The Century Mark

100 blogs?

Wow!

It seems like just 154 days ago that this ride began.

And here we are 64,031 words later, at least that’s what my computer tells me.

I can still remember my first day in the blogosphere, sitting at the computer, basically writing a story for myself.

I can also remember my second day.

And my third day.

But it was the fifth day that really opened my eyes.   That was the day that I wrote a blog titled, “Mom and Me”.

It was about my 80-year old mother.

At the time she had just moved into an assisted living facility about 15 minutes from our house.

We had tried to have her live with us, but let’s just say, it didn’t work out.

Over the next five months, I wrote about my mom many more times.

I wrote about our weekly Tuesday lunches.

I wrote about her joining a choir. 

But the subject that got the most attention were the stories I wrote about her bipolar condition.

The feedback and support I received absolutely blew me away.

I have always enjoyed writing and I have always enjoyed telling stories, but it wasn’t until this blog that I realized I could do both at the same time.

Unfortunately the circumstances of that revelation was the end of a 25-year career in the world of TV production.

By becoming a member of the unemployed I discovered emotions that I had never felt before.

Some of them were sad.  Some were depressed, but to be perfectly honest, most of them have been very positive.

I have fallen in love with a true sense of freedom.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am just now finally returning to the working world by picking up a couple of local freelance jobs.

And that’s a good thing.

But I have really grown to love my life as a stay-at-home dad.

I love the opportunity that I have had to spend countless hours with my family.

I love the opportunity to be the singer in a brand new neighborhood rock band.

But the thing that I love the most is the person I have become in the last five months.

I started seeing a therapist back in the early part of 2009 after losing my job.

Despite an optimism for life, watching your career get flushed down the toilet can be pretty depressing.

One of the first goals that we set in therapy was to have me become more present with my family.

Many times I was physically there, but my mind was wandering.

This was definitely the case when I was working.

My kids would say something like -- Hey Dad -- and I would say Pittsburgh.

Or they would say -- Do you want to (fill in the blank)... -- and I would say Tuesday.

Not my proudest moment.

So actually connecting with my family was a lot more difficult than it sounded.

Enter the blog.

As pathetic as this may be, I probably needed this little unpaid writing gig to become who or what I have become.

There's that damn, "everything happens for a reason" cliche again.

Pretty much every minute of every day now is spent thinking, “Would that make a good blog?”

And based on the wide range of subject matter I have covered in the last 99 entries -- from Spelling Bees to Judaism, my appearance on CNN to gambling on the Super Bowl -- I think it is working.

Not every one of my blogs is headed to Cooperstown, but the fact that I am actually paying attention is an accomplishment beyond words.

It has never been my goal to become the most popular unemployed guy in the world, but I must say it still makes me feel like a kid on Christmas morning when I get a new follower on Facebook or Twitter.

I truly love sharing my stories with you, but even more, I love when you share your stories with me.

And isn't that what this is all about?

As we enter my new century of blogs, I have a little request.

If you like my writing, send my link to one person.

If you love my writing, make it a double.

That’s it.

If you don’t, then don’t.

I promise I won’t put a curse on you.

Here’s to another 100 blogs.

Visiting Ours

Hi and Thanks.

Those three words were on the subject line of a recent email I received from a loyal reader.

On the surface, it looked a whole lot like so many of the other incredible emails of support I have received since I started writing this blog nearly four months ago.

But there was something inside that was not so ordinary.

The note, from a wonderful 26-year old with her entire life in front of her, spoke about how she recently moved back in with mom and dad because her paid internship had ended and she couldn’t get a full-time job.

She was working two jobs and was still not able to pay the rent to live on her own.  

She said that many of her friends are going through similar troubles and that it's hard not to get bogged down in the negative.

I hear you sister.

She said that my blog inspired her to restart her own blog in “an attempt to express some of my feelings about this new world I’m entering.”

That’s where many notes I have received just like it, ended.

But not hers.

She said she probably wouldn’t have written to me if it wasn’t the posts about my mom.

Like my mom, her uncle struggled with Bipolar Disorder until he lost his battle with it.

Fortunately my mom is still fighting.

And I’m glad to say, she is fighting hard.

After three weeks, she is out of the hospital and has moved into a temporary nursing facility until she transitions back to her full-time assisted living home.

Saturday I went to visit her.

Now based on our daily phone conversations, where I barely get a word in, I had a pretty good idea of what the visit was going to be like.

And it didn’t disappoint.

There were A LOT of stories that I had heard A LOT of times before.

Sometimes, in my own twisted way of coping, I think I enjoy some of "the greatest hits", knowing the punch line is moments away.

