I had to laugh when I saw Ben unlock his iPad.  The puppy pictures are his wallpaper.  And I laughed, not because it funny, but I laughed because these are pictures of MY DOG.

Yes, we are one of those families where ever member has their own dog.  Ben has a min-Aussie named Maggie.  She is an older sister (from the litter before) to Lou, my wife’s dog who I posted about days ago.

My dog however, is supposed to be MY DOG.  She just turned two, and is a German Shepherd named Abigail.  Her registered name is Engelback vom Gizewski, as Engelbach is German for AngelCreek, which was our, and is, our AKC kennel name as we bred Golden Retrievers for many years.

Abbey started her training in 2016 for protection work.  We wanted to train her just like a police dog, or at least I did.  Her trainer was tragically killed shortly after her first 6 weeks away in late 2016, and we had her fixed and gave up having her trained professionally.  In fact, I began training her as a personal support dog, as I have enough personal issues to support my own fleet of dogs, and she has enough of the protection work to make us all feel more than safe.  We would probably have to ask her to “let go” of a dangerous bad guy if we wanted to shoot them.  So we probably do not need any more bite work.

But I still have problems with my family and how they deal with MY DOG.  When Scotty has been home I found him laughing with a big German Shepherd on his chest wagging her tail and pinning him to the ground.  When Steph is home, they run together, and are frequent nappers on the couch upon which the dog is not allowed.  My wife, one whose feet Abbey sleeps every night when she does not abandon me for Ben, calls her “my baby,” meaning her baby, not mine.  And when I complain to Ben, who is 10 going on 30, he just says, “well dad, she really is more of a family dog.”

But despite her pseudo-loyalty to all of them, I know in my heart she is MY DOG.  When I need her, she is there.  When I handle her she responds well to every command.  (She is trained to me in a different language).  When neighborhood kids or our friends are over, she instinctively knows who is who, who belongs and who does not.  She is a bit confused by all the squirrels, but they know the fence and tease her mercilessly.  Most of all however, I love her, and she helps me everyday.

When our last Golden, Viper, passed late in 2015, I just could not get another Golden.  I love them, and they still are my passion, but I would have just cried all the time.  Often when we would show Goldens I would see German Shepherds.  They, and their handlers, left a lasting impression upon me.  I did not want a show dog, as the German Shepherd for show is a little different than the type you would train like a police dog.  I also wanted to have her keep me active.  I have gotten a whole lot more than I bargained for.

German Shepherds are used as police dogs and for protection, because they think.  One book I read, written by the head trainer of military dogs in WWII, said with training these dogs can make correct decisions, even in the absence of a command.  After all, a military dog’s handler may not be able to talk due to safety or injury. I love this about her, but it sometimes is hard having a dog that is smarter than you.  I still do not want to trade.

And why?  Because Abbey is MY DOG.  She has everyone thinking she is theirs too, but I know different.  She is MY DOG, ever on the prowl for squirrels and the sworn enemy of the yellow sprinkler.

I love her, and I am blessed to have her in my life.

Tommy+

Sure enough, I was in a meeting tonight when I saw the call coming in.  I did not even need to check the voicemail.  Despite it only being a little below zero tomorrow morning, and relatively little snow, Ben’s school is on yet another 2-hour delay.

Now Ben is 10, and he is my son, and I DO love him and am concerned about his well-being and his safety…..especially when I am watching him.  But I grew up in the NORTH…..Mishawaka, Indiana to be exact, and other than the blizzard that dumped about 16 feet of snow in the late 1970’s, for which they gave us a 2-hour delay, I am not remembering any “snow days.”

