Melissa and I got off to a nice, easy start.  We gassed up the car, picked up some cash, and had breakfast before hitting the road.  There was a little bit of traffic, but it wasn’t terrible or unexpected, and we arrived at the hotel about 10 or 15 minutes ahead of what I had predicted.

Registration was a breeze this year.  Last year, there had been some hiccups along the way, but there was none of that this year.  Just like last year, the staff was exceptionally friendly and helpful.  We got our Patron Goody Bags, took our stuff up to the room, and made plans.

Speaking of the Goody Bags, we received toy ray guns!  It was a fun treat.  There were some other fun items in the bag, too, but like a little kid, I was giddy over the plastic noise maker.  What can I say?  It’s the little things.

We set off to explore a little and make our way to Opening Ceremonies.  That was the first item on my list.  Along the way, we ran into friends.  When they invited us to go with them for lunch, we realized that would be a much smarter move than going on to the panels, hungry.

After lunch, Melissa and I headed to the first panel on my list.  I’m not going to go into detail on the panels in these updates, saving that for my Convention Notes, which I will post when all is said and done.  The panel was fine, and I did get some interesting insights from it.  For example, if you want to portray something as magical in your story, you do it through the reactions of the characters.  This isn’t a new concept to me, and it wasn’t stated explicitly in the panels.  But it’s an important part of storytelling, worth remembering from time to time.

Melissa and I went continued to the next panel, which was only okay.  The problem with the panel was that the topic was too broad, which made it that much more challenging to find focus or clarity.  It was okay, but I didn’t take a lot of notes.

Then it was dinner time.  Melissa and I went off to a grill a block away, and I ate food that was fried, full of fat, and tasty.  It did not meet the Brian Approved Diet Plan, but one meal isn’t going to kill me.

Melissa and I discovered that our room is on the party floor.  It’s still a little bit early in the evening, so I don’t know yet how that’s going to play into our enjoyment of the convention.  I think it will probably be okay, but who knows?  Maybe it’ll be loud.  Maybe we’ll enjoy the parties that much more, knowing that we don’t have to deal with stairs or elevators in order to stumble  back to our bed.  We will see!

Friday, Melissa and I will be jumping in my mustang and cruising over to the San Francisco area (Burlingame specifically) to attend Convolution 2014.  I have all sorts of conflicting emotions surrounding the convention this year.  Mostly anticipation and excitement, punctuated by inarticulate and irrational fear.

This morning, I went through the programming, and I have a rough idea how my time will be spent.

Friday

1:00 PM — Opening Ceremonies

2:00 PM — You Got Your Science in my Fantasy

4:00 PM — One of the following:

• 20 Books to Launch into Space
• Alternative Energy Sources
• Questions and Answers and Things that Go Bump in the Night

Nothing in the evening really pulls me.  If the Texas Hold’em event is actually Texas Hold’em, I might be interested in that.  There is a panel at 8:00 PM that Melissa might want to attend.  There is a reading that I could go and listen to.  Or, maybe I’ll find somewhere quiet and work on my own fiction.

 

Saturday

9:00 AM — Writer’s Workshop #1

1:00 PM — Writer’s Workshop #2

4:00 PM — One of the following:

• Handling Rejection in Writing (the irony of attending this after the two workshops is not lost on me)
• Todd M. Talks to M. Todd

6:00 PM — Don’t Crush Me (Hand Me the Duct Tape) (again, this is after the two workshops.  Too funny!)

8:00 PM — Masquerade and Halftime Show

 

Sunday

10:00 AM — Worldbuilding for Gamers and Writers

12:00 PM — Military Fantasy, Different Themes then Military SF?

4:00 PM — Closing Ceremonies

 

I’m nervous about the masquerade.  I had borrowed a jacket and a hat from Michael last year, and I didn’t look like I was in costume as much as I was wearing a funny hat and jacket.  Melissa will be with me this year, and neither of us have any sort of costumes.  Maybe we can pick up something in the dealer’s room.  Or maybe I shouldn’t be so self-conscious, and just try to have fun, regardless of how I’m dressed.  When I figure out how to do that last one, I’ll let you all know.

The last two weeks have been fairly difficult for me, in terms of work and time management.  I’ve been stressed out long enough that I’m having a difficult time harnessing the right kind of excitement for this weekend activity.  Instead, I feel like I’m gearing up tend to some unpleasant but necessary obligation.  That’s not how it should feel, and it’s purely my own, internal bullshit that’s responsible.

