Fear the Crab

I woke up at 0230 with a very disturbing sensation. I thought I had heard my mother’s voice calling my name. My mom, however, is living in another house over two miles away, and there wasn’t that much volume to the call. I would have had to really fuck up big time in order for my mom to tap into those motherly reserves of righteous fury.

So if it wasn’t my mom, what could it have been? I did not hear it again, rather just the typical night-time sounds of splintering wood and rushing mists normally associated with old houses. The dog decided at that point to investigate the rest of the house, and when THAT happens it’s usually one of two things: she was hungry, or there was SOMETHING that attracted her attention.

I pushed that latter thought out, but my mind instead began to ponder if there was some psychic connection at work. Perhaps something happened, and I heard her calling me for help. I began to imagine my father, collapsed on the floor, whilst my mother was in bed helpless. I imagined the frustration and rising panic, my mom unable to call for help.

Oh hell, I hadn’t seen them in a week! What if something happened to them on the day after I was last there? My mom would be trapped for so long without anyone checking in! The worry set solidly within me, weighing my stomach down to the bed, freezing my head to the pillow.

I should call them, I thought. If they were okay, my parents would answer the phone. But if they were okay, they would not appreciate being called so early in the morning. I would have to wait until a more reasonable time, but how early is acceptable? Perhaps I could drive by the house and check at a glance, before I go to work. But, short of opening the door, it would be difficult to determine if things were okay from the street, and entering the house would ring the electronic doorbell, bringing me right back to the first problem.

No, I would have to wait until breakfast, and give my dad a call under the pretense of scheduling a birthday dinner. The earliest that could be was not for another five hours!

If there was nothing I could do then, I would have to try and go back to sleep. I sat up and read a book for another hour, before becoming tired enough that rest was possible again.

* * *

Maile called me at work, before I had a chance to check on my folks, and asked what happened to me that morning. After I explained the events that preceded my worries, Maile said she had also woken up at that hour, having suffered very unsettling dreams and brewing a rather creeped-out feeling.

Great. Now in addition to my fears of parents in trouble, I have fears of paranormal night-time visitations!

* * *

A phone call to my parents left me in relief, as they sounded quite well and busy with their daily lives. Tentatively scheduled a dinner for a July Saturday, and I left them to their thing.  I suppose, in hindsight, I could have driven up to the house and checked if there was a big pile of uncollected newspapers.  That bit of oddity would be grounds for house investigations.

Regardless. That bit of wonderful news scratches Theory One off, leaving me with the disturbing possibility of Theory Two – Ghost All Up In My Business.

Maile told me later that I had probably heard the siren song of soul-sucking freakishness outside our window, in its attempt to lure me into its gaping maw of hideous doom.

Great. Thanks.

Maybe it was good that I didn’t think to go out for that drive.

I called home this morning at approximately 0700, hoping to catch Maile before she left for work. I punched in the number on the keypad and listened to the rhythmic drone of notification. I started to think about my question to her, that I wanted to ask if she felt like attending the annual high school alumni dinner (here, we take our high schools more seriously than we do universities). As the rings continued to be rung, I began to wonder if Maile was indisposed, perhaps in the process of disposing… things.

Suddenly the phone picked up, and this man answered! Who the fuck is this guy, in my house?! It almost sounded like my brother-in-law, and if he was there, why was he there so early, when Maile had to go to work? As these questions raced through my head, I endeavored to keep the conversation going, so I asked if Maile was there.

“You called the wrong house,” the man answered.

Holy fuck, it was my DAD! I keyed in his number instead of mine. I stumbled an apology amidst the bumblings of “oh crap, I forgot” and “damn it, that’s right.” He just said, “Bye.”

See, when my dad moved out, he took the old house number with him. This house number was the one I had been using all my life, and since I’m still living there, it stands to reason that the association would continue to exist just out of rote habit. In a moment of distraction I had forgotten the change and did not key in my new house number.

I told Maile this, afterward, and she couldn’t stop laughing.

At me.

So sad.

* * *

I think I will start using the term “keyed” when it comes to phones. It is so rare to find any phone that still retains the dial, so “dialing a number” should be changed to “keypadding,” I think. Or “keying” for short. Make a movie remake called “Keypad ‘M’ for Murder,” or something.