But this is, I confess, thinking back with my 25-year-old mind, which I calculate by factoring in my chronological age minus my mind’s preservation through many years of prolific drinking.  I do however recall multiple conversations with friends after digging out our cars and making the trek to school.  Visions of the Superintendent looking out his front door, barricaded by 80 inches of snow, and making the call……”it’s just a dusting, I know they can all make it.”  This is the same Superintendent we were certain was encamped on the top of Tower Hill at Warren Dunes State Park on Lake Michigan taking names whenever we were skipping class for the beach.  (Yes, Indiana has a National Shoreline!  Motto: Indiana, all the fun, but without the sharks).  Of course for those reading this from home you will say, but Warren Dunes is in Michigan.  What do you remember that far back?  After all, I am still 25.

But the last laugh of course is with my son Ben.  He has the 2-hour delay tomorrow, and he will not even have to dig his car out before heading to school.  (This is not an age thing, being 10 would never have prevented any of us from driving in the 1970’s).  But he will indeed get a little extra sleep before heading to the rigorous life of Lapel Elementary School.  The poor guy!

As for me, I get to keep to schedule.  I was informed I am not the driver for school in the morning, which means I will probably be scraping the ice off my car right after doing Amanda’s.  After all, it is another cold one.  These southerners know nothing about hardship.  If only the Mishawaka Superintendent would intervene.

Blessings!  It will be 20 here tomorrow.  Call me if you wanna lay out.

Tommy+

No, Sweet Lou is not my dog,  He is my wife’s dog,  In fact his name is not as she is now a two-year old German

Shepherd named Abigail, or Abbey for  short.  But as Ben is sure to point out,Abbey acts more like a family dog, particularly Stephanie’s dog, and she doesn’t even live here.  She is supposed to be a working support dog for me, and she is a total sell out for the attention.  She protects every kid on our street, and I cannot fault her for that.  I was far more worried about the kids until she came along.

But that brings me back to Sweet Lou.  He never leaves me  ever struggling or alone, in truth I am not.  He is almost on top of me. Sure my dog will make an appearance……more like a supervisor making sure I am okay, and then back to the kids she goes.  But not Lou.  Lou wants to be where I am at.  When Amanda comes to be, he sprawls across her and star

Sweet Lou, or Lou Bear, or Stalker Lou Bear, is always outside every door of any room I am in.  He has taken being a support dog to a whole new level, and if I am looney he is right with me and he stares

at me.  He sighs all night,  But sleeps he on top of Amanda.  He is loyal, and he helps.

He was to be Amanda’s dog from the start, and before he was born, she wanted the runt.  The runt, who turned out to be Lou, was not good looking enough until about 6 weeks when she had to choose.  He was not only the best looking dog by then, but had melted her heart.

Yeah, he never needed to use his legs much after her bonded with her, and he still only has interest in her side of the bed.  It is an area I was prohibited from after having children, so Lou is happy there.

I love ya Lou. Let’s go to bed.  It is time for Amanda to try to breathe!!

Blessings!

Tommy+

Father forgive me, it has been almost a year since my last post.  But somehow, someway, I just thought I would be fine without it.  In truth, what I discovered is that I am not.  So in the words of one of the greatest heroes of all time, Inigo Montoya, “Lemme plain, no, there is too much.  Lemme sum up.”

Sometime about 10 years ago, I decided to write a blog.  And why not?  All the cool guys were doing it, and with all that was happening with the Church and the culture, I figured I might be an important voice in the conversation……sort of a conservative religious pundit if you will.  But punditry, if there is indeed such discipline, required much more effort than I was willing to put into it.  In addition to this, it also exposed me to all sorts of opinions about culture that I would rather see in the DSM than mainstreaming as normative.  So after a short time, I just let it go.

Then, in 2008, along came a stroke, and I suddenly found myself in a condition that required some level of rehabilitation.  Writing, I found at least, was helpful as it stimulated thought and expression.  In truth, at that point I did not give a rat’s ass about punditry, nor could did I have any more chance of doing a good job at it than President Trump has in having the press say something nice about him.  So I changed the game, and just wrote.  And I wrote almost daily for five years.  My decision to pursue a degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling and Addictions Counseling, which I completed this past year, changed my need to write “for sanity.”  But I completed that work, and am finding that the “squirrels are strong in me.”

