11/17/2017 – 7/20/2026
Norma was a sweet girl probably best known for, and deeply missed for, her yodels and other assorted vocalizations. Vocal from the day she joined us, she’d express herself often. She’d yodel to greet you, particularly in the morning. She’d yodel if you weren’t “getting the message” that it was dinner time, snack time, or some other kind of treat time. She’d yodel to greet passing strangers, and more. She even taught it to our younger Maxine.
Two years ago I replaced our worn out flag with a new one. I added a Pride flag because I felt that the far right had commandeered the U.S. flag into a symbol of extremism that I didn’t want to be associated with. The Pride flag sends a pretty strong message that that ain’t the case here.
Little has changed. Both flags had worn quite a bit in the intervening time, so it was time for a refresh.
This is purely a health update, feel free to ignore if that’s not of interest.
A few people have asked how my recovery from last fall’s fall is going. The short answer is: “very well, thank you!”
The longer answer is, of course, that it’s a little more nuanced than that.
“When an elder dies, a library burns to the ground.”
– African proverb
My parents lived in the Netherlands during the German occupation of World War II. For years, they experienced it all: the buildup, the atrocities, and finally liberation.
Sadly, I know precious little about their experiences during this time.
Oh, there are a few stories they shared, such as diving into a ditch to avoid German patrols, dumping illicit home-made gin into the river so as not to be caught, and so on. My father once shared that he was part of the Dutch army for some time and taught motorcycle marksmanship (I didn’t even know it was a thing).
But these stories were really just the tip of the iceberg of a much deeper and horrific experience. They reflected only those thoughts that were easy for my parents to sit with and to share. In a sense, they were the “good” or safe stories culled from a time of unimaginable tragedy and hardship.
I hated writing.
When I was in school — grade school, high school, and even college, I absolutely hated writing. Loathed it.
As a result, my writing sucked. I did it because I had to, not because I wanted to. I wrote just good enough to pass whatever class required it, typically with much less than perfect grades.
And yet here I am decades later, a writer. I make a living at it. I enjoy it.
WTF happened?
The setup is simple: you’re approached by someone for perhaps some innocuous reason. They strike up a conversation that you find engaging. They’re charming, and you feel comfortable with them, so you take it further.
Over time, you become more engaged. You like what they have to say. They flatter you in all the right ways, telling you how much better you are than all the others that came before. They promise you the world.
They make you feel special.
I find myself returning to this topic often. It seems a point that so many still fail to comprehend, with many taking offense at what is only a natural result of showing the world who you are.
We often hear people complaining they’re being discriminated against, losing friends and acquaintances, and even being “cancelled” because of the opinions they express, or the practices they engage in. Somehow, they seem to feel that they should be able to express and practice without consequence.
They, of course, believe their position is correct. As the One True Answer, it should obviously be honored and respected by all. Not to do so is, itself, disrespectful.
That’s not how this works.
I’m cursed.
I’m cursed with an apparently above-average ability to see both sides of most arguments. Or opposing viewpoints. Or alternative perspectives and explanations.
And yes, it’s a curse.
Another reason stock photography can be a huge problem.
Since I’m occasionally asked, here’s the current status of my recovery, post-fall.
With luck, the cervical collar will come off on January 13th. That’ll enable things like stairs (holding off on that since I can’t look down easily, and we’ve learned the hard way what happens when I can’t see where I’m going when going down stairs), and driving.
I really have only two symptoms remaining:
A random memory: after having the CAT scan and MRI, we eventually ended up talking to the neurosurgeon, Dr. Elliot Min. He outlined what had happened and his recommended solution: removal of the damaged disc and fusion of C5-6 and C6-7.
In other words, major surgery. On my neck. Where there are lots of important things like nerves and blood vessels and so much more.
We expressed some concerns about all that, and wondered about perhaps just waiting for the swelling to go down instead. He (calmly) reassured us that surgery was the way to go, and not something we wanted to postpone.
“It’s what I do.”
Pride goes before destruction,
And a haughty spirit before a fall.
– Proverbs 16:18
Let’s talk about falls, shall we?
After telling the story of my own fall, it’s been interesting to see the number of people sharing their own stories of gravity being a bitch. It’s happening much more frequently than perhaps we realize.
And I think that’s something worth paying closer attention to.
As I continue to improve, I, of course, look to others for inspiration and examples of improvement in the face of trauma or adversity.
I had an interesting observation relating to the limits reached by others in their progress, and how it does — and does not — apply to my own situation.
It’s a common question in situations such as the one I found myself in.
People desperately want to help. The problem is that they can’t know what’s appropriate to offer proactively, so asking what they can do in a generic sense is the only real alternative they have. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help” is a common equivalent.
Now, to be clear, the sentiment is deeply appreciated; truly. I’ve remarked on how just knowing that there are people who would drop everything to render aid or solve a problem at a moment’s notice is incredibly comforting. It really does remove a level of stress, even if that aid is never called into action.
There’s something simple that also renders incredible value, and yet it’s something that, for reasons I can’t quite fathom, seems the most difficult thing to offer at all.
This is an update to an essay I originally wrote a few years ago. It’s a mental model I keep returning to over and over again, especially in light of recent events.
We often judge opportunities based on the potential benefit or “upside” as it’s usually called. If we do ‘X’, we get ‘Y’. Typically, the risk we consider is not getting ‘Y’ if we fail to accomplish ‘X’.
I’ve come to rely on an additional layer to judging both opportunity and risk. I call it the “cost of failure”: what’s the cost of not getting ‘Y’?
It’s quick, easy, and now one of my most important evaluation tools.
When you’re in an emergency 911 situation, it’s pretty clear you’re giving control over your very life and well-being to capable others. The concept of second-guessing a first responder, for example, doesn’t make sense. They do this every day, whereas hopefully this is a brand new one-off experience for you. That you would place yourself in their care makes sense.
But what happens after? When healing and recovery kick in, yet you’re still reliant on others for various forms of assistance and support?
Let. It. Go.
Not that these recent essays haven’t already been self-indulgent to some degree, but allow me to indulge in a little more: tech geekery and amazement about our ability to communicate with one another in real time at any time, anywhere on the planet.
The size, scope, and characteristics of the communications network that activated when I had my fall fascinates me.
It’s almost a case study in everything from culture to time zones to communications technologies and more. Much like the network of people that reached out, it was much larger than I’d realized.
“Family” is an interesting word, with more baggage than most people realize. Wrapped up in those six letters are things like biology, culture, legalities, love, guilt, obligation, responsibility, and probably many more words with various and significant implications of their own.
One of the words that you don’t hear as much is “choice”. It’s a concept I’ve come to embrace over the years, and especially in the last few weeks.
One approach I use to manage the incoming flood of information is to use a dedicated email account for newsletters and similar subscriptions. That way, I can focus on my “main” emails without distractions, while intentionally sitting back and reading interesting content later.
One benefit is that this email address is easy to ignore. If, say, I’m laid up in a hospital for a week, newsletters will continue to accumulate with no adverse effects. When I return to the account, I can choose what to do next. The typical approach is to declare email bankruptcy, delete the accumulation, and start over as new issues arrive. It worked well.
My primary responsibility right now is to myself, to recover. That means physically (strengthening ambulation, improved balance, manual dexterity, etc), as well as psychologically, mainly via the written word.
In reality, though, the responsibilities go further. Much further.