You watch, I’m going to own that term.

I think my dad is leaning towards radiotherapy. He seems willing to take chances on the possible side effects for what the doctor calls a “more complete procedure” that gives greater chance of cure. My dad would rather undergo radiation treatment than risk any microscopic cancer cells coming loose during surgery and entering his bloodstream.

I don’t know how much of it is seriously true, or how much is a radiologist looking for his next paycheck.

Still, in this case, it’s the results that matter. If this can give my father the best chance of survival, we ought to take it.   In addition, I’m fairly positive that with the number of physicians who are giving my dad good odds on beating this thing, he’s going to start believing it himself.  Mind over cancer matter, and all that.

The first day he told me he had cancer, my dad started off by saying, “I’m dying.”  My first reaction wasn’t the norm, I suppose, because I immediately thought, “Well… yeah.  We all are.  So?”  Instead of voicing it and earning looks from my mom, I let him continue, and he told me of the situation.

Looking back, my dad had already resigned himself to a quick and dirty fate.  I think the latest round of “good possibilities” should alter his mindset and help him sincerely believe he will get better.

* * *

Broken water main on my street last night.  Board of Water Supply tapped into the reserves so we could all take showers, so good on them.  However, they were making repairs all throughout the early morning, and the heavy equipment and constant construction did not make for a pleasant sleep.  Still, good on them for the fixing.

Coming off the initial examination last month, my dad got some X-ray and ultrasound tests taken last week. Today, he met his doctor in consultation with the latest results.

The prognosis remains the same; the cancer is still isolated to the prostate and has not spread to the surrounding tissue. Surgery is now a distinct possibility, but there is also the option for radiation therapy. My dad will consult with a radiologist sometime soon to get more details.

So now the consideration is whether or not to proceed with surgery or try chemo. The doctor told my dad (who told my mom, who told me) that the consequences of surgery on the prostate include a six-week recovery time, during which my dad cannot have any sort of strenuous activity such as lifting or physical exertion. After recovery, he will likely suffer “leakage” from physical activity. My mom may have stated what sort of leakage would occur, but I don’t think I was paying that close attention. I mean, the fact of leakage alone is enough to give it serious consideration. I guess it depends.

My dad still has to talk to the radiologist as of this point, so we do not know the pros and cons of chemo (which is what I assume the consultation with the radiologist will involve). I suppose once we have all the facts and given thought to life after treatment, my dad can make his decision of which path to pursue.

I told my mom this (and I believe my dad was listening in); whatever facts we acquire regarding treatment, I don’t want my dad’s decision to be based solely on my mother’s care. That is to say, if surgery would mean that he can’t do things like lift my mom out of bed anymore, I don’t want him to scrap that method of treatment simply because he wants to continue lifting my mom out of bed.  We can hire a caregiver or live-in nurse to do those things; it was an option he included in the house design, after all.

I’d rather his decision to pursue treatment be based on his “quality of life” after said treatment. I think he should decide whether he’d prefer feeling tired or whatever people who undergo chemotherapy feel, or if he’d prefer not straining his body with excessive physical activity.  I don’t think, as things are now, he should let the welfare of others take higher precedence over his own.

I’m not saying he should NOT consider my mom’s welfare; I’m just saying it shouldn’t be the determining factor, and it shouldn’t be given the most amount of weight in his decision.

I think it’s high-time we researched into a permanent caregiver to look after my mom, anyway. My dad can still be a part of my mom’s care, but at his stage of life, he shouldn’t be thinking of himself as the only person who can do this stuff. My dad should be enjoying his retirement with my mom and the rest of his family, spending time with people without worrying about giving my mom a bath.

Inevitably in the US, and I’m sure it occurs with as much frequency in other countries, people want to know where you work. What do you do, how much do you get paid? Oh wow that’s very interesting.

Less well-discussed is whether or not you enjoy your work. The common thread is that people in the US aren’t supposed to enjoy work. We’re not supposed to like what we do, it can’t be fun. And if, by some sick twist of fate it does happen to be fun, we’re not supposed to admit it.

Even LESS well-discussed is what your workplace looks like. Which is what I’m going to do now.

My desk

This is my little hidey-hole. It’s tucked away in the corner of a large communal work area, a place where consultants and students sit and work behind me and to my left. Note the door to the right; its placement is not accidental.