I’m sure that when I wake up Friday morning, I’ll take a shower and wash away all of the dread and negativity.  Melissa and I will get dressed, load up the car, and somewhere near Davis, I’ll remember how to feel enthusiastic again.  And then we’ll have an awesome weekend!  Right now, with my workload and job stresses sitting so heavily on my shoulders, it’s hard to lift my head to see the joy.  But I’ll get there.

Walkadoo is this online service which tracks your steps and gives you daily goals.  It has some social aspects to it, where you can follow people on the website, see how they’re doing, “smile” at the things they post, and enter into “derbies” with them.  It’s all centered around trying to get people to walk more.

This started through Blue Shield of California health insurance, which I get through my wife.  There is a wellness program that allows a person to get a discount on their insurance if they gain some number of points through various programs.  Walkadoo is one of the programs that qualifies.

The first thing you do once you sign up is order a Pebble.  The Pebblie is a little black device that acts as a pedometer.  It counts your steps, and when you’re near a sync station, transmits your step count to Walkadoo.  Walkadoo tallies up the total count, and eventually, if you meet your daily goal, sends you an email or text congratulating you on your good deeds.

This is all well and good, except that I spent a large portion of my 3rd day with the Pebble walking.  I went on a really long walk, and Walkadoo raised their level of expectation of me accordingly.  I went from needing to walk 2000 steps a day to 4000 steps a day.

The next weekend, I did the same walk, and Walkadoo rewarded me with steeper goals.  All this week, I’ve needed to walk at least 7000 steps a day to meet the goal.  Today’s goal was 8383.

To put that into perspective, I walk a mile in about 2100 steps.  Today, I’ve walked over 15,000 steps.

If you recall my previous post, this is the sort of external pressure that I respond to.  Every day, I’m getting increasingly difficult goals to achieve, and each day, I’m rising to the challenge and meeting them.  Eventually, the target will be beyond what I can do, and then I’ll feel as though Walkadoo has beaten me.  After that, I might stop all of this crazy walking.

In the mean time, the walking has been pretty amazing for me.  I’ve been thinking while letting my feet carry me through my neighborhood.  Much of the time, I’ve been thinking about a work project which I’m trying to finish before Monday.  I’ve also been thinking about my stories.  Today, I came up with some plot points and characters for the second Mel Walker story.  I also thought about the book I’ll be starting in November with NaNoWriMo.  And I thought about a short story which I might submit to Writers of the Future before the end of the month.  I don’t think the story is very good, but maybe I’ll put it out there anyway.  It’s not like it will hurt anything.

Walking is good exercise.  It isn’t as stressful on the ankles and knees as jogging or running.  It’s easy and pleasant, and it allows me a lot of time to think.  Sometimes, that’s all a person needs in order to get past some creative hurdles: time to think.

Whether you have some faceless online organism trying to wear you out as I do, I encourage anyone to go out and walk whenever they have the chance.  It’s amazing what a sunny stroll can jog loose from one’s mind.

I was talking to a couple of coworkers earlier this week about working under pressure.  One of my coworkers is working on a certification in her career field, and she mentioned that 50% of the people that take the test do not pass.  I said that is exactly the kind of thing that would motivate me to pass, and she looked at me like I was crazy.

It’s true, though.  With the right amount of external pressure, I excel.  It doesn’t always feel good at the time, but you can’t argue with the results.

For example, a project I’ve been working on stalled for a while.  When the CTO made it clear that we were going to demo the project in less than a week, I panicked.  We didn’t have enough time.  There were too many features that weren’t tested.  It looked like an impossible task.

The reality was that it was possible.  It was just difficult.  I wound up working extra hours, and I pushed and I shoved and I swore, and in the end, we had something that was not only presentable, it was impressive.

It is something I’ve known about myself for several years.  It came out during therapy, when I was having trouble working.  My therapist illuminated several areas in my life where, if I wasn’t competing, I was inert.

I’ve mentioned competitiveness and external pressure as though they are interchangeable.  They are different things, but I’m able to turn pressure into a competition.  When I’m in a position where I have to do something that would be extremely difficult, like the software project I mentioned, it turns into a battle.  It is me versus the clock.  In that context, if I don’t get the project finished, I lose.  And I hate to lose.  I have to win.  Always.

Well, not always.  I’ve learned to back off a little when trying to play a game for fun, with people I care about, or people I’m ostensibly supposed to be teaching.  There is no joy in destroying your young child in a game of chess when they’re just learning the game.

But even then, I’m an asshole enough to want to win.  I’m just mature enough now to recognize the folly, and to focus on other things I want, such as making other people happy, or fostering good will.

