typical guy, atypical situation

 
Hi There,

I wanted to take some time to thank each of you for all you have done these last 5 years. (Hard to believe!) Whether in person or from afar you have helped all of us go through this journey a little easier.  We have come a long way since that day, we all remember where we were when we heard the news.

We have learned so much and Kenny is doing well - considering all that he has been through. We continue to hope for progress in spinal cord research and hope that someday it will help him in some way.  Today I find my emotions a little less in check, I remember the physcial guy he was, so proud of the guy he is - I will be conscious more today of those "things he misses most". I will rub his sister's belly (she is due in 4 weeks) and hug Ali and Abi just a little longer - for him.

I know each one of us has come through this thinking a little differently about our lives, we all look at the disabled just a little different and not one of us can pass by a wheelchair without thinking about "what" put this person in that chair.

We will forever be greatful and truly appreciate you all, please continue sending good thoughts our way. We do lean on your shoulders from time to time. You hold us up when we need a little help. We are so fortunate to have wonderful people around us.

With much love,

Jeanne, Skip and Kenny

I've been trying hard to wrap my head around what happened this past week, so please excuse my upcoming long-windedness.

George Carlin once said that, "inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist."  Well, after spending the near entirety of my adult life in The Bush Era, governed by the politics of Dick Cheney and Karl Rove, it should come as no surprise that I have viewed government, and our system as a whole, with a cynical pair of LASIK-corrected eyes.  But after witnessing what went down in our nation's capital on Tuesday, it's hard not to be slightly buzzed on a cocktail of pride and optimism over what took place.

This election was a statement.  It was the long-overdue acknowledgment, and rejection, of the hypocrisy in our actions not matching up to the rhetoric this country was founded on (hmm... maybe now the words declared by our forefathers that "all men are created equal" can actually become the Mad Lib they are supposed to be, only this time without the preceding adjective blanks for race, gender, religion and - hopefully much sooner than later - sexual preference already filled in like when they were first put on paper).  It also rejuvenates the promise of The American Dream® in the eyes of the world, and serves as a reminder that America isn't just a series of fast food chains and department stores, plagued by an ethnocentric anti-intellectualism that feeds on gluttonous overconsumption and celebrity obsession.  No, within these borders you'll find that, for those willing to put in the effort, this is the land of unlimited possibilities.  And can we please put to rest the absurd notion that the further down the family tree our immigrant ancestors reside, the more American we somehow are?  Because, lest we forget, most of us wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for someone X-amount of generations ago buying into the idea that the grass was greenest in the US of A.

And if you just look at a few of the steps the president has taken in his first week alone, you'll see the potential to do more for our homeland security than anything the last administration put into place.  Initiating the shutdown of Gitmo can finally put an end to the do-we-or-don't-we torture argument for good (because let's face it, citing a lack of terrorist attacks since 9/11 as justification for the suspension of basic human civil liberties is like saying that, since I haven't broken any bones in the last five years, my paralysis has been worth it: it hasn't kept us safe, just further cultivated the hatred of our enemies).  And making his first calls as Commander in Chief to the various leaders involved in and around the current conflict in Israel instead of wasting time schmoozing a few allies sends a clear message that our foreign relations will once again be rooted in diplomacy instead of unwavering ultimatums.

And I realize that the man has been lauded by the left (and mocked by the right) as the second coming of Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Dr. King, Gandhi, Ted Williams, Walter Payton, sliced bread and Jesus himself all rolled into one, but I'm not quite that naïve nor that arrogant.  I'll tell you what I do see, though; an intelligent, articulate and pragmatic leader with a deep sense of history and a clear picture of the future he wants to mold.  He's humble enough to know that he can't solve all these problems by himself, wise enough to surround himself with some of the strongest minds available to him and has the backbone to make the right decisions when it comes down to it.  Now, I'm not suggesting we've entered some sort of post-partisan utopian age, but the ability to be ambitious politically and still remain inclusive of all perspectives is crucial given the challenges we face.  2008 wrapped up in hellish fashion with the loss of 2.6 million jobs, the national debt rocketing past $10 trillion and our military entrenched in two wars with no real consensus on how to end one while simultaneously ramping up the other.  All in all, I guess it's pretty safe to say that collectively we are in some pretty deep shit.

