"Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes the bar eats you ..."

September 2007. Lucky to be alive.

The title is a Sam Elliot quote from one of my favorite movies, The Big Lebowski. A clip from YouTube is posted below. It pretty well sums up my story in this blog post. Sometimes, when you least expect it, death comes up and narrowly misses biting you on the ass. That happened to me nine years ago this weekend...

In September 2007 my life was pretty good. I was forty-three years old, I owned a house in Eagle Mountain, UT (not the greatest place in the universe to live, but at least the mortgage company and I had a roof over my head), I had three amazing daughters, a minivan and an ancient SUV, and I had a job I liked that was a five minute walk from home.

Despite all that, things weren’t quite right. The previous summer I had acquired my first strep infection in over thirty years. It put me flat on my back for nearly a week and I never felt like I completely recovered. I was tired and weak most of the time, and any sort of physical exertion gave me shortness of breath and dizziness. During my first walk to work of the new school year I had to stop every few minutes, lean over with my head between my legs, and try to catch my breath. Clearly something was amiss.

On Saturday, September 8, my family and I were visiting my in-laws at their home in a hilly area on the upper east side of Provo, UT. Because I was bored and because my optimism overcame my common sense, I decided to go for an afternoon walk. I started out on a route that I had walked a thousand times before. It was a strenuous route, but not overly so; in previous years, when my kids were younger, I usually carried one of them over my shoulder or under an arm while I hiked the area. 

However, on that warm September afternoon I thought my walk was going to kill me. I had barely gone half my usual route before I had to turn around and go back to my in-laws’ house, because I literally couldn’t catch my breath. My face was pale and I had broken out into a cold sweat before I even walked through the front door. I flopped into a chair and basically scared everyone in the room to death. My in-laws insisted I take an aspirin in case I was having a heart attack. I asserted that I wasn’t, but I couldn't move from the chair for the rest of the afternoon.

The next day was Sunday and I felt awful. I spent all morning and most of the afternoon prostrate on a couch in my man cave, too exhausted to move. I don’t remember much about the day other than my kids were in and out checking on me, and I had no energy for even the most basic life functions, such as eating or bathing. 

Finally my ex-wife — to her credit — told me she was taking me to the emergency room. She called a neighbor who was a nurse and he told us that the hospital in Provo had the best cardiac care unit. The Provo Hospital was thirty miles away, so my ex arranged for her parents to meet us at the hospital and pick up the kids.

As soon as I described my symptoms the admitting nurse moved me to the head of the line for treatment, in front of other people with obvious bloody bodily injuries. The admitting physician was — coincidentally — an old high school acquaintance, and when I reported what I was feeling, he immediately admitted me to the hospital for testing. I remember being wheeled to my hospital room in a wheelchair and thinking that I could have walked to the room myself, although in reality there was probably no way I was capable of actually doing it. The delusions of a very sick man, I guess. The rest of the day is kind of a blur. I remember a visit from my ward elders’ quorum president — the only LDS Church leader to actually care, which is a story for another time — and not much else.

The next day, Monday, September 10, was hell. I remember lab techs hooking me up to a bunch of monitors and trying to jog on a treadmill. I couldn’t do it, which devastated me so completely that I broke down crying. I had always prided myself on being in reasonably good physical condition, so my inability to do something as simple as jogging on a treadmill scared me badly. The lab tech injected me with a drug that caused my body to react as if I had been able to complete the stress test on the treadmill. That medication made feel terrible — severe muscle cramps, shortness of breath, and nausea — and it was about that time my dad called. I told him what was going on and I think I scared him badly.

I honestly don’t remember much that happened after that. They wheeled me to an operating room where they injected dye into my cardiovascular system. A cardiologist found a blockage in one of the main arteries of my heart. The blockage was nearly one hundred percent (I found out later that a strep infection can cause plaque that already exists to expand rapidly.) The doc ran a catheter through an artery in my groin and opened the blockage, and then inserted a stent. I woke up the next morning to a few stitches in my groin, news stories about the sixth anniversary of 9/11, and a brand new, expensive piece of metal in my heart. A cardiac therapist told me to take it easy for a few weeks, but I actually felt better than I had in months. 

So that was my brush with death. Apparently I was a few days away from a major cardiac event due to the blockage in my heart. There should be all sorts of life lessons I could impart now, such as the temporary nature of life and how easily it can slip away, the inevitability of death (which I rediscovered less than a year and half later when my dad unexpectedly died in his sleep), and how easily and quickly things can potentially change for the worse. All of that is true, but the biggest lesson I learned is that I am sometimes one lucky sumbich. 

My belief system has changed a lot since September 2007, but I still think that there may be some primordial universal force that occasionally smiles on us and blesses us with good fortune. I don’t know why that happens; I look at places like Syria and the people fleeing the carnage there and wonder why them and not me. I’ve had a lot of really lousy things happen in my life since then, but I am still amazed that I lucked out so completely that September day, when I could have keeled over and left my kids without a father. I like to think they still need me; maybe they're why I'm still around.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad I’m still here. Despite it’s challenges, my life is good. I’m living more authentically (another phrase I hate, but I don’t know how else to say it) and I’m finding out what it’s like to actually be loved for who I am and appreciated for the talents I have to offer. 

