The Weight..

A weak moment, or is my mind finally bending under the weight of several life-threatening conditions? Is this a red flag that this may be more than I can handle? Where did the tough, determined guy go as I begin to question whether it's all even worth it? A diet I hate, exercise that isn't fun anymore, I realize the push that kept me going was the fun of the result, lower weight, more steps, more miles that week. The process is NOT fun, only the result. Same with Doctor visits and research, and printing off test results and repeating it all only to realize I'm battling things that aren't going to end up with the results I'm working toward. 

I keep looking for small rewards, a better number here or there, something enough to make me want to keep spending the energy this fight requires. But then just as fast, the reality of everything I'm looking at wipes it all away..

My visit to the hematologist was one of those moments. A few bright spots on bloodwork, and then all the rest.. I listened to her analysis, but didn’t quite have the strength to challenge any of it or even get a word in the way I normally do. I ended up like the old days of doctor visits, where you just sat and listened while your mind drifted toward some other place. Did she just say it could be a blood cancer? One life-threatening reality after another. My body is responding/attacking itself, with the cause still undetermined, and the possibilities are a jolt to the mind. Nine chronic conditions. Are you kidding me?

Last night, sitting with it all swirling around in my head, I found myself for the first time wondering how much of this I can keep up with.. How do you fight one thing when several other things are waiting to take its place? Fighting in the face of defeat can look admirable to some, but it can become an exercise in futility and be foolish. I wonder if one day I will look back and think that instead of spending all this time, energy, and stress researching and learning about my conditions, making and driving to doctor appointments, and all, maybe the time would have been better spent just putting it all away and going out and living whatever life I have left and letting God sort it out..  

Even sitting there writing about this is exhausting, and writing used to be a refuge for me, the only one I had.. 

Then came the night, and after that, the morning. I slept reasonably well, or well enough that I thought I might wake up with at least a little perspective type relief. But no, it's worse. The same heaviness is weighing me down.

So I checked again for bloodwork results, even though I know full well some of them may take up to two weeks. Still, I look several times a day. Just more waiting. More watching. More time for my mind to go where I don’t need it to be. All of this would sound like a pity party, a woe-is-me festival if I were to have this same conversation with an actual person, but again and again over the years, I've learned that people are only really interested in themselves, and there is nothing to be gained, not even comfort, in sharing anything personal with anyone. It's just a fact. Perceptions are hardened realities today, not facts, and no, I don't feel sorry for myself. This isn't a pity party. I am pissed off, worn out, and questioning where the tough, determined guy went. 

What's wearing me down is not only all the appointments, specialists, and tests, or even the unknowns. It is the feeling that all the work I’ve been putting in to get well, to be disciplined, to fight back, may still end up being just a futile attempt. That thought lands somewhere deeper than fear. It's frustrating and angers me. A wearing down. A quiet realization that the fight itself is beginning to take almost as much out of me as the things I am fighting..

Maybe this is just a weak stretch? Maybe a natural response to too much piling up at once? But it doesn't feel temporary this morning. It feels like the emotional cost of carrying too many serious possibilities for too long.

And that may be the heaviest weight to carry, not just wondering what happens next, when the next appointment is, what pill to take, jumping when the phone rings thinking it could be the results I'm waiting for, but wondering how long can I carry all of this and keep up the fight.. 

 

One Last Right Place

I’m not sure if I was looking for something better—or just trying to feel like I was moving.

Today I drove west, looking at a couple of properties I thought might suit me better than my current place.

Lately, I’ve been overthinking everything. Not the useful kind of thinking—the kind that leads somewhere—but the kind that drifts and starts asking questions that don’t need answers. I step outside my own thoughts sometimes and write about them as if they belong to someone else, because from that distance, they don’t even seem logical.

My health takes up more space in my mind than I’d like. It’s always there, quietly influencing everything. Then there’s the reality of having two houses and only living in a small part of one. That should probably mean something. I’m just not sure what.

Lately I’ve been going down a different path in my head—one that feels clear and completely out of reach at the same time.