I’m a competitive asshole.  So what?  Lots of people are, right?

I bring it up because it is a very large part of who I am.  Without a sense of competition, I find it difficult to move forward with projects.  This includes writing.

Isn’t that amazingly silly?  The act of writing is one of the least competitive activities in my life.  It is a solitary activity.  It is about using imagination and words to create something new and interesting.  It is communicating ideas and fantasies to some future audience that you may or may not ever meet.

There are ways to turn it into a competition, certainly.  There are writing contests, and there are awards to covet.  During NaNoWriMo, some people participate in “word wars” where they see who can write the most words in a short amount of time.

For me, it isn’t enough.  I look for and long for places where I can try to excel as a writer.  When I’m in a writer’s group, I want to be the best writer in the group.  I try to be nice to everyone involved, but underneath my smiles, I want to win.

What do I do when I’m not in a writer’s group?  What about the stories I’m working on that I haven’t shared?

Well, that is a problem.  It is difficult to find motivation to finish.  My fantasy story, A Clean Slate has been growing very slowly.  My original time table was to have the first draft done in May, and here we are in September and I’m not even through the first act.

Then there are the short stories.  When Writer’s of the Future turned down a story I’d worked really hard on, some part of me became convinced that it was not a place I was capable of competing.  I haven’t been able to bring myself to write a short story since.

It’s a troubling dilemma.  I’m looking at the problem and I see myself.  I’m unhappy when I’m not writing, and at the same time, I’m struggling with a fundamental aspect of my personality that seems to be at odds with this hobby.

I have been a little bit self-deprecating with this post, and I don’t want to end this with the wrong idea.  I do not believe that being competitive is a bad thing.  When I use it properly, I’m driven, and I accomplish great things.

What I need to do is learn how to use my competitiveness to stay focused on my writing.  Money is not the answer.  If I was only interested in money, I would focus more on my programming.

Writer’s groups aren’t really the answer.  I want to be a part of them, but I need to suppress my competitive side in that area, so that I’m not a jerk.

Setting arbitrary dates has not been sufficient.  I’ve set tons of dates, but none of them have had any real meaning.  It’s like trying to play chess with yourself.  It just isn’t very interesting.

What do you think?  Maybe there’s an obvious answer, and I’m too close to the problem to see it.

I’ve become a picky reader.  I want to say that it started when I began to write more, but it doesn’t really line up, especially since I’ve written less this summer than I did in the spring.  I thought my pickiness sprang from the writers’ groups I’d attended, but I haven’t really attended one in months.

I noticed it when I starting reading/listening to Brandon Sanderson’s stories.  I thought they were very good, but I felt like I could see the man behind the curtain.  I felt like Neo, standing in a world made of streaming lines of code.  I enjoyed the books, but I lost some of the immersion.

Initially, I thought it was just Brandon Sanderson.  I thought Brandon’s favorite patterns and crutches were apparent to me, more than the trappings of other authors.  Again, I really enjoyed the Mystborn books, and I’m currently enjoying The Way of Kings.  It’s just that some of the structure of the story is apparent to me as I’m enjoying the story.

After Brandon Sanderson, I moved on to Patrick Rothfuss’, The Name of the Wind.  That’s when I realized that I wasn’t the same kind of reader I once was.  The adjective I kept using to describe The Name of the Wind was “indulgent.” I found the multiple beginnings, and the describing of things by declaring how impossible those things were to describe, indulgent.  At one point, I turned to my coworker (that had already read the book) and said, “This is a story about a man telling two other men a story about himself as a child, listening to a man tell him a story.”

I did enjoy the book, but when it was done, I couldn’t go straight to the next in the series.  I had to take a break.  I moved on to something completely different, and I found myself enjoying it, but noting the pieces of the story that didn’t seem necessary.  Then I went on to something else completely different, and I couldn’t get through it.  It seemed to me that I was listening to exposition mixed with cliche in a blender, pureed, then poured into my ear by someone that may or may not have been on Valium.  I tried my hardest to get through it, but it was too painful.

I want to say that I’m reading more critically, but I don’t know if that’s accurate.  I’m hearing the places where we’re told something, rather than shown.  I’m more aware of adverbs than I’ve ever been before.  The passive voice is something that I’m seeing more clearly than before. (See what I did there?) I don’t think that necessarily means “reading critically.”

I thought that it might be the difference between reading a book and listening to a book.  However, when I went back to finish reading Paulo Coehlo’s The Alchemist, I found the author there with me.  As much as I enjoyed the story, I still found myself aware of how the story was constructed.

