Blindaversary

It seems like a lifetime ago.  At twenty-two years, I suppose it is a lifetime.  The anniversary almost slipped up on me this year.  But, this uncanny and often irritating ability I have to remember dates and even days of the week they happened—always pops up sooner or later.  This year, September 25^th falls on a Wednesday, just as it did in 1991.

The week before, I’d had a dye test where they photographed the blood vessels in back of my eye after a yellow dye was injected into a vein in one of my arms.  Then I nervously waited for them to call with the results.

They called me at work that Wednesday morning.  “You have diabetic retinopathy.  If you don’t have laser treatments right away you could lose all your vision.” 

Outside my office, my co-workers went about their business.  If someone’s world comes crashing down around them and nobody else hears it, did it really happen?  Apparently so. 

I needed air.  I needed space.  My office was closer to the back of the building.  The next thing I knew, I was standing in the alley, trying to catch my breath.  The intense Austin sun felt like it would cook me alive.

Home.  Just get home.  Now.

I found my way to the front parking lot, got in my truck, and drove to my apartment.

What am I going to do now? 

I had only been there a few months.  My health insurance wasn’t due to start until October 1^st.  Just a couple of months earlier, I discovered my kidneys were failing.  This news was like a hammer driving a nail all the way in.  Any pretense I had that maybe, just maybe I could stay in Austin and make it all work was gone.  After Tampa, Kansas City, and Dallas, I’d finally a place—the place—I wanted to stay.  It was so much like the quirky college town where I grew up but with big city amenities.  My paychecks were increasing.  After laying the groundwork, the accounts I’d opened were really starting to produce sales.  Life was on a steady upswing.  Well, except for failing kidneys.

My parents were anxiously waiting to find out the results of the test.  I called them and we made plans for them to drive to Austin the first weekend in October to help me pack up and move back in with them.  Life as I knew was coming to an end, but at least I wouldn't have to face it alone.  Still, as the oldest kid, I felt guilt at being a burden on them.

Since then, some of my worst nightmares came true.  Some amazing blessings rescued me.  I’ve had to pick myself up and go forward countless times.

When I want to torture myself, I try to imagine what life would have been like if my health hadn’t failed and I’d been able to stay in Austin.  I’ve been back twice—in 1996 and 2001.  Each time, it was so much bigger than before.  From what I hear, it’s much more expensive and resembles Dallas and Houston more than the place I remember.

There are two things I was good at then and, thanks to professional guidance and practice, am even better at now.  Writing and visual art.  There are some gifts that vision loss can dull, but never take completely away as long as there’s some vision left. 

In the months that followed me leaving my job, selling most of my things, and returning to Arkansas, I had plenty of time to sit around my parents’ house and ponder the future.  There was one thing I vowed to do over and over again: surpass the expectations of people who thought I wasn’t capable of much anymore.  I approached my new reality with the same tenacity I’d used to support myself in college and graduate in four years, even after changing majors and watching some of my friends give up. 

I run into trouble when I expect things to be as easy as they are for people who can see fine.  Sometimes it turns to resentment, which is as unproductive and unhealthy as guilt—another emotion that invades my mind when I remember the mistakes I made as a young diabetic in my teens and twenties.

On this day in 1991, the sense of fear and loss had me wondering if I would ever accomplish anything.  I assumed that my skills and abilities would be frozen where they were then, as a 27 year-old who had no idea what he really wanted to do with his life.

Back in 1991, it would have helped me to know that before I was halfway through my forties, it would be the most productive decade of my life (so far).

In 1991 it would have given me such relief to know that by the end of that decade, I would no longer be diabetic.

In 1991 I would have been overjoyed to know that ten years later, after eye hemorrhages, invasive procedures and procedures, I would create a large piece of art like this.  

 Visit Jim's web site JimFairbanks.net

Putting Myself Out There

It’s done now.  My memoir has been a work in progress for almost 7 years.  To put it into perspective, that’s more than 3 times the gestation period of an elephant.  Since starting it in early 2006 I’ve moved twice, endured the worst ice storm in state history, had a severe eye injury, survived cancer, had gall bladder surgery, and have adjusted to being diabetic again.  I was working full-time back in 2006 but left that in late 2009 because it was just too stressful.  I know, excuses, excuses.  Part of that time I was just unfocused and unsure of what to do next.

