midnight potatoes

Midnight Potatoes

At midnight on my birthday, I was standing in my kitchen cutting up two potatoes.

For months I haven’t felt right. The doctors say my kidney numbers are stable, which is good news, but stable isn’t the same as strong. When you live with one kidney running at about forty percent, even an easy day can leave you feeling like you ran a marathon.

I had just finished a three-day photo shoot. Nothing physically demanding, but by the end of each day I was wiped out.

Then tonight something strange happened.

After falling asleep in a chair, I woke up around 11:30 with something I hadn’t felt in a long time—energy.

Real energy.

The aches were gone. My mind was clear. My body felt almost normal again.

And the first thing that came to mind was those potatoes sitting in the kitchen about to go bad.

Kidney disease makes potatoes complicated. Peel them, cut them, rinse them, soak them overnight to leach out the potassium. It’s a process. But there I was happily working through it like I had somewhere important to be.

After that I packed up two camera bodies I had sold, printed the shipping labels, and set them by the door. Took the trash out for morning pickup. Kept looking for the next thing to do.

For a few hours I felt like the old version of me again—the guy who always had too much to do and not enough hours to do it.

Not the guy who spends most days just trying to get through them.

At one point I almost went for a midnight walk. A mile or two just because I could. I wish I had.

So why write about something this ordinary?

Because someday I might stumble back across this and remember there was a night when I felt almost normal again.

When I’m not exhausted and hurting, I’m a different person.

And I like that guy.

Around two in the morning I glanced at my computer calendar to see what I had coming up next.

That’s when I realized something.

It was my birthday.

I had forgotten.

Birthdays always seemed like things for kids anyway, but I never forgot my mom’s. And maybe the real reason birthdays matter isn’t the day itself—it’s that someone notices you’re still here.

About twenty-five thousand people have read things on this blog. I don’t know who any of them are.

But tonight I felt good enough to wish myself a happy birthday.

Because there really isn’t anyone left who will.

So here it is for the record.

Happy Birthday, old orphan.

And thanks to T., the last person on earth who remembered. Fifty years later, you still did.

Right now there are two bowls of potatoes soaking in the sink.

And for tonight, that feels like a small victory.

hello there old friend

The house was quiet tonight. The kind of quiet that almost has a sound to it.

It’s been a while since I last wrote here, though not much has changed. There have been a few good days scattered in, but mostly the kind where nothing much moves you. I still miss the people who are gone, and I still say real prayers for the people who remain. Sometimes I have to remind myself to include my own name in those prayers.

Jason had a birthday a few days ago. The kid I used to hold next to me is now a middle-aged man with a family of his own. I didn’t call. I never want to force myself into a place where I might not be wanted. He knows how to reach me if he wants to.

That thought always takes me back to my own father. Neither of us called. Not once. And then one day it was too late, and he was gone.

Maybe that’s why I stopped in here tonight. There’s a chill in the air outside — not cold, just uncomfortable enough to notice. I know that feeling well. Sometimes it has nothing to do with the temperature. It’s the same quiet chill that settles over a life lived mostly alone.

Still, there is peace in knowing that, unlike so many others who have passed through my life, my God has not left me. Even when the darkness and silence try to convince me otherwise, I believe his promise that I will never walk alone in this world or the next.

Physically, I haven’t been feeling well the past few weeks, but the lab results tell a better story. The disease that should be getting worse has, at least for now, stayed where it is. For that, I’m thankful.

Ruben stopped by a few days ago to check on me. He didn’t look so good himself — maybe a little thinner than usual. I fed him some of his favorite cat food. One tub turned into three, and he ate almost all of it before wandering over to sit with me for a while. We took our first selfie.

Truth is, Ruben may be the only one who regularly checks to see if I’m still around. No one else ever knows if I’m dead or alive these days.

And if I’m being honest, some days I feel like a little of both..

At least the practical things are getting done. I sent all the tax prep to Mel today and took care of some banking and Ameritrade business — things I usually put off until the last minute. It felt good to finish them early this year.

Tonight the house is quiet again.

But for a little while, it wasn’t.

Thanks for stopping by, Ruben.