My backpack and sunglasses rest on a portable 3-drawer locking file cabinet, but I don’t typically put things of importance inside because it’s really light and someone could walk out of the office with it. Now it just serves as a shelf. My lunchbox sits on the floor because there’s no room on the shelf. You can’t see my umbrella, though.

On the desk are my tools of the trade: headphones, coffee mug, notepads, and photographic reminder of why I work. Dual monitors for a Windows machine, keyboard and optical mouse, and telephone are used less-often (I’m a State worker, after all). A mirror, to see who is behind me.

I have two calendars, one given by the university, another purchased personally. Mine has a wolf on it. The shelf above me holds meaningless materials, spare parts, and school newspapers full of coupons.

Back to the door. It leads to the snack room, refrigerator, and coffee machine.

The snack room

The Silicon Valley poster on the door is horribly out of the date.  Someone made little post-it stickers with “GONE” written on them, and now it is a daily puzzle-solving activity to try and find out which businesses are no longer in business.

You would think that with the amount of traffic in and out of the snack area, or community printer, that I would be constantly bothered. However, note that the door is open, it is continually left open, and if you reference its position relative to my workstation, you will notice that it helps to cover my back and secrete me away from the hustle and bustle. Yea, often the secretaries forget I’m at work and don’t bring me my paychecks.

Despite the non-usage of my file cabinet, I am not without storage. To my left, past an empty station, is my overhead compartment.

Overhead storage

A closed version is to the left; it’s not mine. The computers below aren’t mine, either, because their main purpose is to collect dust. Truly an aspiration for all State employees.

Inside my storage bin are books I no longer read, a box of envelopes I hardly need, a multitude of pens, rulers, and office supplies I never use, and some business cards I don’t hand out. I also have a few paper plates for the occasional snack, and a glass plate for re-usability. Whatever else is in there, I probably put in a couple of years ago and never touched again.

Back to work, I guess.

For anyone here with even a passing interest in professional sports, the impetus to choose a franchise to root for can sometimes involve complex mathematical calculations. Hawai`i is not the only state without a professional team, but unlike states on the continent, neighboring teams aren’t a simple stone’s throw away.

I think many people here do follow certain teams based on proximity. California can be considered the “closest” neighbor, and by consequence a number of professional teams in that state have been “adopted” by Hawai`i locals. I know a telephone book’s worth of people who cheer for the NFL’s Oakland Raiders, and an equal number for the San Francisco 49ers. The Los Angeles Lakers in basketball is always a popular choice.

Baseball seems to have a more widespread audience here. I’m not sure if it’s a result of the long history of little league baseball in Hawai`i, with its tradition of borrowing professional names like Cubs, Reds, and Pirates. It seems likely that you might have some kids who would turn to the professional teams for inspiration. However, I played little league, and I didn’t find myself cheering for my team’s professional counterparts.

I’m sure popular culture goes a long way in attracting the fair-weather fans. I’ve seen many Yankees and Red Sox hats being flaunted about. Basketball jerseys from the Spurs, Suns, Cavaliers, and Heat are worn both on and off the court. Football apparel from the Eagles and Patriots seem quite popular.

I haven’t mentioned the possibility that people who move to Hawai`i from other states bring their favorite teams with them. The sheer number of transplants from military assignments alone is enough to bring a diversity of die-hard fans, and it is only added to by the amount of people who come to the islands for their own personal reasons.

I was asked why I chose the teams that I follow, and with one exception, my choices were made by video games:

~ Tampa Bay Buccaneers: I’ve liked this football team since they wore the creamsicle colors and were the laughing stock of the league. For those two reasons, I chose them when I started to play Tecmo Super Bowl III, because I liked whooping ass against the stronger teams. The Bucs have since strengthened my commitment with a Super Bowl win.

~ Detroit Red Wings: There aren’t a lot of hockey fans in the islands, and I won’t go into the many theories as to why this is so. Despite the lack of media coverage here, I’ve liked the Red Wings because of their long history as one of the Original Six. Their logo and simple color scheme of red and white is probably the cleanest and most recognizable in the sporting world. My appreciation for them was solidified in part by NHL 2K, where it became VERY easy to distinguish the many players on the ice. I’m quite happy that they’ve just won their 11th Stanley Cup.

