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I’m Overcoming Adversity!

November 3, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

Now that I have been released from my fiberglass prison, I am ready to undertake the seemingly arduous adventure of joint recovery. Everyone, from doctors to random acquaintances, claim it will be a difficult and painful journey. They suggest I may mature and grow spiritually from the experience. But most of all, they emphasize the fact that my near future will be indescribably hard.

I think not.

I have heard people loosely throw around the phrase captured in the title of this post, in regards to myriad life complications including injuries, disabilities, diseases, and social intolerance. It is used in a praising context, suggesting that a person is strong and brave in their triumph over adversity. My angle on the entire phenomenon is very different, and I feel that the people who cower and fail in the face of adversity are just quitters.

I realize that cancer and other wholly debilitating diseases make my broken arm (and other historical injuries) look like a frivolous walk in the park. Regardless of that, my injury was about as catastrophic as a physical bone-related injury can get. I stand by the fact that I would embrace this philosophy in the face of ANY challenge; be in physical, emotional, spiritual or supernatural. Life remains too amazing and full of potential to be defeated so easily by a corporeal malady. Bones will break, cells will degrade, people will be assholes, and life will remain a general bitch as long as you draw breath.

The solution comes in attitude. If you roll over and die after some tragedy befalls you, accepting your fate, then you deserve said fate. I do not see the act of overcoming a challenge as something one should be commended for, but something that is a natural part of human life. Giving up is a failure, while kicking the situation’s metaphysical ass is a success, and should be expected. By all means, express your amazement or admiration for someone’s ability to overcome something that by all means should be difficult, but do not exalt it to some superhuman status.

According to the general public, I am currently “overcoming adversity”. It really doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I should be striving to return to a healthy state of being for myself, my family, my vocation and my ever-present sense of self-satisfaction. I suggest we start helping those people who are struggling with their difficult, unfortunate situations, instead of wasting our energy telling people who just so happen to get on with their lives how proud we are of them. The people who overcome need the least support; start helping the people who can’t seem to get themselves out of the quagmire of desperation that often accompanies a life changing event.

If you go into a situation assuming it will be difficult, your self-defeating prophecy may just come true. If you go into a situation with a, “ok, sweet, what’s next!” attitude, you may just come out OK. Optimism is difficult when everyone reminds you that you may never be able to reach your head with your left hand again. I recognize this. To those people, I say, “fuck you!”. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but seriously, sod off. Being realistic is important to keep someone grounded, but it can also cause a spiral of despair some people are not ready to handle.

To my fellow Adversity Overcomers; do not fret! Well, you can fret your guitar if it will help with physical therapy, but do not fear! Doctors have to be pragmatists by the nature of their profession and the general litigiousness of the field. Take nothing at face value. It was once suggested by a very reputable orthopedist that I may never play soccer again after a serious leg break. I was running and playing 10 months later. Nothing is impossible, and impossible is nothing.

I am prepared to make this recovery my bitch. Sure there may be some pain, and yea, I may never be able to beat Rafael Nadal one-on-one. Some things you have to live with. I will despair for cathartic purposes, but will not let it consume me. The human body is capable of amazing feats, have some pride in yourself and your future, and nothing is too big to hold you down. To all those out there with broken bones and welling tears, I quote all around optimist, Norman Vincent Peale:

“Life’s blows cannot break a person whose spirit is warmed at the fire of enthusiasm.”

Thumbs Up!

Sticks and Stones

October 12, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I have a small piece of advice for anyone reading this: do not, under any circumstances, no matter the situation or social pressure involved, break any of your bones. Breaking a bone is one of the worst decisions a human can make. If at all possible, keep all of your bones intact and in their locked and upright, original positions.

I know this may not be easy for those more athletically or recklessly inclined, but heed my words; I speak as a grizzled veteran of the skeletal wars. I have seen all manner of bio-structural wounds, from hair-lines to compounds, even a complete shatter. Some of these have left scars, but those are the least worrying of all the after effects.

My list of broken bones, from minor to major, is as follows: toes (phalanges), fingers (also phalanges), nose (nasal bone), ankle (tarsal), wrist (carpal), shin-bone (tibia/fibula) and now elbow (humerus). Two of the prior involved somewhat major surgery to correct. Surgery is also inadvisable; they make you go to, and then stay in a hospital for an indeterminable amount of days. Parts of you get uncomfortably numb and what doesn’t becomes excruciatingly itchy. Other parts they color with funny chemicals, making your post-surgery recovery feel like a drugged out version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where your hand, but only your hand, is an Oompa Loompa. You will sing the Oompa Loopma song and your significant other will probably join in. It’s terrifyingly confusing.

