Tuesday, August 28, 2018

In Bed With a False Prophet

I have to admit something.  I've been hanging out in a dark and fearful place for a few weeks now. 

This place is one where I imagine my husband dying at a young age (just like his father who died one year from the age he is now).  Every bump, mole, scab, and pain gets a scrutinizing, suspicious, and thorough going-over from me.  There was a legitmate one recently, which mostly explains my schlepping off to this poor choice of hangouts. 

My work in hospice bereavement also provides an abundant supply of kindle, matches, and gasoline to ignite and nourish the fire of my fears.  Sometimes, my husband has to remind me that the entire world isn't on hospice.  Everything isn't a big deal.  And this always comforts me.  At least for five seconds, and sometimes more.

I've been admitting this morbid and frankly embarrassing line of thought to a few people, lately.  Collectively, they have helped me turn on the lights, once I let them in. 

It helped to know that, at one time or another, they all had similar fears of losing someone close to them, or knew someone who felt sure they were going to die young.  Equally helpful was that none of the mentioned fears or hunches have come to fruition.

Maybe you've experienced this in your own life.  You find yourself figuratively holding your breath until you pass some heartrending milestone, like when you stayed married longer than your parents, or surpassed their age when they died, or carried a child longer than before, or you eeked by or leapt over some expectation of doom you didn't even know you had. 

This morning, one of my friends said fear is a false prophet.  It didn't resonate at first, but I kept coming back to this idea and am pretty sure she nailed it.  Yes.  That's the thing.  It's difficult to argue with it logically, because it's some ugly promise about the future.  And you just don't know.  Whatever the thing is, could happen.  But, just because you're afraid of it, doesn't make it any more likely to happen... 

I jokingly told my husband that it would probably be better if I was a polygamist (reverse-polygamist, he offered).  That way, I could spread all of the love I have for him over several husbands.  Then, the thought of losing him might not feel so threatening and he could have help with the house repairs.  "Richard, it's your turn to fix the refrigerator.  I did it last time."  He laughed, told me I was weird, and then said something about men not being secure enough to tolerate that arrangement.  I think it stopped being funny when I told him to scoot over, so we could make room for the others. 

But, the truth is, that sometimes, there is another where he doesn't belong.  This other, this false prophet, is boldly proclaiming what may never be, wildly waving his hands for credence, and convincing us that whatever is loud is true.

Thankfully, once seen and named, his gig is up.  So, clear the way, false prophet.  You cannot be trusted.  (And, have you looked in a mirror, lately?  You might want to comb your hair.)
 
 

     

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Thanking the Virtual Bus Driver - A Little Fortnite Reflection

I overheard one of my sons tell his brother, "You need to thank the bus driver!" in a brotherly, motherly, bossy sort of way.  The brother retorted that he always says that and how annoying it is.  I was intrigued, because this taken-for-granted bus driver, is a virtual bus driver that you never see, "driving" a flying bus over an island where people jump out or get kicked off at the last stop, to outrun a storm, build unthinkable shelters, collect guns, shields, and potions from treasure chests that emit a sound apparently only kids can hear, all to help your friends and kill your enemies, driven by lust for Victory Royale - the moniker for bragging rights, which belong to the last man standing.

Welcome to the widely-discussed, highly-addictive, continually-evolving, and infamous video game called Fortnite.  Sadly, I didn't have to do any research to write the above paragraph.  I have three sons.  We have one TV.  They all get their turn(s), and that makes me an expert by association and location (depending on where I decide to sit).  Oh, to be a paid professional in the taking-turns-business!

There are lots of ways to mitigate this, but the most fun is ridiculously hoping that they'll just get tired of it and go old school.  Resort to playing marbles, jacks, or Red Rover, Red Rover, send those three boys right over.  But, no.  The geniuses of Fortnite make some magical and highly-anticipated changes to the game every week.  Tuesday, if you really want to know.

When it comes to my boys, video games are both my friend and enemy, which makes them exactly like every other bit of technology in my life.  As with most things, I think moderation is the key, but unfortunately, most of us are bad at it.  Perhaps a discussion for another day?

If you don't mind, I'd like to get back to the bus driver...One son is demanding that another thank the bus driver.  The third one listens, but doesn't chime in.  Later, one of them had the opportunity to revive a teammate and he didn't do it.  His brothers were incensed, as was I when I learned how easy it was for him to do it and how "cruel" it was not to.  We expressed our concern clearly and with great conviction.  My husband came in wondering what the fuss was all about.  The boys told him and he laughed.  A great reminder that peer pressure starts at home, but even then, sometimes 3 out of 4 is the best you can do...

In the middle of all of this thanking/not thanking, reviving/not reviving and the chastising that came with it, it occurred to me that despite the excessive video game playing in our living room, our values are still the ones being worked out, played by, and fought for (except the one where we don't kill our enemies).  In a world that is increasingly grey and video games are bad, maybe we're getting away with something-- Like finding some good old-fashioned black-and-white where no one is looking for it.



You should thank the bus driver and if you don't, you're going to hear about it.  A bunch of times.

You revive your teammate every time it is within your power to do so.

You take turns.

You answer for poor judgment.

And if any discussion pertaining to the above subject matter does not end with your mother's complete satisfaction, a brother is always available to assist with the power button, especially if it is in the middle of your game.