Why I love Article V of the Constitution

There's an excellent article at archives.gov, called "A More Perfect Union," which goes through the history of the writing of the Constitution, it's ratification, and the adoption of the Bill of Rights. The lack of a bill of rights, enumerating the rights of individuals as a guard against tyranny, became a major sticking point in efforts to ratify the Constitution, and the final states to ratify only did so after receiving a promise that a bill of rights would be added as amendments. Which leads me to this from the article:

Benjamin Franklin told a French correspondent in 1788 that the formation of the new government had been like a game of dice, with many players of diverse prejudices and interests unable to make any uncontested moves. Madison wrote to Jefferson that the welding of these clashing interests was "a task more difficult than can be well conceived by those who were not concerned in the execution of it." When the delegates left Philadelphia after the convention, few, if any, were convinced that the Constitution they had approved outlined the ideal form of government for the country. But late in his life James Madison scrawled out another letter, one never addressed. In it he declared that no government can be perfect, and "that which is the least imperfect is therefore the best government."

The delegates who wrote the Constitution knew it wasn't perfect, and James Madison is probably right that no government can be perfect. It's for this reason, I believe, that the Constitution has written into it the text of Article V:

"The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary, shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by the Congress; Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the Year One thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect the first and fourth Clauses in the Ninth Section of the first Article; and that no State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of its equal Suffrage in the Senate."

This has long been my favorite part of the Constitution, even including, I think, the Bill of Rights itself, and the First Amendment (probably my most cherished of the actual amendments). We talk a lot in America about the intent of the Founding Fathers when they wrote the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, and often treat this intent with a near-sacred quality, as if it should trump everything else in our debates about what this country should be. We argue about their intent with the First Amendment, about whether "free speech" only means speech, or whether it means "free expression." We argue about whether freedom of religion was intended to refer only to the various forms of Christianity, and whether the Establishment Clause was intended to keep teachers from leading their students in prayer. We argue about the intent of "well regulated militia" in the Second Amendment, and whether the Founding Fathers would have intended we have an unfettered right to any firearm we can get our hands on. And so on, and so forth.

But you know what? Article V is something that I hardly ever see brought up, and it says something about the intent of our Founders as well. It says that they knew the Constitution was imperfect, that writing it had been fraught with often bitter and acrimonious debate. It says that they intended to make it possible for those who followed to grow, to change, and to recognize those changes in the law of the land. And we have. We have recognized that black people shouldn't be counted as a mere 3/5ths of a person (Article 1, Section 1, para. 3), and so have Amended the Constitution to give full citizenship to people regardless of skin color, and we've abolished slavery (Amendments 13 and 15). We've recognized that women are people, and deserve the same voting rights as men, and we've amended the Constitution to reflect that (Amendment 19).

We've grown. We've changed. We've Improved.

That is the beauty of Article V. As we improve as a people in our understanding of justice, of morality, and of humanity, we can --if necessary-- improve the Supreme Law of our country to reflect that.

Is Jesus the ONLY reason for Christmas? NO.

Recently I saw the following image on Facebook:

I have to admit, as a secular humanist who rather likes certain parts of Christmas, I felt a little insulted. If Jesus is the only reason for Christmas, then why bother with family gatherings? With spending time cooking a special meal to serve to your loved ones? Why bother exchanging gifts? Why bother doing anything except going to fucking church??

In Christmas, I find meaning in love, caring, friends, family, and togetherness. I find meaning in generosity from those who can afford to be generous. I enjoy being with people I like, and love, and feel close to, and having it be a time when people try to get together with those they love, but aren't normally able to see. Goodwill towards men, peace on earth: these may be cliche, but they have meaning and importance.

I don't know about you, but those seem to me to be damn good reasons for Christmas, even if you're not a Christian. 

Cigarette addiction

First up, a trigger warning: I'm going to talk about cigarette addiction, which obviously touches on any form of addiction, such as alcohol, heroin, etc. If that's something that is going to be an issue for you, please, scroll down to where I stop talking about it, or go read something else.