And the last year or so hasn't exactly been all puppy dogs and pixie dust for me personally either.  I've spent the majority of the last 10 months relegated to bedrest from a pressure sore I could have easily prevented.  So much time in the dungeon hasn't done much good for the psyche, trust me.  Then in a freak accident at a monster truck show a little more than a week ago, a large piece of metal debris shot into the stands, tragically killing a six-year-old boy, and striking a close family friend square in the face, shattering the majority of his jaw.  Actually, "close friend" is a severe understatement, since he is the closest thing to a big brother I will ever have.  He was one of my first wrestling coaches and the person who fed me my first meal in the ICU after my accident.  So seeing one of my heroes brought to his knees like this has been a struggle to say the least.  The inability to help is maddening.  And though his oxycodone-hazed thumbs up gave me immense hope that he will be okay, I still left the hospital last Monday with a great amount of anger towards the world in general.  But as I watched the hundreds of thousands of people converge on the capital the next morning, I could feel my boiling blood slowly begin to cool.

It was strange, because the larger the crowd became, all I kept picturing was that scene from Forrest Gump where Tom Hanks and Robin Wright Penn's characters reunite in the Reflecting Pool amidst the sea of war protesters.  And that led my tangent-prone mind to wander to the 60s in general; an era I've always been curious about because of the almost palpable sense of social and political activism that seemed apparent at the time.  Or at least that's the impression I've gotten from things I've read, seen on the History Channel, etc..  And that simple fact - that the only personal experiences I could relate to the moment have come from the wistful words of dead authors, the grainy images of documentaries and the special effects of blockbuster films - helped to reinforce just how rare and monumental the day actually was.  And that really got me thinking.

This could be our moment; that once-in-a-generation opportunity to leave an indelible mark on the course of history.  It's a chance to usher in a new era where we take the power back from the megacorporations that have been distracting us from what is really important with Cialas commercials and iPhone apps or whatever else.  It's going to take our own brand of vigilant activism similar to those of generations past, where we decide that our idealism will not be written off by the cynicism of others as a weakness or a blind faith, but recognized and respected as a measured optimism tempered with the resolve that we can do better; we must do better if we're going to weather the storms still gathering on the horizon.  But in order to do better, we first have to recognize that this change won't begin on Wall Street or in the halls of our capital buildings.  It has to start in our living rooms and backyards and spread from there. 

Everyone of us could make a better effort to conserve energy, manage our finances and educate our children as well as ourselves.  I mean, how can we rightfully expect our elected officials to be held accountable if we aren't individually attempting to walk the walk first?  That being said, the former just might be a little easier this time around given this president is breaking the stranglehold the last administration had on the Freedom of Information Act.  We can no longer avoid the path of the road less traveled for fear of the unknown, paralyzed by threats from the outside world and wallowing in self-pity over our various plights. 

Because make no mistake, Barack Obama is not some sort of savior, and he's not going to pull us out of this ditch with the snap of a finger.  But who knows, perhaps with a little help, he could one day be looked back on as the catalyst that helped motivate a generation to reengage in actively shaping the future of those that followed.  Or maybe he won't.  Maybe in four years I'll view this post as my very own Jerry Maguire moment.  Either way, I think it is a lot less up to him than it is up to us, so I'm going to try to work a little harder than I did yesterday.

The truth is, my friend's face will heal.  My ass will heal.  This country will heal.  Will any of it be easy?  Hell no, and it will probably get worse before it gets better.  But we are a resilient bunch (with my buddy pretty much topping the list) who can overcome this and anything else that gets thrown our way if we can somehow keep a white-knuckled grip on hope.  It has been a crazy week, a tough few months and an arduous eight years.  But after seeing what a little "community organizing" did to this country last week, I can finally say I have reason to believe that maybe, just maybe, this year will be better than the last. 