So now I have yet some additional education, a license in Clinical Mental Health and am applying to take the test for a license in addiction counseling.  I am not working anywhere in these fields, but am certainly willing to.  I am no genius by any means, but I think some of that may be connected to this thing that people call “applying.”  But that has little to nothing to do with why I need to write again.

All the school work I have done challenged my mind, or at least kept it busy.  In the words of the Dread Pirate Roberts, “What are our assets?”  For me they are keeping my mind active, but these past few months not so much.

So as I have said multiple times in my posts, I really do not write for followers……I write because I need to for myself.  If I start working as a therapist or addictions counselor, particularly as the “priest business” is not all that busy, my needs may change.  But for now I have serious concerns that I am not challenging my brain nearly enough,  And I know that scenario leads to nothing good.

I have no intention of being irresponsible, I mean at least until I get a very good offer to do so.  Until then, I will stay the course, and make sure I end this life, naturally, and within the normal markers of insanity that I have always aspired to.

Blessings,

Tommy+

No, this is not a post about temperature.  It is about my problems with addiction, particularly to education.  It is not lost on me that my high school girlfriend dropped out, and I was probably thought to be not far behind.  I have painfully watched almost every minute on the school clock I was ever present for, and yes that is intentionally worded, as I was also a (class) skipper.

Somehow, someway, by some miracle, I made it through high school, and with pretty good grades too.  I was really an uninterested participant, and when my girlfriend dropped out, a big part I blame on me, school was kind of even more of a drag than it was before.  We were still together when I enrolled in college, only 60 miles from home too.  I gave up my dream of continuing to play ice hockey to be close to her.  She dumped me after two or three weeks for a guy a year behind me who had repainted his truck to look like a Tonka truck.  I was devastated, because I knew at 18 she was the one for me.  I did love her.  Her name was Karin, and she deserved far better than me.  I saw her once a few years later, but not since.  I lasted only a short time at school.  I received played enough to receive a varsity letter in soccer, a game I had never played before, and took with me a half a credit for gym.  I left mid-semester, defeated and lost.

But somehow, someway, I knew that I was not done, even though I still did not like school.  I weaseled my way into IUSB where I actually stayed a semester, and when your GPA sucked as bad as mine, was able to improve it quite a bit.  I imagine I was on academic probation, and it was not “secret,” but I had a good job, lots of friends, wonderful people to date, and no real direction.

It somewhat puzzles me that I decided to give up the high level social life of Williamsburg on the Lake in Mishawaka to transfer into Butler University where my dad was the Director of the Counseling Center.  It is a funny thing about how they treat men in divorce.  My dad had been my dad my entire life, but for the parts I remember, I hardly was able to know him.  My mom worked all the time, and I was left to “guide myself” which I was a pro at, especially if you consider failing and trouble being a pro.

So in 1981, two years after the immaculate ejection from high school, I found myself still technically a freshman at a school full of people I did not know.  It was a fresh start, so I joined a fraternity full of pretty great guys, most of whom are still friends, and dumped down our house GPA by needing to drop Chemistry so I would not fail it.    I passed the next semester, got initiated, got some traction, still hated classes, but busted my butt to get out in 1984.

Of course now I was a candidate for seminary in my early 20’s.  It required a 103 hour Masters degree.  But why not?  I was used to the self inflicting wounds, and plus I was certain women would love the outfit, fast cars, and flashy lifestyles priests represented.  In truth, I was surprised to find myself in this place.  Everyone around me appeared to think I was called, and the evidence of my work seemed to affirm that, but I always thought that some prestigious seminary ought to be able to weed out the lowly when they saw them.  Apparently not at Virginia.

In time I was ordained a deacon in June of 1989 and a priest in March of 1990.  I really was surprised, and actually did quite well at what I did.  So in time I thought I ought to be responsible and go back for more.  So yes, in the year 1995 sometime and I do not when exactly as I do not even hang these things in my office, I graduated with a doctoral degree, a DMin, rather than a PhD, by choice, just because history will tell you I am prone to poor choices.