My latest YouTube obsessions are people my age living off the land in remote places—the kind of life I can see myself in without much effort.

What I can’t see as clearly is how to get there.

The nightmare stories of buying raw land. The unknowns. The mistakes. And before any of that, selling two houses without really knowing how to do it.

Spinning my wheels is the feeling. Not stuck exactly, but not moving either. Motion without progress.

And it’s starting to weigh on me—turning something that should be possible into something that feels difficult, then distant, then almost impossible to imagine getting done in whatever time I have left.

While everyone else seems to be out living their lives, I’ve been sitting here, not doing much at all. 

I don’t want more options. I want fewer decisions..

marking time with Ruben - (original draft 2021)

It seems the only conversations I have left are with myself—and putting them on a page feels more sane than keeping them in my head.

Depression has found its way back in. Or maybe it never left. Either way, it’s taken up space again, and every so often I feel the need to empty out what’s inside me, though I couldn’t tell you why.

The life I built—quiet, controlled, mostly solitary—has started to echo. There’s guilt in that. Regret too. I didn’t realize I was designing a future where the one person I let in would one day be gone, and I’d be here, alone in what was left.

I’ve known hard times. I’ve walked through them before. But this is different. There’s no clear road ahead, and looking back doesn’t help—it just leaves me empty. I was always alone without feeling lonely. Now I’m not so sure. Now it feels like the only thing willing to stay is depression.

It’s 8 p.m. The TVs are off. The clocks tick. That’s it. That and the thought that maybe I’m a little more unwell this time than I’ve been before.

A friend offered me some work. I said yes, hoping it might pull me out of this. But after two years of trying to be okay, I’m not. And I don’t know if I can hide that anymore.

A few things this past year have pulled me back into places I thought I’d outgrown—people, distance, family that doesn’t quite feel like family anymore. Add in the weight of everything happening beyond my front door, and it all feels heavier than it should.

The other night, sleep didn’t come. That alone told me something was off. Around 3 a.m., I went for a walk and ended up at my mom’s empty house. Sat on the back patio, staring into the dark, trying to make sense of anything.

Then I heard it—a faint meow.

Ruben, the neighbor’s cat. 

He comes around during the day, but this was different. I hadn’t made a sound. It was nearly 4:30 in the morning. And still, he came—running toward me, calling out with every step.

He settled in like he belonged there. Like he’d been sent.

I don’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore. That moment felt like something else—something placed in front of me exactly when I needed it. Maybe from my mom. Maybe from God. Maybe both.

All I know is this: for a few minutes, the noise in my head went quiet.

And that was enough. 

The Wealth I Once Had

Success isn’t for everyone. It demands a lot that most people never see, and when you reach it, some people treat you differently—some admire it, some quietly resent it, and you can never talk about it. It's "rude..."

Life doesn’t reward everyone with a place to belong; some of us spend it quietly learning how to live without one..

There was a time when I didn’t have two nickels to rub together, punching a time clock in a cold warehouse and living paycheck to paycheck. That’s where I learned what separates those who wish and those who do, and the costs of my choice.

While others made friends and went to parties, I worked. Quietly. Alone. Trying to make myself valuable enough to people I couldn't stand to overcome my greatest fear, living broke. 

Fear of living broke drove me harder than anything else. I made sure it would never happen.

It didn’t.

But it came at a cost.

Now, having gotten older, I’m not broke. Still, the old saying that runs on a loop in my head: 

Some people are so poor all they have is money...

The memories that still make me smile come from the days when all we had was just enough.

Riding a used bicycle Mom gave me for Christmas because she couldn’t afford to buy me a new one. To this day, I remember being disappointed but I never let her know. I hope she didn't know.. Watching her work herself to exhaustion just to keep a roof over our heads. Gus, my dog.

I  didn't know we were struggling; we just didn't have a lot, but we had enough, and we had each other.

I was already rich beyond measure and didn't realize it. Oh, but I do now, oh do I ever know now..