When I was 15, I had my first cigarette. I had it in a silly, deliberate and conscious act of rebellion against my mother. It was silly and stupid because frankly, I wasn't going to get in trouble by telling her I had started smoking. And of course, I knew the risks. We were taught all about the risks of smoking in school, complete with pictures of black lungs and the question "If your lungs were on the outside and you could see this, would you really want to smoke?" (which is a stupid argument, because the lungs aren't on the outside, so why the fuck should it matter what I would do if they were on the outside and pricking my vanity?). Now, in my case, it took a full year before I felt like I was an addict, like I really would have a hard time quitting if I tried. This is likely because I wasn't doing a whole lot of smoking at that time. Sometimes I only had smoke a day, other times I couldn't even get a smoke. This wasn't deliberate, it had a lot to do with a lack of funds. Regardless, a year before I was addicted.

At one point, a few years later, I actually did quit. When I was smoking, there were times when I completely enjoyed it, and other times when I didn't enjoy it, and the only reason I was smoking is because of the addiction. During one of those periods when I wasn't enjoying it, I quit, cold turkey. A month after, I tried a smoke again, to test how well it was going, and threw out the cigarette and the pack. It tasted nasty. And I actually did feel better, physically. But at a street dance six months after I quit, I was offered a smoke by someone I was hanging out with, and since it was a social event, I was with a girl I found attractive, and I was in a good mood, I accepted. I wound up enjoying it, and bumming another. Eventually, I bought a pack for myself. I smoked until I was thirty after that, with the occasional attempt to quit which never lasted more than a few days.

When I smoked, I usually enjoyed it. I enjoyed the taste, and the smell. I enjoyed the feel of the cigarette between my lips. The repetitive movement of bringing the cigarette to my mouth, inhaling, lowering the cigarette, and blowing out the smoke was soothing, relaxing. I enjoyed how the taste interacted with the aftertaste of food and toothpaste. I enjoyed how easy it was to break the ice with someone new, simply by asking for a light (assuming you'd seen them smoking, anyway). It gave me a good way to escape from a crowd for at least a few minutes, meaning that I could survive longer at parties and gatherings. Do you get what I'm saying? I enjoyed smoking, in it's entirety. 

Yes, I did have those times when I wasn't as into it, and when I was thirty, I once again used that to help me quit. I was in a period of a few weeks where I wasn't enjoying it as much, I knew that my fiance (now wife) wanted me to quit (though she never pressured me), and I figured I'd try to quit again. I knew myself though, and knew that I would require some help to do so. I made a deal with Michelle (fiance) that if she bought me the patch, I would make an effort to quit. She agreed immediately. Now, I did this not so I could try and blame her if I failed, or some stupid thing like that. I did it to trick myself. I knew that if I simply bought the patch myself, I'd be likely to smoke again when I started wanting the part of smoking that wasn't just nicotine. On the other hand, if Michelle bought the patch for me, I would feel an obligation to her. That obligation would cause me to put forth more of an effort to resisting the urge to smoke, to resist the pleasure I knew I could get. It worked. I quit, and haven't smoked in four years.

But, damn, do I want to. Four years later, I want to smoke. I want to a lot. I miss it. I miss the pleasure, the soothing sensations, the everything. There are days when I don't think about smoking at all, and then there are days when I feel that urge. That urge to go three blocks west, to the nearest SuperAmerica convenience store, and buy a pack of cigarettes. That urge to smack the top of the pack repeatedly against either my hand or a hard surface, packing the tobacco tighter into the individual cigarettes. That urge to open the pack, flip one cigarette over and put it back in upside down as my "lucky" cigarette. That urge to take another one, light it up, and inhale. There's a tension in my chest right now, from typing this, and examining that urge so closely. It's a tension that is, in a sense, reaching for that sensation of smoke being drawn into my lungs. My body wants it, and as I am my body, I want it. Bad.

Sometimes, this can be triggered by specific events. A month or two ago I took clients to a Special Olympics bowling tournament. There were so many people, in a space that was too small for all of them, and so much noise, and I really needed to be away from it all, but couldn't leave. I stepped outside for a few minutes, and there was one of the bowling alley staff smoking. Holy crap, that was one of the strongest temptations I had felt in a long time! I wanted so bad to ask her if I could bum a smoke from her. Almost did. Ever since, the temptation, the urge, seems to be more frequent, and stronger.

So, it's a struggle, and more so lately. I don't really know from personal experience how this compares to alcoholism, or heroin addiction, or other drug addictions. I can only base any comparison to those things on what others have said, or what I've read. My experience with cigarette addiction certainly sounds similar to other forms of addiction. I've heard that nicotine addiction is one of the strongest there is, but I don't know if that's true. I don't know that it's not true. Frankly, I would guess that even if true, other addictions are bad enough that I wouldn't care to try pressing the point at all.