It was all good.  I even started an MBA after that, but only finished half of it, and graduate credits expire if you do not use them.  Amanda of course often confers upon me the Third Degree, which I probably deserve, but as I always remind her, no one looks at the two of us and thinks I am the one with problems.

But all this is to say that I received an email from Indiana Wesleyan University today about ordering a cap and gown and hood, for in less than 90 days I will graduate with yet another degree in Clinical Mental Health (which I personally and desperately need) as well as a post-Master’s Addiction Certificate.

Now this all may sound impressive, but let me say I am a semester behind because I dropped a class to look at a PhD program mid-stream.  I decided to complete this, which I will on April 29th (my later Grandma Middleton’s birthday and she and my grandpa’s – also deceased- wedding anniversary), and I am out of my mind trying to decide what to do.

Obviously my modus operandi would be to enroll in a PhD program after this, which I would if I could find an accredited one to take me.  I have a great interest in clergy health, and clergy family health, as well as addiction and addictive behaviors.  Self-study on myself, perhaps, would indicate addiction to education and degrees that I probably do not need, but it would also be a conflict of interest.

So even though I am still a priest, I will be looking for something to do.  My wife will let me drop off and pick up Ben, and beyond that I probably am a candidate for her supervision.  But for the next two years, if I happen by some additional miracle from God to pass the licensure exam, I will need to see patients/clients and log supervised hours.  After that, I can take the second exam and consult and private practice in my field as I probably should.

All the time looking for something else to do.  Were you aware there are clocks in every classroom?  I figure I am now in 27th grade….and they move no faster.

Peace!

Tommy+

We have been remodeling the main room in our basement, and it has not been a journey among the bunnies and the flowers.  Plaster, plaster, plaster.  Dust, dust, dust.  Insanity, insanity, insanity.

So imagine my joy to receive a few pictures on my phone from my grandson Issac.  I am not sure how he manages to take these, but they sure do lift my spirits.  Of course it blesses me deeply to see him wearing a “World Champion Chicago Cubs” outfit.  Lord knows, I had to wait 55 years to wear one, where his were waiting for him before he was born.  I am happy for him.  He will start his baseball life out happy, and from there who knows?  My hope and prayer for him is that he can wear these and celebrate all through his lifetime.

But I am not too good with editing and all, so I am glad you can see it is his Cubs’ jersey, but I wish you could see his face.  I will try posting it, along with two others within this text, so hopefully you can.  It has been a month since I have held him, which to me feels about 30 days too long.  I just hope these pictures do the same things they do for me on my computer which is a MacBook Pro.

I do remember complaining about how pictures always move when I take them now.  It is like those creepy Harry Potter paintings on the stairs of that creepy house they all live in (yes, I am not a fan).  But I click on a picture after I take it and it moves.  What happened to just taking a picture?  It was a major “first order” issue to me, as what is the point of having a million dollar phone with a camera, if it cannot just take a picture??  Really?  What is the purpose?

And I get it now………..being a grandparent.  His pictures move, and I see him, and I hear him.  I just cannot hold him, although I want to.  I am amazed at how very handsome he is and how much he has grown.  If they would just put him on a webcam, I would never have to leave the house.

So thanks Apple, for messing up your phones in a way I can live with. I apologize for all the things I said about you, which you probably heard from Siri.  And although I am an ardent critic of technology’s interference with the healthy life of human beings just dealing with each other, here I find some joy and peace.

Blessings to you this day my friends.  Let me know how the cutest grand baby in the world made your day today…….just like he makes mine.

Tommy+

Yep, I know.  I missed a day.  That is what stress and depression does to me.  My admission of having trouble with my brain is real, and my confession of intent to daily blog was real.  I am afraid part of what I have done is exasperate my depression.