For those of you who remain virgin, broken bones hurt like hell. You’d think your body would have the decency to pass out upon suffering a break, but no, you just get to sit there in agony, feeling stupid and helpless. After a severe break, you can’t really move and will most likely go into shock, so you are limited to whimpering pathetically, crying lightly as to not aggravate the injury further, or trying to be a badass and shrugging off as much pain as possible. Shock normally takes over after a few minutes, leaving the poor selfless paramedics in the direct path of possible regurgitation. I had eaten Mexican food prior to my most recent injury, a poor choice in hindsight.

I have tried in the past to explain the initial pain of a major fracture, but somehow words fail me. It is describable only in abstracts. It is a very badly stubbed toe combined with a scalding burn from boiling water. It is a crunch and a pinch, followed by a poorly injected flu shot. It is a wave of dull and a scream of sharp and as debilitating as the worst odor you’ve ever smelled. It is having your favorite meal spoiled by noisy patrons after being stung by 15 bees. It is fleeting terror of the surreal mixed with teary acknowledgment of reality. It is your stomach leaping into the air while you startle awake from a most unpleasant dream. It is the horror of dead men walking the earth, until the few seconds after they inject the morphine.

And as awful as that sounds, the initial pain passes rather quickly. Deft hands hastily repair your damages, even if their skills come at great cost. The recovery, with all of its emotional punches and unforeseen disabilities is the where the real pain hides. If you are an independent soul, the limits forced upon you by medication, casts, and movement-oriented pain are almost too much to handle. You can do little but live day-by-irritating day, stealing awkward chemically induced naps when you find that one comfortable resting position. Slowly but surely it gets better, but it takes a steel resolve to maintain your sanity when assaulted by itches that are damn near impossible to scratch.

Contrary to popular rumor, the easiest part is the physical therapy. When you finally get to the point that you can rebuild your strength, you are free; the very worst parts of the injury are behind you, only scars remain as discolored reminders. With no casts and greatly diminished pain you are suddenly capable of anything. A feeling of emancipation washes over you, and you will at any cost restore your limb to its former, sexy glory. Joints may be tight, muscles may be weak, but you can easily look past any of these trivialities and bask; bask in the wonderful glow of wholeness and normalcy.

These are the days I crave. The days when I can drive, and run, and type with both hands. The days when my left hand is more than a half-numb crab-claw of frustrating clumsiness. The days when I can hug my beautiful lady with both arms, and no pain. Soon, my cat will bite and scratch both of my hands and afterward a melody will float through the house, in the neighborhood of D minor.

Soon.

As proof of all advice and anecdotes contained herein, here is the inside of my left arm as of 9/22/2010:

Rationalizing Irrational Fears

May 20, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

I consider myself a pretty brave dude. I’ve experienced all sorts of physical adversity, emotional doldrums and spiritual crises in my short little life. I’ve confronted nerve-racking challenges, braved strange wildernesses and even, at times, given public speeches in front of tens of people. I am confident I could face Charon and the Styx while showing no signs of fear or apprehension. I stand ready for anything this mortal realm can throw at me, but still two things have plagued my stalwart existence on this blue and green rock, two things that I cannot seem to overcome regardless of exposure or maturity.

Squids:

Squids should not be allowed. I would be the first in line to vote for a President who had an active anti-squid stance. They are horrible, flowing nightmares made of death and malicious suffering. Their “ink” is actually a demonic ichor, capable of rendering a man insane with one squirt. Their soulless, doll-like eyes pierce the thin veil of reality and offer a glimpse into the horrible void that is their watery home. They have no remorse and will eat you and your children (present and future) given the opportunity. We are just fortunate that they prefer the icy abyss, and rarely test our warm beach shores. Everyone thinks that sharks are the real threat in the ocean, but that is only because they have never experienced the horror a multi-tentacle squid-hug. I haven’t either, but the mental scenario I have created is truly awful.

My fear of squids started out as a fear of anything underwater; fish, seaweed, semi-buoyant driftwood, pool cleaning robots, etc. This quickly evolved into a fear of all sea-faring invertebrates, and I remember being quite afraid of sea cucumbers at an early age. While I still find sea worms and other squishy things to be a tad unsettling, they do not invoke my primal fear quite like the image of a squid does. I also seem to have no problem with Octopi, and find them quite fascinating/cute in the right context. Even squids that are dead or drawn in an adorable manner cause uneasiness in my mind.