Someday, this greater attention to story construction might serve me as a writer.  Right now, it is a distraction, and a substantial impediment.  Flaws in my writing jump out at me with sharp clarity, and it is hard for me to shut down my inner editor.  The main problem is that my appetite for a greater story has become deeper, but my ability to prepare such a meal has not grown proportionally.  At least, that’s my perception.

The answer as always is to keep writing.  I just wish that what I’m trying to create met my standards.

I don’t mean to be difficult.  I don’t set out to be contrary.  I just can’t stand following the herd, mindlessly.  It feels lazy and unintelligent.

There are a number of subjects where people seem to give up critical thinking in favor of knee-jerk, reactionary parroting.  Let’s talk about a few of these things.

 

Windows 8

There is an amazing amount of mindless hate directed at Windows 8.  It’s true that it started off with some problems, but the level of animosity the operating system received was not in proportion to what it deserved.

“Where’s my Start button?!?  I can’t live without my Start Menu!”

Yes you can.  Seriously, how much time do you spend in your Start menu on Windows 7?  If you’re being completely honest, the answer is: very little, especially after you’ve had the system for a while.  What happens is that you install some applications and some games, and the classic Start menu becomes a zoo of folders, most of which you don’t care about.  And if you’re like me, you forego the Start menu in favor of pinning apps to the Quick Launch.

Even if you can’t live without the classic Start menu, guess what?  You can download an application which gives you a freaking Start menu.  With Update 1, you could boot directly to the Desktop, so Windows 8 can look exactly like Windows 7, if you really want it to.

Most of the hatred directed towards Windows 8 was because a lot of people react to change with fear and hatred.  Unfortunately, a bunch of people started spewing this fear and hatred all at the same time, and like a yawn, it was contagious.  Now, people troll posts with pithy, uneducated statements about the operating system reflexively, even though there have been substantial improvements made to it through simple updates.

 

Global Warming

This one is going to be a little bit weird, but here goes: I’m skeptical.

I’m not a stupid man.  I’m not saying that it isn’t happening, or that it isn’t caused by humans.

I’m just saying that public opinion suggests that everyone should be freaking out about it, all the time, and I think that is bullshit.

Here’s what we, the average people, should do about Global Warming:

1. Walk more and drive less
2. Turn stuff off if it doesn’t need to be on
3. Clean up after yourself
4. Vote your conscience
5. Don’t freak out

Realistically, what else can you do?  Buy an electric car?  That’s probably a good idea, as long as the manufacture of the batteries isn’t as bad for the environment as the emissions from your fossil burner.  Invest in solar and wind?  Sure, if that’s your thing.  Most people I know don’t have the means to invest in anything, but if you’ve got the funds and your conscience dictates it, then do it.

It doesn’t hurt to intelligently move away from fossil fuels.  Just don’t do it blindly.  Do some research.

And be skeptical.  I am not completely convinced that climate change is going on, or that humans have caused it.  Again, I’m not saying it isn’t going on, or that we’re not responsible.  I’m just saying that we’ve discovered that there is methane leaking from the bottom of the ocean.  I’m just saying that California is suffering from a drought, while Burning Man is getting rained out.  I’m just saying that we’re experiencing some of the strangest weather we’ve ever recorded, while at the same time being told that climate change has paused, and that the pause may last for another decade.

I’m saying that there is a LOT of noise, and while I will do what I can to do my part to make the world a better place, I’m not going to freak out.  It won’t do anyone any good, no matter how much the news wants to take a process that takes decades to fit into the 24 hour click cycle.

 

Obama

A lot of people seem to really want to hate on the president these days, and I don’t get it.

Maybe it’s because my memories of George W. Bush are still too vibrant in my mind.  I have legitimate reasons for disliking George W. Bush.  It’s one of those times in my life where it may have looked like I was going with the herd, but really, the herd’s opinion, educated or uneducated as it may have been, coincided with mine.

But here’s something you might not know… I didn’t like Bill Clinton, either!  I detested him, for the mockery that he made of the office he held.  I could not stand that he let his selfishness tarnish the presidency.  At the time, I couldn’t stand how he’d reduced the size of the military as well, being as I was in the Air Force at the time.  I had some reasons to hate Slick Willy.  Admittedly, I was much younger than, and my opinions were not founded entirely on rational thought or research.

I digress.  This section is supposed to be about President Obama.