Now...... who's coming with me?

"This is our moment.  This is our chance.  There is a moment in the life of every generation where that spirit of hopefulness has to come through.  Where we cast aside the fear, and the doubt and the cynicism -- the cynicism that so often passes for wisdom but is actually just being afraid to reach for something higher -- were we shed that and, arm in arm, we decide we're going to remake this country; block by block, neighborhood by neighborhood, county by county, state by state... THIS is OUR moment.  THIS is OUR time.  And if you stand with me... if you will vote for me, we will not just win the nomination, we will win the general election and you and I together will transform this country, and we will transform the world."  -- Barack Obama in Virginia on February 9, after sweeping contests in LA, NE, WA and VI

Blink.  Blink.  Blink. The cursor on your monitor flashes at you expectantly, almost impatiently.  Suddenly you are five years old again, and your mom is standing in the doorway with her hands at her hips, tapping her toe like only a late mother can, as you frantically stuff the Lego's she "told you to start picking up 15 minutes ago," back into the big blue bucket.  You pause for a fraction of a second, doting on one of your creations, and she pulls out the big guns: your full name.  Nothing turns a lollygagging child into an organizational genius better than their own handle, broken down monosyllabicly with terrifying inflection. 

You stare at the blank wordprocessor page on the screen, it's emptiness overwhelming.  Though it seems like forever ago, you can still remember a time when that white glare was your friend, a blank canvas of limitless potential where your words seemed to come to life as easily as one of Bob Ross's half-hour masterpieces on The Joy of Painting.  You wrote with reckless abandon, the stories picking up where a certain crash landing forced your body to leave off.  And you scoffed at the term "writer's block," because something like that would require taking yourself seriously, which just wasn't your style.  Life was nothing but happy little trees.  But now?  Shit. 

Now you've been recognized.  Now you have an audience.  Now you have an agent.  Now you're a writer, and your twisted little brain has somehow taken all this encouragement and praise and transformed it into suffocating pressure that is choking off that link between your voice and this empty page.  The overactive mind that you once relied on has now become your worst enemy, overanalyzing every fucking word that comes out of your mouth.  Instead of pouring out your thoughts all at once, you edit as you go, trying so hard to craft every sentence so perfectly that you just wind up frustrated after one paragraph and ultimately give up.

You've been avoiding your site altogether lately because the mere thought of writing nearly induces a full-blown anxiety attack.  Every time you do happen to open the page, you are overcome with confusion, self-doubt and, of all things, fear.  You can't help the feeling that there's a book locked somewhere deep inside of you that you will never be able to get it out, and you're going to wake up 20 years from now only to realize you've missed out on a huge opportunity and wasted an even bigger talent.  You read your old stuff, and think to yourself, what happened to that guy?

So when your agent e-mailed you a while back about a 12-week online memoir writing workshop starting next Wednesday, you were initially intrigued.  But that feeling proved fleeting as you began reading the course syllabus: "By the end of class, students can expect to have: an outline, 50 pages of a memoir and the knowledge they need to approach literary agents and/or publishing houses."  Yeah right.  You're having enough trouble getting a five paragraph blog out once a month, what makes you think you'll suddenly spit out 50 pages or so in three?  Fortunately, your agent has a lot more faith in your writing than you do. 

She tells you this is a chance to recapture the voice you miss so much.  Put your blog on hold for a while, get rid of all that pressure and maybe, just maybe, you'll find a way back to you.  Could it wind up being a complete waste of three months and six hundred bucks; or the very answer you've been looking for?  You'll never know until you try, right?  You realize she has a point (and that she rocks), and sign-up for the class.

For the majority of your life, sports were your art... now, you need to start treating your art as a sport.  If you can figure out a way to push your mind like you pushed your body all those years, maybe one day you'll look back on all this as just a phase.  You take one last look at the cursor, close your eyes, and start to talk...