Mom was proud of me, and I know that to be true. Still, she would have loved a house full of family and grandchildren from her son that would never come to be. She understood something it took me a lifetime and much loss to learn. 

That family is the real wealth.

They’re all gone now. What remains are the memories of a life that once held everything important.

As I move through what feels like borrowed time, I am grateful for those old memories and every extra day I’m given.

I spent a lifetime making sure I would never be broke.
It took nearly seventy years to realize I once had the greatest wealth a person can have.

A family. 

The Strange Reality of Turning 70

So I made it to 2026. I'm 70 now, and my health has begun to decline rather precipitously. After being on extremely expensive blood thinners for about three months to prevent clots, stroke, and heart attack, my body is now, for some reason, making far too many red blood cells. The result is very thick blood. My rising hematocrit numbers are a growing concern.

There are indications that, along with heart and kidney issues, this blood problem may be part of the larger process of decline that eventually comes for all of us.

If it weren’t happening to me, it would actually be a fascinating look at how humans age and slowly break down before the end.

Reaching seventy is a strange milestone. In my head, I’m still twenty-five.

The late George Harrison once said in an interview, “It’s nothing to go from 17 to 57. It just happens so fast.”

For me, the years from 50 to 70 passed in the blink of an eye.

In that short stretch of time, I lost my mother, my brother-in-law, a sister entered memory care, a dear friend next door passed away, and a nephew’s young son died far too early. My ex-wife lost her father and her life changed as well.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, my perception of time — and my own mortality — shifted dramatically.

Intellectually, I’ve always known that all living things eventually die. But watching it happen in real time is something else entirely. It’s a jolt to the consciousness.

At seventy, that jolt hits exponentially harder.

Living alone with almost no human contact forces me to have these conversations entirely inside my own mind. There’s no outside input, only my own worries and concerns echoing around.

It probably isn’t healthy to live so isolated.

But it’s the life I chose many years ago for reasons that seemed solid at the time. Back then, it felt easier.

Looking back, I clearly didn’t think it through.

My mind needs more input now — more living, more nature, more discovery, some kind of passion for something… anything.

Today a neighbor and his wife came over and started vacuuming leaves in my yard with two mowers. It was an oddly uncomfortable experience watching it happen.

Just a few minutes earlier, I had been talking with him about some of my health issues — something I seem unable to avoid when asked how things are going. The next thing I knew, he and his wife were bagging leaves in my yard.

Do they see a frailty in me that I can feel but don’t want to acknowledge?

Are my health problems becoming visible to others?

My mother used to tell me, " Never tell everything to anyone."

I’ve had trouble in the past from forgetting that advice and saying too much before thinking.

People — even well-meaning people — don’t actually want to hear all your problems. They probably have plenty of their own. And once they hear yours, they feel obligated to respond: What can I do to help?

But most of the time I’m not asking for help. I’m simply answering the question.

So perhaps the better response when someone asks how things are going is the one my mother suggested long ago:

“Fine. It’s great to be alive. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

One thing has always been certain:

Nothing is for certain.

If I wake up tomorrow, it’s a good day.

If God’s plan for me doesn’t end today, then I need to have a plan of my own and go get after it.

Worry won’t cure anything. Concern won’t heal the cause of it.

Find something else to think about.
Do something — anything.
Just get up, move, and keep moving forward.

If I make it to 71, it won’t be because I sat around worrying about my health when I could have been living every single moment and absorbing some kind of life — any kind.

The end will come soon enough.

There’s no need to invite it early.

More peace.
More music.
Laugh some.
Worry less.

Live every minute.

Go to the gym.

 

Summer 2025

Many years ago,

an old friend of mine—

someone I hadn’t spoken to in decades—

learned, one night,

that both of his parents had been in a severe head-on car accident.

His mother…

was in critical condition.

His father…

died instantly.

In a single, fatal moment,

his life changed forever.

No warning.

No consent.

He wrote to me afterward—

because he always wrote when life became unbearable—

that the strangest part wasn’t the accident itself.

It was how the world didn’t stop.