I think he’s an intelligent and capable man that has been dealt a bad hand.  In addition to all of the pressures of being the first black president, he also had a horrendous economy to deal with, an adversarial congress to continuously fight, a Middle East in constant turmoil, and expectations squared on his shoulders set so high that they were impossible to achieve.  If he’d been born on Krypton, and was capable of walking on water as well as being able to turn water into wine, he might have been able to live up to the expectations.

The expectations were so high, he was given a Nobel Prize before he had a chance to do anything.

Maybe it’s true that Obamacare is a mess.  I don’t actually know.  I haven’t tried to study it, so I don’t have an informed opinion on the merits or flaws of Obamacare.  I do know that millions of Americans are insured now that could not be insured before.  That seems like a good thing.

I also know that Obamacare is based on a plan that Romney put into place.  That makes me think that the people that raised the biggest stink about Obamacare did so because it was from Obama, rather than the merits or faults of the plan.

 

Final thoughts

Following popular opinion is the antithesis to scientific thought.  Following popular opinion is about giving up critical thinking for doing what everyone else is doing.  It’s laziness.  It’s immaturity.  It’s bowing to peer pressure.

The next time you find yourself falling in step with the public opinion, stop and give a thought to what you’re doing.  It’s only through thoughtfulness that we can stop being sheep and start doing amazing things.  Invention comes from thinking about a problem in a different way, and trying something that no one else has tried before.  Conversely, propagating inequality comes from following the majority, and doing what the everyone else is doing, no matter who it might hurt.

So please.  Be thoughtful and deliberate in your actions, and don’t just go with the herd.

I’ve been following the story surrounding Ferguson.  To sum it up, a white police officer shot and killed an unarmed black teenager.  The young man was shot 6 times, many of the wounds defensive, and two of those shots were to the head.  The one that killed him was through the top of the head.

Since the shooting, there have been outcries.  The police released a video of the young man robbing a convenience store just before the shooting took place.  There have been protests, both peaceful and violent.  The Missouri governor executed an emergency curfew.  Then the national guard was summoned and the curfew was lifted.  But there is still turmoil in the area, and President Obama seems reluctant to talk about the situation.

That’s a brief summary.  I know that I’ve left out a lot of the nuance, but my purpose with this post isn’t to rehash the news.  I want to talk about the actual cause, how this could have been avoided, and what can be done to unravel this situation.

First of all, I don’t think race is the primary cause.  I’m not saying that race isn’t an issue, or that Ferguson enjoys racial equality.  I’m saying that the primary cause was not racism.

The primary cause was power.

John Oliver sums it up very well.  He lays out all of the details of local police getting armed as the military are, but without the training.  What was it Einstein said?  “You cannot simultaneously prepare for and prevent war.”

But maybe the military arms weren’t the problem in the shooting.  The camo fatigues and assault rifles didn’t really seem to show up in Ferguson until after the shooting.  The escalation of force was a response to the people’s reaction to the shooting.

And that’s the problem.  Instead of offering sympathy to the family that lost a child, or looking for a way to keep this kind of thing from happening again, an effort was made to suppress the reaction.  Instead of taking responsibility for killing an unarmed kid, a video was released in attempt to villainize him.

The reaction of the police, and then the governor, was not one of reaching out to support and comfort the people that they are sworn to protect and serve.  It was more like the reaction of a parent scolding an unruly child.  That’s power, and the root of the problem.

Maybe race was a secondary issue in the shooting.  I don’t know.  It has certainly blown up to be a bigger issue after the fact.  I just finished reading a story that paints this whole situation as a race issue that President Obama, endowed with his darker skin, should be able to defuse.

I think this is just another reflection of the Stanford Prison Experiment.  When a group of people think they are in power over another group of people, the first group begins to dehumanize the second, both in speech and in action.  It doesn’t matter what their background is or what they look like.  It becomes about objectification and exercising power.

If the unrest in Ferguson is going to be unraveled, the power disparity is going to have to be dissolved.  To do this, the following will need to happen:

1. Call off the National Guard
2. Put away the military gear
3. Lift all curfews
4. Quit punishing the innocent
5. Publicly offer sympathy for the deceased

Maybe I’m naive, but I believe that if you treat a person as an adult, they will reciprocate by acting like one.

The ones “in power” have to make the first step.  It cannot and should not be to bring more weapons to bear.

Before I work on some fiction, I want to contribute a few of my own thoughts to the milieu following Robin Williams’ death.

Like so many others, I am saddened by his passing.  I never met him, but I have many memories involving him.  I wish that he hadn’t suffered such depression.  The world is darker without his light.