I have a confession.  I'm not fully responsible for all the content of this blog.  Don't get me wrong, the words are all mine, no one else's.... it's just the subject matter I can't claim as all my own.  By now you've noticed that most of my stories have some sort of inspiration behind them.  My paralysis, past experiences, depression, friendships, family and even some of you play a major role in the tales I tell.  I would like you to meet someone special whose voice can still be heard indirectly through mine with everything I write.  Everyone, say hello to Brittany.

Brittany was my girlfriend, best friend, and roommate all wrapped into one for most of college.  We met the summer after my freshman year when I got a job at, get this, The Gap.  Hey, I was broke, and it was the only place hiring.  With a combination of model good looks, a sassy/sarcastic sense of humor and a down-for-anything attitude, she had me smitten from the first time we folded down the men's polo section of the store, and we were nearly inseparable for the three years that followed.  In that relatively short span, we experienced more than most couples do in 30 years. 

The highs were high, sharing lots of love, tons of laughs and two crappy apartments.  We went to a few concerts, watched a handful of thunderstorms and rented more movies than you'll see in your life.  There were journeys to faraway exotic lands like... Iowa, and... okay, just Iowa.  She suffered through three years of my weight cutting and monotonous wrestling tournaments, and I managed to survive the occasional "modeling session" for her photography classes.  I taught her to wakeboard, and she introduced me to Kevin Smith movies, Counting Crows, Elliott Smith, Reel Big Fish and peanut butter and butter sandwiches.

There were very few lows, but we faced more pain and loss than some ever do.  In the span of a weekend, we found our strength, character and relationship tested by having to endure the single most painful moment of our lives one day, only to awaken to the chaos that was September 11th the very next morning.  Our paths crossed when we were just teenagers and when they parted, we were far more grown-up than we would have ever imagined we could be. 

Fortunately, those paths eventually crossed once more, and I'm proud to call her one of my very best friends.  Now she's a happily married mother of two amazing baby girls, and I have her to thank for helping me become the man I am today.  If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have a healthy appreciation of art, music and movies.  And that smart ass alter ego of mine?  That's her, for sure.  But most importantly, without those hard times we faced, I wouldn't be able to appreciate the special ones I have in my life like I do.  I wouldn't have a fraction of the character and strength you all see and seem to admire.  I know for a fact that these clear perspectives on life and love that I've shared through this web site could not have developed without her. 

So, in hindsight, it's a good thing The Crap...er, Gap hired me that summer seven years ago.  If they hadn't, I wouldn't have met Brit... and there's a good chance this blog may have never come to life.  Thanks, b.  For everything.

(crappy apartment numero uno, circa 2001)

A friend said that to me a year ago today. Blog... blog... the term seemed vaguely familiar. Where had I heard it before? Weren't "blogs" those Dutch wooden shoes? No wait, "Blög" was the name of that entertainment center that I saw in the IKEA catalog last week, right?  She laughed.  When she told me what a blog REALLY was, and that she wanted me to do one also, it was my turn to laugh.

I told her, a very talented (and published) freelance writer, that there was a reason I took engineering in college, and it wasn't to meet girls (never had a single one in any of my classes): I hated, scratch that, I downright loathed  English, and the major only required three basic composition courses.  They were the only C's I got in five years.  Writing just wasn't my thing. 

In the end, obviously, I humored her and opened this site.  I posted the only thing I had ever written, a few pictures and a couple dorky lists, thinking that's all this would ever be.  53 entries, three trips to the MSN homepage, 15 minutes of fame, a contract with a literary agent, and and over 900,000 hits later... here I stand (well, figuratively).  It should also be ironically noted that said friend pretty much lost interest within a week, and has only posted three things ever!  And while the list I just mentioned seems pretty amazing, they're ultimately just things.  There's one thing this goofy site has brought me that's value could never be measured.  This "community" we've built.