In general, the worst times are when there's some other stress going on, like at the bowling tournament. Those aren't the only times, but they're probably the worst. Although, the other night I was standing in line at the convenience store, and someone in front of me bought a pack of cigarettes. Suddenly, I was so tempted to buy one myself. When I reached the counter, I could almost feel the words forming on my lips to ask for a pack. That was a moment of strong temptation, but I don't remember any particular stress, so I guess bad moments can happen even without stress. I didn't give in.

At this point in time, I think the only reason I haven't yet given in to temptation is because of how disappointed my wife would be. If she were no longer with me, I don't think I could resist the temptation.

A friend of mine once told me that she'd asked her grandfather once when he stopped craving cigarettes, how long it took. He replied, "I'll let you know when that happens."

That sounds about right.

Of aliens and humans

James Croft occasionally thinks he's an alien among atheists. To some small extent, I can relate. I don't like chocolate, never have, yet I live in a world where so many people love chocolate that the reactions I get when people first learn this about me range from shocked disbelief to disbelieving pity. Sometimes, there's a sense that I've committed some sort of sin by not liking chocolate. I've dealt with this by deciding that loving chocolate is a sign of being an alien, and I am one of the last remaining True Humans alive. Someday, I shall find others of my kind, and we'll rise up to kick the aliens off this planet! It'll make a great movie. In the meantime, I married an alien. Go figure.

Seriously though, I'm not all that surprised that James sometimes feels alienated. While I haven't been to any conventions for atheists or Humanists, my impression of the online community suggests that sometimes individual members will fall into "hyper-skepticism," and try to out-Vulcan each other. More than that though, there's a definite widespread distrust of religious space, religious community, and religious ritual. A lot of that comes from a position that faith -- believing with insufficient evidence, or even against evidence-- is a bad thing. Some of it also comes from the negative experiences that many of us have had with religion, and the negative experiences we see continuing to happen to others. Many of us are angry. I count myself among this angry-at- and distrustful-of-religion group. I'm aware of, and acknowledge, that there are literally millions of religious people who are not using religion to directly make life worse for other people. But I still think religion is broadly harmful to humanity.

James holds with some of that, but not all of it. He told me once that he agrees that "faith has to go," and he absolutely holds Reason to be a primary value. I know he is capable of getting angry at religious groups, and individual religious people. I suspect there's some anger behind his recent post on Scott Lively. But anger isn't his foremost reaction. And as he said in his post:

I’m a choirboy. I grew up going to a religious school (the diffident, non-imposing Church of England sort of religion) and I sung in the school choir for years. I have sung my way through countless masses and services and psalms. I have become familiar, and therefore mostly comfortable with that sort of religious spaces. I love to sing, and so I have lots of positive memories associated with those spaces which have enabled me to do what I love. I haven’t had any significantly bad experiences with religion in my past

Unlike James, I've had bad experiences with religion. Taken individually, most of them are pretty minor. But in aggregate, I'd say my experience with religion ranges from bad to boring. As an example of the bad, the church I grew up with taught (and perhaps still teaches, but I haven't asked) that blasphemy is the one unforgivable sin, and blasphemy is denial of Jesus and God, including atheism. An atheist can never get to heaven, no matter how much they later change their mind and "repent." Now, this didn't actually scare me when I first became an atheist at 12 or 13. It's hard to be scared when you don't believe it. But when I was 14, I tried talking my mother into letting me go to school dances. According to that same church, dancing is a sin. In a moment of desperation, I blurted out that I was an atheist. My mother wailed. She wailed as if I had just died. She pulled the car up to the house, told me to get out, and left to see my grandfather, who was also the church pastor. We never talked about it after she came home, or after. And I avoided talking about my religious views in front of her after that, until just last year.

A little thing, perhaps. There are far, far, far worse stories out there, and in comparison I'd say I got off lucky. But the little things add up.

Moving on to "boring," James said

I’m a drama geek. My parents raised me on theatre, taking me to see plays and musicals very frequently. I spent my teenage years appearing in countless theatrical productions (this is not an exaggeration: my performance CV for my high school and college years is ridiculously long. I wonder how I found time for anything else!). I like to perform, and I have an appreciation for the dramatic – even the melodramatic. I tend to view religious services as pieces of theatre, and I’m attuned to the production values in and of themselves, regardless of theological content. I therefore find religious services interesting as exercises in dramatic production.

Clearly, we have some different experiences of religious services! A typical service at the church I grew up in went as follows: People would sit in the pews. There were three numbers listed on a board, which were the numbers of the songs to sing that day. The organ player would be playing random songs as people sat down, and when she (it was usually my godmother, Louise) started playing the first song on the list, that was the cue for the congregation to open the songbooks and sing. Some sang enthusiastically, but tunelessly. Others sang ok. Some barely sang at all. And some really didn't sing. After the first song, there would be a prayer. Then the congregation would sing the second song. After that, Grandpa or the guest pastor would give a sermon, typically lasting an hour. The congregation would just sit and listen. No call and response, just sitting. The end of the sermon was signaled by the pastor reciting the Benediction, and giving another prayer. Then the congregation sang the third and final song. And that was it. On the first Sunday of the month, there was communion. As the the congregation sang song after song (there was a longer song list that day), people would go up and kneel at the altar, and receive the bread wafer and shot of wine (red, of course) along with a couple of Bible verses ("This is my body . . ."). Once you had your turn at the altar, you could head to the cafeteria. There was usually pot luck.

See? Boring. Mom would poke me if I started snoring during the sermon. As an exercise in dramatic production, um, . . . it wasn't. That's what always comes to mind when I initially think of religious service. That's what I subconsciously consider "normal" church.

I like theater. I love musicals. And I really enjoy melodrama musicals at Mantorville Theater. If you're not familiar, a melodrama is a play that is deliberately melodramatic, has corny jokes, and requires audience participation. The audience is encouraged to cheer for the hero, boo and hiss for the villain, sigh winsomely for the heroine, and laugh long and loud. Maybe someday I can actually have a schedule that would let me be in one of the plays.  But I think I'll always have a hard time with the concept of religious services as dramatic productions. Still, I think I can see how James might see it that way. I'm given to understand that other religious services are not like the ones I grew up with.

And now to the part where I'll admit to some small envy of James. He said

I get swept up in things. I am emotionally very open and allow myself to be emotionally affected by those around me. I cry buckets through movies, can’t help but sing a tuneful song, always find myself tapping my feet to music. I've even found myself waving my hands in the air during religious services! To me, this is perfectly natural – I find it hard not to do it. But I do understand that other people react differently.

 Yes, I do react differently. As I mentioned in my previous post,

Much of my childhood and teen years was spent deliberately suppressing my reactions to negative emotions. I had no true friends, and was the target of much teasing, even bullying. I was angry, depressed, suspicious, suicidal, etc. I tried hiding all of that behind a blank facade and misdirection. It's possible this learned response has carried over into positive emotional experiences as well, despite my efforts to unlearn much of it and be more open about my emotions.

In addition, my first introduction to Reason as a value was via Star Trek, and the character of Mr. Spock. I was a young kid (maybe seven?) when I first saw Star Trek: The Original Series, and I loved his preference for logic and using intellect to solve problems.  I'm a lifelong geek, and in Star Trek: The Next Generation, my favorite character was Data. Do we see a pattern? The painful experiences of my childhood gave a young me plenty of reason to try emulating Mr. Spock's suppression of emotion.

But. But but but. I am not a Vulcan or an android. Somewhere in my teen years (I think--could've been my early twenties) I realized that emotions are part of us, and that they're a good part of us. Suppressing them is (wait for it) illogical. Spock eventually accepts emotions in Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and Data gets emotions in Star Trek: Generations. But though I've worked at opening up more, I rarely find myself swept up in things. Sometimes I'd like to be swept up more, but it doesn't happen often.

Things that have swept me up: local performances of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum" and "Rocky Horror Picture Show," (wish I had video of the local shows-ah, well); hot candle wax poured on my body (yay! Endorphins!); and visiting Lost River Gorge & Boulder Caves on my honeymoon, because holy shit! CAVES! Do you know how cool those things are??

Things that have made me tear up: "Schindler's List," and songs like "Where've You Been?" by Kathy Mattea

Where am I going with this? I'm reserved. Generally speaking, I'm happy to be reserved. Sometimes, I envy those who, like James, can readily be swept up in their emotions. I typically enjoy it when I'm able to "cut loose," and fully experience the range of human emotion, with tears and laughter and wide, bright eyes and childlike giggles as I crawl through a boulder cave. Yet, when it comes down to it, I would not choose to be like James. I like myself. And I completely agree with him when he says

I don’t think my positive response to these sorts of religious ceremonies and rituals is necessarily problematic, and it certainly doesn't represent any softening of my atheism. But it may carry dangers: I may be less astute to the dangers of communal activity like ritual and ceremony than others simply because I enjoy it, for instance. There’s the opposite potential problem too, though: that one’s dislike for such experiences encourages rejection of them when they might in fact have value.

I do believe there are potential dangers to communal ritual and ceremony, but I also think that my instinctive distrust makes it harder to see the possible value in them, value they probably do have--if done with an eye toward the risks. And while James might be an alien (I bet he likes chocolate, too), if Star Trek taught us anything, it's that the alien perspective can very often be a valuable one!

Talking with James Croft

It's been a while since I did any serious writing, and what gets me back to it? I get to have a dialogue with James Croft, of the blog "Temple of the Future"! This is my initial post in that dialogue. We'll see how it goes. 

Recently, James posted about his gut reactions to four different communities that he visited as part of The Humanist Institute, a leadership training program for the Humanist movement. After I read his post, "Loving and Hating Religion--Some Reflections After Visiting Religious Communities," I realized, as I told James on Facebook

Sometimes, your mind just seems so strange and foreign to me. Your gut level reactions are so different from what I imagine mine would be, that I can't help but wonder how to relate to you. And then I wonder, "am I the odd one?" For example, your description of the BJ group seemed cultish and melodramatic to me, but you don't react like that.

To which he responded

Nathan - perhaps we should find a forum to explore that question. I find it very interesting too. Perhaps there is some answer in our different histories and experiences, or perhaps it's just a difference in brute preference over which we have little control.

A few more exchanges, and here we are.

Let me quote the description of the B'nai Jeshurun Synagogue that I referenced.

Entering this gorgeous old building was like walking into a palpable wall of love. You could feel the positive energy in the air, the sense of excitement for the upcoming Kabbalat Shabbat service. People were hugging, clasping hands and bodies together, staring into each other’s eyes like long-parted lovers. They wanted to be there. 

Our guide – BJ (as it’s called, no joke) asks that visiting groups register before attending and offers a member to guide them through the service – was effusive about the value of the community, explaining its history and values with overflowing enthusiasm. Most striking was when I asked her what role the temple had played in her life: she rocked back on her heels as if I had pushed her, and tears sprang to her eyes almost immediately. “I…I…”, she stammered. “I would love to answer that question. But you’ll have to email me. I can’t…it’s too much.” She so loved her community that to think of it almost knocked her off her feet. That’s serious love. 

The service itself was wonderful: a rich explosion of music (including plenty of nigun(wordless) chant for those who didn't know the words), color, and even dance, as the audience leapt to its feet at one moment to snake around the auditorium, arms linked and feet tapping. It was awesome.

All emphasis comes from James. Rereading that description now, my initial reaction of "cultish and melodramatic" seems only slightly overblown to me, but James clearly loved being there.  Why the difference? When I look at that description, I see more than one thing that I can't seem to relate to. "..palpable wall of love." "positive energy in the air" People getting up close and personal like long lost lovers.   I don't recall ever feeling "positive energy" in the way he describes (maybe when I was going through a New Age phase?), and I've no clue what a wall of love would feel like. I love my wife tremendously, and I love my friends dearly (including ones that actually are former lovers), but I don't know if I've ever wanted to be around a particular group of people so much that I would react as the members of that community reacted. And the guide's reaction of almost being knocked over by a question? I've seen that sort of thing in books, but I don't think I ever believed I'd hear of such a thing in real life! And I can't relate to it, not even in thinking about my wife.

My wife, Michelle, is one of the best people in my life. Being with her continues to be the best experience of my life. She has literally become more attractive to me as the years have gone by (something that sounds silly, but is nonetheless true). Sometimes I find myself just stopping to stare at her, losing track of whatever thought was going through my head. She's brought tons of laughter into my life, and new thoughts and ways of looking at things that continue to enrich my life. But I would never come close to falling over just from a question about how she's affected my life. I do not believe, however, that the guide necessarily loves her community more than I love my wife.

Is it possible that I simply don't have strong reactions to experiences in a way that translates physically? This is certainly possible, I suppose, maybe even likely. Much of my childhood and teen years was spent deliberately suppressing my reactions to negative emotions. I had no true friends, and was the target of much teasing, even bullying. I was angry, depressed, suspicious, suicidal, etc. I tried hiding all of that behind a blank facade and misdirection. It's possible this learned response has carried over into positive emotional experiences as well, despite my efforts to unlearn much of it and be more open about my emotions.

Yet, when I try to imagine the experience of being at the BJ community's service, the word "suffocating" is what comes to mind, rather than any positive emotion just looking for expression. It reminds me of the images of smiling cults that one sees on TV, yes, and it sounds over-the-top, true, but it also sounds like a lot of people and noise pressing in on me, making it hard to breath. Of course, that can probably be chalked up to me not liking crowds.

Maybe James is right, and there's simply a more fundamental, hard-wired difference here. After all, I'm an introvert, while James, I suspect, is an extrovert. Or, perhaps it has something to do with how we think, and not just what we think. I think in words, always have. Other people, like my wife, or Temple Grandin (author of "Thinking in Pictures" and "Animals in Translation") think more in pictures and other sense data. Until I read "Animals in Translation," it didn't even occur to me that other people weren't using words in the privacy of their own head to interpret the world around them. I don't have the book available, or I'd quote the relevant passage. Since then however, I've had multiple conversations with Michelle that have highlighted the differences in our individual experience of thought.

For example, when I think of "Michelle," what comes to mind first and foremost are words--labels and descriptions--like "wife," "lover," "funny" "sexy" "friend" "love" "laughter" "animates the world" "occasionally frustrating" "artist" etc. My understanding of the person and concept "Michelle" is almost entirely in words. Images and non-verbal sounds are in the background, and fuzzy and indistinct (the most prominent of these would be the sound of her laughter, unless I'm horny). When Michelle thinks of me, "Nathan," what comes to mind are sights, sounds, smells, and all these non-verbal, sensory impressions that combine in her mind to mean "Nathan." At one time, we came to the conclusion that our different ways of thinking might be why I like labels, and she hates them. I see labels as descriptive, but with each label only describing a portion of a person, and not always a large portion. She sees labels as limiting and unexpressive of the real person or thing.

So, maybe there's something like that going on with James and I having different reactions. Or maybe there's a difference in our past, such as how we react to emotion, or our experiences with religion, that explains it. Or perhaps something else entirely.

Update on my friend Kyle's condition

Back on May 9th I wrote a post about my friend and brother, Kyle, who was in the hospital. This post is all about updating those wondering about his condition. His condition is good.

Oh, right. More detail. Kyle spent just over two weeks in the hospital while doctors figured out what the hell happened (or at least, close enough to treat), and dealing with the complications from vomit ending up in his lungs, and an infection or two. He actually recovered faster than some of the Mayo staff expected, likely due to his efforts in the past several months to live a healthier lifestyle. While doctors were unable to pin down exactly what caused the cardiac arrest, the primary treatment for all three of the likely causes is the same: getting implanted with a defibrillator that will zap his heart if it ever gets out of rhythm or stops again. Pinning down the exact cause would have been possible, but the doctors became convinced by one of the country's top cardiologists who happened to be visiting Mayo that week that there was no point to putting Kyle through the tests needed (basically, recreate the event) when they could treat them all with the exact same step.

So Kyle's at home now, and apparently back to doing at least some work. He still isn't fully recovered, but there's no reason to believe that he won't be eventually. It'll be a while before he's allowed to lift his left arm over his shoulder, but frankly, he's alive and on the mend. Given what doctors do know about what happened, when Kyle first collapsed he had a roughly 6% chance of surviving. He's incredibly lucky.

Kyle's attitude during all this has been one of severe gratitude. He shocked some of the staff at Mayo by going out of his way to express appreciation for all they've done for him, including the janitor who cleaned his room (side note: how sad is it that doctors and nurses and janitors are shocked when someone sincerely thanks them for what they've done?). He's been floored by the outpouring of support demonstrated by the visits, the cards, the well-wishes, the way his (and my) employer stepped up to make sure his work was being taken care of so he didn't need to worry, the money donated to his family for the medical bills (both through the fundraiser, and independently), and everything else.

And so am I. When I wrote that original post, I went ahead and begged a few bloggers (James Croft, JT Eberhard, Ophelia Benson) I'm in contact with to do whatever they could. I literally teared up when I saw they had shared that post with others on Facebook and Google+. It meant so much to me to see strangers helping out. Thank you. Thank you so much to everyone.