Beyond the grief, I’ve been watching the news with both optimism and dread.  My news feed has delivered a number of articles to me regarding Robin Williams’ suicide, and I’ve been hoping that his death will be handled with simple sadness and respect.  The one thing that I’ve been afraid of is stumbling on a story where someone besmirches Mr. Williams’ for the method of his death.

There’s been a little bit of it.  Thanks, Fox News.  Stay classy.

For the most part, though, his death has been handled as a tragedy.  So far, there hasn’t been the blustering, holier-than-thou, accusatory vindictiveness that I half expected around a suicide.

In other words, the through-line hasn’t been, “He took his own life, hurting those that loved him.  What a selfish asshole.” Instead, it has been, “Robin Williams succumbed to his depression, an illness as difficult and dangerous as cancer.”

I’m pleased with the reaction to Robin Williams’ suicide.  I wish that it hadn’t happened, but if anything can be salvaged from this difficult event, it can be a greater perception surrounding depression.

Depression isn’t weakness.  It isn’t laziness, or something a person can just “shake off.” It’s an illness, every bit as serious as a broken leg or a viral infection.  Perhaps it’s worse, because it can be invisible and insidious.  Left untreated, it can be just as deadly as leukemia.

If we cannot erase his suicide and bring him back to life, then maybe we can learn from it.  Maybe we can be a little less hesitant to seek help for those in our life that are suffering from depression.  Maybe we can be a little bit more respectful of those that are facing such an illness, and treat the depression with the seriousness it deserves.

A dear friend approached me this week and asked me for a story.  It’s for GISHWHES, and if you haven’t heard of that, it’s okay.  I won’t judge you harshly, because I didn’t know about it until recently myself.  If you don’t want to click on the link, I’ll just say it’s a great big scavenger hunt for charity.

It seems pretty cool.  I guess Misha Collins started it, or runs it?  I have a lot of respect for Mr. Collins, just based on the stuff I’ve read about him.  I enjoy him on Supernatural, and I think the charity work he’s done is pretty fantastic.

Here is the item my friend was looking to me to complete:

Get a previously published Sci-Fi author to write an original story (140 words max) about Misha, the Queen of England and an Elopus: 59 POINTS.

Aside from not knowing what an Elopus was, I had another difficulty with this request: I don’t think I’m “previously published.”

I told my friend, but she said it probably wasn’t a problem.  She said that my blog was probably enough.

I don’t think my friend realizes how much it meant to me that she asked me for this.  Apparently, some other people became upset after they were asked.  I don’t begrudge them for this.  It isn’t always cool to ask someone to do their job for free.  And people do have busy lives.  I was busy myself, and couldn’t get to the story until tonight, even though it was only 140 words long.

Anyway, I’ve droned on enough.  Without further ado, here is what I sent her:

              The monstrosity raised its long nose and trumpeted an angry blast as it charged.  It rolled forward on six, suction cupped tentacles.  Its oily black eyes reflected the rough cave, as well as the man that stood defiantly before it: Misha Collins.

Misha met the creature’s charge with a crack from his staff.  Both man and beast were weary from their long battle, but the fight was nearly won.  Misha feinted, side-stepped, then swung.  The wood shattered.  The elopus dropped.  Pungent black ink puddled around the fallen creature.

“You did it!” cried Avy. “Let’s get the princess and go!”

“We’re not here to save a princess,” Misha said, his voice rough.  He walked to the cage the elopus had been protecting and ripped away the tarp covering it.  Inside was a woman of advanced age.

“We’re here for the Queen.”

 

On Facebook, I already posted about the kidney stone I experienced earlier, and I posted a couple of pictures of my hands when they they had wires in or on them.  There’s also a picture of me taken shortly after I’d been given pain medication.  I was feeling much better, but I was very, very sleepy.

I want to take a moment to jot down the details.  It’s not that I want anyone to go through my pain.  I wouldn’t wish the pain of a kidney stone on anyone.  However, there are details of the process that I think are interesting, and maybe some other people will think so as well.

Today’s kidney stone was either my 5th or my 6th.  It isn’t faulty memory that makes me uncertain on the exact number.  The 5th one was not confirmed by the hospital.  With the 5th one, I felt the pain coming on close to bed time.  I was well hydrated and I had access to Vicodin, so I took a pill and went to bed, hoping for the best.  When I woke up the next morning, I was fine.