Call it fate/God's plan/whatever... it's crazy to think about what has happened since my site was featured on MSN.com that fateful day last summer.  What started out with a bunch of complete strangers leaving comments of support, has developed into this close-knit community of friends who care and look out for one another like family.  Personally, there are SO many people out there who I haven't actually met or spoken to in person that I hold very close to my heart... i.e. Jennifer, Keith, Marisa, Cori, Pilgrim Steve,Vanita (get well soon, girl), and Paul's mom, just to name a few.

But I must say, it's a little overwhelming to see how I was used as an instrument in all of this.  I was going back through my comments not too long ago, and it's crazy to see how many people decided to tell their incredible stories after seeing mine, and how each one of them has gone on to make such big impacts on people's lives they otherwise would have never known.  It's humbling to think about.

My link on MSN.com that morning said "quadriplegic seeks purpose."  I'm starting to realize that that one link alone just might be a big part of it.  What a difference a year makes, yeah?

A little over two years ago, tragedy struck my family in the form of a skiing accident.  With one crash landing, life went from a calm walk in the park to a whirlwind of chaos and pain.  As I laid there, confused and terrified in a hospital bed, my family was wracked with grief and overwhelmed by doctors, nurses, therapists and social workers.  And while morphine robbed me of most my initial hospital memories, I'll never forget how it felt when she walked in my room.  My guardian angel didn't have a halo or wings... just black hair and tanned skin.  She came to my bedside, and I mouthed two words... "Hey Ma."

She calls herself my Italian Drama Mama, but most people know her as Margie Victor.  Her son Robbie and I first met playing Little League against each other in elementary school, and we have been as close as brothers for almost 20 years now.  Ask for her favorite memory of me, and the woman I call my second mom will without a doubt embarrass me yet again with a tale of a little boy falling in love with her cooking.  The great Italian dish that sealed it?  Rice-a-Roni...

Scour the earth, and I guarantee you will not find another soul like Margie.  She's beautiful.  She's smart.  She's funny.  She's animated as all hell.  Her boisterous laugh and ability to find both humor and irony in just about any situation will make you smile every time.  The very definition of unconditional love, she's one of the rare few genuinely open minds of her generation that chooses to look past the crazy hair colors, tattoos and piercings of people my age to see them for who they really are. 

What makes Margie so amazing is the fact that if you are a friend of either of her sons, you are as good as family in her eyes.  It doesn't matter what's going on in your life, you always know there's one place you can turn for help, a place to crash, some great Italian food or just a warm hug.  Because she is this way, she receives the utmost respect, love and, at times, fear from every boy that was lucky enough to call her "Ma."  Nothing can bring a grown man to his knees like a look of disapproval from a barely-five-foot-tall Italian woman.

So, it's not surprising that after she kissed me on the forehead in the intensive care that February morning, I knew everything was going to be OK.  From that point on, Margie became my family's absolute rock.  Always thinking, she refused to let us give up hope.  She somehow made it seem as if she was always there, and when she wasn't, some sort of sixth sense would cause her to call at the very moment we needed her strength.  She was the one person that managed to keep her bearings amidst all the trauma and confusion, and went on to carry us through our darkest days. 

Flash forward to the present. Aside from my mom, my Italian Drama Mama is the only person that gets me completely.  She has the unique ability to judge whether a situation or location is "Kenny accessible" based on a complete understanding of my comfort levels that even I don't have.  Regardless of where she is, she is constantly analyzing every detail as they pertain to me; accessibility, weather, temperature, social setting, you name it.  Most days, all we have to do tell her where we are headed, and she can instantly break down everything we might need, and what we should expect.  Looking back, I can't imagine how my family could have survived this whole ordeal without my guardian angel.  I strongly believe that, if it were not for Margie, I would never have been able to adjust to my life as it is.

I truly hope you understand just what you have meant to our family over these last few years, Ma.  You have no idea how great it feels to always know there is an angel like you on our side at all times. We all love you so much.

Yes, i just used the term "shout out".  Don't judge.  Moving on...