“You have to blog.”

“You have to Twitter.”

“You have to Facebook.”

Those were only a few of the bits of advice I got along the way—the ones I did. 

I also joined Toastmasters International so I could fine-tune my public speaking skills.  Earlier this year I did well in the International Speech competition with a speech about my experience as an organ transplant recipient.  It was a glimpse at the future, when I’ll be talking to large groups of people about my life and the memoir.

There were other writing projects along the way.  A humor book about Northwest Arkansas, magazine articles, short stories, and an almost-completed novel to name a few.

Sometimes I lost sight of the project that started me on the path as a serious writer.  I was like Murphy Brown’s house painter who never quite finished the job until the end of the series.

And now here we are.  It’s out of my hands and in the formatting process.  As any writer (or any creative person for that matter) can tell you, it takes a thick skin to put your work out there, to open yourself up to scrutiny, criticism, judgment.  I already knew that from approaching shop owners about selling my humor book.

But this is different.  This is my life on paper, along with a few photos of me during good health and bad. 

This is me.

I’ve been told countless times I have a lot of courage.  I guess so.  I just did what I had to do to survive.  But that’s nothing compared to the courage it takes to put all my experiences into a package, slap a current photo of myself on the cover, and say, “Here it is.  Buy it.  Read it.  Form your own opinions and judgments about my life.”

The day I submitted the manuscript, my hand hovered over the mouse, reluctant to click the “upload” button.  I had given my first insulin shot and faced surgery with less angst than I had about letting go of the story.

Next month it will be out there.  I’ll be out there.  Submitted for your approval.

 

Jim's book, What Didn't Kill Me Made Me Stronger, will be available on Amazon in print and Kindle.

A Week of Coincidences. Or Are They?

This month is National Donate Life Month.  I promise, I didn’t schedule it for April, but the timing is perfect.  Just yesterday, I gave a speech for a Toastmasters International speech competition about waiting for and recieving a transplant.  I promise, I didn’t schedule the date for that round of the competition, either.

This coming Friday, April 6^th, will be the 14^th anniversary of my kidney/pancreas transplant.  I promise, I didn’t schedule that, either, though it would have been nice if I could have.  That was one of the points I mentioned in my speech—that you never know when “the call” will come when you’re waiting for a transplant.

I talked about my donor, a young man who died in an auto accident.  He’s my hero and I’ll never get to meet him.  But, I made an unwritten agreement with him to take care of his kidney and pancreas, to keep them alive.  In return, he keeps me alive.

As hard as I tried, the kidney only lasted five years.  The speech had to be 5-7 minutes in length, so I didn’t go into that.  Nor did I have time to mention the amazing woman who gave me one of hers that same year.  

I wanted to get them to sign the back of their license to be an organ donor, but I didn’t want to push my luck.

She’s a devout Catholic.  God told her to give me a kidney.  Of this, I am certain.  For the first few years, I had no idea why.  We had never met when she was instructed to do this for me.  How’s that for a miracle?

Once I started writing my memoir, a realization came to me.  Back when I was going through all those harrowing health issues, I asked over and over, “Why me?”  I was never a bully or especially arrogant.  Most people would have told you I was too nice to deserve that.  About halfway through the first draft of the book, I realized this story had to be told in first person by someone with the ability and desire to tell it.

But, I didn’t think actually talking about it to a room full of people would be part of God’s plan.  Wasn’t it enough to write the book, step back, and let people read it?  Apparently, it wasn’t.

Now I’m doing exactly what I was meant to do—writing and speaking.  Believe me, I’m just as (maybe even more) surprised as anyone.  Those who knew me in high school and college can tell you that, aside from being a bit of a smartass, I wasn’t one to draw attention to myself.  Everything I’ve been through has toughened me up, even enough to get over stage fright. 

Fourteen years after getting a second chance at life, I’m feeling more alive than ever.