It’s a good feeling.

Back to the Hairy Liberal Curmudgeon

Eight years ago I started a blog. I did it because I was very opinionated — I was a liberal living in a conservative small town in the heart of a conservative county in a conservative, reactionary state — and I didn’t feel like I had an outlet to express my opinions. I also worked in a conservative school district that had many heavy handed, unnecessary policies that were rooted in the predominant, reactionary religious culture. In other words, I was stuck in Crazy Mormon Town without a voice, but I needed one for my own emotional well being. I love to write, so blogging seemed like a natural solution to my problem.

My ex-wife suggested I name the blog “Hairy Liberal Curmudgeon.” I didn’t realize at the time that the word “hairy” would attract Google attention that I didn't necessarily want, but it did eventually amuse me that people searching for photos of hirsute guys or women would inadvertently land on my daddy blog instead, and be subjected to my rantings. I blogged about a lot of different things — politics, religion, education, my family, and the strange community where I lived at the time. My blog was way more popular than I ever expected it would be, especially after I used my Facebook page to publicize each new blog post.

I loved to blog. As I look back at my old posts, I’m embarrassed by some of my more boneheaded blogging, but I also like the posts that still ring true. Through my blog I dealt with some difficult events in my life; death, divorce, loneliness, and unemployment were all topics that I tackled at various times. Some of my blog posts caused me some personal problems and in hindsight, I — maybe — should have been a little more discreet. I don’t regret blogging though, and I sometimes wish I still blogged more frequently. The ideas are still there; the energy and ambition aren’t.

All of that navel gazing is my way of saying that I am reviving my original “Hairy Liberal Curmudgeon” blog, and I’m using Blogger as the vehicle for publishing it. Wordpress is probably a better format, but I kind of like the symmetry of going back to Blogger. If nothing else, it has a retro, old-school look that screams 2008.

Anyway, I’m hoping to publish something that’s actually meaningful here soon. Stay tuned.

Thus Sayeth The Lord ...

I rediscovered this picture today. It was taken in Provo, UT, in my former in-laws’ backyard during the summer of 2006. The photo presents a very placid, serene picture of me playing with my kids. In some ways that’s exactly what was going on, but oh boy, the story behind the picture … this was the day I found out how hypocritical and sanctimonious some LDS Church leaders are, and realized how negatively their actions had affected my late brother Phil’s life.

Phil had died four months previously, on March 15, 2006. I was still trying to cope with my grief over his death when the picture was taken. On the day that the picture was taken, July 10, 2006, we were visiting my ex-wife's parents in Provo. My ex-wife's sister was there as well. The adults were visiting in the kitchen that morning, while the kids played outside. My ex-wife's distant cousin came up in the conversation, and someone casually mentioned that, thanks to the intervention of an LDS General Authority, that cousin had been allowed to go on an LDS mission, even though he had fathered a child outside of wedlock.

My curiosity was piqued, because the LDS Church cancelled Phil’s mission call in July 1984 when someone claimed Phil was the father of her (then unborn) child. Local and general LDS Church leaders (including an apostle) told Phil he was obligated to financially support the girl and her baby, even though there was absolutely no proof that Phil was the father. The leaders cancelled Phil’s mission call because of that alleged obligation, and because of an LDS Church policy that said anyone who had fathered a child outside of marriage wasn’t allowed to serve a mission. When I questioned one of those leaders about the situation, he told me “girls just know who the father of their baby is.” The baby still hadn’t been born when I asked that question.

A paternity test later determined that there was no possibility Phil fathered the kid, but because of the “inspiration” of a handful of men (who believed God spoke directly to them), Phil’s life went into a tailspin from which he never recovered. The LDS cultural stigma of having a cancelled mission call was more than Phil’s self-esteem could bear, and he ended up marrying the first woman who was kind to him. Unfortunately that woman had borderline personality disorder, and made Phil’s life a living hell for the next twenty years. Phil was never able to break away from her and it ultimately cost him his life. Whenever Phil tried to get away, she played the “I loved you when …” card, which, along with the stigma of ending an "eternal" marriage, worked on Phil.

So I asked who the General Authority was who allowed the cousin to serve a mission.

According to my former mother-in-law, LDS General Authority Hugh Pinnock ensured that the cousin was able to go on a mission, even though the cousin – unlike Phil – had actually fathered a child outside of wedlock. Fortunately for the cousin, he lived in the same wealthy neighborhood as Pinnock, so Pinnock pulled a few strings and the cousin went happily on a mission.

Hugh Pinnock was one of the LDS leaders who cancelled Phil’s mission call. At the time of my brother's call, Pinnock had responsibility over the area where my family lived, and he, our stake president, and an apostle, were the leaders who dealt with Phil. According to The Mormon Murders by Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith, Pinnock was a pompous, sanctimonious prick who was better known for inadvertently aiding Mark Hofmann in scamming money from a bank to purchase nonexistent LDS Church historical documents at just about the same time he was dealing with Phil. So much for Pinnock’s divine inspiration and powers of discernment.