Then when the payoff comes, I get a nice chuckle in my head.  

I can only imagine what is going on in hers.

Sometimes, I just can't take it anymore.

But there was something a little different about this visit.

Instead of getting frustrated, I just let her go wild.  For over an hour.

And wild it was.

She asked if I still eat a big bowl of cereal every morning.   Which I don't.  Too many carbs.

Somehow she transitioned my answer into...
...our family friend Mike used to eat a bowl twice the size of yours... then he would molest his daughter and his wife was a chain smoker and one day the doctor pulled a piece of silver from the cigarette out of her lung.

Holy right turn Batman.

I told her my son’s baseball team won their game earlier in the day.

Somehow that turned into...
...one time she was seduced by a hall-of-fame pitcher in the prime of his pitching career, but my mom turned him down because “what would have happened if I hurt you in bed.”

She told me that the Mafia still runs everything in the world.

That became...
...she was on a trip through the Panama Canal (40+ years ago) and the company that owned the boat had a name with the same first four letters of a company that the Mafia used for...
...honestly, I missed the end of that story.   Sorry.

She told me that Joy Behar is on fire.

She talked about her Rum Cake recipe, again.

She talked about my college graduation party, 21 YEARS AGO.

She talked about the necklace her father sent her when she was 19.

She talked about the shoes she was wearing are 40 years old.

She talked about Satchel Paige & Rupert Murdoch & Frank Sinatra.

If you were there, you would’ve loved it.

The stories she was telling are amazing and ALL TRUE.  She’s lived an incredible life.

But the sad fact is, I’ve heard these stories before.  

MANY times before.

Normally I’m counting the minutes until my departure, but there was something different about this visit.

Something special.

Maybe it was that I knew THIS manic episode was clearly coming to an end and these stories were nothing more than an 80-year old woman driving down memory lane. 

Or maybe it was that I finally accepted that she is just a sweet old lady, who was dealt a bad deck of cards.

Or maybe it was the words of the “Hi and Thanks” email bellowing through my head:

• “(Bipolar) is a horrible, horrible misunderstood disease.  I wanted to let you know that you’re doing the right things.  Bipolar disorder, much like Alzheimer’s, can be just as hard on the people around the sufferer.   There’s no shame in that and when you share your stories, you make a misunderstood disease a little more accessible.”

As I left the facility, my mom thanked me for a great visit, even though she was the one who did all the visiting.

I said Goodbye and Thanks, and headed home.

Emotions in Motion

Each time I write a new blog, one of my top priorities is making it entertaining for you.

I truly appreciate you taking time out of your life to read about mine.

I must warn you, this blog is different.

This time I am writing it for me and I have a feeling it will be a long one.

If you can't take it and you need to leave, I totally understand. All I ask is that you give me another chance next time.

Writing my blog has been one of the most therapeutic experiences of my life and considering the stressful recipe that my life is cooking up these days, it is great to have an outlet.

I am writing this blog in the computer room at my 80-year old mother’s assisted living facility. It is currently 12:07am and it will be much later when I finish.

As I unfortunately predicted a few weeks ago, she was on the verge of another bipolar episode.

Well, it is here. Loud and clear.

We’ve been trying to head this one off by adjusting her medication, but unfortunately it isn't working.

My wake-up call this morning was from two managers at her residence. They informed me that her behavior in the last few days was quite abnormal.

So abnormal that I really don’t feel comfortable sharing what I was told.

She has been living there for seven months and fortunately this was the first time this call came my way.

After living on her own for the last 20+ years, 1000 miles away, she moved in with me and my family about a year ago.

But after two different episodes landed her in the hospital, we made the painful, but necessary move.

We found a place, about 15 minutes from my home, that was not only acceptable, but actually fantastic.

They cook all her meals, deliver all medications, do her laundry, clean her room....

We should all have it that good.

All was well until a couple of weeks ago, about the same time that I shared with her that I was headed to New York for a job interview.

Nobody else will validate my thoughts, but I have no other answer for what may caused her latest episode.

I have been told by people much older and wiser than me that it is a waste of my time to try and figure out what set her off, this time.

But if there is one thing that I have plenty of these days it’s time.

Well no matter what caused it, the bottom line is she is currently knee deep into a manic phase.

Among the traditional issues that take place during one of those episodes is spending money.

And it's usually on some unusual purchases.

This time was no different.

These days she doesn’t have many financial resources at her fingertips, but she is a resourceful one, that mother of mine.

Last week when the snack man made his monthly visit, she bought $94 in nuts, charging it to her room. We have since cancelled that option.