Three separate events with a common theme converge in one week—National Donate Life Month, my 14^th “re-birthday,” and inspiring a room full of strangers with my story.  It’s not coincidence.  Of that, I’m certain.

401K . . . Bikers

Sorry for the absence the past few weeks.  I thought I had made the following post, which I wrote a week or two ago.  I could blame it on adjusting to the new, much larger computer monitor—the first flat panel one I’ve ever owned.  Or I could blame it on the extended-wear contact lens I got the same day, which also took some getting used to.  Maybe I’ll blame it on being frazzled from having at least 401,000 bikers and others (conservative estimates put the figure much higher) riding around downtown and keeping me awake.  Yeah, that’s it.  I’ll go with that one.

Is it over yet?  Two weeks ago hundreds of thousands of bikers rode around for several days, all over town but mostly within blocks of my home.  I finally took a strong sleep aid and did a Rip Van Winkle.  It may have been overkill, but I slept under the bed to muffle the sound even more.  Now here I am, bleary-eyed and covered in dust bunnies, trying to remember my lost week.

Monday, September 26  The official start date of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ is still two days away, but there’s a noticeable increase in the number of motorcycles around town.  The perfect weather (75 degrees, cloudless blue sky) has no doubt lured them here early.  The significance of this doesn’t hit me until well after midnight, when the swarm of bees over on

Dickson Street

still buzzes.  Instead of sheep, I count Hogs.

Tuesday  It’s too nice to stay in.  I walk to

Dickson Street

to eat lunch outside on the patio at U.S. Pizza.  It’s rather peaceful back there and I can overhear people at other tables. 

     “After a few of these things, they all seem the same.”

     “Yeah.  If I was a big bike enthusiast, I might stick around for it, but I’m going to the (Razorback) game this weekend in Dallas.”

     “I’m stocking up on beer, DVDs, and food so I won’t have to leave the house.”

     It’s a pretty common sentiment among locals.  It’s like when there’s a Razorback football game at the stadium times ten.  Most of us hunker down and wait it out until all the out-of-towners are gone. 

From there, I attempt to run a couple more errands down the street.  The sidewalks are blocked with unassembled tents and canopies for the vendors.  After stumbling over a few, I give up and go home.  It can wait until next week.

Wednesday  The official beginning of Bikes, Blues, and BBQ—the third largest motorcycle event in the nation and the largest held for charity.  It’s the charity part that keeps me from complaining too much about it.  That, and the fact it pumps a gazillion dollars into the local economy every year.  That helps the city pay for stuff without raising my taxes.  I chant this to myself over and over like a mantra as I try to fall asleep.

Thursday:  Funnel cake.  I know they have funnel cake for sale over there.  Last year, I ventured as far as the funnel cake stand (after giving up on having bratwurst first because it was two blocks and 20,000 people away).  This time, not even the sweat, high-carb memory of my favorite carnival food is enough to draw me into the crowded, noisy streets.  I will go funnel cake-less until a smaller festival or street fair comes to town.

Friday:  The beehive has become a giant hornet’s nest.  The non-stop buzzing has caused a persistent headache.  After a hotter’n hell summer, the weather is flawless.  I want to sit outside on my patio, but it’s even louder out there.  I’m only a couple blocks from Ground Zero—

Dickson Street

—where Arkansas (and parts of surrounding states) comes to party and cut loose.

Of course, I knew about all of that before I moved here from another part of town.  I like the convenience of being able to walk to places where I can eat, drink, hear live music, send mail, get a prescription filled, shop at a farmers market, buy all kinds of other stuff, and people-watch (to the extent that I can still do that).  

I refuse to become one of those people who whine about the event.  Living in a fun, interesting place means sharing it from time to time.  I chant this to myself as I try once again to fall asleep.

Saturday:  The final day of the event.  Writing is impossible.  The noise and lack of sleep (caused by the noise) keep me from concentrating.  Like a fool, I scheduled a book signing this afternoon.  I actually left early.  The store was dead and I could hardly stay awake. 

Next year, I’ll go out of town.  It’s what thousands of New Orleanians do during Mardi Gras.  I have plenty of time to plan.  Wherever I go, there’s one thing I’m sure of—there won’t be any motorcycles there.  They’ll all be in Fayetteville.