~ Seattle Mariners: The only team I cheer for NOT decided by video games. I started to follow the Mariners from my college days at Puget Sound in Tacoma, and Seattle was the state favorite. I entered into the mix with players like Ken Griffey Jr, Randy Johnson, and the iconic Jay Buhner. I had long hair at the time, and it was always a joke that I would attend one of the games on “Buhner Buzz-Cut” days to get it all shaved off.

Represent!

Harken back to the tales of old, when a man’s home became his fortress, besieged on all sides by the noisy conspiracies of cockroaches in flight, saved at the eleventh hour by the timely arrival of nose-borne boogers.

Listen well, then, when I describe the true-to-life account of the same man’s further adventures in home defense!

* * *

I was jarred awake by a crash, a sharp crack of decibel followed by the trickle of something in cascade. It sounded like breaking glass. Yes, the sound of a window break, accompanied by the tinkling of glass on the floor. Adrenaline-rush, on!

Whilst waiting for my super-Hulk-powers to formulate, I made the split-second decision to grab my collapsible baton, the one I used to carry with me on bike rides. No intruder would walk away from this encounter with an un-bumped noggin.

Maile worriedly asked what was going on, but I had to quickly calm her before entering Rambo-mode. I apprised her of the situation, then crept into the hallway, straining my ears to detect the sounds of further intrusion.

Stop! Wait by the doorway before proceeding. The killer may lurk beyond. Darn, I should have brought one of Maile’s dental mirrors to check around corners. I hoped it would not be a fatal mistake.

I had to chance a peek into the living room. The cold light of my blue LED clock cast disturbing shadows, but yielded no other movement. My eyes were well-adjusted to the dark, and I saw nothing out of place. The windows here were not broken. I continued down the hallway, stealing a glance into the empty bathroom and adjoining bedroom. My next destination was the kitchen, likely the source of the intrusion into my domicile.

If the intruder was in the kitchen, the battleground would be a tough one. If this person did not have a weapon, one could easily be found within the many cabinets. I could only hope that their search for utensils would be akin to mine (fruitless and frustrating, thanks to countless reorganizations).

The ambient light from outside filtered through the frosted louvers, glaring across the many silhouettes of pots and pans, and threatened to reveal my approach. Behind me, the wall was illuminated by this soft light as it streamed through the doorway I was next to, therefore I could not peek around lest I cast my shadow to amplify my presence. I now had a decision to make.

The light switch was on the other side of the wall I was against. I could easily reach my hand around the edge of the doorway and bathe the area in fluorescent luminescence. This would possibly serve to blind the intruder temporarily, and enable me to rush in and incapacitate my opponent with a swift chop to the back of the neck, ala Star Trek. However, my own vision would suffer the sudden burst of brightness.

My only hope would be my intimate knowledge of the kitchen layout (just, you know, not the contents of the cabinets). Having tread many a path between the tables and chairs, I could let my body’s memory of the area guide me into position during the few milliseconds available to me. It just might be enough.

Decision made, I switched the baton to my off-hand, slowly reached around the edge of the wall and pressed the light-switch. With a guttural cry from my bottom, I charged forth, stepping into the blaze of battle to challenge the intruder of my domain.

Nobody was there. The kitchen was empty, no one hiding behind the counter, nor in the sink. Both microwave and stove were devoid of life, and the toaster was untouched. The windows were intact, the doors secured, and a quick inspection of the outside yielded no signs of trespass.

This was not a trick of my imagination. I clearly heard the sound! Maile heard the sound! What was it, if there was no intruder and every barricade to my castle was left unbroken? I gripped my baton tightly. Something had come. It had gone without incident, but it had made its presence known, nonetheless.

On high alert, now suspicious of every shadow, I returned to my den. Disturbed by this recent activity, I could only find solace in the fact that when danger threatened, I was ready to defend and protect my family and home. Perhaps, some comfort could be taken from that.

* * *

Maile, in the course of these events, sleepily went to the bathroom and found that her razor, normally hanging from a suction-cup hook in the shower, had fallen. The suction had come loose and both implements clattered upon the shower tiles.

She just didn’t bother to tell me until I came back to bed.