I found something interesting in a box of art in my father’s office — an oil painting I did when I was 13, and some drawings I did when I was around 15.
I’m guessing 15, because all the drawings capture my love at the time for Motley Crue. Based on the costumes, I’d say these were done around the time of the band’s “Theater of Pain” album, which came out in 1985.
I’ll just leave these here…
![IMG_1509[1]](https://theocddiaries.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/IMG_15091-e1430437346771.jpg)
I’ve been spending a lot of time with my father, who is in hospice care. One of the twisted blessings of him being near the end of his life is that he’s opening up more than he ever has. One such conversation goes to show that things you see as a kid don’t always match up with what’s really going on.
Mood music:
Like a lot of families, we’ve hit our financial walls over the years and a few years ago I had to ask my father for help. That was a killer, because I’ve always taken pride in making things work without having to do that. It was humbling.
I’m a lot like the character Quint in JAWS in that I suffer from working-class hero syndrome. One of the many excellent lines in that movie was when Hooper told Quint to knock off the working-class hero crap, after Quint kept picking on Hooper for not getting his hands dirty enough.
In my case, I like to believe that adults should be able to make a living without any help from family and friends. In a financial rut? You figure it out and avoid asking your parents for help at all costs. I’ve looked down on people who have done that in the past. I described one case as someone using their father like a piggy bank.
To me, asking Dad for help always meant failure.
I think some of that attitude comes from the fact that I leaned on my father’s financial assistance a lot in my 20s. When my 1981 Mercury Marquis finally died a painful death at the hands of its abusive driver, I went to Dad and nagged for a new car. I got one — a 1985 Chevy Monte Carlo.
I look back on that sort of thing and realize what a burden that was on my father. When I got married and settled into my 30s, I vowed never to bother my father for money again. I would manage on my own at all costs.
For the most part, we have. I owe most of that fact to Erin, who is far smarter about finances than I am.
So in the room at hospice, Dad and I discussed the delicate balance of paying for the kids’ private school and keeping the mortgage up to date and food on the table. He floored me with this statement:
“I know what it’s like. There were a lot of those situations when you guys were kids,” he said.
What? I always assumed that he was always on top of the family finances and that paying for things was never a problem.
But thinking back on it all, it makes perfect sense. I just think of the medical bills alone the three of us kids wracked up in the 1970s and ’80s. It had to have been staggering, between my multiple hospital stays for Crohn’s Disease, Michael’s asthma treatment and Wendi’s hospitalizations for depression.
My father practically lived at his business, but I always assumed it was because he preferred to be there than at home. I still believe that to a point. But I think a lot of it also had to do with making ends meet in a world gone mad.
Since I always assumed we were well off when I was a kid, my father clearly did a good job of shielding us from the financial ugliness. So I thanked him.
“No problem. I love ya,” he said.
Love you too, Dad.
Me with Dad, Wendi and Michael, Christmas Eve 1982.
I’ve heard much about the blessings of hospice care, but I hadn’t seen it firsthand until now. After four years of illness, my father has decided he’s fought long enough and has chosen hospice care for the endgame.
Mood music:
https://youtu.be/DfStujGaf0E
We visited him Saturday, and he looked and sounded better than he has in a long, long time. He was alert, his talking was clear, and he was smiling the whole time. He’s made his decision and is at peace.
Now we wait for nature to take its course. It could be weeks or months.
I’ve decided to spend a couple days a week working from his bedside. I see no reason to put my work aside, and he would frown upon it. Since I spent much of my childhood hanging around him as he worked, the turnabout seems appropriate.
And while I’m there, I’m going to ask him for stories about the past. I was there for 45 years of it, but I want his unfiltered perspective. I also think he’ll enjoy it.
This is going to be an interesting adventure.
It’s the Saturday after RSA Conference 2015. I spent most of Friday sleeping and have been off balance today. I know from past experience that depression is next. Not clinical depression, mind you. It’s more like what seasoned conference travelers call “ConFlu.”
Mood music:
I actually call this Coming Down the Mountain Syndrome, and it arrives every year like clockwork.
In my industry RSA is one of the biggest conferences of the year. Months of planning goes into the four-day event. There’s endless strategizing on how to make the biggest bang at the show: how the exhibit booth should look, what kind of blogging to do, which dinners and meetings to attend, and so on.