Anybody want to take in a legally blind, middle-aged biker rally refugee?  You can offer now or feel guilty when you see the commercial I make with Sarah McLaughlin singing.

For Dad

Sometimes I wonder if I would have become a writer without my father’s influence in my life.  I certainly wouldn’t have developed the skill and desire to read at the level or quantity that I do.  When I was seven, my dad read Tom Sawyer to me every night after supper.  Second-graders didn’t have much homework in those days.  It’s a nice early memory I have of him.

Now that he’s retired, he has time to read several books a month.  He also refinishes antiques, paints houses, and keeps an immaculately landscaped lawn.  Did his joy of working with his hands contribute to my artistic ability?  Hard to say for sure, but that craftsman’s eye influenced me for sure.

One reason why I write humor is because I inherited the smartass gene from him.  From what I’ve gathered, I come from a long line of them.  From Dad I get the ability to find the humor in almost any situation.  That’s a trait that has served me well in dealing with vision loss, failed kidneys, organ transplants, cancer, and hundreds of less serious situations I’ve faced in my life.

This past winter—one of the coldest on record—my dad had his hair cut to a very short buzz cut after chemotherapy caused most of my hair to fall out.  It showed me that I wasn’t going through it alone.  Not that I had any doubts of both my parents’ love and support through that crisis.  I ended up staying with them for several weeks because I was just too frail to be on my own.

I took over the recliner in the den—“his” chair—though he’s never been as territorial about it as Archie Bunker was.  It’s where he reads, watches TV, and naps (sometimes all at the same time).  But, it was the only piece of furniture in the den I was comfortable sitting in for any length of time, even sleeping there when congestion from a never-ending cold kept me from sleeping in bed.

He shared it willingly, never complaining, and kept the fireplace next to it roaring and stocked with extra wood on the coldest days. 

And when I’d gotten so weak I could barely walk, Dad literally caught me when I fell. 

The most impressive accomplishment of his took place over several decades.  He worked, supported his family, didn’t drink too much, and made sure my brother and I had a stable environment while growing up.  Those are all things he wasn’t fortunate enough to  have as a kid.  When it comes to fathers, mine did a much better job than the one he had. 

Somehow, he gave us so much more than he was ever given—but not too much.  He taught me that I couldn’t expect the world to just hand me everything I wanted, that I would have to work for what I wanted out of life.  So, when the health problems began, I’d already experienced enough hard to work to keep trying, no matter how much of a struggle it might be.

Thanks, Dad, for being part hardass and part smartass.

When Hope Breaks Through

I’ve been back on my own for almost three weeks.  My strength is gradually returning, but it still has a long way to go.  It’s good to be in my own home, around my own things again.  I’ve found it hard to get started writing again.  It’s been hard to focus.  My brain feels as heavy and lethargic as my arms and legs do.

Maybe it’s a post-cancer depression.  I’ve found it hard to take pleasure in things I like to do.  After several days of cold (what happened to spring?), cloudy days, my mood has come to match the weather.  It doesn’t quite feel like I’ve beat the cancer yet.  The past few days have been especially low and I’ve slept more than I needed to.  I went to bed last night resigned to the possibility that this dissatisfaction with life might last quite a while.

But, when I woke up this morning, a positive attitude and dare I say it—happiness—was trying to sprout through the cracks in the depression, just like weeds in a sidewalk.  There it was, just under the surface.  I almost didn’t recognize it.  The dark mood that has dominated my thoughts for so long wanted to stomp on it, but I didn’t let that happen.  This, I knew, could be the cure I needed.  It could stop me from thinking I can’t do anything anymore.  And here I am, writing again, and feeling like I can do more than just sit and stare at the TV.  This is the first glimmer of hope that I am returning to my former self, or at least to a life I recognize.

What a gift this morning was.  I’ll make sure to remember how it felt to wake up in a much better mood than when I went to sleep.  I want to wake up every day feeling like that.  One way to help make sure of that is to shelter and nurture this sprout of newfound happiness and protect it from a late spring frost.