Then she convinced an employee from the building to take her to WalMart to buy things that she desperately needed.

That trip cost another $134.

In case you were wondering, among those critical items were nine new bras.

When I asked her why nine, she told me there were seven days in a week.

Of course there are.

When I got the call this morning, it was not a surprise. Unfortunately I saw it coming, I just didn't know when.

I picked her up and took her to the hospital where I was hoping a medication adjustment and a couple of days of R&R would get her back on track.

I don’t think she has slept in weeks. That’s another one of the usual suspects.

As I am writing this, in the middle of the night, she is in the lobby of the building sleeping in a rocking chair.

At least she's sleeping.

Perhaps the first sign I notice when things are not right is her rambling. It goes something like this.

She does all the talking, you do none.

Today at the hospital, when they were looking to admit her, they asked her why she was there.

You would’ve thought the question was – take me back 25 years and tell me every thing that has happened.

And I mean EVERY thing.

About 45 seconds into her answer, the nurse turned to me and I said, “Pyschosis.”

I must’ve answered correctly, because that one word got us a room.

Once we got settled, I asked her that same question again to see if the answer had changed.

“Do you know why we are here?”

She quickly answered, “a lot of people think I’m going through a nervous breakdown.”

I’m afraid that was the correct answer.

While mental illness may still be looked at as the disease of the crazy, I have noticed that more people are willing to open up about it.

In the last few months I have had conversations with three of my closest friends who have told me, without me asking, that are using anti-depressant medications.

I don’t know that they would’ve admitted that ten years ago.

Just today on the radio, I heard the manager of a major league baseball team say that one of his pitchers is trying to come back this year from arm surgery......... and clinical depression.

When did that become ok to talk about?

Even as I write this, anonymously, I am still not totally comfortable talking about this topic.

But as they say, if even one person can learn from my mom’s situation, I guess we will all be better off.

I can honestly say that I didn’t understand death until my father died. I was 35 years old.

And I can honestly say that I didn’t understand mental illness until my mom moved in with me. A year ago.

Why can’t she just control herself? Doesn’t she realize what she is doing?

What do you mean her chemicals are imbalanced? Just sleep already and you’ll be fine!

It took me a LONG time to comprehend that her behavior is not her fault.

But as hard as I try to pass the sensitivity test, I keep failing.

The entire time we were in the ER today my mom was talking. I didn’t say a word, not one.

The two nurses in the room heard every word she was saying.

And that was a lot of words.

At one point, I caught one of the nurses staring at me from across the room as if to say either I feel for you or wow, you have given up.

It breaks my heart to think that I have given up, but I’m afraid the nurse might be right.

I realize I don’t have a whole lot of emotional strength or compassion left in me these days, but I have got to keep reminding myself that the person in my mom’s body right now is not my mom.

It is the product of a woman who has endured several tragedies in her life, perhaps none more devastating than being born with a bipolar disorder.

It’s not her fault! It’s not her fault! It’s not her fault!

That's me talking to myself.

The hospital did an evaluation of her, both medically and emotionally, and to my absolute surprise and tremendous frustration, they found nothing that would validate admitting her to the hospital.

Nothing!

Nothing?

Her primary doctor called. The assisted living folks called. I expressed my deepest concern.

But the hospital said there was nothing they witnessed first hand that would change their opinion.

They asked me to sign her discharge papers, which I would not.

I told them that their decision was wrong.

Even with that protest, moments later we left to go back to her home.

She started talking from the moment my car started. I literally did not say one word.

Not one.

Until she asked me about 40 minutes in, are you tired of listening to me?

“Yes,” I said.

She paused for about ten seconds, then went into another story.

I was asked by the assisted living facility to spend the night tonight to be there in case there was a problem.

It’s now 2:24 in the morning and she's still sleeping.

In the lobby.

My Dearest Mommie

I enjoy puzzles, even though I’m not very good at them.

I love putting together jigsaw puzzles with the kids -- even though they see the answers A LOT sooner than I do.

I love crossword puzzles -- as long as it's People Magazine and not the New York Times.

But the one puzzle that I've been playing the longest and will never be able to figure out is bipolar disorder.

As in my mom's bipolar disorder.

Over the years, my brother and I have definitely learned how to recognize an episode in the early stages, but no matter how hard we try or hold our breath, there’s nothing we can do to stop it.

I guess it must be like falling onto a train track and seeing the light coming your way.

The warnings signs have become clear as day, but the only thing you can do is put on a seat belt and get her some help.