When my mother-in-law said that, I thought my head was going to explode. I didn’t know whether to be angry or to cry. Pinnock’s hypocrisy was almost more than I could stand. I managed to say that Pinnock was the guy who cancelled Phil’s call. My former sister-in-law responded sympathetically, “Boy that guy (meaning Phil) couldn’t catch a break.” I didn’t know what else to do, so I walked outside and played with the kids. I couldn’t be in the kitchen any longer. I felt like someone had hit me in the head with a baseball bat.

And that’s when someone snapped that picture.

In the years since, I haven’t ever really gotten over the anger I felt about that bit of information from that seemingly innocuous kitchen conversation. My mother-in-law didn’t know the significance of what she had told me, and I don’t have any bad feelings for her that she said anything. It just was what it was: another nail in the coffin of a “testimony” of the “truthfulness” of the LDS Church.

To someone outside of the Mormon bubble, the belief that LDS leaders are always inspired by God sounds very cult-y, and it probably is, especially when he or she looks at the LDS Church’s policies on gays, women, and – until 1978 – African Americans. Also in the years since, I’ve learned a lot about LDS Church history, and how truly despicable most of the early leadership was, especially Joseph Smith. They basically believed that as long as they said, “thus sayeth the Lord,” they could get away with whatever they wanted, including murder and misogyny. Not much has changed since.

My brother’s life and death are a sad part of that legacy.

Dear Phil ...

3/14/16

Dear Phil,

Ten years ago tonight you left us. Cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of narcotics, and I’m still not sure exactly how it happened. I have my suspicions, but I guess it really doesn’t matter now. The point is you’re gone, and you’ve missed a lot.

My girls still talk about you. Susan remembers you; she was a few weeks short of her sixth birthday when you died. She remembers you were planning on coming to her birthday party. Caroline and Grace were too little to remember you when you died; Gracie was only twenty months old. But they love to hear stories about you, and I have some good ones. One of their favorites is about you flipping off the evangelical Christian protestors outside a Bruce Springsteen concert in Denver. I called it the patented Phil one finger salute. I like the story too. What were those people thinking, anyway?

Phil after the Springsteen concert, September 1985

My girls are awesome, Phil. You would be very proud of them. Susan has your attitude and smarts. Caroline and Grace have your twisted sense of humor. They’re great kids and I wish you were here to see them. Their mom moved them away from me a few months ago and that still stings a little. But I call them every night and I see them as often as I can. In my heart I hope you are able to check in on them for me sometimes.

Susan and Phil, November 2000

A lot of stuff has happened in our family since you left. Dad and Ray have passed away. Kind of hoping they’re with you and Mom. It would be cool if they were. I got divorced. I’m back to being a principal and I have a great job. I get to help kids who really need it. It reminds me of the stories I heard from your cop friends about you the night of your viewing, only happier. Apparently you never met a kid on a call that you didn’t feel compassion for and want to help. One of your friends called you Officer Sugar Bear. That made me smile on an otherwise very unhappy night. I like to think you would be proud of me for doing what I’m doing.

Officer Sugar Bear, WVPD

A few months before you died you called me expressing a lot of regrets about things that happened when we were growing up; stupid fights, unkindnesses, etc. I think about that conversation sometimes. I was telling a good friend a few nights ago about that phone call. I wish I could talk to you about it now and let you know that everything is okay. I told you that then too, but I’m not sure you understood. Those “hurts” you thought you did to me were just a part of growing up fourteen months apart. It makes me smile and feel a little sad that you regretted not working a shift at Day’s Market for me when we were in high school when I wanted go chase some girl. I didn’t even remember that incident, but you did; just a symptom of the world famous Rasband over-active conscience. Now that I’m pushing fifty-two, I really do understand that life is too short and precious to be spent on silly regrets about things that don’t matter.

Speaking of over-active consciences, I have some profound regrets about you, Phil. I feel like you were hurt badly by people who should have helped you, and I was too young to really understand how adversely that affected your life. People who were supposed to be your religious and spiritual leaders did you a huge injustice. I regret that I didn’t step in and push harder when you needed me most, when someone you trusted was isolating you from the people who could have made a huge difference in your life. My mind tells me that there was only so much I could do, and that I couldn’t rob you of your free will, as much as I wish I could’ve. My heart tells me I should’ve done more. Stupid heart. It’s probably right.

Anyway Phil, you’ve missed a lot. There is some damn good rock and roll we could be listening to. Bruce is still going strong at sixty-six and touring away. Caroline texted me this afternoon to tell me that he is going to be in Seattle next week. I imagined what it would be like to head up there with you, pick up the girls, and take them to their first Springsteen concert. Instead you're dead and I have to work. I know you could’ve come up with even more colorful adjectives to describe Donald Trump than I have, too. Susan would have appreciated that.

I miss you Phil. You were a hell of a guy and a damn good brother. I miss your laugh and your no bullshit attitude. You left an incredible legacy to the people who knew and loved you. And I hope you finally understand how much you were loved.

Love your bro’,

Rich