Tonight’s main picture, or the one on top, is me feeding Ben a bottle, just a few months before my stroke.  It is how I remember me.  The picture that I have yet to pick out while I type is me now.  The two, for me at least, are a stark contrast.   In my thoughts, I see myself as the thin, in shape, guy with it all together.  I am not sure those thoughts are rational.  In truth, I am the guy in the second picture, some 80 pounds heavier, battling stress, depression, anxiety, and abandonment.  It is really not all that pretty (as much as guys can be pretty) a picture.

Of course I made a ton of life changes in order to address this disparity, but they no longer materialize in recognizable traction.  I truly feel disconnected with most people I was once close to, and I find that both sad and tragic.  I do not need to air dirty laundry, as I have too much of it, but only to find some sort of deeply buried motivation, like the kind I used to rely on, that would tell me to get up and get moving.  What is it in the now that makes me let life just have its way?

You know, deep down I know I am a good guy, and I know that I do not deserve all that I have been dealt.  But I also know that if you have been dealt an awful hand, in order to stay in the game, you still have to play your hand.  My self-pity and loathing are tiresome, mostly to me.  I know it, and I see it and feel it, yet allow paralyzation to have its way.  I know the frog in the pot analogy is a myth, but I have become that myth.  I have allowed myself to be victimized in my life all around me, what I do not need it to martyr myself by myself.

No, I am not falling apart, not am I am any level of risk personally, unless of course I say to myself, “Just keep doing what you are doing Tom, you are doing fine.”  At some point the scales need to fall off my eyes and my vision and will to fight need restoration.  I honestly believe I am, and hopefully believe I am, entering this stage.

Damn the torpedoes, I need a kick in the butt.  Full steam ahead.

Tommy+

Well it is Groundhog Day here in Indiana, and sadly, I do not have a groundhog.  I do however, have a cat.  Yes, the fact that we have a cat is one of the least-known facts about our family, and this is primarily due to the fact that she just does her own thing and is often not even interested in us.  If she had a shadow anyway, I would be surprised, as she is really only around at night

She used to be seen in the day at our old house, as she would go out a window onto the roof and sit on a pinnacle watching birds, but there is no such opportunity here as this house does not have the same kind of roof access.  She does occasionally go out on the balcony off my office and sit and watch birds there.

My office looks over the back yard, as does the balcony, and that’s where we have a garden in the warm months.  Ironically, we used to have a groundhog that would come into the garden because he liked watermelon.  The cat would watch him, but could do nothing.  In all honesty however, in all her 14 years, nothing is really what she does best.   She lives within her skill set.

But in my heart I totally believe she could care if it were winter or not.   She can’t weigh 10 pounds, and she isn’t even bothered by the dogs.  I am not sure what her passions are, or whether or not she cares if we are home (probably not, because she is a cat), but I do know she is as close as we have to a weather-predicting rodent.

So for what it is worth, I think she would say that we live in Indiana, and it is kind of cold till it gets warmer.  I can’t say that for sure, but then again she is our cat, and cats don’t talk much.

Tommy+

Well, my first instinct, as it always is, was to make an excuse about why I missed at least a day of my daily blog, so this is the best I could come up with…….I forgot.  Old habits sometimes die hard, and as I have taken such a long break from writing, my habit has been not to. I promise I was wondering what I was forgetting, as I knew it was something, but tonight in an unrelated conversation with my most intelligent child, Ben (just ask him), I mentioned the blog.

Of course right then it surprised me that I suddenly remembered it, but far less than my 9.5+ year-old son saying, “You have a BLOG?” (Followed by, “Can I have one too?”)  It led to an interesting conversation on the blog history and how it started and continued.  I remembered that I was in the living room of our home (then in Noblesville) talking to my wife on the phone with a then 10-month-old Ben in his highchair right in front of me when I had my stroke,  He was the only visual witness, and in our conversation tonight it astounded me that I had written entries most of the days of his life, with a great deal of them mentioning him, and I had never told him about them at all.