Unless the stone itself gets to a certain size, negotiating a kidney stone is all about pain management.  There isn’t really any pain in “passing it,” in the sense most people think.  Once the stone reaches the bladder, I no longer feel it.  Maybe it’s different for women.  I can only speak from my own experience.

Today started off like any other day.  I woke up, went through my morning routine, gathered my equipment, and drove to work.  On the way, I stopped and picked up a dozen doughnuts as I do every Monday.  The hints of what was ahead of me didn’t start until just before I got to work.  At that point, I thought it was hunger, or bad gas.

I dropped off the doughnuts in the break room and made myself a breakfast drink.  I started going through my morning routine, hoping the minor discomfort would go away once I had something in my stomach.  I went to the bathroom and answered nature’s call, but the pressure continued to escalate.  That’s when I knew what was happening.

Again, I don’t want other people to experience the pain of a kidney stone.  I will, however, describe it in this paragraph, so skip on if you are prone to sympathy pains.  My kidney stone pain isn’t a stabbing pain, like a dagger in the belly.  It’s more like a crushing pain.  It’s pressure.  The first one was so much like severe gas that I thought that’s what it was for hours.  I kept trying to burp or fart or anything to make it stop, but it wouldn’t.  The pain from a Kidney stone is inescapable.  There is no position that offers release.  Pacing doesn’t help.  It’s a constant, relentless, crushing pressure that starts off slow and builds, until it consumes all thought.

There is a window of opportunity with kidney stones, where the pain hasn’t reached the point of causing nausea.  During that time, strong pain relievers, such as Hydrocodone (Vicodin) and Oxycodone (Percocet), are effective, and can help me get ahead of the pain and keep it manageable.  I left work in the hopes that I could get home during that window and self medicate.   I also left when I did because I knew that at a certain point, I wouldn’t be able to drive.

Luck was not on my side.  I hit all of the lights red, and each stop aggravated my condition.  I considered going straight to the hospital.  In retrospect, that would have been the smarter move.  I still hoped that I could self medicate and avoid the hospital.

Chris was home playing on his computer when I arrived, and he was worried as soon as he saw me.  It’s difficult for a boy to see his father in pain.  I tried to be strong.  I grabbed a Vicodin and swallowed it, and I had Chris call Melissa to let her know what was going on.

Fortunately, Melissa knew better than to take chances with this sort of thing.  She immediately left work.  Unfortunately, it’s about an hour between Melissa’s work and our home.  During that time, nausea settled in, and I lost the Vicodin, along with the breakfast drink.  I reached the point where the only thing that was going to help me was a shot from the hospital.

Being that this was not my first kidney stone, I knew exactly what I was in for.  I knew about the nausea and the severe, escalating discomfort.  I also knew what it was going to be like at the hospital, and all of the tests they were going to perform.  Knowing what was coming did not bring me any comfort.

When Melissa arrived, I was ready to leave.  Chris stayed home, and Melissa took me to Mercy San Juan, where I’d gone for my first kidney stone.  Navigating to the emergency room was more complicated than I remembered.  There appeared to be one lane, and in front of us, an SUV stopped to drop off a doctor.  Melissa and I were both in shock at this, because they were not fast about the drop-off, and they were blocking the only way to the emergency room.  I started swearing, but once we got moving again, I calmed down.

We parked and I walked in, leaning heavily on Melissa.  Inside, there was a line and a full waiting room.  I half expected that.  It was 10AM on a Monday morning.  I knew that unlike other times we’d gone to the emergency room, the place was going to be well staffed.  I was hoping we wouldn’t have to wait long, but I had my suspicions.

Once they took my name, I turned and threw up in the nearest garbage can.  There wasn’t anything left in my stomach.  As I straightened and wiped my mouth, I became conscious of how I looked.  I hadn’t bothered to button up my shirt when we left, and my pants were undone and a little bit baggy on me, from all the weight I’ve lost over the last few months.  My hair was messed, and I was pretty sure that I was pale and sorry looking.  I thought about all of the people in the waiting room, and how I would feel with someone looking the way I did, vomiting in the trash can.  I tried to straighten, compose myself, and take a seat.

I sat next to a tired looking, older black woman that was doing something with her hands.  I don’t remember if she was playing with her phone or doing some sort of needlework.  I struck up a conversation with her, trying to be polite, and she reciprocated.  It was very pleasant.  I don’t think she expected someone looking like me to be nice to her, and we had a nice talk.