I cannot decide if my adult fascination with H.P. Lovecraft exacerbated or surpressed my fear. His focus on ancient, evil cephalopods piqued my interest, and made me feel I was not alone in fear of the unknown deep. Lovecraft’s obsession/loathing encompassed the entire ocean, not just squids, so it is impossible to say how he truly felt about them. I’m pretty sure he hated them though.

People (namely Tiffany) like to tease me about this silly fear. Anything even remotely squid-esque will cause me to shift in my seat nervously. Some have even gone out of their way to send me links to stories of giant squids; links that contain pictures. Pictures of GIANT versions of my fear, with insinuations that they can get much, much bigger, or that the pictured specimen is just a baby. If there are squids the size of office buildings somewhere down there, I am never letting water touch my body again.

The irony is that I quite like fried calamari. I guess pieces of a squid don’t bother me, but things (and the latent suggestions about what really exists in the ocean) like the following make me want to run shrieking into the night:

Clowns:

If there is anything more alien and terrifying than a multi-armed, swimming murder machine, it has to be a circus clown. I am not talking about the intentionally demonized clowns that are the focus of things like “IT” or “Killer Klowns from Outer Space“, but the ordinary, disturbingly exuberant kind one might find at a county fair.

The people who voluntarily dress and act as clowns are the scariest by far. They wear far too much makeup, dance without music and often do and say things that are unnecessarily happy. I am a very energetic, generally optimistic person, but I have never in my entire life considered being or dressing as a clown. It is not normal, and people dressed as clowns should be tested for brain damage.

I have no problem with people being lively and fun, in fact I encourage such behavior on a daily basis. Taking life too seriously is a major issue in the paths I walk, and I am often the first to make light of an overly dramatized situation or inject some silliness into the otherwise cold and corporate. But I do not wear a wig when I do this. I do not wear over sized shoes, nor suspenders. I do not laugh maniacally over nothing, at all times. You can be a clown, without actually being a clown. I wish someone would resurrect The Ringling Brothers, Barnum AND Bailey to tell them this. Not that they were responsible for the origin of clowns, but they definitely had a hand in making them “popular”.

I was always confused by the popularity of clowns. Why have they not faded into historical obscurity by this point? Most other things from the 1900s seem horribly antiquated at this point, but somehow clowns, much unchanged from their original concept, still exist. We live in a world of computers and smart phones, but some guy squirting water out of a fake flower on his lapel still passes as entertainment? Clowns are the lowest possible form of comedian (even below mimes), to the point that they should not be alive anymore. I’m not saying we kill all the clowns, but we should definitely kill the idea of a clown. And if some clowns get killed in the process, so be it. The only clowns that may be ignored are French clowns, as they have a legitimate excuse for being clowns: they are French.

And why kill off clowns? Because they are by their very nature terrifying. Children recoil in disgust and horror when a surreal representation of a person on too much cocaine sticks a balloon in their face. Adults avoid eye contact with these people who have obviously regressed to the point that they think riding a very small bicycle passes as a career. Even other clowns are probably disgusted with clowns. I don’t know, I’m not a clown.

No one can tell me otherwise, this is a universal fear that only some of us have actually come to terms with. Look at the following picture, and tell me why this should be allowed to roam free (and make money?) with the rest of us:

The only thing that could possibly be more scary is some sort of squid-clown hybrid. I started to do a Google image search for “squid clown hybrid”, but then stopped after deciding I would like to sleep tonight.

In Line at Subway™

May 19, 2010 · by Oliver Gray

My office is in the middle of a freeway. This is unfortunate when I forget/don’t make/don’t like my homemade lunch, but cannot afford to take an hour to drive the 100 miles or whatever it is to the nearest shopping center. There are only three options within walking distance: a questionably clean or fresh Asian-run deli, an overpriced, super greasy Asian-run deli, or a Subway™ brand sandwich shop. My choices basically boil down to: food poisoning, afternoon nap in my cube, or cheap, flavorless lumps of bread and stuff.

The choice I am forced to make is sadly obvious.