Then you get to San Francisco and haul ass for the week, sleeping an average of three hours a night. You walk several blocks around the city daily, getting from one meeting to the next. You spend much of the time too warm or cold, depending on which climate you come from.
You talk to hundreds upon hundreds of people about what you’re working on and how it’ll benefit them, until your throat is so sore that you can’t talk anymore.
Then you fly home and life returns to normal … eventually.
Since it’s been so long since the schedule was routine, your adrenalized body struggles hard with re-entry. It becomes difficult to keep thoughts organized. Those who expect you to return to a business-as-usual mindset become the object of your crankiness and scorn.
That’s my annual experience, anyway.
This isn’t exclusive to my industry’s conferences, either. It can happen after any intense event with a long lead-up. I know many people from different business sectors who feel the same way after a big event. I’ve also experienced it and seen it happen to others after religious retreats. There’s even a book about it.
The good news is that the feeling is short lived. Monday and Tuesday suck, but by Wednesday the universe comes back into alignment.
Now if I can just keep from punching people until then…
Today — April 19, and tomorrow, April 20 — we have a trio of tragedies to remember.
Full disclosure: I’m about to steal liberally from Wikipedia.
April 19, 1993: Waco, Texas
The Waco siege began on February 28, 1993, and ended violently 50 days later on April 19. The siege began when the United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms (ATF), accompanied by several members of the media, attempted to execute a search warrant at the Branch Davidian ranch at Mount Carmel, a property located 9 miles (14 km) east-northeast of Waco, Texas. On February 28, shortly after the attempt to serve the warrant, an intense gun battle erupted, lasting nearly 2 hours. In this armed exchange, four agents and six Branch Davidians were killed. Upon the ATF’s failure to execute the search warrant, a siege was initiated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The siege ended 50 days later when a fire destroyed the compound when a second assault was launched. 76 people (24 of them British nationals) died in the fire, including more than 20 children, two pregnant women, and the sect leader David Koresh.
April 19, 1995: Oklahoma City
The Oklahoma City bombing was a terrorist bomb attack on the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City on April 19, 1995. It would remain the most destructive act of terrorism on American soil until the September 11, 2001 attacks. The Oklahoma blast claimed 168 lives, including 19 children under the age of 6, and injured more than 680 people. The blast destroyed or damaged 324 buildings within a sixteen-block radius, destroyed or burned 86 cars, and shattered glass in 258 nearby buildings. The bomb was estimated to have caused at least $652 million worth of damage. Extensive rescue efforts were undertaken by local, state, federal, and worldwide agencies in the wake of the bombing, and substantial donations were received from across the country. The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) activated eleven of its Urban Search and Rescue Task Forces, consisting of 665 rescue workers who assisted in rescue and recovery operations.
Within 90 minutes of the explosion, Timothy McVeigh was stopped by Oklahoma State Trooper Charlie Hanger for driving without a license plate and arrested for unlawfully carrying a weapon. Forensic evidence quickly linked McVeigh and Terry Nichols to the attack; Nichols was arrested and within days both were charged. Michael and Lori Fortier were later identified as accomplices. McVeigh, an American militia movement sympathizer, had detonated an explosive-filled Ryder truck parked in front of the building. McVeigh’s co-conspirator, Terry Nichols, had assisted in the bomb preparation. Motivated by his hatred of the federal government and angered by what he perceived as its mishandling of the Waco Siege (1993) and the Ruby Ridge incident (1992), McVeigh timed his attack to coincide with the second anniversary of the deadly fire that ended the siege at Waco.
April 20, 1999: Columbine High School
The Columbine High School massacre (often known simply as Columbine) occurred on Tuesday, April 20, 1999, at Columbine High School in Columbine, an unincorporated area of Jefferson County, Colorado, United States, near Denver and Littleton. Two senior students, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, embarked on a massacre, killing 12 students and 1 teacher. They also injured 21 other students directly, and three people were injured while attempting to escape. The pair then committed suicide. It is the fourth-deadliest school massacre in United States history, after the 1927 Bath School disaster, 2007 Virginia Tech massacre, and the 1966 University of Texas massacre, and the deadliest for an American high school.
April is also a bloody month for other days, like the Virginia Tech massacre on April 16, 2007 and the start of such bloody conflicts as the American Revolution and the Civil War. I could mention dozens of other bloody events that happened in April, but I think this is quite enough for now. If you want a fuller accounting of the bloodshed, check out this article by Chaotic Ramblings
I pray for everyone who died in those tragedies. As I write this, the sun is shining through my window, warming my hands as I pound away on the keyboard. I’m going to make this a good day, despite those bad memories.
I suggest you do the same.
I mentioned yesterday that my father is bedridden and that things aren’t looking good. I’ve lost count of how many times in the last four years we’ve gathered as a family, thinking he was at the end.
Each time he’s bounced back, like some unseen force keeps pulling him back for a few more rounds.
Mood music:
When I visited him last Sunday, he was too tired to talk much. He just wanted to sleep. I’ve seen him that way many times, but this time I got the sense that it’s getting harder for him to perk up. He’s said many times that he doesn’t want to live like this and be a burden to others.
But he keeps hanging on.
He wants to make sure his affairs are in order and that he leaves his family with the tools to survive, specifically, financial tools. Part of me feels like he should be allowed to leave, to be free of his broken body once and for all. Part of me respects him for being such a survivor, even when life doesn’t seem worth surviving.
I know that how this ends will be up to God. We can hope for things all we like, but God makes the final call.
It’s hard as hell for us mortals to sit around and accept that. We want to do something, to make some kind of plan and see it through, whether it’s family wanting to know the full path ahead or my father wanting to maintain some control, to run the timetable and tie up loose ends.
Although we know how little control we have, we continue to cling to our hopes and impulses. It’s an uncomfortable place to be. It will sort itself out, because it always does. I’m just praying for the strength to do what God wants of me.
If I figure out how to do that, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, any prayers for my father are appreciated.
My father and aunt aren’t doing well. Dad is bedridden, a series of strokes and heart attacks having taken their toll. My aunt is in the hospital unable to do anything more than utter a stray word after having her own stroke.
And so continues a sick game, where we try guessing how much longer they’ll be with us, who will go first, etc. That’s the game I’m playing anyway. When you’re like me and you can’t help but worry about what’s out of your control, these mental exercises take over.
Mood music:
I’ve seen many relatives and friends deal with critical health issues, and I’m no stranger to death. Each time, I played the game of what-ifs, worries about my always busy schedule and what I might have to cancel.
This time, I’m a week out from traveling to San Francisco for RSA Conference — one of the biggest events of the year for my industry — and I’m worrying about whether or not I’ll get there.
It’s a hell of a thing, worrying about that when two lives hang in the balance. It’s a human thought process, but I feel selfish all the same.
I wouldn’t have the life I have today if not for my father. He made sure I learned the value of hard work, sent me to college, helped out when Erin and I bought our home and has helped out during more than a couple financial squeezes.
My aunt helped me deal with some of the more traumatic events of my early life. When my parents were divorcing, she and my grandmother took me on trips to the New Hampshire mountains. When my father worked late, I could usually go to the house down the street where she and my grandmother lived, where I could watch TV, do homework and have dinner. That house was an oasis when I needed it.
They gave and they gave. I’m trying to give back and want to do so freely and fearlessly. But I can’t stop worrying about how their condition might impact my carefully made plans.
I know I’m not the only one who does this. I’ve talked to others who have had to deal with situations like this, and they all experience such thoughts. It just doesn’t make me feel any better. Writing about it is my way of keeping myself honest so I can move on and make the right choices.
If it helps some of you see that you’re not alone in getting swallowed up by this monster, so much the better.
Renowned writer Violet Blue recently noted that the speaking agenda at RSA Conference 2015 includes only five women and only one of which is a security practitioner:
25 RSA keynotes. Of the 5 women, 1 has “security” in her bio (she works @ RSA), 3 are there to talk about children. http://t.co/corEpuujh7
— Violet Blue ® (@violetblue) March 27, 2015
At least one person on Twitter felt it was an unfair observation; that there’s nothing wrong with women going to conferences to talk about their kids.
It’s a noteworthy post. I, too, would like to see more women speaking at conferences like RSA. Five out of 25 is a small ratio. I don’t say this as a fan of quotas, but as someone who has learned a lot from the female perspective in my lifetime.
While Blue doesn’t say so specifically, my impression is that she was lamenting the lack of female security practitioners, that women on the bill should be there to talk security, not kids. If I read her right, it’s a fair point. It is a security conference, and those of us who will attend want to hear about that subject.
Having said that, I’m not against people straying from the subject, either. Many life lessons can be applied to how we approach our profession. I’ve gotten a lot of good security lessons through the trial and error of parenting, such as managing the desire to share pics and funny things kids say against the need to protect their privacy. If the women on the agenda talk about children in a way that’ll give us something to think about as security practitioners, so much the better.
My thinking on this topic has certainly evolved. In 2013, I wrote that folks speaking at a security conference should keep their talks to security:
The organizers never should have put her on the agenda in the first place. I have no issues with Violet Blue and her chosen topics. But this talk was billed as the stuff of “party conversation fodder.” I’m all for having fun, but I’m also a purist in that I believe a security event should have an agenda that stays on topic.
If Blue is indeed suggesting the few women on the agenda are an ill fit for a security conference, perhaps her thinking has evolved, too.
Update:
Violet Blue clarified her position in this post. She wrote:
My concern is that by taking a handful of women respected in their fields and by placing them in the male arena of infosec and having them as a majority speak only about issues and topics seen as specific to their gender – i.e. concern for families and babies – furthers the destructive infantilization of the perception of women’s roles in infosec. It is this infantilization that I see as most destructive to the facilitation of women owning a deserved lion’s share of equality in infosec. I feel that if the majority of women in positions of power in a speaking capacity at RSA were seen as speaking about interests of interest to infosec as a whole, rather than pertaining particularly what is seen as an interest to their gender, we’d have more of the progress we’d like to see.
I’ve written a lot about the frustrations that come with trying to be a good man when you carry so much baggage. The burden of being upright is something we all carry, but it’s really been weighing on me of late.
Mood music:
https://youtu.be/KNcvGwaJ-lI
This isn’t a pity party. But I’ve learned over the years that listing my issues and what I’m doing about them can help put them into perspective for me and can encourage others to do the same. The stressers in my life are not unique to me; it’s the kind of stuff every human being must deal with.
So what’s going on lately?
My father is bedridden and in a home, and my aunt — his sister — suffered a stroke and was unresponsive in the hospital for a couple of weeks. She’s responding a little now, but still. I’m not dealing with either of these things on my own, however. My sisters have been particularly awesome about communicating with my aunt’s doctors, and my stepmom has tirelessly seen to my father’s needs.
My frustration stems from the fact that I can’t do more. Living an hour away, traveling frequently for work and raising two young sons means I can’t drive to my father or aunt at the drop of a hat. This makes me feel guilty and failed as a son and nephew. Does my frustration square with reality? Probably not, but I feel it all the same.
Meanwhile, my depression was particularly brutal this past winter. And since the cold air and piles of snow are still here in April, I’m struggling more to come out of it.
I worry about not doing enough to keep the connection with my wife and kids going as strongly as it needs to be. As a result, some hang-ups have taken hold, the kind of stuff that comes from insecurity and is too personal to get into even here.
What am I doing about all of this?
I’m doing everything I can to move forward. I’ve played my guitar every day. I’m even taking walks most days — not yet consistently but more so than I have in a long time. And since I have a charity walk to prepare for, I’m going to keep walking.
My diet could be better, but I’ve managed to stabilize more than it has been in recent months.
I’ll keep plugging along with that stuff, and it’ll work. But it’s going to take longer than I want. That’s OK, though, because as long as I’m moving forward, I’m moving in the right direction.
Crosses aren’t nice things. We all have them. But they make us who we are.
Mood music:
Jesus carried his Cross to redeem the world. The way we carry our Crosses define us.
We can complain that we are victims and that God is cruel. Or we can carry our Crosses like Jesus did, and turn adversity into strength. We can learn from our suffering and strive each day to be a blessing to others.
I always try to do the latter. I often fall to the former.
But I press on, because it’s the least I can do for the King who died for my sins.
Below: Art by EddieTheYeti…