They called my name much sooner than I expected.  They put me in a chair to take my blood.  It took the nurse a few minutes to get to it, and I kept curling over in the chair, resting my head on the arm supports.  When examined my arms, I sat as still as I could.  She had a hard time finding a vein, because I had been throwing up and was dehydrated.  I hadn’t really had an opportunity to get many fluids in me.  She wound up using a smaller needle and a surface vein, which hurt a little, but was nothing next to the pressure pain in my stomach.

I was taken to one of the tiny rooms in the area and given a gown to change into.  I stripped immediately, not even waiting for the curtain to be drawn.  Modesty is one of those concepts that is simply abandoned on the road I was traveling.  There is no time for it, and it doesn’t do anyone any good.  Melissa tied me up in the back, and a very nice orderly wheeled me away on the bed for a CT scan.

There’s not much to talk about with the scan.  I got onto the table and they slid me into the doughnut.  The sounds of heavy machinery surrounded me, and a recorded voice told me several times to hold my breath, then breathe.  The hardest part of the experience was staying still.  I managed just fine, though, because the procedure was very brief.

As they wheeled me back to my room, a very nice nurse offered me a blanket.  It was fresh from an oven, and they draped it over my exposed legs.  It was very nice.  I hadn’t realized how cold I felt.  It made me feel spoiled, and I thanked them for taking care of me.

Back in the room, I girded myself for the next obstacle: the urine sample.  Another nurse had left a cup in a bag with Melissa.  She handed me the bag, and I wobbled my way to the bathroom to do my best.

I knew that this was going to be a challenge.  I was dehydrated, and I’d peed while I was at work just a couple of hours before.  I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to give them a sample, and I was a little bit afraid that I wasn’t going to get pain medication until I gave them some urine.  I think the hope of getting pain medication was the right motivator, because I was able to squeeze out enough for them to test in short order.

Let’s get gross for a moment.  Since I’ve been doing my meal replacements, I’ve been a little bit fascinated with the color of my urine.  I was always told that if you’re well hydrated, it should be clear.  The thing is, I’ve been loading so many vitamins and minerals into my system lately that my pee is never clear anymore, no matter how much I’ve had to drink.  It’s a super bright, almost neon yellow.  I expected the sample to be this bright color, but it wasn’t.  It was brown.  I held it up and looked at it, and there were a few circles of red in it.  I thought, “So that’s what it looks like when there’s blood in your urine.” While I’m sure I’ve experienced this before, I’ve never really looked at it.  It was unsettling.

I went back to my room, offered up my sample, and prepared for the part I dreaded the most: the wait.  Like I said, this wasn’t my first rodeo.  I knew what each of the steps was going to be.  The hardest part of the whole process is waiting for the shot of pain reliever.  There is nothing to do but wait, and time slows down.  Crying doesn’t help.  Visualization and breathing exercises don’t seem to help.  There’s just time and pain, both in unmerciful quantities.

After an eternity, an angel in a nurse’s uniform appeared, and put something in my IV.  The stuff is called dilaudid, and it’s some derivative of morphine.  I’d been given it before, and I knew how effective it was.  After a few minutes, the pain began to subside, and I started getting sleepy.

The rest of the experience at the hospital was mostly me slipping in and out of consciousness.  The pain started to return after a little while, and I thought I was going to need another dose.  But then the pain receded again, and I knew that the worst was over.  I knew that the stone had made it to my bladder.

This was a smaller stone than others I’ve had.  This one was 4mm, where others had been 6 or 7mm.  As I said before, the pain from a kidney stone isn’t where it’s physically leaving the body.  It’s the passage from the kidney to the bladder, through the ureter.  The urethra is massive in comparison to the ureter.  Because of this, I’ve never actually seen one of the stones.  I’ve tried to strain my pee a few times, but it’s a disgusting process that hasn’t ever yielded results.

I’m home, now.  I’m physically comfortable, and I’m emotionally buoyed up, because everyone has been so nice to me.  Melissa was there for me the entire time, and cared for me.  This is the other side of the experience that no one talks about.  Relief from severe pain brings clarity and peace.  I feel loved and happy, and thankful to be alive.  When people talk about kidney stones, they focus on how much it hurts.  No one ever stops to talk about this part, where all of life’s little dramas and obstacles have been stripped away, and all that’s left is what is important: peace and love.

I know that what I’m feeling right now is momentary.  When I wake up in the morning, I’ll get back into the grind, and pick up all of the burdens that I didn’t have to carry today.  That’s why I wanted to write about this experience now, while all of the details are still fresh.

I don’t wish the pain of a kidney stone on anyone.  But, I do hope that everyone feels as cared for and loved as I felt after the pain was over.