Somehow (probably due to some karmic, cosmic mischief I don’t understand) I always manage to get stuck in line behind the most disrespectful, tragically inarticulate individuals at Subway™ sandwich facilities. It never happens in a Quiznos™, so it cannot simply be my luck with line-style sandwich shops, and it has never happened while waiting for a table in a sit-down restaurant, leaving me to believe it is isolated to the strange world that is Subway™.

I have a theory that Subway™ suffers from the “Walmart Phenomenon“. Due to advertised low prices and a multitude of locations, these places seem to draw crowds of cheap, ignorant, poorly dressed people. These people are quite possibly the worst kind of people on the entire planet. The kind that take advantage of anything and everything they can, enjoying a standard of living unseen in many other parts of the world but still constantly complaining about their downtrodden plight. They are quite astute at verbally projecting this attitude everywhere they go, however socially inappropriate it might be.

The first time I had an encounter with a disheveled denizen of Subway™ was on Benning Road, in South East Washington DC. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, it is the kind of place a person like me should never be for any reason whatsoever. I was in the employ of a man who did not at all care about his workers, doing IT work for a public charter school. It is very difficult to bring a lunch with you as a roaming IT professional; you cannot keep anything fresh if you have to leave it in your car/parked oven, and very few clients are happy with you squatting like a monkey in a corner of their server room while you eat a chicken salad sandwich. You are pretty much forced to eat on the go, or not eat at all.

One day at this school, I finally got sick of my stomach digesting itself, and decided that the Subway I spied in a strip mall was the safest lunch option available. Upon entering, I noticed that this particular Subway had no tables, chairs, displays or other sundry items that are normally scattered about the room. Instead, it had 6 inch bullet proof glass with tiny holes carved at strategic points, so that customers could literally yell their orders to the Sandwich Technicians™ on the other side.

I got in line behind several other customers, most of who seemed angry with something even though nothing in their immediate environment was actually a problem. I quietly minded my own business and avoided eye contact with everyone until it was my turn to order. Just as I was about to step up to the “window” and yell my order, a young women stepped directly in front of me in a very fluid, ninja like fashion, and began to order her sandwich. Given the location, I decided sheathe my contentious side.

The woman was easily the most indecisive person I have ever seen. It took her nearly 2 full minutes to choose a bread style (from 5 possible options), and then she changed her mind from turkey to roast beef, then back to turkey, in 30 seconds flat. She was yelling far louder than necessary, even with the bullet proof glass, making all of the already uncomfortable customers even more uncomfortable. She finally arrived at the vegetable selection window, where she demanded the Sandwich Technician™ add copious amount of “MATERS” to her sub. The employee was clearly confused, so the woman repeated, louder, “MATERS!!! RED, ROUND; MA-TERS.” The employee pointed at the onions. This was a bad idea. The woman exploded into a beserker rage, akin to a viking warrior charging into battle screaming, “TO-MA-TOES!!MATAS! WHAT IS SO #$@^ HARD ABOUT THAT!?” The poor, minimum wage sandwich guy quickly loaded her sandwich up with many tomatoes. In defense of the employee, technically a mater is one half of a set of breeders, not a sandwich topping.

In a huff, she moved to the payment window (which was actually a bulletproof lazy-susan) where she informed the clerk, upon seeing the total price, that she did not have enough money to pay for her sub. The clerk would not relinquish the sub through the bulletproof lazy-susan. Surprisingly against all prior evidence, the woman calmly said, “&#$% you” and walked out.

If this had been my only run-in, I would have chalked it up to an angry lady and some mis-communication caused by counter-to-ceiling bulletproof plexi, but this kind of thing happens all the time. Not a month ago I came across a woman who wanted more banana peppers than humanly reasonable, but did not want to pay the 35 cents for an extra topping. She regressed into a sort of animal rage, snorting all kinds of obscenities and wailing her limbs wildly over this 35 cents. In most cases, a person is only paying 5 dollars for the 12 inch, 900+ calorie sandwich, so an argument over 7% of that seems a tad ridiculous.

I was also witness to a girl who requested to speak to a manager because her chocolate chip cookies were too “old”. This girl had no business eating cookies in the first place (nor the 3 lbs of mayonnaise drenched meat she had ordered before that) but that did not stop her from demanding that the entire place grind to a halt to bake her fresh cookies. If not for my fear of being publicly murdered by a stranger, I might have said something.

I will attempt to chronicle any future, extraordinary Subway™ tales in this blog. To close, and offer a little more insight into mental processes, here is a picture of what I was imagining the entire time I was writing this post: