Death’s Door

It is with heavy heart that I sit today in this comfortable, cushioned seat, cranking out another column, a weekly chore performed for most of my waning 35-year Recorder career.

Many things, some I can’t get into but would love to, are distracting my focus, potentially threatening my health. But I’ll get through it. I’m a strong man, have been backed into many corners over the years and always come out to live another day. That won’t change. Though 60, I feel like I’m still at the top of my game; in fact, still peaking, boldly confident and bulletproof to insult, fear or intimidation. I’ll figure things out. Sometimes you must get creative, which has never been a problem for me. In fact, I’d rather be creative, regardless of frothy screams from the Penrick rabble. Who are they, anyway?

Most immobilizing to me today is son Rynie’s dire situation. Trapped at death’s door in Baystate-Springfield ICU since Sunday, he’s battling for his young life, losing to staph infection that contributed to the death of his older brother, my namesake, three years ago. Maybe he’ll survive it, probably not. Either way I must go on, continuing to place one foot in front of the other, moving forward for him and me. I am proud of the hospital bravery he’s displayed. His worst detractors couldn’t come close to matching it. After regaining his wits and finally breathing on his own Tuesday afternoon, he tearlessly informed my wife that he doesn’t expect to ever again see his apartment. I am proud of his courage in the face of death, a strain many of the so-called heroes with whom he’s tangled will call their own. No, they’re bullies, prefer to have it their way, with all factors heavily weighted in their favor.

Rynie and I have both been down this road before and would not wish it upon anyone, even those we hate and hold not a speck of respect for. Those folks are, to us, already dead, stagnant, smelly water oozing over a broken, mossy dams. I will get through this crisis, learn from it and move on, always trying to glean something new and positive from this special place I call home — where my DNA’s scattered in every crevice, reaching throughout the Connecticut Valley and its hills, into the New England coast and hinterlands, and far, far beyond.

Enough!  Gotta go.

Back to haunting private thoughts about the sad ordeal of son Rynie, my dear boy who has silently suffered for so long and will likely not see his 29th birthday next week. Mixed in, I guess, will be fleeting, fanciful ponderings about my next stop on the meandering trail: mine.

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