Looking back, I can honestly say I'm proud of my achievements in wrestling.  I was a scholarship collegiate athlete, a four-year starter in the NCAA, and came within inches of being crowned All-American.  Granted, it was barely a quarter scholarship, I didn't start full-time until late in my sophomore season, and it was Division II; that kind of resume could STILL lead some to believe that I'm the great athlete of the Salvini clan.  Oh, not so fast.  With a dad that was a California high school standout in both baseball AND football, and a sister that would have probably waterskied professionally had it not been for a terrible knee injury suffered in her mid-teens, I always just assumed I had a firm grip on the number three spot in the family.  That is, until last week.

Jeanne "Maddog" Salvini shot right past the three of us to take sole possession of the "#1 Athlete in the Fam" spot when she and a few girlfriends won the season championship for their bowling league last Thursday.  Not only did she do her part to help earn the title that night, she also brought home the much-coveted Naked Pin: an unpainted (what did you think "naked" meant?) bowling pin rewarded to their team's best performer each week... which, since it's the end of the season, she gets to keep until the next one begins, thankyouverymuch!  Now although you may not be as impressed with the league title as I am, you simply MUST respect the individual performance I'm about to describe.

This particular championship is decided by a three-game match between the winners of the first and second halves of the regular season.  Maddog & Friends eked out the first season win, with her averaging a respectable yet human 120 pins per game while using a house ball.  This early success led to a certain kooky Italian teammate who shall remain unnamed (Margie) to convince her it was time to invest in her own bowling ball, and she did just that.  What happened next could not have been predicted.  Awkward finger-hole placement and a few "professional" pointers (which were anything but) later, her natural delivery was completely ruined, leading to a significant drop in her average, and a last-place second-half finish for the team.

Flash forward to the championship.  Coming off a less than stellar performance the week before that contained a paltry 91-pin effort, Maddog's confidence was in the basement.  Finding herself on the biggest stage possible with countless eyes on her, how did she respond?  In a word: masterfully.  With a 460-pin match total highlighted by a 171 single-game score, she led her team to a commanding victory!  And that, my friends, is what they call a serious CLUTCH performance. 

As a perennial choke-artist myself (read: ALMOST All-American), I can attest to just how hard something like that is.  That's nerves of steel, baby.  It's defying the odds and coming through when your team needs your absolute best.  Screw Michael Jordan hitting the game-winning jumper... we're talking straight Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford in The Natural) overcoming a batting slump, old-age, having just broke "Wonderboy", and oh yeah... a friggin gunshot wound!... and STILL busting out the lights with his walk off home run, carry-you-off-the-field EPIC SHIT here people!!! 

And while I can name more than a few opponents that I downright dominated in my wrestling career, I don't know where they are, so who really cares?  I do know FOR A FACT, however, that there is a fairly large group of middle-aged women that bowl on Thursday nights at Daffodil Lanes in Puyallup, Washington who have kids scattered across the country to whom I can now roll up to and say the following:

St. Patrick's Day.  Such a goofy holiday (I mean, of all the saints that could be honored).  Most of us think it has something to do with snakes in Ireland, anyhow.  It's mainly the day that gives that annoying kid in class an excuse to be even more of a nuisance, and the party crowd a reason to drink themselves EXTRA retarded off odd colored drinks.  For me, however, March 17th means something else entirely.  It represents a birthday that was never celebrated... a person I'll never meet.

"Here is your baby," the doctor said, motioning toward the white blurb on the monitor that morning four and a half years ago.  I cocked my head sideways and, sure enough, I could see a tiny person.  My eyes lit up.  I instantly had a million questions for the little figure on the screen. Would you be a chip off the old block, or daddy's little girl?  Would you have my eyes?  My smile?  My untamable thick hair?  Would you be left-handed like your old man?  Would you inherit my ridiculous sweet tooth?  Perhaps my mild case of ADHD as well?  Lost in my thoughts, I barely heard what the doctor said next.  Pointing to a miniature chest on the ultrasound, he said, "And right about here... is where the heartbeat should be."  I got so excited as I looked for the... wait, what?  Did he say... should... be? 