He is currently grounded from his iPad, but our conversation had me handing it to him and allowing him to get online.  He was so amazed that it was on its own site, and as he scrolled he saw tons of pictures, which incidentally I did not decide to add until a year or two in.

I told him he was too young to have his own blog, but as I remember, I think either Amanda or the kids occasionally blogged for me when I just could not.  So I offered him a non-stipendiary position on my staff, as it is actually the same pay I make.  And I also gave him my accompaniment hymnals that I have had from all the years I served as a parish priest.  ***They are expensive, but pretty worthless to me as I do not read music.  It made me wonder why I had them at all.

My interaction with Ben about the blog reminded me that I believe I one or two times either allowed my wife or one of my other kids to be a “guest blogger” at one point, but I really felt it was best to just be okay with this memory rather than trying to look for those entries.  I am sure that Ben will find them if they exist, and if he reads all of them.

I put a ***  just a little bit ago into this post as it was also a surprise.  No, it does not surprise me that my books are sometimes overpriced, but this is the marker of how far I had typed last evening before falling asleep with my head on my computer keyboard.  I use a MacBook Pro, so yes, I thought I would be fine typing in bed.  As a doctor, albeit the wrong kind to make any kind of medical diagnosis, I was NOT surprised to find that I had fallen asleep.  As we say where I come from, “”this was not my first rodeo.”  But what I can say surprised me was that I believed this was a okay idea, and even more so, that THIS TIME IT WOULD BE DIFFERENT.  I may disappoint myself, but I am pretty consistent.

So I will close this out, now this morning, in order to get Ben to school and get moving with my day.  My pictures today are of my soon to be “guest blogger,” which yes, I have agreed to.  One is as a newborn in the summer of 2007, you know, just like the Bryan Adams’s song, except like 50 years later.  The other is with my grandmother a few years before her passing.  The day with Ben, certainly not her passing, was one of the greatest days of my life.  (And yes, she would think that joke was funny too).  And the last is from Sunday night at Applebees in Noblesville, in order to show you he no longer would fit in either one of those outfits anymore.

But life changes and is full of surprises…..mine especially.  And there is nothing like a bit of stupidity on my part to make sure my life is surprising all the time!

Blessings!

Tommy+

Oh the struggle is real.  I had a little bit of time this afternoon and thought I would sit down and type an entry for the blog.  I was very pleased with myself, as my morning was very routine, and I felt I was making some good progress.

My surprise came as I had this wild Déjà vu (do not worry, I copied and pasted the cool spelling) feeling about what I had written.  I have generally learned to “go with” these feelings, so I did, and I found it no surprise that I had written an eerily similar post to one I had written on January 14th.  Some parts were even word for word.  It upset me, and reinforced what  had written yesterday, but it was also a familiar place to be for me.  I try, but sometimes things just turn out the same.

I know however that I should not complain.  I know people with similar circumstances whose funerals I have presided over.  But I find it deeply frustrating that I cannot come to accept who I am at times.  Sure, I joke about it, and smilewhiles I do it, but underneath it is deeply painful.  And although I think at times that maybe I can sleep this off, everyday I wake up to a new adventure.

I still am extremely high functioning.  And I am certain that I must be younger, thinner, and taller too.  But there is something about me that keeps driving to figure it all out.  Today is a great example.  The duplicate blog entry, and even the duplicate details, were nothing less than frightening and in ways defeating.  What I did not do was cave into the fear, I set it aside temporarily and then sat down for yet another do-over.  And so far so good, the only familiarity I am feeling is the do-over, and not the content.

But I am invested in the race, and I am committed to my own cause.  I may be no damn good at memory things, but a lot of people aren’t.  And I choose to focus upon what I can do.

I still have a lot of the day to go, and for the next six hours will be crazy busy.  But I will make it and do my best to shake this off.  After all, it is only a brain, and I am a guy.  I’ve got this!

Stay sane, but if you can’t, call me twice.  I prolly will not remember the first call.

Tommy+