When she calls at random hours on a very frequent basis with nothing to say, that’s warning #1.

When the ratio of her words to mine during a conversation is like 99:1, that’s warning #2.

Strike 3 is when she starts talking about stories from 50 years ago like it was yesterday.

Now I realize that some of you are saying, what’s so weird about that, my grandmother does that all the time.

That’s the problem -- trying to decide if my mom is acting like a typical 80-year old woman or a person with a behavioral condition?

My mom is the proud holder of both titles, but the question I'm facing right now is which business card is she is carrying.

Fortunately, actually unfortunately, we’ve been through these episodes so many times before that there’s only one correct answer.

Since she relocated to an assisted living facility about 15 minutes from my house about four months ago, my mom has been doing great.

So great, in fact that she and I have been doing a regular Tuesday lunch.

To be honest, it has become one of the high points of my week.

The meal is always filled with a full plate of support and during this time of unemployment, who doesn’t want a diet of that?

This week, she called me two days ago to make sure we were on for today.

Then she called me three times this morning to make sure that we were on for today.

Your honor, article 1 of evidence is a red flag.

Then, from the moment I picked her up, she was in full motion.

We spent about 90 minutes together, in which there is no way I said more than 19 words, literally.

Uh-oh.

Then there was the content of the conversation.

Now if you were there, eating with us for the first time, you would have found the dialogue to be incredibly fascinating.

My mother is a warm, loving person, who has lived an unbelievable life, full of triumph and tragedy.

The ultimate highs of a manic episode to the lowest-of-lows of a depressive one.

And those are the real stories.

The ones in her head must be even more incredible.

Today, when she started running through her greatest hits of 35 year-old stories, like it was The Who Reunion Tour, I knew we were in trouble.

My mom is an incredible person who has spent much of her eighty years living in hell, through NO fault of her own. The bottom line is she deserves better.

I hope more than anything that I am wrong this time.

I hope more than anything that the red flag is literally, just a red flag.

Unfortunately, I know where we are headed and it makes me very sad.

a BIG week

I’m not sure yet if that's a light at the end of this unemployment tunnel or a locomotive train, but one thing for sure...

...this is going to be a VERY important week for me.

Tomorrow I am headed east for two days of meetings with a company that I am VERY excited to be meeting with.

CAPITALS can be VERY effective.

Day 1 is with a bunch of executives and the head of human resources.

Day 2 is with the President of the company.

I hope I have two clean white shirts.

From my standpoint, this process is simple.

They say, “would you ____?” and I say “YES!”.

Ok, maybe the blank part is important (and maybe it isn’t).

The other twist in my week started today with some email dialogue with a local company.

Last week they posted a job that speaks right to my background.

If it was 10 years ago.

I felt kinda dirty today pitching my “25 years of experience”, “relentless work ethic” and “passion for the business” as something they could definitely find valuable.

Sales has never been my forte.

But it had to be done and for now, I have a feeling that they are at least considering me for the job.

A job that they would probably rather fill with someone straight out of college.

Either way, after throwing my lines out for the last 15 months, it feels great to finally see a fish.

At least they look like fish. It’s getting cold out here.

Part of my day today preparing for the big trip was making a stop at my mother’s assisted living facility. For those of you who have been kind enough to read all of my blogs, she is doing GREAT.

(If you missed it, this is probably my favorite previous entry:

http://myjourney-unemployed.blogspot.com/2010/01/mom-me.html)

Sorry for that. The rest of this blog will be commercial free.

At the end of our visit, which included her telling me that she was just asked to be part of a choir AND she told me that she is the best trivial pursuit player in the building AND she needs a green outfit for the St. Patrick’s Day Party, I asked if I should keep my soul patch for the east coast interview.

Granted, there were probably about four million more important questions that I could’ve asked her, but style is important, right?

“It looks like you might be on the other side.”

Huh.

Did my 80-year old mom just call me gay?

Not that there is anything wrong with it.

“No, it just makes you look like you could have piercings or tattoos.”

Oh. Ok. I think.

She went on to say that this job would make everything complete in my life and that it’s time for me to take care of myself instead of taking care of everyone else.

With that kind of passion, maybe she should be interviewing for the job.

Mom is always good for a positive reinforcement and today’s trip down Optimistic Avenue ended with her giving me two thumbs up.

To be honest, it really doesn’t take a whole lot of a lead to get me excited about working again. But as I said, this long distance opportunity has got me VERY excited.

I know it could be a long fall if things don’t go well this week, but I’m drinking from the half-full part of the glass and wishing for the best.

Whatever that is.

Gotta go. It's time to shave.