As my mind wrapped itself around those last two words, my heart ran the gamut of emotions; overwhelming excitement, frantic confusion, sheer devastation, furious rage.  I looked at the doctor.  Should be???  He had said it so matter-of-factly, as if he were merely reading the menu at his favorite restaurant.  Just cold.  I wanted to kill him.  Strangle him, rip his throat out... anything to make him understand the pain he had caused us with his callous delivery so that, maybe next time, he would show a little more tact when shattering two young people's hopes.  As we stepped out of the clinic that day, his words echoing in my head, the world completely lost color.  Everything seemed to be in gray tones.

Should be. Those two syllables haunted us for a long time.  A toxic combination of anger, bitterness, depression and inability to cope properly proved too much for us to handle, and we eventually parted ways.  Lost and frustrated, I wanted an explanation. Why us?  Why now?  What if...?  Infinite questions.  Zero answers.  I started to wonder if it was my fault.  Maybe I had done something wrong, and this was my punishment.

But as time passed, I slowly made my peace with the idea that what was supposed to happen, in fact did.  I can now look back and see the bigger picture I didn't have the capacity to at the time.  We were young and it was probably the most difficult thing either of us will endure in our lives, but it helped shape us into the people we have become.  Had we not suffered that tremendous loss, we would not have the strength, wisdom or appreciation of our families and life in general that we have today.  And though the relationship did not survive, a great friendship did, and for that I am forever thankful. 

The whole situation taught me that time truly does heal wounds, but it doesn't make you forget.  So while children are getting pinched and drunks are pounding green beers, I will be thinking about a hyper little kid bouncing around up in Heaven, getting ready to blow out four candles.

Happy birthday, kiddo.  Love, Dad.

It's a question that has plagued far greater thinkers than I, and driven men to the ends of the earth in search of the answer, I'm sure: what's God like?  Well, it's obvious God must be a guy, otherwise men would have to suffer through childbirth and buy $40 bras, and women's underwear would come in a three pack for six bucks, but that's beside the point.  What's He really like?  Is He all fire and brimstone like the Old Testament makes Him out to be, or the gentle father figure the New Testament suggests?  Well, I don't know, and I'm not going to pretend to.  What I do know is that I'm pretty sure I had little run-in with The Big Guy a few years back that made me a fan of His for life.

It was the spring of my senior year in college.  Thanks to perfectly executed scheduling over the years, my last quarter was going to be a cakewalk; a couple freshman courses, my senior presentation, and my favorite class of all time... springboard diving!  Don't laugh, I'm not kidding.  Debbie Nethery's 9 a.m. springboard diving class epitomized everything you want in a college course but rarely found.  Unlike my "real" professors, Debbie actually cared if I learned, and would push me to do so every day.  After my fifth and final class (yep, took it EVERY spring), she had me working on a 1 1/2 with a full twist and a pike 2 1/2 off the low board... and secretly wondering if I had missed my true calling.  I always looked forward to her instruction.  The rest of my classes that quarter?  Well... not so much.

As I stepped out of the pool locker room that sunny morning, one thing was abundantly clear: I would not be attending any more classes that day.  My afternoon would not be spent sleeping through lectures on the microevolution of monkeys or economic formulas, thank you very much.  No, the only lessons scheduled for that day would be taught by my best friend Mark and me, as we schooled people in two-on-two beach volleyball at People's Pond. Besides, it's not like I was going to start working on my senior presentation until two weeks before the end of the quarter anyhow.  (Don't worry Mom, I still got a 4.0 that quarter) 

With my schedule magically cleared, I headed home on my skateboard to grab a bite to eat and wait for Mark to get out of class.  At around 11 a.m., I tossed in Caddyshack, and started cooking my favorite pregame meal... SpaghettiOs with Meatballs.  Oh yeah.  Breakfast of Champions.  As it warmed, I poured myself a tall glass of milk and skipped to my favorite scene on the DVD; the Dalai Lama monologue.  Big hitter, the Lama.  I must have been a little too excited about the potentially great day I had ahead of me, because on the way to the couch with my bowl of processed perfection and drink, I blurted out, "Man, this is the life."  Yep.  Out loud.  With no one else in the room.  Everyone?  In unison... JACKASS.