Not for a second.

Time didn’t pause.

People went on, oblivious.

That dislocation stayed with him.

And it would prepare him for another blow.

The eventual passing of his mother.

Making him, in the end, a fellow orphan.

I’ve learned something hard,

something unavoidable:

No matter what life throws at you,

no matter how catastrophic,

you have to get up.

Dust yourself off.

Keep going.

Tomorrow will come.

Then a week.

A month.

A year.

For those left behind,

the alarm rings.

Bills must be paid.

People go to work.

To the grocery store.

To the mundane, ordinary tasks.

And the world keeps spinning.

Night turns to day.

Time marches on.

There’s a saying

that time can heal what nothing else can.

I hope that’s true.

For some.

For me…

time hasn’t healed.

It has, at times, stood completely still.

Until another death.

And then another.

Now, in the summer of 2025…

Four notable deaths.

Since my mom passed.

All sudden.

All jarring.

None I saw coming.

I know some people

can find comfort in perspective.

In support.

They can accept that death is part of life.

I…

would not know much about that.

What I do know is this:

Getting stuck.

In a place—good or bad.

And trying to find your way out.

That is my everyday now.

No matter how deeply you are affected…

You cannot expect others to feel the same.

There are only a few people in life

who will clap when you win…

and cry when you fall.

When they’re gone…

When you are truly alone…

That is when the real work begins.

You either sink under the weight of it…

Or climb out.

Just as the ones who are gone

would have hoped you would.

The summer of 2025…

it has been the hardest time of my life.

I believe in God.

I have faith that there is some purpose behind all of this…

A purpose I am not meant to fully understand.

I know I am not facing it entirely alone.

God walks beside me.

With every step I manage to take.

And yet…

I cannot deny

that I spend too much time thinking about my own mortality.

Death.

Life.

All of it weighing on me

in ways it never used to.

Since I switched from television to YouTube…

Google shows me stories of “notable people” who have died.

I am struck by the ages,

the causes,

the uncanny parallels to my own life.

It forces me to reconsider plans I once thought I had…

Places I thought I might go.

It is sobering to confront my health.

My age.

My limitations.

Things I never had to consider before.

The echoes in my mind…

they come from a time when all I wanted was to be left alone.

To be.

To go.

To do as I pleased.

And now…

I wonder aloud:

Is this what “be careful what you wish for” really means?

Perhaps it is.

Sunlight on an Old Man's face - Feb 08, 2025

Some days are low lights. Today was one of them. I write not for answers, but to acknowledge my own mind.

For years, I’ve thought too much about mortality, about the heart and kidney problems that remind me of life’s fragility. Most of it stays locked inside.

I made a choice long ago to live alone. Today, that choice feels heavy. I wonder how many more times I will feel sunlight on my face, warmth that touches me nowhere else. I wonder how life might have been different with someone beside me in these years.

I see my younger self in old photos: a kid who saw love but didn’t feel it, who laughed alone, unaware of the sadness that would wait. Mom gave us all she could—love, care, a life built against the odds.

Now, the house is quiet. Memories linger, unclaimed joy and silent regrets. Love, it seems, is beyond reach. Someone to share these fears can only exist in thought and words.

Mom, Gran, my father I never knew, my lost family—God, watch over me. And those who touched my life, protect them too.

Peace, Lord, if it is Your will. Forgive me for falling short, and let my heart find rest.

The Quiet Grief of Christmas - 2024

Remembering the reason for the season has never been just a phrase to me. It is a reminder.

A reminder that the quiet melancholy I carry has a purpose. At almost any moment I feel half happy and half sad, and I would not want it any other way. That balance reminds me of the people I have loved and the losses that shaped my life.

There was a time when our family felt whole. That changed when the matriarchs of the family passed away and the center that held everything together slowly disappeared. My father whom I never actually knew, and my mother—who was everything good that remained—eventually left this world as well.

Yet the sadness I feel today is also a connection to them. It reminds me that love does not simply disappear.