In a later post I'll talk about some of the thoughts and ideas that this whole incident has sparked.

Fundraiser for a true friend's medical bills

On Monday, May 7, a true friend of mine collapsed at home. The quick dialing fingers of his wife, and rapid response by paramedics, saved his life. I had just gotten off the phone with Kyle at 6:00 pm and he was fine, and at 6:25 I was in my car, breaking traffic laws to get to his house (normally 20-30 minutes away) in record time, so I could watch his 2 year old daughter while his wife went to the hospital. It happened just that fast.

While the paramedics worked on him, they were forced to shock his heart with a defibrillator several times when he went into cardiac arrest. He also vomited, and some of that vomit went down his lungs ("aspirated" is the medical term). A good chunk of the last two days has been spent trying to deal with the complications resulting from that aspiration. They've kept him on a paralytic sedative until this afternoon, because in his half-conscious state he was fighting the wires and tubes, and he needed those to help heal. The doctors still don't know for sure what the underlying cause of all this was, but they do have some ideas (forgive me for not sharing all the details--it's not my place). At the moment, it's looking like he may end up having an implantable defibrillator put in, so that if his heart ever stops again, it will shock his heart.

Kyle's professional life and passion for the past several years has been helping those people with developmental disabilities have a happier life, with as much independence as they can. For years he worked directly with adults with developmental disabilities, giving them care, teaching life skills, helping them learn to handle and navigate a world that often ignores them and their unique needs, and helping each individual become the best he or she could become. As he has advanced in his career, he has gradually focused on advocating with the Minnesota legislature and elected officials on behalf of people with disabilities. He has helped and encouraged the very people he advocates FOR advocate for themselves, and recognize that they can have a voice that is heard. Last year the Minnesota legislature was debating the new budget, and arguing about where to cut funding. Kyle went to Capitol Hill several times to talk to our elected officials, and helped organize events for people to express their voice. Human services did receive cuts in the budget, but it was not nearly as bad as it had looked like for a while, and I believe that Kyle's efforts, and the efforts of those he helped organize, contributed to that. I recall, while this budget battle was going on, chatting with Kyle in his office, and a client of the company we both work for came to his office and handed him a letter. The letter was hand written, addressed to that client's Representative. Kyle's face lit up with pride and happiness at seeing this client doing something that for her was very difficult, and letting her voice be heard. 

On a personal level, I met Kyle the first week of college, in the fall of 1999. At first, he was just a goofy guy that I liked to hang out with. But one evening someone told Kyle they had seen me in the dorm's common area, and I looked upset. Kyle came to see if there was anything he could do for me. I wasn't actually upset, as it turned out. I had been listening to someone practice the Moonlight Sonata, and was moved by the beauty of her playing. I'm not sure what that person saw in my face that they thought I was upset. Regardless, Kyle and I talked, and that was the first night that I realized this was a man of substance, a man I could be friends with, and a man I wanted to know better. No conversation I've ever had has been more stimulating than the multiple conversations I've had with him over the past 12 1/2 years. I was honored to be his best man (twice), and was honored that he stood as my best man when I got married. He was there for me when I was struggling through my Depression, and even saved my life once. He did not know what I had planned when he saw me that night, but he could tell something was wrong, and the concern he showed was instrumental in me not following through with that plan. He supported me as best he could when I was homeless, and shared in my relief when I got back on my feet and had a place to live again. When I moved from Winona, MN to Rochester, MN, he gave me a place to stay while I got a job and looked for a place of my own. And when I was unemployed and looking for work last year, he strongly encouraged me to apply at Cardinal of Minnesota, the company he works for in the disability services field, despite my fears that I could not show the level of care I would need to, the patience that is required. He saw more in me than I saw in myself, and I have never regretted following his advice and applying. It is the best, most rewarding job I've ever had.

Kyle is my best friend, my best man, my "hetero-lifemate" (as my wife calls him), but above all that, he is -in every way that matters- my brother. He is family.

Not many read this blog, and fewer of you will have met Kyle. Nonetheless, I hope you will help him. A mutual friend of ours started a fundraiser to help pay for Kyle's medical bills. I have given what I can for now, and will give more when I and my wife get paid again (we struggle to stay in the black each month). Please, will you help? He is not just a friend and family, he has been an asset to society. Please, help him and his family.

Here's the link. Fundraiser