The instant the last syllable rolled off my tongue, time went into slow motion.  I felt my foot catch on something next to the couch, and I lost my balance.  I fell straight towards one of my bar stools and caught my forearms perfectly on the seat, not spilling a drop... well, for a second.  My weight shifted, and I fell backwards towards the floor.  My food erupted from their respective containers on impact, spraying pseudo-noodles and milk all over my walls, ceiling and entertainment center.  Fortunately, I blocked a good percentage of the mess... with my face.  Wiping chunks of quasi-meatballs from my eyes, I surveyed the damage in utter disbelief.  Not only was my gourmet meal ruined in an instant, I had no witnesses to point at me and laugh like I deserved.  Or so I thought until I noticed what had caused my fall.  My bookbag.  I couldn't help but laugh.  Someone WAS watching indeed.

All I could picture was God doubled over His throne, laughing hysterically at his handiwork.  I mean, seriously, what better way to punk a guy for saying something so outlandishly stupid than tripping him with books from the very classes he was skipping when he made it?  Sheer genius, I love it.  Some may call that karma, I say it's God's smart-ass sense of humor and impeccable timing.  To this day, I can almost hear Him calling Gabriel and St. Peter over, saying, "Check this out!  This moron is cutting class, and listen to what he says.  Wait for it... wait for it... listen... now the bookbag... and... Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs!!!" 

Touché, Big Fella.  You are definitely my kinda guy.

And so it is, I've officially made two laps around the sun without actually moving.  Now, it's understandable that people might assume that this particular day would be one of my worst.  Not really the case, though.  I'm not sure about anyone else in situations like mine, but the actual anniversary date doesn't mean a whole lot to me.  It's not as though I woke up this morning and said, "Holy balls!  I've been paralyzed for two years!"  Not so much.  Just because I crossed two years today, doesn't mean it didn't feel like two years two months ago.  I don't need a certain date to remind me of how long it's been.

It's crazy how it feels as though the accident was just yesterday one minute, and 50 years ago the next.  Most days, I can't recall what it was like to walk, but I can remember exactly how the tow rope felt in my hands in the middle of a scarecrow while wakeboarding.  I can still smell the lake as I'm inverted 10 feet over the water, pulling just slightly with my back hand so that I softly land switch, yet I can't, for the life of me, remember how it felt to stand on my own two feet.  It almost seems as if everything that happened prior to the accident was a completely different life, lived by a different person.  I tell stories from my past as though they are about a really close friend I have lost touch with.

To most people, two years seems like a relatively short amount of time.  Maybe it's earning that big promotion.  Perhaps it's a master's degree.  A cellular service contract.  To me, two years is 731 days (2004 was leap year) lived literally one day at a time. It's roughly 631,584,000 breaths (53,568,000 of which were on a ventilator, so I'm not sure they count) and somewhere in the vicinity of 5,052,672,000 heart beats.  It's five kidney surgeries, a blood clot scare and more than a few medical mysteries left unsolved.  But with the sour, also comes the sweet.  In two years I've watched a Baby Girl grow into a little one, and a Sweet Pea come into the world.  I've found that a laptop computer, voice-activated software, and internet access can be a man's saving grace.  I've uncovered a talent, discovered that not all girls from Ohio are crazy and found that Nebraska has much more to offer than corn, beef and football. 

It's been a long and hard road to travel so far, but I'm getting by the best I can.  I know this life will never be a cakewalk, but I'm confident it will get a little easier as time passes.  Luckily, I have a tremendous support group of family, friends and blog dorks to get me through the hard times.  So, here's to another 365 days of hopefully a little less sour and a lot more sweet.  Now if you will excuse me, I have company...