s just say it resembled an accordion. Hey, that’s kind of clever…

Anyway, I had the car towed home where a few days later an inspector came out to officially declare it a total loss. It’s obnoxious that someone else screwed up and I’m out a car but that’s life.

Today the second of two insurance checks arrived. I’ve been doing my research. Truthfully that F-150 isn’t totally out of the question, albeit a model that might be 3-4 years old with a few miles on it but that’s cool. I’ve learned all about the fun and exciting world of auto insurance as well. And to be honest, my agent, Steve Martinez with Safeco (props to him) was thoroughly professional and got the process rolling with good speed. The pickup driver admitted fault so that helped. But it still stinks.

That 13 year old car with 200K of my best driving miles on it was a sure bet for me. I’m sure it would have gone another 100,000 miles too. Instead I’m holding two checks for a minimal amount and a vision of a larger, newer vehicle dancing around my head.

And that prayer to the Infant of Prague I posted about earlier? Yep, that’s one of the intentions. I hear that devotion is particularly powerful. Nonetheless, I looked at that car on the shoulder of the highway two weeks ago and thought of something. In my own lifetime, in the recent past, a wreck like that would have taken someone out. Everyone had a seatbelt on and somehow we all walked away without scratches or injury.

For the possibility of landing in my dream car
For the Blessed Mother’s humor
For the grace of walking away from a serious accident and appreciating all the good things I have; coming home to my wife and kids and not heading to an ICU… For these I am grateful.

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Posted in Disasters, Lone Star Life, Prayer

Tagged auto insurance, Blessed Virgin Mary, car accident, car shopping, car wreck, dailypost, hit from behind, infant of prague, postaday, prayer, prayer request, rosary