Years ago I wrote about walking alone in this world. I did not yet understand how deep that feeling would become. But faith reminds me that none of us truly walks alone.

Christmas brings those feelings close again—the lights, the music, the familiar traditions. Sadness and light, living side by side.

Soon another year will begin. Another chance to do some good for someone else, just as my mother always believed.

Until my time here is finished, I will mention those who carry the same quiet grief in my prayers..

May God bless all of us.

The Knock At The Door

More than forty years have passed, but I still remember the knock at the front door.

When I opened it, a stranger stood there holding papers. A process server. He handed them to me and explained, calmly and professionally, that I had ten days to move out of my own house. I was to leave my wife, my son, and nearly everything I owned behind. I could take a few clothes.

Just like that, the life I had been living was over.

Recently I heard someone telling the story of his own divorce, and it brought all of that back to me. Not the anger—there really isn’t much of that left—but the memory of how suddenly life can change.

My divorce isn’t a story about blaming my ex-wife. Life is rarely that simple. Looking back now, the truth is the divorce was probably the best thing for both of us. Maybe even for my son, though that’s something we’ll never really know.

The reality is we probably never had much chance from the beginning.

We were very young. Her parents didn’t want us seeing each other, and we had just discovered she was pregnant. In those days the expectation was simple: if a child was coming, you got married. So we did.

Our backgrounds could not have been more different.

I grew up in a house filled with arguments and divorces. That was the model of family life I knew. My mother loved me deeply, and for that I’ll always be grateful, but growing up in that kind of turmoil leaves marks you don’t recognize until much later.

My wife came from a large, stable family with parents who stayed together for decades.

Looking back now, it seems almost inevitable that we would struggle.

What stayed with me most wasn’t simply the end of the marriage. It was the feeling that everything had been decided without me. One day I had a family, a home, and a life that—while imperfect—was still mine. The next day it was gone.

The pain of that moment stayed with me longer than I ever expected. Long enough that I quietly promised myself I would never again risk that kind of loss.

And I never did.

My ex-wife kept trying. She remarried several times over the years searching for the right fit. I admire that persistence.

My path went another direction. I focused on work, investing, and building stability where I could. Eventually I retired with some security.

Today I’m told my son and his family are doing well, and my ex-wife seems happy. For that I’m grateful.

Life didn’t turn out the way I imagined when I was young.

But I’ve learned something over the years: gratitude and disappointment can exist at the same time.

And sometimes that’s enough.    

Even now, all these years later, I sometimes think about that knock at the door and how a single moment can quietly divide a life into before and after.

  

  

When the Circle Gets Smaller

For most people, Thanksgiving and Christmas are filled with warmth, family, and celebration. But for some of us, the holidays arrive quietly.

I am among those who no longer have family to gather with during this time of year—or at any other time, for that matter.

I deal with it the only way I know how: by being grateful for the memories from when things were different. When people were different. When family filled the room and the holidays meant noise, laughter, and togetherness.

The people who once held my family together have all passed away now. Those who remain, I hope, are somewhere making their own gatherings and building their own memories. That is how life moves forward. Toward the later chapters, things tend to thin out. The circle gets smaller. The house grows quieter.

I have made my peace with that, but I know many people struggle deeply with this stage of life, especially during the holidays. I get them..

Somewhere along the way I realized something important: silence is also a form of communication. When the phone does not ring and messages stop coming, that too says something. Once I understood that, it stopped hurting the way it once did.

Now that I am older and dealing with health issues, Thanksgiving is no longer just one day a year for me. It is every day. I am thankful for another sunrise, another breath, another chance to listen to the wind in the trees, hear the birds sing, and feel the warmth of the sun.

Christmas, too, carries a different meaning now—one deeper than the excitement we felt as kids.

If you find yourself alone during these holidays while others celebrate the way you once did, try to look up instead of down. They are making the same memories you once made, memories that will carry them through their own quiet seasons someday.

And remember: we are never truly alone in this world. God is always there, waiting patiently for us to turn to Him when the weight of life becomes too heavy to carry alone.